Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(30)
“Dilapidated.”
“But the old women of the village, they still prayed at the altar, and lit candles for loved ones even when the alcalde lectured them that it was not safe. And he began asking for funds from the governor of Chiapas to tear it down. But the women said it still lived with the spirits of their dead. When the men came to tear it down, they joined hands in front to stop them. The federales came, and two of the old women were hurt.” José picked up the tray and headed for the door.
Ross knew his chain was being yanked, but he still had to know. “Dammit, what happened?”
José stopped at the door and turned to face his boss. “They tore the church down, and one of the old women died. A year later, a gas leak in the new church reached the candles as the alcalde was praying. They only found pieces of his body.” José steadied the tray again. “With no church as its center, the village died with the old women. Only a few paisanos live there now, and they say they hear the whispers of the dead every night where the old church stood.”
“Is this when you crossed the border into the United States?”
“Sí, a few months later.”
Ross waited, but José was silent, obviously reflecting. The sparkle had faded from his eyes, leaving them somber.
Ross demanded, “Okay, you old buzzard, spit it out. Your little stories always have a moral. You should have been named Aesop.”
“Even in Mexico City, one of the largest cities in the world, it is the old buildings that are the heart of the city,” José said simply. “It is so easy in this country to tear things down . . . but do we give up a little of our spirit with every broken brick?” He exited.
For the dozenth time, Ross reflected that José was a wise old soul for a man in his early sixties. What Jose said could be extrapolated to include the Sinclair buildings, but they were hardly the center of Amarillo, and they certainly weren’t holy. Besides, the decision wasn’t just his. . . . He turned to the catering quote he had for the reunion , wishing he could turn away from his sexual urges as easily. He really had to give that widow he sometimes “dated” a call. . . .
When she got back to her hotel room and checked her e-mail, Emm was glad to see the message from Burt, the structural engineer. She reviewed his proposal, noted he’d copied Sinclair, and e-mailed both of them back that two days from now would be fine to do the examination, provided Ross Sinclair approved the time and materials listed on the proposal. Emm was surprised to see that confirmation had come almost immediately from Ross.
Because she was pretty sure he didn’t do personal e-mails at work, she figured he must be at his ranch computer. She tried to envision him, lord of his domain in that big, lonely house, feeling a pang of longing to fill it with their mutual laughter. She squelched the impulse, logging off her computer and shutting it down. Just business, she told herself. Two days to the actual survey, probably about a week to get the results, perhaps another day to write her own findings and present them to the family. By then, she’d heard, much of the Sinclair family would be in Amarillo at their annual reunion . She made a mental note to request an actual time slot from Ross, as he’d already suggested she speak to all of them.
As she slipped into her teddy, yawning, she reflected that she’d be back in Baltimore within a couple of weeks. She waited for a sense of relief, but it didn’t come. West Texas had grown on her. The hot spring days yielding to soft nights in the sixties, the flat prairies offset by red outcroppings. The glorious sunsets, colors deeper and more intense than any she was accustomed to because of the residual dust in the air. Ross had recommended she take a guided tour of Palo Duro Canyon before she left, and she just might do that. Usually after a full day like this one, she’d fall asleep quickly, but this time she tossed and turned, finally snapping on the TV, but she barely listened to the late-night talk show.
The true source of her restlessness stood a bit over six feet in custom cowboy boots and an expensive Stetson. Once she left here she’d likely never see Ross Sinclair again, and the knowledge haunted her.
Idiot! she scorned herself. You just landed the job you’ve been dreaming about since you were a child and you go and get yourself enamored of a Texas lawman, one who’s never been married to boot. She had to smile at her own accidental choice of words, but the smile faded quickly as another, far less pleasurable image, came to mind.
Yancy . . . Jennifer. She couldn’t get the thought out of her head that both of them were either dead or wished they were.... If she left here, where the trail was most likely to lead across the border, she’d probably never see them again either. Two victims lost in one of the most heinous and yet hardest to solve crimes in the entire world. The cartels were, despite their brutality, business enterprises. They operated on a risk-reward basis, like every other business, and sex trafficking was high reward and low risk. Not only were the victims hard to trace but the revenue stream the women produced lasted for years.
Knowing how Yancy would struggle against such debasement, Emm closed her eyes and whispered yet another fervent prayer that the information sharing she was doing with Dr. Doyle and Ross would yield a hot lead. And Curt? Emm frowned and beat her pillow. Surely her suspicions were wrong. She’d been his friend for over five years and knew him for a gifted writer with an instinctive nose for news. Yet she couldn’t forget that he drove a Porsche 911 Carrera and lived in a penthouse in one of the nicest parts of San Antonio. And she knew for a fact that, like most dailies, the San Antonio paper for which he wrote most often struggled with declining circulation and dwindling ad revenue, and had been forced to lay off staff and even cut salaries and perks.