Wink of an Eye

by Lynn Chandler Willis

  “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.”

  “Because she made you cry,” she said softly.

  “What?” I pulled her around, forcing her to look at me.

  “She made you cry. More than once. You’re my big brother. You aren’t supposed to cry.”

  I tried but couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. “That’s why you’ve hated her all these years? Because she made a lovesick teenage boy cry?”

  “Not just any teenage boy—my big brother. Nobody ever made you cry. You didn’t even cry when Daddy left.”

  “You were ten years old. What do you remember about it?”

  “I remember you didn’t cry. You said the hell with him. We’d be just fine.”

  Guess she didn’t hear me cry myself to sleep that night. Or the night after that. Or the night after that. Finally, I forced my thoughts back to Claire. “Do me a favor and get over it already. I mean, she’s not going to make me cry again, okay? I promise. I won’t let her.” All these years I thought Rhonda had just been jealous of the pampered princess.

  “Good. Because I’d hate to have to kill her.” She punched me on the arm. She then smiled and stood up. “You need to get up and get going.”

  “Going where?”

  She jammed her hands on her hips. “Doing whatever private investigators do. You told Tatum you’d start today.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Well, that would certainly teach me to never down another bottle of Jim Beam. I showered, then stumbled into the kitchen, where Rhonda had a fresh pot of coffee waiting. “So, when did I agree to this?” I fixed myself a cup of coffee, straight black, and carried it over to the table.

  Rhonda was prepping mystery meat for the Crock-Pot. Bless her heart. “Somewhere near the end of the bottle.”

  “What exactly did I agree to? Did we talk fees or anything?” I did, after all, have to make a living.

  Rhonda turned around and stared at me. Her hands were covered with a variety of spices. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

  I remembered mouthwatering ribs and said a quick prayer I hadn’t agreed to take this case for food.

  “You told them you’d do it pro bono; I mean, considering the insurance angle and all.”

  I stared at her. “What insurance angle?”

  She sighed, turned back to the sink, and washed her hands, then sat down at the table with me. “As long as Ryce’s death is declared a suicide, his life insurance won’t pay a dime. Tatum will be able to collect survivors benefits, but … the house, Tatum’s medical insurance, all of that still has to be paid.”

  “Ryce didn’t have mortgage disability insurance?”

  She shook her head. “Everything was tied into his life insurance. Tatum’s his beneficiary, but it doesn’t pay in the event of suicide. The mortgage was in Ryce’s name and Burke, in his condition, can’t qualify for a loan to assume it.”

  I took a long drink of coffee. “His condition shouldn’t have anything to do with qualifying for a loan. That would be discriminatory.”

  “Not his physical condition … he can’t afford it. For what the house and the land would appraise for now, he’d have to put nearly half down to get the payments low enough so they wouldn’t have to struggle.”

  I scratched at my head, remembering the conversation Burke and I had at the diner. “Burke told me at Dunbar’s whatever my fee was, he’d pay it. He said they weren’t oil barons, but they weren’t hurting, either.”

  “He’s a proud man, Gypsy. He only told me because he asked me to help him find an affordable medical plan for Tatum.”

  “Does Tatum know all this?”

  She shook her head. “To Tatum, it’s all about restoring his dad’s honor. Burke hasn’t told him they may have to move. It’s the only home Tatum’s ever known. He was born there.”

  I finished my coffee, got up and poured another cup, then returned to the table. “Maybe moving wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Every time he looks out that kitchen window, I can only imagine what he sees.”

  She stared at me a moment then sighed heavily. “Gypsy—I’m not telling you how to run your business, but can’t you do it for me as a favor?”

  I shook my head. Apparently she didn’t understand my point. “If I said I’d do it pro bono, even if it was in a drunken stupor, I’ll do it pro bono. What I meant was, maybe Burke should ask Tatum what he wants to do. He’s a sharp kid. Burke, if anyone, should know that.”

  She didn’t say anything. Which is what she does when she knows someone is right.

  “Tell me about Alvedia Esconderia, and how you got involved in all this.”

  “She and Tatum are really good friends. She knew Tatum’s dad was a cop so she confided in him and asked for help. Then, after Ryce died, Tatum came to me asking about you.”

  Something about the whole thing still didn’t make sense. I took another long drink of coffee before I put my finger on it. “Does Rodney know about any of this?” Why did Tatum ask Rhonda about me when Rhonda was married to a cop?

  She slowly pushed her hair away from her face and frowned. “He said to leave it alone,” she finally said in a quiet voice.

  “He told who to leave it alone? You or Tatum?”

  She got up and walked over to the sink, pretending to busy herself with the few dirty dishes.

  “He told you to leave it alone, didn’t he?”

  She slammed a dish towel on the counter, then spun around and glared at me. “Teenage girls are being stolen from their families and forced into God knows what. I can’t leave that alone, Gypsy.”

  “Hey—I’m not the one who told you to leave it alone. Don’t take your disappointment with your husband out on me.”

  “You sonofabitch.” She hurled a dish towel in my direction, then let loose with a string of profanities. “You have no right to judge Rodney,” she snarled.

  “I’m not judging him. I’m just pointing out the obvious.” If I had been within striking distance, she would have gone upside my head. I let it settle a moment, then said, “Either Rodney’s scared of Gaylord Denny or he knows more than he’s telling.”

  She conceded and sat back down at the table, defeated, burying her face in her hands. After a long moment, she straightened up and looked at me. “I don’t think he knows what’s going on. He’s scared of Denny. Everyone’s scared of Denny. I mean … look what happened to Ryce.”

  “But Rodney doesn’t work for Denny. He works for an entirely different department.”

  “Don’t you understand, Gypsy? Denny’s influence stretches way beyond his own department.”

  I thought of Sophia Ortez and what she said about the managing editor telling her to drop the story of Burke’s injury. I couldn’t really fault Rodney. Only a fool would get involved with something that appeared to have this many poisonous tentacles. A bigger fool would do it for free.

  “Where does Alvedia live?” I asked, figuring that was as good a place to start as any.

  “I’m not sure of the house number. Tatum would know.”

  Tatum. My pubescent s
idekick.

  “Call him and tell him I’ll pick him up in twenty minutes. And tell him to let Alvedia know we’re coming over.”

  * * *

  “Seriously, shouldn’t you be riding junior rodeo or something?” I asked. Tatum was in the passenger seat of the van ogling one of my pricey cameras.

  “I don’t like horses.”

  I cut a glance at him, then smiled. “Isn’t that against some ancient law in Texas?”

  He laughed. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh. “Probably.”

  “I never cared for them, either. I don’t care too much for animals that can kill me.”

  “Me either. Turn left at the next light.”

  “So, tell me about Alvedia. She your girlfriend?”

  He snickered as his cheeks flushed. “Noooo. We’re just friends.”

  I nodded, grinning. Friends, my ass.

  I pulled up to one of the three stoplights in Wink, waited for a truck to pass, then turned left as my sidekick had instructed.

  “It’s the fourth house on the right. It’s a trailer with a dirt driveway.”

  I counted off the houses, then pulled into the fourth driveway. Dust rose around the van like thick plumes of smoke. The trailer was a single wide with aluminum underpinning. An overworked air conditioner poked through a front window, balanced precariously on twin two-by-fours. The dirt underneath was wet with moisture from a constant drip. A dark-haired young girl peeked around the drapes, then opened the front door. She stepped out onto the small wooden stoop, smiling a toothy smile. “Hey, Tatum.”

  “Hey, Alvedia.” He was blushing again. My sidekick had turned shy. “This is Gypsy. The guy I was telling you about.”

  “Come on in. My mother’s here. I thought you might want to talk to her, too.”

  We followed Alvedia into the house and I thought I was going to die. The stifling heat wrapped itself around me like an unwelcome blanket. The poor air conditioner was doing all it could but it wouldn’t put a dent in this inferno.

  Alvedia’s mother was sitting on a yard-sale sofa, the tiredness seeping from her pores like the sweat poring from mine. She gazed at me with empty eyes.