Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(12)
Her only response was to take a Swiss Army knife with every imaginable attachment from her purse. She carefully levered up the cracking linoleum near the wall to reveal wood flooring beneath. The wood flooring was warped.
“That’s what I thought.” She stood and looked up. Near the wall joist was an ugly brown stain in the ceiling. “You have a leak. Must be a pretty bad one to come down two floors. We’ll have to get confirmation from a structural engineer, but I don’t think this is structural. The wood flooring has bowed beneath from the moisture. Fix the leak and the floor and you should be fine.”
He glared at her. She smiled, sweeping her hand in front of her. “After you. Let’s see the roof. We’ll have to move carefully if there’s a leak, but I know what to look for.”
She was noncommittal for the rest of the tour. The survey of the Hoover building, which had a larger floor plan but was only three stories, went equally quickly. When she was finished, she dusted off her pants, only leaving more marks from her dirty hands. She shoved her loosened hair, which she’d swept back with an elegant clip, away from her cheek as once again they met on the sidewalk. She was totally unaware she’d left a streak of dirt on her cheek. She wondered why he kept looking at her face that way, eyeing her cheek, then her mouth.
This time he glanced at his watch. “I have to go. I have a two thirty meeting.”
“That’s fine. I need to see the ‘as builts,’ which I believe you told me you have at home. In the meantime, I suggest you let me bring in an historic resources expert to confirm my findings before I write an official report. It will probably cost around ten thousand dollars, but if I’m wrong, it may get you your development. But I don’t think I’m wrong. Both buildings were very well constructed for their time, and I saw no evidence of foundation damage. Everything you noted to me in your e-mail is easily fixed and would be addressed in any complete renovation.”
“I bet you’re never wrong.”
She lifted her chin at his sarcasm. “All the time. But seldom in my work. As far as men go . . .” She shrugged.
He put those mirrored shades over his darkening eyes, but not quickly enough. She saw something flash that reminded her of a shark circling deep blue seas. Back at ya, lady. While she was debating whether she’d just been insulted, he finished curtly, “I’ll have the ‘as builts’ for you later this evening at my house. Eight?”
She nodded and watched him walk away. March, really. He obviously wasn’t happy with her review, but she couldn’t help that. She’d given him her honest opinion, but, like she’d said, she could be wrong.
Back at the hotel, she was appalled when she saw the dirty streak on her face. No wonder he’d stared at her so strangely. She changed her clothes and took a quick shower. Then, more depressed than exhausted, she reclined on the bed and opened the paper she’d picked up yesterday but hadn’t read. She stiffened at the blaring headline: “Texas Rangers lead hunt for human trafficking ring ending in El Paso.” She read the rest of the article so quickly, she didn’t blink. It described how the authorities were one step behind the notorious Los Lobos cartel thought to be behind the nationwide kidnapping of many missing persons, mostly young women. The article further identified the FBI Agent in Charge, Rosemary Reed, and Captain Ross Sinclair, Company C of the Texas Rangers, West Texas division, as heading the investigation. The reporter didn’t come out and say it, but the implication was that both Ross and the FBI agent were incompetent because there were no strong leads even after months of investigation. The article went on to name a couple of operatives who had recently been wounded in a border skirmish with the cartel.
A warehouse filled with feminine goods, apparently hastily abandoned, had been discovered in Amarillo, the reason the authorities believed the city must be a stop on the pipeline. The article gave a partial list of items. She read it carefully, stiffening at one line: “A green dragon-shaped marijuana pipe, along with other drug paraphernalia.”
Yancy had a pipe just like that, and she always kept it in her purse. An old boyfriend had it custom made for her, and she said her weed never tasted the same without it.
When she finished the article, Emm went to toss the paper aside. As she did so, her eyes finally focused on the reporter’s name: Curt Tupperman. She froze. Curt? She knew him, not just slightly but well, because he was one of Yancy’s old boyfriends. She’d introduced them after she met him at school, and at first Yancy had liked him, but after a few months, as usual, she’d lost interest. He’d been working for the Baltimore paper, but when he went freelance about a year ago he’d moved home to San Antonio, though he roamed nationwide pursuing stories. She’d have to call him, press him for details.
She rubbed her forehead as she debated how best to open her own unofficial investigation. She’d only be here a few weeks, so she didn’t have a lot of time. Logically, she needed to see that pipe; it was her first concrete link to Yancy. If she just told Ross who she was, that she’d filed the missing persons reports on both Jennifer and her mother, would he let her see the evidence? She was sure there must be rules against that sort of thing, and he was none too happy with her at the moment.
So how? Legal or illegal, there had to be a way . . . and heck, he was already pissed at her, so what did she have to lose?
CHAPTER 3