Beneath Forbidden Ground (12 page)

“My answer still hasn’t changed, Brand,” was the only greeting Kritz extended.

“Oh, I didn’t expect any other reply, Luther. At least, not at this point.” Brand gave a cocky smile, the smile of a man who knew he only had to wait. He turned to wave at the bartender, who knew what to prepare. “Just thought I’d have a drink with you. See how things are going.”

That was another reason Kritz hated the arrogant bastard; he knew very well how
things
were going. Through his father’s connections with bankers and other money-men, he was fully aware of his struggles to stay afloat. Brand had made two tenders to buy-in to his operation over the last six months, each time upping his ante. The offers were tempting—the money would solve many of his problems. But they came with stipulations Kritz couldn’t agree to, one of which would surely destroy him.

“How many times I have to tell you? I like doing my own thing. And as soon as interest rates let up, the market’ll take off. I’ll be just fine.”

The bartender placed a scotch and soda in front of Brand before he replied. He leaned on his elbows. “Who are you kidding, Luther? Even if rates go down, which I doubt, you’ll still have trouble selling your remaining lots. They’re the runts of the litter. You’ve already sold your best parcels.” He spent a second smoothing-out the sleeves of his French-blue, pinpoint cotton shirt, then took a sip of his drink. He wasn’t dressed to play golf—he rarely was, since no one wanted to play with him. He had obviously come to the club today for the sole purpose of rattling Kritz’s chain. “And your new project’s not going anywhere until you get some backing.”

“How in hell do you know that?” Kritz’s face turned purple, his eyes bulged out.

“It doesn’t matter how I know it, but it’s true.” Brand allowed himself a satisfied smile; the big man had just tipped his hand. “Listen, Luther,” Brand continued, relaxing his tone, “I’m not unreasonable—you know that. You’re the man with the experience in development. You did a heck-of-a job with Cypress Bridge Acres, and I wouldn’t want to interfere with your ideas. All I’m asking is a fifty-fifty stake, which is only fair, seeing the amount I’m willing to put in.”

Kritz didn’t answer, trying to regain some sense of composure. Taking advantage of the delay, Brand added, “I’m ready to increase my offer to three-and-a-half mil, just so you’ll know I’m serious.”

Kritz was stunned by the amount. His eyes rolled up, staring at the ceiling, trying to give the impression he was considering the offer, rather than hiding his desperation. He looked back at the other man. “And what about the other thing?”

Brand hesitated, caught short by the man’s apparent weakening. It was time to press on. “Luther, can’t you see you’re leaving too much on the table? We...or rather you, could build what, twenty, maybe thirty homes on that spot? Even more if you go zero-lot line or patio homes. They’re becoming more popular every year. I’m talkin’ between five and six million in sales. And the extra home-owner assessments would make the existing owners happy.”

“Nobody’s touching that damn lake!” Kritz reacted quickly. “It’s the focal point of the whole development. Besides, the people there now wouldn’t stand for it. They love it—their kids love it. You might as well forget that idea.” His eyes were glaring again; he fought back the same panic he had felt when the subject had first surfaced. Even if it meant losing the money Brand was willing to throw in,
the lake had to be
protected at all costs.

Brand was mystified. He knew Kritz to be a hard-nosed builder, letting no one stand in his way of raking-in more profit. He would certainly never be labeled as caring about what his customers wanted after they were sold. Sure, the lake may have been a selling feature to get the ball rolling ten years earlier, but now it was wasted space.

“I think you’re wrong about that, Luther. And you could always put in smaller reflecting pools in different areas, if they feel that strongly about water.”

Kritz pulled his legs in toward him, ready to stand. “I’m afraid it’s non-negotiable, Brand.” He poured the remainder of the drink down his throat, then pushed away from the table. “When you’re ready to deal on my terms, give me a call.” He stood and marched through the dining room tables, a storm washing across the landscape.

Muttering curses under his breath, Brand watched the big man lumber out of the dining room. The man was wrong, he assured himself. When things got bad enough, and it shouldn’t be long,
he would come begging, and then
he
would be the one calling the shots.

In any event, what he had planned for the following week sould surely put the screws to one Luther Kritz, and perhaps end his stubbornness.

12

Marti was insistent on leaving the hospital following one night’s stay, in spite of her doctor’s advice she stay a second. Two nights was the usual minimum recommended—more if there were complications. She was equally insistent that her husband and children stop babying her. “You’re all making me feel like an invalid,” she complained. So early Thursday afternoon, she was wheeled out in a wheelchair to her Explorer, and almost made it home before a delayed reaction to the anesthesia forced Pete to pull into a convenience store. Helping her gingerly to the restroom, he stood guard dutifully outside while she dealt with her nausea. Chris and Julie had pulled in behind them, both ready to take her back to M. D. Anderson. Their arguments fell on deaf ears. They made it home without further incidents.

So with the dawning of Friday morning, Julie having returned to San Antonio the night before, and Chris staying to give his mother his full attention, Marti gave Pete orders to return to work, which he did reluctantly.

He arrived at the Sheriff’s Department office on Baker Street in downtown Houston at 8:45 a. m., somewhat later than usual. His habit of showing up before anyone else was forgotten for once, especially since he felt guilty about even being there. Murtaugh still hadn’t made an appearance, and didn’t until shortly after nine. The man’s work ethic still bothered Scallion, seeing it as a loss of interest in the job. True, they weren’t under the gun to solve things quickly, but they had to be solved none-the-less. He tried not to show his impatience when the older detective wandered in, tossing his perspiration-stained coat across his cubicle desk.

“Welcome back, partner,” Murtaugh said nonchalantly, casting a glance in Scallion’s direction. “How’d things go with the wife?”

“Went okay, Denny. She’s already giving me orders again.” It also bothered Scallion that his new partner evidently didn’t know his wife’s name, or at least chose not to say it, even though it had been discussed several times. It was always “the wife”, or “the Mrs.” Murtaugh himself was divorced. He had three kids; a son and two daughters, whose names Scallion made a point to mention when the subject came up. And one of their names had come up a lot recently; the youngest daughter was waging a war with drug addiction. He tried not to let what he saw as slights get to him, but they did.

“What were you able to find out about our friend, Mr. Kritz?” he asked, anxious to focus his mind on work.

“Quite a bit, actually.” Murtaugh loosened his tie, then pulled a file from a stack of others. “He’s been a busy boy since I last locked horns with him. Other than a couple of speeding tickets and a D. U. I., there’s not anything of a criminal nature to talk about. But he’s spent a lot of time in court on civil and domestic matters. Ex-wife had a restraining order issued right before she filed for divorce—that was seven years ago. Throw in a few lawsuits from builders and sub-contractors, and it amounts to a lot of time in court, plus a piss-pot full of attorney fees.”

“Sounds like the man needs a little anger-management time.”

“Yeah. It fits the Luther Kritz I remember.” Murtaugh flipped a page in his report. “And he has managed to make a lotta money along the way; lives in a large home he was able to keep after his marriage went under; belongs to a country club out west—Laurelwood, to be exact.”

“I can believe that, judging from the houses we saw out there.” Not to mention the ones he and Marti saw. Scallion was fairly certain his partner would eventually know of his off-duty trip out, but saw no reason to bring it up now.

The senior detective smiled a knowing smile. “Well, things may not be all they appear to be.”

“How so?”

“Talked to a contact I’ve got in the Contractor’s Association. Sales have pretty much dried-up all over the place, and that includes Cypress Bridge Acres. And his new deal out on I-10, the one you saw hyped on that billboard, seems to be having trouble gettin’ off the drawing board. Now, my guy ain’t privy to Kritz’s financials, but he says he can’t see how the hell the man’s gonna be able to hang-in there, unless he either sells out, or takes on investors.”

Scallion digested it all. Somehow, he couldn’t see how the business climate over the last decade would have bearing on their case. But he’d learned long ago never to rule out any possibilities. He started to speak, but Murtaugh flipped to yet another page.

“By the way, Pete, just in case anyone at Staff Finders could remember who our girls reported to at Cypress Bridge, I gave a follow-up call.”

Scallion felt a sudden pang of self doubt. It was something he’d thought about, but in his excitement of connecting the four victims, he had neglected to ask Luci Hughes that question. She had said the reports were limited back then, but he should’ve asked anyway. It was a careless oversight. “Any luck?” he asked.

“Afraid not. Those kinds of businesses must have a high turn-over rate. No one working there now was around in ninety-one. I did get the name of the office manager at the time. She’s living in Beaumont now. Tracked her down on the phone, but she didn’t have a clue. She did say if she had to make a guess, it was probably whoever was in charge at Kritz.”

“Which was probably the man himself. Looks like everything still points to Kritz, so far.”

“Everything except motive,” Murtaugh pointed out.

Scallion nodded and sighed. “That’s correct, partner.”

Murtaugh folded his file shut, then drummed on his desk with a pen. He looked at the other man. “I think we’re at the point where we have to go see my old friend Luther. Maybe we can rattle something outta him. You with me on that?”

“Absolutely. Right now, he’s where the girls all intersect—at least his development is.” Scallion was busy running something else through his brain. “Say, Denny. Do you recall how during the I-45 cases nobody shared information about what happened in their own backyard? It slowed things down for awhile, kept everyone in the dark until they started working together?”

“How could I forget?”

“Well, I don’t remember reading in the files about any other disappearances in neighboring counties that coincided with ours, but that doesn’t mean there weren’t any. Maybe nobody bothered to check.”

“Might be worth a few calls.”

“Your checking with Staff Finders gave me the idea, Denny.”

“What?” Murtaugh raised his eyebrows, wondering what he might have said.

“We’ve been going back, talking with family members, friends, anyone else who might have clues they overlooked about what happened to the women. It occurred to me we ought to check with other authorities, other jurisdictions, see what they might have missed ten years ago. Or what
we
might have missed. Like you did with Staff Finders.”

“Who are you thinking about?”

“Possibly Austin, Waller and Fort Bend Counties, the three that border us on the west. I know it’s a shot in the dark, so we don’t need to get too ambitious. Since some of the vehicles were recovered in those counties, those might be worth checking. I say we give it a try before we stir Kritz up, in case we do find something else to talk to him about.”

They spent time on the phone placing calls to the sheriffs of the three counties, only one of whom had been in office at the time. All three promised to check for reported disappearances on or about February 21, 1991. Within fifteen minutes, Sheriff Willie Amos of Austin County called back with a possibility, a man by the name of William Lamb, or Billy Lamb, as he was known by. Lamb was a contractor who had been reported missing by his employees and a girl friend within days of the girls’ cars being located.

Scallion and Murtaugh started preparing for the forty-five minute drive out to Bellville, the county seat, with a side visit to Cypress Bridge Acres, since it was in the neighborhood. There was little hope of uncovering ten-year old clues at the site, but the desire was to get a feel for what they were beginning to believe may have been a crime scene.

The senior Cold Case detective was pushing back from his desk when his phone lit up. He listened in silence to the caller, his only reaction being to tighten his grip on the arm of his chair until the veins in his hands surfaced, turning purple, knuckles growing white. After a few seconds, he said a meek “Okay, thanks”, and hung up. He gave his partner a sideways look, pain and embarrassment showing on his face.

“Hey, Pete. Think you can make this run by yourself? Looks like Cindy’s gotten herself in trouble again. She’s been picked up on a bust by H. P. D. out near Galena Park. That was a friend on the force giving me a heads-up. I’m gonna see if I can keep her outta lock-up. Probably shouldn’t, but I’ll never hear the end of it from her mother if I don’t.” Shaking his head sadly, he grabbed his coat. “Sorry about this, partner.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Denny. Hope things go well.” Scallion watched the man walk rapidly from their tiny capsule of an office. He genuinely felt for the man, wanting to erase his earlier critical judgments.

Sheriff Willie Amos brushed the last bit of dust off the thin file-folder containing the information about one William Lamb. He gave a doubtful look to the detective from the nearby city. “Afraid there’s not much in here,” he said.

“I understand. Anything you’ve got will be more than we have now,” Scallion replied. He sat across from the muscular black lawman, appreciating the man’s receding hairline, which matched his own. Dressed in a grey uniform, similar to those worn by many officers in smaller communities, Amos was in his late forties. His physique made him appear larger than his actual height, which was just under six feet. He wore glasses, which he removed to read the first page of the file.