Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(15)
She took the ire out of his words with one simple sentence. “I know.” She walked back to the bar to set the plans and her purse down. Then she turned to him and said simply, “But I may have information about a key piece of evidence.” Quickly, she explained about the dragon-head pipe. “Couldn’t you, like, test for fingerprints to see if it’s really Yancy’s?”
“Yes, of course, but that won’t help us find her, at least not yet.”
“But at least I’d know.”
The silence was broken when a log fell with a crackle and burst of fire. Ross saw his budget for the quarter in his mind’s eye, already in the red. He was about to tell her no, it was a futile exercise, but the dark desperation in her normally cloudless blue eyes troubled him. “What is this Yancy to you?”
She took a deep breath and then admitted, “My half sister. They took her daughter, my niece, too. That’s how Yancy went missing, looking for her. Her name is Jennifer. They’re both . . . natural blondes and beautiful. Yancy has green eyes and Jennifer’s are blue.”
Few knew what that meant better than Ross. Women like that were highly prized in various rough corners of the globe. He felt a bit sick to his stomach as he visualized which corners, and what two such women were doing right now. Despite his distaste at her now obvious attempts to grease the flow of information with a box of cigars, Ross understood exactly how she felt. He escorted her back to the armchair and, without her asking, mixed them both another martini. He knew this time he’d have to let her have a guest room rather than drive, or stay up with her for at least another few hours, but he sensed the anguish behind her quiet, waiting expression.
She was getting to him in a way he didn’t like, and he knew he should keep any meetings between them impersonal, but a missing sister and niece were anything but. Gratefully, she accepted the drink, as before, concentrating on eating olives with each sip.
“Have you had dinner?” he asked.
Again, she seemed surprised that he’d read her hunger. “Is my stomach growling?”
“No, but you just ate through half a bottle of olives.”
She looked down at the empty little dish and gave an embarrassed shrug that pushed the shawl off her shoulders.
His gaze fell to the hollow of her throat, and to disguise his own hunger, he stood abruptly. “Follow me. Bring your drink.”
And so it was that Captain Ross Sinclair, forced by circumstance and the common courtesy drilled into him since he could walk, played host yet again to a woman who represented all he’d rejected when he’d left Elaine. While he hastily threw together a couple of sandwiches with glasses of milk and homemade cookies for dessert, he asked questions.
Fifteen minutes later, he knew the what, where, when, and how of the case, but as to why . . . ?
She bit into her sandwich, took a few appreciative chews, swallowed, and said, “Well, in Jennifer’s case, she was hanging out with the wrong crowd. Some of them were doing drugs, even heroin, brought in from Mexico. It’s only a theory, but I think one of the cartel’s suppliers saw her at a party or something and staked her out. At least she disappeared two days later . . .”
Sitting across from her at the large granite-topped island in the gourmet kitchen that was his favorite room in the house, Ross nodded and wiped his mouth. “Most of the drug cartels have also started human trafficking. Oftentimes they use the same transportation pipeline or tunnels under the border to move victims out of the US.”
She leaned forward eagerly, her sandwich dropping to her plate, forgotten for the moment. “But if you know that, why can’t you track them?”
“As soon as we find one tunnel, they dig another. Remember, we’re fighting not just a lone kidnapper but an organization with increasingly international ties and almost unlimited funding. We think there may even be some connections between one of the most vicious gangs known here in the US as the Los Lobos cartel and some of the Chechnya extremists.”
Frowning, she nibbled at the edge of a potato chip. “That’s the cartel Curt mentioned in his story. He admitted he didn’t have proof yet, but he said there were indications their web of allies stretches nationwide.”
He smiled bitterly. “Yes, well, his little theories make it that much harder for us to collect concrete evidence, especially when he broadcasts the names of some of our contacts.”
She was nodding, and he realized she must have done her research. He shoved his half-eaten sandwich away. “This dragon pipe . . . if I get you in to view the evidence we’re still collating from that warehouse, do you think you could ID more of their belongings?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Jennifer and Yancy and I went shopping together. A lot.”
Of course they did. Everything about this woman said she had money to burn. But he didn’t let her see his thoughts as he rose and dumped the rest of his food into the trash. When she finished, he took her plate, ignoring her protest that she’d do it herself, and scraped the remnants of her bread crust and chips into the trash, too.
He’d been thinking furiously, and he turned to her with a new suggestion but stopped with it half formed on his lips when he saw her sitting there patiently, hands clasped together on top of the granite. His reluctant respect for her grew. She knew when to push and when not to. He also noted she’d barely touched the martini. While he still felt a bit used, he couldn’t really blame her for being manipulative in hopes of getting information about her sister and niece. And he knew if he turned her over to the system and she tried to go through appropriate channels, she’d get stonewalled. He had visions of her breaking into the evidence warehouse. While he was still getting to know her, it was patently obvious the two of them shared one trait: sheer bullheadedness.