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Logan smiled at the mumbled answer. “I wish we could stay here with you. But from now on we all have to pitch in and help Jessy for a while. It’s what your grandfather would want.”
Pulling away, his head still down, Quint wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. “Does that mean we’ll move here?”
“No.” He combed some of the dark hair off Quint’s forehead with his fingers. “Jessy is in charge here. She’ll do fine.”
But that didn’t mean she would have an easy time of it, and Logan knew it. Distracted by the sound of light feet running down the stairs, he looked up to see Laura. When she reached the bottom, she made a beeline for Logan.
“Trey is in Grampa’s room. I told him to get out, but he wouldn’t listen.” Her dark eyes snapped with temper.
He had only to look at the anguish in his own son’s face to know that all three of these children were too young to endure this kind of grief. The twins hadn’t been old enough to understand when Ty was killed, but that wasn’t true anymore. He glanced in the direction of the second-floor bedroom.
“It’s all right if Trey stays in your grandpa’s bedroom for a while,” Logan told her.
Dissatisfied with his answer, Laura turned away. “I’m going to tell Mommy.” Off she went.
Chapter Three
With dusk purpling the sky over Fort Worth, the streetlights flickered on. The mix of neon and backlit signs stood out above the storefronts. But the sweltering afternoon temperatures had yet to wane.
The air conditioner in Laredo’s pickup worked mightily to cool the cab’s interior. It brought only modest relief as he cruised down Main Street, a troubled frown creasing his forehead.
This detective business had turned out to be a bit more difficult than he thought it would. So far he had hit every saloon, bar, and restaurant in the Stockyards District, certain the man he called Duke had to have been at one of them on the previous night. Every time he had dragged out his carefully rehearsed spiel that he was supposed to meet a man there but had lost his business card and couldn’t recall his name, then offered his description of him. Each time he had struck out.
That troubled him. Duke was the kind of man who stood out in a crowd, even at his age. Yet no one remembered anyone matching his description. It was always possible that he hadn’t asked the right person. If necessary he would make the rounds again, but later.
Right now his focus was on hotels. Judging from the expensive cut of the suit Duke had been wearing, Laredo had decided to check out the more upscale hotels first. He pulled into the lot of the next one on his list and parked the pickup in an empty space.
Inside the foyer, he located the registration desk but paused before approaching it. At the two other hotels, he had learned that hotel clerks were stingy with information about possible guests, something their patrons probably appreciated, but it didn’t help him. Laredo glanced around and noticed that the bell desk was manned by a Mexican-American. He veered toward him.
“Buenas noches, amigo,” he greeted the man, making use of his fluency in Border Spanish.
“Buenas noches, señor. How can I help you?” the man asked in thickly accented English.
Laredo didn’t make the switch back to his own native tongue. Instead he continued to converse in Spanish, trotting out his customary spiel but giving it a few new wrinkles. Specifically he pleaded hard times, claiming he desperately needed the job the man had offered him.
The bellman repeated Laredo’s description of the man they had dubbed Duke and added a few more details in the form of a question. Laredo brightened immediately.
“Sí, he is one mucho hombre.”
“Ah, señor.” The bellman looked at him with abject regret. “The man you seek ees Señor Chase Calder. Eet grieves me to tell you, but ees dead.”
Startled, Laredo repeated in disbelief, “Dead? Are you sure?”
“Sí. The police, they come here thees afternoon. I hear them talking to the manager. They say his car, eet crashed last night and he ees dead.”
“Gracias.” His mind raced with a dozen possibilities. He started to turn away, then stopped. “Señor Calder, where was he from? Maybe this is the wrong man.”
The bellman lifted his shoulders in a shrug of uncertainty. “Some place up north, I theenk. Maybe Montana. I cannot say for sure.”
“Gracias.” Laredo tapped a hand on the desk in finality and walked out of the hotel.
He climbed back into his pickup and drove out of the lot. This unexpected turn of events meant there was only one place he might get additional information. The next stop was the police station.
The desk sergeant glanced up with disinterest when Laredo walked in, but the glance made a practiced, sweeping appraisal of him just the same.
“What can I do for you?” The question was a half challenge.
“A man by the name of Chase Calder was killed in an auto accident sometime late last night. The family called and asked if I would come down and identify the body and spare them that ordeal. Could you direct me to the morgue?” Laredo counted on the fact that no one else had stepped forward as yet.
