Chapter 8
11:45 PM…
“What color was the truck?”
While Detective Dixon awaited Chrissy’s answer, Wolf watched him use a blunt-tipped finger on his cell phone’s screen to zoom in on her face.
Gone were the days of pocket notebooks, ink pens, and Sony voice recorders. Now all a cop had to do to take a witness statement was grab his cell phone and record a quick video. Wolf couldn’t help thinking this new protocol lacked a certain…je ne sais quoi.
Of course, what Detective Dixon gave up when it came to old-timey interrogation equipment, he more than made up for with his messy hair, mustard-stained tie, and rumpled sport coat. The man was a Columbo lookalike—sans the glass eye and plus one mustache.
And, yes. Wolf was too young to have watched Peter Falk take down the bad guys in primetime. But his grandmother loved tuning in to the reruns, and he loved his grandmother. Anytime he was back home in Oklahoma, they made a game of seeing who could guess when Columbo would mutter his “just one more thing” catchphrase.
Chrissy shook her head now. “I think it was, like, black or blue. But you know how colors change in the dark. For all I know, it could’ve been maroon.”
“Make?” Modern Columbo asked. “Model?”
“No clue. It wasn’t big like a Dodge Ram or Chevy Silverado. It was smaller than that.” She looked pained that she couldn’t give Dixon more.
Pained and exhausted.
Deep circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes, but she was chalky white everywhere else. Her five feet, nine inches of pure man-eater, built-like-a-brick-shithouse body seemed small and frail inside the hospital bed.
Seeing her so reduced was a total gut punch. Wolf wanted to run Dixon out of the room so he could take her in his arms and stroke her hair while telling her everything would be okay.
Not that she’d thank him if he tried. In fact, she’d probably kick his testicles clean off his body.
A secret grin curved his lips. He’d never met a more stubborn, more independent, morefiercewoman than Chrissy. Well, except for maybe his grandmother.Hiselisihad never batted a lash at charging hell with nothing but a squirt gun.
Perhapsshewas the reason he’d always been drawn to strong, bullheaded women.
“And the two men?” Dixon pressed. “You’resureyou didn’t recognize them?”
Chrissy closed her eyes like she was trying to picture the men in the warehouse. To the casual onlooker, she appeared completely poised beneath her pallor. But Wolf noticed the way her shoulder stiffened, saw the little beads of sweat that popped out on her upper lip.
He’d seen his share of bloodshed and butchering. Which meant he knew exactly what was playing out on the backs of her eyelids.
The doctors had said it was a piece of .45 caliber that exited Winston’s chest, and that kind of ammo could do some serious damage at close range. Despite what it was costing her peace of mind, Chrissy was forcing herself to relive that horror.
Brave, he thought.Add brave to the list of her attributes.
A list that was already longer than a south Texas summer.
“Everything’s hazy,” she finally muttered, a deep frown wrinkling her brow. “I don’t know if it’s the pain meds or what, but my brain feels like a smoking wreckage and I’m sitting here trying to sift through it for the black box and—”
When she stopped suddenly, Detective Dixon’s posture changed. He reminded Wolf of Wolf’s uncle’s old bird dog when it was on point.
“What?” Dixon’s voice rose an octave. “Are you remembering something?”
“The big guy…” Chrissy said. She always spoke with the laid-back cadence of the islands, but those three words came out even more slowly than usual. “Something about the way he moved sends an odd feeling sliding across the back of my brain. It’s not quite recognition, but…” She opened her eyes and shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. I have the mind of a goldfish tonight.”
“It’s fine.” Dixon stopped recording and pocketed his phone. “You’ve given me a place to start.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a business card. “I’m going to leave this with you. If you remember anything else, please don’t hesitate to call.” After depositing his card on the small table next to Chrissy’s hospital bed, he turned to leave.
She stopped him with, “Detective Dixon? Why did those men try to kill us?” Her voice sounded small, nothing like the confident, strident tenor Wolf was used to hearing from her.
His feet instinctively inched closer to her hospital bed.
“The forensic unit hasn’t finished their job at the warehouse, so I can’t say for sure.” The detective had a bushy set of dark eyebrows that formed a near perfect V when he scowled. “But if I had to lay down odds, I’d bet ten to one this is about cocaine.”
