Low Pressure

“Along with tax rolls, voters registration, the DMV.” She shook her head. “Believe me, I looked. And not just in Texas.”

“He was a cop. He would know how to disappear.”

“He’s not the only thing that went missing,” she said, her tone gaining Dent’s full attention. “With the bribe of a few beers, I talked a detective into letting me review the Susan Lyston case file. I could have saved my bar bill. He reported back that the file was missing.”

“Did you believe him? Maybe he was holding out for a sweeter bribe. I would have.”

She responded to his insinuating smile with an eye roll. “He seemed genuinely perplexed, upset, and embarrassed by his and the police department’s failure to produce the file. I think he genuinely wanted to help.”

“Or he genuinely wanted to get laid and then get an acknowledgment in your book.”

“Not every man thinks like you.”

“Sure they do.” It was a rote response because he appeared to be already concentrating on something else. He was gazing into space and tapping his thumbnail against his front teeth. “I have an idea of who may know where Moody is.”

He stood up and took the telephone book with him. Pointing to her half-empty mug of coffee, he said, “Bring that with you. You can finish it on the way.”

“I can’t go anywhere without first stopping by my house. I’m a mess.”

He looked her over. “Right. Okay. Good, in fact. I’d like to leave my Vette in your garage.”

“Why?”

“It’s too easy for that knife-wielding son of a bitch to spot.”

He pulled into the driveway behind her car. “I’ll switch cars while you’re making the overhaul.”

“I look that bad?”

“Allow yourself at least fifteen minutes.” He was ragging on her, but his rascally smile suddenly reversed itself. “What’s that?”

Propped against her front door was a large manila envelope.

“When I spoke with the house painter yesterday, I asked him to leave an estimate in the mailbox, but I guess the envelope was too large.”

However, when she picked it up and read the bold label stuck to the front of it, her stomach sank. “Van Durbin.”

She worked open the sealing adhesive and removed several eight-by-ten photographs. All of them were of her and Dent. Sorting through them quickly, she said, “These were taken—”

“Yesterday. At the Austin airport.”

Clearly recognizable in the background was the ticketing area where they had stopped at an automated kiosk to pick up their boarding passes for the flight to Atlanta. There was another photograph of them hurrying toward the security check line and one of them in line waiting their turn.

The fourth picture, obviously taken from a distance with a telephoto lens, had been snapped after they’d cleared security and were rushing toward the gate. Their backs were to the camera.

And Dent’s hand was planted solidly on the small of her back.

She went through the photos a second time, now noting that in each shot he was touching her. She didn’t remember there being that much physical contact between them, but the evidence was there.

The most startling picture had been taken while they were waiting in the security check line. He was pulling a small piece of leaf—a holdover from their trip to the neighborhood park—from her hair. It had seemed like nothing at the time. The gesture had lasted no more than a second or two, but the camera had caught them with their faces close, his fingers in her hair. They were smiling into each other’s eyes in a way that was indicative of much more than his teasing remark about being unable to take her anywhere without dusting her off first.

The photos implied an intimacy between them that now made her feel hot, self-conscious, and glad that her back was to him. She cleared her throat. “Van Durbin must have left them here yesterday before tracking us to your apartment last night.”

“Busy guy.” He sounded distracted, and she wondered if he, too, was surprised to find himself caught in such telling tableaus.

“Why did he bother to hand-deliver them?” she asked.

“To let us know that we can run but we can’t hide. I hope the bastard had a rough night in jail.” She sensed his leaning in to get a closer look at the photographs from over her shoulder. Speaking in a low voice, he said, “You know, to look at these, you’d think—”