Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(39)
He slapped her rear hard enough to leave an imprint. “Until tonight, mujer.” And with a drug lord’s version of tenderness lingering in the room, filling Yancy’s nose with his expensive cologne, he left, whistling a popular Mexican pop tune.
All was right with his world, the bastard.
The minute he was gone, Yancy took the pillow he’d slept on and used it for a punching bag. She beat it repeatedly, wishing it were his face. Then, exhausted, she resolved to use this trip into the city to set up a route for their escape. She’d have to be very careful because Gustav was a suspicious man, and the armed guards always sent to escort her were very difficult to ditch. But she didn’t have much choice; the fiesta was in five days.
The house would be full of guests and everyone would be occupied. It was their best, perhaps their only, chance to escape. As she drifted off to sleep, she remembered Jesús was supposed to come by later today to drop off the money from his last shipment. Arturo had asked her to meet him, apparently trusting her to take the huge greenback bag. He knew she wouldn’t dare take any of the money because he also knew the exact amount he was due.
Still, as her eyes fluttered closed, a small smile stretched her lovely mouth. Arturo didn’t know everything. Or that of late, Jesús’s loyalty was suspect and centered more on Arturo’s mistress than Los Lobos . . .
Then, exhausted from lack of sleep and her spent emotions, she slept.
While Yancy was plotting an escape, Emm was trying to figure out how she could sneak into Abigail’s hotel room. The survey was scheduled for tomorrow morning, a Monday, and she figured within a week or so she’d be finished and on her way back to Baltimore. If she was going to find out anything that might help break open the case, she didn’t have much time left. She knew what she was contemplating was potentially a felony, but Sinclair clammed up any time she brought up Yancy and Jennifer, and Abigail had also grown evasive when she met her for drinks or for lunch.
She also intended to invite Curt to dinner tomorrow after the survey. He was staying around Amarillo for now, ostensibly to research his next book, coincidentally or not on modern human slavery in Texas. Abigail had been evasive when she’d asked point-blank if she’d pursued an investigation of his finances, and Emm was resolved to pump him for information herself. She’d always trusted her instincts and they were clamoring an alarm right now. Curt Tupperman was somehow involved in all of this. He was the only clear Baltimore/Amarillo connection, and even for a reporter, he knew a lot about what was going on.
She left a message on Curt’s cell phone voice mail and then, her expression grim, powered on her laptop and went to YouTube, Googling “how to pick locks.” Abigail had told her she was spending all day today in the library, so time was a’wastin’, as they said here.
In his home office, Ross Sinclair was also having trouble concentrating. All the logistical details of the reunion had come together, and the bills were even more astronomical than usual. He eyed the three-page RSVP list, wondering who some of these people were, but he’d never complained when various family members brought guests. He’d had sprawling guesthouses built just down the hill behind his home for this very purpose, and normally, he was glad of the company. Still, the list grew every year, and Ross wasn’t sure he even enjoyed the events anymore. But he eyed the schedule he’d compiled in an Excel spread sheet and typed “historic analysis of our buildings by Emm” in one of the only blank slots lined up for next weekend, shortly after everyone arrived. He’d run the time past Emm to be sure, but he was confident she’d want to state her case and save the buildings.
A perfunctory knock came at the door, and José entered with his dinner tray. Ross sighed and pushed back from his desk. “I need a break—why don’t you join me in the kitchen?”
Nodding, José carried the tray back out.
He arranged the dishes in the middle of the granite island with bar stools, Ross’s preferred place to eat. His movements were quick, efficient, for they shared meals together often. In the right time and place, Ross had little use for social restrictions.
He ate a couple of bites of the huge sub sandwich José had made, but his stomach was tied in knots. He shoved the plate back, despite its appetizing array of fresh veggies and homemade ranch dip along with a pasta salad. José had spent years learning to cook yanqui, as he called it, and everything he turned out was delicious. Ross just wasn’t hungry. Feeling antsy, he stood to pace.
José systematically demolished his own food. Very little ever put him off his feed, and he had the rotund form to prove it. With his lugubrious countenance, which incongruously stretched often into humor, he was also a walking contradiction of many parts that Ross cherished, jumbled as they were.
Uneducated but wise.
Sharp sense of humor but tinged by melancholy.
Missing his home in Mexico, but staying in Texas with the man he trusted most.
He felt José’s dark eyes following him, but when he whirled to face that somber gaze, José merely took a bigger bite of his pasta salad. He chewed slowly and carefully, but Ross knew he was stewing over something when he went so quiet.
“Spit it out. Call me an idiot, why don’t you? Chad pretty much has already.”
José shrugged. “If you know this, I do not need to state the, how you say . . .”