Beneath Forbidden Ground (20 page)

He straddled her body, using his full weight to his advantage. Reaching for the sash in his pocket, he put it to use again, strangling the life from the helpless woman. Standing over the still body, he was alarmed by the sweat cascading from his face and arms onto the victim’s back. Even though it was past 10:00 p. m., the Houston temperature still hovered in the high eighties, with humidity to match. Knowing the perspiration would be pointed evidence, he grabbed the woman’s arms, half-dragging, half-carrying her body to the pool’s edge, then flinging her in. Hopefully, the chlorine-laced water would destroy any traces of his fluids.

Exhausted, panting, he stood leaning with his hands on his knees, once again having to gather himself. Raising his pants-leg, he was glad to see the collision with the chair hadn’t drawn blood. Listening carefully for sounds of neighbors who may have been roused by the struggle, he heard none. Retracing his steps, he collected the sash, seeing it now coated with blood from the woman’s busted nose. He couldn’t leave it here. Balling it up, he returned it to his pocket.

Back inside, he continued his search for the intercom, finally locating it in the hall. Studying it closely, he thought he recognized the brand and model. It was the type that might house a tape, set to record conversations between the house and the gate. There was no time to search for tools to dismantle the box, so he went to work with the gun, banging the device into submission. Using his pocketknife to cut the connecting wires, he then yanked furiously until it became dislodged, and carried it under an arm as he prepared to leave.

Stepping over the body of Brand, he looked around for any possible signs he had been there. He was sure he hadn’t touched anything that might leave prints. The only connection to him would be the bullet lodged in the man’s shoulder. He would solve that problem by disposing of the gun before the night was done. Memories of another late night a decade earlier came flooding back; a similar night of desperate self-preservation—just like this one.

Pulling up slowly to the gate a few minutes later in the rental he had used, the barrier opened automatically from the inside. He had chosen the economy-sized car, knowing his extended cab pickup would be easy to spot, and remember. Pulling through the gate, he drove away, leaving his deadly handiwork behind. He was satisfied the lake, along with its secrets, would not be disturbed.

Brandy Walker reacted slowly to the several rings of the doorbell, which was instantly followed by a series of loud bangs. Reluctantly, she opened the door to her apartment without asking the caller to identify himself. It could only be one person.

“You trying to wake the entire building?” she asked in her lazy Texas drawl.

“What took you so long?” an agitated Luther Kritz said as he slammed the door behind him, pushing his way past her.

“Hell, Luther, it’s past eleven. Since you didn’t call to ask me out, I’ve been in bed for an hour, which is not my idea of how a Friday night should be spent. At least, not alone.”

Kritz eyeballed the tall, slender, auburn-haired woman standing before him in her nightgown, hands on her hips. He decided he would overlook her insolence this time, since he needed another favor. She had already helped by renting the car he had used for the night, putting it on her card. Unable to receive an explanation from him about why it was necessary for
her
to rent it, she had given in when he began showing signs of getting rough again, something she’d just as soon avoid. Up until now, he had been content to use her to satisfy whatever sexual urges might strike him from time to time; now her usefulness in other areas might be critical.

Brandy would never be considered unattractive, but only in her early forties, the beautician had allowed tobacco and alcohol to sap most of her younger looks. Her skin was beginning to adopt a chalky appearance, and more and more makeup was required to cover up the damage. Several times over the past couple of years, she had questioned why she had fallen to the point where the brutish man was her only option. Then she would come to the conclusion there were very few choices for her at this stage of her life. And he was decent enough to her—most of the time.

Kritz softened his tone, wrapping his large hands around her waste, pulling her to him. “Okay if I stay the night, babe?”

She tilted her head back, checking out his appearance. He didn’t seem to be drunk, although he had a strange look about him. And he stank of perspiration. “Since the night’s half over, you might as well.” She tried to wriggle free, but his grip tightened.

“And one other thing, babe,” he said, staring hard into her eyes. “As far as you’re concerned, I’ve been here all night.”

“What...what are you talking about?”

“Just what I said. If anyone asks, you’ll say you and I were together all night. That’s all.”

“Why? What have you done?”

“Nothing that you need to worry about. Just a little game I’m playing.”

“Game? What kind of game?” First the rental, now asking her to lie. What the hell was he up to?

“Don’t worry about it. Just do as I say. Understand?” Growing tired of her questions, he squeezed a little harder until he saw a grimace of pain. A menacing smile crept across his broad face.

Knowing she had no choice but to agree, she nodded rapidly. “Sure, Luther. Anything you say.”

He relaxed his grip, then patted her on her slack rear end. “That’s my girl. Everything’ll be fine. You’ll see. Now come on, let’s go to bed. I’ve had a long day.”

Leaving her staring after him, he yawned and headed toward her bedroom. She waited a minute, then followed.

21

The morning haze was beginning to burn away, opening up the skies to the blistering heat. Pete Scallion applied a third coating of high SPF suntan lotion to his fair skin, removing his straw hat to apply a heavy layer to his bald scalp. Past experience taught him the ultraviolet rays could easily pierce the hat’s tiny pores. Passing the bottle to Marti, he watched as she dabbed a tiny amount to the tip of her nose and her ears. It was all she required, her olive skin seeming to thrive in the sunlight. Pete had long since ceased fretting over the inequity of it all, realizing it was one of the small prices to pay for their life together, especially sharing what they both enjoyed so much.

The waves were calm most of the morning, but were now starting to roil with the increasing wind currents, rocking the twenty-foot Nitro fishing boat gently as it sat anchored roughly half a mile off the western shore of Galveston Bay. They had departed the small marina near their home on Clear Lake hours earlier, then navigated the connecting channel out into the bay, hoping to land a few redfish and saltwater trout. But the true purpose of the outing was to remove from their minds the looming follow-up treatments beginning in the coming mid-week.

She felt fine, she insisted, telling Pete not to worry whenever she caught him wearing a look of concern the past few weeks. He would quickly agree, assuring her he understood that was the case, but would feel better after the first session.

It had been hard getting things started in the morning. Another connecting flight in Dallas caused a late arrival the night before. It was after dark when he pulled into his driveway, enthused over the results of the interrogation in Oklahoma City, but exhausted, none-the-less. It wasn’t as easy to rebound as it had been in younger days. He took it as another sign that Cold Case had been the right move. Thankfully, Murtaugh had offered to deliver the cup containing possible DNA to the M.E.’s office Saturday morning, since he lived closer-in. Neither man wanted to waste any time putting Marla Evans to work. Someone was normally on duty on weekends; it would at least be logged in.

Now, as they floated aimlessly on the bay, they ignored their fishing rods sleeved in the metal cylinders at the boat’s stern. Bites were few and far between, so there was time to talk. He had wanted to share the scene of the Oklahoma City Memorial with her, and the feelings it had generated. Afraid it might set the wrong tone, he decided against it.

“Sounds like the Becker case is a done deal,” Marti said, aiming an approving grin.

Seeing his reflection in her dark sunglasses, Pete flicked away sweat from his forehead. “Yeah, as long as there’s any saliva at all in the cup we confiscated. Along with the blood Marla found in the harmonica, it should be a slam dunk. Probably shouldn’t say that. Might jinx my own case.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Not based on the guy’s history of violence, plus his reaction you described to accidentally having given you his DNA. By the way, that was pretty clever, Detective.”

“It was a gamble. But then, we didn’t have much else to try. Our hope was he’d recognize the instrument we brought in wasn’t a match for the one he discarded. He relaxed when he saw the difference—let his guard down enough to get careless.”

“And he definitely had thrown the cup away before you grabbed it?” She knew how the laws of evidence worked enough to know the cup could not be taken from him; it had to be confiscated after he rid himself of it.

“Right. The video will show it clearly.”

A few minutes of silence followed, the only sounds being the slapping of the waves against the sides of the boat. Many days were spent like this—just the two of them, allowing freedom from whatever pressures and horrific scenes they faced during the week. And there was a tacit understanding Marti’s condition would not be touched on today.

“What about the other case, with the girls, and that lake? Where does it stand?”

“Good question. Denny and I talked about it in Oklahoma. We came to the conclusion that unless we can put our hands on Carlos Valvez, we might be stymied. Short of having the lake drained—which Otto would never agree to without more evidence—I’m not sure where we’ll turn next.”

“No idea where Valvez might be?”

“None. We may have to tip our hand, get his address from the Kritz people.”

“You’re thinking harm may have come to him?”

“It’s a strong possibility. If his boss is as dirty as I think he is, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill to cover up the other killings. Certainly hope not, though. He may be our only chance. Plus, he appeared a decent enough guy. Probably caught up in something he doesn’t know how to handle.”

By 2:30, with the drinking water exhausted, the fish not biting, and the sun bearing down, the decision was made to pack it in. Most of an hour was needed to return to the marina and secure the boat to its moorings. Only minutes were required for the dock-side bait house crew to clean and filet the meager catch of the day. The meat was then packed in two ice chests; one for the night’s meal, one to be frozen.

Later, after a shower and an early dinner of baked redfish and dirty rice, Pete fell into his den recliner, while Marti chose to stretch out on the sofa. As he paged through the morning’s
Houston Chronicle
neglected earlier in the day, she flipped on the tv, catching up on more current news.

Oblivious to the sounds from the set, and nearly drifting off, Pete missed the story being discussed by a local news crew, until Marti interrupted his reading.

“Pete, isn’t that the guy you were talking about this week? The furniture man’s son?”

“What? Where?” He lowered the paper to his lap, listening to the reporter in the middle of his story.

“...
to repeat, he is the son of Maurice Brand, founder and president of Brand-Named Furniture. The body of the younger Brand, along with that of an un-identified woman, was discovered in his home early this afternoon. Police are currently on the scene, and are treating it as a double homicide. Efforts to reach Maurice Brand have been unsuccessful
.” The report ended with the usual ... “
more on this breaking story at ten o’clock.
”

Pete forgot about the paper, looking instead at his wife. “I’ll be damned. He did it. He killed him,” he said with raised eyebrows, showing certainty.

“Who? You think Kritz killed him?”

“Definitely. Or had him killed. I’m sure it has to do with the lake. I think the guy really spooked him at that homeowners’ meeting.” He mulled the new development for a long, silent moment, then looked at Marti with a questioning look. “Would you mind if I ...?”

He didn’t have to finish. “By all means. Go!” She knew her husband too well. He wouldn’t be able to rest without knowing as much as he could.

Hurriedly placing a call to the county dispatcher to see if the Sheriff’s office would be working the case, he was informed it already was.

“Happened just outside Missouri City, and just inside our jurisdiction,” the dispatcher said. “Missouri City police have responded too.”

Missouri City was a fairly large community straddling the line separating Harris from Fort Bend County to the southwest, in one of the prime growth areas.

“Who’s working the case from our office?”

“Let’s see...” There was a minute’s pause, then, “Detectives Ross and Sadler. They may be on their way out there now.”

Surprised that both detectives had been cleared for duty so soon after the shooting incident, Scallion was pleased to learn someone familiar would be on the scene. Jotting down the address from the dispatcher, he left, not bothering to change out of the shorts and golf shirt he had donned following his shower.

Shadows were stretching out by the time he neared the home of Kevin Brand. Drawing to within fifty yards of the walled-in, private group of residences, Scallion found it would’ve been impossible to miss the crime scene. He counted three tv station vans, complete with satellite dishes mounted on the roofs, parked on the street. Evidently, there wasn’t room inside the compound for them. He soon saw why. The entrance drive was covered -up by local cop cars, ambulances, and several vehicles easily identifiable as belonging to Harris County.

Pulling into the open gate, he was stopped by a uniformed Missouri City cop. Presenting the badge in his wallet, he had to wait while the officer scanned him curiously, checking out the informal attire.