Unspoken (24 page)
Authors: Lisa Jackson
Tags: #Contemporary, #General, #Romance, #Romantic Suspense Fiction, #Suspense, #Fiction, #Texas
“Madre
—she is not well.”
—she is not well.”
Shep nodded; he’d heard the story that ever since her husband was murdered, Aloise Estevan had slipped further and further into confusion. She attended Mass twice a day, was rumored to have a shrine built to Ramón’s memory in the house she shared with her daughter and grandson, and was known to speak to Ram6n though, of course, he was long dead.
Vianca crossed her slim legs, and Shep tried not to stare at the hem of white shorts that barely covered her butt. He wondered if she wore panties and what color they were, but sucked a little harder on his wad of chew and forced his eyes to meet hers.
“I’m sorry. I know this has been hard for her and it won’t get much easier in the next couple of weeks. The department’s gonna reopen the investigation into Ramon’s death, and so you might have to deal with investigators and probably the press.”
“Mierda!
My father is dead,
Señor
—er. Deputy Marson. Muerto. No one can bring him back. And
sí,
it would be good if the bastard who killed him was brought to justice, but”—she shrugged and the towel she’d wound around her head slipped a bit as she leaned her head to one side and pinned him with eyes as black as night and as hot as coats—“it would not bring him back to life.”
My father is dead,
Señor
—er. Deputy Marson. Muerto. No one can bring him back. And
sí,
it would be good if the bastard who killed him was brought to justice, but”—she shrugged and the towel she’d wound around her head slipped a bit as she leaned her head to one side and pinned him with eyes as black as night and as hot as coats—“it would not bring him back to life.”
“It’s our job,” he said. “I thought you’d like to know.” She pursed her lips, and Shep found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss her—or more. As hot-blooded as she was, she’d probably be a real she-cat in bed. Lord, she was a randy-lookin’ thing, and he felt his crotch tighten just looking at her. She adjusted the towel and her gaze followed a truck lumbering down the street. As she lifted her hands and fiddled with the towel, her blouse gaped a bit and he caught a glimpse of the top of one breast, a warm honey color over a lacy scrap of a red bra.
Red—near
scarlet. Shep hadn’t seen a red one in years. Lately Peggy Sue had become partial to a white support thing that turned a dingy shade of gray after a few washings. But this—he couldn’t help but stare and the spit dried in his throat.
Red—near
scarlet. Shep hadn’t seen a red one in years. Lately Peggy Sue had become partial to a white support thing that turned a dingy shade of gray after a few washings. But this—he couldn’t help but stare and the spit dried in his throat.
“Gracias. ”
Her voice was cold. Brittle.
Her voice was cold. Brittle.
His head snapped up, and he found her staring at him. Hard. With those fiery black eyes.
Shep held her stare. No need to try and hide the fact that he found her sexy. She didn’t so much as blink.
He cleared his throat. “I know you were working at the store the night your father was killed.”
“Sí,”
she said, suddenly guarded.
she said, suddenly guarded.
“You saw Ross McCallum there.”
A mute nod.
“Who else?”
“I have told this over and over,” she said, “when the investigators first asked questions.” Somewhere down the street a dog began to put up a ruckus.
“I know, but refresh my memory.”
She hesitated, little lines etching her forehead as she thought, “There was his sister, Mary Beth,” she said with a frown, “and, of course, the whore.”
“Ruby Dee.”
“Sí. ”
Vianca’s lips curled into a sneer. “Ruby. And Joe Hawk, he was there earlier, much earlier, with ... Nevada Smith.” She looked away.
Vianca’s lips curled into a sneer. “Ruby. And Joe Hawk, he was there earlier, much earlier, with ... Nevada Smith.” She looked away.
Bingo! Shep had thought Nevada and his cousin were there, but hadn’t yet looked through the reams of testimony and depositions from McCallum’s trial.
“Badger Collins, Etta Parsons .... Celeste—oh, she is the daughter of Caleb, the drunk.” She snapped her fingers impatiently as she tried to remember. Vianca was on a roll now.
“Swaggert, now Hernandez.”
“Yes, she was there and Manny Dauber and Lucy ... the woman who now works at the White Horse.” Vianca whispered a stream of Spanish as if it would jog her memory.
“Lucy Pride,” Shep supplied, though he knew from the few scrapes Lucy had been in that she had a record and had used more than one alias. Recently, she seemed to have become law-abiding. Hence, he supposed, the name Pride.
“Sí.
Pride,” Vianca agreed, chewing on her lower lip as she rolled back the years. “There were so many. Maria Ramirez, and Juan Paditta—and your wife was there, too,” Vianca pointed out and Shep’s jaw clenched tight. It was a shame Peggy Sue’s name was even involved.
Pride,” Vianca agreed, chewing on her lower lip as she rolled back the years. “There were so many. Maria Ramirez, and Juan Paditta—and your wife was there, too,” Vianca pointed out and Shep’s jaw clenched tight. It was a shame Peggy Sue’s name was even involved.
“Just pickin’ up some Tylenol for one of the kids,” he said quickly, feeling the need to defend the woman he’d taken as his bride such a long time ago. “Timmy had a headache—the flu, I think.”
Vianca waved off his excuse and damn but she wasn’t right. Half the damned town had been at the convenience store that night; though without a motive or a murder weapon, the investigation would probably stall.
But the name that kept worming into Shep’s brain, that never seemed to go away, was Nevada Smith. He’d worked tirelessly on the Estevan case years ago, insisting that Ross McCallum had offed Ram6n while drunk and arguing about a gambling debt. At the time it had all seemed to fit, especially with the witnesses who had seen Ram6n and Ross arguing heatedly in the parking lot over two thousand dollars. But even ten years ago, Shep’s gut had told him that Nevada was working too hard to pin the murder on McCallum, that there was a personal grudge involved. Maybe that was the ticket—find out what the bad blood between McCallum and Smith was.
He suspected it was about a woman—the princess herself.
Shelby Cole was the source of the trouble, Shep would bet his grandfather’s silver-plated spurs on it. And he was kinda related to Shelby—a cousin once or twice removed—so he had a personal interest.
“Vianca!” a shrill voice cried. Somewhere deep within the house a door slammed. Small scurrying feet scrambled through the house.
Vianca was on her feet as the screen door burst open and a boy of about four barreled through.
“Tía V, Tía
V, ” he cried, his mop of black hair flying as he flung himself into Vianca’s arms.
“Tía V, Tía
V, ” he cried, his mop of black hair flying as he flung himself into Vianca’s arms.
She pulled him off his feet and whirled him around as he giggled wildly. Her towel came completely undone and her black hair tumbled past her shoulders in wild curls. “Oh, little Ramón, you are a devil, do you hear me,” she said, kissing his cheeks and tossing the towel onto her recently vacated chair. “A precious little
diablo.”
Casting a glance at Shep, she explained, “My brother Roberto’s son, and the light of my life.” She nuzzled the boy’s cheek.
diablo.”
Casting a glance at Shep, she explained, “My brother Roberto’s son, and the light of my life.” She nuzzled the boy’s cheek.
Little Ram6n threw back his head and laughed as the door opened again and Aloise Estevan, stoop-shouldered and grayhaired, appeared. Her eyes were haunted and soulless, her once-flawless skin now lined and sallow. Leaning heavily on a metal cane, she looked at Shep, but he was certain she didn’t recognize him—probably didn’t remember too many folks.
Vianca made quick introductions, but to no avail. Aloise muttered something unintelligible under her breath, and Vianca’s expression changed from pure, unfettered glee to despair.
“No,
Madre,
he is not here. Remember?
Padre
is ... is gone.” She sent Shep a quick glance, and he got the message.
Madre,
he is not here. Remember?
Padre
is ... is gone.” She sent Shep a quick glance, and he got the message.
“I’ll be shovin’ off now,” he said, suddenly in need of a beer.
Aloise kept talking, her face expressionless, her vision centered on a world only she could see. The calico cat reappeared, and Little Ramón slid down his aunt’s slim body to chase after the beast.
Shep tipped his hat. “I’ll be talkin’ with you again.”
“Sí, ”
Vianca said. Almost shyly, she offered him a smile that followed him back to his car and all the way home to Peggy Sue’s hot temper and cold bed.
Vianca said. Almost shyly, she offered him a smile that followed him back to his car and all the way home to Peggy Sue’s hot temper and cold bed.
Shelby’s trip to San Antonio was a bust.
So far, Orrin Findley had been no help whatsoever. Of course, Shelby had yet to see the man or even talk to him on the phone. She’d spent two days trying to get into his office, but hadn’t made it past his drill sergeant of a secretary. Now, as she sat at an open-air cafe on the River Walk, watching a sightseeing river barge filled with tourists float down the San Antonio River, she remembered the excuses she’d heard.
“Mr. Findley is out of town.”
“Mr. Findley is in court.”
“Mr. Findley is away from his desk.”
“Mr. Findley is in a meeting.”
The truth was that Mr. Findley was ducking her. Leaning back in a cafe chair as a breeze moved the leaves in the branches overhead, she sipped lemonade and tried to hold on to her rapidly escaping patience. The element of surprise hadn’t helped; Findley had been indisposed at every turn.
In the meantime Shelby hadn’t been idle. She’d checked in with her office in Seattle, making sure that her clients hadn’t suffered. The agent she’d left in charge was more than capable and urged her to “take your time. Everything’s handled.” Shelby trusted him.
She’d also called Lydia, only to discover that Ben Levinson had finally phoned, but when she’d dialed the number Lydia had given her, an answering machine picked up. In frustration, she’d left the number of her hotel, then walked to the library, where she’d gone through old newspaper clippings on microfiche, reading everything she could about Ross McCallum’s trial. She couldn’t help but think his release from prison was what had prompted someone to write the anonymous letter and send the picture of Elizabeth to her. But who? And why? And where in God’s name
was
Elizabeth? The knot of tension in her stomach tightened, as it always did when she thought of her daughter and the fact that she was nowhere near finding her.
was
Elizabeth? The knot of tension in her stomach tightened, as it always did when she thought of her daughter and the fact that she was nowhere near finding her.
In desperation, she had even called Nevada, hoping that he’d been in touch with Levinson or had learned something but he, too, had been out. She hadn’t bothered leaving a message with him as she planned to be back in Bad Luck soon. She’d visit him then.
She’d resorted to less honest means to talk to her father’s lawyer. Having overheard his secretary book a lunch for him in a restaurant on the River Walk, only three doors down from this shaded cafe, Shelby had decided to accost him. She’d planted herself in a chair with a view of the entrance to the restaurant in which he was presumably dining with his client. While waiting, she’d drunk three glasses of lemonade.
Findley was supposed to have met with his client at one. It was now pushing three. She checked her watch again, swirled the lemonade in her glass and watched the front door of the establishment. Another ten minutes passed and she thought she’d go mad. The table next to her was vacated for a few minutes. Another couple, obviously in love from the way they linked hands under the table and scooted their chairs close together, sat down and partially blocked her view. Several crows and pigeons, wings flapping, vied for leftover crumbs that had fallen to the cobblestones beneath the tables.
Come on, come on,
she thought, glancing over her shoulder and hoping that no one recognized her. Ever since Nevada had told her about the telephone calls when no one answered, she’d been nervous, more on edge than ever.
she thought, glancing over her shoulder and hoping that no one recognized her. Ever since Nevada had told her about the telephone calls when no one answered, she’d been nervous, more on edge than ever.
Finally she saw him emerge—the man whose picture had graced the reception area of his law office. Tall and silverhaired, with darkly tanned skin and a tiny white moustache, Orrin Findley was a beanpole of a man in a Western-cut suit and string tie. He and his client, still engrossed in conversation, sauntered along the river, then up the stairs to the main streets. Shelby left her glass and a few dollars on the table, then followed, trying to keep her quarry in sight without attracting any attention herself as she hurried up the stairs to the higher ground of the main part of town. Findley and the other man parted company at the lawyer’s shiny black Jaguar with vanity plates that read
SALAW
.
SALAW
.
Shelby didn’t waste another second. “Mr. Findley?”
He turned, and a broad smile stretched across his tanned jaw. “Something I can do for you, miss?”
“I hope so. I’m—”
“Shelby Cole,” he supplied, his smile falling away as he recognized her. “I’d know you anywhere. You look just like Jasmine.”
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she charged, and he had the good grace not to deny it. “I need to talk to you about my baby.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Of course you do. You’re my father’s attorney, and your firm deals with adoption.”
“Legal adoption.”
“So what happened to my baby?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t even know you had one.”
“Sure you did, Mr. Findley,” she insisted as traffic on the street backed up at the light. “I’m sure my father confided in you.”
“Even if he did, it would fall in the category of attorney/ client privilege. I couldn’t discuss it with you or anyone else.”
“But she was
my
daughter and I was told she died at birth!” Shelby planted herself next to the Jaguar’s door and wouldn’t budge. She barely noticed the pedestrians walking by or the traffic that began to move when the stop light turned green. Her eyes, behind dark lenses, were focused directly on the smooth lawyer whose smile was more snake-like than the silver-toed boots covering his feet. “I had rights, too. Rights that were forgotten or ignored.”
my
daughter and I was told she died at birth!” Shelby planted herself next to the Jaguar’s door and wouldn’t budge. She barely noticed the pedestrians walking by or the traffic that began to move when the stop light turned green. Her eyes, behind dark lenses, were focused directly on the smooth lawyer whose smile was more snake-like than the silver-toed boots covering his feet. “I had rights, too. Rights that were forgotten or ignored.”
With a quick glance over his shoulder, he scanned the street, then said between teeth that barely moved, “Let me tell you somethin’, Miss Cole. I don’t discuss business in the middle of the street.”
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