Free Sinclair Justice by Colleen Shannon Page A

across from Ms. Doyle at a cute diner several miles from downtown Amarillo, Emm swallowed the last of her sweet tea, wiped her mouth, and pushed her half-empty salad plate away. She’d spent most of the luncheon talking about Yancy and Jennifer; not just the facts of the case but who they were and why she was so worried about them. She knew Yancy, and possibly Jennifer, too, would resist captivity even if it meant extreme peril. “I . . . have a feeling if they’re not found soon, it will be too late,” she said, signaling for the check as Ms. Doyle’s phone rang.
    Ms. Doyle rummaged in her briefcase and removed her cell phone. She glanced at the caller ID, then put the phone back in her briefcase without comment. “You do realize it may already be too late,” she said gently.
    Emm nodded, a knot in her throat. Her fingers trembled a bit as she opened her wallet, but a large, gentle hand took the tab away from her.
    Ms. Doyle nodded at the waitress, brandishing a credit card. “Allow me,” she said over Emm’s protests. “Your story has been most elucidating and this is a deductible expense for me.”
    Emm couldn’t argue with that.
    After she signed the bill, tipped and thanked the waitress, and pocketed her card, Ms. Doyle rose, sweeping a hand before her toward the exit. Their cars were parked next to each other. “You have my card,” Ms. Doyle said. “Call me if you think of anything else pertinent.” She gave what was, Emm suspected, a warm smile for her severe countenance. “Call even if you don’t. I don’t know anyone here either. I’m about to go to the DPS offices. They’ve hired my services to assist them with drug interdiction, but drug and human trafficking are most often committed by the same cartels, so there is much crossover data.”
    Emm nodded, waved, and got into her own car. That night, after another light restaurant meal that didn’t appeal to her, she scowled at her silent cell phone. She’d hoped all day it would ring with Ross’s number. She was expecting him to call with the evidence warehouse address so she could view the pipe. She hoped he hadn’t gotten cold feet. . . .
    She tried to concentrate on the historic study she was writing on a building she’d surveyed in Baltimore before she left. The investigation with Ross hadn’t taken much of her time so far, so she was scrupulous enough to put in her hours in other ways, and she had plenty of work. This particular building had been purchased recently by an experienced developer of historic properties. His intent was to do an apartment loft conversion, but his initial application for historic tax credits had been denied. He’d appealed that decision, bumping it up to Emm.
    She already knew the building, so reviewing the pictures, plans, and current zoning information should have been easy for her. Instead, she was having a hard time concentrating. She started when a firm knock came at the door. She was in her teddy, sipping a glass of wine, so she called out, “Give me a minute,” while she dug through her suitcase for her robe. She finally found it and wrapped it tightly around herself. There was a view hole in the door, but she wasn’t surprised to find it opaque. Lots of little things tended not to work in old buildings. Besides, she felt entirely safe, so she flung the door open.
    “Oh, hello . . . Ross. Mr. Sinclair.”
    Ross smiled. “I like the first one better.”
    She flushed as a thorough blue gaze ran over her from her mussed hair to her makeup-less face and down the old chenille robe, fraying at the sleeves, to her slippered feet. Wishing she’d taken time to buy that new robe she’d kept promising herself, she opened the door wide and stepped back. “Would you like to come in?”
    “For just a moment.” He entered as she closed the door. With that all-seeing, all-encompassing gaze she’d noticed the first time she’d met him, when he wrote her the ticket, he took in her worktable, laptop, files,