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“Good. Keep me in the loop.”
“I will.” She got up and started for the door.
“Cassaway.”
She turned at the door. “Sir?”
His dark eyes narrowed. He seemed deep in thought. He was. He had a strange sense that she knew something important that she was hiding from him. He read body language very well after his long years in law enforcement. He’d once tripped a bank robber up when he noticed the man’s behavior and deliberately engaged him in conversation. During the conversation, he’d gotten close enough to see the gun the man was holding under his long coat. Rick had quickly subdued him, cuffed him, and taken him in for questioning. The impromptu encounter had solved a whole string of unsolved bank robberies for the cold case unit, and their sergeant, Dave Murphy, had taken Rick out to lunch in appreciation for the help.
“Sir?” Gwen prompted when he didn’t reply.
He sat up straight. His eyes narrowed further as he stared at her. She was almost twitching. “What do you know,” he said softly, “that you aren’t telling me?”
Her face flushed. “No … nothing. I mean, there’s … nothing,” she faltered, and could have bitten her tongue for making things worse.
“You need to think about your priorities,” he said curtly.
She drew in a long breath. “Believe me, I am.”
He grimaced and waved his hand in her direction. “Get to work.”
“Yes, sir.”
She almost ran out of the office. She was flushed and unsettled. Lieutenant Hollister met her in the hall, and frowned.
“What’s up?” he asked gently.
She bit her lip. “Nothing, sir,” she said. She drew in a long breath. She wanted, so badly, to tell somebody what was going on.
Hollister’s black eyes narrowed. “Come into my office for a minute.”
He led her back the way she’d come, past a startled Marquez, who watched the couple go into the lieutenant’s office with an expression that was hard to classify.
“Sit down,” Hollister said. He went behind his desk and swung up his long, powerful legs, propping immaculate black boots on the desk. He crossed his arms and leaned back precariously in his chair. “Talk.”
She shifted restlessly. “I know something about Sergeant Marquez that I’m not supposed to discuss with anybody.”
He lifted a thick blond eyebrow. He even smiled. “I know what it is.”
Her green eyes widened.
“The suits who came to see me earlier in the week were feds,” he said. “I know who you really are, and what’s going on.” He sighed. “I want to tell Marquez, too, but my hands are tied.”
“I went to see Cash Grier,” she said. “He’s out of the loop. He can’t do anything directly, but he might be able to let something slip at Barbara’s Café in Jacobsville. That would at least prepare Sergeant Marquez for what’s about to go down.”
“Nothing can prepare a man for that sort of revelation, believe me.” His eyes narrowed even more. “They want Marquez as a liaison, don’t they?”
She nodded. “He’d be the best man for the job. But he’s going to be very upset at first and he may refuse to do anything.”
“That’s a risk they’re willing to take. They don’t dare interfere directly, not in the current political climate,” he added. “Frankly, I’d just go tell him.”
“Would you?” she asked, and smiled.
He laughed deeply and then he shook his head. “Actually, no, I wouldn’t. I’m too handsome to spend time in prison. There would be riots. I’d be so much in demand as somebody’s significant other.”
She laughed, too. She hadn’t realized he had a sense of humor. Her face flushed. She looked very pretty.
He cocked his head. “You could just ask Marquez to the ballet and tell him yourself.”
“My boss would have me hung in Hogan’s Alley up at the FBI Academy with a placard around my neck as a warning to other loose-lipped agents,” she told him.
He grinned. “I’d come cut you down, Cassaway. I get along well with the feds. But I’m not prejudiced. I also get along with mercenaries.”
“There’s a rumor that you used to be one,” she fished.
His face closed up, although he was still smiling. “How about that?”
She didn’t comment.
He swung his long legs off the desk and stood up. “Let me know how it goes,” he said. He walked her to the door. “It’s not a bad idea, about asking him to the ballet. He loves ballet. He usually goes alone. He can’t get girlfriends.”
“Why not?” she asked. She cleared her throat. “I mean, he’s rather attractive.”
“He wears a gun.”
“So do you,” she pointed out, indicating the holster. “In fact, we all wear them.”
“True, but he likes women who don’t,” he replied. “And they don’t like men who wear guns. He doesn’t date colleagues, he says. But you might be able to change his mind.”
“Fat chance.” She sighed. “He doesn’t like me.”
“Go solve that murder for the cold case unit, and they’ll lobby him for you,” he teased.
“How do you know about that?” she asked, surprised.
“I’m the lieutenant,” he pointed out. “I know everything,” he added smugly.
She laughed. She was still laughing when she walked down the corridor.
Rick heard her from inside his office. He threw a scratch pad across the room and knocked the trash can across the floor with it. Then he grimaced, in case anybody heard and asked what was going on. He couldn’t have told them. He didn’t know himself why he was behaving so out of character.
The man Gwen was tracking in her semiofficial disguise was an unpleasant, slinky individual who had a rap sheet that read like a short story. She’d gone down to Jacobsville and interviewed Officer Dan Travis. He seemed a decent sort of person, and he could swear that the man who was arrested for the murder was at a holiday party with him, and had never even stepped outside. He had told the assistant DA, but the attorney refused to entertain evidence he considered hearsay. Travis gave her the names of two other people she could contact, who would verify the information. She took notes and arranged for a deposition to be taken from him.
Her next stop was Patrol South Division, in San Antonio, to talk to the arresting officer who’d taken Dunagan in for the attempted assault on a college woman a few months ago, Dave Harris. He was working that day, but was working a wreck when she phoned him. So she arranged to meet him for lunch at a nearby fast food joint.
They sat together over hamburgers and fries and soft drinks, attracting attention with his uniform and her pistol and badge, conspicuously displayed.
“We’re being watched,” she said in a dramatic tone, indicating two young women at a nearby booth.
“Oh, that’s just Joan and Shirley,” he said. He looked toward the women, waved and grinned. One of them flushed and almost knocked over her drink. He was blond and blue-eyed, nicely built, and quite handsome. He was also single. “Joan’s sweet on me,” he added in a whisper. “They know I always eat here, so they come by for lunch. They work at the print shop downtown. Joan’s a graphic artist. Very talented.”
“Nice,” she murmured, biting into the burger.
“Why are you doing a cold case?” he asked as he finished his salad and sipped black coffee.
“It ties in with a current one we’re working on,” she said, and related what Cash Grier had told her.
His dark eyebrows arched. “They never called a prime witness in the case?”
“Strange, isn’t it?” she agreed. “That would be grounds for a mistrial, I’d think, but I’ll need to talk to the city attorney’s office first. The man who was convicted has been in prison for almost a year.”
“Shame, if he’s innocent,” the patrolman replied.
“I know. Fortunately, such things don’t happen often.”
“What about the suspect in your current case?”
“A nasty bit of work,” she replied. “I can place him at the scene of the crime, and if there’s enough trace evidence to do a DNA profile, I think I can connect him with it. Her neighbors reported seeing him around her apartment the morning before the murder. If he’s guilty, I don’t want him to slip through the cracks on my watch, especially since Sergeant Marquez assigned me to the case as chief investigator.”
“Really? How many other people are helping you with the case?”
“Let’s see, right now, there’s me and one other detective that I borrowed to help question witnesses.”
He sighed. “Budget issues again?”
“Afraid so. I can manage. If I need help, the cold case unit will lend me somebody.”
“Nice group, that cold case unit.”
She smiled. “I think so, too.”
“Now about the perp,” he added, leaning forward. “This is how it went down.”
He described the scene of the assault where he’d arrested Dunagan, the persons involved, the witnesses and his own part in the arrest. Gwen made notes on her phone and saved the file.
“That’s a big help,” she told him. “Thanks.”
He smiled. “You’re very welcome.” He checked his watch. “I have to get back on patrol. Was there any other information you needed?”
“Nothing I can’t find in the file. I appreciate the summary of the case, and your thoughts on it. That really helps.”
“You’re welcome. Any time.”
“Shame about the latest victim,” she added as they got up and headed to the trash bin with their trays. “She was very pretty. Her neighbors said she went out of her way to help people in need.” She glanced at him. “We had one of your fellow officers on stakeout with us the other night. Sims.”
He paused as he dumped the paper waste and placed the tray in its stack on the refuse container top. “He’s not our usual sort of patrol officer.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, frowning.
“I really can’t say anything. It’s just that he has an interesting background. There are people in high positions with influence,” he added. He smiled. “But he’s not my problem. I think you’ll do well in the homicide unit. You’ve got a knack for sorting things out, and you’re thorough. Good luck on the case.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
He smiled. “You’re welcome.”
She drove back to the office with her brain spinning. What she’d learned was very helpful. She might crack the case, which would certainly give her points with Rick Marquez. But there was still the problem of what she knew and couldn’t tell him. She only hoped that Cash Grier would be able to break some ground with her sergeant.
Cash Grier had a thick ham sandwich with homemade fries and black coffee and then asked for a slice of Barbara’s famous apple pie and homemade ice cream.
She served it with a grin. “Don’t eat too much of this,” she cautioned. “It’s very fattening.” She was teasing, because he was still as trim as men ten years his junior, and nicely muscled.
He pursed his lips and his black eyes twinkled. “As you can see, I’m running to fat.”
She laughed. “That’ll be the day.”
He studied her quietly. “Can you sit down for a minute?”
She looked around. The lunchtime rush was over and there were only a couple of cowboys and an elderly couple in the café. “Sure.” She sat down across from him. “What can I do for you?”
He sipped coffee. “I’ve been enlisted to get some information to your son without telling him anything.”
She blinked. “That’s a conundrum.”
“Isn’t it?” He put down the coffee cup and smiled. “You’re a very intelligent woman. You must have some suspicions about his family history.”
“Thanks for the compliment. And yes, I have a lot.” She studied his hard face. “I overheard some feds who ate here talking about Dolores Ortíz and her connection to General Machado. Dolores worked for me just briefly. She was Rick’s birth mother.”
“Rick’s stepfather was a piece of work,” he said coldly. “I’ve heard plenty about him. He mistreated livestock and was fired for it on the Ballenger feedlot. Gossip is that he did the same to his stepson.”
Her face tautened. “When I first adopted him, I lifted my hand to smooth back his hair—you know, that thing mothers do when they feel affectionate. He stiffened and cringed.” Her eyes were sad. “That’s when I first knew that there was a reason for his bad behavior. I’ve never hit him. But someone did.”
“His stepfather,” Grier asserted. “With assorted objects, including, once, a leather whip.”
“So that’s where he got those scars on his back,” she faltered. “I asked, but he would never talk about it.”
“It’s a blow to a man’s pride to have something like that done to him,” he said coldly. “Jackson should have been sent to prison on a charge of child abuse.”
“I do agree.” She hesitated. “Rick’s last name is Marquez. But Dolores said that was a name she had legally drawn up when Rick was seven. I never understood.”
“She didn’t dare put his real father’s name on a birth certificate,” he replied. “Even at the time, his dad was in trouble with the law in Mexico. She didn’t want him to know about Rick. And, later, she had good reason to keep the secret. She married Craig Jackson to give Rick a settled home. She didn’t know what sort of man he was until it was too late,” he added coldly. “He knew who Rick’s real father was and threatened to make it public if Dolores left him. So she stayed and Rick paid for her silence.”
Barbara was feeling uncomfortable. “Would his real father happen to be an exiled South American dictator, by any chance?”
Grier nodded.
“Oh, boy.”
“And nobody can tell him, because a certain federal agency is hoping to talk him into being a go-between for them, to help coax Machado into a comfortable trade agreement with our country when he gets back into power. Which he certainly will,” he added quietly. “The thug who took over his government has human rights advocates bristling all over the world. He’s tortured people, murdered dissenters, closed down public media outlets … In general, he’s done everything possible to outrage anyone who believes in democracy. At the same time, he’s pocketing money from sources of revenue and buying himself every rich man’s perk that he can dream up. He’s got several Rolls-Royce cars, assorted beautiful women, houses in most affluent European cities and his own private jet to take him to them. He doesn’t govern so much as he flaunts his position. Workers are starving and farmers are being forced to grow drug crops to support his extravagant lifestyle.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen dictators come and go, but that man needs a little lead in his diet.”
