When they’d reached the line shack and Trapper had explained to Kerra how he planned to ditch the stolen vehicle and throw Sheriff Addison off their trail, she’d been flabbergasted.
“You manipulated Hank so well, even I believed you,” she’d told him. “How do you know he’ll tattle?”
“Because he always comes clean. He’ll have been on the phone with Glenn in a matter of seconds.”
He’d explained that Glenn and Hank would judiciously wait till morning to come to the shack and that by that time he and Kerra would be long gone. Through the windshield there had been absolutely nothing to see except for the darkness, dervishes of snow, and the vague outline of an inhospitable looking structure. “Long gone to where?” she’d asked.
That’s when he’d told her the second half of his plan, and they’d begun the seemingly interminable wait for Carson Rime, who’d had to rely on GPS coordinates to locate them. Trapper had kept the SUV’s engine running so they could use the heater. He had urged her to recline her seat and sleep while he kept vigil.
She had leaned her seat back as far as it would go, but she never went to sleep. She had been chilled and tired and plagued with the fear that she was engaging in something doomed to end in disaster.
The lawyer had finally found them. On the way back, he’d talked nonstop, telling anecdotes about his clients, until they’d reached the motel, which he’d designated as “perfect for their purposes.”
Now, Trapper polished off his sandwich, took a sip of coffee, and said to Carson, “Tell me about Thomas Wilcox’s daughter.”
“Name, Tiffany. She came along late in the marriage. He and his wife, Greta, doted on the kid. Which you’d think would make her a spoiled rich brat. But looks like she was everything a parent could hope for. Straight A student. Lots of friends.” He enumerated her achievements and told them she’d excelled at horseback riding. “The English kind. Little saddles, funny hats, fences to jump.”
“Boyfriends?”
“You know how those private all-girl schools get together with all-boy schools for dances? Like that. But no one steady, nobody unsavory, nobody her daddy would disapprove.”
“So no sex scandals, abortions, nothing like that?”
“If there was such, my research assistant didn’t find it.”
Trapper gave him an arch look. “Did your research assistant learn if Tiffany Wilcox was ever in trouble with the police?”
“Un-huh. Not even a traffic ticket.”
“Drugs?”
“Not unless you count the overdose that killed her.”
Trapper exchanged a look with Kerra before he went back to Carson. The attorney shrugged. “The obituary said she died of respiratory ‘complications,’ when it was actually respiratory arrest. Basically she stopped breathing and died of asphyxiation. And she stopped breathing after ingesting a massive amount of heroin. Official ruling was accidental intravenous overdose.”
“Self-administered?”
“That could be what the Wilcoxes wanted hushed up.”
“Could be? Or…?”
“You’re the investigator, Trapper, not me. It’s all foggy.”
“Is this research assistant reliable?”
“Reliably criminal. But I trust the information because he owes me a favor.” Looking at Kerra, he added, “I got his last sentence reduced to time served.”
Trapper ran his hand over his bristly jaw. “Where was she?”
“The Wilcox girl? When she died? Don’t know. My assistant didn’t get that.”
“Who found her?”
“Didn’t get that, either. She was pronounced DOA at Presbyterian Hospital in Dallas. After the autopsy her body was cremated. No funeral. No nothing. Her horse was donated to a ranch that has riding programs for autistic kids, and this is no nag, it’s a fancy horse.
“The music room at her school has been named after her, but, at the Wilcoxes’ request, there was no big to-do made over it. It’s like Tiffany…” He made a fluttering motion with his fingers to indicate that she’d been dispersed into the air.
A car horn sounded. “My signal.” Carson stood up and divided a look of worry between them, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Wilcox walks in tall cotton. Y’all know what you’re doing?”