Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(66)
CHAPTER 13
Back in Amarillo, Curt still waffled. “Emm, we can’t do this without help. Neither of us even knows how to shoot.”
Emm leaned across the booth to spear Curt with her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, even if we were both Marine snipers, we’d be idiots to try to shoot our way into a compound that’s probably stocked with every machine gun known to man and plenty of drug dealers willing to use them. This situation requires negotiation and finesse, something we’re both good at.” When he stared at the napkin in his lap, she softened her tone. “Okay, you say you still love Yancy. You say you have no other interest in the cartels except as fodder for your stories and your next book. I need your help in Mexico City to find them, and eventually you’d have to go there anyway, wouldn’t you, to collect information for your book? Why not now? Help me save Yancy and Jennifer. I have nowhere else to turn, at least not to anyone who can move in time.”
Curt finally looked at her. “What, are you going to hold me at gunpoint and force me to order the jet?”
Emm said simply, “No. I’ll sell my car if I have to, but one way or the other, I intend to be in Mexico City by tomorrow night.”
“I can’t talk you out of it, whether I go or not?”
“No.” One word, but rife with determination.
Curt sighed and picked up his cell phone. “I don’t know if they’ll pick us up in Amarillo. We may have to go to Dallas first. We have to deal with our cars, but let’s go get your luggage first.”
Emm leaped to her feet to kiss his cheek. “Lay on.” She almost added, Macduff, but given the outcome of that particular tragedy, she held her tongue.
Ross paced his hallway that night, aware of his mother’s concerned gaze but uncaring. He’d been trying Emm’s cell all day, and she hadn’t returned his calls. He understood her well enough to know that she felt used and discarded after seeing Elaine in his home. And if he’d come across her old lover being included in intimate family events, he’d likely have concluded exactly the same thing. Every instinct in his body demanded that he go to her hotel to explain in person, but he was host of this damn jamboree.
“Ross, please come and eat some of this delicious barbecue,” his mother pleaded from the doorway that led to the outside tables and festivities. LED lanterns manufactured to look like old kerosene ones lit the scene, more gaiety added by strings of colored lights and the country-western band Ross had hired for the evening.
Ross was still angry with her, but he managed stiffly, “In a minute.”
Helplessly, she turned back to the merrymaking.
Ross pulled out his cell phone yet again, but this time he dialed Abigail Doyle.
By the time she was able to get away from an intelligence-gathering meeting led by Chad Foster, Abby was bleary-eyed with tiredness, but she’d promised Ross she’d check on Emm. Ross hadn’t been specific, but if the presentation on the buildings hadn’t gone well, that was reason enough, along with Emm’s fears for her sister and niece, for her to refuse Ross’s calls.
When she arrived at the hotel, Abby went straight to the elevator, not bothering with calling Emm’s cell phone, which Ross had told her Emm had turned off. When she arrived at Emm’s door, it was almost eight o’clock. She knocked firmly. She heard someone stirring inside, and then the door was flung open. A handsome young man in a suit blinked at her. She blinked back, noting two still latched suitcases near the door. “Excuse me, is Emm Rothschild available?”
He looked mystified. “I just checked in. Did you ask at the desk?”
Her heart sinking, Abby apologized and hurried back to the elevator. When she reached the desk, she had a hard time getting the clerk to tell her much until she flashed her business card and said she was there at the behest of Ross Sinclair, and that Ms. Rothschild was a material witness in a case.
The clerk pulled a stapled packet from the checked-out box on her counter and appraised it. “She checked out this morning and fetched her bags, which we’d held for her, several hours ago,” the pretty young brunette clerk said crisply. “She didn’t mention where she was going, and I didn’t ask.” She moved to turn away, shoving the packet back into the box. She didn’t see a small pink memo fall from the packet and curl beneath the desk, nor did Abby.
Abby slapped her hand down on the desktop to forestall her. “Please make a note of my phone number. If you hear from her again or get any messages, please be sure you call me with that information. It’s possible she may be the victim of foul play. And one more question—was she with anyone when she took out her bags?”
The brunette hesitated, then nodded. “Some tall blond guy. I’ve seen him before. I think he’s a reporter. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” She turned back to her work. Abby had already turned away, almost running. In the meeting she’d just conducted with the heads of the various agencies involved, she’d shared her latest data, painstakingly assembled by various informants and intelligence sources. The evidence was not in Curt Tupperman’s favor. In fact, it had been so glaringly incriminating—including many calls between his cell phone and Brett Umarov’s, a man Curt claimed not to know, and many more deposits going back over two years, totaling over a million dollars—that Chad had convinced the Texas attorney general to issue a warrant to bring Curt in for questioning. Given the way Curt traveled the state, they needed statewide jurisdiction. The authorities were looking for him now.