Rain Gods (Hackberry Holland 2)

?The guy?s a prick,? she replied.

?I don?t know who?s worse, you or Maydeen. Will y?all stop using that kind of language while you?re on the job??

?I heard him talking outside on his cell. I think they know the identity of the witness who called in the shots fired. They think you know his identity, too. They think you?re protecting him.?

?Why would I protect a nine-one-one caller??

?You have a cousin name of William Robert Holland??

?What about him??

?I heard Clawson use the name, that?s all. I got the impression Holland might be your relative, that maybe he knows the nine-one-one caller. I was hearing only half of the conversation.?

?Don?t go anywhere,? Hackberry said. He went into his office and found the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent?s business card centered squarely in the middle of his desk blotter. A cell phone number was written across the top; the area code was 713, Houston. He punched in the number on his desk phone.

?Clawson,? a man?s voice said.

?This is Sheriff Holland. I?m sorry I missed you this morning. What can I help you with??

?I tried your home, but your message machine wasn?t on.?

?It doesn?t always work. What is it you want to know??

?A significant lapse of time occurred between your discovery of the bodies out by the church and your call to your dispatcher. Can you clear me up on that??

?I?m not quite sure what the question is.?

?You wanted to dig them up by yourself??

?We?re short on manpower.?

?Are you related to a former Texas Ranger by the name of??

?Billy Bob Holland, yeah, I am. He?s an attorney. So am I, although I don?t practice anymore.?

?That?s interesting. We need to have a chat, Sheriff Holland. I don?t like getting to a crime scene hours after local law enforcement has tracked it up from one end to the other.?

?Why is ICE involved in a homicide investigation?? Hackberry asked. He could hear the chain rattling on the flagpole, a trash can clattering drily on a curbstone. ?Do you have the identity of the nine-one-one caller??

?I?m not at liberty to discuss that right now.?

?Excuse me, sir, but I have the impression that you consider a con versation a monologue in which other people answer your questions. Don?t come bird-dogging my deputies again.?

?What did you say??

Hackberry replaced the receiver in the phone cradle. He walked back into the outer office. Pam Tibbs looked up from her paperwork, a slice of sunlight cutting her face. Her eyes were a deep brown, bright, fixed on his, waiting.

?You drive,? he said.

THE AIR WAS muggy and warm when she parked the cruiser in the abandoned Pure filling station across from the stucco shell of the old church. Hackb

erry got out on the passenger side and looked at the phone booth on the perimeter of the concrete. The clear plastic panels were sprayed and scratched with graffiti, the phone box itself unbolted and removed. The sun had gone behind a cloud, and the hills had turned as dark as a bruise.

?The feds took the box?? Pam said.

?They?ll dust it and all the coins inside and keep us out of the loop at the same time.?

?Who owns the land behind the church??