Scorned Justice: The Men of Texas Rangers Series #3 (Men of the Texas Rangers)

by Margaret Daley

  “I think you taught him a lot more than that. Why are you up?”

  “I reckon for the same reason you are. The case. Not being able to sleep. Too much going through your mind. Take your pick. All three apply to me.”

  “Same here.” She continued her trek to the kitchen to find Brody standing at the bay window overlooking the back of the house.

  He stared into the darkness blanketing the landscape. “I’m surprised you slept as long as you did.”

  “I have two more people to add to the list without going through my files as a prosecutor. One was my first big case working for the DA’s office. The other was during my last year, but both frightened me—a lot.”

  The sound of the coffee finishing perking echoed in the silence between them. He slowly turned toward her, his tired gaze seeking hers. “Who?”

  “Daniel Watson was the man I convicted of murdering a teenage girl and kidnapping another. Jeremiah Jones killed a family.”

  “Did you sneak downstairs and go through your files?”

  “No, I dreamed about them. Sometimes it’s good to let your subconscious work behind the scenes. I would have come across them eventually. But I’ve done my best to try to forget those two men. Daniel was convicted at seventeen and didn’t get the death penalty, but he wasn’t going to get out of prison. He was a cruel teen and tried as an adult. The things he did to his victim made me shudder. Jeremiah did get the death penalty, but he hasn’t been executed yet. I would have been notified. When I talked to them, I felt as though I was talking to pure evil.”

  “Then I’ll move them to the top of the list, but if one of them is involved, why now?”

  Rebecca yawned. “I’ll help you look into them. There was a time I knew them well. When I prosecuted a person, I found out everything I could about them. I didn’t want any surprises in the middle of the trial.”

  He walked over to her. “That’s why you were such a good prosecutor and moved up rapidly through the ranks.”

  “You know me. All or nothing. That’s the way I approach my job, and life.”

  “I’ll let you help me if you go back upstairs and sleep a couple more hours.”

  “I could work on it behind your back. I do have contacts, Mr. Calhoun.”

  “I know. But you’ll do a much better job with some rest.”

  “The same goes for you.”

  “I’m going to catch a few, too.”

  She waved her hand toward the coffeepot. “What about that?”

  “For Dad. He’s manning everything for me. If something breaks, he’ll come get me.” He continued toward the hallway. “I got a call half an hour ago. A deputy found the truck abandoned in a field between San Antonio and Dry Gulch. Someone notified the sheriff’s office and the deputy went out to investigate. That’s where Sheriff Overstreet went.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Someone has to stay back and protect you.” A smile tilted up one corner of his mouth. “I gladly volunteered for that duty.”

  The warmth in his eyes suffused her. She was glad he had stayed behind. She trusted him—totally, which wasn’t something she did easily. The only others she had ever trusted completely were Thomas and her husband.

  “Ranger Parker is meeting them there to process the scene, and then they’ll send everything to the state lab.”

  “The truck, too?”

  He nodded, pausing at the stairway that led to the downstairs bedrooms. “A tow truck is on the way. We’ll be going over it until I’m satisfied there isn’t anything more it can tell us. And as I said before, the governor has stepped in and made this a top priority. I’ve got carte blanche.”

  “Yes, Foster called me earlier and told me if he could do anything, he would.” Another yawn escaped her.

  “Go back to bed. I’ll see you at a decent hour in the morning.”

  “It is morning. It’s four thirty. It won’t be long before the sun rises.”

  He cradled her face. “When this is over with,” he dipped his head toward hers and claimed her lips in a deep kiss, “we need to talk about what’s going on between us that we both keep dancing around.”

  Not if I can help it. Too dangerous. The words formed in her mind, but she couldn’t say them out loud. Not now. Maybe later. “Good night.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t you mean good morning?”

  She glanced back at him and grinned. “Yeah, but I’m trying to trick my body into thinking it’s night.”

  She climbed the stairs to the second floor, then moved down the hall to Aubrey’s room and eased the door open wider. Hattie lay on the double bed with Aubrey curled up against her. Aubrey had gone to bed early but couldn’t sleep. Hattie volunteered to stay with her in her room. But even knowing that, Rebecca needed to check on her niece.

  Satisfied they were getting what they needed, sleep, Rebecca crossed over to her room. She stared at her messy bed, the covers balled up with one end dragging on the floor. It looked like she had wrestled with herself and lost.

  When she lay on the straightened-up sheets, she thought sleep would descend quickly, if her exhaustion were any indication. But with her eyes closed, her mind filled with the sight of Brody a few minutes ago, when he pulled back from kissing her. The intensity in his expression still had the power to weaken her knees. And to weaken her resolve not to become romantically involved with a man who laid his life on the line every day he went to work.

  Then the guilt wormed its way into her thoughts and stayed there while she tried to sleep.

  “Daniel Watson is dead.” Sitting at the kitchen table in front of her laptop, Rebecca twisted toward Brody, who was at the counter getting another cup of coffee. “There was a fight in the prison yard, and he was killed.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Twenty months.”

  “He might not be behind what’s going on personally, but we’ll still look into his family. Do you remember anything about them?”

  “I’ll look through his file again. It was ten years ago and there have been so many people since. But I do remember his mother was intense. She believed her son was innocent, even with all the evidence presented at the trial. I know a lot of families who profess that their relatives are innocent, but often you can tell they don’t really believe what they say. With Mrs. Watson, I felt she believed her son wasn’t guilty, even though he was caught with the second kidnapped girl.”

  “What about his father?”

  “Not in the picture. Left the family when the children were young.”

  “How many other children?”

  “I think a younger brother and sister.”

  Brody sat in front of his computer and turned the screen toward Rebecca. “This is Jeremiah Jones?”

  Dark eyes stared back at her, void of emotion, an almost vacant gaze. “Yes. I won’t forget that face. Where is he?”

  “Still in prison. How about family?”

  “His father, who’d be about sixty now, was the only one who acknowledged him. I remember there was a sister who would have nothing to do with her older brother and what he did. She left the area when the trial started. The press kept trying to interview her. She distanced herself as much as possible from the trial.”

  “Anyone else in his life?”

  Rebecca reached across the table and grabbed her working folder of the case. After flipping through the pages, she closed the file. “I wasn’t sure, but now I remember he had a girlfriend, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she visited him at the prison every chance she gets. I could easily see her being a prisoner groupie.”

  “I’ll check with the warden about the people who have visited Jones in the past couple of years. While I’m at it, I’ll check on all the names on the list.”

  Sean stepped into the kitchen, a big grin on his face. “One of those guys on the list you gave me is out of prison on parole as of six months ago.”

  “Which one?” Rebecca asked, shivering when she thought of any one of them being back in society. />
  “Zeb Matthews.”

  “Dad, see if you can reach his parole officer and find out where the man is. I need to pay him a visit.”

  “Sure. Owen Smith finished most of his sentence and is out—get this—on good behavior.”

  Good behavior? Hot-headed, explosive were what Rebecca remembered about him. “When?”

  “Six weeks ago.”

  “Both of them look promising, but if I had to decide which one was behind everything that has been happening, I would say Jeremiah Jones would be at the top of the list.”

  “You two continue looking into this list and anyone else you can think of, Rebecca.” Brody scooted back his chair. “I’m paying Owen Smith and Zeb Matthews a visit.”

  “Smith might be pretty hard. According to the records, he isn’t living in the area. The day he was released, he left Texas for Arkansas. This is Matthews’s address.” Sean slipped his son a piece of paper.

  “What town in Arkansas?” Brody rose, pocketing the address.

  “Little Rock. Do you want me to contact the police and have them check on Smith’s whereabouts?”

  “Yes. It’s not that far away and besides, just because he left doesn’t mean he didn’t turn around and come back.” Brody started for the front of the house. “I’ll probably be gone for a few hours. I’ll even go by and check on Thomas.”

  “I want to come,” Rebecca said, rising to her feet.

  “No way. Too risky. What if it’s Zeb, or for that matter, Jones’s father? Instead, get me the address of his girlfriend. I’m paying her a visit, too.”

  “But I should fill Thomas in on what we’re doing.”

  “I will, and if we have any time later today, I’ll take you over there, along with Aubrey. I have a feeling she needs to see her daddy and her daddy needs to see her.”

  “That would be great. If you get tied up, I bet I can sweet-talk the sheriff into taking me.”

  A grin spread slowly across Brody’s mouth. “I bet you can, too.”

  His smile stayed with her after he left. Whenever he turned that smile on her, her resolve to keep their relationship as friends only melted a little more. She was afraid that if they spent much more time together she’d end up proposing to him.

  Brody sat across from Mr. Roy Jones as the man expounded on how much his son had changed since he went to prison. “I’m glad to hear that.” It wasn’t the first time he’d been assured a convict was completely rehabilitated. Sadly, so many times that wasn’t the truth.

  “You don’t believe me.” The man, looking a lot older than his sixty years, breathed in oxygen from a tank sitting next to his chair. “Go visit him. You’ll see.” He took another deep breath. “I used to visit him. Now I hardly leave this house. Takes too much effort.”

  “Do you ever see your son’s girlfriend?”

  “Marge? Yeah, she comes by every week and lets me know how Jeremiah is doing. Never stopped loving him. Now, that’s true love.”

  No, it was sick, but Brody kept his opinion to himself. “Do you know where she lives?”

  “A couple of months ago she moved into an apartment not far from Mercy Memorial. She’s taken me to the hospital a few times when I’ve needed to go. But I don’t know the address. I just remember her saying she lived three blocks away from the hospital so it was no problem to take me to the hospital when I need a breathing treatment.”

  A knock sounded at his apartment door. “That’s my caregiver. She’s an hour late. Get the door on your way out.”

  “I have a couple more questions.”

  “No, you don’t. I’m exhausted and can’t think straight. Lack of oxygen will do that to you, young man,” Roy said in a raspy voice, then took another deep breath of oyxgen.

  Brody debated all of two seconds whether to stay, but one look at Roy Jones’s stubbornly set expression told him it would be a waste of time. He’d ask the girlfriend about Jeremiah’s friends. Then if he needed to come back, he would.

  After he let the caregiver inside, he strode to his SUV, parked right outside the apartment. Once in the driver’s seat, Brody punched in the ranch number. Rebecca answered on the second ring.

  “Did you get the girlfriend’s address?” He shifted the phone to his other hand and started his engine.

  “Yes,” Rebecca said and recited it to him.

  He jotted it down before backing out of the parking space. “I’m heading to Zeb Matthews’s place now, then Jones’s girlfriend’s. Didn’t find out anything from Roy Jones except that he couldn’t be the one actually doing any of this. He’s on oxygen and is physically frail. He might have paid someone, but he lives in a low-income apartment. I’ll let you and Dad know if I find anything. How’s your computer search going?”

  “Slow. I’m glad your dad is as good as he is. There are a lot of people on my list. Until I had to make that list, I never stopped to think about how many people I’ve angered.”

  “I know what you mean. I’d hate to make a list of the ones I’ve made mad. That’s the life of a cop.” He pulled out into traffic. “I like to think of the good I’ve done instead.”

  “Thanks. I needed that reminder.”

  Thirty minutes later, Brody pulled up in front of a rundown house in a part of town where he hated leaving his new SUV on the street. He studied the one-story house with its peeling paint and a couple of broken steps leading up to a listing porch. As he walked up, the sensation of being watched crawled up his spine—not only from inside the house but from the surrounding houses.

  When he rang the bell, the blinds at the window to the left moved. Although no one came to answer the door, someone was inside. He waited a full minute then rapped again. “This is the State Police, Mr. Matthews. Open up.”

  Finally, a wiry man about five-feet-seven opened the door a crack. “I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

  “May I come in? I need to talk to you about one of my cases.”

  “Like I said, I know nothing. All I want is to be left alone.”

  “Either you invite me in or I’ll come in. You are on parole. What are you hiding in there?”

  Inch by inch Matthews widened the gap to allow Brody into his house. The air reeked of stale beer and cigarettes. He strode into the living room off to the right, furnished with one chair probably found at the dump and an old TV resting on a crate. Another crate, being used as an end table, sat next to the chair and held a lamp without a shade and an ashtray piled high with cigarette butts.

  “I’d ask you to sit down, but I ain’t got nothing ’cause no one will hire an ex-con.”

  “So what are you doing with all the free time you have besides drinking and smoking?”

  “Looking for a job. Occasionally, I get an odd job here and there.”

  “Was one of those jobs to scare Judge Morgan?”

  “Why would I do that? I ain’t going back inside.” Matthews picked up his pack of smokes and shook one loose, then struck a match.

  “I’d prefer you wait to smoke until I leave. You might not mind inhaling filth, but I do.”

  The ex-con glared at him, then blew out the match and tossed his cigarettes onto the crate by the chair. “A nasty habit I picked up in the joint.”

  “Where were you yesterday between two and four in the afternoon?”

  “Seeing my parole officer and going on an interview he set up for me—Yellow Rose Diner.”

  “Who did you see?”

  “The owner. She’s a tough cookie, but she’s gonna give me a chance. More than I can say for most.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Ruth Fisher. She’ll vouch I was there. She even gave me a tour of the place—not much, but there was a crowd already there at three. Seems she gives handouts to the homeless in the area. Some kind of Christian. I ain’t got any time for religion, but I’m glad she believes in second chances.”

  “Do you own a truck or car?”

  “Me?” He stabbed his finger into his chest and laughed. “Yeah, I may not eat, bu
t I’ve gotta have my wheels. What do you take me for? A Rockefeller?” His merriment increased.

  “How do you get around?”

  “The bus.” Matthews looked him up and down. “I guess you don’t know what that is.”

  “Have you heard of anyone wanting to get back at Judge Morgan?”

  “Only a crazy fool. I don’t wanna go back to the joint. That means playing nice.” Matthews walked over to his front door. “Now I’ve got to get ready for my new job. I ain’t gonna let you make me late.”

  His look challenged Brody, who grinned. “I’ll be stopping by the Yellow Rose Diner to see how you’re doing. Good day.” He tipped his hat and left the house.

  Again he felt that he was being watched as he made his way to his SUV, all its tires still intact and no visible dents or scratches. Now to see Marge, a woman who definitely needed to improve her taste in men.

  “Do you want anything else to eat?” J. R. asked the girl on his couch. Her feet were tied, but her hands weren’t, as she ate the peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich he had fixed her.

  She chewed the last bite, then drank the rest of the milk. Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she said, “More milk, please.”

  He went into the small kitchen, just off the living room, and opened the fridge, his attention glued to his hostage the whole time. She glanced around, shifting on the couch. “Don’t even think it.”

  She froze, and turned to look straight ahead.

  He walked back to her and gave her the glass of milk, then took the chair across from her. What was he going to do with her? It had been almost twenty-four hours since he had kidnapped her, and he still didn’t know. Of course, his sister had other ideas. He hadn’t minded killing the man and the woman—well, maybe a little—but he wasn’t like his brother, he guessed.

  I draw the line at children.

  The girl gulped down her milk and swiped her hand across her mouth again. “When can I go home?”