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My real priority is Parker: finding out if my suspicions about his friends are unfounded or—God forbid—merited. So, after a quick lunch, I hit the road and head toward Parker’s place. I call Carlos on the way.
“Lubbock morgue,” he says upon answering. “You stab ’em, we slab ’em.”
“That isn’t very funny,” I say, not particularly in the mood for gallows humor.
“You know what else isn’t funny?” Carlos asks.
“What?”
“You.”
I can’t help it—this brings a smile to my face.
When I got back to the hotel last night, I called Carlos to fill him in about Ellis and Harvey—and their previous occupations. He said he’d look into their backgrounds to see what he could find.
“Nothing yet,” he reports. “Neither has a criminal record. Started looking into their financials and can’t find anything suspicious yet. No big expenditures of money. Nothing on paper anyway.”
“Neither of them walked into a bank in the last year scoping it out?” I ask.
“Not that I can find,” he says. “Looks like that’s Parker’s job.”
“Ifit’s them,” I say.
“If,” he agrees. “We sure as hell don’t have anything solid yet.”
In the warm light of day, I’m starting to feel like my suspicions last night were unfounded. The idea of Parker and his drinking buddies turning out to be the XYZ Bandits now seems silly.
“It would be nice to know if any of them have alibis for the dates of the robberies,” I say.
“Let me probe around a little bit more,” he tells me. “I might not be able to find that out, but maybe I can find something useful.”
I hang up as I’m passing the grain elevator. It doesn’t look quite so spooky in the bright sunlight. Just a run-down old building, like you see in lots of Texas farm country.
When I pull into Parker’s driveway, I find Josie on the porch, snapping off the ends of green beans and separating the pieces into paper sacks. Today, she’s wearing a pretty yellow sundress, and she hits me with one of her smiles that can put anyone in a good mood. I spot the kids in the back of the yard, climbing around the fallen oak and the woodpile next to it.
No sign of Parker.
“Howdy, stranger,” she says.
I tip the brim of my hat. “Parker around?”
“He’s in the barn,” she says, rising to her feet. “I was just about to bring him a glass of lemonade. Come in for a minute and I’ll send you out there with two.”
I follow her into the kitchen, where she pulls a pitcher out of the fridge.
“So,” she says, giving me a sidelong glance, “what’s this I hear about you dating a country-music singer?”
“We broke up a while back,” I say. “I’ve got a new girlfriend now. A college professor.”
She raises her eyes, impressed.
“What subject?”
“English.”
She grins. “Does she correct your grammar?”
I laugh. “Luckily, no.”
