Page 65 of The Texas Murders

“Rory, you’ve only been involved in one little part of this investigation. I’m overseeing the whole damn thing. Did you know that every single person we’ve arrested has shut theirmouth tighter than a clam and we can’t get a bit of new intel from them? We’ve rescued all these women, but we haven’t stopped the people at the top. Whoever they are, they’re going to either get away scot-free—or rebuild.

“Go ahead and pat yourself on the back for saving a few women and nabbing a couple bad guys,” he continues. “It’s my job to bring down the whole empire. Don’t forget that you’re just a tool for me, an instrument, and you’ve proven more trouble than you’re worth. You’re easily replaced.”

As much as I want to tell him to go fuck himself, I try to keep my comments slightly more professional.

“Even though you don’t seem to have any respect for me,” I say, “I have a hell of a lot of respect for you, Ryan. You’re a good agent. I can tell that. You’re juggling who knows how many agents and officers, coordinating efforts in multiple cities and states. You’ve got a responsibility I’ve never had to deal with. But I know a thing or two about working with other people. I’m a Texas Ranger, and my job is to range across the state, helping different agencies and sheriff’s offices, and the way you’re going about it isn’t the best way. You push people around, and anyone who doesn’t bend to your will, you cast them aside. Let this lowly Texas Ranger give you some advice. You need to learn to workwithpeople.”

“Rory,” he snaps, “I don’t need your advice. I’ll do my job however I damn well please. You’re welcome to go home and do yours the way you want.”

“That’s the thing, Ryan. This is Texas. I am home. I’m going to investigate crimes in my state, and if you don’t want to work with me, you damn sure better not work against me.”

He glares at me, visibly angry. But he knows he’s not getting rid of me. I hate to embarrass him in front of all his subordinates, but he didn’t leave me much choice.

“Fine,” he says finally. He sweeps his arm toward the van. “You’re free to examine the crime scene. You’ve got five minutes. We need to get this van out of here before the sky opens up and the rain washes away all our evidence.” As I start to move, he adds, “Don’t touch anything. And if you see anything worth noting, you tell me. No keeping secrets.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, stepping past him. “I know how to workwithpeople.”

CHAPTER 55

AS CARLOS AND I approach the van, Ryan shouts to all the people who’ve been watching our melee, “All right, show’s over. Go back to work. Or turn in your resignation. I don’t give a damn which.”

I catch a few glances from the agents and officers on scene, all of them displeased with Ryan. He’s losing the respect of his team. I can see it.

Why can’t he?

Carlos pats me on the shoulder and says quietly, “If Ava had been here, that would have done the job to regain her trust.”

“Thanks,” I say, and the two of us circle around the van, looking for anything that might give us a clue to where Llewellyn Carpenter—and Marta Rivera—might be now.

Agents have left the side doors and the rear door open, but no one is dusting for prints. I’m guessing they want to getthe vehicle to the crime lab for that, although judging by the clouds overhead, I’m not sure they’ll make it.

In Phoenix, with the bright sunlight, we were able to spot the smudges left behind by Marta’s fingerprints. But now it’s almost midnight, and the glare of industrial work lights—not to mention flashing bulbs from atop the cruisers—makes it impossible to spot any kind of print with the naked eye. If Marta Rivera has left us another hidden message, we’ll have to wait to see what it is.

Carlos and I turn our attention to the cab of the van, which is empty except for a large Styrofoam soda cup from a gas station. Otherwise, there’s nothing of interest. No massage parlor brochure stuffed into the remaining cup holder. Nothing in the glove box, which is hanging open.

I ask one of the techs if he’s willing to lift the cup so we can look underneath. He seems put out by the request, but he doesn’t say no. First, though, he takes pictures to preserve its original position, then—with rubber gloves on his hands—raises the cup. Underneath is some kind of paper, scrunched into the bottom of the cup holder.

I lean forward to get a better look, shining a flashlight so I can see clearly.

“Don’t touch it,” the tech cautions.

I tilt my head left and right, trying to make it out. When I figure out what it is, my breath catches in my throat.

“It’s a receipt from the Speaking Rock casino,” I say. “On the Tigua Pueblo.”

“From when Marta was kidnapped?” Carlos asks.

“No,” I say. “It’s time stamped. It’s from earlier today. Hemust have stopped there and cashed out some chips before dumping the van here.”

“Why would he do that?” Carlos wonders.

What I’m wondering—but not saying aloud—is what did he do with Marta when he was in the casino doing who knows what. It’s entirely possible he injected her with heroin and left her in the back of the van, but he might have dropped her off somewhere. Another brothel or another warehouse.

“Let’s go check it out,” I say to Carlos.

“Should we tell He Who Shall Not Be Named?” Carlos asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I promised him I wouldn’t keep any secrets.”

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