receive precisely this sort of call.
“What?” the voice replied.
“The kidnapped Rowe Child.”
“Rowe? Just a minute. . .”
Bo could hear the desk sergeant talking to someone else in the background.
“Something about a kidnapped Rowe child. . . ?”
“It's just some loony,” the older voice responded. “The Rowe kids're grown. One of em's—”
Bo hung up quickly. Whoever Weppo was, his absence from Houston had not been reported to the Houston police.
Roy and Dale were, uncharacteristically, poring over a racing form as Bo returned to her seat.
“Happy trails,” she murmured.
Roy appeared puzzled.
“I think Happy Trails is in the third race at Belmont,” Dale explained cheerfully.
“Thanks for the tip.” Roy grinned.
Bo buried herself in the newspapers she'd bought at the airport. They all told the same story. Tia Rowe, wife of shipping heir MacLaren Rowe, was in a closely contested race for a senatorial seat vacated two months ago. Rowe's opponent, Bea Yannick, was a Catholic grandmother of four, widowed when her oil-exec husband was transferred to Houston from the family enclave in Pennsylvania during the boom, and promptly dropped dead. Yannick had stayed, raised seven kids alone, gone to law school, chaired the school board, and launched an unsuccessful campaign to introduce the notion of zoning to Houston. The attempt, Yannick said, was prompted by the existence of a thriving massage parlor and drug dealership across the street from a public school attended by two of her grandchildren. The media coverage suggested that Yannick was a gutsy Yankee who, while well liked, couldn't overcome the aristocratic Rowe name.
A counterculture paper called The Bayou Banner gave a different picture. Tia Rowe, according to an investigative reporter named Gretchen Tally, was a conniving egotist whose campaign platform had a designer label and no substance whatever. Without violating the strictures of good journalism Tally managed to suggest that a financially distressed society matron known more for catered brunches than informed opinions might find the temptations of political power overwhelming. Hadn't a Big Bend mining consortium already under attack by environmental groups contributed generously to the Rowe campaign? And what about Tia's sudden friendship with the wife of the president of a paper conglomerate methodically denuding central Texas of its few remaining forests? The widely publicized “future” of a Rowe win in the senate, the radical reporter suggested, would be Tia Rowe's, not Texas's. Bo sensed that Tally was on to something, and fought her way over the beaming couple to make one more phone call.
“Tally's not in,” a traditionally cranky editor snarled. “Wanna leave a message?”
“I've got something on Tia Rowe that may interest her,” Bo announced. “A Rowe child, victim of an attempted murder yesterday in California.” Bo gave both her home and office numbers and hung up. The message had been tantalizing enough to ensure a return call from the most jaded newshound.
“Attempted murder by two men in hospital.” Bo completed her chronology of events surrounding the child. It was the piece that didn't fit.
For the rest of the flight Bo nursed a series of canned fruit juices that tasted more like cans than juice, and stared out the window. No slowing the racing thoughts now. Might as well watch clouds. She was ahead of the lithium by weeks. It would kick in eventually when it built up to blood level, but what would happen in the meantime?
Maybe Weppo might actually be safe in the confidential foster home Madge would have selected for him by now. A foster home licensed for secrecy, for the protection of children whose parents were violent, predatory, criminal. Bo pretended to believe that a system with thousands of employees and a computer network accessible to seven other agencies could keep Weppo's whereabouts a secret. She had to believe
“What?” the voice replied.
“The kidnapped Rowe Child.”
“Rowe? Just a minute. . .”
Bo could hear the desk sergeant talking to someone else in the background.
“Something about a kidnapped Rowe child. . . ?”
“It's just some loony,” the older voice responded. “The Rowe kids're grown. One of em's—”
Bo hung up quickly. Whoever Weppo was, his absence from Houston had not been reported to the Houston police.
Roy and Dale were, uncharacteristically, poring over a racing form as Bo returned to her seat.
“Happy trails,” she murmured.
Roy appeared puzzled.
“I think Happy Trails is in the third race at Belmont,” Dale explained cheerfully.
“Thanks for the tip.” Roy grinned.
Bo buried herself in the newspapers she'd bought at the airport. They all told the same story. Tia Rowe, wife of shipping heir MacLaren Rowe, was in a closely contested race for a senatorial seat vacated two months ago. Rowe's opponent, Bea Yannick, was a Catholic grandmother of four, widowed when her oil-exec husband was transferred to Houston from the family enclave in Pennsylvania during the boom, and promptly dropped dead. Yannick had stayed, raised seven kids alone, gone to law school, chaired the school board, and launched an unsuccessful campaign to introduce the notion of zoning to Houston. The attempt, Yannick said, was prompted by the existence of a thriving massage parlor and drug dealership across the street from a public school attended by two of her grandchildren. The media coverage suggested that Yannick was a gutsy Yankee who, while well liked, couldn't overcome the aristocratic Rowe name.
A counterculture paper called The Bayou Banner gave a different picture. Tia Rowe, according to an investigative reporter named Gretchen Tally, was a conniving egotist whose campaign platform had a designer label and no substance whatever. Without violating the strictures of good journalism Tally managed to suggest that a financially distressed society matron known more for catered brunches than informed opinions might find the temptations of political power overwhelming. Hadn't a Big Bend mining consortium already under attack by environmental groups contributed generously to the Rowe campaign? And what about Tia's sudden friendship with the wife of the president of a paper conglomerate methodically denuding central Texas of its few remaining forests? The widely publicized “future” of a Rowe win in the senate, the radical reporter suggested, would be Tia Rowe's, not Texas's. Bo sensed that Tally was on to something, and fought her way over the beaming couple to make one more phone call.
“Tally's not in,” a traditionally cranky editor snarled. “Wanna leave a message?”
“I've got something on Tia Rowe that may interest her,” Bo announced. “A Rowe child, victim of an attempted murder yesterday in California.” Bo gave both her home and office numbers and hung up. The message had been tantalizing enough to ensure a return call from the most jaded newshound.
“Attempted murder by two men in hospital.” Bo completed her chronology of events surrounding the child. It was the piece that didn't fit.
For the rest of the flight Bo nursed a series of canned fruit juices that tasted more like cans than juice, and stared out the window. No slowing the racing thoughts now. Might as well watch clouds. She was ahead of the lithium by weeks. It would kick in eventually when it built up to blood level, but what would happen in the meantime?
Maybe Weppo might actually be safe in the confidential foster home Madge would have selected for him by now. A foster home licensed for secrecy, for the protection of children whose parents were violent, predatory, criminal. Bo pretended to believe that a system with thousands of employees and a computer network accessible to seven other agencies could keep Weppo's whereabouts a secret. She had to believe
Similar Books
