Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2) - James Patterson Page 0,13
redheaded Irishman who runs a construction business in town but doesn’t look like he’s swung a hammer himself in years.
“You had a long drive today,” Fred says to me. “You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“Well, all right, then, let’s all go over to Good Gravy and get this boy some supper.”
“There’s a quorum of you present,” Ariana says to the men.
She’s citing the open-meeting law. If the four of them hang out together outside of a posted place and time, they’ll be violating it. The whole point of the law is to keep elected officials from doing backdoor dealings out of the public eye.
Troy Sanchez looks like an unruly middle schooler who’s just been reprimanded by his teacher. Fred Meikle looks tempted to lecture Ariana on the importance of showing a Texas Ranger some hospitality. His expression says that surely a reasonable Ranger would know she’s making something out of nothing. Schuetz, the rancher, has turned his hateful glare from me to her.
“She’s right,” Rex, the chairman, finally says, breaking the awkwardness. “I’ve got to get home anyway.”
“I’m not hungry,” Schuetz says in a tone that suggests he’d rather go shovel horseshit than eat a meal with the likes of me.
“That leaves two of us,” Fred says. “That ain’t against no laws. Let’s get something to eat. We’ll tell you everything you need to know about our beloved little town.”
Ariana excuses herself, saying she’ll brief me first thing in the morning. She heads toward a motorcycle parked over by the police station, fires up the bike, and rumbles out of the parking lot.
The truth is, I’d rather be sitting down with her and learning about the case than going to dinner with these guys, but sometimes you’ve got to play nice with the locals.
Chapter 14
THERE ISN’T ANY music playing inside Good Gravy, but when we walk into the dining room, the imaginary movie soundtrack scratches to a halt. As a Ranger, I’m used to stares of awe—Holy crap, that’s a Texas Ranger! But the restaurant patrons are locals wordlessly letting a stranger know, We don’t want you in our town.
Fred Meikle leads us to a table by the front window with a RESERVED placard on the checkerboard tablecloth. The restaurant walls are adorned with mule deer mounts and sports memorabilia of various Texas teams, both college and pro. A row of arcade games stands next to the restrooms, where a couple of kids are playing Big Buck Hunter.
When Fred Meikle tells me to order anything I want, on the house, I insist on paying for my meal.
“It’s the Rangers’ rule,” I say, and that seems to alleviate some of his obviously hurt feelings.
They all order beer, but I drink a Dr Pepper. I don’t want to get too chummy with these guys.
Over dinner, Troy and Fred talk almost nonstop about Rio Lobo. The chief sits quietly and eats a plate of barbecue ribs while they chatter on and on—about the star high school quarterback, a Main Street sidewalk repair, the local market’s overpriced groceries—never once mentioning the reason I’m here.
The woman who died was also a member of the town council.
Before I question them about the dead woman, I need to gather my own facts. Besides, I don’t want Ariana—who single-handedly brought me here—to think I’m going behind her back. I don’t want to do anything to piss her off.
At least not yet.
One of the most difficult tasks of being a Ranger is determining how you fit into any particular investigation. As we range across the state, every place is a little different. Sometimes you’ll co-lead an investigation with a local detective. Sometimes they want you to pretty much take over. I find it best to proceed with a little bit of caution until I get a sense of what they need and what I can do.
As we’re finishing dinner, Troy says, “I’m sorry Carson couldn’t come out to meet you, but he’s out of town on business.”
Who is Carson? I think.
“Mr. McCormack,” Harris says, as if to clarify.
I really do need to do some homework about this town and this case.
I say good night to the men and thank them for their hospitality. I tell the chief that I’ll see him tomorrow. Then I climb into my truck and drive two blocks down the street to the empty motel. I choose the room farthest from the road.
I pull off my boots and stretch out on the bed. When people think of the life of a Texas Ranger, they probably don’t think