Hollow Man (20 page)

I went to my car and took the burner phone from my glove compartment. I dialed Otto's phone and I sat there, impatient, as it rang and rang. Then I tried Tristan, praying he had his phone with him.

“What?” he said.

“Where are you?”

“Going out to lunch. What's up?”

“I'm going out to lunch, too. Meet me at Kerbey Lane Café on South Lamar.”

“Wait, I was just aiming for a sandwich at—”

“Something's up. See you in ten.”

We were early for lunch so had no trouble getting a booth without anyone around us. I ordered coffee and water, Tristan a Diet Coke.

“What's going on?” he asked.

“There's no easy way to say this, and I need you to stay calm. Remember, we're in public.”

His eyes bored holes in me. “I'm calm. What happened?”

“The police think they found one of the guns.”

Blood drained from his face. “What?” he croaked.

“I'm not sure which one. And I sure as hell don't know how.”

“Oh my God. What…what do we do?”

“Depends, I don't know how far along they are with the testing. Maureen told me they'd had a tip, found the gun, but she didn't say whether they'd even started the ballistics yet.”

“Oh, God.”
His eyes filled with tears, and he looked down at the table. “Oh my God, it's over.”

“Do you know where Otto is?”

He shook his head. “If it's his, he'll tell them, won't he? He'll tell them everything.”

“Stay here and eat.” I stood and dropped a five-dollar bill on the table. “I have to go find him. Don't do anything until you hear from me. Eat, go back to work, and for fuck's sake stay calm.”

“How can I stay calm?” he hissed. “We're going to prison, and when—”

I leaned on the table and put my face close to his. “No. We are not going to prison. Otto is a smart man, he'll lay low, disappear.”

“What if it's yours?”

“Then I'll go back to England. Or Canada. Whoever it is will disappear and lay low.”

“Bullshit. The cops can find anyone these days.”

“Actually, they can't. Why do you think there's a top-ten most wanted? The FBI has one, every state has one. Shit, every local police department has one. That's a whole lot of wanted criminals on the run, unable to be found. Otto will be just one more, and we'll help him if we have to.” I saw Tristan's eyes flick past me and assumed it was the waiter coming back with our drinks. I put my hand out to shake Tristan's. “I'm sorry, family emergency, I'll call you later, yeah?”

Tristan nodded and I gave the hovering waiter a smile and said, “Sorry, gotta go.” I breezed past him and out of the door.

I'd handled a murder case where we thought the evidence was all in, and the trial was set. Four days before we picked the jury, the detective located the gun. Just like this time, it was an anonymous phone tip. They seized the gun from the cistern of a public toilet in a park in North Austin, and while the ballistics guy did his tests the detective ran the serial numbers. Finding the gun to identifying its owner took less than twelve hours.

Otto, as far as I knew, wasn't working. His erratic job schedule meant that even if he was, I wouldn't know where to find him. I drove to his little house on Porter Street and saw that his car was in the driveway. I knocked on his door but got no answer. I peered in the front windows, but the curtains were closed and I couldn't see inside.

I started for my car when my cell phone rang, my boss Maureen's name popping up on the screen.

“This is Dominic.”

“Hey, Maureen here. Dom, can I ask a favor?”

“What's up?”

“On that double homicide we talked about. They just got some info and want to execute a search warrant. I don't want to talk about it on the phone, the guy we're after is…well, I helped them with the warrant affidavit, the judge signed it, but they need someone there when they execute it.”

“A prosecutor? That's unusual isn't it?”

“Not for a capital-murder case. If you can cover this one, I'll take back over with whatever else they need. I got a call from my son's school; he's sick and I have to pick him up.”

“When are they doing it?”

“Now. They're getting a SWAT team together, just in case. I'll text you the address. Wait, better still, I'll text you the staging point.”

“Sure, no worries.”

“Where are you right now?” she asked.

“At lunch. I'm done, though. Just text me the location; I'll be on my way. I don't mind waiting.”

“Thanks, Dom, I owe you one.”

I sat in my car and cursed myself. She'd asked me where I was, and if someone checked my phone log, it'd show I was right here. At the home of a suspect in a double murder. And it crossed my mind, a sharp, painful thought, that this was a trap. That they knew I was involved and they were luring me to my place of arrest. But I couldn't
do much except play along, because if they had no idea, the last thing I needed to do was act cagey. Plus, if I was being suckered into custody, wouldn't they have me show up for a “briefing” at the downtown police station? My phone dinged and the message from Maureen came up.

Large parking lot behind Conoco on E Riverside / Montopolis. Asap.

It took three full seconds to realize that she was directing me to the gas station two blocks away. They had Otto's gun.

I was the first one there, and I parked my car in the middle of the enormous and empty lot. I couldn't tell whether it was parking for people at the warehouse behind me, or whether the gas-station convenience store was overly optimistic. I leaned against the outside of my car and kept my eyes peeled for the cavalry, but after three minutes, the back door to the gas station opened and a middle-aged man started toward me. He was dark-skinned and wore that expression so many gas-station owners and clerks wear: tiredness, boredom, anticipatory hostility, and an edge of fear.

Behind him, about half a mile away on Montopolis, I saw the procession I'd been waiting for, hoping for, the procession that told me I was still in the clear: an armored vehicle and the bland sedans driven by cops on duty. No lights, no sirens, in stealth mode, for now.

Twenty yards away from me, the man waved a hand and yelled. “You can't park there.”

“Who says?”

“I do. This is my lot.”

“We're going to be borrowing it for a few minutes.”

He was in front of me. “What?” Indian, maybe Pakistani. “It's not for rent.”

“I didn't say
rent
. I said, we're going to be borrowing it for a few minutes.”

“Who are you? Who is borrowing?”

I smiled genially and pointed behind him as the armored car growled its way through the parking lot toward us, four beige cars fanning out behind it like a wedding train.

“What is this?” The man was indignant, not intimidated, and for a moment I was impressed.

“We're meeting here for a chat, then going somewhere else. Nearby, but somewhere else. Now do me a favor and go back to your business.”

He didn't budge, but his eyes got wider as the armored car pulled up near us and eight officers in full SWAT gear piled out. The police cars lined up behind the truck, and doors slammed as more cops joined the circle. I recognized one detective, Megan Ledsome. I'd gotten pretty close to her during a week-long trial when she'd been in Robbery. I didn't know she'd moved over to Homicide. She was blond, petite, and probably the prettiest cop I'd ever seen, and she carried an air of confidence (and a gun) that made her even sexier. Our lunches that week had lingered a little too long, become a little too informal, and when she realized what was happening, she made up for it by talking about her husband, Greg, how hard they were trying to have a baby. That was eight months ago, so it looked like the baby thing hadn't happened yet.

She seemed pleased to see me but keen to hide that fact. We shook hands.

“Who's this?” she asked, nodding to the Indian.

“It's his parking lot,” I said. “Apparently, you forgot to make a reservation.”

She turned to the man and introduced herself. “Sir, I apologize for taking up your time, and your parking lot. We're about to execute a very important operation nearby. We needed to stage somewhere out of sight of the target location, and this was the most convenient place.
If you'll give us fifteen minutes or so, we'll finalize our plan and be out of your way.”

“Yes, of course. Certainly.” He started back toward the station, stopped to look at us, then continued on his way.

Ledsome turned to me. “Did Ms. Barcinski tell you we're here for Otto Bland?”

“Otto? Seriously?” I did my utmost to look shocked. “No, she didn't. What does Otto have to do with this?”

“That's what we plan to find out.”

“She mentioned the gun. You found his gun?”

“Yep. We got a call about it, from someone who saw him there. The ballistics match the bullet taken from one of the victims.”

“A call? A phone call? From who?”

“Yeah, a phone call. Is there any other kind?”

“No, sorry, I just…from who?”

“Anonymous. We're working on finding out, though.”

“Okay, good.” I shook my head slowly. “Otto,” I said, “I just can't believe it.”

We huddled around the hood of my car. Detective Ledsome had a map, and I stood back as she pointed out Otto's house. The plan was simple. A slicktop would drive down Porter Street and a detective in the backseat would hold his phone up, video app running, for a drive-by. They'd look at the video on the way back here to see if he was home, any little sign would do. Once back here, whether he was home or not, two more slicks would set off and block either end of the street. The SWAT vehicle would lead the way to Otto's, pulling up on the lawn and decamping in a matter of seconds to take down the door. SWAT would clear the place, the detectives would follow right behind.

Ledsome went to the trunk of her car. “You know Bland pretty well, don't you?”

“Acquaintance, I'd say.” I kept my face blank.

“He worked at the DA's office, right?”

“He did.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Not much. Nice guy. Nice enough, anyway.”

“Why'd he get fired?”

“No clue. Probably spoke his mind and upset someone.”

“When did you last see him?”

Why is she pushing me like this?
“At the DA's office a month ago. Juvenile Justice Center. He's a witness in a case and I interviewed him. Burglary, or car theft, I can't remember the case, it's not mine.”

“Okay.” She started to turn away.

“Oh, wait,” I said. “Jeez, I forgot. I was at his house, like, two weeks ago.”

“His house.”

“Yeah, it was weird. He called me after we'd met in the office. I guess for old times' sake or he thought we'd connected, or something. He and I, we'd always got on pretty well. I know, you wouldn't think, but I kind of liked him. Maybe I felt sorry for him. Anyway, he called me one evening, I was just heading out of the office and he was all upset, not making any sense. Not babbling, exactly, but he sounded truly miserable.”

“Why would he call you?”

“From what he said, he didn't have anyone else. Anyway, he said he wanted to ask me about something, and when I asked what, he changed his mind and said he just wanted to talk. I didn't have anything planned, so I went over and drank a beer with him.”

“What was his state of mind?”

“All over the place. I mean, I had one beer, he must have had five or six. Eventually he nodded off on the sofa and I left.”

“Did you hear from him after that?”

“Nothing. Not a word.”

“Okay, thanks,” she said. “So, you're not one of those paper-pushing DAs, are you?”

“Meaning?”

She popped the trunk and handed me a bullet-proof vest. “Meaning, you're coming in with us, right?”

“Absolutely.” She was testing me, not just to see if I'd be scared of running into the home of a murderer, but to see what kind of person I was. Some irony, there. I pulled the vest over my head, secured the Velcro straps, and turned to her. “So do I get a gun? AR-15 preferably, but I'll take a shotgun.”