The Bequest (28 page)

Words of comfort.
Words of comfort? Of course.
Chad had said Peggy was in trouble. That was why he had called and

“Chad said you were in trouble,” Mary said, as she turned to face her
daughter. “What—”
There was no one there. Mary hadn’t heard Peggy leave, hadn’t
heard the horse’s hooves on the hard earth. Had she been so oblivious,
once again, to her daughter’s pain? Was it the same lack of concern that
had chased Peggy off all those years ago? An adage settled on the forefront
of her mind: Those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it.
She hung her head and sobbed.

Swafford left a
message on Stillman’s cell for a call-back, then
pulled his car into a parking slot at an In-N-Out Burger, got out, and went
inside. He hadn’t finished his pancakes at Nate’n Al’s, so he felt like a little
something to eat was in order, though, if she knew, his wife would kill
him over his diet today. After leaving Stillman and Nichols, he made a few
calls for some updates—at least one of which was extremely surprising to
him—then took a little detour to his favorite fast food restaurant while
waiting to hear back from the CHP detectives. He requested his doubledouble “animal style,” then filled his cup with iced tea and found a booth.
As soon as he sat down, his cell phone rang. He glanced at the read-out:
Stillman.

Stillman said. “But no.”
“Do tell.”
“We found out that Leland’s buried in Ludlow, out in the desert.

We’re working on an exhumation order right now. We also got the hair
from that tub to the lab. We’re front of the line, but still don’t know how
long that’s gonna take. I hope we’ll have something to match it up against
at least by the time we dig Leland up.”

“I got my people looking for Annemarie, but no luck yet,” Swafford
said. “Looks like she’s fallen off the face of the earth.”
An In-N-Out worker approached Swafford’s table with his order.
Swafford accepted it with a nod then dismissed the kid with a wave of his
hand.
“So here’s the scenario I’ve been putting together in my head for
this,” Swafford said. “It assumes, of course, that the DNA’s all going to
match up.”
“Your elevator pitch, huh?”
“Leland writes a script and wills it to our actress, Miss Squire. Then
Mommy Dearest sends him off a cliff. She knows the story of a suicidal
screenwriter just about guarantees a blockbuster. She knows just enough
about the business to know it really doesn’t matter if the screenplay’s any
good. All that matters is how it ended up in the hands of Teri Squire.
Then, just when the blockbuster is about to hit—”
“Brother Rodney shows up, pretending to be Leland, and he tries to
horn his way in on the back end.”
“The problem with that is planning that far ahead,” Stillman said.
“What do you mean?”
“Nichols and I have been thinking the same way. The problem is this:
How can Annemarie know the screenplay is worth a damn? I mean, how
can she be so sure it’s going to be a hit, that she offs her kid just hoping
that the screenplay is good enough? Most screenplays suck.”
“Like I said, she knows it’s the hype that’ll blow up the box office,
not the actual script.”
“But that still takes a lot of luck. How do you factor that into an
actual plan?”
“You got a theory?” Swafford asked.
“Our theory is she’s just taking advantage of happenstance. She may
or may not have gotten her kid to take a header off a cliff, but when he
did, she figures out an angle for it. Then, when the blockbuster special’s
about ready to roll, she decides it’s time to get on board before the train
leaves the station. She pulls Rodney into the deal to pretend to be Leland
and throw a monkey wrench into the whole deal.”
Swafford grabbed his burger in one hand—not an easy task with a
double-double—and took a big bite. Sometimes he thought better when
he ate. “The rest of the story still plays out the same way,” he said. “Along
comes Doug Bozarth and his hedge fund, but all of a sudden he finds out
Teri Squire may not really have owned the screenplay all along. Not if the
screenwriter is still alive.”
“So the screenwriter needs to be dead to clear title. That means byebye Rodney.”
“It’s still a leap to tie that to Bozarth,” Swafford said. “What if it’s the
actress? She’s the one who needs him dead.”
“You really think she’s capable of killing someone?”
Swafford swallowed then brought the hamburger up for a second
bite. Just before biting, he put it down on the table. “Well, see, that’s why
I called. We’ve got some pretty good computer geeks of our own. It took
some doing, including calling in some favors from the FBI, but I found out
a little something about Miss Teri Squire.”
“My turn,” Stillman said. “Do tell.”
“She’s killed before.”
There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds.
Swafford smiled as he realized he had finally struck the smartass state cop
speechless.
“Her real name is Peggy Tucker, and about twenty years ago, she
shot and killed her brother Adam back in Bandera, Texas. They said it was
a hunting accident, but it doesn’t pass the smell test. She spent a year in a
state youth home for it.”
“So is that where she’s from? Bandera, Texas?” Stillman asked.
“Yep. I’m betting that’s where she’s gone. She had a lawyer named
Chad Palmer, who’s now a veterinarian full-time. He was pretty much
fresh out of law school when he handled the hunting accident case, then
shut down his practice after Peggy Tucker went to the youth home. My
money says that’s who we were talking to earlier.”
“Where’s Bandera?”
“About an hour, give or take, from San Antonio.”
“Shit!” Stillman said.
Swafford set his hamburger down and perked up in his seat. “What?”
“That fits nicely with a piece of information we learned about Doug
Bozarth. His private Gulfstream filed a flight plan today for San Antonio.
He should be getting there right about four-thirty Central Time.” He
glanced at his watch. “That’s about a half-hour from now.”
Swafford glanced at his watch then said, “You guys ever flown on a
private jet? I got another favor I can call in.”
Mark Dolan and Will Morgan waited at one of the hangars at San Antonio
International Airport that serviced private jets. They looked like typical
Texans,
clad in jeans,
denim
workshirts, and
cowboy boots.
The
differences between them were readily discernable, though it would take a
slight bit of analysis to actually articulate them. Dolan wore calfskin boots,
while Morgan wore alligator; Dolan’s jeans were worn, the cuffs frayed
from years of being stepped on by the heels of his boots, while Morgan’s
were true blue, creased as if professionally ironed; Dolan’s workshirt was
wrinkled, as if he’d slept in it, while Morgan’s was starched and pressed.
By all appearances, Morgan was the boss, Dolan the hired hand.
Appearances could be deceiving.
Morgan looked at this watch. “Jet should be here by now.”
“It’ll get here when it gets here.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You usually are. But saying doesn’t change anything.”
A Gulfstream taxied to the
structure and
pulled inside
the air
conditioned hangar. As the engines shut down, the door opened and stairs
descended. Doug Bozarth exited, clad in a silk suit straight from Europe,
every hair groomed and slicked back, a leather briefcase clutched in one
hand. He didn’t smile or even look from side to side, just moved straight
forward as if with a purpose. He eyed the two men in jeans and boots,
who fell in beside him, one on each side. They veered across the hangar
and toward the exit that led outside to the parking lot.
“What have we learned?” Bozarth asked.
“She hasn’t been to her parents’ ranch,” Dolan said. “We’ve had eyes
on it since we first heard from you.”
“She came to Texas for a reason,” Bozarth said. “If not so see her
parents, then what?”
Dolan opened the door and the men stepped outside into a hot Texas
sun that heated the wind, blasting their faces like a furnace.
Sweat
immediately leaked from Bozarth’s brow, his perfect hair mussing.
“It always this hot here?” he asked.
“It’s Texas in the summer,” Dolan said. He pointed toward the
private parking area. “This way.”
“Where else would she go?” Bozarth asked.
“She’s got an old boyfriend here. A lawyer turned vet.”
“Interesting career change.”
Dolan led the way to a newer model, oversized Dodge pick-up truck.
He pressed the remote control on his key ring, unlocking the doors. Dolan
got in on the driver’s side and Morgan squeezed into the back while
Bozarth got in on the passenger side. Dolan cranked the engine, turned the
air conditioner as high as it would go, and backed out of the parking spot.
“Talk to me about this old boyfriend,” Bozarth said. “The former
lawyer.”
“He was her lawyer on a manslaughter charge.”
Bozarth snapped his head around, a momentary lapse of composure.
The news obviously took him by surprise. “Manslaughter!” he said.
“They said it was a hunting accident, but she still got a year for it. A
plea deal.”
“Who’d she kill?”
“Her brother.”
Dolan pulled a folded page from his pocket and handed it to Bozarth,
who
studied the
page, then smiled.
What a
delectable
piece
of
information. Little Miss Teri Squire, who seemed to take offense at the
unspoken threats of violence that accompanied their meetings to discuss
the screenwriter problem, with a holier-than-thou attitude that she lorded
over him—that same Teri Squire had killed her own brother.
“How come no one knows about this?” Bozarth asked.
“She was sixteen when it happened. When her year was up, her
record was sealed, since she was a juvenile. Her father disowned her, so
she changed her name when she moved to California, maybe even had a
little work done, and started acting. Anyone trying to track down her
background would have run into a dead end.”
“You said her lawyer was an old boyfriend. But if he was her lawyer
at the time and she was sixteen—”
“Yeah, the math is funny. The way I figure it, they probably had a
fling during her case. He was about a year out of law school, and he took it
personally when she decided to plead guilty, so he stopped practicing law
and went back to vet school.”
“What makes you think they had a fling?”
“It just figures. Good-looking girl like that, he gets all broken up that
she went to a prison for kids so he quits law practice. Sounds like he took
it awfully hard if it was just business.”
“Where do we find this vet?” Bozarth asked.
“In Bandera County,” Morgan said from the back seat. “About an
hour from here, give or take. He’s got a ranch there.”
“Then gentlemen,” Bozarth said, “let’s go to Bandera County.”

Teri had never
felt so alone as she meandered to Chad’s ranch. She
needed time to think, so she chose a long, roundabout route rather than
going directly back. Just as Chad liked to ride when he needed to clear his
head, that had once been her pattern, as well. Being alone in the Hill
Country, astride a horse, was as close to heaven as she had ever been, but
that was a long time ago. She wondered if she would ever regain that
feeling of closeness to God.

As good as it had been to see Mama again, it hurt doubly to be
reminded of old wounds and to have the scabs ripped off anew. Teri knew
it wasn’t fair to put her mother in the middle of things, to draw a line in
the dirt about Daddy, but at some point, choices had to be made. Adam
had done what he had done; he had made his choices. Teri had done what
she had done; she had made her choices. Then Mama and Daddy made
theirs, and Teri had left. Twenty years was a long time not to see your
parents. Likewise, it was a long time not to see your daughter.