Heaven to Betsy (Emily #1) (12 page)

Jack grabbed a set of tall wooden salt and pepper shakers from the kitchen countertop and deposited them on the table.

“We can,” he said, “when CPS or the police find her, because that’s
their
job.”

We glared at each other for a few seconds, until Mickey interrupted us.

“A missing little girl, huh?” Mickey cleared his throat. “You probably could tell by looking at me that I’m Native American. Apache. So is Jack, by the way, if he hasn’t told you already, although only one quarter, courtesy of his grandmother, who is also mine, a fact he forgot to mention earlier. We’re first cousins.” He slapped Jack on the back, and Jack bowed his head and grinned. “So here’s what the old ones taught us, and maybe this will help you sleep better, Emily.”

He turned to the group, and his voice took on a storytelling tone, and I could picture him in front of a fire, the eager faces of young Apache kids gazing up at him.

“The Mountain Spirits ensure the well-being of the Apache people. From the earliest I can remember, we would gather to watch the dancers, who danced to summon the Mountain Spirits. One of the dancers was always dressed as a clown. The Clown was greatly feared by all of us children, because our parents told us that if we were bad, the Clown would take us away.”

Collin pounded a fist on the counter. “I knew it. Those fuckers always terrified me.”

Tamara hooted and Mickey and Jack hee-hawed. Not me. I remained silent, transfixed by Mickey’s words. “Go on,” I urged him, when the others had settled down.

Mickey went to the cabinet and retrieved a coffee mug. It had the Wrong Turn Ranch’s
WTR
on it, as if it had been burned into the cream-colored mug with a red-hot branding iron.

Mickey poured coffee as he continued. “They did this to teach us discipline, to make us listen to the lessons of the Mountain Spirit Dancers, lessons that would teach us how to survive. As we grew older, we realized that the Clown was there as our teacher, to save us from the evil in the world. So, Emily, whenever I hear about a child that is lost, I think about the Mountain Spirit Dancers and especially the Clown, and I hope they taught their lessons well to her.”

I had a troubling thought. “She’s not Apache, though. She’s Mexican.”

He stirred milk into his coffee mug. “Geronimo is arguably the most famous Apache. Perhaps you’ve heard this quote from him? ‘There is one God looking down on us all. We are all the children of one God.’ Our God extends past the boundaries of a reservation, or a tribe, or a country. My personal belief tells me that you should have faith that spirits are working to cast out the evil, and you will find her.”

Collin raised his mimosa. “That sounds good to me. Followed up with a little honest detective work and a can of whoop-ass.”

Laughter rang in the kitchen again, echoing in my skull, rattling loose the dream I’d woken to that morning. Only now, in the dream, I was the clown fighting evil. Or at least a big, evil-looking bull.

Jack held a platter in each hand. Eggs and bacon on one, skillet potatoes and tortillas on the other. “Ghost stories over,” he said. “Buffet style breakfast tacos. Grab a plate and get after it.”

The others gathered to eat, but I sat lost in my thoughts.

***

Jack ferried Snowflake and me to the little airstrip in the Suburban.

I broke the silence first. “Thanks for that.”

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other hanging out the open window. “For what?” he asked.

“Breakfast. It was nice.”

I looked out the side window. A black mare loped in the pasture to the right, tail high in the air. A glossy colt ran beside her on impossibly long legs.

“I was going to tell you about the baby thing,” I said. “I hadn’t found the right time.”

He nodded. “Anything else you need to tell me?”

“Like what?”

“Like the story between you and your friend Collin?”

“No story. You now know all my dirty little secrets.” Even the ones I didn’t owe a married boss.

His face twitched in a way that told me his left side was smiling. “You do keep it interesting.”

He parked the Suburban outside the hangar, and we both exited the vehicle. This time, I helped him pull the plane out. He used some kind of pusher-lever-thingamajiggy attached to the front wheel, and the whole operation was easier than it looked. I pulled the Suburban into the hangar for him and closed and locked the pull-down door.

I was a little nervous about getting sick again, but I tried to block it from my mind. Instead, I watched Jack’s preflight ritual.

He noticed, and when we got in the plane he said, “You were kinda mad at me on the way here. I skipped my normal safety talk because you didn’t seem in a receptive mood.”

“That’s an understatement.”

He grinned. “Just remember it’s highly preferable to enter and exit the cabin when the propeller isn’t spinning. But even if it’s off, always approach from the backside of the plane. It could get turned on suddenly. And stranger things have happened than propellers flying off or people tripping and falling into them. Just give them a wide berth, whether they’re on or off, okay?”

“No problem.” I didn’t want to lose my head like Marie Antoinette.

He reached into a large case in between the front seats and pulled out a folded brown paper grocery sack. “I thought you might need this for the trip back.”

He handed it to me. It was lined with a Hefty trash bag. Written in black Sharpie on the side were the words
Emily’s Barf Bag
.

I took it from him. “Thanks, Jack Ass.” And then I held it in front of my face so he couldn’t see my huge grin.

Monday morning I arrived at Williams & Associates to see Snowflake’s nose pressed against the glass panel to the side of the entry door. When she saw me, she started spinning and leaping. She looked especially feminine and shiny. And damp. Very, very damp. How could I not smile, seeing her? So I did, and then gave her the crusts I’d saved her from my breakfast toast.

The first thing I did upon entering was start ringing the bell. I put some elbow grease into it. Wallace would pick me up in forty-five minutes. I needed a tête-a-tête with the inscrutable one before I left.

He surprised me with an immediate response. “Come on back, Emily. I have someone I want you to meet.”

I furrowed my brow. “Snowflake, what did you put in his breakfast taco this morning?” She followed me into Jack’s office.

There I saw a sallow, wizened man. Strands of silvery hair swept across the crown of his head. His suit hung from his frame, three sizes too large, but it was dapper and immaculate. He was sitting behind Jack’s desk like he owned the place. Jack sat in one of the chairs in front of it.

I felt like I needed to push my lower jaw back up. “Yes, boss?”

Jack stood and raised his voice, over-enunciating his words. “I want you to meet Clyde Williams, the name partner of Williams & Associates. We were just going over our files. Clyde, this is our new paralegal, Emily, the one I was telling you we stole from a top-notch Dallas firm.”

I choked and covered it by clearing my throat. Stepping briskly forward, I leaned across the desk and extended my hand. Clyde took it and bowed his head to me. He kissed the top of my hand, and I nearly giggled. Old guys rule.

I emulated Jack’s speaking voice. “An honor to meet you, sir.” I gestured to my baggy jeans and sweater. “I apologize for my attire. I’m interviewing witnesses today, and they might find traditional office attire off-putting.”

His voice rasped and broke as he spoke. “Not a problem, young lady. A treat to meet you. Welcome to my little firm. I’ve been under the weather of late and Jack has graciously stepped in to cover the caseload while I’m out. Good man, Jack. Glad we were able to trade favors in each of our times of need.”

I shot Jack a look. What the heck did Clyde mean, and which man had told me the real story of their alliance? My money was on Clyde. I didn’t dwell on it, though, not while Clyde was turning on the charm.

“Jack has told me we’re very lucky to have you.”

“Oh—”

Jack cut my moment short. “Emily is working primarily on the two new matters we discussed: Perez and Johnson. I’m integrating her into some of the other clients this week. I could really use her help on Freeman and Escalante. Freeman, you’ll recall, is charged with a bogus resisting arrest and assault of a police officer, and Escalante with armed robbery when he turned the tables on a militant religious group that was harassing him. They’re good cases.”

I didn’t want to work on anything but Valentina, but I kept my lips zipped.

Clyde clasped his hands together. His knobby knuckles dwarfed the rest of his fingers.

“I wish I could say I’ve recovered enough to dig in and help on the day-to-day caseload, but not yet. I’ll just have to stick with an advice and counsel role until the quacks clear me for duty.” He sighed. “Damn far sight from back when your dad and I fought in Korea together, son. Old age isn’t for sissies.”

He unclasped his hands and placed them on the arms of his chair. He pushed down and his rickety body slowly rose. I wanted to leap around the desk and help him, but Jack didn’t move, so I held my breath and waited. Ten seconds later, Clyde stood to his full height—five feet, two inches, or thereabouts. He grabbed the cane he’d hooked over the chair arm and started toward the door.

The walk to the lobby took another five minutes.

I whispered to Jack as we trailed Clyde: “I’m following up in person with witnesses that may be able to shed some light on Sofia. The CPS investigator wants to tag along.”

“Focus on Sofia, not Valentina,” Jack hissed at me.

I hissed back, “I know. Anyway, the CPS guy is picking me up in half an hour. Unless you have something else for me, I plan to use any other time I have left today to work on the Johnson background information. Okay?”

He scowled. “I have an evidentiary hearing on Freeman, so I’ll be in court this morning, and Johnson has already called twice today. My plate is full through Wednesday, so let’s sit down soon and talk about the other cases I need you working on.”

That sounded as close to a yes as I could expect him to choke out, having known him for a week. Well, I’d just have to find Valentina fast then.

“Okay,” I said.

We reached the exit and Clyde turned. “Nice carpet, Jack. Is it new?”

Jack wiped the scowl from his face. “Yes, sir, it is.” The left side of his face twitched up. “Steve Rogan couldn’t pay his bill.”

Clyde beamed. “Service in kind. Gives a man his dignity. Nicely done.”

I felt like the only one in the room that spoke English. What the heck were they talking about?

Clyde reached for my hand again. “Young lady, you seem like a sensible sort.”

If only he knew, but I wasn’t going to burst his bubble.

“Take care of Jack,” Clyde said. “He’s one of the best, and he’s had a rough go of it.”

I wanted to pump Clyde for more information, but with Jack glowering at me, I refrained.

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

Remembering what he’d said about his military service, I saluted, then felt silly, but he cackled and squeezed my arm.

He nodded at my stony boss, seemingly oblivious to Jack’s ill humor. “She’ll do.”

***

Wallace had texted me to meet him at the curb, and our timing was perfect. He pulled up in a silver Nissan Altima, and I didn’t even have to break stride as I exited the building. The car’s shiny, spotless exterior shot an intense glare into my eyes, and I shielded them with my hand as I walked toward it.

I set my purse on a floor so clean that I almost lifted my feet. As I swung my eyes to the driver, I couldn’t help but notice that the entire inside shone like the outside, without a scratch, stain, or other blight in sight. Wallace inspected me with neon blue eyes as he eased off the brake.

“I really hope you’re Wallace.” I said, smiling at him. He had a lovely cherub’s face under a head of thick, sandy hair.

He nodded, then eased away from the curb so gently it felt like we were riding in a bubble. The car purred.

“I am. Nice to meet you, Miss Emily. Where are we headed?”

We passed between the two fiberglass quarter horse statues at Third and Polk. On the left, a buckskin painted with a mountain stream scene on one side. On the right, a palomino decorated with paintings of Marilyn Monroe. The quarter horse statues were all over the city, and I loved them.

“Fifteenth and Adams.” I recited a street number.

His face spasmed, Jim Carrey style. “That’s an ick part of town.”

“Yeah. Maria Delgado isn’t living the glamorous life.”

Wallace shook his head. “One-third of the Hispanic population in Amarillo is living below poverty level,” he said. “Poverty drives a lot of our removals, although I have to give props to the Rainbow Room. They help a lot of impoverished families keep their kids, by outfitting them with the basic necessities: car seats, clothing, diapers.” He shook his head again. “But they can’t help when the desperation of poverty leads to violence or substance abuse.”

“How do you deal with all that? Worrying about Valentina alone is eating me up.”

He tossed his head, sending his wavy, highlighted bangs back in place, and said, “Jäger shots and group sex.” I must have gasped aloud because he laughed and added, “Just kidding. We’re in Amarillo, remember? I work out like a fiend. Triathlon.”

“You bicycle in the winds out here? That’s impressive.”

“Not all that impressive. I know someone who did the Kona Ironman this weekend.
That’s
impressive.”

I’d flipped through the coverage the night before and had quite a surprise. A woman I met when I went as Katie’s plus-one to a Baylor Law School reunion was being interviewed on TV. Michele Lopez Hanson had done the Ironman as a tribute to her pro-triathlete husband, who’d been murdered a few months earlier. He’d been a great guy, and I felt tremendously sad for her—and a little in awe, as well. Another reminder that I didn’t have a corner on the “going through tough stuff” market.

“I had a friend who did it, too,” I said. “I need to find something to help me with the stress, but I don’t think it’ll be endurance athletics. Or Jäger shots and group sex.”

He decelerated the Altima gently as we approached the dilapidated white box of a house that appeared to be our destination. The car stopped so gradually that I couldn’t be sure when it happened. A text came in on my phone. I read it quickly, and my cheeks flamed.

Collin:
You look great, even knocked up.

Collin was fun and funny and magnetic and easy on the eyes, but I wasn’t sure how to take his text. He was engaged, and I liked Tamara. I knew how to respect commitments, even if Rich and Stormy didn’t. Well, Collin had always been a kidder. He was probably playing with me now. I just wouldn’t play back.

“Game plan?” Wallace asked.

I turned off my screen and put away my phone. “I’ll ask her how Sofia got her information, and then maybe some follow-up questions. When I’m done, she’s all yours.”

“Got it.”

We climbed out and picked our way through tufts of grass and broken glass in all different colors. A dark brown piece had a scrap of red and silver label on it and the letters
ECAT
. I steered clear of it. If there was a sidewalk, the yard had long since consumed it. The house sat on cinder blocks, and I saw yellow eyes peering at us from underneath it. I hesitated, but there was no growl, just a fetid odor, like something rotten. Or dead. I kept going, wobbling on the first wooden step, and Wallace grabbed my arm. He was several inches taller than me. Lean, but toned.

“Thanks,” I said

“Can’t have you getting injured before we even question a witness.”

My eyes swept from his brown tasseled loafers and up over his long-legged khakis-with-a-white-button-down-shirt kind of outfit.

“A fashion conservative.” I actually said that, didn’t just think it. Spit.

“Camouflage.” He looked at me seriously, eyes twinkling. “Sometimes I go crazy and wear a blue shirt, though.”

I chuckled and knocked on the door. It felt insubstantial against my knuckles. I thought I heard movement inside the house, and I leaned close and listened. If there had been a noise, it had stopped. We stood and waited for another thirty seconds. I knocked again and walked over to the lone front window to the right of the door. The boards sagged under my weight. I stuck my nose close to the glass and framed my eyes with my hands. The dust on the window partially obscured my vision. I made out a couch, a TV with a protruding pre-LCD backside, and a low coffee table with a peeling wood-veneer surface.

I gave up. “I don’t see anyone, but I could have sworn I heard people in the back of the house.”

“We can come back later,” Wallace said. “If we stand here much longer, we might get shot.”

I clutched my handbag tighter. “That wouldn’t be pleasant.”

As we walked back toward the Altima, Wallace said, “So, you work for the infamous Jack Holden.”

“I do. But why is he infamous?”

“Maybe more enigmatic than infamous. Nobody knows a thing about him other than that he’s a great attorney. And hot. The cowboy thing really isn’t in right now . . . but on him? It’s classic.”

I couldn’t argue with any of that. I had a thought. “Have you ever seen his wife?”

“Nope. Didn’t know he was married.” Wallace unlocked the Altima with his clicker. “Check your shoes before you get in, please.”

I twisted to see the heel of my kicked back foot. It looked good. I repeated it for the other and decided it needed a scraping to get the grass off, but there was no curb. I scrubbed the bottom of my foot against the asphalt street. That would have to do.

I lowered myself into the car beside Wallace. He pulled out a Handi Wipe and cleaned his hands before putting them on the steering wheel, then dropped it in a car-sized trash can on the back of my seat.

I suppressed a smile. “Can we try the hotel formerly known as the Ambassador next?”

“The hotel formerly known as the Ambassador. I like that. We could do a symbol for them, like Prince.”

“A Ghostbusters type of thing, only with a dead body in the circle.”

He laughed. “Let’s head there now. What are you wanting to get out of it?”

“I’m hoping some of Sofia’s coworkers can tell me about her. Something. Anything.”

“Well, they didn’t tell me diddly squat,” Wallace said. “But maybe they’ll like you better than me. Shucks, I already like you better than me.”

I laughed. Wallace made a precise three-point turn, and we drove back to Adams and then south to I-40. He stayed on the access road until we approached the Ambassador, and he pulled in and parked.

“Since I talked to the manager once before, why don’t you let me lead?” He asked. “He might be more cooperative with me than with someone from a defense law firm.”

“Good idea.”

Wallace hurried off. A text came in for me.

Mom:
I’ll pick you up at 5:15, okay, honey?

God, I wished Rich would hurry up with my car.

Me:
Yep. Thanks, Mother.

The hotel formerly known as the Ambassador had a Monday morning busy-ness to it, but without the big crowd from Scott’s wedding, or the black comedy vibe that Spike’s tumble into the pool had given it. I wondered if the murder had helped or hurt their business. It wouldn’t have made me want to stay here, but the marketing gurus always say that there’s no such thing as bad press.

I walked over to the tables at the pool. Clear water rocked gently as a woman with a white swim cap breaststroked its length. She moved so slowly she nearly sank.

The steady thump-thump of footsteps alerted me to Wallace’s approach. “We’re in,” he said. “Or, I am. I told him you were my colleague, so don’t mention your law firm.”