Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(12)
The woman who died was also a member of the town council.
Before I question them about the dead woman, I need to gather my own facts. Besides, I don’t want Ariana—who single-handedly brought me here—to think I’m going behind her back. I don’t want to do anything to piss her off.
At least not yet.
One of the most difficult tasks of being a Ranger is determining how you fit into any particular investigation. As we range across the state, every place is a little different. Sometimes you’ll co-lead an investigation with a local detective. Sometimes they want you to pretty much take over. I find it best to proceed with a little bit of caution until I get a sense of what they need and what I can do.
As we’re finishing dinner, Troy says, “I’m sorry Carson couldn’t come out to meet you, but he’s out of town on business.”
Who is Carson? I think.
“Mr. McCormack,” Harris says, as if to clarify.
I really do need to do some homework about this town and this case.
I say good night to the men and thank them for their hospitality. I tell the chief that I’ll see him tomorrow. Then I climb into my truck and drive two blocks down the street to the empty motel. I choose the room farthest from the road.
I pull off my boots and stretch out on the bed. When people think of the life of a Texas Ranger, they probably don’t think of the lonely nights in crappy motels.
I pick up the John Grisham novel I brought and try to clear my head by reading. But something is bothering me, something I saw in town, so I put my boots back on and climb into my truck. I drive up and down Main Street, looking more closely at the signage.
McCORMACK COMMUNITY PARK, reads a sign in the park next to the library. The football and baseball fields are called McCormack Sports Complex. The urgent care is housed in the McCormack Medical Center.
His name is everywhere, but not on any actual business. There’s no McCormack’s Garage, no McCormack Café. Only community-type properties, the kind that might not get built without sizable donations.
Who the hell is this Carson McCormack?
Chapter 15
I GET MY answer when I wake up in the morning. There’s a copy of the Rio Lobo Record on the welcome mat. I sit on the porch in front of the room and drink a cup of instant coffee and flip through the paper.
The main story—under the byline of Tom Aaron—is about a planned addition for the library, passed unanimously at yesterday’s town council meeting. Apparently this was a pet project of Susan Snyder’s, and Fred Meikle is quoted as saying that the new wing should be called the Susan Snyder Children’s Library in her honor.
There’s another small story from the meeting, below the fold, that mentions Carson McCormack, owner of McCormack Oil. That’s why everything in town is named after him. He’s an oil baron—probably the richest guy in town, and the biggest community fundraising donor.
Tom Aaron’s article states that McCormack asked the town council for an easement to drive his oil tanker trucks through the southern part of the town’s jurisdiction. There was no opposition from the public, and the decision passed unanimously as well. The town council probably figured they owed it to the guy.
After skimming through the paper, I drive, not walk, over to the police station, in case I need my truck later. I arrive promptly at eight o’clock. Ariana’s Harley-Davidson Sportster is already there. When I enter the lobby, she comes out to meet me, wearing jeans and a T-shirt like she was the day before—and looking just as beautiful.
Ariana escorts me through the station and introduces me to everyone on duty.
Liz, a fifty-something woman who works at the dispatch terminal and has a voice like a chain smoker, seems very excited to meet me. She says she heard Willow’s song on the radio and loved it.
“I hope y’all don’t break up,” she says, giving me a wink. “But if you do, I’m single. You know where to find me.”
When it comes to the patrol officers, however, the three who are on duty greet me with the same disdain Harris did the night before. The message is clear: We don’t need you here.
I can see Harris through the glass window of his office. He’s on the telephone, with his boots kicked up on his desk.
There’s not much to the police station: a single jail cell, a small conference room, a dispatch terminal, and an evidence room that’s not much bigger than a closet. The small supply room houses everything from road flares and traffic cones to a gun safe and bulletproof vests. Ariana’s desk is wedged into a corner next to a kitchenette area with a microwave, mini fridge, and coffeepot.
The jail cell holds prisoners overnight. Holds longer than twenty-four hours are taken to the sheriff’s office in the county seat. That’s where all the court proceedings happen, even for misdemeanors.
The department consists of Harris, Ariana, and a handful of patrol officers who work overlapping shifts so at least one person is on the clock from five a.m. to midnight. After midnight, I’m told, all calls go through to the county sheriff’s office.
Ariana and I head to the conference room, where we can talk privately about the case. Before we close the door, I see across the station that another private conversation—about me—is about to get under way. The three patrol officers are stealing glances my way as they enter Harris’s office. I shake it off. I’m here to do a job, and I aim to do it right, regardless of whether I’m wanted or not.