Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip (16 page)

Marlin was starting to sweat. Garza had something, there was no doubt about it.

“Well, yeah. I was working cattle all day.”

Now Bill Tatum opened the manila folder. He removed several photographs and placed them on the table in front of Colby.

Marlin’s heart sank as he realized what was in the photos.
Oh, Jesus. There’s no way.

“These are shots of one of the tire tracks we found at Scofield’s place,” Tatum said. “Last night I compared them to the tires on your truck. They were close enough that we’re gonna send the tires to the DPS lab in Austin for a closer look.”

Colby leaned forward in disbelief. “You’re gonna take the tires off my truck?”

“Actually, we’ll have to take the whole truck, plus the two flat tires.” Tatum slid a document in front of Colby. Marlin couldn’t recall the sheriff and the senior deputy ever looking so grim as they served a warrant.

There was a long pause, and Marlin waited for Colby to provide a reasonable explanation. He wanted his friend to defend himself, to spit out some logical reason why the photographs couldn’t possibly be accurate.

But all Colby said was, “Am I under arrest?”

“No, you’re not,” Garza said.

“Then I’m done answering questions,” Colby said, rising from his chair. “If you want anything more from me, call my lawyer.”

AFTER PHIL COLBY left the interview room, Marlin entered and sat in the same chair his friend had been using. Bobby Garza was stone-faced. Bill Tatum wouldn’t meet Marlin’s eyes. None of them spoke for several minutes, until Marlin finally said, “I wish y’all would’ve warned me about all that.”

Garza said, “We didn’t even know for sure if we had anything. We wanted to see what Phil would say.”

“But still—”

“Hey, we don’t like this any more than you do, John. We’re his friends, too. Maybe not as close as you are, but friends just the same.”

Tatum murmured something similar.

Marlin said, “I’m surprised you didn’t get a warrant for his house, too.”

Garza and Tatum exchanged glances.

“Let me guess,” Marlin said. “You
did
try to get a warrant for his house.”

“Yes, we did,” Tatum replied. “Judge Hilton said we didn’t have enough.”

Marlin didn’t know what to think. “I’m having a tough time following your line of thinking, to be honest,” he said. “I mean, why did you compare those tracks to his tires to begin with?”

Tatum softly said, “It had to be checked. We had things pointing at Colby—his problems with Scofield, the phone call he made. When Bobby called and said Scofield was murdered, I knew we’d have to take a look at Phil. If nothing else, to rule him out, like Bobby said.”

Marlin found himself looking for a mental foothold that would allow him to make sense of everything. Surely, the answer was somewhere in the details, the one piece of information that would clear Phil Colby and reveal what had really happened. But it wouldn’t come. “What about the shooting last night? How does that come into play?”

Garza said, “That happened before we even knew Scofield was murdered. Colby might be right—just one of Scofield’s buddies keeping the high-fence feud going.”

Marlin figured that made as much sense as anything else. “So are you looking at other people for this, or just Colby? Have you talked to this guy Chuck Hamm? I told you what Howell Rogers said.”

Garza said, “At this point, we’re looking at everything. Reinterviewing everybody, for starters. We’ll talk to Hamm and the rest of those guys again if we need to, but, well, it just doesn’t look likely, John.”

“From what Howell said, Hamm was angry as hell.”

“Yeah, but that was months ago, and why would he all of a sudden decide to do something about it? Besides, I don’t think Scofield’s been in touch with anybody in that hunting club since then. There weren’t any phone calls in his records.”

“Let me talk to Hamm.”

“Pardon?”

“I want to talk to Hamm.”

Garza and Tatum exchanged a glance. “You’re jumping the gun. We haven’t been through Scofield’s house top to bottom yet, but that’s our next step. Let’s wait and see what we find. I’ve got Henry coming in.”

Henry Jameson was a young and very talented forensics technician who worked for five counties in the central Texas area. The Blanco County budget alone couldn’t handle the expense, so Garza had worked a deal with several neighboring counties, pooling resources, giving them all access to Jameson’s services.

Tatum calmly said, “John, if Hamm was involved, which is a stretch, he had plenty of time to plan it out. This type of murder—someone whacking Scofield over the head—that suggests…spontaneity.”

Marlin could understand that assumption. Murderers who plan in advance rarely kill through blunt-force trauma. They use guns or knives, or in some cases poison. They rarely use clubs, bats, or other crude weapons unless it’s a heat-of-the-moment killing. But Marlin also knew that that line of thinking continued to point the finger at Phil Colby. It would be easy to envision: Colby gets enraged by Scofield’s “Fuck you,” he goes to Scofield’s house, they get into a fight, Colby finds a handy two-by-four…

“But what about the Corvette?” he asked. “Can’t we assume, just for the sake of argument, that whoever killed Scofield also stole the car?” His point was that it was robbery, not animosity, that fueled the murderer. That motive would seem to eliminate Colby. Of course, it probably eliminated Chuck Hamm, too.

Garza said, “It’s a possibility, if Scofield didn’t park the Vette somewhere else. Hell, he could’ve stashed the money somewhere else, too. That’s why we’re gonna tear that place apart. Trust me, if there’s something to be found, we’ll find it.”

Marlin said, “What about Stephanie Waring?”

Garza spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “We’re still calling her. Until we can track her down, we just don’t know.”

“Can we search her place? Maybe figure out exactly where she is?”

“We still don’t have probable cause. We can’t get a warrant just because we want to talk to her.”

“Okay, then at least let me try to find her,” Marlin said. “I know you don’t want me on this case, but what can that hurt? Let me talk to Chuck Hamm and let me try to find the girl.”

Garza glanced at Tatum, who didn’t say a word.

Marlin continued. “Damn, Bobby, you’ve obviously got your hands full. Gotta search Phil’s truck, take another look at Scofield’s place.”

“I’ve already talked to the night shift. Brought in some reserve deputies to cover the regular patrol. Everyone’s working overtime.”

“And they’ll need every minute of it,” Marlin said, not far from pleading. If push came to shove, Marlin could make his own call and work the case anyway. Anything having to do with Scofield was tied in to his original case, and he knew, technically, he was free to pursue it. But the sheriff is the highest-ranking law enforcement officer in any Texas county, so Marlin wanted Garza’s blessing before he forged ahead.

Garza gave Marlin a stern look. “Let us know if you get anywhere.”

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked, setting a napkin down. Lucas had no idea what time the bars had opened that morning in Key West, but Duval Street was buzzing and the drinks were flowing by the time he got there. They’d decided it would be best if Stephanie stayed back at the motel—the cheapest place in town and still a small fortune, but it had cable TV, even Internet access, and that would keep her occupied until he got back. Hopefully, by then, he’d have things all set up.

“Beer,” Lucas said.

“Bottle or draft?”

“Whatever’s cheaper.”

While the bartender grabbed a glass and poured from the tap, Lucas looked around the bar: already crowded and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. Nothing but a bunch of sunburned tourists wearing baseball caps and gaudy T-shirts, eating nachos and Buffalo wings. The place wasn’t anything like he thought it would be. From what he’d read, he’d pictured a place dark and quiet, where artists brooded and writers tried to spark their creative juices. Instead, there was peppy music piped in from recessed speakers and neon-colored parrots dangling from the rafters. Some guy was setting up equipment on a small stage.

“Three dollars.” The bartender’s name was Mike, according to a name tag on his shirt. He wasn’t much older than Lucas.

Lucas handed him four singles, the extra being a tip for not asking to see ID. He was about to ask Mike an important question when he heard a woman say, “Oh, Rob, it’s fabulous!”

A loud male voice responded, “Was I right or was I right?”

“You were right!”

Then Lucas’s elbow was jostled as a man wedged himself onto the barstool to his right.

“Sorry about that, pal.”

Lucas turned and saw a middle-aged man with a broad, smiling face, a salt-and-pepper beard, and a gut the size of a beach ball. The woman, who was still oohing and aahing about the bar’s decor, had a similar build, short hair, and a masculine jaw.

“No problem,” Lucas muttered, returning his attention to his beer. Shitty luck. Now he’d have to wait for them to leave before he could talk to the bartender.

“How’s the beer in this place?” the man asked, and Lucas couldn’t imagine a more idiotic question. Worse, the man had a funny accent.

“It’s, uh, cold.”

Lucas hadn’t meant to be funny, but the man let out a hearty chuckle. Then he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Rob Norris.”

Lucas reluctantly shook hands and said, “Luke.”

Rob Norris ordered two beers, then jerked a thumb to his right. “Luke, this here’s my wife, Fiona.”

Fiona leaned forward, looking past Rob, and said, “We’re from Wisconsin,” making it sound like an explanation for something.

Lucas nodded and turned back to the bar.

“Where are you from?” Fiona asked, refusing to let the conversation end.

“Texas,” he said, without offering anything more.

“Oh, really!” Fiona replied. “That’s funny because—”

“My parents are in Texas right now!” Rob said.

Fiona shook her head. “Traveling in an RV. Can you imagine?”

“We talked to them this morning.”

“They said it’s hot down there.”

“And the people drive like maniacs!”

Lucas gave them a weak smile.

“Have you been to the gift shop next door yet?” Fiona asked, her eyes glowing with excitement.

“It’s the first place we went!” Rob added.

“Look at this key chain!” Fiona demanded. “Only five dollars!” Now she was emptying all kinds of crap from a paper bag. “We got a paperweight and a cigarette lighter—”

“Of course, we don’t smoke,” Rob interjected.

“And a snow globe and golf balls—”

“Don’t play golf, either.”

“But the deals were just too good to pass up!” Fiona gushed.

“Great prices,” Rob agreed.

“I’m doing all my Christmas shopping,” Fiona whispered. “Right here in Key West. Can you imagine?”

“We’ll probably ship everything home.”

“It’s worth it, though.”

“But I don’t think your mother is going to like the shot glass, honey. She doesn’t drink.”

“I know, Rob. That’s the joke!”

Now they both chortled, their bellies jiggling under their shirts.

“The beach towels were pretty, but they were too big to carry around all day,” Fiona confided.

“We’ll buy them later,” Rob said. “Right before we leave.”

They both smiled at Lucas, expecting him to add something to the banter.

“Smart plan,” Lucas said.

Fiona nodded, and as she opened her mouth again, Lucas felt an overwhelming urge to run from the bar screaming. But right then a smooth voice over an amplifier said, “Hello, folks, we’re the Sea Breezes.” Three men were onstage, preparing to play. “Thanks for joining us today. Well be playing until happy hour, but judging from all the empties on the tables, I’d say most of you are plenty happy already.”

A few people whooped, and someone raised a beer mug in salute.

“Do we have any Jimmy Buffett fans here?” the cheesy guy with the microphone asked, and of course most of the customers applauded with enthusiasm, including Rob and Fiona. So the Sea Breezes launched into a nearly unrecognizable version of “Margaritaville.”

Thank God,
Lucas thought.
Finally these two bumpkins will shut up.

“It’s our ten-year anniversary!” Rob shouted over the synthesized sounds of a steel drum.

“We’re here to celebrate!” Fiona proclaimed.

“I grew my beard just for the trip,” Rob said, rubbing his furry jaw.

“On account of Ernest Hemingway used to live here,” Fiona hollered.

“They have a look-alike contest in July,” Rob pointed out. “Maybe I’ll come back and try to win it.”

Sorry, dude,
Lucas thought.
Your wife looks more like Hemingway than you do.

“First prize is two plane tickets!” Fiona screeched.

“Not bad for sitting on your butt all day drinking beer!” Rob said.

It went on like that for several more minutes until the band finished the first number and proceeded to butcher the opening chords of “Open Arms” by Journey.

The couple suddenly went quiet, and Lucas couldn’t help but risk a glance at them. Fiona was beseeching Rob with her eyes. “Oh, Rob. It’s our song,” she said.

To Lucas’s amazement, the couple stood and began to dance—even though there wasn’t a dance floor. They held each other close and began to weave slowly among the tables, as graceful as two bull elephants, banging into tables, knocking over one customer’s piña colada in a top-heavy souvenir glass. Some patrons cheered; others yelled for them to take it outside.

Lucas recognized his opportunity, and he waved at Mike, the bartender.

“Ready for another?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Mike brought a second draft, and Lucas dropped a ten onto the bar, saying, “Keep the change.”

“Hey, thanks, buddy. I appreciate it.”

“Listen,” Lucas said, “I lost my driver’s license.”

The bartender waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. You look twenty-one.”

“No, what I’m saying is, I need to get another one. I’m looking for a place to get another ID. Can you help me out?” Lucas had practiced the wording to get it just right, to make his point without flat-out saying he was looking for false identification. But Mike was confused. And now another customer was calling from down the bar, so Mike held up a finger in a give-me-a-minute gesture and scooted away.

By the time Mike had come back, so had Rob and Fiona. Mike said to Lucas, “So what’s the deal? You need a new ID?”

Rob and Fiona were cooing at each other, not paying attention to Lucas, so he quietly said, “You know where I can get one?”

Mike said, “You mean, like, a real ID?”

Now Rob was swiveling around, taking a drink from his beer, and Lucas was getting nervous about the whole situation. You don’t just let complete strangers know you’re looking for phony papers. “Yeah,” Lucas said, abandoning the plan. “You know where I’d go to replace my driver’s license?”

Mike shook his head. “Sorry, man. I just moved here three months ago.”

“You lost your ID?” Rob asked.

“I lost my ID once,” Fiona said. “A real hassle.”

“Took months to straighten it all out,” Rob groaned.

“But I ended up with a better picture!” Fiona said cheerily.

Colby no longer had possession of his truck, so Marlin drove south on Avenue F and spotted him walking past the parking lot at the electric cooperative. He pulled up next to him and said, “Want a ride?”