Winning Texas (2 page)

“
So what
’
s your best guess on the body?
”
she said, pushing a few strands of hair back into her twisty up-do. She leaned forward, eager to hear whatever the detective had to say. From past experience, she knew that Sharpe could deduce more from a scene than most of his bosses.

“
Female in her twenties, and she
’
s not from around here.
”

“
How do you know?
”

“
The body markings and the tattoos make me think she
’
s from Eastern Europe,
”
Sharpe said, stirring his grits into the runny yellow of his fried eggs.
“
One of her tattoos apparently is in a Slavic language. That
’
s not for publication until the medical examiner weighs in.
”

“
Accident, homicide or suicide?
”

“
Best guess, homicide. Maybe someone smuggled her into the port on a cargo ship. Something went wrong and she ended up being disposed of.
”

“
Seen anything like that before?
”

“
About three years ago. A biker gang was paying the Russian Mafia to bring girls in, but three suffocated in the hold before the ship landed.
”

“
Nasty. I remember seeing those stories. Can
’
t recall the name, but wasn
’
t it some big homegrown Texas gang?
”

“
The Brazos Boys. They were bringing girls from Eastern Europe and sending them to biker bars in Houston, Dallas and San Antonio.
”
Sharpe held up his hand and the waitress came over and refilled their cups.

She sipped the caf
é’
s inky brew, enjoying his companionship and gauging how much time she could spend catching up before heading to the office and filing a new top to the story. He seemed to be in a reflective mood, so she decided to go with it. It was intoxicating to be out of the office, talking to a human being about something besides deadlines and personnel problems.

“
The Boys still around?
”

“
Not to speak of. The judge charged the head honchos with racketeering and murder and sent them away for life. The gang as we know it is kaput.
”

“
So who do you reckon is responsible here?
”

“
Don
’
t know. Could be another prostitution ring, or something entirely different. Could be just a stowaway. I imagine we
’
ll get more clues from the autopsy.
”

They sat for a few more minutes while she picked his brain about human trafficking in Texas. One of the dubious distinctions of Houston, he said, was its notoriety as a hub of trafficking in men and women for the sex trade, and for agricultural work in near-slavery conditions.

“
You got the port, the interstates that connect through Houston and the direct access to the border,
”
he said.
“
Dream territory for smugglers.
”

Annie listened and took more notes until her cell phone rang. She saw that it was Hugh Heller, the website
’
s editor. She excused herself and walked outside to talk. The parking lot of the popular diner was filled with pickups and beat-up compacts, but work loomed and more were leaving than arriving. She saw Sharpe
’
s fading blue Crown Vic parked not far from her Camry.

“
Hey, Hugh. Got more details about the body. I
’
m coming in to file.
”

“
You better feed me what you
’
ve got and I
’
ll top what we already have.
”
Hugh was a legendary rewrite man, a pint-sized, wizened reporter in his sixties who always wore a starched white shirt and skinny dark tie. He could put a story together faster than anyone in the newsroom. He prided himself on usually being first with breaking news on the region
’
s websites.

“
Sure, let me tell my source goodbye. Call you back in a minute.
”

As she hung up, Sharpe shambled out the diner
’
s front door, looking wide-awake at last.

“
Think you inhaled enough battery acid?
”
She joked. His ability to drink mug after mug of bad coffee had always amazed her.

“
Nope, just getting started,
”
Sharpe said.
“
Annie, don
’
t be a stranger. Call if you need anything.
”

“
Thanks, Matt. You know I will.
”

CHAPTER 2

Travis Dunbar woke to the sound of less-than-ladylike snoring next to him on the blow-up mattress. He
’
d never bothered to get a real bed because he kept moving from one small, barely-respectable apartment on the north side of Houston to the next. During the three years he
’
d been at the
Houston Times
, his financial circumstances hadn
’
t improved.

The stentorian sounds emanated from Lila Jo Lemmons, his occasional lover and fellow card-playing enthusiast, who
’
d stayed over after a long night of Texas Hold
’
em in an upscale neighborhood about five miles from his apartment. High-stakes poker was illegal in Texas, but underground games flourished in Houston, mostly in private homes away from police scrutiny. It hadn
’
t taken Travis long to find games and Lila Jo was much more connected than he was.

Neither had found any luck last night. He
’
d blown a few hundred dollars, a serious dent in his meager bank account, while she was out nearly a thousand. Lila Jo, who worked sporadically in real estate and occasionally burnished her finances by selling a multi-million dollar mini-mansion in the Houston suburbs, could absorb her losses a lot easier than he could. He reminded himself that he hadn
’
t gotten a decent raise in the years he
’
d worked as a police reporter for the newspaper
–
and they
’
d hired him cheap to begin with.

He looked at Lila Jo, whose snoring was amplified by too many glasses of cut-rate bourbon at last night
’
s games. Her tousled curly hair was dyed a red not seen in nature and she carried an extra twenty pounds around her waist and hips. But he liked her easy laughter and fun-loving approach to life. She was what his parents would probably call a good old Texas gal, though they
’
d be horrified if they knew he was sharing a mattress on the floor with a woman at least fifteen years his senior. But what could they expect? He wasn
’
t much of a prize for sophisticated Houston women his own age, he reflected, looking at the love handles slopping over his plaid boxer shorts and white T-shirt. He was short, round and his sandy blond hairline was receding faster than his bank account.

His passions were just two
–
journalism and Texas Hold
’
em, but they warred against each other for control of his life. He
’
d started playing the popular poker game while he was a student at UT Arlington and had gotten hooked. But he
’
d settled down and managed to get his journalism degree, and even gave up the game for his first few years as a reporter in the boondocks. Then he
’
d gotten a big-city job in Houston and stumbled into the city
’
s incredible feast of underground poker. He
’
d always heard that Houston was the poker-playing capital of Texas, but he hadn
’
t counted on the number of opportunities that existed for playing every night, if he wanted. Once you earned the trust of regulars, the illegal network flung its doors wide open.

He
’
d resisted regular play until he met Lila Jo at a game three months ago. She helped organize games for a deep-pockets investor and had introduced him to a flamboyant new crowd, where the quality of the play was more comparable to Vegas and the stakes were higher. Now he played with her a couple of nights a week, which he couldn
’
t afford, but it was hard to stay away.

“
Hi, Trav,
”
she said suddenly, yawning and stretching. She wore a large pair of pink panties and nothing else, and gave him a beguiling smile. Travis returned it, but ignored the implied invitation to take up where they
’
d left off a few hours ago.

“
I
’
ll put some coffee on,
”
he said.
“
Got to grab a quick shower and get out of here. But stick around and have a cup or two if you want.
”

“
Thanks, babe,
”
she said.
“
I
’
ve got an open house to check out, so I
’
ll be gone soon.
”

“
How about tonight?
”
she added.
“
There
’
s a game up in The Woodlands.
”

“
Better pass,
”
he said.
“
I
’
m broke until I get paid next week.
”

“
You know I
’
ll spot you,
”
she said, rubbing his thigh.

He better go before he succumbed to the pleasures of the flesh, and to the gambling table.

“
Thanks. May have to work late,
”
he said, patting her shoulder and getting out of bed.

She was a temptation, in many ways, he thought. Lila Jo had been separated for a few years from her husband, a busy construction supervisor, but she didn
’
t seem in any hurry to divorce since he still paid her health insurance. Like Travis, she was a serial mover and had resided at several different addresses in the last year. He admired her entrepreneurial spirit and acceptance of a fair amount of chaos in her living arrangements. When she saw an especially good deal on a condo or suburban ranch, she
’
d buy it and live there until the time was right to repaint it, stage it and sell it. She
’
d offered to cut him in on a deal or two, but he couldn
’
t afford it. As it was, he owed her a few thousand dollars, but she assured him it was no problem. He felt uneasy about it, though. He liked Lila Jo a lot and enjoyed the easy sex, but now he worried about the strings attached to their relationship.

Thirty minutes later, his mood elevated by two cups of coffee, he drove his ten-year-old Honda Accord into downtown Houston, parked in a cheap garage and walked two blocks to the
Times
building. He took his time. He still had a half-hour before he had to be at Annie Price
’
s team meeting.

Because he
’
d grown up in a desolate stretch of rural Texas west of Fort Worth, Travis was still enthralled by Houston. As he looked down the long streets of sleek high-rises, squat midrange buildings and dusty parking garages, he felt a thrill. He imagined the jostling diversity of humanity inside the buildings, from the starched-shirted bankers to the Gucci-loafered oil barons to the jump suited federal prisoners. He thought about the workers hurrying below him through the city
’
s network of tunnels, designed to shield them from the punishing heat. He knew they
’
d be lining up for their coffee and egg-and-cheese bagels in the subterranean cafes. Houston was a crackling city of strivers, stragglers and strays, and sometimes he had trouble figuring out where he fit in. He scanned the people on the street once more, but didn
’
t see any signs of anyone committing news. So he walked into the marble-fronted newspaper building and rode the elevator up to the fifth floor.

The newsroom looked like an insurance office, one that was struggling and hadn
’
t been updated in ten years. As a teenager, Travis had loved the movie,
“
All the President
’
s Men,
”
with its color-coded, accurate representation of the
Washington Post
newsroom. He
’
d expected the
Times
newsroom to look more like that, vibrant and buzzing with important breaking news. But the
Times
office consisted of a sea of gray carpet with off-white desks and low dividers. Even the conversation of reporters and editors seemed muted and mundane. Small glass offices belonging to editors ringed one wall and the access to sunlight was limited to another wall of windows. Since the
Times
building abutted a taller hotel that had been converted to expensive downtown condominiums, there wasn
’
t much of a view.