CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVEWhile Amber and Carmen distracted the cops, I slunk into the tiny bathroom. I flushed the toilet, ran the tap several seconds, then left and walked toward the visitors, slapping my hands against my jeans.
And who led this contingent? The short craggy-faced cowboy with the calloused hands.
“Good morning,” I said. “Detective Morgan, isn’t it?”
“Amos Morgan, ma’am.” He delivered the line in a near monotone. “Funny you should be here.”
I shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood. Carmen and I have met. You can ask her. Right, Carmen?”
I gave Carmen my most disarming grin. She nodded and smiled brightly, clearly not understanding a word.
“I take it you want to search the trailer?” I said. “I don’t want to get in your way.” I glanced at Amber, who grabbed her purse and joined
