Firebreak: A Mystery (28 page)

“Yeah?”

“What’s the first thing people asked you the day after the evacuation?”

“They asked if family members or friends were safe,” Otto said.

“And?”

“And did their house make it through the fire.”

Josie pointed at Otto. “Exactly! That was usually the
first
question. Most people already knew their friends had left in the evacuation, so they wanted to know if their homes were spared.”

“Okay, what’s that have to do with anything?”

“When I talked to Hank that day, I said that we had stopped by the Nixes’ house. I said we were looking for them. That we needed to talk to them. Wouldn’t you think he would assume that if the police were looking for them, that their home had burned up in the fire?”

Otto drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as if considering this. “He never asked about their house? You’re sure of that?”

“Positive. I thought it was odd, but in all the drama it didn’t stand out.”

*   *   *

Hank lived in a small ranch home just beyond the Hell-Bent. It was a simple one-story brick building with straggly clumps of cactus in the yard. Hank opened the front door and invited them in to a sparsely furnished living room. The walls were white and the room contained a brown corduroy couch, a love seat, and a banged-up coffee table that appeared to serve as a footrest. The couch faced a large-screen TV that hung on the wall, and two recliners faced the front window. The room looked like a typical bachelor’s living quarters with few decorations or personal touches. Hank motioned for them to sit down on the couch. He picked up the remote on the coffee table, turned down the volume on a baseball game, and sat down on the love seat.

“What can I do for you?”

“We’re struggling, Hank. We’re hoping you can help us sort some things out,” she said.

“You bet. Anything I can do, you name it.”

“We have two men who are dead, and an investigation that’s stalled. You know the country music scene better than anyone in the area. Help us understand how Billy Nix, a man with a bright future, could have ended up committing suicide.”

Hank considered Josie for a moment and stood. “Let me get you something.”

Hank returned a minute later holding a photo album, which he laid on the coffee table in front of Josie and Otto. He flipped a few pages in and pointed to a photo of Billy, standing by himself onstage at the Hell-Bent, holding a mic with his eyes closed, his head thrown back, obviously belting out a song.

Hank sat down again. He smiled, but his expression was sad. “That was the first time Billy sang in front of an audience. I’ve been friends with him and Brenda since before they got married. They used to hang out at the Hell-Bent and Brenda was always telling me how Billy could sing. Billy would give me this aw-shucks grin, and I never thought much about it. You can imagine, people tell me they can sing all the time, and they can barely carry a tune.”

Josie nodded. She’d seen enough bad TV to know lots of people thought they had a gift that just wasn’t there.

“Finally, one morning, just as we’re opening up the bar, Brenda brings Billy in and says, ‘Give him ten minutes onstage.’ Brenda set a boom box onstage and cued up the music. Then Billy got up there and sang, ‘I Think I’ll Just Stay Here and Drink.’” Hank smiled. “It was rough, but the guy had a stage presence that blew me away. He wasn’t polished. But that’s good. That’s the death knell for outlaw country. Billy was honest country. There were a couple waitresses in there that day and by the time he was done they were all moved up on the edge of the dance floor, smiling, bobbing their heads. Those waitresses knew they’d heard something special.”

“You were convinced, the first time you heard Billy sing?”

“If you saw as many bands come through here as I do, you’d get it. To have the complete package is rare. That’s what Mick Sinner doesn’t get. It’s the raw simplicity of what Billy had that was magic. He wasn’t out to impress anyone. He was just out there to sing his song. People loved that about Billy. That’s not something you can learn. Mick tries too hard. And that made it all the harder for him to watch Billy rise to the top.”

“After Billy sang for you that day, how long did it take before the band formed?” Josie asked.

“Billy knew Slim Jim and the guys. They’d messed around with the idea of starting a band. When they got my blessing it helped. But it was Brenda that got the band going, and Slim Jim and the others forget that now. They knew Brenda was part of the Netham Sisters, and that she had Nashville connections. They were willing to use her to get them a contract.” Hank grinned. “Those boys just didn’t like Brenda telling them what to do. And Brenda didn’t have any problem being boss.”

“Billy didn’t mind her being his boss?”

Hank smiled. “He
needed
Brenda to tell him what to do.”

Josie narrowed his eyes at Hank, trying to sort out the chain of events. “So why would a guy who’d worked so hard, and come so far, commit suicide? He left a lot of people who cared about him.”

Hank said nothing. His expression changed from a man remembering the good old days to someone who didn’t want to think about the present.

Josie unbuttoned her shirt pocket and pulled out a baggie containing the remaining three pills. “What can you tell me about these?”

Hank jerked his head back as if she’d asked a shocking question. “How would I know anything about a bag of pills?”

“Pills from this plastic bag killed Billy. He called two people the night he ate a baggieful of pills and drank himself to death. Somebody had to give him these pills and you were one of only two people that talked to him that night.”

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Yeah, I talked to him. I also told him to go back to the hotel and go to bed.”

“A truck that fits the description of yours was seen parked next to the park where Billy died that night.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Hank smiled for a moment, as if doubting they were serious. His smile faded as he noted their stony expressions and the lack of friendly banter. He sat up then, his look now defensive.

Josie and Otto both sat quietly watching him.

“Do you know how many big black pickup trucks there are in this county?”

“Who gave him these pills?” Josie asked. She held them up in her hand and watched Hank stare at them.

Hank pointed a finger at Otto, but kept his eyes on Josie. “Otto asked me the other day. He asked if I was surprised that Billy took pills.” He turned his attention to Otto. “And what did I tell you? I said, no. I never saw him popping pills, but he was a nervous guy. He drank whiskey before each show. It wouldn’t have surprised me to see him taking Oxy before a show to calm down.”

Josie glanced at Otto, and then back at Hank. “How did you know Billy took Oxy?”

Hank laughed, nervous now. “Come on! It was a guess! I told you, Otto, a guy could pick up a bag of Oxy from any number of people.”

“Did you give Billy pills?” Josie asked.

“No.” He made eye contact, his expression rigid.

“Did you see Billy the night he died?”

“I told you I talked to him on the phone.”

“Did you see him in person?” Josie asked.

“No.”

“Do you know why Billy committed suicide? What would have driven him to that point?” Otto asked. His tone was gentler now, his voice softer.

“I don’t know. He had everything going for him. He had a wife who loved him, and a career that was ready to take off.” Hank shrugged. “Who knows what drives any of us to do the things we do.”

“What can you tell us about Billy and Ferris?” Josie asked.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve heard rumors that Billy and Ferris were having a sexual relationship. Do you believe that to be true?”

Hank turned his head away and cursed under his breath. “You think Billy committed suicide over Ferris?”

Josie waited for him to answer her question.

“I think Ferris was obsessed with fame and fortune and he saw Billy as a sure bet.” Hank stared at Josie for a long while, his jaw rigid. “I’m not going to sit here and guess about what kind of relations they might have had.”

“What about Billy?” Otto asked.

“Billy was one of the most insecure people I know, and Ferris took advantage of that.”

“What about Brenda? Did she know the two men were having a relationship?” she asked.

Hank hesitated. “I sure as hell hope not.”

*   *   *

When Otto and Josie got into the jeep Josie asked, “What do you think?”

“The pills bother me. I think he knows something.”

Josie took the list of names Otto had printed off from her shirt pocket and unfolded it.

“Everyone on this list drives a dark-colored four-door truck that matches the description of the truck that was next to the park the night Billy committed suicide. All of these trucks were at the Hell-Bent for Billy’s memorial service.”

“Let’s go over the list again,” Otto said. “Who on this list is a known drug dealer? Who had the means to deliver pills to Billy?”

They scanned the list together and Otto pointed to a name at the bottom of the list. “Paula Muñoz.”

Josie groaned. “Damn. She drives me crazy.”

Otto glanced at his watch as he pulled out of the lane and headed toward the police station. “Josie, it’s six o’clock. We’ve been at this seven days straight. I need a few hours tonight. Delores is making noise about the long hours and me retiring again.”

Josie looked at him, surprised that Otto was worn out by the case. “Absolutely. Let’s call it a night.”

“You’ll take off too? Go home and call the negotiator maybe? Have a nice dinner?”

“Are you kidding me?” She laughed in spite of her irritation. “Who told you?”

He ignored her question. “Nick’s a good guy. He’s a hell of a negotiator. But two cops in a relationship together doesn’t make for an easy life.”

“Otto. I’m not marrying him. He stopped by to say hi.”

“He stopped by to check in on you. And, I’m okay with that.”

“Oh, really? Well as long as you’re okay with it, then I feel much better about things now. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

*   *   *

After Josie dropped Otto off at the station so he could have a nice meal with Delores, Josie checked around town and discovered that Paula was hanging out at Tiny’s Gun Club, just down the street from the PD.

Tiny was a three-hundred-pound man who wore a feather boa around his massive neck. Aside from the boa, he wore standard gun-salesman garb: jeans, T-shirt, cowboy boots. He claimed the boa was his calling card at gun shows. Everybody knew the guy with the boa. He once told Josie that he used to be the “big gun guy.” It was how people distinguished him from other gun sellers. “Hellfire! Everybody’s big now. Ain’t nothing special about me. I blend in with the next guy. But a boa? Nobody’s got that.”

What Tiny really had going for him was an amazing knowledge of every gun manufactured in the U.S., and many worldwide. It wasn’t the boa that drew people from all over the Southwest to his shop; it was his knowledge of guns that allowed his eccentricities to exist in an environment not always known for tolerance.

Josie entered the shop and found Tiny perched on a stool at the end of a twenty-foot glass counter that ran down one side of the store. Behind him was a display rack that progressed in size from rifles to shotguns. Inside the glass cases was an amazing array of handguns, from miniatures that would fit into a woman’s palm to pistols that would need two hands to aim and fire. And Tiny knew the provenance of every gun he sold. The rest of the shop was filled with neatly stacked shelves of ammo and gun paraphernalia that hunters, gun enthusiasts, and law enforcement used.

Paula Muñoz stood on the other side of the counter, bent over the glass with her arms perched on top, laughing her way through some story or another. Tiny, being a goodhearted man, sat on his stool patiently listening to the story and nodding at the appropriate moments, laughing when the time came. He seemed to perk up when Josie walked in and she realized he had probably been held hostage for quite some time.

“Josie! What brings you here?” he asked, and slid off his stool. He flung the boa trailing down the front of his body around to the back of his neck and walked toward her, his eyes pointed toward the ceiling.
There is a God,
he mouthed.

“What can I do for you, dear heart?” he said.

“Actually, I was hoping to have a word with Paula. You think we could have a minute to talk?”

Tiny leaned across the counter and whispered, “Honey, you can have all the minutes you want. That girl never shuts up.”

He headed toward the back of the store and in a voice loud enough for both women to hear, he said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. I need to check on some inventory.”

Paula smiled, her whole face involved in the act—her eyes wide, her mouth open, her cheeks round and flushed with happiness. Paula was in her midtwenties with a complexion like cream and long blond waves that gave her the look of pure innocence. Paula was also a convicted drug dealer who, to her attorney’s horror, had explained to the sentencing judge, “I provide a service for people. One person with insurance gets a prescription from their doctor. They don’t need it all. I connect that person with someone else who doesn’t have insurance but who still needs the medication. The medicine doesn’t get wasted. Everyone feels better.”

“Ms. Muñoz, we’re not talking about medicine here,” the judge had explained. “We’re talking about people buying OxyContin who aren’t sick. It’s called prescription drug abuse.”

“No! These are my friends. They
are
sick. They’re in
pain
. They just don’t have the money to go see a doctor, and I’m just helping them feel better. What’s so wrong with that?”

The story Josie had heard was that Paula and the judge debated prescription drug abuse until he finally sentenced her to time served and let her off on probation with her promise to let the doctors prescribe the medicine. This had been a year ago, and word on the street was that she hadn’t kept her promise.

Josie stood next to her at the counter. “Hi, Paula. How are you?”