Джеймс Паттерсон - Texas Outlaw

“It’s in Albuquerque,” she says. “How far is that from you? Any chance you can come?”

“It’s a good five hours away,” I say. “Maybe six.”

“Boy, you really are in the middle of nowhere, aren’t you?”

I debate whether to tell her about what happened this morning. Part of me doesn’t want her to worry. But the other part of me knows that a healthy relationship is built on open, honest communication.

No secrets.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” I say, “but I had some excitement this morning.”

She can’t believe it. She says she thought this was supposed to be an easy assignment. I can hear the worry in her voice. I don’t mention my nightmare or the way I’m feeling. She’ll worry enough even if she thinks I’m clearheaded and capable of handling myself. If she knows I’m having a crisis of confidence, that will take her anxieties to a new level.

“Enough about me,” I say. “Tell me the latest with you. How’s the song doing?”

She seems thankful for the distraction. “Don’t Date a Texas Ranger” is getting all kinds of airplay, she says. Her producer has told her that when her album drops, listeners are going to snatch it up. Buzz about her success is already spreading. She played last night at the Bluebird Café, a famous Nashville music venue, and Kathy Mattea was in the audience and introduced herself afterward. The night before that she was invited to a dinner party at Jennifer Nettles’s house.

“Wow,” I say. “You’re really rubbing elbows with country music royalty, aren’t you?”

“Regardless of how the album does, Rory, I really think I could have a life here. Whether I’m the next big thing—like my label keeps saying—or I’m a songwriter for hire, I feel like I belong here in Nashville.”

With this statement, a moment of silence hangs in the air—a moment full of questions. If she belongs there, what does that mean for us? Even though a few days ago I’d all but made up my mind to apply for the detective job in Nashville, I never mentioned my decision to Willow, and now, with this case, I’m feeling some reluctance to make that commitment.

“Oh, Rory, what are we going to do?”

“We’ll figure it out,” I tell Willow. “Just let me get this case resolved and we can have a good long talk about our future.”

We end the conversation by saying we love each other. Then I drive over to the police station.

When I walk in the door, the chief says, “I’m still getting calls from that newspaper editor. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t camped out in the lobby.”

“Not now, Chief. I’ve got more important things on my mind today.”

“Like what?” he says, and when I brush past him into the station, I know he senses I’m on to something.

When I get to the conference room, Ariana holds up a piece of paper.

“This might be our first break in the case,” she says.

She got a copy of Susan Snyder’s phone records from her cellular provider.

“Right after Susan called me,” Ariana says, “she made one other call. It was a very brief conversation.”

“To who?” I say.

“Tom Aaron.”

The name sounds familiar, but I can’t remember why.

“He’s the newspaper editor,” Ariana says. “The one who’s been trying to talk to you ever since you came to town.”

Chapter 29

ARIANA AND I walk out to my truck to go find Tom Aaron.

I hear a group of cars coming down the road from the north. My ears, trained by years with the highway patrol, tell me these engines are going way past the speed limit. Three black vehicles come into view—one of McCormack’s pickup trucks, followed by a brand-new Cadillac Escalade, with another of McCormack’s trucks bringing up the rear.

“That’s Carson McCormack in the middle,” Ariana says, gesturing to the Escalade. “Heading out of town on business. He doesn’t usually bring his entourage into town.”

These vehicles are moving in the tight, protective formation the motorcade of a high-profile politician might utilize.

Who the hell does this Carson McCormack think he is?

“When he gets back into town,” I say, “I think it’s time to pay him a visit. At the very least, I’d like to take a look around his oil field and see if any of his employees have broken noses.”

We have no real idea if Carson McCormack or his son had anything to do with Susan Snyder’s death—or what happened to me this morning. Hopefully Ariana is right: this call to the editor might be our first lead.

When the receptionist at the paper tells us Tom Aaron isn’t in yet today, Ariana says we’ll go to his house. Back in my truck, Ariana gives me directions. In a town like this, not only does everyone know everyone but they also know where everyone lives.

As we’re driving through the north edge of town, Ariana points to a nice little ranch-style house with a well-kept yard. “That’s where I live,” she says.

There’s a Prius sitting in the driveway.

“So you do have another vehicle,” I say, “besides the Harley.”

“Sometimes it rains,” she says and flashes me a smile.

Tom Aaron’s large house is two blocks away, right at the edge of the development. From where we park, we can see the property borders the arroyo that limits the town’s expansion—and the rolling brown hills beyond it. The backyard contains not only an elaborate flower and vegetable garden but two additional outbuildings—a greenhouse and a two-story structure with a garage on the lower level.

A woman works in the garden. In the garage, the reporter type I saw walking out of the town council meeting is leaning under the hood of what looks to be a sixties-era Mustang. What appears to be a tarp-covered jeep is parked next to the classic car.

The woman looks up from a flower bed and sees us. There’s a radio playing in the garage, and as fate would have it, Willow’s song is on.

“Morning, Jessica,” Ariana says.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she says, beaming. “Rumor has it this song is about you.”

She hurries over to us, then pumps my hand and gives me the friendliest greeting I’ve had since arriving in town.

“I sure am happy to meet you,” she says. “I’m going to buy your girlfriend’s album as soon as it comes out.”

Jessica Aaron has the tan, muscular arms of a dedicated gardener. Her short hair is streaked with silver, which suits her.

Tom Aaron approaches, wiping grease off his hands with a rag.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he says.

“Sorry, Tom,” Ariana says, “we’re not here to answer your questions. We’re here to ask you some questions.”

There’s a moment of tense silence. I brace for a confrontation, a citation of the First Amendment.

“I wasn’t calling to interview you,” he says to me. “I have something to tell you.”

“Okay,” I say. “So tell me.”

He glances uncomfortably at Ariana.

“Not in front of her,” he says.

Chapter 30

I HAVE A feeling I know what Tom Aaron’s going to say, so I take a chance.

“Let me guess,” I say to Tom Aaron. “Susan Snyder called you the day before she died and said, ‘I’ve got something important to tell you. Don’t mention it to anyone. I don’t know who can be trusted.’”

He looks at me, surprised. “I was scheduled to interview her the next day,” he says. “But then I found out she died.”

“She made the same call to Ariana,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”

Tom exhales loudly. “Susan said not to trust anyone, but you’re a Texas Ranger from out of town. If I couldn’t tell you, who could I tell? Sorry,” he says to Ariana, “I just didn’t know who I could trust.”