She gaped at me, then sputtered, then threw her hands up, utterly frustrated.
“Use your words.”
“He’s not a serial killer.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t know that,” I said, totally winning.
“Oh… my god.” She was annoyed. “Why do I turn into a fourteen-year-old every time I’m near you?”
“I do that to a lot of people.”
“The lab just called,” Uncle Bob said, totally interrupting. “The oil at the grave site is used oil of all types, motor oil, cooking oil, industrial lubricants… They think it was slated for a recycling plant and the truck driver dumped it on that land instead.”
“Okay, then why that land in particular?”
“I don’t know, pumpkin. We’re still working on it.”
He went back to talking on the phone.
“Why are you in therapy?” I asked Wyatt.
“Charley,” Gemma said, scolding me once again.
“It’s okay, Gem.” He refocused on me. “According to my supervisor, I have anger issues.”
“And why would he think that?”
Gemma’s mouth thinned, chastising me. “You don’t have to talk about this, Wyatt, if you aren’t comfortable.”
“No, it doesn’t matter anyway. Anyone with a laptop can find out. According to the department, I have a problem with men who use violence against women. I used excessive force to bring a man to the ground who was hitting his wife with a nine iron.”
After a startled gasp, I said, “Well, good for you.”
“Yeah, well, he has money and connections. I almost lost my job. But if I hadn’t been ordered to do six months of therapy, I would never have met Gemma.”
I liked him.
“You know, I have everything back at my place. All of my notes. I’ve been investigating the girl kind of obsessively since I became a cop. I have to get back on duty, but —”
“This takes precedence,” Uncle Bob said. “I’ll call your sergeant and let him know you’re helping with an ongoing investigation.”
“Perfect,” I said, clasping my hands together. “Then that’s where we’ll start. After we eat, of course.”
Reyes brought out green chili stew and a couple of quesadillas for us to share. I batted my lashes and promised to tip him later. It was no wonder he kept brushing across me as he helped the server set down our plates. The guy was such a rake.
“So what did you do next?” I asked Wyatt after taking a bite of hot stew.
“I woke up the counselors,” he said, dipping his quesadilla. “They called the sheriff’s office. A deputy came out. One.” He wiped his mouth on a napkin. “That was it. I kept trying to tell them there was a little girl lost in the area, but no one believed me. The deputy actually implied that I’d been scratched by a raccoon or a coyote or something.”
“In their defense,” I said, “those scratches had to be pretty deep for fingernails, considering your scars.”
“Not really. After everything that had happened, the scratches got infected. My parents had to come get me from my grandparents’ house early that summer to take me to a doctor in Albuquerque, and I had to go through a round of rabies shots, because the deputy on the night shift couldn’t tell the difference between a coyote’s track and a human’s.”
“Oh,” I said. “That sucks.”
“Still, he did find tire impressions that didn’t belong to our bus.”
“What did they belong to?”
“A few of the other kids thought we saw a pickup the next morning, but the deputy said it was probably just a ranch hand.”
“A ranch hand?” I asked, taking a sip of iced tea. “You guys were on a ranch?”
“Yeah. But I’ve been investigating. I can’t find any links to a missing girl and a ranch hand.”
“Who owned it? The land you were on?”
“A family by the name of Knight.”
I tensed in alarm. Mostly to keep myself from falling over.
Uncle Bob was just as shocked as I was. “The mass grave site is on a ranch owned by a Knight family.”
“No shit? Wait, I remember something about that.” He closed his eyes and thought back. “Yes, that ranch was owned by a Carl Knight, and I remember discovering that he had a brother who owned a ranch in southern New Mexico.”
“Brothers?” I asked, thrilled that we were getting places. Maybe not anywhere near a solid conviction, but places. “I’d say we have a pretty strong connection now.”
Uncle Bob nodded and started looking up a contact on his phone. He stood to call in our findings. No idea to whom. Cookie wiggled in her seat and clapped, exhilarated to be in on the conquest, especially one so heartbreaking. We were still miles away from a suspect, but every inch brought us closer to the truth, and the women in my apartment deserved at least that.
“So,” I said to Wyatt, “you said you’ve been obsessed? Have you found anything out about the girl?”
“Um, a little, yes.”
My hopes soared like a kite in the wind. “Do you have a name?”
“No.”
And crash landing.
“But I have tons of research materials at my place. You’re welcome to go through it.”
“I have to admit, Officer Pierce, I’m a little in love with you right now.”