Wink of an Eye (27 page)

I took off the glasses and tested the camera again.

“There was no light, Gypsy.” Rhonda rolled her eyes. I wasn't sure if the gesture was for me or Gram.

I didn't trust either of them. I rested the glasses on top of my head, then checked out my reflection in the glass door of the microwave. From what I could tell between the nuked-on grease spots, they looked like any other pair of shades.

I shut down the laptop, then gathered the files. It was 9:20. I was meeting Sophia around ten at Denny's office. Exposing Denny's dirty little secret wasn't near as nerve-racking as facing Sophia again after last night. Did I dare ask if it was good for her? Or should I act like nothing ever happened?

What was it about Sophia Ortez that had me so far out of my element that I morphed into some stupid schoolboy every time I was around her? I wasn't used to being nervous around women. It confused me.

“Good luck today,” Rhonda said as she stuffed a wad of Gram's clothes into the washer.

I started out but Rhonda's lack of housekeeping skills got the best of me. Luckily she hadn't added the detergent yet nor turned on the water so I dug the clothes out of the washer and quickly sorted them into three piles on the kitchen floor. “Okay, look … whites in one load, colors in another. And I like to wash things that wrinkle easily, like all cotton, together in one load. That way, when you dry them, you can set the heat on high.”

Rhonda looked at me like I had lost my mind. “You've got three little piles there. That's three loads. Scoop it all together and it makes one big one.” She scooped up the three little piles and stuffed it all back in the machine, then smiled like Satan's spawn. “There. Laundry's done.”

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in the parking lot at the sheriff's office waiting for Sophia. My palms were sweaty. I checked my forehead in the rearview mirror, feeling a pimple gestating under the skin. Damn her.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, pushing any thought that involved Sophia's glory out of my head. Today was Tatum's day. I had to have a clear head when I confronted Denny.

A moment later, there was a rap at the window. Sophia was standing there, a questioning smile turning one corner of her lip upward.

“Sorry to interrupt your Zen,” she said as I got out. She was holding a small basket creatively filled with brownies, cookies, and little packets of hot chocolate and fancy teas.

“Another gift basket?”

She shrugged. “You have a better way of getting in there?”

“I was going to tell his secretary I had something I thought he'd want to see.” I opened the file and teased her with a glimpse of the pictures.

“That ought to get his attention.”

As I closed the folder, a burgundy unmarked car drove by the parking lot so slowly a turtle could have beaten it to a finish line. The windows were tinted but I had no doubt it was Mark Peterson.

“You ready?” I asked, not waiting for her answer. I gently led Sophia by the arm toward the front door. For some reason, I wasn't comfortable with her standing outside in the open with Peterson on the prowl. I glanced over my shoulder as he turned into the south end of the parking lot.

The sheriff's office was an old three-story brick building that housed Denny's office, the criminal investigation and patrol divisions, and the administrative offices. The county jail was banished to a separate facility on the outskirts of town. I held the door and ushered Sophia into the small lobby.

A secretary who looked as old as Gram was seated behind a massive oak desk that dominated the lobby. Two hard-back chairs occupied the front corner. Visitors obviously weren't encouraged to hang out. I pushed my sunglasses up on top of my head, triggering the recorder in the process. I cleared my throat to get the ancient secretary's attention. She stared over the rims of her glasses, expressionless.

“Can I help you?”

“We'd like to see Sheriff Denny.”

She gave us each a stern glance-over. “And you are?”

“Baskets to Go—Sophia's Custom Creations,” Sophia said, smiling broadly while proudly displaying her custom creation. “I'm Sophia Ortez, and this is my partner Michael Moran. We're working with the sheriff on an upcoming retirement party.” She leaned in against the desk and lowered her voice. “It's a surprise party, so … you know … you might want to keep it quiet for a little while longer.”

Damn, this girl was fast on her feet! Miss Older-than-Dirt's whole demeanor changed. The old woman even blushed. “A surprise party? That old coot,” she said, and chuckled. “He's in his office. I'll let him know you're coming in.”

Sophia shot me a devilish grin, then beckoned me to follow her. Denny's office was a few steps off the lobby down a short hallway. The door was partially open so Sophia knocked once, then gave it a little push. The office was the size of a small apartment. The walls were pale yellow stucco with professionally placed artwork and photographs of the sheriff in various photo ops. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined one of the walls with various collectibles and more reference books than were in the library. Denny's desk had a light cherry finish and was complemented by dark red leather guest chairs that faced it. The office was much more inviting than the lobby.

He was at his desk with his nose inches from a laptop screen. He glanced up and smiled. He closed the laptop and I wondered what he had been looking at. Denny stood and offered his hand. “I remember you—the basket lady. Or were you a reporter?”

Sophia gently smiled and shook his hand. “Actually, I'm both. Sophia Ortez, the
Odessa Record.
And this basket, I made just for you.” She gnawed on her bottom lip as she handed him the simple gift, looking almost like she felt sorry for him.

I didn't feel sorry for him. Less than twenty-four hours ago he was fucking a boy not much older than Tatum. This was one noose I'd enjoy tightening. I quickly cleared my throat and introduced myself. And I didn't use a cover. I made my intentions clear. “I was hired to investigate Ryce McCallen's death. And I've got a couple questions I'd like to ask.”

“Ryce McCallen … what a tragedy.” He made a
tsk-tsk
sound and shook his head. “Please, have a seat. How's the family doing?”

Family?
Like there was a host of relatives to pick up the slack. “You mean Tatum and Burke? They're coping.”

He nodded as if he were truly filled with compassion for the twelve-year-old fatherless boy. I wanted to slap the shit out of him. “Why was there never an autopsy performed on Ryce McCallen?”

Denny looked at me a moment like a game show contestant who had drawn a blank on the million-dollar question.

“I think in every state in the country, an autopsy is performed in suspected suicides. Why wasn't one performed on Ryce McCallen?”

Denny's mouth puckered like a fish. “Well, Mr. Moran … an autopsy wasn't ordered because we didn't want to cause the family any more stress. They've been through an awful lot the last few years. And—the cause of death was pretty obvious.”

“That's bullshit.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I
said
that's bullshit.”

Both Denny and Sophia shifted in their seats.

“Mr. Moran, Ryce McCallen hanged himself. I wanted to save the family from the rumors and gossip. From what we learned after his death, he had some deep
personal
issues that were going to be exposed.”

“Let's talk about being exposed.…” I removed one of the glossy pictures from the folder and tossed it on his desk.

He stared at it for the longest time, never touching it, turning his head to different angles like the movement would alter the photograph. He stared at it like he wasn't sure he understood the bigger picture. I removed another photo, a close-up, and tossed it on top of the other.

“I have more. Would you like to see another?” I tossed a third picture onto the pile.

Denny laced his fingers together, then folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. He sighed and looked away from the pictures.

“Now would you like to talk about
deep personal
issues?”

He unfolded his hands and leaned into his desk. “I suppose this is going to be tomorrow's headline?” He waved his hand over the pictures.

“Oh, the dirt in this department goes a lot deeper than your preference for teenage boys.” I tapped my finger on the top photograph. “This—is connected to Ryce McCallen's death. And Ryce McCallen's death is connected to two of your deputies and eight missing girls.
That's
what's going to make the headline.”

“I see.” The words were clipped, but not angry. More matter-of-fact. For someone facing a life-altering crisis, Denny was so collected he could have been discussing dinner plans. “And you have proof of these allegations?”

“Your two deputies aren't the brightest bulbs in the lamp, Sheriff. They left a pretty decent trail.”

He slowly nodded and looked at Sophia. “Miss Ortez, there's a statue of a bucking bronc on the bookshelf. Taped to the underside of it is a key. Would you mind getting it for me?”

Sophia glanced at me, unsure what to do. Instinctively, my arm went across the front of her chair and blocked her from getting up. “What does a key have to do with anything?”

I thought I saw a slight shadow of a smile. This visit was getting weirder by the minute. “It's the key to a lockbox at Fidelity Bank, Mr. Moran. Everything you'll need to know is in the box.”

I went over to the bookshelf, found the horse statue, and removed the key from underneath it. Something was very odd about this man and his businesslike attitude. He was talking in future tense and I don't think that future included him.

Then the panic surged through me as fast as my heart was pumping. As I spun around, I saw the gleam of the .45-caliber Glock. I dove for Sophia at the same time Denny raised the gun to the side of his head. The
bang
was almost as deafening as Sophia's hysterical scream. Blood and brain matter spattered us both before we hit the ground. It looked like a scene from a bad horror movie, but it wasn't. It was real. Sophia was frantically trying to get away while I was trying just as frantically to shield her from the gruesomeness.

The ancient secretary came rushing in.
“Oh my God!”

“Call an ambulance!” But I knew from the amount of blood and brain matter on Sophia and me there was little a paramedic could do.

The scene quickly escalated into pure pandemonium. I was slammed face-first onto the floor by a swarm of deputies who apparently thought shoulders were detachable. My arms were yanked behind my back with enough force to crack bone while at least one knee was driven hard into my spine as they slapped a pair of cuffs around my wrists. “I'm Michael Moran, a private investigator,” I sputtered, trying desperately to catch my breath. “My ID's in my back pocket.”

There was a collection of voices yelling commands but there was no one in charge. I couldn't see Sophia but I could hear her sobbing above the melee.

“My ID's in my back pocket,” I said again in case they missed it the first time. “Michael Moran, private investigator.”

Someone heard me above the noise that time. I could have flown the friendly skies with less groping. They finally fished my wallet out of my pocket, then shortly after that heaved me to my knees with my arms still cuffed behind my back.

The whole scene was major chaos. It reminded me of a colony of confused and angry bees swarming around a destroyed nest. Their queen was dead, sunk down in his leather chair with half his head blown off.

“You want to tell me, Mr. Moran, what the hell happened here?” a lieutenant asked. His face and neck were splotched red.

“I confronted Sheriff Denny about an investigation I'm working. Next thing I know, he's got his Glock at his head.”

His eyes narrowed and I knew he wasn't sure if he should believe me. From a purely objective point of view, I couldn't say I blamed him. Redface stared at me, then yelled at the bevy of officers around Denny's body. “Check his hands for GSR.”

One of the officers slowly nodded, acknowledging the gunshot residue covering Denny's right hand.

Redface turned more red, like a kid in school suffering from anxiety-driven hives. “And who is she?”

“Sophia Ortez. She's a reporter with the
Odessa Record.
She's working with me on the investigation.”

I caught a glimpse of her when the crowd parted for a moment. She was shaking so bad her hands could barely hold a cup of water. Black mascara streaked her face, mixing with her tears and Denny's blood. Her cheeks looked like a child's finger painting project. I wanted to go to her, to hold her. I wanted to gently wash the blood, his blood, from her face and tell her everything would be okay.

Suddenly, Mark Peterson was there wrapping a thin blanket around her trembling shoulders. My gut knotted, forcing the surging panic into my throat.
Please Sophia—don't tell him anything. Don't mention anything about a key, about a deposit box, about the—

“Hey, Lieutenant, you better take a look at these.”

Pictures. Sweet Jesus.

Redface stepped around me and went over to Denny's desk. He'd look at a picture, look at me. Look at a picture, look at me. He finally gathered them all up and motioned for another deputy to get me to my feet. He then motioned for a small entourage to follow him, and to bring me with them.

We stepped aside near the door to give the paramedics room to bring in their stretcher. One of them asked if the medical examiner had been called.

“You'll have to check with the captain,” a deputy said. He then shoved me around the stretcher and out into the hallway where Redface was waiting.