She stared at me suspiciously, then finished putting away the morning dishes. “I’ve got to go to the volunteer center for a little while. Why don’t you come with me? It’ll be fun.”
I scowled and looked over my shoulder at her. She was kidding, right? I had no idea what she did at the volunteer center but hemorrhoids sounded like more fun. “I’ll pass on that one. I think I’ll grab a shower and head into town.”
“Suit yourself. Towels are in the cabinet in the bathroom. You ready, Gram?” she yelled down the hallway for our grandmother.
“Coming,” Gram answered. A moment later she shuffled into the kitchen, her old-lady purse hanging in the crook of her arm. “Can’t wait to make my macaroni necklace.” She looked at me and rolled her eyes.
Gram had always been a sassy one and I was glad it was Rhonda taking care of her and not me. Rhonda, Rodney, and Gram lived in the three-bedroom, one-bath house Rhonda and I grew up in. It was a brick ranch with a desert for a yard. The prickly pear cacti grew randomly, adding splashes of sporadic green to the ever-present brown. When we were kids, Mom tried planting grass one year so her kids would have a lush lawn to play on. She gave up, figuring the added expense of a mower and gas to run it wasn’t worth the effort.
Mom worked sixty hours a week as a nurse at Kermit Regional Hospital, so after our dad left, Gram moved in and shared a bedroom with Rhonda. She was there to keep us out of trouble, fix us something to eat every now and then, and do the occasional load of laundry. So I learned to do my own laundry at an early age (starch preferred), cook a decent meal (something Rhonda never mastered), and keep a tidy house. Never did learn to stay out of trouble, though.
I waited until I was certain Rhonda and Gram had left for the volunteer center, then opened the public records search app on my laptop. I keyed in “Claire Kinley” but didn’t hit enter. Instead, I sat there staring at the screen, debating whether I wanted to go down that road again. I had access to every aspect of her life at my fingertips, but couldn’t do it. I couldn’t count the times over the years I had typed her name but never actually opened a file. Twenty years was a long time. Maybe some things are better left alone.
I shut down the laptop and headed to the shower.
After I showered, I escaped the suffocating humidity of the tiny bathroom and went into my old bedroom to dress. I dug around in my duffle bag and pulled out a clean pair of jeans, T-shirt, and a fresh pair of boxers. I had enough clothes for three days. Everything I owned of a personal nature was in cardboard boxes heading to Texas via UPS. My client files were in the back of the van; I didn’t trust those to the little brown truck.
So when Frank Gilleni sent his henchmen, and I knew he would, the only thing they would find was an empty apartment, no forwarding address, and no cell phone. I had bought a little time, anyway.
I stared at the jeans on the bed and couldn’t bear to put them on. Vegas was hot; Wink was unbearable. I went across the hall into Rhonda and Rodney’s bedroom. Rodney and I were about the same size. I rummaged through their dresser drawers until I found where Rodney kept his shorts. The only thing I could find was a pair of pull-on net shorts, perfect for a game of hoops. It was either the shorts from another decade or the jeans. I found a matching tank top in another drawer.
After I dressed, I took a quick glance in the mirror. I wasn’t used to looking like a geek. All I needed was a pair of tube socks and the ensemble would be complete. My hair, dry from the shower, was now slick with sweat. At least the encroaching gray around my temples blended with the dark brown waves and wasn’t easily noticeable. My eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. I looked like I’d just waken from a drunken binge, trapped in an NBA player’s uniform, circa 1983. There was no way in hell I could be seen in this outfit.
I stripped it off, put it back in the drawer, then went back to my bedroom and pulled on the jeans. I finished dressing, then headed outside. Wink, Texas, in early August and I was wearing jeans. I should probably see a shrink. About many things.
CHAPTER 3
The blistering heat grabbed my breath as soon as I stepped out the door, making me remember why I fled Wink not long after graduating high school. I unlocked the van and had the air conditioner on full blast before closing the door. I glanced in the back out of habit, just to make sure the thousands of dollars worth of equipment was where it was supposed to be. When I bought the van, I had a Captain’s Chair installed in front of the bank of surveillance equipment. Smartest investment I ever made. It made long surveillance jobs a little more comfortable.
I pulled out of the driveway and headed into downtown Wink. Businesses were sparse; most had packed up and moved to Kermit or closed up shop altogether. Wink, at one time, had been a booming little town with a thriving population and enough business to contribute to a healthy tax base. But by the early seventies, despite a million-dollar urban renewal grant from the Feds, the town was barely clinging to life. By the twenty-first century, the population had dwindled to under a thousand and you could count the businesses on one hand. Most of the people that remained had been born here, like their parents and grandparents before them. Few people moved to Wink by choice. It wasn’t a bad little town; hot as hell, but quaint.
One thing that did remain was Dunbar’s, a greasy spoon that had been passed down from generation to generation of Dunbars. I figured I might as well stop in and grab a burger and support the local economy. The parking lot was filled with pickup trucks of every make and model, old and rusted to shiny and new. Inside, the place hadn’t changed much. The tables were still covered with red-and-white plaid vinyl tablecloths, daily specials were still scrawled on a chalkboard propped on the counter. I’d been run out more than once by old man Dunbar for erasing the chicken fried steak dinner combo and adding a sixteen-ounce porterhouse for $1.99. Faded black-and-white photos of Wink’s glory days shared wall space with color pictures of pump jacks silhouetted by glorious red-and-orange evening skies. I’d seen the sun set in Marina Del Rey, but it couldn’t compare in beauty, or loneliness, to a Texas sunset.
I glanced around the diner and didn’t see an empty table or a spot at the counter. The clientele was a mix of Wink’s best. Ranchers with their Stetsons, farmers with their John Deere ball caps, oil workers in their dirty blue work shirts. Throw in a few teachers on summer break and that pretty much summed up the lunchtime customers and the general population. I didn’t go out of my way to see if I recognized anyone, since keeping a low profile for a while was probably in my best interest. Just as I stepped up to the counter to order, I saw Tatum McCallen in a back booth waving me over. I gave him a tiny wave, acknowledging at least I’d seen him, then ordered a burger all the way, homemade chips, and a cola to go.
“Hey, Grandpa would like to meet you,” Tatum said, suddenly at my side like a fungus no amount of penicillin was going to cure.
“I’d really like to, but I’m on my way over to the volunteer center. Rhonda wanted me to drop by.”
“Oh, it’ll only take a minute. It’ll take ’em that long to cook your burger.”
This kid was good. I glanced at the back booth. A folded wheelchair was leaning against the wall, out of the way. I sighed, then told the waitress who took my order where I’d be. I followed the kid through the maze of tables to his booth.
“Grandpa, this is Gypsy Moran, the private detective I was telling you about.” The kid was grinning ear to ear.
“Pleasure to meet you. Burke McCallen.” We shook hands. He had a firm grip and a strong hand attached to a muscular forearm, a result of the wheelchair I supposed. Tatum slid into the booth, sliding to the corner to make room for me to sit. Reluctantly, I sat down, sitting on the edge so I could make a quick getaway.
The old man was probably early sixties with weathered skin from too many days in the Texas sun. His gray hair was thinning but he wore it long, falling just below his collar. His lightweight plaid shirt complete with pearl snaps reminded me of a different era. I’d seen my own grandfather and his b
uddies wear the same shirt when I was a kid.
“Tatum tells me you pulled in from Vegas this morning.” His voice was deep with authority. At one time, this man demanded respect.
I nodded. “Drove straight through.”
“That’s a long ride.”
I nodded again.
“He tells me you’re going to look into my son’s death.”
I threw a glance at Tatum, who quickly turned his attention to his chocolate milkshake. “Well, like I told your grandson, I’m really just passing through. I’m going to be here a week, maybe two. I don’t know what I could do in that short amount of time. Besides, I’m not licensed in Texas. I wouldn’t have access to records or—”
“I have the records. Well, Dad’s files anyway,” Tatum said, taking a breath from sucking down his milkshake.
“Ryce didn’t kill himself, Mr. Moran,” Burke said. “We just don’t have any way of digging into it.”
The waitress brought my order in a white paper bag and Styrofoam cup. Grease seeped through the bag, staining it in spots.
“Tatum told me you’re a retired deputy. You’ve probably got better connections here than I’d ever have.”
“Humph…” He stared out the dusty picture window, looking deep into a memory. “My connections ended the day I took one in the back.”
Now I was curious. Law enforcement took care of their own, especially the wounded. But I didn’t know these people. For all I knew Burke McCallen and his son, Ryce, could have been rogue deputies who got caught at whatever it was they were doing. Could explain Ryce’s decision to hang himself.
“There’s some bad things going on in the department, Mr. Moran. My son was on to something when he died.”
“Yeah, Dad was getting ready to bust the whole thing wide open.” Tatum took a hard pull on the straw, slurping up the last bit of his milkshake.
I couldn’t stop the grin that spread across my face. The world is so simple to a twelve-year-old.
“Why don’t you drop by the house tonight for dinner? Rhonda knows the address,” Burke said.
The waitress brought their ticket and slid it across the table to Burke. He pulled a ten from a money clip tucked in his pocket and handed it and the ticket to Tatum. While Tatum headed to the register to pay, I opened the wheelchair that had been propped against the wall behind us. I rolled it to the edge of the booth.
“He’s a good kid,” Burke said, bobbing his head toward his grandson at the register. “Ryce raised him right.” He struggled out of the booth, then pulled himself into the chair. “Whatever your fee is, Mr. Moran, we’ll pay it. We’re not oil barons but we’re not dirt poor, either.”
I reached for the chair handles to help him but before I could get a grasp, he was ten feet ahead of me. I followed along behind, carrying my bagged lunch and soda. He maneuvered around the tables as if it was something he did everyday, obviously more secure with his limitations than I was. He did allow me to hold the door for him. Outside, he rolled himself along the concrete to a blue Ford pickup. Tatum hurried to his side and opened the passenger door. Burke hoisted himself up and into the seat, grimacing at the dead weight of his useless legs. Tatum rolled the chair around to the back, then heaved it up into the bed of the truck.
“Dinner’ll be ready around six,” he said, grinning. “Tell Ms. Walker and Grandma they can come too, if they want. There’ll be plenty.”
I followed the kid around to the driver’s side and watched as he climbed in behind the wheel. I could remember times my dad would pull over and let me take the wheel, but it was always on some dirt road out in the middle of nowhere, not on a main road in the middle of town.
“You old enough to drive?” I asked, knowing the answer.
He shrugged, shifting his weight in the booster seat. “Somebody has to.”
I watched them drive away, wondering if Ryce McCallen’s death was something I wanted to get involved with. I hadn’t actually committed to anything yet. I didn’t even commit to dinner. I was interested in why Ryce had a case file in his possession. There were only two reasons I could think of and both involved a dirty cop.
I wasn’t sure what to make of Burke’s story, either. I’d have to do some checking into both father and son before I agreed to anything. I wasn’t real keen on going up against an entire department, nor was I too keen on getting suckered by an ex-deputy with a score to settle.
As I started back to the van, a white Silverado Dually whipped into the parking lot and pulled into the empty space where the McCallens had been parked. A woman in jeans, boots, and a tight T-shirt climbed out. She threw a glance my way as she passed. Then we both stopped, frozen in time. We spun around and faced one another.
“Gypsy? Oh my God!”
Claire Kinley threw herself into my arms, nearly knocking me backward. My bagged lunch and soda hit the pavement. After I regained my footing, I lifted her and whirled her around like we were in some hokey movie.
“Oh my God … I can’t believe it’s you,” she cried. “It’s really you.” She pulled away and cupped my face in her hands. Tears were streaming down her gorgeous face, streaking her mascara. “You’re as beautiful today as you were the day you…”
Then she hauled off and slapped the shit out of me. “You deserved that, you bastard,” she said, laughing, tears still rolling down her face.
She was probably right. No “Dear Claire” letter, no sweet last kiss. Just here one day and gone the next. Whether I deserved it or not, it didn’t stop the welt from forming on my cheek. I rubbed my face and grinned. “Yeah, I guess I did deserve it.”
Claire Kinley was as gorgeous today as she was twenty years ago. Her blond hair fell softly on her shoulders, shimmering like spun gold in the sunlight. Her eyes were still the color of cornflowers growing wild in the pastures; the teenage body where I had found heaven had filled out in all the right places.
She wiped away the tears, then gently patted my cheek where she had landed the good one moments earlier. “What are you doing in Wink? Last I heard you were in Vegas.”
Should I tell her the truth? I half shrugged. “Just passing through. Got in last night.”
She nodded. “You staying with Rhonda?”
“Until she throws me out.” I laughed and took a step back to get a long look at the only woman I ever considered marrying. “Damn—you look good.”
She laughed and shook her head. “It’s requiring some work these days.”
I teasingly pointed at the gray at my own temple and grinned. “Not using color yet but I’ve considered it.” We both laughed and it was so easy, like it was so many years ago, before reality and heartbreak set in. “So … what are you doing with yourself these days?”
She pursed her lips and bobbed her head back and forth. “Managing the ranch. Daddy had a stroke four years ago so I took over the day-to-day operation.” Sadness filled her eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was from sympathy or regret. Had she wondered nearly every day, like I had, about what could have been? The K-Bar Ranch held her grounded to west Texas as much as the small-town living drove me away.
“Sorry to hear about your dad,” I said softly.
She nodded. “He’s still just as cantankerous as ever.” She lightly touched the faded scar on my upper lip, a clear reminder of the deadly sword her father was capable of wielding.
A faint tune played from the cell phone attached to her belt. She glanced at the number, then rolled her eyes. “Daddy’s wanting his lunch.”
I glanced at my own lunch splattered on the ground, debating whether or not to get another. I guessed I could wait until dinner. “Yeah … I’ve got to get, too. Got some errands to run.”
We both stood there for a moment, not wanting it to end, but no idea how to keep it going. “Look,” she finally said. “Maybe we can get together for dinner tomorrow night?”
Before I could stop myself, I agreed. “Yeah. That sounds great.”
She pulled a pen from her pocket, reached for my hand, and w
rote her number on my palm. She smiled, then disappeared into the diner. I stared at the number scribbled in ink on the palm of my hand, thinking of a thousand reasons not to call. And a thousand and one why I should.
CHAPTER 4
Claire Kinley was as wild as the broncs her daddy used to sell. It was that spirit I fell in love with. The fact she was a knockout didn’t hurt, either. She was named Prom Queen, Homecoming Queen, Miss Wildcat, Miss Winkler County 4-H, and adamantly declined every title. No one was going to box her into a perception of how she was supposed to look, act, or conduct herself in public. Not even me.
I programmed the number she’d scrawled on my hand into my phone, immediately considered deleting it, then saved it. The last thing I wanted was to drag her into this mess I was in. But it was just one dinner, right? What could it hurt?
I took 115 into Kermit and found the volunteer center where Rhonda was doing her daily good deed. Her SUV was parked out front of the one-story brick building. An old school bus from Garden Gate Assisted Living was parked crossways, taking up five parking spots. Not that there was a need. There were only four cars in the entire lot.
Although the air in the volunteer center was nice and cool, I drew in a breath and held it when I entered. The smell of ammonia was so strong I could taste it. A heavyset woman in flowered scrubs was leading a young woman with more challenges than anyone deserved to the restroom. The woman in scrubs eyed me suspiciously.
“I’m looking for Rhonda Walker. I’m her brother,” I said, hoping to put the woman’s mind at ease.
“Oh—so you’re Gypsy!” She smiled broadly. “Rhonda never mentioned how handsome you were.”
I winked at the woman. “You remind her for me.”
She blushed, then pointed down the hall. “She’s in the commons area, down the hall and to the left.”
I found the commons area and stood in the doorway a moment watching Rhonda do her thing. I wondered where she got her compassion. Our mother was a great nurse but had no patience, especially with kids; our grandmother, for the most part, was indifferent. I remember our father was kind, funny, and proud, but I don’t remember him being particularly compassionate. How could he have been? He walked out on his wife and two kids.
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