Chapter Eighteen
Chapter One
Paul Grayhorse stepped back into the shadows as a jagged flash of lightning sliced across the darkened New Mexico sky. He had a bad feeling about tonight, and it had nothing to do with the storm raging around him.
Ignoring the pain coming from deep inside his right shoulder, he remained focused. The bullet wound had healed, but the nagging ache that remained was a reminder that even the briefest lapse in attention could have devastating results. In less than three seconds, a sniper had taken the life of his partner, Deputy U.S. Marshal Judy Whitacre. Her death, and the high caliber bullet that had torn through his own shoulder that day, had changed his life forever.
He shook off the bitter memory as he continued to keep watch. It was a typically cold, rainless New Mexico storm, one of hundreds he’d seen while growing up in the Four Corners. There was the usual blend of wind and stinging dust, but no rain or sleet to ease the parched desert.
Given a choice, most people would have stayed inside on an October night like this one. That’s where he should have been, too, sitting in his armchair, beer in hand, watching the football game next to a bowl of corn tortilla chips and hot salsa.
Yet here he was, standing on the lawn beside an old brick office building in downtown Hartley waiting for an arranged meeting with a mysterious, prospective client.
The skies rumbled again and the ground shook, rattling windows all the way down the block. Tense and ever alert, he kept his gaze on the darkened street. He’d considered staying in his parked truck, but this wasn’t a stakeout, and his visibility and mobility would be restricted inside the cab of his pickup.
Tonight was a first. Since leaving the U.S. Marshals Service he’d worked several cases that had involved teaming up with his brothers, but this time he was going solo, and he liked it.
The woman who’d called his agency asking for help had captured his interest right from the get-go. Yolanda—at least that was the name she’d used—had dialed his office late last night. She’d spoken in a harsh whisper, her words coming out in a rush. Certain that her abusive, soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, an officer in the Hartley P.D., would be at his own home tonight watching the game, she’d insisted on meeting in this tiny downtown park after hours. It was near her workplace, she’d said, and on her way home.
All things considered, Yolanda, or whoever she was, had come to the right P.I. He’d never had much patience with bullies, particularly those who preyed on women.
As the minutes stretched by and the temperature continued to drop, he reached into his pocket for his cell phone and dialed his foster brother, Preston.
Like it was with all his foster brothers, Preston and he had come from completely different backgrounds. Yet, once they’d been taken in by Hosteen Silver, the traditionalist Navajo medicine man who’d become their foster father, they’d grown as close, or closer, than blood brothers.
Preston Bowman, now a Hartley Police detective, lived for his job. Even though it was getting close to seven, Paul knew his brother would still be clocked in.
Preston picked up on the first ring and barked his name.
“It’s me,” Paul said.
“What’s up?” Preston asked.
“I’m supposed to meet a client—Yolanda—no last name. She contacted me last night claiming she’d been trying to break up with her boyfriend, a Hartley cop. He’s apparently started using her as a punching bag, so she’s asked for my protection.”
“Hook her up with the chief’s office or Internal Affairs. We have ways of dealing with this kind of thing,” Preston answered immediately.
“I suggested that, but she doesn’t trust the police. She thinks they’ll cover for one of their own.”
“No way. We try to keep things in-house, sure, but we make sure the situation gets handled. We take a dim view of domestic abuse,” he said. “Give her my number and tell her to come see me.”
“I’ll pass that on when she shows up, but if she says no, I’m taking her case.”
“You’re waiting for her right now?”
“Yeah. She’s late. She said six-thirty.”
“You thinking maybe her boyfriend found out she was looking for help?”
“The thought occurred to me, yeah,” Paul said.
“She wouldn’t give you a last name?”
“Nope. She was whispering when she called, so wherever she was, she was worried about being overheard. All I got was a description so I could spot her,” Paul said.
“Go on.”
“Blonde, five foot seven, average build. She said she’d be driving a green Ford SUV, wearing a denim jacket and jeans, and carrying a red handbag. She sound familiar?”
“You mean do I know an officer with a girlfriend named Yolanda who fits that bill?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell. Give me her number and I’ll run it through the system.”
Paul gave him the number straight from his caller ID, then waited.
“That matches a residential landline for a woman named Yolanda Sharpe. The address is on Hartley’s south side—485 Conejo Road. Hang on a sec. Here’s more. Yolanda’s got a record—shoplifting, check fraud and a few misdemeanors,” Preston said. “She’s served six months jail time.”
“Interesting background, but she still doesn’t deserve to get batted around.”
“True, but I think you should back off, at least for now. Look at the facts. She didn’t give you her full name or even the first name of her boyfriend. Now she’s late. Who knows what might have gone down? What if the boyfriend shows up instead, mad as hell and looking for a fight? With that bum shoulder, if he comes at you, you’re going down hard.”
“Like hell.”
“Look, bro, something’s off. You felt that too or you wouldn’t have called,” Preston said. “Anyone who checks you out on the internet knows you like riding to the rescue. Remember that roughneck you threw out
