“Yeah, but what?”
Nash had been largely silent for most of the explanation. At this, he straightened. “I’ve got an idea.”
Nash slid back into the driver’s seat. “How long do you think it’ll take Robert to figure out that we convinced the doctor to keep him at the hospital under supervision?”
Rowan shut the door and crossed another name off their list. “Hopefully long enough for us to get through Phase 1 of your plan.”
They’d spent the morning quietly checking everywhere somebody might legally stay to see if someone with a Texas driver’s license had registered in the past three weeks. Nash didn’t know if they’d get a hit or not. If their perp or perps thought their gaslighting campaign was successful, they might not expect Rowan to follow up on this kind of a lead. They might have gotten sloppy. Or he and Rowan were running around on a wild goose chase. Either way, it made her feel like she was doing something active instead of waiting for the next thing to happen.
“He’s gonna be pissed,” Nash observed. “He doesn’t want a babysitter.”
“I can handle him pissed. I’ve been handling his grumpy ass for weeks. Whether he likes it or not, he’s not up to full strength. So far they haven’t targeted him, but I’m not willing to risk it.”
“Fair enough.” Cranking the truck, Nash pulled out of the parking lot of the Mockingbird Motel. “With the Babylon and the motel crossed off, all we’ve got left around Wishful is the campground and RV park up near Hope Springs. If we don’t get a hit there, we may need to cast a wider net.”
The drive to the campground took a while, as they had to circle around the massive lake to the opposite side. Rowan stayed quiet. Nash couldn’t get a read on whether she was pensive, worried, or just plain tired. Neither of them had gotten much sleep last night.
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t look at him as she spoke.
“For what?”
“For how I acted. For shutting you out. You’ve been nothing but kind and supportive through everything, and I...” She trailed off on a frustrated sigh.
“You reacted. That’s human. Somebody’s working really damned hard to make you doubt yourself, and I played right into that.”
“Still, I’ve had few enough allies in this, and I shouldn’t have snapped. So I’m sorry.” She finally glanced his way. “For what it’s worth, I’m really glad I’m not in this alone anymore.”
Nash reached out to tangle his fingers with hers. “Me, too.”
“I want it over. I want my life back. And I think—maybe—when I get to that point, I want to leave Houston.”
He had to force himself to keep his eyes on the road, his voice nonchalant. “Yeah?”
“Even if I’m proved right, I’ll never go back to being a part of that department. There are people there who will never trust me again. I don’t want to stay in an environment like that. I don’t think I can.”
She wanted to leave Houston. It was way the hell too soon to push her for whether that meant she wanted to come here. There was too much up in the air, too much left to be resolved. And they were...well, he didn’t know exactly what they were yet.
“Does it hurt?”
That startled him enough to look at her. The corners of her mouth were quirked in the barest of smiles.
“Does what hurt?”
“Where you were biting your tongue. I know you’re thinking about that open position at Wishful PD. Robert mentioned it to me, too.”
“I’m not here to pressure you about anything.”
“No, you wouldn’t. That’s not your way, is it?”
“Not generally.”
She looked away again. “I wasn’t looking for you. But here you are. Here this is.” Her fingers squeezed around his. “So yeah, I’m factoring that into the equation when I think about my next move.”
His lips curved. “Can’t ask for more than that.” Not yet, anyway.
The “office” of the campground was an RV that apparently stayed in place year round. Being on this side of the lake, it was technically out of his jurisdiction, but he hoped the manager would be cooperative. Nash knocked on the door.
A balding man in an ancient cardigan answered, a pair of glasses sliding down his nose. “Help you?”
“Hope so, sir. I’m Officer Brewer, Wishful Police Department. This is Officer Beale. We’re investigating a shooting—”
“A shooting! Where? Did somebody die?”
Rowan picked up the thread. “We’re not at liberty to say, sir. But we have reason to believe that the perpetrator may have been staying somewhere in or around Wishful over the past three weeks. We’re checking anywhere that might have had vacancies during that time to see if someone registered with a Texas driver’s license or car tag.”
“Well now, we don’t have a lot of traffic this time of year. Can’t say as I remember where the few we’ve had were from. People come from all over, you know.”
“Yes, sir. Do you maintain any records you could check?” Nash prompted.
“I’ll get the book.” The guy disappeared inside, returning a minute later with a binder. He was frowning. “That’s odd. The most recent page is missing.”
Nash and Rowan exchanged a look. Rowan held out her hand. “If I may, sir?”
The guy passed the binder over.
“Anybody got a pencil?”
Nash retrieved one from the truck. As Rowan lightly rubbed the lead over the blank page, their host looked at Nash with a frown. “Say, why aren’t you in a patrol car?”
“We’re down one in the fleet. Couple months back, our rookie swerved to miss a cow in the road and ran it up a tree. I’ve got a light on the dash in the meantime.” He pointed, and that seemed to satisfy the guy. He was doubly glad they’d stopped back by his place for him to change into his uniform.
“Bingo,” Rowan announced. “One Philip McCoskey with a Texas tag. Looks like he’s out of Lubbock. Stayed here a little over two weeks ago.” She tipped the binder to show the indentions from the missing page. “God bless old school record keeping. Can I keep this page?”
“I don’t see why not.”
As she tore out the page with the information, Nash picked up the questioning. “Do you remember Mr. McCoskey?”
“He was a quiet guy. Kept to himself.”
“Can you describe him at all?”
The middle-aged man shoved his glasses up his nose. “Older guy. Short hair. Dark, with a smattering of gray. Maybe ex-military or something.”
“What makes you say that?” Rowan asked.
“He was in really good shape, and he just had that way of moving. Like he could handle himself.”
“Did you notice anything odd about his accent?”
“His accent? No, not especially. He was southern, but not from around here.”
“Did he happen to say what he was doing in the area?” Nash asked.
“He said he was here to do some hunting. Paid cash for a campsite for two nights and slept in his truck. One of those deals with a camper top.”