Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(49)

I step into Rosalia’s—which I’ve determined is not only the least expensive restaurant in town but also the best—and I spot Alex Hartley, back from El Paso, sitting alone and reading an issue of Texas Football. I planned to push off a second interview with him until Ariana’s situation is resolved, but seeing him here, I can’t help myself.

I sit down across from him without invitation.

“Ranger,” he says, looking uncomfortable.

“You lied to me,” I say, loud enough for other patrons to hear. “Either you cut the bullshit or I’m going to arrest your ass right here.” I lean in closer to him. “You’re worried about your reputation in this town. When I walk you down Main Street in handcuffs, what do you think that will do to your reputation?”

“Okay,” he says, putting his hands up. “I’m sorry.” He looks around at all the eyes on us. “Can we go outside?”

Out in bright sunlight, with the heat coming up off the blacktop parking lot, I say, “You’ve got erectile dysfunction. You didn’t want people to know, so Susan was nice enough to act like an on-again, off-again girlfriend. Right?”

“I’ve got diabetes,” he says. “Pretty bad. Most people don’t even know that.”

“You were the one who reported McCormack’s trucks going through the open space. Why did you do that?”

“I noticed them is all. Why? Does that have something to do with her death?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” I say.

He stares off down the street. A car goes by and the driver waves to him. That’s how it is for the football coach in a Texas town. Everyone knows you.

“Look,” he says, contrite. “I’m sorry I wasn’t forthcoming. I didn’t have anything to do with Susan’s death, so I didn’t figure it would hurt to lie about my personal details. I swear to God.”

The irony isn’t lost on me that earlier this morning I was asking someone devoted to the truth to lie and now I’m asking someone comfortable with lying to finally tell the truth.

I have a flash of memory from when I saw him outside Lobo Lizard the night I played there with Walt and Dale.

“What were you doing that night at Lobo Lizard?” I say. “I came outside and you and that other fella looked like you’d been caught with your hands in the cookie jar.”

He lets out a long exhale, as if resigning himself to honesty.

“I was buying pot.”

“Pot?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I buy marijuana for my diabetes. It helps with the pain. I’ve got a prescription, but there aren’t any dispensaries around here.”

He tells me he doesn’t like to use it at his house. There’s no telling who might stop by—assistant coaches, his principal, some of his players—and he doesn’t want anyone thinking he’s a stoner getting high all the time. He drives out into the open space and uses his vape pen in solitude. That’s when he spotted McCormack’s trucks, which he didn’t think were supposed to drive through there, and he mentioned it in passing to Susan.

I could arrest him for his admission of buying marijuana—as well as obstructing justice by lying to me—but I’ve got bigger problems on my plate. And what’s he really guilty of? Worrying too much about what people think of him.

“The last guy to pretend he had a relationship with Susan Snyder ended up dead,” I say to him. “So don’t go keeping any more secrets from me.”

I head back toward the restaurant, but before I make it through the door, I get a call from Liz at the dispatch desk.

“Come on back. Chief says he’s got the lab results.”

I climb into my truck. Before starting the engine, I send two text messages from my burner phone. One to Tom Aaron. One to Ariana Delgado. With those two texts, I’m now breaking the law.

It’s official.

I’m an outlaw.

Even if no one knows it yet.





Chapter 64



I WALK INTO his office without a word. He doesn’t tell me the results, just hands the papers to me so I can see for myself. I scan the reports without sitting down.

There’s no equivocation about what the tests revealed, nothing inconclusive.

Everything points to Ariana.

The 30-06 round that passed through Skip Barnes’s head was fired from Ariana’s M1 Garand. The hair strand I took from the top of the oil derrick is also a genetic match for Ariana. With her fingerprints on the shell casing, that makes three significant pieces of forensic evidence that all point to Ariana as the shooter who killed Skip Barnes.

I set the papers down on Harris’s desk. He stares at me. I know he’s ready for me to argue. He’s known since we found the gun that this moment would come, and I’d argue until I was blue in the face that this is a setup.

Instead, I take a different tactic.

“Do you really think she did it?” I say, my voice as calm and submissive as I can make it.

The tension in his posture seems to lessen.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But what would you do if this wasn’t Ariana? If this was someone you didn’t know?”

I act like I’m thinking about his question. I sit down in the chair across from his desk, and he does the same on the other side.