Bittersweet (20 page)

“I wonder if she went back to Three Gates,” I said worriedly. If she had, would her husband be able to persuade her to stay with him? Would he—

Mack's cell phone chirped, and she fished it out of her jeans pocket. “Sorry about this,” she said, pushing her chair back. “I'm on call this evening, so I can't turn my phone off. I need to answer.” A few moments later, she returned to the table. “I'm afraid I have to leave,” she said to Leatha. “A property owner who lives south on 187 just phoned to say that he discovered blood and drag marks across a corner of his field. He followed the trail and found a dead doe, just the backstrap taken. Whoever did it was probably shooting from the road—jacklighting, most likely.”

“Jerk,” McQuaid growled. “But he's long gone. You don't have much of a chance of getting him.”

Mack smiled tightly. “You never can tell. I'll ask around. Maybe a neighbor saw a vehicle. Folks don't like people who do this kind of thing. Hunters especially hate it. They want the guys caught and fined—and named in the local newspaper and on the Internet, for everybody to see.” She grinned ruefully. “Publishing names turns out to have a big impact on behavior.”

I followed Mack out of the room. While she was putting on her jacket, I said, “I'm sorry you have to leave, Mack. Can we get together before I go back to Pecan Springs? I'd like to catch up on your life.” I grinned. “Not your game warden life. Your
other
life. You know. The personal stuff.”

“Oh, that.” Mack's smile brightened, and a flush rose on her cheeks. “Actually, I might have something interesting to tell you.”

“You've met somebody?” Mack had been through a painful time during the last months she was living in Pecan Springs—painful because her husband had been cheating on her and it had taken her a while to catch on. She was a career-first woman who cared deeply about her work and—I suspected—put it first, which doesn't sit well with a lot of guys. She needed somebody who understood her commitment and was willing to support it.

She zipped up her jacket, looking bemused. “Yeah, believe it or not. He's a deputy sheriff. He fixed my truck this morning—a problem with a vacuum hose. I'm thinking that we might actually have a few things in common.” She smiled wistfully. “Maybe—just maybe.”

“I want to hear more about that guy,” I said, thinking that if anybody could understand about the demands of her work, it would be a fellow officer. “Tell you what. If my planting job doesn't take all morning, I'll try
to stop by the rodeo grounds and see what's up with that drone. As I said, I'm interested in their use—from a privacy point of view.”

Privacy has always been a hot-button issue with me. It used to come up regularly in my criminal defense work, and it's been a concern in my personal life, as well. But drones have raised privacy questions to a whole other level. I had recently happened to talk over some of the issues with a lawyer friend who works with the American Civil Liberties Union. She pointed out that the technology is developing so fast that pretty soon, none of us will have any secrets. For instance, she told me about a tiny drone specifically developed for stealth surveillance. It's smaller than a sparrow, weighs less than a AA battery, and can be parked in the air right outside your second-floor bedroom window. The Federal Aviation Administration is changing airspace rules to make it easier for law enforcement officers to use these little flying marvels, but the new rules don't address privacy protections, and the ACLU is raising plenty of questions. When can drones be used? Can they be deployed without a warrant? How long should the images be kept, and who should have access to them? Can the images be subpoenaed for use in court?

“Works for me,” Mack said, fishing in her pocket for a card. “Here's my number. If we miss each other in the morning, give me a call and we'll reschedule.”

We said good night, and I went to help Leatha put the dishes in the dishwasher and clean up the kitchen. Then the kids left their game to join us in the living room, and McQuaid and I snuggled together on the sofa to watch the Texas Longhorns play to a tied 7–7 fourth-quarter score against Texas Tech.

“Like kissing your sister,” McQuaid grumbled, then sat on the edge of his seat until the Tech quarterback threw an interception and Texas ran
the ball back for a touchdown, putting a perfectly satisfactory end to a quiet Thanksgiving evening and—considering Sam's successful surgery—a happy Thanksgiving Day.

Except that Sue Ellen hadn't gotten back by the time McQuaid and I went to bed. As I fell asleep, I couldn't help wondering uneasily where she had gone and why, and hoping that she was
okay.

Mack woke up early on Friday morning with the bright sun streaming across her face, Molly sprawled across her feet, and Mrs. Cook's rooster crowing lustily under her window. She smiled to herself as she got up and dressed in jeans, a plaid blouse, and a wooly red crewneck sweater. She had a couple of nice things to smile about, too, the first of which was Ethan's phone message, waiting for her on her answering machine when she got home.

“Hey, Mack,” he'd said. “Just want you to know that I've been thinking about you. Hope you're having a great Thanksgiving dinner and that you don't have to go out on call. Or if you do, that you nail the bad guy.” There was a moment's silence, then his voice warmed. “I was just thinking about those ‘exceptional circumstances.' I'd like to give it another try, just to be sure I'm right.” She could picture the grin, wide and quick, spreading across his rugged face. “I'll phone you again. Let's see what we can put together.”

The other thing she had to smile about was last night's investigation. It had been easier and more successful than she had any right to hope. As it turned out, she didn't need to do a neighborhood canvass, for even though the shooter was long gone (as Mike McQuaid had said), he had
left a valuable clue behind. When Mack and the property owner went to take a look at the dead deer, she discovered something lying in the loose dirt beneath the animal, where the shooter had accidentally dropped it in his hurry to take the best of the meat and make a getaway. His cell phone.

She had picked it up and a moment later was talking to the phone's owner, a twenty-three-year-old man who lived on the outskirts of Utopia, not far from Mack's house. He was delighted to learn that his missing phone had been found—until he opened his front door a little later and was confronted by a game warden, phone in hand, who told him where she had found it. And began asking questions.

At first, and with a great deal of extravagant drama, he claimed that his phone had been stolen from him while he'd been at a party. But when Mack pressed him for the location of the party and the name of the host, he began changing his story. Come to think of it, his phone wasn't actually stolen, he'd loaned it to a friend. No, he hadn't loaned it to the friend, he'd gone riding with
the friend, and it was the friend who had actually shot the deer. Finally, asked to name the friend, he confessed to shooting the deer himself, from the road, and produced the gun he had used. Mack issued a handful of citations, including hunting without a valid permit, hunting from a vehicle, hunting on a public road, hunting with an artificial light, and failing to retrieve the animal or keep it in an edible condition. As she handed him the sheaf of copies, she thought with satisfaction that—between the fines and the jail time—this was going to be one expensive lesson. She hoped the young man would learn it, and pass along the warning to his buddies.

Now, as she poured coffee, made toast, and nuked a couple of Mrs.
Cook's fresh eggs for breakfast, she thought ahead to the day. She had the morning off, which was why she was wearing civvies. But she needed to call Angie Donaldson and see about getting a look at Doc Masters' billing records, so she could locate the ranch where the vet had seen those fawns. She had agreed to show up at the rodeo grounds at ten to get a look at the drone. And she was on duty in the afternoon and evening. But maybe Ethan would phone and they could—

As if she had conjured it, the phone rang. When she picked up, it was Ethan. “Hey,” she said, with pleasure.

“Hey, you.” There was that warmth again. She could feel it in her bones, spreading like a honey-sweet glow. She liked it that he went straight to the point, without a lot of preliminary chitchat. “Looks like it's going to be a pretty day. I was thinking that maybe you and Cheyenne and me and Buddy could drive out to my friend's ranch later today and go riding. Maybe trailer separately and meet out there?”

“Can't,” she said regretfully. “I'm on duty this afternoon. But I'd love to do it—how about Sunday instead?” Somebody else might enjoy playing hard-to-get, but that had never been her style.

He sighed. “Sorry. I'm on duty this weekend. What's your next free day after that?”

“Tuesday, I think.” She checked the calendar on the wall. “Yeah, Tuesday.”

“That's good for me, too,” he said. “Eleven, say? That would give us plenty of good riding time.” He hesitated, adding tentatively, “And maybe we could get burgers at the café after, depending on how we feel.” He chuckled. “And if one of us doesn't get called out.”

“Works for me,” she said, reaching for a pad and pencil. “Directions?”
She jotted them down quickly. “Thanks. Anything new on Doc Masters' murder?”

“Not that I've heard,” Ethan said. He paused, and added, “You found out anything more about those tattooed fawns you mentioned? You still following up on that?”

“Some. But not enough to get me the name, if that's what you're asking,” Mack said.

“That's what I'm asking.” He paused. “If you get a name, would you pass it along to me?”

“I could,” she replied cautiously. “As long as you remember that deer are my business. I need to be involved in whatever goes down.” She paused. “I'm serious, Ethan. Is it a deal?”

“It's a deal as far as I'm concerned,” he said. “But you know I don't call all the shots in this county.”

“I know. But if I pick up something and you're in on it, I expect to be in on it, too.”

“Works for me.” There was a smile in his voice. “Buddy Holly and I are looking forward to Tuesday.” He hummed something that sounded vaguely like “I'm Gonna Love You Too,” and hung up.

Mack laughed. She didn't think anybody remembered that song these days. She swung into the refrain to “I'm Gonna Love You Too” and danced a little jig. And then, noticing that Molly was regarding her with a worried frown, picked up the dog's forelegs and they danced around the kitchen together. And then she sat down on the floor and gathered Molly into her arms and gave her a huge hug.

“Maybe?” she whispered into the dog's ear. “Just maybe?” And Molly licked her face with a delighted enthusiasm.

Breakfast over, Mack backed her Toyota out of the garage and, a few
moments later, was pulling up in front of the vet clinic. She had tried calling, but there was no answer, so she had decided to drive over. She had expected that the clinic might still be a crime scene, but apparently the sheriff had finished the investigation and released it, for the yellow crime scene tape was no longer stretched across the building's entryway. A closed sign hung on the door, however, under a typed note that said, “Friday & Saturday appointments cancelled because of the death of Doc Masters. Please phone on Monday to reschedule.”

But as Mack peered through the window next to the door, she saw a light inside. She rapped on the door and after a few minutes, Angie Donaldson opened it. She was a short, stocky woman, middle-aged, with plastic-rimmed glasses and dark, spiky bangs that brushed her eyebrows. Her scrubs were cheerfully printed with yellow and orange kittens, but there was nothing cheerful about her expression. Her eyes were red rimmed and bruised looking, and she was sniffling. She had been crying.

“Doc Masters is dead,” she said. “We're not seeing patients today.”

“I know,” Mack said sympathetically. “You probably don't remember, but I was here with the sheriff's team yesterday. I'm Warden Chambers.” She took out her identification and held it up.

Angie peered at her. “Oh. Oh, sorry. Didn't recognize you, Warden. Yesterday was a madhouse.”

Mack nodded. “There were a lot of people here, and it must have been very hard for you. Listen, I'm sure you're busy and I don't want to take up your time, but I'm working on a Parks and Wildlife investigation, and it's rather urgent. I need to track down a visit he made recently, to a local ranch. Could I have a look at your billing records? The information I want is probably there.”

“Billing records?” Angie was uncertain. “Gosh. I don't know whether I'm supposed to let you . . .”

“I understand,” Mack said. “It's pretty simple, really. I'm looking for just one piece of information. But if it would make you more comfortable, I can get a search warrant. It takes a little time is all, and—”

“Oh, heck,” Angie said, rolling her eyes. “Who's going to care, now that Doc is gone?” She opened the door. “God, I can't believe I just said that. Can't believe he's dead, either. Just blows my friggin' mind.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Come on in and tell me what you're after.”

The office was small and dark, overcrowded, and definitely overheated, and Mack took off her jacket as Angie booted up the computer on the corner of her crowded desk. Mack described what she was looking for. A moment later, she was watching Angie scroll through a list of records on the monitor of the office computer.

“Did he say what day it was that he delivered those calves?” Angie asked. She hunched her shoulders and pulled up another page.

“No. I got the impression that it was fairly recently, though. In the last couple of weeks. And that maybe the owner of the ranch was a friend of his. Or somebody he knew pretty well.”

Angie snorted. “That doesn't narrow it down a whole lot. He's got a lot of friends.” After another few moments of scrolling, she shook her head. “I'm not finding anything. But then, sometimes Doc gets an emergency call when he's out on the road. He'll go ahead and make the visit, especially if the place is close, then forget to log it into the system when he gets back to the office—unless of course I'm here to nag him about it.”

She pulled a tissue out of a box on her desk. “Sorry,” she muttered.
“I'm making it sound like he's still alive. I have to start getting used to the fact that he's not.” She blew her nose. “He wasn't just my boss, he was a friend, and a damn nice guy at heart. I can't believe that somebody would kill him like that. It . . . it seems so pointless.”

“I know,” Mack said. “I met him only once, but I liked him. He really knew his stuff.” She paused, thinking. “If he made the visit when he was out on the road, how would the billing get handled?”

Angie blew her nose again. “It wouldn't. At least, not until Doc finally remembered it and told me to log it in and send a bill. I kept telling him that we live in the twenty-first century and that we have the tools to do a better job of collecting, if he would only pay attention to that part of the business.”

Mack felt a stab of disappointment that made her realize how much she'd been counting on getting the information. “So bottom line, you don't have a record of this twin-calf call. Is that it?”

“Well,
I
don't have a record. In the computer, that is. Which is not to say that there isn't one in his notebook. He might have written it down, meaning to tell me and just forgot. That happens—happened—a lot.”

“Okay.” Mack straightened. “Where would we find the notebook?”

“Who knows?” Angie pushed back her chair and got up. “Could be anywhere he happened to put it down. We could maybe start with his desk. Come on.”

The floor of the dark, narrow hallway was still marked with sticky yellow tape where the body had lain. Angie carefully stepped over the spot as she went into Doc Masters' small office and flicked on the light. Following her, Mack saw that the desk was a formidable heap of papers, medical journals, notes, books, cassette tapes, a pad of sticky notes, paper plates, a half-empty coffee cup. The shelves were a messy hodgepodge of
books, journals, and papers, and there were stacks on the floor. A black cat sat on the windowsill.

“Gosh,” Mack said, and then couldn't think of anything else to say.

“Yeah.” Angie sighed. “But if you need it, you need it. You'll have to dig.”

“What am I looking for, specifically?”

“An orange side-spiral notebook, about five by seven, with a wide blue stripe across the front. Sometimes he keeps it in the pocket of his jacket, sometimes he drops it on his desk. Or sticks it in a drawer. Sometimes . . .” She gave a shrug. “Look, I really need to get that drug inventory done this morning so I can tell the sheriff what and how much was taken. And I've got to call Clinker and see if he can get over here this afternoon and repair the drug closet door. Why don't you look around and see if you can find that notebook? If you do, bring it to the office so I can enter the billing. Somebody owes us some money.” She turned to go, then paused. “You haven't heard anything from the cops, have you? About the shooting, I mean. Do they have any idea who did it?”

Mack shook her head. “Sorry, I haven't heard a word. But then, I'm not in the loop.” If she'd been able to get together with Ethan this afternoon, he might have had some news for her. Otherwise, there'd be no reason for anybody to let her know what was going on.