“Fucking waste of time,” he muttered. So Burkett had been yanking his chain after all, sending him on a wild-goose chase while he was hustling the widow down to Mexico for some R amp;R, romance and rutting.

He switched off the flashlight, sat down on a windowsill, and lit a cigarette to smoke while he ruminated on his next move. He blew a plume of smoke through the vacant window frame. Without any wind, the smoke hovered in the air like a ghost. Rodarte stared through it across a yard of hard-packed, parched earth.

There was a pen that probably had been home to a hog, a goat maybe. Too small for a horse. The posts of a barbed-wire fence either were listing or had already toppled. The wire lay in rusty coils on the ground. Thirty yards or so beyond the fallen fence was a barn that appeared in even worse condition than the house.

The barn.

Rodarte stuck the cigarette between his lips and squinted through the smoke rising off it. He checked his flashlight to see how the battery was holding out. Getting dimmer, but still working. He dropped the cigarette onto the bare wood floor and ground it out.

Outside, he could see well enough without the flashlight. But he kept it in one hand, his pistol in the other, as he went around the house to the back. The yard was an obstacle course. An abandoned wheelbarrow lay on its side. A tree stump obviously used as a chopping block still had the hatchet embedded in it. The shadowed hulk under an attached lean-to turned out to be a disemboweled tractor.

He stepped over the fence, carefully avoiding the lines of barbed wire, and walked toward the barn. The double doors were closed but held together only by a wooden latch that pivoted on a nail. He flipped it up and pushed the door open just wide enough for him to peer inside. The darkness was penetrating. The stifling air smelled of manure and soured hay.

Sensing no movement or sound, he opened the door wider and slipped inside. He switched the flashlight on and shone it around. His knowledge of barns was limited to what he’d seen in movies, but in his uneducated opinion, this one was fairly standard. A loft running the length of one side. Horse stalls. Tack and farm implements.

And Manuelo Ruiz.

Or somebody.

Instinctually, Rodarte knew he wasn’t alone. And for one split second, he felt a pang of fear. It could be Burkett. Burkett might have set him up. Burkett might have sent him here to be ambushed. Had he been outsmarted by that cagey son of a bitch?

Before Rodarte could complete the thought, he sensed movement behind him. As he turned, a hard blow landed on his shoulder, numbing his arm and hand. He dropped the flashlight. With his other arm, he swung a wide arc that ended abruptly when his palmed pistol connected with the side of his attacker’s head.

It wasn’t Burkett. Too short, too dark, too thick through the middle. And Rodarte hated himself for the relief that came from knowing that.

But he still had a fight on his hands. The man was stunned and staggering but not downed. He ducked his head and lunged toward Rodarte. The detective got a knee up in time to catch the man beneath his chin and practically shoved it up his nostrils. Rodarte heard teeth clack together and figured that some of them had broken. With a grunt of pain, the man fell to the earthen floor.

Rodarte, his momentary fear now replaced by anger, grabbed the flashlight and shone it down, directly into the man’s face. It was swarthy, broad, the features flat. The eyes blinking against the beam of light were inky black. They widened marginally when they saw the barrel of Rodarte’s pistol aimed directly at them.

“Hola, Man-u-el-o.”

The man showed a flicker of surprise.

“Yeah, I know your name. We’ve got a mutual friend. Griff Burkett.”

At that, Ruiz rattled off a barrage of Spanish.

“Shut up!” Rodarte barked. Ruiz fell silent. “I’m not interested in anything you have to say. Anyhow, you should save your strength for the job you’ve got coming up.”

Reaching down, he grabbed the man’s shirtfront and hauled him to his feet. “See that shovel over there?” He directed the flashlight’s beam at the pile of tools he’d spotted earlier. “Get it.” Ruiz just stood there looking at him vacantly. “Don’t pull that no comprendo bullshit on me.” He hefted the pistol and clearly enunciated, “Go and get the fucking shovel.”

Ruiz’s obsidian eyes glittered in the flashlight’s beam, but he did as he was told. “Don’t even think of trying to clobber me with it,” Rodarte said when Ruiz turned with the shovel’s handle gripped in both hands. “I’ll shoot you right now if you do.”

He motioned for Ruiz to go ahead of him through the barn door. Rodarte followed at a cautious distance, the nine-millimeter aimed at the man’s spine.

The eastern horizon was turning gray. “Get a move on, Manuelo.” Planting his foot against the other man’s buttocks, Rodarte pushed him hard enough to cause him to stumble and fall.

Ruiz rolled over onto his back and glared up at Rodarte in a way that made the detective glad he had a gun trained on him. “We’ll see how feisty you’re feeling after you’ve put that shovel to good use.” Ruiz looked at the shovel, then back at Rodarte, seeming puzzled. “What?” Rodarte asked around a chuckle. “You didn’t expect me to dig your grave, did you?”

CHAPTER 37

LAURA STARED BACK AT THE TWO PEOPLE STARING AT HER.

She could smell the plumeria blossoms of Ellie Miller’s wilting lei. The odor was heavy and sweet. “You just returned from vacation?” she asked.

Ellie replied. “We got into DFW a half hour early. Around four-thirty.”

“I’m sorry you had to come back after a long flight to find a stranger in your bed.” She gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Like the three bears. How was your flight?”

Ellie crossed to Laura and took her hand. “You’re the one who’s had a rough night. How’re you feeling?”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Sure you will. But right now it’s bad. Cramping?”

“Hmm.”

“I know. I went through this four times.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ellie shrugged philosophically. “Wasn’t meant to be.” She patted Laura’s hand. “I’ll get you something for those cramps.”

She went out, leaving Laura alone with Coach Joe Miller. He was an intimidating presence. He stared at her, his expression judgmental. Yet he also seemed curious about her, in spite of himself.

“I’m sorry about your baby.” He nodded toward the door through which his wife had passed. “Ellie shrugs it off, but her heart broke each time.”

“I’m sure it did.”

“You’re sure it was Griff’s baby?”

“No question. My husband was incapable.”

“Sterile?”

“Incapable,” she repeated.

“Huh.” He digested that, then asked, “Is that why you took up with Griff?”

Before she could answer, Ellie returned carrying a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water. “Take two.”

Laura had already sworn off analgesics that pregnant women were advised not to take. Swallowing the capsules was a painful reminder that the precaution was no longer necessary.

“What are you doing?”

That from Ellie, whose voice was sharp, imperious, and directed toward her husband, who had picked up the telephone on the desk.

“Calling the police.”

“You’re going to sic the police on that boy?”

“He’s not a boy, Ellie. He’s a man. He has to be held accountable.”

“Please, don’t call Rodarte,” Laura said. “He’s Griff’s sworn enemy.”

“Because he’s a homicide detective and Griff is a…a…”

“See?” Ellie said, planting her fists on her narrow hips. “You can’t even bring yourself to say it because you know it isn’t true.”

“If it’s not true, why’s he running?” Coach asked. “Why doesn’t he turn himself in?”

Ellie, having no answer, looked helplessly toward Laura, who implored Coach to hang up the phone. “Please don’t make that call. At least not until I’ve told you about Griff and me. And Foster. All of it. Please, Mr. Miller.”