Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(26)
“Yancy has a record. Disorderly conduct, possession, even a shoplifting charge when she was younger,” Emm pointed out. “It’s possible they took samples on her last arrest.”
Sinclair nodded. “I know, it’s in her file. If we get any matches, we’ll know at least where she went across, but this semi was searched just a month ago, long after she and your niece disappeared.”
“And were you able to trace ethnicity on any of the . . . hair fibers?” Emm hated the word merchandise, and victim was equally stark. “I know DNA tracing has advanced hugely in the last five to ten years.”
Sinclair nodded. “We found seven fibers, two of one vic, the other five across the spectrum in ethnicity: Irish, English, Scandinavian, American Indian, Hispanic, Jewish.”
“In other words, the hairs could belong to just about anyone in the US,” Emm said.
Sinclair nodded grimly.
Curt asked, “Were you able to trace when and where the driver came across the first time?”
“Of course. He checked out with a full load of manufacturing equipment for a new factory in Sinaloa. The agents who cleared him vaguely recalled the vehicle and driver. Both said they heard zip from the cargo bay, smelled nothing, and the dogs didn’t alert anyone.” Sinclair fiddled with his napkin in a nervous way uncharacteristic of him, which Emm realized spoke volumes about his state of mind. “Tests indicated the occupants of that cavity were so drugged they were undoubtedly comatose, so they couldn’t make a sound. And any scent the dogs might have picked up on was disguised by cans of paint and chemicals, part of the shipment. It was also the type of truck with built-in vent fans that are on continuously.”
Emm pictured a stifling cargo hold, pitch black, with barely enough air to breathe, and women—no, girls—bouncing against one another, the hell of where they were still better than the hell of where they were headed. She looked down to disguise her tears as she thought of what Yancy and Jennifer must have done in the last year to survive. If they survived . . .
Sinclair’s hand on top of hers was comforting in a way she couldn’t think about right now, but she knew she needed a clear head, so she equally gently withdrew her hand from his. Again, Curt looked curiously between them.
“All right, I suggest we all take a week to work the case and then see where we are,” Emm proposed.
Sinclair just looked at her, but she knew him well enough by now to read disapproval behind that opaque stare.
“I’m not doing anything but research. Heck, it’s no different from what I do in my job, or what I had to do to get my PhD.” When he still looked at her, she snapped, “If you want to stop me, there’s only one way.” She crossed her wrists over the table in front of him.
“Don’t tempt me. A few weeks in lockup would do you good.” He stood so quickly the table leg scraped on the floor, but he only picked up his hat and pinned her with a gaze that was very clear now, and pure threat. “There’s a reckoning coming between the two of us, whether either of us likes it or not. Watch your step, because Rangers are pretty touchy about people interfering in their investigations.” Smashing his black hat on his head, Sinclair stalked out of the bar.
This time, Curt ignored her don’t-ask signal. “Why don’t the two of you get a room and get that part of this equation settled?”
Emm glared at him, tossing down enough cash to cover the tab. In another measure of Sinclair’s unusual behavior, she realized he’d forgotten to pay for his drink. “Don’t be crude.”
“Hey, babe, I’m a reporter. I see what I see. And I’ve never seen Ross Sinclair so off balance because of a woman.”
Emm stood and grabbed her car keys. “It’s not me, it’s the case.” She stalked out, trying to ignore the scornful sound he made in her wake.
Still, on the short drive back to her hotel, she had to ask herself: Was it possible she confused Ross Sinclair as much as he intimidated her?
Ross had intended to go back to the office, but he was so flustered when he walked out that he decided to go home instead. He had plenty of files to read there. On the drive to his ranch, he kept remembering the tremor in Emm’s full mouth, the shaking of her small, warm hand as he covered it. He couldn’t question her terror for her sister and niece, but on the rare occasion when she let her guard slip, she showed a feminine vulnerability that reached deep inside him. And, instinctively, he’d tried to comfort her . . . He pulled into his driveway, still deep in thought, but a big grin stretched his face when he saw the new SUV parked in front of his house.
He leaped out of his own unmarked SUV and ran inside, bellowing, “Where’s my boy?” as he went.
Chad Foster poked his head out of the den. “So he’s yours now, huh? Okay, I’ll have you come give him his two a.m. feeding tonight.”
Ross held his arms out for the curious and alert blue bundle. Chad tilted his hat back to proudly watch two of his favorite people in the world eye each other. Trey junior had his brother Trey’s blue eyes and at least some of Trey’s sense of mischief: He blew a raspberry that spattered Ross right in the face. Ross just used a piece of blanket to wipe his cheek and grinned like an idiot down at the infant. “He gets bigger every time I see him.”
“That’s common with such exotics as pronghorn antelope and newborn boys,” Jasmine teased, stepping up to kiss Ross’s other cheek. She eyed the practiced way he supported the baby’s head on one arm, folding the blanket tighter with the other hand. “You’re very good at that. You really need your own.”