Wink of an Eye (6 page)

But if tonight's meal was an example of the kid's culinary skills, no one needed to worry about the McCallens eating well. My fingers were sticky from the ribs; butter from the corn clung to my lips like lip gloss on a whore. If I decided to take the case, I might just do it simply for the food.

“So, what do you think?” Tatum asked as he cleared the last dishes from the table. “Do you want to see the files I've got?”

The kid didn't beat around the bush. I liked that about him.

“Tatum, why don't you take Gypsy outside and show him where it happened before it gets too dark,” Burke said. “I think you'll find that pretty interesting.” He looked at me and slightly nodded. One investigator to another.

“Go ahead,” Rhonda said. “I'll get the kitchen cleaned up.”

The kid's face lit up with excitement. He looked at me for an okay so I stood up and motioned toward the door. I followed him out onto a deck overlooking the backyard. They actually had grass. In spots. The cacti were corralled to a landscaped area on the left side of the yard; on the right was a weathered wooden play set Tatum outgrew years ago. An aluminum shed was near the back, bordering a thin tree line, with an attached lean-to housing a push mower and other yard items. Three massive bur oaks in the center of the yard provided a nice shade source.

“It happened over here.” Tatum went down the steps and stopped at the middle tree. Jasper blew by him in hot pursuit of a daring jackrabbit. “He was hanging from this branch.” Tatum pointed upward, toward a thick branch at least ten feet off the ground. It was the lowest branch on the tree, though impossible to climb to without help.

I joined Tatum at the spot where his father had died, surprised at the kid's lack of emotion. He'd been around cops too long.

“What happened the day you found him?”

“I knew something was wrong as soon as I got home because his car was here. He never comes home during the day.”

“So what happened?”

“I had just got home from school and I went inside, through the front door, and hollered for Dad. Grandpa had gone to the auction house with LeWellan Jacobs.”

LeWellan Jacobs. The author of the Letter to the Editor.

“When I got off the bus, Jasper didn't come greet me, even when I called for him. I remember thinking something was up.”

“So when you got in the house, what happened?”

“I hollered for Dad, then I hollered for Grandpa, thinking he might have got back early. I went into the kitchen and put my book bag on the table then went to the refrigerator to get a drink and that's when I saw him. I saw him through the kitchen window.” For the first time, his voice cracked and it had nothing to do with puberty. “I called 911 and told them I needed an ambulance, then I ran outside. I know you're supposed to stay on the line with the operator but … I knew they'd come even if you didn't.” He turned away from me, lifting his hand to his face and wiping away tears he didn't want me to see.

He sniffled, then squared his shoulders and turned back around. “I grabbed his legs and tried lifting him up, to take some of the pressure off, but … I wasn't strong enough.”

I gently placed my hand on his shoulder. “I'm sure there wasn't anything you could do at that point.”

He smiled softly, a sad smile that tore at my heart. “Didn't stop me from trying.”

I walked around the tree, looking at the trunk and the branch that held Ryce's weight. It was a stout branch, capable of supporting a good-sized man. It still didn't explain how he got up there.

“What else do you remember?”

“Jasper was lying underneath him, whining real bad. I ran and got the ladder and tried to loosen the rope, but … it was pulled too tight.”

I wouldn't allow myself to envision the panic Tatum must have felt. That would be getting too involved and I wasn't sure I wanted to do that yet. “Where'd you get the ladder from?”

He pointed to the lean-to. “It was over there. But dad always kept it in the shed.”

I looked at him. “You're sure about that? You're one hundred percent sure you got it from the lean-to?”

He nodded. “That was one of the things I wondered about afterward. Why it was there in the first place and how'd Dad get up to that branch without it.”

“Did you tell the sheriff this?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. He said Dad must have climbed the tree.”

I walked around the tree again, paying closer attention to the trunk. I didn't see any scuff marks, no broken bark, no indication anyone had recently tried to climb the tree.

I scratched my head then asked him again. “You are
certain
the ladder was under the lean-to?”

He nodded.

“And there wasn't a box, or a step stool, maybe even the trash can, anywhere around the tree?”

He slowly shook his head.

I moved on, not wanting to dwell on the subject. The more I questioned Tatum about that one element, the more his memory would start inventing things that didn't happen. “What happened when the paramedics arrived?”

“They cut him down and laid him in the grass. They tried to find a pulse, all that stuff, and by that time a couple of the deputies were here. They kept trying to pull me away from him.…” His voice faded into a slight whisper.

“Do you remember the deputies?”

He sniffled then nodded. “Mark Peterson and Averitt McCoy. There were a couple others but I don't remember their names. Mark Peterson told me they'd call Grandpa for me.”

“Did you tell them Burke wasn't at home?”

He shook his head.

“Then why would they assume he wasn't here?”

He stared at me with such intensity, I feared the trees behind me would ignite. After a long moment, he asked, “You want to see the case file now?”

I thought about it before saying anything. I felt for the kid, I really did, but I did not want to get involved in a homicide investigation. They were tiring, intense, much more detail-oriented than a cheating spouse. Not to mention dangerous.

I sucked in a long, deep breath, then pitched a slobbery toy Jasper had brought me to toss. “Tatum—if your dad didn't commit suicide, who do you think killed him?”

“Sheriff Denny. Maybe not himself, but some of his deputies.”

I was afraid he was going to say that. Murder cases were tough enough. Even tougher when the suspects knew how to cover their tracks.

“You know no matter who did it, it's not going to bring your dad back.”

He nodded slowly. “I know that. But at least the town will know he died with honor.”

Crap. That one was going to be hard to walk away from.

Back in the house, I joined Burke and Rhonda at the kitchen table. Gram was in the living room watching some gossip show. Tatum went to his room to gather the case file Ryce had been working on. The air in the kitchen was a comfortable reprieve from the suffocating heat of the backyard. It was 8:00
P.M.
and still registering 90 degrees. I wiped a line of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.

“Tell me what happened after Ryce died,” I said.

Burke pushed away from the table and rolled himself to a cabinet under the sink. He pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam, then rolled back to the table. “Rhonda, would you be a sweetheart and grab a couple glasses?” He pointed to one of the upper cabinets.

“Sure.” Rhonda got two glasses and set them on the table.

Burke poured the glasses about a quarter full, then slid one in my direction. “So, you want to know about the day Ryce died. What do you want to know?”

“Who knew you were going to the auction with LeWellan Jacobs?”

“Ryce, Tatum. It wasn't unusual for me to go. I go with him about twice a month.”

If in fact Ryce was murdered, whoever did it had to know Burke wouldn't be home at that time. The old man may not have been able to chase after the perps but he could have loaded them full of lead.

“Now there were a couple calls on the caller ID that day that came up as unavailable,” Burke said. “That's pretty unusual.”

“How many times did they call?”

“Five, six maybe. About every thirty minutes up until around two o'clock.”

“A little before Tatum got home.”

He nodded.

“Why do you think Ryce came home early that day?”

Burke shrugged. “That one I can't figure out. There was a call on
his
cell phone about an hour before Tatum got home but we don't know whose number it was.”

“Have you still got his phone?”

He shook his head. “Of course not. Denny took it as evidence.”

“But I wrote the number down.” Tatum pulled up a chair. He opened the brown file folder and showed me the number he had scribbled on the inside cover. I was growing more impressed with this kid by the minute.

I took a sip of the bourbon. It and Sophia Ortez, so far, were the nicest things about this trip. I didn't include my reunion with Claire. That had the potential to be as explosive as the situation in Vegas I was running from.

“Have you called the number?” I asked.

Tatum shook his head. “I didn't want to call from here. I have to be careful what phone I call from in case they have caller ID.”

Burke and I glanced at one another. Burke looked away, fighting back a grin. I took the file from Tatum and laid it out on the table. It was at least three inches thick, dated, documented, and well organized. There were photos of different girls, all Hispanic, all in their teens. The photos were a collection of family snapshots and school photos, none from professional surveillance.

“That one on the top is Alvedia Esconderia,” Rhonda said, pointing to the picture of a cute kid, no older than Tatum. “I taught her and Tatum last year.”

“She's the one that started the whole thing,” Tatum added. “I told my dad what was happening and he started looking into it.”

“Eight young girls have disappeared in the last three years,” Burke said. “All illegals, all between the ages of thirteen and fifteen.”

“You think they were murdered?”

Burke shook his head.

I sighed. Weren't there any cheating spouses in Winkler county needing my services? I loathed cheating spouses but they paid the bills. Not nearly as complicated as this was turning out to be, either. I closed the file and pressed the balls of my hands deep into my eyes, feeling a massive headache coming on. I finished off the bourbon and poured myself another round. “This … Alvedia Esconderia, is she missing?”

“No. Dad wanted her picture, just in case,” Tatum answered. “Her older sister, Alana, is missing.” He flipped the page in the file and pointed to a picture of Alana. She was a beautiful girl with black curly hair pulled into a loose ponytail. Her teenage body was just beginning to round out. “She's sixteen now,” Tatum said. “She disappeared when she was fourteen. Alvedia's scared the same thing will happen to her.”

“And of course, with them being illegals, there's no record of 'em.” I drank the bourbon in one shot, sucking the whiskey between my teeth before letting it slide down, then refilled again. “Okay, and this is related to your dad's death, how? You think this is the case he was working on when he died?”

“He wasn't officially working on it. He was doing all this after hours. The department wouldn't look into it because they said the girls were probably just runaways.”

“And how do you know that's not the truth?”

Tatum opened the file and tapped his finger against the picture of Alvedia Esconderia. “She knows it's not true. She's a key witness.”

Of course. Little Sherlock Holmes really needed to find a new hobby. “Shouldn't you be playing football or riding the rodeo or something?”

Burke smiled and poured himself another drink. “He's gonna make a damn good investigator one day.”

“Take my advice, kid. Find another line of work.”

“So what do you think?” Tatum asked, ignoring my comments and my mood.

“What is it you want me to investigate?” I asked, more snappy than I intended. “We've got three things going on here. Your dad's death, your grandpa's injury, and a human trafficking ring.”

“And all three lead back to Sheriff Denny. That's what I want you to investigate.”

I finished off the bottle.

*   *   *

Through one bloodshot eye, I watched tiny dust particles flutter from the bedroom blinds like micro-sized snowflakes. I squinted hard against the blinding sunlight filtering through the slats. Rhonda wasn't much of a cook
or
housekeeper. I rolled over on my back and watched the ceiling fan rotate until my stomach lurched. I squeezed my eyes closed to stop the spinning. My hair was soaked from sweat and it had nothing to do with the hangover.

“Mornin', sunshine,” Rhonda said from the doorway. She came in and plopped down on the side of the bed. “Here, drink this.”

I propped up on one elbow and downed the aspirin she offered, chugged the glass of tomato juice, then eased back on the bed. “Ohhhh … I guess I owe Burke a bottle.”

Rhonda sighed. “At least you didn't wear a lampshade or do anything else stupid.”

“Did I sing? I like to sing karaoke when I'm drunk.”

Rhonda laughed. “No. You didn't sing. You didn't stop talking about Claire long enough.” Her expression turned sour. “I almost deleted her number from your phone but thought that would be really mean.”

We stared at one another for a long moment, neither of us saying anything. I went back to watching the ceiling fan, praying I wouldn't throw up. Finally, I sighed heavily, propped up on my elbow again, and glared at Rhonda. “What is your issue with Claire? You've never liked her.”

She turned away. I stared at her back and continued with the interrogation. “I know Mama didn't like her because she was Carroll Kinley's daughter and I don't know what that history was about, and I don't want to know—but it doesn't explain why you don't like her.”