Wink of an Eye

by Lynn Chandler Willis

He answered on half a ring. “Gypsy? What the hell is going on? Where are you?” There was so much commotion going on around him, it was hard to hear.

  “Sheriff’s office.”

  “The same. With half the town. Were you here when it happened?”

  “In the room.” I wiped a fleck of Denny’s brain from my shirt. “Look, I’m going to need—”

  “Oh Jesus.”

  “Yeah, him too. Look, I’m in an interview room on the first floor. Can you get back here?”

  A minute later, there was a loud rap at the door as Rodney burst in.

  * * *

  “Rodney Walker’s not an attorney,” the sergeant said. I couldn’t distinguish if his expression was perplexed or amused.

  “Rodney’s involved with the investigation.”

  “Of this department?” Redface asked. He wasn’t impressed.

  Rodney held his hands up in his own defense. “Hang on, Jim, we’re going to get all this straight. But first you need to get someone out there running crowd control. The public’s crowded around the front entrance.”

  Redface looked more gloomy than ever. He spoke to the sergeant. “Dale, go see what you can do out there. Until we’ve established otherwise, the office is a crime scene. Handle it like one, please.”

  Sergeant Dale glowered at me before clapping Rodney on the back in a strained show of solidarity. As soon as the door shut behind the sergeant, Redface went over and locked it. I wasn’t sure what was going on but I felt a lot better with Rodney there as a witness.

  “Can one of you please tell me what the hell’s going on?” Redface turned around and looked at us with more confusion than authority. “Rodney?”

  Rodney nodded in my direction. “I’m assuming you’ve met my brother-in-law, Gypsy Moran. Gypsy, meet Lieutenant Jim Oshay.”

  Oshay plopped down at the metal table and scratched his bald spot. He stared at the pictures of Denny, then disgustedly shook his head.

  “Did you know that was going on?” Rodney sat down across from Oshay. I sat down beside Rodney.

  Oshay scrubbed his face with his hands and let out a deep sigh. “I’d heard rumors. We’d all heard rumors over the years. I still don’t understand what these pictures have to do with your investigation. Looks an awful lot like blackmail, Mr. Moran.”

  “I prefer to think of it as leverage. There’s some dirty cops in the depart—”

  “Dirty cops?” He bowed up like a goose on a rampage. “You got any proof of that?”

  I waited on him to finish the question with the word boy, saying, of course, in a slow country drawl. When he didn’t, I continued. “Ryce McCallen was conducting an investigation into the department when he died. He’d gathered a lot of evidence before he was killed. I was hired to finish the investigation. And to prove Ryce’s death wasn’t a suicide.”

  Oshay studied me for a long while before speaking. “Ryce was a good cop.” He didn’t say anything more, or anything less. Everything I needed to know was in the tone of his voice. I could trust him.

  “Mark Peterson and Averitt McCoy hung him like a horse thief in his own backyard. His twelve-year-old son found him,” I said, purposely implanting the mental image of Tatum trying to save his father.

  “We found the rope in the back of McCoy’s truck that they used to hang Ryce with,” Rodney said.

  Oshay sighed, sounding like a tire with a slow leak. “And you’ve got proof?”

  Rodney nodded. “DNA proof.”

  “But why?” Oshay shook his head.

  “Mark Peterson and Averitt McCoy are trafficking teenage girls. Ryce was on to it and had gathered a lot of evidence before he was killed.”

  Oshay held a hand up. “Wait a minute. You’re saying Peterson and McCoy are involved with human trafficking?”

  “Over the last three years, eight girls have gone missing from around the area. All Hispanic. All illegals,” I answered.

  “And their parents are too scared to push the police for a report—” Rodney began.

  “So there’s no paper trail,” Oshay said, finally seeming to understand. “How did Ryce know about this?”

  “The younger sister of one of the missing girls told Tatum McCallen she was afraid that what happened to her sister would happen to her. Tatum asked Ryce if he could do anything to help.”

  “And you think the sheriff was involved?” Oshay glared at the ugly pictures still spread on the table.

  I raised my shoulders in a slight shrug. “I don’t know how involved the sheriff was—but I believe he did know what was going on. I think Mark Peterson knew about the sheriff’s fondness for young boys and used it as a way to control him.”

  Rodney cleared his throat. “Jim … we don’t know how deep this thing goes. We don’t know how many people in the department may be involved. And we don’t even know who’s in charge out there right now. For that reason, Gypsy’s going to turn the evidence over to the Rangers’ office. The entire department may be under tight scrutiny for a while.”

  Oshay sighed again and the tire had gone flat. At that moment, he had given all he could give. Except my ID.

  I held out my hand and smiled sympathetically. “Can I have my ID back now?”

  * * *

  We spent the next four hours in Denny’s blood-spattered office with Rick Ramirez from the Rangers’ division office. Ramirez had sent Rodney to Fidelity Bank to collect the contents of the lockbox after I handed over the key. The dearly departed Sheriff Denny had been right—everything we needed to prove Mark Peterson was a scumbag was in that metal box. Recorded conversations between Denny and Peterson, some with mentions of Claire accepting money for providing the girls, along with pictures of Peterson and Averitt McCoy handing off black-haired girls to greasy looking thugs, and an obviously forged letter from Burke McCallen to the sheriff requesting no autopsy on Ryce. There was also a small evidence bag with a spent slug in it. I didn’t need to test it to know it was the slug they accused Hector Martinez of firing into Burke’s back. Rodney had also brought in the rope retrieved from McCoy’s truck while I handed over Ryce’s files along with the financial records I had accumulated. As far as I was concerned, my job was done. There was enough evidence in Ramirez’s hands to reclassify Ryce’s death as a homicide, which meant insurance would pay out and Tatum and Burke could stay in the house. The missing girls were a much deeper issue. For Tatum’s sake, I figured I might take a closer look at Alana Esconderia’s disappearance. Her family, like the others, deserved an answer. Even if it was one they didn’t want to hear.

  The early signs of a pounding headache were creeping up the back of my neck as Ramirez, Oshay, and Rodney watched the video of Denny blowing his brains out. They watched it over and over and over again as if each new viewing would change the outcome. Each time I heard the pop, I saw the white explosion turn crimson red in my mind. Saw the horror on Sophia’s face as she came to realize what happened. I blamed her for the oncoming headache. I was worried about her.

  Ramirez and Oshay interviewed her briefly but wouldn’t let me talk to her, taking the “separate the witnesses” game a little too far for my liking. While Ramirez, Oshay, and Rodney watched the video, I peered at the growing crowd through the side of the blinds covering the windows in Denny’s office. The wooden-planked blinds were drawn to deter the photographers and overly curious from seeing parts of Denny’s brain embedded in the yellow stucco wall.

  I could see my van through the crowd but Sophia’s little red Mercedes was gone. I wondered if she went home or if she was at the Odessa Record begging the editor for front page above the fold.

  I tried her cell for the hundredth time and again it went to voice mail. I’d already left enough messages to classify myself as a stalker, so I ended the call. I finally called the office. The receptionist transferred me to Sophia’s desk, then came back and told me the call was going straight to voice mail; did I want to leave a message? No, I didn’t want to leave a message. I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to see he
r.

  I turned away from the window and looked at Ranger Rick. “Do you need me anymore?”

  He scanned over everything we had presented, then slowly shook his head. “I think you’re good for tonight. I’ll probably bring McCoy in for questioning tomorrow morning.”

  McCoy was the weak link and even Ramirez could see it. If he could get McCoy to roll on Peterson, Peterson’s fate would be sealed.

  “Peterson might try and run. Especially if he thinks he’s boxed in.” I didn’t want to question Ramirez’s ability but I didn’t want Peterson vacationing in the south of France, either.

  Ramirez smiled. “We’ve got him. I’ve got your cell number if I need you. By the way, there’s some good work here. Get licensed in Texas and we can use you.”

  I laughed. If I had worn a hat, I would have tipped it as I left.

  CHAPTER 26

  I pulled away from the mayhem surrounding the sheriff’s office and drove to a mom-and-pop store about a mile away. I parked near the side of the building but left the motor running with the cold air blowing straight into my face. The temperature outside had to be in triple digits and I was supposed to take Tatum to the sinkholes tomorrow to take some pictures? How drunk was I when I agreed to that?

  I opened the browser on my cell and opened my most frequently used app. I carefully keyed in the tag number on Sophia’s Mercedes and within seconds had her address. I plugged it into the GPS, then settled in for the ride to Odessa.

  The whole “partner” thing did concern me. The last thing I needed this evening was to come face-to-face with a significant other. But dammit, I was worried about her, and she wouldn’t answer her freaking phone. If he was there, maybe we could mumble our way around an awkward situation. After all, Sophia and I had worked together on this investigation, so it was technically a business visit. If I kept telling myself that, maybe by the time I got to Odessa I’d believe it.

  Highway 302 had to be one of the loneliest places on earth. Or maybe it was just west Texas in general. The forty-minute ride seemed like four days. I drove into town and circled around the Record to see if her car was there. It didn’t surprise me that it wasn’t. I rekeyed Sophia’s address from the current location. ETA eight minutes.

  The Arbor Crest Luxury Apartments was a sprawling complex spread out on several acres. A lush green lawn and flowering shrubs gave it the appearance of a country club. Beside the office that doubled as a clubhouse was a well-kept tennis court. Like someone was really going to play a round of tennis when it was 115 degrees. The majority of cars in front of the clusters of units were high dollar, free of soccer ball decals or “my kid’s an honor roll student” at blah-blah elementary. Sophia’s neighbors were, like her, professionals who made decent salaries, probably preferring to keep to themselves than to attend the once-a-month social at the clubhouse.

  Sophia’s apartment was one unit from the back of the complex. I parked in the empty spot beside her car, hoping that one, her husband/boyfriend/significant other usually parked in the same spot, which meant he wasn’t home or didn’t live there altogether, or two, there was only one designated spot per apartment, which meant I really was parked in someone else’s spot. I took the steps leading up to her apartment on the second floor by twos and knocked hard on the door.

  “Sophia—it’s Gypsy.” No response. I knocked again. “Sophia. I need to talk to you. Please open the door.”

  I heard shuffling around inside the apartment but the sound wasn’t moving toward the door.

  “Sophia. Come on, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  A text alert came through on my cell. It was from Sophia. I’m fine. Go home.

  At least I knew it was her shuffling around inside. I sent a reply. Not happening. Open door.

  After a few minutes, I knocked again, more gently this time. “Sophia … please open the door. I’m not leaving until you do.”

  A few minutes of silence went by. I leaned against the door and took in the surroundings. The stairs leading to the second floor ended at a landing large enough to classify as a deck. A large cluster of potted plants dominated a corner near the railing overlooking the parking lot. A thick strand of ivy wove around the railing and climbed a gutter spout like a trellis. I could see Sophia took great care of the plants as their leaves were vibrant and shiny. It might cause her great pain to lose one. Not that I wanted to cause her any more pain—I just wanted her to open the door.

  I went over to the corner and hoisted one of the pots to the railing, tipped it just to the point of dropping it, and snapped a picture with my phone. I sent the picture to Sophia with the text: Open the door or else. I returned the plant to its nesting place and patiently waited for a reply. Several minutes went by and no response. She either cared nothing about the plant or she wasn’t in any mood for joking around. I banked on the latter.

  I sat down and leaned against the door, deciding I was going to wait her out. I held my phone out in front of me and snapped another picture, typed not going anywhere, and hit send. About thirty minutes passed before I heard movement in the apartment.

  She finally opened the door and stared down at me. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  I stood and stretched my legs. “Not without a fight.”

  She looked horrible. Still wearing the blood-spattered clothes she was wearing in Denny’s office, the whites of her eyes were as red as the bloodstains. Small splotches of dried blood were still caked on her face like bad makeup. She was barefooted.

  I followed her in and closed the door behind us. She sat down on the floor in front of the sofa, pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was indifferent, almost robotic. She wasn’t angry; she was still in shock.

  “I was worried about you.” I sat down in one of two wingback chairs across from the sofa. I wasn’t sure of the situation with the partner and I didn’t want the visit to be any more strained than it was.

  She gently rocked back and forth, her arms still wrapped tightly around her legs, staring at something only she could see. I had a pretty good idea of what it was she was seeing over and over again.

  There was an open laptop on the coffee table with a pile of notes beside it. “Goin’ to make your deadline?”

  It took her a moment to answer. She pushed a hand through her hair, then shrugged. “It’s going to take more than one article to tell this story.” She sighed heavily. “I’m sorry—I’m not much of a hostess. Would you like a beer or something?”

  “Sure.” Truth was, I didn’t want anything but for her to be okay.

  She pulled herself up like it required a great deal of effort, then shuffled over to the kitchen area. The apartment was industrial-style with brick walls and exposed duct work overhead. The kitchen gleamed with stainless steel. Custom-matted and framed black-and-white photographs were the decoration of choice. The overstuffed sofa and the two wingback chairs were the color of expensive vanilla ice cream spotted with bean flecks, not the cheap shit that’s sold in a plastic bucket.

  I moved over to the sofa to take a look at what she had written and stared at an empty white page in a blank Word document. I don’t really know what I was expecting, but the coldness of the empty page was jarring. I skimmed idly through some of her notes while waiting.

  The kitchen couldn’t have been more than thirty feet away, separated from the living room by a white brick wall. Sophia could have run down to the local store for the amount of time that had passed.

  I found her leaning into the counter beside the refrigerator, her back to me, her shoulders softly shaking as she quietly cried. She jumped when I touched her, then turned and fell into my arms. The crying soon became hysterical as she kept repeating the blood, all the blood. I held her tight, softly stroking her hair, telling her it was going to be okay.

  I could feel the sharpness of dried blood still in her hair, and the slickness of specks of brain matter. She still had Denny’s blood on her arms and han
ds. I scooped her up, forced her legs around my waist, and carried her to the bathroom.

  The shower was a stand-alone with a frosted-glass door. She was still propped around my waist, her arms clinging tightly around my neck, still crying when I carried her into the shower and turned on the water. I adjusted the temperature until the water lightly beating against her back was just a shade cooler than hot. She relaxed slightly and it was enough to allow me to pry her legs lose from around my waist and help her stand. Gently, I removed her blouse and tossed it behind me as I batted back the water spraying straight into my own eyes. The water swirling around the drain had a reddish tint as Denny’s blood washed away.

  I removed her pants, then my own shirt and pants, adding them to the growing pile of blood-stained clothes in the back of the shower. There we were, standing in her shower, warm water washing over us, her in her bra and panties, me in my boxers, and I didn’t want to make love to her. I wanted to take care of her, to wash the blood off of her, to hold her.

  The crying settled into an occasional sniffle as I washed her hair, then her face, then her arms and hands. She reached out and lightly ran a finger across my cheek, then sadly looked at her finger. The streak of dried blood turned bright pink, then faded and disappeared.

  I quickly scrubbed the remaining blood from my arms, then lifted my face to Sophia, batting the water out of my eyes. “Clean?”

  She slowly nodded. At that moment, my heart couldn’t have been any larger. It encompassed my entire body, my whole being. I could feel it exploding in my head and throbbing in my toes.

  I lightly ran my hands over her wet hair, smoothing it down, pushing the slick strands behind her ears. Wetness glistened on her bronze-colored skin like tiny jewels. Her warm, mocha eyes were now heavy-lidded and tired instead of panic-filled and horror stricken.

  I reached behind her and turned off the water, then gently removed her bra. I held her arm for balance as she stepped out of her panties. I tossed my boxers onto the bloody laundry pile at the back of the shower.

  After I stepped out of the shower, I found towels in the laundry cabinet behind the bathroom door. I wrapped one around my waist, then wrapped Sophia in one. She was like a small child after a full day of hard play, exhausted and relaxed, allowing me to dry the wetness from her body with no protest. I ran the towel over her hair and asked if she wanted to blow dry. She shook her head slowly. I left her for a moment to find her some comfortable clothes, returning with fresh panties and a white tank top I found in a tall-boy dresser in the bedroom. After helping her dress, I carried her to the bed and tucked her under the white down comforter. When I started back to the bathroom, she grabbed my hand.