Page 63 of Silent Deception
She tried to rein in her frustration. “But look at this damage. It could’ve been made by someone veering into him as he was driving. If someone accidentally—or purposefully—crowded him, that might have sent him into the ravine.”
“Back then I had an investigator from San Antonio look over that truck, but he didn’t come up with anything that could prove your theory.” Wade pulled the fender out onto the tailgate of the truck and into the sunlight to study the long, narrow crease. “Maybe...just maybe, a lab could still pick up some paint residue in there, under the rust. But how could you prove exactly when this damage was done? It might have been six months earlier. A year. Since this fender didn’t match the color of the truck, it could’ve occurred when it was on a different vehicle.”
Remembering Clint’s animosity toward her father and her, Kristin impulsively grabbed Wade’s forearm. “Please.It’s all I have to go on. If a lab can find out what make of vehicle caused this damage, maybe everything will fall into place.”
Wade hesitated, obviously thinking she was being overly dramatic. “If I send this to the lab, you won’t necessarily get a definitive answer. There could be hundreds of trucks of the same make, model, and year in this county alone. And we can’t prove this fender was hit here in Homestead, instead of Dallas or Timbuktu.”
“I understand.”
“We can’t provewhenit happened, either.”
“I understand that, too.”
“And this could take a good long while. This isn’t going to be high priority for the lab.”
She looked straight at him. “But maybe thisisa homicide.”
“Maybe,” Wade said gently. “I’m just warning you that we won’t be getting any answers back overnight.” He studied the fender again. “Let’s start by looking at those photos to make sure we have a match. If we do, then I’ll send this in right away, and I’ll push them for an answer as soon as possible. Deal?”
She nodded, waiting by her truck while he went in after the accident report. When he came out with the pictures in his hand, he was frowning.
“We took a lot of photos, especially of the damaged areas of the truck.” He held one of them out, and glanced between the photo and the fender. “You have the right one, for sure. And look here at this close-up.”
He held out another photo that detailed the narrow horizontal crease—and revealed bare, gleaming metal. It hadn’t been rusted back then. Though it might’ve just been the camera flash reflecting off sharp facets in the metal, she could see some flecks of green.
He pursed his lips and shook his head. “It was winter when this happened. Damp for this part of Texas. That could account for the rust coming on so soon. That truck probably sat out in the weather and the weeds for a good while before it was crushed... And then maybe the fender just laid out there in Buddy’s back lot for a spell, too. I figured the rust could have been from years past, but these pictures prove me wrong.”
“So you believe me?”
“I believe it’s worth a try. We still can’t absolutely prove that your daddy wasn’t dinged by another vehiclebeforehis accident...but given his trajectory down that ravine, I’d guess you’re right. If the lab can ferret out any foreign paint chips underneath that rust, at least we’ll have a better idea.”
“And you would follow up? There must be a database on vehicle models and colors.”
“It isn’t quite as easy as you see on those TV shows, ma’am, but I’ll take this to the lab in San Antonio at the end of the week.” Wade hoisted the fender out of her truck. “And believe me, I’ll do everything I can.”
* * * *
CLINT’S CELL PHONErang right after church on Sunday. He’d welcomed the call, and the excuse to take off for San Antonio overnight for a meeting with his campaign manager, as soon as Trevor could get the chopper ready. Charlotte had leveled a look of bored nonchalance at him as he made his excuses and left, but he knew how well she could mask her true feelings.
Now that he was back home again, it was only a matter of time before she came after him. Even before he saw her pearl-gray Lincoln parked close to the house, he felt a sense of doom.
Steeling himself, he walked through the main entrance, dropped his suit bag at the door, and continued to his office. An eerie sense of emptiness pervaded the house, though surely Adelfa and Charlotte were here somewhere. Disgusted by his wayward thoughts, he sorted through the big stack of mail on his desk.
Squinting, he held the first letter close—then farther away. He flipped on the bright halogen desk lamp and adjusted his trifocals. The words swam together like a dizzying school of minnows, just beyond his ability to understand them. He finally slammed the document down and rubbed his eyes.
“So it’s true.”
The soft voice, which seemed to come out of nowhere, nearly made him jump out of his skin.
“I’m over here.”
He turned off the glaring desk lamp and saw Charlotte curled up in an overstuffed leather chair in the corner. Wearing some sort of flowing caftan of muted grays, she blended into the shadows.
“What are you doing in here?”
“Realizing that we’re both getting old. Who would’ve guessed?”
“Happens,” he shot back, irritated. “If that’s all you had to say, leave me in peace.”
