Sinclair Justice (9 page)

Jasmine and Chad exchanged a look. Ross noticed. He scowled. “Can’t a man keep one little thing private around here?”

C
had grinned tauntingly. “I never could. To your great delight, I might add. I remember a certain ribbing I took, complete with a leather-holstered sex kitten above my desk.”

Jasmine laughed, cradling her son closer to her impressive bosom. She’d rounded out since she’d given birth to the Foster heir. She was still trying to lose the last fifteen pounds, but based on the pride and adoration oozing from Chad’s every pore, he loved her just as she was. He put an arm around her and murmured something in her ear that made her blush.

Ross squelched a sigh, feeling like a lovesick idiot, but he couldn’t help it: Jasmine’s pale green eyes suddenly became blue, her rioting auburn curls a straighter, deeper brown that begged for a man to bury his hands in those thick tresses, and . . .

“Ross? You okay?” Chad’s head tilted slightly to the side in that way he had when he was confused.

Emm did the same thing . . . Ross turned to the bar to hide his flush. “I’m sorry, woolgathering; it’s been a tough week. How are y’all liking Lubbock?” He mixed them each their favorite, a margarita with fresh lime juice and Añejo premium tequila.

Accepting their drinks, they sat down on the couch, very close together. When their son began to doze, Jasmine set the boy down next to her and piled pillows on the edge of the plush couch to keep him away from the edge. Ross noted that, just in case, she also kept her hand pressed on the edge of the couch in front of the pillows to stop them from sliding to the floor. Chad handed Jasmine her drink from the table beside him periodically as they discussed the little things in life, like her new coursework at Texas Tech, Chad’s new boss, and how they both liked Lubbock but missed the ranch. Ross noted Chad always seemed to sense when she was ready for another sip and gave her the glass without her saying a word.

He’d observed that strange empathy between the two of them almost from the beginning, the unspoken ability to read each other’s thoughts and wishes. He was convinced it was the sixth sense only couples shared that was the real glue holding marriages together. Superficial things like status and looks waxed and waned over time, but this warm bond grew stronger with the years. If it was there to begin with . . .

Again, Ross had to collect his scattered thoughts when Chad asked, “So, what’s happening with the family’s buildings? I hear the conservator who came into town is quite a looker.”

Succumbing to their curiosity, Ross admitted, “Yes, and a royal pain in the ass. We’re waiting for a structural survey, and then she can make her finding and boogie back East, where she belongs.”

Jasmine eyed his averted face. When he still concentrated fiercely on the dregs of his own margarita, she smiled slightly. “She sounds interesting. We’re at the ranch for a couple of days . . . would y’all like to come out for lunch this weekend?”

When Chad grasped his throat and made a choking sound, she whacked him lightly on the thigh. “I’m trying to be a better cook, but since Trey junior came—”

Chad’s hands fell, but he scooted slightly away from Jasmine as he needled, “Poor kid, it’s good he’s still on milk because your cooking might stunt his growth.” He had to dodge a halfhearted whack.

Jasmine’s mock glare became real. “We’re not paying all this money for law school so I can be Suzy homemaker. If I don’t make law review, my dad will have a conniption, especially as he’s funding me now so I can spend my savings on the ranch . . . You can take over cooking once in a while, Mr. Hotshot Lieutenant—”

Ross picked out the pertinent information from her complaint. “Lieutenant? When did that happen and why didn’t you tell me, you SOB?”

“That’s one reason we made this trip. Took a few days off to celebrate, and see to some repairs at the homestead.” Chad accepted Ross’s warm handshake. “I really have you to thank for it. I took your approach into the Lubbock office with me and our conviction rate has climbed twenty percent in a year because our evidence methods are so much more ironclad. They noticed and promoted me accordingly.”

Ross sat back down, unable to resist his own jibe. “No more Texas-style justice?”

“Yessir, it just works better if it’s slow and maybe.” Chad and Ross shared a laugh, and then Chad pulled his scowling wife under his arm and kissed her cheek. “’Course it doesn’t hurt to have two attorneys in the family. Keeps me on the straight and narrow.” He bent his head to kiss her caustic comment away.

That envious pang gripped Ross’s midsection again as Jasmine resisted for a nanosecond, then kissed her husband back so passionately that she didn’t notice when a cushion fell to the floor. Little Trey still slept peacefully, even when Ross rose to set the cushion back in place.

Jasmine seemed to sense his presence, and she pulled away from Chad, thoroughly kissed and thoroughly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, he likes to tease me.”

“Hmm, I can see that. Tell me, when I come to the old place, will I find a leather harness hanging from the beams?”

Chad burst into laughter as Jasmine turned her glare from him to Ross. “Am I never going to live that down?” she complained.

Both men said, “Nope,” simultaneously.

She joined in their laughter, and Ross felt the shadows that had been lengthening of late in his home retreat to darker corners, where they belonged.

 

Emm stared across the table at Dr. Doyle. They’d shared a nice meal, discussing the generalities of the case and the troubling statistics of human trafficking. Emm said, “The latest statistics I saw estimated seventy-seven percent of the women forced into trafficking are put into the sex trade and the remainder go into some type of menial labor.”

Dr. Doyle nodded. “Yes, thereabouts. And, of course, you probably know that of the people kidnapped or coerced, at least seventy percent are female.”

Emm nodded grimly. “So we should all be on the lookout?”

“Well, certainly those of us in law enforcement.”

Emm scowled. “Look, Dr. Doyle, I’ve had this lecture from Ross Sinclair. While I’m awaiting the structural engineer’s report on the Sinclair buildings, I have some time to look for my sister. And as you’ve already admitted, I’m excellent at research.” When Dr. Doyle neatly set her fork and knife over the edge of her plate and pushed it away instead of replying, Emm’s voice grew more insistent. “If you’ll just share some of the evidence with me, I’m sure I’d recognize anything owned by Yancy or Jennifer. . . .”

“I’ve already sorted through the clothing and such left at that warehouse. Cheap overseas goods that can be bought at any discount store in the U.S, very difficult to trace. . . .”

“Oh yeah? How come I had to tell Mr. Sinclair about Yancy’s custom pipe? And I only learned about it because of Curt’s article.”

“Ms. Rothschild, I admire your tenacity, truly, but these cartels are very dangerous, and there are indications they have accomplices throughout Texas, likely even Amarillo. Accomplices that don’t fit the profile; probably upstanding professionals who assist with the money laundering and currying political favors. A few Border Patrol agents and customs officials have even been paid off to look the other way.”

Emm wadded up her napkin and tossed it on the table. “So bug out and sit down and shut up. Just on the off chance I might be taken, too?”

Dr. Doyle sighed. “I’m not saying that. But as bright as you are, you’re not a law enforcement or intelligence professional, and these alliances are so wide ranging and difficult to track that just accumulating enough evidence to convict some of these people is very difficult. You could impact that information gathering without even knowing it.”

Emm gnawed at her lip. “I don’t care what the reasons are. Jennifer has been missing over a year, and Yancy over six months. Time is running out for them, if it hasn’t already, and traditional law enforcement moves far too slowly to save them. They’re more than an evidence file number to me . . . Who else will advocate for them?”

A long moment passed, and finally Dr. Doyle glanced at her watch and took out her phone. “Do you mind if I record the rest of this conversation?”

Emm shook her head. “I’m not sure I can be of much help. Everything I know is in the file—”

“There are always more details. For example, were there any embittered ex-boyfriends with drug connections?”

“Jennifer was dating someone her mother and I didn’t like, a rocker, but the Baltimore police didn’t find any connection between him and Los Lobos.”

“And you spoke yourself to their friends?”

“Yes, more than once. Yancy hadn’t dated in a while, but Jennifer was into Internet dating because she liked older men, said guys her age were too immature.”

“And did you meet any of her other dates?”

“A couple. They seemed harmless enough. The police said neither of them had a record.”

“In this type of crime, that’s not always a tip-off. It’s their very respectability that makes them valuable to the cartel. There is a link somewhere between Baltimore and Texas. Too many of the victims were from the same area, and I suspect that someone, likely someone of influence who travels the two areas with equal ease, is assisting the cartel with advance intelligence of police and agency movements, which is why we can’t find a trace of their conduit.”

Emm tried to picture anyone she knew contributing to this heinous crime, but she failed. Not a single person came to mind. “So it would have to be someone privy to law enforcement information and tactics. Someone who traveled frequently between Baltimore and Texas. Someone respected and possibly influential in the community . . .”

Dr. Doyle nodded. “Exactly.”

Emm stared into space. She could only think of one person who fit that profile, and no way could he be involved. He’d even dated Yancy for a while. . . .

Dr. Doyle must have seen something in her face because she leaned forward. “Any idea, no matter how far-fetched, needs to be considered.”

Emm opened her capacious purse and rummaged around. She’d kept the article, intending to send it to her father, but hadn’t gotten around to mailing it. She pulled it out and offered it to Dr. Doyle.

She read the byline and her gaze narrowed, then shifted to Emm’s face. “Are you offering Mr. Tupperman as a suspect?” She seemed genuinely shocked.

“He fits the criteria. When he’s in town, he frequents some of the same bars as the women who were taken. He knows both Yancy and Jennifer. And he had a bad breakup with Yancy a few months before she disappeared. He certainly has tons of connections in both politics and banking. And he has very expensive tastes. He recently bought a nice condo and an elite sports car. On a reporter’s salary.”

“Hmm . . .” Ms. Doyle ruminated, and then nodded. “I’ll check his financial records. If he’s involved in the procurement or laundering, there will be signs.”

“Quietly,” Emm suggested. “No subpoenas.”

Dr. Doyle sighed heavily. “As discreetly as possible, but there’s only so much I can deduce from the public record.”

Feeling a bit better now they had a tentative plan, Emm signaled for the check. Dr. Doyle accepted with a gracious nod. As they waited, Emm said quietly, “And there’s one other piece of evidence that I think should be given priority.” Emm told her about Yancy’s hemophilia and the new drug she’d found to be most efficacious.

Dr. Doyle nodded. “Yes, Captain Sinclair had already flagged that as a high-priority item on the evidence list. I’ve started searching databases of drug shipments, but this formulation is so new it’s not showing up very much even domestically. Things get a bit more complicated when I try to cross-check specific drugs and who’s prescribing them with Mexican pharmacies. But I’ll keep trying. I do have a few contacts in Mexico’s larger cities.”

Both women stood. Impulsively, Emm hugged her. “Thank you so much. I finally feel the tiniest smidgen of hope. At least I’m doing something productive.”

Dr. Doyle smiled, her severe face taking on a mischievous look. “I suspect you’d be doing ‘something productive’ with or without my help.”

Emm smiled but said nothing.

Shaking her head slightly at Emm’s expression, Dr. Doyle led the way out.

 

Ross sat at his desk in his home study, reviewing the structural engineer’s proposal. It sounded much more involved than he’d anticipated. The engineer was bringing along a soils guy, who had to take borings at strategic points on the lots based on the survey they’d had updated and a preliminary look at the “as builts,” which Emm had already scanned and sent to them. The final report would take a while even after the survey was complete. The engineer was asking for approval, so Ross gave it by e-mail and copied Emm. He was a bit surprised when she responded almost immediately. She must be back in her hotel room.

An image of how she’d looked in that silken teddy sent a tingle through him. Then he remembered her wetness on his fingertip. His nostrils flared at the memory of the feel and smell. All woman, sheer ambrosia that made him hunger for more. The tingle grew more tangible, and he was so aroused that he reached for his cup of coffee to distract himself. He fumbled it, and it fell into his lap, scalding him. He jumped to his feet, letting the mug fall to the floor, cursing and using the napkin to wipe at his pants.

He was in this predicament when José knocked perfunctorily and came in to fetch the dinner tray. He saw Ross hopping around with a napkin to the front of his pants and the broken cup on the wood floor. A twinkle appeared in his eyes as he bent and calmly picked up the shattered crockery and sopped up the coffee. “Señor is usually not . . . how you say? Clumsy?”

Ross slammed his napkin down on the desk, only to curse and move it quickly as it dampened some of his papers. He swung it around one finger, eyeing his trusted manservant as if contemplating flinging it at his head.

But when José stood back up and faced him, that twinkle deepening in his mellow brown eyes, Ross blew a bitter sigh and plopped back in his chair. He handed the napkin to José. José neatly folded it and stacked it on top of the dirty dishes and broken crockery.