Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip (7 page)

“Still doesn’t explain the vehicle in the river,” Marlin said. “Unless he wants us to think something happened to him.” He had seen that scenario, too—a man faking his own death. It happened with alarming frequency around the country. Some desperado, usually facing felony charges, would decide it was the best option and try to stage the most convincing scene he could. But they were nearly always sloppy, and you could spot the fix from halfway across the county.

“Guy’d be a real dumb-ass, wouldn’t he? Taking off in the Corvette? And wanting us to think he’d drowned?”

“Maybe he thought
we’d
think the car was stolen.”

Garza drummed his fingers on the table. “I guess Scofield could be off somewhere in the Vette, and somebody else borrowed or stole his SUV. Maybe they ended up in the river but climbed out and made it home okay.”

“Or whoever was driving it might not even know the SUV’s in the water. Remember the high water last fall? Rodney Bauer drove his wife’s car partway into the water, then decided not to chance it?”

“Yeah, what was the deal on that?”

“Plugs got wet and the car died. He just left it there, figuring he’d come back for it later. But the water rose even higher and the car ended up downstream about forty yards.”

Garza shook his head. “I don’t know. You think that happened here?”

“No, my money’s on door number one. Scofield drowned.”

“And the Corvette?”

“Sitting somewhere else, maybe at a friend’s house. And Pritchard just doesn’t know it.”

Garza rose from his chair. “I’ve already got an APB on Scofield and a BOLO on the Corvette. I’m gonna get a warrant for his house, but that means I’ll have to pull my deputies off the river.”

“We don’t have a lot of choices.”

“We’re already stretched thin as it is, between this case and the Lucas thing.”

“Anything new there?”

“Get this. Nicole found out that Lucas didn’t have a phone. He’d disconnected it. So no recent phone records. Also, we talked to his landlord—this old guy up in Waco. He didn’t say much, but he told us that Lucas had been paying his rent for the last few months in money orders. He’s always used checks before that.”

Marlin could decipher what that meant. Lucas paid with money orders because he didn’t want to deposit quantities of cash into his checking account. Money that he had made by selling drugs.

“The state fire marshal sent a team down, and they’re overhauling the place today,” Garza said. “Then we’ll know for sure.” Garza rapped his knuckles on the desk, hoping, Marlin knew, for some good luck. Nobody wanted Lucas’s body to be found in the rubble. “What’s your plan?” Garza asked.

“Back to the river, I guess.”

“Gonna keep looking, huh?”

“For now.”

“Sounds like you got yourself in a shitpot of trouble,” Buford said, seated, looking around the room. Damn nice office. Mahogany desk. Matching bookshelves. Oil paintings on the wall. The hot secretary from outside was fetching coffee. Hell of a deal, this public service gig.

The senator—Herzog—didn’t appear to like Buford’s way of phrasing things. Kind of got this prissy look on his face. “That’s one way of putting it,” he said. “And you’re supposed to help me out of it…somehow?”

The guy was looking Buford and Little Joe over, like a man who had just discovered a cockroach in his chili. Buford had seen that look before, people thinking he was a rube. He could handle it, though, as long as Herzog didn’t maintain an attitude. Hell, Buford had been known to play it up a little, Columbo-style. Let people think he was a yokel. Nobody keeps an eye on a yokel.

Uncle Chuck—or “Mr. Hamm,” as Buford had called him in front of the senator—had given Buford the lowdown, but he wanted to run it by Herzog, make sure he had the story straight. Make sure Herzog wasn’t candy-coating some of the details. “What I hear is, you got a nasty phone call. Guy mailed you some pitchers, and now he wants something in exchange. I got it right so far?”

The senator started to say something, but apparently thought better of it and simply nodded instead. He came across as fidgety, like he had better things to do.

“And these pitchers are what you’d call embarrassing. You and a woman.”

“That’s the gist. I already told Hamm all of this. In detail.”

Buford looked at him. “Bear with me. No sense in rushing through it.” He flipped through his notes. “You got no idea who it mighta been who called, how long they been watching you, nothing like that.” He looked up. “You mind letting me have those photos?”

Herzog immediately shook his head, Buford seeing the impatience in the man. “Out of the question,” Herzog said, almost like he was ready to call the whole thing off. “That’s just ridiculous, anyway. What reason could you possibly have for needing them?”

He was still talking down to Buford, and it was starting to piss him off.

Buford smiled at him. “See, them photos can tell me things, maybe point me in the right direction.”

Herzog snorted. “Yeah, right. If you think I’m—”

“For example,” Buford said, cutting him off, “were they taken from up close or with a zoom lens? A zoom lens tells me the guy knows something about photography. He’ll have equipment lying around somewhere when I find him. Same thing with a date stamp. Could tell me what kind of camera it is, even the model. What’s on the back of the photos? Anything on there from a processor? Because if there is, that’s something else to worry about. Means it’s been out of the man’s hands and there might be somebody else with copies now. Maybe some curious kid down at the one-hour shop made copies for his secret stash, loose ends we’d have to run down. The envelope, too, with the cancellation mark. Tells me where he mailed it from. Did he buy stamps at the counter? Maybe someone at the post office can help us out, for a price. Might even get a look at some video, if they’ve got cameras. That’s why I want to see the photos, Senator. Not for my own personal jollies, but to keep your dick out of a sling.”

Little Joe let loose with a mean little giggle, and Buford could see the look in Herzog’s eyes changing as he revised his opinion of the both of them. Surprise. Maybe things are not what they seem.

“You gotta realize,” Buford said, “I’m gonna see ‘em eventually anyway, right? I can’t get the negatives from this guy without seeing what they are, can I?”

After a pause, Herzog dug into a desk drawer and came out with a manila envelope. “Please look at these later. I don’t want to see them again. And for God’s sake, don’t lose them.”

Buford tucked the envelope into his jacket. “I understand your caller ID didn’t work out so well.”

“If it did, I wouldn’t need you, would I?”

The man was still a tad feisty. Pissed off because of Buford’s little speech. Buford wanted to turn Little Joe loose, let him bitchslap the man right across his capped teeth.

Instead he said, “That’s ‘cause we’re dealing with a clever boy. What he did was, before he dialed your number, he dialed a code that blocks out caller ID.”

Herzog didn’t looked particularly impressed, but he did ask, “How do you know that?”

Buford grinned and retrieved some papers from his other coat pocket. “Trade secret.” He was tired of trying to impress this asshole. It had all been fairly simple anyway. He’d made a few calls, dangled the right amount of money in front of the right person, and just like that—phone records.

Buford said, “The call came in at ten-oh-seven. That sound about right?”

“Yes, that is correct.” The senator sounded like he was testifying in front of some damn committee.

“Then answer me this,” Buford said, glancing up from the papers. “You know a man in Blanco County by the name of Phil Colby?”

Herzog didn’t answer, because right then the good-looking gal came in with the coffee.

BUFORD WASNT MUCH for gadgets, but a few years back he’d forced himself to learn how to operate a computer. He knew, in his line of work, it was a necessary evil. A person can find out all kinds of great shit on the computer. Most of it’s just right there in front of you, free for the taking. Tax rolls. Phone directories. Marriage and divorce records. Hell, even criminal records for a small fee. Poke around long enough, you can dig up dirt on just about anybody.

Probably even a man named Phil Colby.

Herzog had said the name sounded familiar but wasn’t able to place it. Not much help. So what Buford and Little Joe did, before they left Herzog’s office, they asked the secretary where the nearest quick-print shop was. A place where they could use a computer. She sent them down Lamar.

Heading south, the top down, Buford was checking addresses, knowing they were getting close, while Little Joe opened the manila envelope. He gave a low whistle as he thumbed through the photographs. “Aw, man, you ain’t gonna believe this,” he said. Then he started laughing, excited as hell. “It’s her! Damn, take a look!”

“Who?” Buford said, trying to sneak a peek without hitting some asshole on a bicycle.

“The secretary!” Little Joe held one of the photographs out at arm’s length, studying it. “And check out this getup she’s wearing. My oh my.”

But Buford saw the sign for the quick-copy and had to hit the brakes and pull in quick, someone honking behind him, Buford flipping the bird.

Buford whipped it into a parking spot, killed the engine, and made a
gimme
motion with his hand. Little Joe passed the pictures over, and Buford took a look. “Lord have mercy. Last time I saw leather stretched that tight, Troy Aikman was throwing it for a touchdown. And check out ol’ Herzog.”

“One fucked-up mess, ain’t he?”

“I’d say his mama didn’t give him enough loving.”

“His choice of women, though, I’d vote for the man.”

Five minutes later, they were inside the quick-print shop, Buford working a PC, Little Joe watching over his shoulder. Buford went straight to Google and typed in
phil colby blanco county.

He found a lot more than he was expecting.

One o’clock sharp, steering with one hand, Lucille crushed out her cigarette, then swigged the last of her beer and tossed the empty in the backseat. Chewed some gum real quick to cover her breath. Time to earn some money.

The pet this time was a German shepherd and the customer was an old lady, so Lucille figured it would be a cinch. The older folks were so trusting it was almost ridiculous. Lucille remembered a line she’d heard somewhere:
The most important thing is sincerity, so if you can fake that, you’ve got it made.
And you know something? Whoever said that was exactly right.

The woman’s name was Gladys Smith, and when Lucille shook her hand, it felt like a small suede bag filled with dry sticks. Gladys’s home was a tidy little cottage that smelled like cinnamon and liniment, maybe a touch of Lysol.

“That’s my husband, Jerry,” Gladys said softly, gesturing toward a white-haired geezer being swallowed up by an easy chair in front of the television.
Jeopardy!
was playing, and the volume was plenty loud. Lucille noticed a clear oxygen tube snaking down from the man’s nostrils to the floor, then trailing down a hallway, probably to a generator in the bedroom. She was guessing emphysema, maybe COPD. She’d seen plenty of those cases. Tough deal.

“Hello, Mr. Smith,” Lucille called out, working hard to be friendly. It didn’t always come easy.

The old guy didn’t so much as budge.

“He doesn’t hear so well anymore,” Gladys said, smiling behind her glasses, so sweet and lovely Lucille nearly had to retch. As the saying goes, if you looked up the word “grandmother” in the dictionary, you’d find this woman’s picture. Probably had a slew of grandkids who visited her every weekend, and she’d bake cookies special for the occasion.

But over in the corner of the living room was Lucille’s reason for being here: There lay the dog, sacked out on a large pillow, eyes half open, watching her. Its tail thumped a few times slowly, but it made no effort to get up.

“Oh, isn’t he a sweetie,” Lucille said. “May I?”

“By all means,” Gladys said.

Lucille knelt and began to stroke the dog’s head.

“We’ve had him for four years, since he was a puppy,” Gladys said, clasping her hands in front of her chest. “He’s our baby.”

“He’s wonderful. Full of life, I can tell.”
Don’t push it,
Lucille thought to herself. The dog was kicking its hind leg slowly as Lucille rubbed its belly, but that was about the extent of Duke’s liveliness.
Christ, I’ll cut my own wrists if this mutt gets a boner.

“Where are my manners?” Gladys asked. “Would you like something to drink?”

That was exactly what Lucille was hoping for. “That’d be nice.”

“I could make some coffee…”

Lucille smiled. Making coffee would take time. “Excellent,” she said. Then she turned her gaze back to the dog. “I’ll just stay here and keep him company.”

“Cream or sugar?”

“Both, please.”

“I’ll be right back,” Gladys said, and retreated into the kitchen.

Lucille gave the shepherd one last pat on the head, then rose and nonchalantly inspected the living room. The photos on the wall were her first stop. There were plenty of shots of people, and Lucille assumed these were family members—kids, the grandkids (as expected), siblings probably, and cousins. Lucille wasn’t interested in those. She focused on the shots that featured the dog. Like that one, right there, showing Jerry fishing from a dock, the dog by his side.
Oh, could this be more perfect?
There was a date stamp in the corner of the photo. The picture was taken in the spring, four years ago.

Another shot showed the shepherd, still a puppy, and an aging Labrador retriever lolling in their doghouses, apparently in the backyard of the Smith home.
Bingo.
The shepherd was named Duke and the retriever was Shasta, according to the gaily painted names on the doghouses. Where was Shasta now? The answer was obvious. Doggie heaven.

This was going to be a cakewalk.

Other photos showed Duke and Gladys in front of a sign: PEDERNALES FALLS STATE PARK…Jerry, Gladys, and Duke on a boat…Duke and Jerry sitting in a bed of springtime bluebonnets. The most recent shot was from two years ago. Lucille figured that was about the time ol’ Jerry’s health began to decline. Before that, they had apparently been a fairly active couple. She could use that knowledge. Boy, could she use that.

She could hear the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, cups being placed on saucers. She still had time.

Lucille noticed a leash hanging on a hook by the back door. She lifted it and rattled the clasp gently at the dog. Duke raised his head with a look of anticipation on his face. Lucille replaced the leash, and Duke’s head went back down on the pillow.
Okay,
Lucille thought,
so Duke and Gladys still go on walks occasionally, something the dog looks forward to.
That was also good to know.

She picked up a few more clues around the room, and by the time Gladys returned with the coffee, Lucille was more than prepared.

“Here we go,” Gladys called merrily, carrying a tray

“Smells wonderful,” Lucille replied, wishing it was beer instead.

They sat at a small oak dining table next to a bay window, and Lucille could see a bird feeder hanging in a nearby tree.
I
bet Duke chases squirrels away from the feeder,
she thought. Something else she could mention.

Gladys blew on her coffee, then said, “You know, I feel a little silly about this, to be honest.” She smiled sheepishly “I’ve never used a pet psychic before.”

Lucille nodded, just as understanding as can be. “Most people haven’t. There are doubters out there, and I can understand that. But I can promise you this: You won’t have any doubt at all by the time I leave.” Followed by a big, warm smile to put Gladys at ease.

“Have you been doing this long?”

“All my life,” Lucille said, because that’s what they all wanted to hear. “When I was a little girl, I noticed I had this…gift. I could—well, I could understand what my cocker spaniel was thinking. That’s the only way to describe it. Now, I don’t mean I could simply tell when he wanted to go outside or when he was hungry. It was more than that.”

Lucille placed her hands together, prayerlike, in front of her face. Time to play it up. “I could connect with him on an emotional level. He could express things to me, like the fact that he was lonely all by himself when we went to church…or he would tell me—I know this sounds a little crazy—but one time he told me his stomach didn’t feel good. The vet said it wasn’t his stomach, but I insisted it was, so my mother asked for X-rays. It turned out the poor thing had swallowed a golf ball. Can you imagine that?”

“That’s…that’s amazing.” Gladys stared at her with rapt attention, and Lucille knew the hook was set.

Lucille shrugged her shoulders. “I decided, if I have this ability, I might as well share it.”

Gladys placed her coffee on the table and chose her words carefully. “When I saw your note posted at the grocery store, I thought, well, this woman might be just what we need. See, we realize we’re both getting older…and we have to think about the future. If something happened to us…”

“You want to know where Duke would like to live.”

Gladys’s mouth fell open. “I don’t remember telling you his name.”

“No, no you didn’t,” Lucille said. She turned her gaze to Duke, who was now licking himself contentedly. “He shared it with me earlier.”

Gladys had tears in her eyes now. “Why…I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Sometimes I don’t understand it myself,” Lucille said, patting Gladys’s hand. “Shall we get started?”

“Oh yes…please.”

“There is one thing we need to take care of beforehand,” Lucille said softly, acting mildly embarrassed, such a distasteful topic. “My regular fee is two hundred dollars.”

“Why, of course,” Gladys said, scurrying out of her chair to grab her purse.

“I prefer cash if you have it,” Lucille called after her.

Marlin officially called off the search at sundown. He’d been straight up with the rescue squad and the other volunteers, telling them the situation with Scofield and the Corvette, letting them know there might not be a body in the river after all. It nagged at him, though, knowing Scofield’s SUV couldn’t have ended up in the water by itself.

Thirty minutes after dark, he met with Bobby Garza, Bill Tatum, Ernie Turpin, and Nicole Brooks in the conference room at the sheriff’s office in Johnson City.

When he walked into the room, all the deputies looking up, Marlin got the sense they’d learned something. He was right.

Garza, with a pained smile on his face, said, “John, I wanted to keep you posted. Ernie and Nicole searched Scofield’s house this afternoon, and I don’t think you’re gonna like this. Wait—first things first. Nothing on the river today?”

Marlin shook his head. “The water’s down about three feet from yesterday, so I used the boat for a while. But no, nothing.”

Garza shook his head, clearly frustrated. “That’s what I expected. So here’s the deal. There was no sign of robbery or burglary at Scofield’s house. But we did learn that he was seeing a gal named Stephanie Waring—a local girl who works at a nursery in Dripping Springs. Plants, not kids. Anyway, here’s the kicker. We called her mother, her boss, her friends—and surprise, nobody knows where
she
is either. Her boss said she left a message on his voicemail saying she had to quit. Didn’t give a reason.”

Marlin pulled a chair out and sat. “Let’s hear the story.”

Brooks said, “We found this on his fridge.” She slid a color photograph across the table. Marlin found himself looking at a shot similar to the photo David Pritchard had provided of the woman named Jenny. Here, a young blonde woman in a bikini top, jeans, and boots was posing in front of the same Corvette. Written across the bottom of the photo in felt-tip pen:
Love you! Steph.

“I recognized her right off,” Turpin said. “Wrote her up for shoplifting at the Save-Mart a couple years ago. It was a big deal, because it was her third time, which meant it was a felony. The manager wouldn’t budge.”

“She was also the prom queen during her senior year,” Brooks added, “but judging from the way you’re studying that picture, I guess that’s not so hard to believe.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, and Marlin rolled his eyes. He had noticed that Brooks had a dry sense of humor, and he liked it. In fact, there had been occasions, when she first joined the department, when he found himself smiling at her more readily than he should, sometimes inventing excuses to meet with her. It didn’t take him long to realize he had a schoolboy crush on her. The kind that makes your palms damp and ties your tongue in knots.

He said, “I was just thinking I knew her from someplace, that’s all.”

“We found some other cards and notes,” Brooks continued. “Nothing important, but enough to make it clear they were dating.” Now she held up a sheaf of papers. “Plus, when we dumped Scofield’s phone, there were plenty of calls between the two of them. The last one was on Sunday morning, about eleven hours before the rain started. We called every number on the list from the last month, plus every number in this little gem.” She held up a little black book—Scofield’s personal phone directory. “Stephanie Waring is the only person he’s talked to recently who we haven’t been able to reach. I left a voicemail. But Scofield was definitely a player, or he used to be. Dated tons of women, although it looks like he slowed down in the last couple of years. Lots of the numbers were disconnected, and some of the women had gotten married or moved away. By the way, there was also a call to Scofield from Phil Colby on Saturday.”

Marlin raised his eyebrows.
Why on earth would Phil call Vance Scofield?
“And?”

“Phil said that Scofield was starting to build a high fence, so he called and told him to make sure the fencing crew stays off his property.” Brooks frowned. “He said he was just harassing the guy. Something to do with a lawsuit.”