Falcon's Run. Aimee Thurlo
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arms—her scent.
Trouble. That’s all that could come of this. Enough.
Before he could say anything else there was a knock on the semi-opened door. It was Gabe Sanchez, an officer from the crime scene unit.
“We’re wrapping up here for now,” he said. “Anything else you need from me?”
“Process the prints as soon as you can,” Preston said, going to meet him. “I’ll be heading to the casino next to follow up on those receipts and chips.”
“Without a warrant? Better come on strong, put your bad cop on and hope it’s enough.”
“We’ll see how far I get,” he said with a shrug.
After Gabe left, Preston went back into the room where Abby waited.
“I gather you’re expecting trouble with the casino staff. If you are, maybe I can help.”
“What’s your connection with that place?”
“Lightning Rod Garner, the former NBA star, is one of the ranch’s biggest supporters. He’s also one of the casino’s main shareholders. Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation. He’s had a few run-ins with the police,” Preston said with a scowl. “Temper, mostly.”
She smiled hesitantly. “I know he can be hard to deal with, particularly if he doesn’t consider you a friend, but deep down, he’s a good man. Let me take you over and introduce you. That should help.”
“I’ll keep your offer in mind, but right now I’d like you to check your files and give me the name of Carl’s next of kin.”
It had been no more than a flash in her eyes, but his link to Falcon helped him see what was necessary. More attuned to Abby now, he sensed worry and nervousness—classic signs that she was holding something back.
“If he had any relatives, he never spoke about them, nor did he list them in his employment application.” Then, in a gentle voice, she added, “He was a solitary man but not an unhappy one. He enjoyed his job and life here at the ranch.”
Falcon’s gaze didn’t miss much. Abby was hiding something from him, and one way or another he was going to find out what that was.
“Carl Woods seems to be surrounded by mystery, but it won’t stay that way for long. No matter how deeply buried, secrets are never safe from me.”
Her eyes widened and as he held her gaze, he saw the unmistakable glimmer of fear.
Chapter Six
Abby handed Carl’s employee file to Preston. “That’s all the information I have.”
Before he could comment, Bobby came in. “My foster mom’s here. I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. I’ll be back just as soon as I can, okay?”
“No, Bobby, stay at home until I call you,” Abby said. “We have to keep the ranch closed for now. It may not be safe for you here.”
“But—” Bobby stopped speaking abruptly, looked at the floor, then back up at her. “Can I talk to you for just a minute—alone?” he added.
Leaving Preston behind, Abby met with Bobby in the kitchen area. “Okay, what’s up?”
“You haven’t been around cops much, Abby, and I want you to know that you can’t always trust them. They might pretend to be your friend, but they’re not.”
“You think Detective Bowman is like that?”
“Probably. When one of the kids at the foster home is hassled by the cops, the officers always come to talk to the rest of us. They try to trick us into telling them stuff so they can put the one they’re after in jail.”
“Maybe the problem isn’t the cops but what the kids did to get the attention of the police.”
“Abby, you’re a good person, but don’t trust him. He thinks you’re keeping secrets from him.”
“What makes you say that?” she asked quickly.
A horn blared outside. “Mrs. Yarrow doesn’t like waiting. I better go.”
Abby watched Bobby hurry to the door, but before he could step outside, Preston stopped him.
“Before you leave, Bobby, how about giving me back my notebook?”
Bobby smiled. “Hey, yeah. You dropped it back at Carl’s place. Guess I forgot to give it back.”
Abby watched the exchange. “He picked your pocket, didn’t he?” she asked as soon as Bobby was gone.
Preston smiled but didn’t answer.
“Don’t be angry with him. I know it was wrong, but he was trying to protect me. In his experience, cops haven’t always been the good guys,” she said. “He’s afraid you might hurt me or the ranch and probably wanted to slow you down.”
“He’s a great little pickpocket—I’ll give him that,” Preston said. “It took me a couple of seconds to notice what he’d done.”
“Are you going to press charges?”
“Nah, I got it back, and I can’t fault him for wanting to protect a friend.”
“He doesn’t have many of those. There’s not a lot of common ground between him and the other boys at the foster home, so they tend to give him a hard time.”
“Kids often target anyone who’s different from them,” Preston said. “That can be especially bad at a foster home because you’re in such close quarters.”
“You’ve dealt with kids from foster homes before?”
“You might say that—I was one,” he said.
“You grew up in foster care?” she asked.
“Yeah. I had a tough time of it until Hosteen Silver, a medicine man from our tribe, decided to foster me. I met my five brothers there at his home,” he said and smiled, remembering. “It took time for us to become a family, but we’re all close now.”
“Bobby would love a chance like that. He wants to know about his tribe, but the only real contact he has is the cook at the foster home, Mrs. Nez.”
“Hosteen Silver was a remarkable man. He gave my brothers and me the confidence we needed to leave the past behind us and take charge of our lives.”
“The kids who come here are all facing tough times. They’re not in charge of anything—not their bodies or their lives. Helping them forget their troubles for a while strengthens them so they can continue their fight.”
He paused for a moment. “You love this ranch and are committed to the work you do. I get that,” he said at last, “but by holding back you’re not helping anyone, least of all yourself.”
Before she could answer, Michelle came rushing in. “We’ve got a problem. Stan was helping out by cleaning the camels’ pen but somehow he ended up in the corner. Now every time he tries to go past Hank, the animal threatens to bite him.”
“I better get over there. Without Carl, this falls to me,” she told Preston. “I think Hank must have misinterpreted something Stan did. Camels are practically famous for holding grudges.”
“I’ll go with you. Maybe I can help,” he said.
They reached the large enclosure a few minutes later. Stan was against the fence opposite the gate wiping a green wet mixture off his shirt. “Hank’s in a bad, bad mood today. He spit at me.”
“Actually, they don’t spit. They throw up on you.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “That doesn’t help much, does it?”
“No,” Stan said, scowling.