Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2) - James Patterson Page 0,29

to take a needed break from home.

“That’s good because all anyone in Redbud is talking about is Willow’s song. The local station plays it at least once an hour and mentions you by name every single time.”

“Just what I want to hear.”

I see the chief walk out of the station and toward the town offices, where Kirk Schuetz, the rancher on the council, is waiting for him outside the door. They glance our way when the chief reaches the door, and their body language suggests they’re making some kind of joke.

Freddy says, “I also hear that some of the Rangers keep teasing your lieutenant about what happened at the bank.”

Freddy not only is a brilliant medical examiner but also knows every detail—official and unofficial—of law enforcement in a two-hundred-mile radius of his office.

“I heard someone set up a cot in his office with a sign that said NAP ZONE.”

“If they keep that up,” I say, “I’ll never get to come home. I might as well buy a house here.”

I get to the reason I called. I ask if I can send him an autopsy report and have him take a look.

“The body’s been cremated, but we have blood samples,” I say. “Can I send them to you?”

“You think something fishy is going on with the medical examiner out there?” he asks.

“Not necessarily,” I say. “I just think he was quick to stamp NATURAL CAUSES on this thing, and I want a discerning eye to take a second look. I trust you.”

I tell him about Susan Snyder’s death.

“It’s hard to find poison in the blood,” he says, “unless you have an idea of what to test for.”

“What I want you to do is look for the absence of something,” I say.

I tell Freddy that Susan Snyder used an EpiPen, but it hadn’t saved her life. “Is it possible the EpiPen was tampered with?” I say. “Can you test the blood for epinephrine?”

Ariana gives me a look. She mouths the word Jessica?

“Theoretically the injection of adrenaline should raise the levels of certain compounds in the blood,” Freddy says. “There’s no way the lab would check for that unless you asked for it specifically.”

I tell him I’ll have the samples sent to him.

When I hang up, I ask Ariana how well she knows Tom and Jessica Aaron.

“I’ve known Jessica since I was a teenager going in and picking up prescriptions for my parents,” she says. “But I can’t say I know either of them well.”

“In a town this small,” I say, “everyone’s on the suspects list until we’re able to cross them off.”

As Ariana and I head into the station, my phone buzzes. I don’t recognize the number, but the area code is local.

“Hey, buddy,” Dale Peters says enthusiastically. “Want to jam again?”

I think about it. I started my day at two a.m. with a fistfight, and I’m already dragging. But I had fun last time, so it might be a nice way to unwind.

“Okay,” I tell him. “You guys want to come back to the motel?”

“I was thinking we should jam over at Lobo Lizard.”

“The bar?” I say.

“Yeah, I got us a gig. We’ll be playing to a live audience.”

Chapter 32

WHEN I SHOW up to the bar at six o’clock, Dale and Walt are setting up. I have only my guitar, but they have loads of other equipment: Walt’s various instruments, Dale’s guitar and bass, electrical cords and amps.

Dale shakes my hand and says, “I was afraid you might stand us up.”

“I thought about it,” I say. “It’s been a long time since I played in front of an audience.”

Lobo Lizard is about half the size of Pale Horse, the Redbud bar where Willow used to play, but there is a decent crowd filling the tables and barstools, though the small dance floor close to the stage is empty.

A waitress brings me a Sol that I didn’t order.

“The gig doesn’t pay,” Dale says, “but the beer is on the house.”

Dale and Walt have their setup routine worked out, so I pull out my guitar and act like I’m tuning it.

If this isn’t a hostile audience, I don’t know what is.

The door opens and Ariana walks in. She gives me a bright, friendly smile. Her hair is down, and she’s wearing a little bit of makeup. She’s also wearing a black skirt—the first time I’ve seen her in one—and a Def Leppard T-shirt.

“Thanks for coming,” I say, feeling even more nervous now. I have to work with her tomorrow whether I make a