“I know who Rachel is,” Rawley interrupted with a grin.
“Just making sure you remembered. You know because of your age,” Bobby shot back, and they both laughed.
“Fuck you.”
“I told her how beautiful this spread was. We’re looking for a new place to ride, and I figured—”
“—you’d ask permission,” Rawley finished. “Sure. Just park the hauler behind the tool shed so it’s out of the way.”
“Yes, sir. Got it.”
“Just keep clear of the cattle. There are riding trails all around the ranch. If you start by the east fence, you’ll see a nice trail.”
“Alright. Any days you’d rather we stayed away?”
“During the week. Weekends are best, my crew’s lighter then.” Rawley folded his arms. “No need to check in. Just ride when you want.”
“I appreciate it, Agent.”
Rawley shook his head, the morning sun warm on his back. “When are you gonna drop the formalities and call me Rawley?”
“When you stop calling me Stringbean.”
Rawley laughed. “Never mind, Agent is fine.”
Bobby chuckled as he shook his hand. “Thanks. I’ll see you soon.”
“You bet.” Rawley watched as Bobby climbed into the cab, the engine’s rumble fading as the truck rolled back down the dusty drive. He exhaled a slow breath, half amused, half proud. Sometimes, community service does work, and Bobby Gibbs was proof enough.
Monday morning, he entered the courthouse building, carrying his cup of coffee, and strode toward the elevator. He pushed the button to wait. When the doors slid open, he stepped into the elevator and put his hand on the door to keep them open, when someone yelled out to hold the elevator.
When the man stepped in, Rawley almost groaned. Of all the judges to be in an elevator with…
“Good morning, Agent Bowman,” the judge said.
“Good morning, Your Honor.”
“How was your weekend?”
“It was nice. How was yours, sir?” Rawley looked at him to see him staring at him.
“It would have been nice if my son would have come for a visit.”
“Maybe your son was busy.”
“Agent Bowman, no one should be too busy to see family. One day, I won’t be here.”
“You going on vacation?” Rawley bit his lip to hold back a grin.
“You are a smartass. You know that?”
“Yes, sir.” Rawley chuckled as the elevator stopped on his floor. As the doors slid open, he stepped out, then looked at the judge. “I’ll see you Sunday, Dad.”
His father laughed as the doors closed and Rawley entered the office, the smell of stale coffee and printer toner hanging in the air. He strode to his desk, removed his Stetson, and after hanging it on the coat rack, he pulled the squeaky chair out from under the desk, set his coffee down, and fired up the computer. The screen cast a blue glow across his face as he scrolled through more tire track photos from the crime scene. The shoe prints weren’t going to be easy since most of them looked like they were smooth soles, probably cowboy boots.
As he sat there watching the screen, his eyes burning slightly from lack of sleep, the database flashed a match on a set of tires. He was right, it had been an eighteen-wheeler with distinctive treads. If they had done this in the mud, that truck would be stuck like a pig in quicksand, but since the ground was hard as concrete that night, they’d have been able to slip in and out without being seen.
“Morning, Rawley,” a familiar voice said.
