Unspoken (26 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

Tags: #Contemporary, #General, #Romance, #Romantic Suspense Fiction, #Suspense, #Fiction, #Texas

BOOK: Unspoken
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“Probably ten,” Nevada allowed, “but see what kind of stuff he was into before that.”
“I thought you checked this all out.”
“I did. But I’ve been told I’m not objective. And while you’re at it, there’s someone else—”
“Let me guess. Judge Jerome Cole.”
“Wouldn’t hurt.”
“Never does,” Levinson agreed with a satisfied smile in his voice. “You got it.”
Nevada hung up, and a bad taste rose in his throat. He walked to the bedroom where, on a small table, he had a laptop computer and printer set up. Sure enough, within ten minutes, the printer spewed a report and death certificate for Ned Charles Pritchart, M.D., who, as stated by the local doctor, had died of natural causes at the age of seventy-one. Along with the report, Levinson had included a bill.
“Great,” Nevada mumbled to himself just as he heard the crunch of tires in the gravel drive. Crockett began to bark his fool head off.
“Quiet!” Nevada ordered as he snapped off the computer and hoped that Shelby had stopped by. He’d been nervous ever since she’d taken off for San Antonio; he had even considered chasing her down and had mentally kicked himself for not finding out where she was staying. Like it or not, he was worried. Even though she’d been away from Bad Luck for years without him worrying about her, things had changed. Now there were anonymous letters, harassing phone calls, McCallum on the loose. Ever since Shelby had driven up Nevada’s lane about a week ago, she’d been on his mind and hell, yes, he was concerned about her.
And it wasn’t just because she was the mother of his child. Nope. His feelings for her ran deeper than that. In fact, too deep. He didn’t want to think about the way she messed with his mind.
Hoping to find her climbing out of that white Cadillac she’d rented, he walked outside to spy a small blue car roll to a stop near the pump house. A woman was behind the wheel. She wasn’t Shelby.
Crockett, hairs on the back of his neck bristling, growled deep in his throat and bared his fangs.
“Easy, boy,” Nevada warned as he stood on the porch and watched as the woman, one he couldn’t place, dragged out a briefcase. The muscles at the base of his skull tensed. He wasn’t used to having visitors, and lately he’d had more than his share. This one, a petite, no-nonsense woman with red hair and eyes much older than her years, slung the strap of the briefcase over one slim shoulder and strode up the front walk. A pair of sunglasses had been pushed to the top of her head. At the bottom step she slid the shades off and slipped them into the side pocket of her briefcase.
“Mr. Smith?” she asked and flashed him a thousand-watt smile—as bright as a snowy mountaintop at dawn and just as cold. Nevada was instantly wary. He didn’t get many solicitors out here, not even missionary types who wanted to sell him religion, so who the hell was she? And then it dawned on him.
“Yep.”
She stuck out a hand. “I’m Katrina Nedelesky. I’m a reporter for
Lone Star
magazine.”
Her grip was strong. Sure. Yet there was something tenuous about the way she looked up at him, something he innately didn’t trust. Filled with self-importance, she fished in a pocket of her briefcase and retrieved a business card. She slapped it into his open palm. “Just in case you doubt me.”
“Wouldn’t do that.” But he glanced down, skimmed the information, then assessed her slowly. “What can I do for you?” Leaning one hip against the frame of the door, he folded his arms across his chest and slid the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.
“I wanted to ask you a few questions about the night Ram6n Estevan was killed.”
So that was it. He wasn’t surprised. “Look, I made a report. Testified on the stand. I think it’s all a matter of public record.”
“I know, I know, but if I could just come in and talk to you a while ... I really would like to hear your side of the story.”
“My
side?”
“Well, your take on things. You were there.”
He’d never had much use for reporters, thought they were all snoops and glory-seekers; this one didn’t impress him as any more scrupulous than the rest of the lot. Also, there was something about her—the way she stared up at him with such intense eyes—that gave him pause. Had he met her before? He didn’t think so. He was pretty good with faces, and yet she seemed familiar.
He motioned to the plastic chairs on the front porch, and as she took a seat Crockett gave off a soft “woof” and slowly slunk down the steps to his favorite spot under the porch. In the fields nearby a few spindly-legged colts pranced and bucked, their coats gleaming in the fading rays of sunlight.
Nevada leaned back, crossed his legs at the ankles and waited. The reporter perched on the edge of one chair as if afraid some of the dust that had settled on the seat would dirty up her black skirt.
“I’ve got a pocket recorder—” She snapped open her briefcase..
“No recorder.”
“But—”
“Listen, I don’t think I have anything to say to you. I heard you were interviewing Caleb—in fact he’s been crowing about it, talkin’ about all the money he’s gonna make from some exclusive deal the two of you have cooked up—but there’s not a whole lot more I can add.”
“You were a major part of the investigation,” she argued, and the scent of her perfume teased him. It wasn’t cheap, and her clothes looked as if she’d picked them out at Nieman . Marcus rather than K Mart; he’d bet his favorite mare that the skirt, boots, knit top and jacket—hell. even her perfume—were imprinted with some famous designer’s name. Though her car was inexpensive and had seen better years, Katrina Nedelesky wasn’t afraid to spend some bucks on her appearance. A dichotomy, the lady reporter. Nope, he didn’t trust one hair on her henna-dyed head.
“You and Ross were sworn enemies,” she said with that same, gee-I-find-you-fascinating grin. “And you claimed he stole your pickup that night.”
“Someone did. Ross ended up in it.”
“And nearly died. Plowed it into a tree, right?”
“It’s all in the report,” he said testily. He didn’t like the woman—she was too smooth, too self-impressed.
“But you were friends in high school.”
“Not friends. We played on the same football team while he was in school.” She was starting to irritate him. He stared at her. Hard. She didn’t so much as flinch.
“As I understand it, you were both interested in the same girl.” This wasn’t just an aside. She’d been leading up to it. “Shelby Cole. Judge Jerome—er. I guess he goes by Red around these parts. Anyway, the both of you were seeing Judge Cole’s daughter.”
Nevada’s temper, burning slow, snapped. “I dated Shelby for a while.”
“And Ross—?” she suggested.
“You’ll have to ask him about that.” He matched her grin with one of his own. “But that probably isn’t the best idea around. Ross has kind of a bad reputation, Ms.”—he checked the card he was still holding—“Nedelesky. And a pretty foul temper. So if I were you, I wouldn’t push things.”
She was just slightly unnerved, but not yet off track. “Is there something I should know about your relationship with Ross McCallum?”
He snorted. “Didn’t think I had one.”
“You hated McCallum. Everyone in town knows it. As teenagers you had a few skirmishes and later, just a few weeks before Ram6n Estevan was killed, you and McCallum got into a pretty big fight. Both of you ended up in the hospital. You lost the vision in one eye, and McCallum suffered broken ribs and a separated shoulder, I think. What was that all about?”
“We had a disagreement. It got out of hand. As I said, McCallum’s got a hot temper.”
“And what about you?”
“I can hold my own. Look, I think we’ve talked enough. As I said, everything you need to know is in the court records.” Nevada stood, signifying that the interview was over.
She didn’t take the hint. “So where were you when Ramón Estevan was shot?”
“It’s in my report. I was driving around.”
“Alone?” She didn’t bother to hide the suspicion in her tone.
“Didn’t have a partner with me at the time.”
She lifted both eyebrows as if she thought this information was somehow important. “The murder weapon was never found. True?”
“As far as I know.”
“And you had a gun that was missing—the same caliber that killed Ram6n.”
“That’s right.” He shifted from one leg to the other.
“You’ve never found your gun?”
“Pistol. No, never.”
“But your hunting rifle was in the truck along with Ross McCallum.”
“It wasn’t the murder weapon.”
She ignored that. “You were asked to leave the Sheriff’s Department shortly after the investigation. Why?”
The muscles at the base of his neck knotted up tight. “I resigned, Ms. Nedelesky. Personal reasons.”
“What were they?” The porch was getting dark, and he didn’t bother switching on the light. She wasn’t budging, so he decided to come straight to the point.
“This interview is over.”
“Is it true you railroaded Ross McCallum into prison?”
“He was tried and convicted.”
“With witnesses who weren’t reliable. Witnesses you provided.”
“I said the interview’s over.”
Reluctantly she climbed to her feet and picked up her briefcase. “You know, Mr. Smith, there’s a whole lot more to this story than just the facts on the surface.”
“Is there?”
“Oh, yeah.” She nodded as if agreeing with herself while hiking the strap of her briefcase to her shoulder and searching for her keys. “And I’m going to find out what it is.”
“Do that,” he said.
With a final strobe of that icy smile, Katrina walked back to her car. She swung that tight little butt of hers as if it was something special, but Nevada wasn’t interested. The lady was about as safe to cuddle up to as a viper.
By the time she slid behind the wheel, the sun had slid behind the western hills and darkness was fast encroaching. Long purple shadows swept across the fields and the first few stars winked in the sky. Somewhere far off a coyote howled.
Boots planted wide apart, Nevada folded his arms across his chest and observed Katrina’s aging, rattletrap of a car as she drove off. He told himself not to let her insinuations bother him. She was an opportunist, nothing more. He sensed that she had her own agenda, a personal reason for her interest in Ross McCallum becoming a free man.
So what was it? The taillights of her Escort winked through the trees. His eyes narrowed.
Forget her. She’s not gonna dig up anything damaging.
And yet he couldn’t ignore the fact that she was a loose cannon. Bothered, he walked inside and reached for the phone. He dialed Shelby’s number by rote. Waited. No one answered at Judge Cole’s house.
He didn’t bother leaving a message.
A bad feeling settled over Nevada, partially because of the snoopy reporter, but also because he was worried about Shelby and annoyed that Ned Pritchart had died, taking any information the doctor had about Elizabeth to the grave with him. The fact that Doc Pritchart was dead wasn’t a surprise, and yet it meant it was one less lead to finding their daughter. His child. Shelby’s. It was strange how he’d accepted the fact that he was a father.
And yet, once he finally located Elizabeth—and locate her he would—Nevada Smith didn’t have a clue as to what he’d do. For the first time in his life, he didn’t have a plan. And it bothered him. It bothered him a lot.
 
A million stars were flung across the wide black sky, and a half moon was rising steadily over the hills.
Shelby pushed the button for the sunroof. It opened just as the Cadillac crested the final rise on the road to Bad Luck. The windows were open and a hot Texas wind raced by, tangling her hair, brushing her cheeks. Hot, tired and as frustrated as hell, she saw the lights of town glowing steadily ahead and her fingers held fast to the steering wheel. She didn’t hear the music blasting from the radio, didn’t notice much other than the ribbon of asphalt caught in the beams of her headlights. Two days in San Antonio—for what?
Nothing.
Nada.
Zilch.
Damn it all to hell anyway. She didn’t know much more about Elizabeth’s whereabouts now than she had when she’d returned to Bad Luck in a blaze of self-righteous indignation and motherly determination.
It seemed like an eternity since she’d received the letter and picture; in truth it wasn’t quite a week. So why was it that she felt every day that went by had been wasted, that she’d lost another twenty-four hours when she could have been with her child?
“Where are you?” she asked a daughter she’d never met, but she refused to let a sense of desperation invade her soul. She would find Elizabeth. She had to. She wouldn’t rest until she had.
The lights of Bad Luck loomed nearer. Her stomach soured at the sight of the Well Come Inn glowing in neon splendor on the edge of town.

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