Kate closed her eyes, trying to replay the scene. “I don’t remember that. But I really only got a brief look.” She opened her eyes, and he was watching her closely. “Sorry.”
Rowe drummed his fingers on the table and looked off into the distance. Obviously this mystery truck was important to him, and Kate wished she’d noticed more about it.
“So, you think there was foul play involved?”
His gaze veered back to her, and she waited for him to say something evasive.
“Looks that way,” he said. “As of this morning, it’s a homicide investigation.”
Wow, candor. Kate decided to push her luck. “What do you have besides the mystery car and the open door?”
He hesitated a beat, watching her. “A number of things. Like skid marks up the road indicating the Explorer was involved in a high-speed chase just before it crashed into the cliff. After that, it’s possible someone opened the door and took something from the vehicle.”
“Someone like one of those guys I saw?”
He nodded.
She leaned forward on her elbows. “What did they take?”
He smiled slightly, and she knew she wasn’t going to get anything else, at least not right now. She’d have to hit him up later. Maybe she could catch him off guard somehow.
“I appreciate your time today, Miss Kepler.” He pulled out a business card and scribbled a number on the back before handing it to her. She noticed the San Antonio area code. “Here’s my cell number. I’m staying at La Quinta downtown, but I’m never there, so that number’s the best way to reach me. Call me if you think of anything else.”
“You’re from San Antonio?”
“I’m part of a joint task force operating out of there, yes.”
“Investigating…?” McAllister had filled Kate in on Robert Strickland’s fugitive status and his connection to the Saledo cartel, so Kate had some idea what this was about. But she wanted to hear what Rowe would say.
“Lots of things,” he replied. “That’s why there’re multiple agencies involved.”
Okay, so he wanted to be vague. Maybe she should track down Officer Skoal and see if he’d gotten a clue yet.
Rowe’s cell phone buzzed, and he dug it out of his pocket. “Rowe,” he snapped.
Kate looked him over as he took the call. He must be sweltering in that navy suit. She wondered if he always dressed like this on weekends, or if he’d specifically worn it for her. He probably thought it made him look official. Intimidating, even. Plus, it gave him plenty of room to hide his holster.
Kate hated guns. She hated feds, too, but this one had been okay so far.
And he was in decent shape for a thirty-eight-year-old. His wide shoulders strained the fabric of his jacket, and instead of the predictable middle-aged paunch, his abs looked flat beneath his starched white shirt.
“When?” He flicked a gaze at her and checked his watch. “Okay, thanks.” He shut his phone, and his eyes were cool again. “I need to go.”
“I should get going, too.” Kate shoved his business card in her pocket, right next to the list of maintenance recommendations from the lube shop. The ones she’d never use. “If I remember anything else, I’ll get in touch.”
Celie rode in McAllister’s Jeep with the wind whipping around her face.
“This the one?” he asked, as they neared a roadside storage facility.
“A few more miles,” she said. “It’ll be on the right.”
Her voice sounded calm, which was unbelievable considering how rattled she felt. She’d been a bundle of nerves ever since McAllister had shown up at the Bluebonnet House. And that had merely been the first big surprise of the day.
The second big surprise had been the party’s success. McAllister, it turned out, was better than a bunny cake. The kids loved him, especially after he got a game of basketball together and coached them on their free throws. He even won over Enrique Ramos, a scrawny eleven-year-old who frequented the shelter and carried a boulder-size chip around on his shoulder. Enrique tended to be sullen and belligerent, and didn’t play well with others. But McAllister had overcome his attitude by treating him like an equal and not letting him win at basketball just because he was a kid.
Enrique would never acknowledge it, but Celie could tell it meant something to him to be treated with respect by a grown man.
“Thanks for coming,” she said earnestly. “Everyone loved you.”
McAllister shot her a look. “Not everyone.”
He was referring to Chantal, who’d pointedly ignored him for three hours.
“Don’t mind Chantal. She’s like that with everyone.”
“She’s like that with men, ” he corrected. “It was pretty obvious. She even gave the minister the cold shoulder.”
It was a fair assessment, so Celie didn’t argue. But Chantal was an excellent advocate for abused women and children, and she ran a quality program, particularly considering that all their funding came from churches and private donations instead of government subsidies.
“It’s right up here,” Celie said, pointing to an orange Public Storage facility just up the road. They were here to deal with the third surprise of Celie’s day: someone had vandalized her storage unit during the night. The manager had called Celie’s cell phone and asked her to come by to fill out a report, and Celie had had to ask McAllister to take a detour on the way home. First thing tomorrow, Celie needed to talk to her insurance company about a loaner car.
McAllister pulled off the highway into the minuscule parking lot. He slid into a space beside a police cruiser.
“So, you talk to Agent Rowe this morning?” he asked.
Uh-oh. “No. Why?”
He cleared his throat. “I heard from one of my coworkers. She told me they’re investigating Robert’s death as a homicide.”
A homicide ? “But…I thought he died from head trauma….”
“They think he was run off the road,” McAllister said. “And that whoever did it took something from his car.”
Celie stared at him.
“Now they’re looking for the truck that was seen fleeing the scene.”
“What truck?” Why hadn’t the FBI told her all this? What else was going on that she didn’t know about?
“You read the news brief we ran yesterday?” he asked.
“No.”
“Our reporter saw a dark-colored pickup leaving the scene. She also noticed the door to your Explorer was open, even though Robert was unconscious.”
Celie shoved open the door and got out of the Jeep. She turned her back on the Public Storage office and walked down the shoulder of the road a little ways, until she got to a wire fence separating the highway from a cow pasture. McAllister’s footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her. He stopped beside her but didn’t say anything.
She looked out over the landscape, blinking back tears.
Robert was dead. Murdered. He’d be buried this week, and his family didn’t even want Celie coming to the funeral. She hadn’t realized it before now, but, in the back of her mind, she’d always thought she and Robert would have a chance to forgive each other. Not to reconcile, but to at least put all the ugliness behind them.
She couldn’t think about it. It was just too awful. And she did not want to unravel right here in front of McAllister. She could do that later, at home, far away from the prying eyes of reporters and investigators and anyone else who might be watching her.
She forced herself to turn around and walk back toward the rental office.
“I really appreciate this,” she said over her shoulder. “You don’t have to come in or anything. I just need to talk to the manager and check out my unit.”
Celie hoped he wouldn’t come in. She had a terrible, sinking feeling about this whole situation, and she didn’t want McAllister standing around picking up on her uneasiness.
To her dismay, he followed her to the office, reaching past her to open the glass door. She was hit by a wall of frigid ai
r as she stepped inside.
“Hi, I’m Cecelia Wells,” she told the attendant, a teenager who had numerous tattoos and a shaved head. “I got a call about a problem with my unit? Two-twenty-nine?”
The kid nodded toward the lot. “Just go on back,” he said. “The manager’s out there now with the cop. Looks like your unit was the only one with any trouble.”
John caught Celie’s arm as she walked down the sidewalk and turned her to face him. “What the hell’s going on, Celie?”
She looked up at him and bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she said, obviously lying.
He took a deep breath and tried to reign in his temper. “You know, you’re a terrible liar.”
“I don’t know, okay?” She tugged her arm away and started back down the sidewalk.
“Wait,” he said to her back. “We need to talk. We can do it here or in front of the cop. Your pick.”
She turned back around. “I really don’t know what happened. But if I had to guess, I’d say this isn’t some random act of vandalism.”
“No shit.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Look, if you’re going to be crude—”
“Sorry,” he said. “But I’m getting a little pissed off here. Your ex was involved with some very dangerous people. I’m concerned about you, and I can tell you’re not being straight with me.”
She gazed up at him, that worry line appearing between her brows. She was scared, and for this woman to be scared did funny things to his heart.
“Someone lifted a business card from my wallet,” she said. “It was a Public Storage card with little blanks on the back for my gate code and unit number. I’d filled the blanks in so I wouldn’t forget. I think Robert took it.”
“Celie, listen to me. Do you know why I moved to Austin?”
She rolled her eyes. “You got a better job?”
“That wasn’t the only reason. I came up here to get away from all the shit going on down at the border.” John could still see Pamela Price lying in a pool of blood in her own driveway.
“Look,” he told Celie. “I know you’re familiar with some of the shit Robert was involved with, but you have to believe me when I tell you it can get much, much worse. You can not get mixed up with these people. You have no idea how low these guys will go—”
“Oh, no?” She stepped back. “Well, that’s where you’re wrong. And if you think I want to be involved in any of this, you’re wrong about that, too. Now, do you mind? I need to go talk to the police and find out what happened.”
Goddamn it, she was walking away again. And he hadn’t gotten through to her. He followed her across the lot, deciding the least he could do was to eavesdrop and possibly learn something.
A uniformed officer and a middle-aged woman with frizzy brown hair—presumably the manager—were standing at the end of a row next to an open unit. Celie introduced herself.
“We’re sure sorry about this,” the manager said.
“When did it happen?” Celie asked.
“The computer says your gate code was used real early Saturday morning, right when we opened for business. No one noticed anything funny until this afternoon, though. One of our tenants reported your door was up a couple inches. You think you left it open?”
Celie stepped into the unit. “I haven’t been here in months.”
John followed so he could take a look inside. The space smelled musty. When his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he saw a splintered chair turned on its side and the remnants of what had once been a comforter, but was now merely a heap of feathers and shredded fabric. Toward the back of the space, he saw some dining room furniture, a baby crib, and some cardboard boxes labeled books and china. The boxes had been ripped open, and the cement floor was littered with paperbacks and shards of white porcelain.
“Wow.” Celie knelt and picked up a broken teacup.
“We’d like you to go through everything,” the officer said. “Make a list of what’s damaged or missing.”
“Has anyone checked the security tapes?” John asked. He’d noticed cameras mounted by the gate. Maybe they could get some vehicle tags, or, hell, even a shot of the perpetrators. John made a mental note to buddy up with the bald kid on his way out.
“We’ll go over those,” the cop said.
John glanced at the padlock dangling from the metal door of the unit. It looked as though someone had used a key to open it.
“Where do you keep the key to this padlock, ma’am?” the officer asked, voicing the question in John’s head.
“I’ve got one in my dresser and one on my key chain.” Panic spread across Celie’s face as she said it.
“Where’s your key chain, Celie?”
She glanced at John. “I lost it.” Then she looked at the officer. “Right along with my purse, just Friday night. Whoever found my purse and keys must have found my Public Storage card.”
John watched her lie to the officer, who of course bought everything she said. Who wouldn’t? She looked like a freaking Sunday school teacher in that flowery dress with the little buttons up the front.
“Would you mind helping me move this box, Officer?” she asked. “I want to see if the rest of my china’s still intact.”
John watched as she deftly diverted the cop’s attention. Why didn’t she just tell him what was going on?
Maybe she didn’t want to make things more complicated by involving the local police. Or maybe she was hiding something, something she didn’t want to talk about with cops or anyone.
Including him.
John stepped out of the unit, wishing for a cigarette. He heard sandals snapping against the concrete as Celie poked around, taking inventory of her stuff.
“Well,” she said finally, “nothing’s missing that I can tell. It’s just a big mess. Why don’t you give me the paperwork to take home, and I’ll return it later when I come back to clean this up? I don’t really have time to do this right now.”
The manager looked concerned. “Are you sure? I’ve got a push broom in the office. I’d be happy to help you.”
“No, don’t bother.” Celie smiled and ushered everyone out of the unit. “I’ll take care of it later.”
She pulled down the metal door and fastened the padlock. Then she collected the paperwork from the manager, all the while chatting pleasantly. John watched her, wondering if she fully realized what it meant that someone had her keys. And he’d left her alone in her apartment last night. The place wasn’t safe. She needed her locks changed, soon, and she definitely needed to give her security guards a heads-up.
Hell, what she needed to do was vacate her place altogether. She could stay with him.
CHAPTER
7
John had figured out years ago the most important part of being a reporter was listening, plain and simple. Most times, if you just gave a person the right prompt, they’d start telling you their story. John was the king of going back again and again until his source got comfortable with the idea of talking. Almost always, his persistence paid off. Most people liked to talk, whether because they had a guilty conscience or they wanted to feel important or sometimes just because they were lonely. The key was to wait them out and then be there when they finally decided to spill.
Celie was no different. And John intended to wait her out, just like he would a news source.
She’d been a source for him before, both during the rape trial and then again in Mayfield when he was covering the Josh Garland scandal. John had never actually met Celie during the rape trial, though. Back then he’d been a lowly intern, so his job had consisted of sitting in the courtroom and taking notes for the veteran courts reporter.
He hadn’t met Celie, but he’d sure as hell watched her. She’d been riveting up there on the witness stand. He’d never seen anyone so brave. And he’d been harboring something like awe for her ever since.
Meanwhile, she hadn’t even known he existed. They didn’t meet until years later in Mayfield, just after Feenie dropped
the Josh Garland story in his lap. Garland had been Feenie’s husband before she figured out he was running around on her and gave him the boot. When Garland wasn’t busy committing adultery, he’d been using some family businesses to launder money for the Saledo cartel. Feenie uncovered his operation, setting in motion a chain of events that eventually led to Feenie’s near-murder, Robert Strickland’s implication in the money-laundering scheme and the murder attempt, and eventually Robert and Celie’s divorce. John had covered the entire saga for the Mayfield Gazette, his hometown paper. He’d won numerous awards for the series, including a national journalism prize that had garnered him the respect of his editors and the job in Austin.
Which had brought him back to Celie.
John had spent the past ten minutes sitting on a bar stool in her apartment pretending to be absorbed in a decorating magazine—did she actually read this shit?—while he did what he did best.
Which was listening.
“You told me my keys were sent to a crime lab, when actually, they were in possession of a suspected murderer.” Celie told Special Agent Stevenski for the third time. The guy had been waiting in the lobby when she and John had returned from the storage place.
“Again, I apologize for the oversight,” he said meekly.
“It might be just an ‘oversight’ to you, but to me it’s much more than that. I take my personal safety very seriously.”
“I understand.”
“What if it were your mother or your sister? Would you have been this sloppy concerning the whereabouts of her house keys?”
“Ma’am, I really do apologize.”
“Fine,” she said. “Let’s get this over with. You said you had some questions for me? I really don’t know what else I can tell you besides what we’ve already talked about.”
McAllister heard Stevenski shuffling through his notepad. She had him flustered, apparently.
“Uh, so there seems to be a gap between the time you say he left here and the time of the accident. About an hour, we think. Are you sure he left at ten?”
One Wrong Step (Borderline Book 2) Page 7