Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(29)

Dr. Doyle must have seen something in her face because she leaned forward. “Any idea, no matter how far-fetched, needs to be considered.”

Emm opened her capacious purse and rummaged around. She’d kept the article, intending to send it to her father, but hadn’t gotten around to mailing it. She pulled it out and offered it to Dr. Doyle.

She read the byline and her gaze narrowed, then shifted to Emm’s face. “Are you offering Mr. Tupperman as a suspect?” She seemed genuinely shocked.

“He fits the criteria. When he’s in town, he frequents some of the same bars as the women who were taken. He knows both Yancy and Jennifer. And he had a bad breakup with Yancy a few months before she disappeared. He certainly has tons of connections in both politics and banking. And he has very expensive tastes. He recently bought a nice condo and an elite sports car. On a reporter’s salary.”

“Hmm . . .” Ms. Doyle ruminated, and then nodded. “I’ll check his financial records. If he’s involved in the procurement or laundering, there will be signs.”

“Quietly,” Emm suggested. “No subpoenas.”

Dr. Doyle sighed heavily. “As discreetly as possible, but there’s only so much I can deduce from the public record.”

Feeling a bit better now they had a tentative plan, Emm signaled for the check. Dr. Doyle accepted with a gracious nod. As they waited, Emm said quietly, “And there’s one other piece of evidence that I think should be given priority.” Emm told her about Yancy’s hemophilia and the new drug she’d found to be most efficacious.

Dr. Doyle nodded. “Yes, Captain Sinclair had already flagged that as a high-priority item on the evidence list. I’ve started searching databases of drug shipments, but this formulation is so new it’s not showing up very much even domestically. Things get a bit more complicated when I try to cross-check specific drugs and who’s prescribing them with Mexican pharmacies. But I’ll keep trying. I do have a few contacts in Mexico’s larger cities.”

Both women stood. Impulsively, Emm hugged her. “Thank you so much. I finally feel the tiniest smidgen of hope. At least I’m doing something productive.”

Dr. Doyle smiled, her severe face taking on a mischievous look. “I suspect you’d be doing ‘something productive’ with or without my help.”

Emm smiled but said nothing.

Shaking her head slightly at Emm’s expression, Dr. Doyle led the way out.





Ross sat at his desk in his home study, reviewing the structural engineer’s proposal. It sounded much more involved than he’d anticipated. The engineer was bringing along a soils guy, who had to take borings at strategic points on the lots based on the survey they’d had updated and a preliminary look at the “as builts,” which Emm had already scanned and sent to them. The final report would take a while even after the survey was complete. The engineer was asking for approval, so Ross gave it by e-mail and copied Emm. He was a bit surprised when she responded almost immediately. She must be back in her hotel room.

An image of how she’d looked in that silken teddy sent a tingle through him. Then he remembered her wetness on his fingertip. His nostrils flared at the memory of the feel and smell. All woman, sheer ambrosia that made him hunger for more. The tingle grew more tangible, and he was so aroused that he reached for his cup of coffee to distract himself. He fumbled it, and it fell into his lap, scalding him. He jumped to his feet, letting the mug fall to the floor, cursing and using the napkin to wipe at his pants.

He was in this predicament when José knocked perfunctorily and came in to fetch the dinner tray. He saw Ross hopping around with a napkin to the front of his pants and the broken cup on the wood floor. A twinkle appeared in his eyes as he bent and calmly picked up the shattered crockery and sopped up the coffee. “Se?or is usually not . . . how you say? Clumsy?”

Ross slammed his napkin down on the desk, only to curse and move it quickly as it dampened some of his papers. He swung it around one finger, eyeing his trusted manservant as if contemplating flinging it at his head.

But when José stood back up and faced him, that twinkle deepening in his mellow brown eyes, Ross blew a bitter sigh and plopped back in his chair. He handed the napkin to José. José neatly folded it and stacked it on top of the dirty dishes and broken crockery.

“My family wants to meet with the historic preservation officer,” Ross said abruptly.

José nodded. “Es bueno, yes? So you can get her out of your . . . hairs?”

“No es bueno,” Ross disagreed grimly. “My aunt and mom will pick up on the . . . tension between me and . . . Ms. Rothschild immediately. Not to mention they won’t be happy at her likely refusal to let us proceed with the development, if she’s right that the building is structurally sound.”

José shrugged. “You don’t need money.”

“It’s not the money, it’s the principle. I came out here partly to get away from interference in my affairs. We have the right to develop the property as we see fit.” Ross scowled as José made a murmuring sound that Ross knew usually meant his disagreement—and an imminent lecture. Ross braced himself. But no one he knew, including the other Sinclairs, including even Chad Foster, cared for him as deeply as this old retainer.

“In my village in Chiapas, we had an old church,” José said mildly. “It was, how you say, broken?”