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As I say this, Captain Lightwood and Lieutenant Abrams come around the house, talking low. I only catch the tail end of what Lightwood says—something about dishonoring the Ranger name—before Abrams spots us and hushes the lieutenant.
“Find anything?” Carlos asks them.
The two men climb onto the porch. Abrams is hard to read, but Captain Lightwood’s mood is obvious from his furrowed brow and fiery eyes.
“What we’ve got,” he says, practically growling, “is a big pile of jack shit.”
Roger Lightwood is shorter than average, as lean as a welterweight boxer, with a scrappy demeanor that would deter most men, even much bigger guys, from messing with him. He has rough leathery skin and short black hair that’s barely started to go gray even though he’s well into his fifties.
He’s always reminded me of a pit bull—not the biggest dog in any given fight but still the one you’d probably put your money on. We’ve never worked closely together, which I’ve always been glad about. He’s known for being tough on his Rangers, and I never wanted his scrutiny leveled on me.
Looks like that was a bullet I was only able to dodge so long.
“Yates,” he says, “by your reputation, I sure expected better from you. And, you, Castillo, you really screwed the pooch on this one.”
Carlos and I say nothing.
Sometimes you’ve just got to take your punishment.
Lieutenant Abrams, using a much more amenable tone, explains that thus far none of the searches—here or at Ellis’s or Harvey’s—have borne any results. They’ve found some motorbikes at Ellis’s workplace, but that was expected. And we don’t know enough yet to conclude if any of them match with the crimes. It will take some time to compare blurry street camera footage with the bikes themselves.
Otherwise, there’s nothing—no money, no explosives, and no weapons.
The only gun anyone found was Parker’s old SIG Sauer from his days as a Ranger. It was on a high shelf in his closet, unloaded and covered in a layer of dust.
“What about alibis?” Carlos asks.
“That’s the best part,” Captain Lightwood says sarcastically. “We’ve got half a dozen parents ready to swear on a stack of bibles that Parker was camping all night with his son’s Cub Scout troop. And before you go thinking he snuck out of his tent and drove three hours to San Antonio, shot a cop, and drove back, he and his son shared a tent with the scoutmaster, who’s an early riser and verified that Parker was fast asleep at the precise time of the robbery.”
“What about Ellis and Harvey?” Carlos asks.
Lieutenant Abrams explains that neither of the friends have alibis besides their wives. However, they’ve checked alibis for all three men for all the XYZ crimes over the past year. For nearly all the robberies, at least one of the men has a solid alibi.
“When the armored-truck robbery happened,” he says, “Ellis was in Vermont at his wife’s family reunion. He’s got plane ticket receipts, not to mention two dozen photos from various family members’ phones.
“And the robbery before that,” he adds, “Harvey was at a bachelor party in Las Vegas. Might take a little time to get our hands on security footage verifying what his buddies have had to say, but I’m betting it checks out.”
“And that robbery in Galveston,” Captain Lightwood says gruffly, “that was the same weekend Parker took his kids to Six Flags in Dallas with a couple other families. They’ve got a hundred date-stamped photos and videos to prove it.”
“The bottom line,” Lieutenant Abrams says with equanimity, “is there’s no way these guys are the XYZ Bandits.”
CHAPTER 35
CARLOS SAYS, “JUST because we haven’t found anything—”
“Save it,” Captain Lightwood snaps, waving his hand like he’s swatting away an annoying fly. “You two have done enough damage. You’ve hurt Parker Longbaugh and his family. You’ve hurt the reputation of the Texas Rangers. And you’ve hurt your own careers. If I have anything to say about it, you’ll be busted back down to Ranger,” he says to Carlos. “And you,” he adds, looking at me disdainfully, “you’ll be sitting behind a desk for the rest of your career, filing paperwork for the real Rangers who know how to do their jobs.”
“It wasn’t all their fault,” Lieutenant Abrams says. “I’m the one who pushed for the warrants.”
“I’m not happy with you either,” Lightwood snaps. “But at least you didn’t go behind anyone’s backs. These two, as far as I’m concerned, they’re not fit to wear those badges.”
With that, he turns on the heel of his boot and storms through the front door. The screen door slams behind him.
Lieutenant Abrams looks us up and down. Normally hard to read, his expression is easy to interpret now. He’s disappointed in us.
“I’m sorry, Ty,” I say.
He takes a deep breath. “There’s something else.”
