Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

and stretched.
    “Guess this is what you want,” he said, handing her the slip of paper. “Address and phone. Anyway, it’s what I got. Normally, I don’t bother. Them with a lease, I allus get a forward, but not with the month-to-months.” He squinted up at her. “Couldn’t figger why that one was month-to-month, neither. Or why he was livin’ here at all. Bought hisself a brand-new red pick-’em-up truck, right after he moved in. Told Mr. Boggs three doors down he’d paid cash fer it. Anybody could pay cash for a new truck oughtta be on a lease.”
    “Would that be a Dodge Ram?” Sheila asked. The cat was now eating the pizza.
    “You bet. Big baby. Fully loaded. A cool twenty-five grand.” He stood and hitched up his pants. “Guess he decided he’d rather drive his money than live in it. Takes all kinds, you know.”
    The address on the scrap of paper was on Pecos Street, only about six blocks from Larry Kirk’s place. Jason Hatch had come up in the world since his month-to-month stay in the trailer park, Sheila thought, as she stopped in front of the house. The residence was attractive and nicely landscaped, on a quiet street lined with well-kept, fairly upscale homes surrounded by green lawns. But the place was completely dark. Sheila flipped her cell open and keyed in the number. The phone rang five times, then an answering machine picked up. When a curt male voice instructed her to leave a number, she cut off the call.
    I T was pushing nine thirty when Sheila got home, and the sporadic drizzle had settled into a steadier rain. The doghouse in Rambo’s run had kept him warm and dry, but he was delighted to see her. When she opened the kennel gate, the Rotti made a beeline for the back porch, where he turned to wait for her, rear end wagging furiously.
    The house that she and Blackie had rented was clean, comfortable, and big enough for the both of them. The fenced backyard and the kennel had been a bonus, as was the large kitchen with an old-fashioned dining nook. Its window overlooked what had once been a vegetable garden, although Sheila knew she’d never have time for gardening. And anyway, she didn’t have a green thumb. If a plant had the misfortune to be given to her, it was a sure death sentence for the poor thing.
    The house was chilly and the chicken sandwich she’d eaten earlier in the evening was an ancient memory. She loosened her uniform tie and unbuckled her duty belt, hanging it on a hook by the door, next to Blackie’s old blue denim jacket. Then she turned up the thermostat, made a cup of hot chocolate in the microwave, and grilled a cheese sandwich, with sides of chips and a dill pickle spear. She turned down the volume on the police band radio, set to the department’s frequency. The radio was a habit from her days in Dallas, when every call-out, every crime was fascinating. This time of night, it was generally silent, but it kept her in touch with what was going on in town. In
her
town.
    She took her food to the dining nook, sat down at the table, and pulled the Polaroids out of her briefcase, while Rambo fitted his large self under the table and around her feet. She laid the photographs on the table in front of her and began studying them, then took out her notebook.
    She was flipping the pages with one hand and holding her sandwich with the other when her cell phone twittered. She saw with a deep pleasure that it was Blackie. He was calling from his motel in El Paso. He sounded tired.
    “Just got in,” he said. “Talked to some people, picked up a couple of leads on the kid. Looks like his mom has taken him across the border already, probably heading for her parents’ village. I’ll be going over tomorrow.” She heard the sound of a shoe hitting the floor, then another.
    Sheila put down her sandwich, feeling a wrench in her gut. The border area had grown increasingly dangerous, with the cartels murdering members of rival cartels—and law enforcement officers as well. The previous week, two Mexican policemen had been murdered in Piedras Negras, across the Rio Grande from Eagle Pass, and an American tourist had been shot on a highway near Juárez. It was war down there.
    “McQuaid’s going over with you, isn’t he?” she asked, trying not to let the worry leak into her voice.
    “Yeah. He’s getting an early plane out here tomorrow. Don’t worry, Sheila—we’ll be fine.” His voice was strong and sure as it always was, and Sheila pushed her fear down,