Texas Tall (The Tylers of Texas 3)

“I’ll be fine. There’s no way it could’ve been anything but self-defense.” Will glanced down the road and saw the flicker of approaching red lights. “Just take Erin and go. She doesn’t need to be part of this. I’ll call you later.”

Tori needed no more urging. She raced with Erin to her car, backed away from the truck and turned for home. Will stood watching her taillights as she drove past the oncoming sheriff ’s vehicle and the ambulance. No one tried to stop her.

Moments later, Blanco County sheriff Abner Sweeney pulled up in his tan SUV. A deputy rode beside him in the passenger seat. The ambulance parked behind him.

Sweeney, a short, pugnacious redhead whose manner had become even cockier since winning the recent election, climbed out of the vehicle. Trailed by his deputy, he stalked up to where Will stood.

“So where’s the body, Tyler?” he demanded.

“Around there.” Will nodded to the other side of the truck. “I covered him out of common decency, but I didn’t touch anything else. I admit to shooting the man, but I fired in self-defense.”

“How can I be sure of that?” Sweeny’s chin jutted as he glowered up at Will’s imposing height. His hand rested on the butt of his pistol.

“You’ll see his gun on the ground and the knife still in his right hand,” Will said. “And you won’t find my prints on anything.”

“Did you check his pulse to make sure he was dead?”

“Didn’t have to. A thirty-eight blows a mighty big hole, especially at close range. And I know dead when I see it.”

Two more deputies had come out of the ambulance with an evidence kit, a stretcher, and a folded body bag. After donning latex gloves, they peeled back the blanket to reveal the dead man sprawled in the headlights of Will’s truck. His helmet was still in place. Blood from an ugly chest wound had soaked the shirt beneath his leather jacket. One deputy began taking photos of the scene with a small camera, the flash making little bursts of light. Another checked the motorcycle, pulling a packet of white powder from one of the panniers.

Sheriff Sweeney frowned at the body, then turned back to Will. “He’s deceased, all right. Suppose you tell me what happened.”

Will related the story to the best of his recollection. He hadn’t wanted to mention that Erin was with him, but realized that it might come to light later. Better to come clean now than be caught in a lie.

“So your daughter was a witness. Where is she?” Sweeney demanded.

“I called her mother to come get her. And she wasn’t really a witness. I ordered her down on the floor when the bastard showed up. She didn’t see anything.”

“So why would you send her away? Is there some reason you don’t want me to question her?” The sheriff ’s eyes narrowed, as if he suspected some dark, hidden secret.

“You have children, Sweeney. Would you put your young daughter through something like this? If you need to talk to Erin, you can do it tomorrow—with her mother present.”

“I’ll do that.” Sweeny ruminated a moment, maybe remembering that Tori was a lawyer. Abruptly he changed his tack. “You say you’d gotten out to change a flat tire. So what were you doing with a gun?”

The little man seemed determined to prove some kind of wrongdoing. Will’s nerves were screaming, but he forced himself to answer calmly. “I already told you. I’d hit something on the road, and I took the gun because I thought it might be an animal. It wasn’t, but when the motorcyclist showed up with weapons, I used that gun to protect my daughter.”

“And you thought the man was the robber we were after?”

“Yes, until I called the dispatcher. By then, he was already dead.”

“Did you look at his face? Maybe raise that visor on his helmet?”

“I told you, I knew better than to touch him.”

“Then what do you say we have a look? Maybe somebody here will recognize him.” Sweeny turned toward the dead man. By now, the deputies were gathering up the evidence, preparing to bag the body and lift it onto the stretcher. One of them had already taken Will’s .38.

The sheriff wasn’t wearing gloves. He motioned for one of the deputies to remove the helmet.

As the visor came up and the helmet was lifted free, Will’s pulse lurched. He exhaled, his breath whistling through his teeth.

The sheriff ’s shoulders sagged as if he’d been gut kicked. “God and Jesus,” he muttered.

There could be no mistaking the swarthy features and the shaved head with its black Maori tattoos. The man Will had shot dead was Nick Tomescu, the brother of Stella Rawlins, who owned the Blue Coyote.

CHAPTER 2

Slumped on a stool in the darkened bar, Stella Rawlins crushed the butt of her last Marlboro in the overflowing ashtray. Her head ached, and her feet throbbed in their cherry-red high-heeled cowgirl boots. Beneath the black silk blouse she wore, her 38DD bra had chafed a raw line around her ribs. It was well after midnight and the Blue Coyote had been closed for an hour. But she didn’t want to leave until her brother Nick showed up—and he was seriously overdue.