Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(36)

“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 Mú?ez 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.”