Wink of an Eye (24 page)

I stood there for a long time staring at the spot at the end of the street where I lost sight of her. I wondered whom she was going home to. Lucky bastard. I wondered if she lived in an apartment. A condo? Maybe a house with a yard.

I could find out everything I wanted to know with one click on the laptop, but somehow, it felt like an invasion of her privacy. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, it was. It just didn't seem right where she was concerned. She'd tell me everything I needed to know in time.

Inside, Rodney and Rhonda hurried away from the window and headed into the kitchen as soon as I opened the front door.

“Y'all are so busted,” I said.

“What?” Rodney turned around and looked at me with this goofy expression that made me want to laugh rather than kill him. “What do you mean
we're busted
?”

“We were just going into the kitchen to grab a beer,” Rhonda said. “You want one?”

I slowly shook my head and grinned, following them into the kitchen. Beer my ass. Rhonda hadn't had a beer since high school when she threw up all over the floorboard of my Camaro.

“How'd it go?” Rodney asked. “Anything out of the ordinary?”

I eased myself down into one of the chairs and propped the crutches against the wall. “Depends on what you call ordinary, I suppose. He was supposed to go to a Rotary Club meeting but ended up at the movies instead.”

“He went to the movie alone?”

I shrugged. “Personally, I don't think he intended to be alone. But whoever he was meeting was a no-show.”

“How do you know he was meeting someone?” Rhonda asked. She handed me a beer, then handed one to Rodney.

I unscrewed the cap and downed half the bottle in one swig. “He was seeing some kiddie movie. Grown men usually don't go to kiddie movies by themselves.”

“Really?” She looked to Rodney for confirmation.

He shrugged. “Unless they're a movie critic, it is kind of weird.”

“What movie?” Rhonda asked.

I took a smaller swallow of the beer. “I don't know, something about talking toys.”

“Toy Story 3,”
they both said in unison.

“Ah, man … we wanted to see that,” Rodney said. “I didn't think it was still playing.”

I stared from one to the other. Had the world gone completely mad? I pushed thoughts of that creepy baby doll with the bad eye out of my head before a nightmare became a real possibility.

The only doll baby I wanted to dream about tonight was Sophia.

“So he skipped out on a Rotary meeting to see a movie,” Rodney said. “Maybe he's just a member of the Rotary but only attends a couple meetings?”

“Could be. But as an elected official, you'd think he would want to rub elbows with as many constituents as possible.”

Rodney finally took a drink of his beer. Rhonda hadn't touched hers.

“What do you want to do about Averitt McCoy?” Rodney asked.

“Bring him in for a formal interview. Hopefully, he'll roll over on Peterson and everything will be hunky-dory.”

“And if he doesn't?”

“We've got the evidence. Evidence doesn't lie.”

“And what are you going to do about Denny?”

The beer and the painkillers were doing a tango in my head and my thought process was moving in slow motion. “Tail him again tomorrow. Peterson's got something on him and I want to know what it is. The more evidence we have against Peterson, the better.”

And the sooner I knew how everyone was connected in this sick game, the sooner I could move on to a paying job.

*   *   *

The next morning, the sound of a car engine woke me. I fumbled for the alarm clock and was surprised to see it was after nine. I rolled over and peered out the bedroom blinds in time to see Rhonda's car heading down the street. Today was volunteer day at the adult enrichment center, which meant she had Gram with her.

I sat on the edge of the bed a moment and examined my foot. It was only about a quarter size larger than normal now so I took that as a sign the swelling was going down each day. Another couple days and I might be able to wear something other than sandals.

I hobbled into the kitchen to find Rhonda had left the coffee on. Hot coffee, a quiet house, no Gram. It was starting out to be a pretty good day. I poured a cup of coffee, then took it and my phone out on the back deck. I scrolled to Claire's number in my contact list, then punched send.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” I said when she answered.

“Good morning to you, too. How's the foot?”

“Better. Still a little swollen but at least I can tell I have five individual toes now.”

She laughed, then asked, “Feel up to lunch?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

“Can you drive yet?”

I thought it best not to mention last night's surveillance work. “Oh, yeah. I'm good. Where and when?”

“Well, if I remember correctly, we had plans for a picnic here at the ranch.”

“Yeah, we did, didn't we? Around noon?”

“I'll see you then. When you come in, drive past the main house. My house is about a mile and a half past Daddy's.”

“He's not going to come out and shoot me, is he?”

She laughed. I was serious. I touched the scar on my lip.

“He won't even know you're here. Just like old times.”

She hung up and I sat staring at the phone for a minute or two after. I wasn't sure yet how I was going to approach the subject of the money transfers or her connection to Mark Peterson. I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. But I wasn't stupid.

I finished my coffee, then grabbed a shower.

 

CHAPTER 21

I was purposely ten minutes late. I didn't want to give her the impression I was sitting around watching the clock, counting off the minutes until I saw her again. The games Claire and I played with one another's hearts and minds were sometimes beyond comprehension. I didn't understand why we did them, and I didn't think she did, either. I loved her more than life and I know she loved me the same, but we didn't trust each other further than we could see one another. And sometimes, even when she was within sight, in full view, I trusted her even less. That's when she was the most dangerous. At least when she wasn't within arm's reach, I could push her out of my mind.

I drove through the wrought iron gate welcoming me to the K-Bar Ranch. The main house was about two hundred yards past the entrance. It was an eight-thousand-square-foot, two-story colonial with a front porch and a manicured lawn. Claire's bedroom had been upstairs, the last room on the right. The bedroom window faced the side lawn and there used to be a massive tree close enough I could climb and sneak in. Kinley got wise and had every tree within a hundred feet of the house cut down.

I followed the driveway like Claire had said and finally, a mile and a half later, pulled up to a cedar-sided log house not quite as large as the main house. I couldn't help but grin—that was my Claire. She'd always dreamed of a log cabin. How could two people who were such polar opposites be so in tune with one another?

She bounded out onto the front porch, grinning like a giddy teenager, and motioned for me to park near the steps. I did as she wanted and parked about ten feet from the steps leading to the porch. I got out, turned and stared at the van parked haphazardly in the yard, then turned back to Claire. “Is that the handicap spot?”

She smiled. “I figured it would be easier for you. The swelling really has gone down, hasn't it?” She looked at my foot and nodded approvingly.

I spread my arms and laughed. “Look, ma, no crutch.” I had no idea how I was going to make it up the stairs without it but I was going to give it my best effort. Heaven was waiting for me at the top.

I was able to put a little weight on my toes and probably looked like a creatively challenged dancer clumsily prancing about. It took a minute or two but I made it up all seven steps. I wrapped my arms around Claire's waist and locked her in a tight embrace. Partly for support, and partly because she just looked so damn good standing there.

She pulled back slightly then kissed me hard on the mouth.

“Hello to you, too,” I said.

She wiped a transferred smudge of lipstick from the corner of my lips with the tip of her index finger. She sighed contentedly, then took my hand and led me into the house, adjusting her usually fast-paced steps to my gimping gait.

The house was large, but not a ridiculous show of wealth. It was open and airy and decorated in standard west-Texas flair, complete with bleached cattle skulls and Navajo-inspired blankets. The furniture was worn brown leather, purposely distressed and softer than a cloud.

“You want a beer or a drink?” She headed toward a wet bar in the corner of the family room.

“Whatcha got?” I'm a picky drinker.

She ducked behind the bar, then popped back up a minute later with a smile and a full bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. “That'll work just fine,” I said, my mouth watering with anticipation.

She fixed us each a drink, then brought them, and the bottle, over to the sofa. She sat close to me, tucking one leg under her perfect ass so she could face me. She was so close her warm breath lightly tickled my neck. Despite every nerve ending in my body on pleasure high alert, I reminded myself this really needed to be a business call. It was easier to be objective if our clothes stayed on. Besides, I reminded myself, she
was married.
And I don't make it a habit of doing married women. Not even if that woman was Claire Kinley.

“Claire,” I said after a stout swig of my drink. “We really need to finish the conversation we started in the hospital.”

She ran her finger lightly around the collar of my shirt, gently tickling my neck. “About me and you, or you and that Mexican reporter?” she said, her voice a breathy whisper.

I gently clasped her playful finger and moved her hand to her lap. “I was talking about the investigation and the ranch.”

She frowned. “You said you weren't investigating the ranch.”

“Not directly. But some things have come up that I was hoping you could explain.”

She sighed heavily, then finished her drink in one long swallow. She refilled both our glasses, then sat the bottle on the coffee table. “I've already explained the illegal workers. I'm not sure what else there is to talk about.”

“Tell me about Mark Peterson.”

For a second, I thought I was going to have to smack her and force her to breathe. Her gaze darted all around the room, focusing on everything and nothing, avoiding looking at me altogether.

“I know he's your brother-in-law. But I want to know about the business deal you have with him.”

She still wouldn't look at me. She took a sip of her drink, then sat the glass on the table. “I thought this was going to be a picnic. I wasn't expecting an inquisition.”

“Claire,” I said with a sigh. “It's not an inquisition. Mark Peterson may be involved in things that would not be good for you to be involved in. I'm trying to find out where you fit into this picture.”

She finally looked at me. Her eyes were blue as ice and just as cold. “What kind of
things
?”

I swallowed the rest of my drink, then poured myself another. “I can't really say yet.”

She guffawed. “Oh. Let me see if I've got this straight. You come in here and tell me my brother-in-law is involved in some kind of criminal activity, but you can't tell me what, and oh, yeah, it may involve me. Is that about the gist of it?” Her voice was rising in pitch, which meant her temper wasn't far behind.

“Claire … I'm trying to protect you. I can't do that if I don't know what's going on.”

“Seems like you do know what's going on. Why don't you tell me, then we'll both know.” She sprang up from the couch and paced back and forth in front of the picture window. I imagined if I could hear the thoughts running through her head at that moment, it would sound like crashing ocean waves.

“Claire, I know you have business dealings with him—”

“How would you know that unless you've…” She stopped pacing and glared at me so hard I caught a chill. “You've pulled my financial records?
Oh … my … God.
You sonofabitch!”

“Claire, wait a minute. It's not like that.” I hobbled over to her, keeping an arm's-length distance between us just in case.

“You knew about the illegals, you knew about Steven when you
fucked
me. What else do you know about me, Gypsy? Is there something else you want to know? Ask me, I'll tell you. You don't have to dig it up.”

“It's not you I'm investigating. But damn if you don't have a lot of connections to Mark Peterson. I know money's changed hands between you and Peterson, Claire. If he's got something on you, you've got to tell me.”

Her icy stare bore a hole straight through to my soul. Finally, after a long moment, she sighed and pushed her hand through her hair. “Gypsy—he's my brother-in-law. He's married to Steven's sister. He doesn't manage their money very well. We're always having to bail them out of one financial crisis after another.” She turned away and stared out the window. “What are you investigating him for?” Her voice was low, somber.

I closed the distance between us. “I can't tell you that, Claire. You know that.”

“How involved is he?” She continued to look out the window, her back to me.

“He's involved. That's all I can say right now.”

I watched her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, then she turned around and looked me in the eyes. “And I don't know what to tell you. I don't know if he's gambling it away, or if he's using drugs … I don't know what he's using the money for.”

It wasn't adding up. There were too many dollars changing hands. Claire was too shrewd to be her brother-in-law's personal bank. “How much is he into you for?” I knew the exact amount that had been exchanged. But I wanted to hear what she had to say.