After washing his hands, he thought about going through Sousa's locker, but what would he have in there that would tell us about his killer? Would he keep something at the station that he didn't keep at home?
Zane went out to the yard, grabbed a pair of bolt cutters from the tool shed, and waltzed back in like he meant business. He didn't want to answer any questions from his co-workers, so he kept his gaze above everyone's head and went straight to the lockers. Pulling open the cutters as far as the handles would extend, he placed the cutter on the lock of Sousa's locker. Positioning for leverage, he snapped the lock, and it dropped to the cement floor with a metallic clink.
"What the hell, man? What is with you?" Zane said out loud. The locker was nearly empty, except for a towel, a razor, and deodorant.
He tried to tell himself Sousa hadn’t been around that long. Zane had been with the force so long, his locker looked like it belonged to a hoarder, so he shouldn’t judge by his own standards, but this was weird. He had to let it go. Sousa’s house was clean, but lived in. Again, he’d only lived there six months or so. It just didn’t have that lived-in look. That’s what was throwing him off; he knew it. He had to get the emptiness of Sousa’s living space out of the equation. Or did he?
Zane slammed the locker shut. His stomach growled and his temper flared. He punched Sousa's locker. Sometimes he hated being a cop, but he didn't know how to be anything else.
Chapter 11
Ruby's Diner sat on the corner of two Texas highways and used to be a vacant Shell service station. About ten years ago, Billy Benoit bought the lot at auction and put a load of money into cleaning it up. Zane often said it was the best southern food anywhere outside Louisiana, and Billy was there from five a.m., which was an hour before they opened, until two in the afternoon or later, if the place was hopping. Zane’s dad, who also owned a food and drink establishment, didn't mind that he frequented the place, because Billy’s hours were complimentary to Code 7.
Walking into Ruby's was like stepping back in time. The entry was a revolving door that, once you're inside, transports you to the 1950s. The wall decor was minimal, because Billy hated dust, and he always said, “All that crap on the walls collects dust.” The metallic red upholstery on the booth seats was decorative enough. The checkerboard black and white ceramic tiles complimented the quilted and patterned stainless steel pillars, doors, and walls. Even the walk-in cooler had a brushed pattern in the steel. Zane knew this because he once had to talk a crazed employee out of the walk-in after he’d been fired. Billy said he tossed every opened container or box from the refrigerator after that incident. He didn’t trust the guy he fired to think he wouldn’t sabotage the food.
If Zane had a regular order, Billy would have it cooking by the time he sat in his usual seat at the bar. Yes, Ruby's had a bar, too. The bar had a quartz countertop with ribbed, stainless-steel edging, and teal and white checkerboard tile along the kickboard. The barstools should have been the traditional round stools with bright red cushions with the metal edges, you know, the kind that twirled round and round. Instead, they were sarsaparilla bottle caps, and they only turned a hundred and eighty degrees. Billy didn't scrimp there either, as the seat was cushioned, and the fabric had been embossed with the private label sarsaparilla he served.
Zane sat down and pulled a menu from the metal holder, placing his cell phone on the bar next to the roll of silverware that had been there when he sat down.
"Zane." A waitress, dressed in a pink Ruby's Diner T-shirt and blue jeans, her gray hair in a neat bun on the top of her head, sat a cafe au lait down on the counter.
"Mary Beth." He immediately picked up the coffee and took a sip. The caffeine pulsed through him like a shot of adrenaline. "Thanks."
She smiled, nodded, and pulled out her pad to take Zane’s order. "You need a minute?"
"Coush-coush and Eggs Sardou."
Mary Beth smiled. "Watching your waistline?"
He grinned.
Mary Beth touched her ear, then said, "Billy wants to talk to you, said he'd be right out."
As 1950s as the diner was, the technology was state of the art. Only Mary Beth still used an order pad because she liked her old ways, but she did input the order into a digital system. Billy had spoken to her in an earpiece he used to communicate with the servers, and they were able to call back to the kitchen, too. Kinda ruined the diner ambiance, not having the shouting from the kitchen to the waitresses and back over the service window.
As soon as Mary Beth walked away, Billy came through the swinging doors from the kitchen.
Zane looked up and said, "Is there anything you don't see?"
"Funny you should say that. I was just watching the news."
Zane groaned. "I was hoping to eat a nice breakfast and not think about that for a few minutes."
Billy stood on the other side of the counter, leaning against the waitress station. He was almost as tall as Zane, with a bit of extra weight around his middle. It made him look like he might be wearing a couple of Kevlar vests. Zane guessed his age at about fifty-five or sixty, but only because of the number of years he’d known him, not that he looked it. His dark hair looked in need of a trim, curling like a clown’s locks out from under his Ruby's Diner ball cap. He wore the black and white plaid pants of a chef, and a white chef's top. This would be natural, except everyone knew that Billy didn't know how to boil water. His brother and business partner, Marchen, did all the cooking.
"Knowing you like I do, you'll be chewing over the case while you eat your food. And that's what I wanted to talk to you about." He leaned a bit to his right, grabbed a mug and the coffee pot. He poured himself a cup first, then topped off Zane’s.
Zane sipped, trying not to seem too eager. He needed any information he could get, no matter how small, but never expected much. Billy wasn’t into small talk, so he had to have something to say about the murder. "What's going on?"
He wrapped his hands around his cup and looked around the restaurant, which had started filling up. "Let's grab a booth."
Zane picked up his cup and followed Billy to a booth near the far corner of the restaurant, near the bathrooms. They settled in, and he looked around again.
"The cop that died, he's been in here a few times." He leaned in to relay this information, like it was a secret.
"Okay."
"A few weeks back, he came in, and I told him 'bout the fools using my lot to park while they did their deals." He looked around again.
"What deals?"
Ruby's Diner was located on the south side of town, which also happened to be the location of that motel. You know the one, the “no tell motel” every small town seemed to have. The locals will tell you to stay anywhere but there, and the motel changed managers every time the wind blows. It's the one the cops cruised several times a day, and part of the reason many of the businesses in this part of town didn’t stay afloat longer. It's that area of town. The cops affectionately called the place The Meth Motel, but the real name was The Villager’s Inn.
"The druggies. They don't want to get caught with their cars being over at the motel when the cops drive through. They park in my lot, walk across the highway to do their drug deals, and then come back and drive away."
"They still do it?" This was news to Zane. "I can get a car parked down at the end of your lot."
"That's just it. I told Officer Sousa about it one day, and he seemed really interested. Asked me questions about when and which motel room."
Good, at least Sousa was doing his job, Zane thought. “Then what happened?”
“The cars stopped parking there,” Billy said.
“That’s good,” Zane said.
"But I never seen anyone on my lot, asking people not to park if they weren't going to eat here. They just stopped parking on my property, almost right away. I thought it was weird, like Officer Sousa had told the dealer to tell his buyers to stop parking here."
Now that struck Zane as odd. "Interesting."
Zane’s breakfast arrived, and Billy stopped talking. Mary Beth put the plates in front of him with an extra cup of maple syrup, knowing he liked it for the coush-coush. She looked at Billy before rushing away from the table.
Billy continued. "About a week later, Sousa comes in again, but not to eat. He's with some guy I ain’t never seen before. Plain clothes, so I 'spect he's a ride-along; no matter to me as far as I was concerned. Sousa never introduced him to me. The guy didn't look like a wannabe cop, tattoos and such, and he never said a word, just listened. Then I started to wonder, was he more than just some guy?”
Zane wanted to tell Billy that they didn’t usually introduce the people who rode along with them, and they didn’t usually get involved or say much of anything. They were there to observe and learn. He decided this wasn’t the right time to educate him.
"What did Sousa want?" He’d started eating, and didn't wait to finish what was in his mouth to ask the question, though he did cover his mouth, as to not be too rude.
"He wanted to know how much I saw across the street." Billy looked across the dining room, out the window toward the motel in the distance.
Even from their seat on the back side of the restaurant, Zane could see activity at the motel. The check-in office was visible, as was the manager's apartment and the garage. He could even see the laundry facility. The front building obscured most of the motel room doors, but he knew the front building housed efficiency apartments, because they’d assisted with serving a warrant on an occupant last month. This wasn't uncommon with the transient tenants who chose The Villager’s Inn as their temporary home.
"What did you tell him?"
"Hell, I listened to my Spidey senses, as they were tingling over my whole body. He rarely came here to eat, and now he'd been in twice in as many weeks. And he was asking about the motel, with some sketchy looking guy with him. For all I knew, Tattoo Man could be the main man dealing the drugs out of that place. I told him I run a busy restaurant, and I don't have time to worry about what's going on in that hole."
"Was there shit going on?"
"Sure, but I know if I say something, they're coming down on me and my business. Who knows who's fronting the drugs coming into that place? Ain't my business, and I'm keeping it that way. As long as those losers ain’t parking on my property to buy their smack, I don't care what happens there." He downed what was left of his coffee.
Zane could tell he did care, but he was afraid to get involved. He didn't blame him. Who knew how far up the pond those little fish had to swim to get their goods? Messing with the little guys wasn't usually a big deal, but the big guys could be bad news if you messed with their income.
"If you saw this guy again, the one with Sousa, would you recognize him?"
"I'd recognize him from across the street."
Zane stopped eating. "You've seen him across the street?"
"Naw, but if he was there, and I seen him, I'd know."
Zane reached in his pocket and handed Billy a business card. "This has my cell phone number on it. If you see that guy again, call me right away. I'll keep you out of it. You know I will."
Billy scooted to the edge of the booth. "I know, that's why I told you. There might be something fishy about that cop's death."
"Have you ever seen Sousa in here, or anywhere else, with anyone other than this guy?"
"No, I ain’t seen him much at all. Guess I'll be seeing more of him than I ever wanted until this case is solved, huh?"
"Probably. God, I hate the media." Zane choked down his eggs. Not that the food wasn't good; it was, but the conversation had soured his taste buds. "Can you describe the man Sousa was with?"
Billy stood. "Five-ten, maybe taller, short blond hair, but longer on the sides. His skin seemed too tan, like he spent time in a tanning booth; too smooth. Like a young Robert Redford, you know? Oh, and he had that sleeve of tattoos on one arm." He moved around, looking at his own arms. "I think it was his right. It looked like it was all sayings, and a few images. Not like most, where it's a bunch of linked images."
"Big guy?" He was trying to get a mental picture, wondering if he’d ever seen this guy. Was he at the house last night?
"Fit. Cut. You know, like a boxer, not too big, but good muscles." He stopped for a second. "The thing struck me the most was, he wore a short-sleeved Hawaiian print shirt, like the style Charlie Sheen used to wear on that TV show, but with a print instead of solid. I mean, who wears that shit?"
Zane laughed, because he knew a few guys who wore that shit, his pops being one of them.
"If I brought in a sketch artist, could you work with her?" Zane didn't think he could get one in time for it to be relevant, but this was a dead cop, and he knew they'd pull out all the stops.
Billy looked hesitant.
"She won't be from Peculiar. She'll never even know who you are. I'll have you come to the station, and we'll go into my office. No one will know why you're there."
"I'm trusting you, Zane. If my restaurant burns down..."
"You'd better have good insurance." It was meant to be a joke, but Billy turned green. "I'm kidding, Billy, relax."
"Easy for you to say." Then he thought about it. "Never mind. I'd take my job over yours any day. I'll let you eat in peace. I hope I helped in some way."
“Every little bit helps,” Zane said.
"Mary Beth." Billy indicated Zane needed a coffee refill. "Catch you on the flip side," he said to Zane.
"I'll call you when we have an artist lined up. You call me if you see him."
Billy walked away. "Will do."
Cop's intuition took over. "Billy, hold up."
He came back to the table. Mary Beth was right behind him, and instead of a refill, she brought Zane a fresh cafe au lait. "On the house."
"You know I can't accept that."
She pointed at Billy. "Tell the boss." She turned and walked away.
Billy waited.
Zane pulled a pen and pad from his breast pocket. “Describe his face, just in case I see someone who looks like him. Or maybe we can go through mug shots."
"Like I said, too tanned skin, but not wrinkled. Maybe early thirties. Like I said, Redford, blonde with blue eyes. His eyes were piercing blue. That was the first thing I noticed, that and the stupid shirt.”
Zane wrote: Robert Redford, young, blue eyes. "Okay, that should be enough." He'd be looking for this guy. His phone rang. "Sorry, Billy, I've gotta answer this. Thanks."
He swiped his phone as Billy mouthed a goodbye and walked away. He seemed to stand a little taller. Zane thought he was happy to be of service to the police. He'd make sure to leave extra money for the coffee. The department policy was "no freebies."
"Gwilly."
Moore was on the other end of the line. "We've got some hits on the fingerprints taken at Sousa's place. Where are you?”
“I’m at Ruby’s. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He started to hang up, then asked, “What are the chances we can get a sketch artist here?”
“For what?” Moore snapped.
Zane almost said, “Never mind,” but then decided to come clean. “I have a guy who saw someone sketchy with Sousa recently. Seemed to know a little too much about what goes on at The Villager’s Inn.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Zane sighed and said, “This guy knows a lot of people in town, and he didn’t know who this guy was. I thought if we could get him to talk to a sketch artist, we’d be able to pass the image around. See if he looks familiar to anyone.”
“I’ll look into it, but I have to run this by the chief. It’s gonna cost the department money, so I can’t just call someone in without the proper paperwork in place. I’ll get back to you on it.”
Zane hung up and wondered if Moore would really pass the information along. He also thought it strange that Moore hadn’t asked who the person was who’d seen Sousa with this guy.
Chap
ter 12
Something everyone should know about East Texas: they have at least one donut shop per town, no matter how small the town is. Got three-thousand population, there are probably three donut shops. All of Texas is known to have these donut shops, usually owned by a nice Korean family. Kate had no idea what it was that made Korean families want to open a donut shop and start work at two in the morning to be open at five, but she was grateful for them.
Realizing how ironic it was that she was craving a donut, she didn’t hesitate to give her Uber driver a good chuckle. “Can you stop on the way? The Donut Shack.” Yes, the donut places had creative names like that.
The driver looked in the rearview mirror and smiled. “Sure thing. Drive thru, or do you want to go inside?”
“I see that smirk. And I’m not just getting a donut, I’m getting a boudin kolache.”
“Now you’re making me hungry,” he said.
“I’ll buy you one if you want. I mean, when I bite into it, you’re gonna wish you had one of your own.”
If you live anywhere near Louisiana, you know what boudin is. It’s a Cajun food made with pork, beef and rice, though there may be other meats, including liver and heart. But the mixture is so tasty you don’t even think about what gives it flavor. Traditional boudin was stuffed in casings to make a sort of sausage.
In came the kolache! Originating in the Czech Republic, this pillowy pastry originated as a semi-sweet or savory dessert. If Kate was any indication, East Texans loved their kolache. And she loved her semi-sweet pastry stuffed full of white boudin. She’d been craving one for the last two weeks.
As her driver pulled back onto the road, headed to her home, Kate removed one of the kolaches from the white bag, using the extra napkins the drive thru worker had offered. “This one’s for you.”
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