When I ask him if he was aware of Susan Snyder’s objection, he says he was.
“She wanted an environmental impact study done,” he says. “Which would have cost me and wasted a bunch of time. I’m a businessman, and if I can get what I want without spending extra money, I do it.
“But,” he quickly adds, “the other council members supported me, so the study wasn’t necessary. It certainly isn’t something I would kill someone over. I liked Susan Snyder.”
By the time we’re finished with the interview, it’s almost noon. Carson offers to make us lunch back at his ranch house, but Ariana and I decline.
On the drive back through his property, she sits silent and sullen in the passenger seat.
“You’re disappointed in me for losing?” I say.
She takes a deep breath and says, “No. I wish you hadn’t been roped into their bullshit game to begin with.”
“You’re right,” I say. “Honestly, I was curious how good Gareth was.”
“Now you know,” she snaps, showing more emotion than she probably wants to. “He’s better than you.”
“He’s good,” I say. “I’ll give him that. If we’d been squaring off in the Wild West, we’d probably both be dead.”
As I say this, I can’t hide a roguish grin. She stares at me, her disappointment turning into admiration.
“You let him win, didn’t you?” she asks, unable to hide the pride on her face.
“Let me put it this way,” I say. “Afterward, did you see any sign of that pesky buzzing bee?”
Her mouth drops open. She stares at me. Dumbfounded.
“Are you saying you shot that bee out of the air?”
I shrug playfully and keep on driving.
Chapter 44
“HOW ABOUT ‘WAGON WHEEL’?” Walt asks, positioning his fiddle in the crook of his neck.
“Let’s give it a try,” Dale says.
We play the song that was made famous by Darius Rucker but was first recorded by the string band Old Crow Medicine Show. When we finish, our audience erupts with applause—our audience of two, that is. Tonight we’re sitting in lawn chairs at Tom and Jessica’s house. They let us play here on the condition that they get to listen.
With the flowers, vegetable plants, and berry bushes in Jessica’s garden, and the sun lighting up the clouds to the west, this is about as pleasant a place as I can imagine practicing music—much better than the porch of my old motel room. It’s especially nice because before we even started playing, Jessica brought us all a slice of pecan pie, and Tom brought out a six-pack of Fire Eagle IPA from Austin Beerworks.
As much as I enjoy playing with Dale and Walt, I had an ulterior motive for inviting them here tonight. Once Tom and Jessica call it a night, I plan to question Dale and Walt about Alex Hartley and Skip Barnes, the two guys who were seeing Susan Snyder.
When we got back to the police station that afternoon, Ariana checked with the town clerk, and it turns out that Alex Hartley, the football coach, was the one to complain about McCormack’s trucks driving through the open space. Ariana and I decided we need to bring him—and Skip Barnes—in for another round of questions, but we did some checking and found out Hartley’s in El Paso for a few days.
For now, I’m trying to enjoy the music we’re creating. But I’m having a difficult time. As we play, I notice an itching, burning sensation on the fingers of my right hand. I scratch my fingers between songs and try to keep going, but then I take a good look and notice tiny red bumps crawling from my fingertips up to my wrist. I’ve got some kind of rash that itches like the dickens.
I tell the guys I can keep singing but I can’t keep playing the guitar. Jessica takes a look and fetches a tube of cortisone anti-itch cream from inside the house.
“You’ve had an allergic reaction to something,” she says.
I explain that Ariana and I were in the woods on McCormack’s land.
“Try not to scratch it,” Jessica says. “You’ll only make it worse.”
“It’s on my right hand,” I say. “It’s going to be hard not to irritate it.”
With their own personal concert now over, Tom and Jessica head inside while I sit with Dale and Walt, finishing our beers. The night air is cool, and out in the desert hills we can hear a coyote yipping. I know now is the time.
“Are we friends?” I say to Walt and Dale.
“Hell yeah, we’re friends,” Dale says. “I’m trying to figure out how to convince you to move to Rio Lobo so we can keep the band together.”
“If we’re friends,” I say, “why are y’all holding out on me?”
Chapter 45
DALE AND WALT stare at me, surprised by my change in demeanor.
“The reason crimes go unsolved,” I say, “is because people who know something don’t speak up. I know you two know something about Alex or Skip or both of them.”
They exchange glances. Dale seems at a loss for words, which is unlike him (except when he’s near Ariana, that is).
“I don’t know nothing,” he says finally, “and I think you’re barking up the wrong tree looking at McCormack. The guy’s got an ego the size of the Gulf of Mexico, him and Gareth both, but I really don’t think they had anything to do with Susan Snyder’s death.”
“What about Skip?” I say.
“He ain’t the brightest bulb, but he sure as hell ain’t no killer.”
“What about Alex Hartley? His name keeps coming up in this.”
Dale looks to Walt again. Walt shakes his head subtly, as if to say, Don’t do it. My instinct tells me not to push, and it turns out I’m right.
“Coach has a secret,” Dale says, “but it ain’t what you think.”
Walt takes a deep breath, resigned to the revelation of Alex’s secret—whatever it is. “Alex Hartley wasn’t sleeping with Susan Snyder,” he says. “Alex is impotent.”
The two explain that Coach Hartley is diabetic and consequently suffers from erectile dysfunction. Susan went out on friendly dates with Alex to keep up the pretense that he was a socially active single man.
“Don’t they have Viagra for that?” I ask.
“Doesn’t work for everyone,” Walt says.
“This is West Texas and he’s the football coach,” Dale says. “He’s supposed to be tough. Manly. He didn’t want people gossiping, saying, ‘Coach can’t get it in the end zone.’”
“It’s nobody’s business,” I say. “Why would people even wonder about that?”
“He’s a good-looking guy and this is a small town,” Walt says. “If he’s not married or getting some, people start to talk.”
“You know how people are about football in this state,” Dale says. “Lose one game you’re supposed to win, and people look for any cruel thing to say behind your back.”
“I think what he worried about most is the locker room,” Walt says. “Kids say mean things they grow up to regret. He didn’t want to put them in a position to do something stupid.”
“How do you know all this?” I ask.
“His classroom’s right next to mine,” Walt says, then nods to Dale. “Plus, the three of us play poker every other week. We’re a close group.”
“Who else plays?”
They list some names I haven’t heard before—more people Ariana and I probably need to interview. Before this case is over, we might have a statement from everyone in town.
“Now, Rory,” Walt says, “don’t go thinking that Alex Hartley murdered Susan because she was going to blow his cover. They were friends. Alex’s secret is not one worth killing someone over.”
I thank them for their honesty. But what I’m thinking is that, for the first time, I’ve found someone who seems to have a motive to keep Susan Snyder silent.
If Hartley was willing to lie to our faces during our interrogation, what else is he willing to do?
Chapter 46
THE NEXT MORNING, Ariana comes to work an hour late. This adds to my impatience at playing the waiting gam
e.
We find out Alex Hartley is in El Paso seeing a diabetes specialist and won’t return for a few days. Skip Barnes is delivering a load of petroleum and won’t be back until tomorrow. We still don’t know if he’s talked to a lawyer.
“I’ve got an idea,” I say to Ariana. “Let’s drive out to the open space.”
As we’re about to head out of the station, the chief asks us where we’re going.
“Why do you want to know?” I snap. “So you can keep Carson McCormack informed?”
“As chief of police,” he says, “I need to be kept in the loop of this investigation.”
Ariana stands in silence as everyone in the station turns to look at us. When this case is over and I drive off into the sunset, she’s still going to have to work with the guy.
“Either you start cooperating,” Harris says to me, “or I’ll call your lieutenant and tell him you’re out of line. I’ll request a different Ranger.”
I’m burning mad, and I can’t stop myself from directing my frustration over the case toward the chief.
“You want to be kept in the loop?” I say. “Here’s the loop. Before Susan Snyder died, she made two phone calls. One was to Tom Aaron telling him that she had a big story for him—and not to trust anyone. The second was to Ariana.” I gesture toward her. “Susan told Ariana the same thing. Only she gave a specific name of who not to trust. Can you guess who that person is?”
Harris looks around, hyperaware of all of his employees staring at us.
“In my office,” he says, his voice simmering. “Now.”
Ariana and I follow him inside. None of us sits. But as he paces behind his desk, his anger seems to deflate by the second.
“Is that true?” Harris says to Ariana. “She said not to trust me?”
“She said she wasn’t sure if you could be trusted,” Ariana admits. “That’s why I pushed so hard to bring in the Rangers.”
Harris’s office is as sparse as Tom Aaron’s was disorganized. A Texas state flag hangs on one wall, and a mule deer mount flanked by two good-sized trout mounts decorates the wall space above his chair. A framed photo of George H. W. Bush rests on the desk.
“I’ll be honest with you,” Harris says. “Susan and I dated when I first got to town. Not really dated. Just, you know, hooked up.”
I don’t say anything, but what I’m thinking is that after debunking one person of interest’s story about sleeping with Susan Snyder, it’s unlikely that the chief’s would hold up any better under scrutiny.
“Susan didn’t want people to know,” Harris says. “Neither did I. We thought it might give the appearance of a conflict of interest, especially later when I became chief.”
“You said this was when you first got to town,” Ariana says. “You weren’t chief yet.”
“I was thinking of my future,” he says. “Chief Múñez was nearing retirement.” He locks eyes with Ariana. “And if you’re thinking I had one vote in my pocket when we were both up for the job, you’re wrong. Kirk Schuetz told me that Susan Snyder wanted you for the job. She only ended up voting their way to keep it unanimous, show unified public support for the new chief.”
“So there was bad blood between you?” I say.
“No,” Harris says emphatically. “Susan was objective. Rational. She thought Ariana was the better candidate. Let’s be honest: those other four were never going to vote for a woman to be police chief.”
He looks at Ariana, his expression pleading and—to my eyes—honest.
“We work well together,” he says to Ariana. “I respect you. I think you respect me. When I became chief, you might not have liked it, but you behaved professionally, and I never rubbed my success in your face.”
I can relate to what Ariana went through, seeing her peer promoted to her boss. From what I can tell, Harris and Ariana have handled their situation better than my lieutenant and I have.
“We did work well together,” Ariana says. “Until you refused to investigate Susan Snyder’s death.”
“Put yourself in my shoes,” he says. “I didn’t know about these phone calls Susan made. Now I understand.”
The tension in the room seems to be subsiding.
“Keep investigating,” he says. “I give you free rein.”
I know why he’s changing his tune, and it’s not to find justice for Susan Snyder. He knows that one phone call is all it would take to bring in our Public Corruption Unit. No one, no matter how innocent, wants that kind of scrutiny.
“Keep digging,” he says to me. “I want my name cleared of any suspicion.”
Chapter 47
WE GRAB A couple of deli sandwiches and head out of town. I tell Ariana I’m sorry I revealed her secret to Harris.
“It’s okay,” she says. “We all needed to get that off our chests.”
We drive south into hillier country. Ariana directs me onto a gravel road. Unlike the one to McCormack’s ranch, this one is strewn with rocks the size of basketballs and potholes twice that big. As I navigate, I’m glad I purchased a new spare tire.
The road cuts into a ridge, with rocky outcroppings above and a steep slope below us. At the bottom of the ravine is a creek bed overgrown with brush. Up ahead, two mule deer spring from hiding and bound through the canyon, their antlers still in velvet.
The terrain opens onto a spacious view of the Rio Lobo winding through the canyon. Ariana was right—it’s beautiful out here. Some of the prettiest country I’ve seen in West Texas.
We’re tucked deep into the hills. I check my phone and see that I have no service. The police radio in my truck has gone to static, and I turn it off.
The dirt road splits from time to time, but Ariana always knows which fork to take. Finally, we cross the river on a wide and sturdy wooden bridge.
“This is the road from McCormack’s place,” Ariana says.
The route is wide and graded enough to support a tanker truck, and by the look of the tread marks in the dirt, they’ve been doing it regularly for a while now.
“No wonder McCormack wanted this designated open space,” I say. “The only decent way to get here is from his property.”
The sun is high in the sky, and I can feel sweat running down my skin inside my shirt. I ask Ariana if she wants to find some shade and eat lunch, and she tells me to keep driving. Twenty minutes later, we stop at a spot that’s worth the effort. Next to the river, there’s a flat patch of shore where the water makes an S-shaped bend. The roots of a big bur oak jut out the side of a cut bank.
“I used to come out here to swim when I was in high school,” Ariana says. “The water is deep enough to dive.”
We sit in the shade of the oak and unwrap our sandwiches, our second lunch along a riverbank. I decide to ask Ariana what I wanted to ask her the first time.
“Have you ever thought of applying for the Texas Rangers?”
When she doesn’t answer right away, I explain how she’d meet the qualifications. Beyond her experience in Rio Lobo and with the highway patrol, she would need only a job with the Department of Public Safety, which oversees the Ranger Division, before she could take the entrance exam that precedes an in-person interview. There are six Texas Ranger companies, and even fewer female Rangers. We need more of them, in my opinion.
“It sounds like a long shot,” she says.
“I’d vouch for you,” I say. “That will count for something.”
She gives it some thought, looking out over the river. We can hear insects chirping and the trickle of the river as it works its way past us, but otherwise the landscape is silent.
And peaceful.
“The truth is,” Ariana says, “I’m not sure I’m up to the task of being a Texas Ranger.”
“You’ve got a knack for investigation,” I say. “I’ve worked with good detectives and bad detectives, and you’re one of the good ones.”
“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s the other part of the job. The physical part.”
She says sh
e’s not strong like the chief and can’t shoot a gun like me. “I’ve never been in a situation where I had to draw my gun, let alone shoot it,” she says. “I’m not sure how I’d handle a situation like you faced in that bank.”
I’m crushing on this vulnerable new side of her, maybe even falling for her.
“Listen, Ariana,” I say, resuming a professional dialogue. “It doesn’t matter how big your muscles are. It doesn’t matter how fast you can draw a gun. What matters is what’s in here.” I point to my head. “And here.” I point to my chest. “A Ranger needs to be smart and good-hearted above all. And you have those qualities in spades.”
She smiles brightly and genuinely, touched by my words. “Thanks, Rory.”
After we finish our sandwiches, I ask if she’s ready to head back to town.
“Is there any reason to hurry?” she asks.
“I guess not,” I say. “What do you have in mind?”
Ariana gives me a sly grin I haven’t seen before.
Chapter 48
“CLOSE YOUR EYES,” Ariana says, “and don’t peek.”
I do as she asks. I hear her strip off her jeans and drop them in a heap. I don’t hear her take off her shirt, but I assume that’s what she’s doing.
“Now you can look,” she says.
I glance up in time to see Ariana in midair, suspended over the river—wearing only a bra and underwear—and then she’s gone in an explosion of water. She comes up laughing, throwing back her wet hair.
“You coming?” she says.
I want to encourage this intriguing new side of Ariana, so I undo my gun belt and hang it over a branch that’s broken off about six inches from the trunk. Then I loosen my tie and unbutton my shirt and hang them over the gun. I pull off my boots, set them aside, and strip off my undershirt and pants. I stand at the cut bank in my boxer shorts, looking down at Ariana in the water.
I watch Ariana’s face, the way her eyes drift down to my chest, the way one corner of her mouth curves slightly into the hint of a smile. I can’t believe it—she’s checking me out!
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