by Mike Slavin
Case nodded and smiled. “Before you do, buy yourself a new laptop tonight. I want all correspondence and searches, anything to do with this case or me, done on that laptop. When we’re through, I want it destroyed.”
Trish raised her eyebrow. This apparently wasn’t Case’s first rodeo. That made her curious, but now wasn’t the time for questions.
“Once you get his real name, I want you to put a tail on him. Also, run a background check. No trails back to you or me. Pay cash for everything, including the computer. Just a minute—”
Case went to his safe in a secret compartment in his house. He pulled out fifteen thousand dollars in cash and handed it to Trish. “Here’s an advance. Is this enough?”
She didn’t count it out. “That’ll do.”
“No records or bills on this case, either. Just tell me how much I owe you or how much you need, and I’ll take care of it. Don’t talk to anyone about this. The less anyone knows, the better.”
“Why are we being so secretive?” Trish asked.
“I run an oil company with investors and partners. I’d just as soon they don’t think I’m running around playing cop and not paying attention to the company. Let’s find who did this first, if we can. Then we decide how to let the cops know. Fair enough?”
“Sure, that’s fine. I do know a pretty good PI who’d do it off the books if I asked.”
“Are you sure you can trust him?”
“We were partners in the Houston Police Department a long time ago,” she said. “I’d trust this guy with my life. I did trust him with my life.”
“That’s good enough for me. Get each of us a new laptop. What’s his name?"
“It’s probably better you don’t know his name yet,” Trish said. “At least let me see if he’s interested.”
“But if he is, I want his name. Make sure he understands this will require him to be extremely cautious. I want to find out Krusty’s patterns and his friends. This may become a long-term operation. Let him know this could take months and maybe longer. Or, it may happen really quickly. I’m just not sure.” Case’s voice faded into an ominous, contemplative whisper.
“You’re beginning to scare me, Jeff.”
“Nothing to be scared about. Just being careful.”
“Okay, I understand. I just don’t want to get sideways of the police. I’ll try to reach my guy now.”
“If there’s a problem, let me know immediately.” Case got up from his desk and escorted Trish to the front door. “Oh, and get three burner phones. But don’t give him this number. And from this point on, don’t call him or me from your office phone. Call me on the burner after you get the computers and confirm if your guy’s in or out.”
“I’m so sorry about your wife and baby,” Trish said, pausing at the door.
“Just find out who did this.”
A deep sadness came over Case as he walked back into his study and saw the picture of Becky and his son on the desk.
I miss you both so much.
Then Case looked at a picture sitting beside that of Becky and Little Jeff. It was two combat-dressed men in Afghanistan, wearing the biggest grins possible. Hard to believe he was being put in a position like that again.
Afghanistan, Nine Years Ago
Three years after his tour in Iraq, twenty-seven-year-old Jeff Case was on his second combat tour as a Green Beret captain in Afghanistan. He’d just jumped out of his vehicle, the dust still settling around him. On the sandy road, Case shook hands vigorously with his best friend and classmate from West Point. Baker had just a driver, but Case had brought two of his men.
“Damn, it’s good to see you,” Case told Matt Baker. “But why in the hell did you want to meet today? A face-to-face couldn’t have waited a few days?”
“Well, we had to get together about that raid, so why not today?” Baker asked.
They’d met halfway between their bases. It was hotter than hell, but nothing unusual. They’d pulled up their vehicles beside each other, leaving a gap between them. Dust was everywhere. They were in a valley but squatted down between the vehicles to avoid a possible sniper. The Afghan snipers were horrible shots. They weren’t actually snipers in the true sense. Usually, it was a Talib who tried a long shot.
Matt set his weapon against the vehicle. “Just a minute,” he said, holding up his gloved hand. He walked to his vehicle, opened the door, and brought out a birthday cake with a candle on top.
“You got to be shitting me,” Case said with a big grin on his face.
To Case, what happened next seemed like slow motion. His best friend started singing, “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to—”
Matt’s head snapped to the right. His body followed. He fell against the vehicle and slid to the ground.
Baker was between the vehicles, but in his excitement of singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to his best friend in this Godforsaken place, he’d stood just tall enough for a sniper to get a headshot over the front of the vehicle.
Case leaped forward and, in one fluid motion, grabbed his friend by a strap, then dragged him farther back to a safe spot. Everyone instinctively crouched behind cover and readied their weapons. They scanned the mountains, but there was no obvious place to return fire. A Chechen sniper had to have entered the area—Russian-trained and excellent.
Baker’s head was in Case’s lap. It was a bloody mess. Case reflexively pulled out a sterile gauze bandage and put it on his friend’s wound. He checked for a pulse, but there was none. There was no doubt his best friend was dead—blood and brain matter were everywhere. Case didn’t want to look down at Baker again. For the first time in combat, he felt sick and dizzy. He didn’t think anyone noticed it, or the extreme rage building in him.
My best friend just died singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me.
Case yelled out at the sniper, who he knew would be gone already, “I’ll find you, you son of a bitch! I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll find you and kill you with my own hands!”
12
After Trish left Case’s house, she bought the computers and burner phones, then called Bobby Mann. He was older than she was but had always seemed younger due to his playful nature.
Trish had been a former military officer in the Army and had attended the University of Texas on a four-year ROTC full scholarship. She graduated UT, became a second lieutenant in the Military Police, and served in combat before resigning her commission after her commitment was served. That was when she had joined the Houston Police Department.
Bobby had been her first training officer when she’d joined the Houston PD. He was now a one-man show and did all right as a private investigator. He had a deal with a few oil companies, running background checks like she did, and it made him a good, steady living.
He was also one of the few people who knew why she was no longer a cop. He’d retired for some of the same reasons she had quit, but also because he’d been ground down after many years of seeing apathy in too many people on the force. Trish had gone in ready to save the world but had soon found the police department too often cared to protect and serve only the “right” people. She had worked too many cases that showed justice was a limited commodity.
There were many good people on the force, but resources and justice were not always divvied equally. Those who were connected to wealth, had the right skin color, or were “worthy victims” got the full attention of the police in their search for justice. Everyone else got what was left. Maybe if Trish had started as a cop who gave speeding tickets and dealt with minor crimes she would have lasted longer. However, with her military pedigree, she’d gone into the police force as a detective. In the military, there were problems with justice, but for the most part, if you wore a uniform, the rules were clear, enforced, and equal.
“Bobby, it’s Trish. How’re you doing?” she asked.
“Damn, I haven’t heard from you in years.”
“Yeah, we should stay in touch more. Listen, Bobby, can you make some time
for me? I have a job for you.”
“How about we meet at my favorite bar?” Bobby asked. “You still remember where it’s at?”
“Kay’s Lounge, Rice Village, right? The one with the giant table shaped like Texas?”
Trish rolled her shoulders, a habit she had developed in the military to keep her from holding tension in her neck when she was on alert.
“That closed a few years ago. Can you believe it? Seventy-seven years it’d been open. We can meet at La Carafe. You remember it?”
“Hard to forget that dive.”
“A dive? You mean it has charm.”
“Yeah, that’s what I meant,” Trish said with a laugh. “I’ll be there in thirty. I’m sure you’ll have to fight the crowd to hold us a couple of barstools.”
Trish remembered the bar. Bobby had liked going there when they’d been cops. He loved the balcony. La Carafe was one of the oldest bars in Houston and close to the Houston Police Department downtown. It was an old and narrow building with exposed brick. Its beaten-up wooden bar looked like the original countertop from the mid-1800s. When she walked in, she remembered the rest—stained glass windows, countless old paintings, and a few tables.
There were only a few patrons at this time of day. It was the kind of place that pulled you into the past.
Trish stepped up to the bar and looked at the older, muscle-bound bartender. He had a sizable gut and probably doubled as the bouncer when they needed one. He was at the other end of the bar, and he smiled as he walked over to her.
“Hi, beautiful,” he said, leaning over. “What can I do for ya?”
“I’m looking for a friend, Bobby. He should be up in the balcony.”
“Down at the end and up the stairs. But you’d better take a drink with you. There’s no bartender up there.”
“I’ll have a rum and coke.”
“Sorry, lady, just beer or wine.”
“Glass of white, then.” The bartender poured her wine and set it on the counter.
Trish laid a credit card on the counter.
“Cash only, but for you, this one’s on the house. My name’s Jake.”
Not interested, Jake.
“Thanks, Jake.” Trish picked up her credit card and her drink. She didn’t offer her name. The free drink may have earned some points, but she felt he still judged her for choosing wine over beer. She dug in her purse for a minute and found two wrinkled dollar bills to put on the counter as a tip.
The place was so narrow that the steps had to change directions to get to the second floor. The steps were shallow, too. No doubt they’d been grandfathered in, as they’d never pass current building codes. The second floor had the same footprint as the first floor, as well as the same décor—an empty bar with fifteen stools and eight small tables. Unlike the first floor, which had a few patrons, this one was completely empty.
For a moment, Trish was disoriented. She headed toward the sunlight at the other end of the room and found Bobby sitting on the balcony with a beer and a romance novel. How could she forget he loved to read romance novels?
It was 5:00 p.m. and Bobby was already pretty loose. Trish knew he used to keep a bottle in his desk but didn’t think he had a real drinking problem. He’d been in pretty good shape when he was a police officer, but over the years he’d gained weight. He wore a subtle blue plaid sports coat, a white shirt that needed ironing, and dark dress pants. His brown shoes didn’t match each other and were scuffed up. He hadn’t shaved that day—maybe the past few days—and his dark hair was untidy. He also had bags under his eyes. Maybe leaving the force hadn’t been the best for Bobby, but as long as he got results, she was okay with his disheveled appearance. He was one of those guys who needed a case to motivate them to not look like they were in vacation mode.
Trish pulled up a chair and took a seat beside Bobby. The balcony had a great view of the park right across the street.
“You’re looking good.” Bobby leaned forward and gave Trish a hug.
“You could use a shave.”
Bobby rubbed his whiskers. “Yeah, I know.”
“I have a job for you.”
“Tell me about it.”
Wry humor crinkled her eyes. “The shave you desperately need, or the job?”
Bobby rolled his eyes at her and shrugged with his hands coming up as if to say, Whaddabout it?
“I need you to do this job, and then you need to forget all about it.”
“For you, anything.” Bobby grinned. He seemed genuinely happy to see her and to be the target of her dry wit.
“Do you need to sober up first? Are you paying attention?” Trish asked. “This is serious.”
“I don’t drink when I’m on the job. I've been on vacation. So, who’s the client—some important politician?”
“I’m the client. And when this is done, there was no client. Just you and me having a drink. I told you that you look like shit and you smiled like a drink with me was the best thing on Earth.”
Bobby waggled his bushy eyebrows. “You mean sitting here with you isn’t the best thing on Earth?” His face suddenly sobered. “This isn’t the kind of case that has a cash advance, is it? I’m having some cash flow issues.”
“Will three thousand take care of those issues?”
Bobby looked sheepish. “Yeah, that’ll work. What are my rules of engagement for this job?”
“You start tomorrow.” Trish opened her purse and took Bobby’s advance from what Case had paid her. “But first, get cleaned up.” Her voice held an edge, setting the conversation to business mode and establishing she was the boss.
If Bobby heard the concern in her voice, he didn’t acknowledge it. “As of midnight, I’m off vacation. I’ll be ready and raring to go. What’re the particulars?”
“Anything you need on this case—and I mean anything—you pay cash. If you have to buy gas, pay cash. If you buy lunch or even get a stick of gum, pay cash. Got it?”
“Damn.” His eyes widened. “What’re we doing, kidnapping the pope?”
“Something that’ll affect the salvation of a man in Texas far more than the pope will.”
“This just keeps getting more interesting,” he said.
Trish went on to tell Bobby what he needed to know and what was expected of him.
From her briefcase, she pulled out one of the burner phones and a new MacBook and then slid them over to Bobby.
“From this point on, you call me only on my burner from this one. I saved my number to your phone already. Use this laptop only to do research for this case. When we’re done, I’ll pick them both up and they’ll bite the dust. Any questions?”
“Are you in trouble?” he asked, concern trickling into his voice.
“No.” Trish stood up. “But ... thanks for asking.”
Bobby tipped his beer to Trish in a cheers and tilted back his bottle. Trish returned the gesture with her wine and drank the rest in a few quick swallows. She put her hand on Bobby’s and gave him a smile.
As she left, Trish let out a small sigh of relief. Bobby wouldn’t let her down.
Once outside, she called Case. “Bobby Mann’s on board.”
Trish went home and fired up her new laptop.
It didn’t take long before she found what she was looking for. Krusty was very proud of his nickname. Christian “Krusty” Williams had been born and raised in Houston. He was a high school grad, twenty-five years old, and he didn’t appear to be in college or currently have a job. He lived on the north side of Houston in Spring, Texas, with his parents. He wasn’t married and didn’t have a police record. His last job appeared to be at the convenience store. She had him.
13
June 5, 2018, Tuesday
Morning
Greg and Marco took off from Vegas at 6:00 a.m. It was already ninety-one degrees. Greg carried a copy of Kill Crime that he’d started reading the previous night and that he planned to finish on the plane. Marco carried nothing.
In Houston, breakfast wa
s the same as always—low-fat cottage cheese, low-fat yogurt, and fresh berries. The house, and Case’s life, seemed empty without his wife and son, and without justice. He’d always been health-conscious, exercising regularly and watching what he ate, but he’d put on a few pounds after leaving the military. A year ago, a routine MRI had shown a partial blockage in his heart, which had earned him a heart stent. But he hadn’t stayed down long—he was running within a few days.
He’d dropped the weight. The exercise helped, of course, but the low-fat diet was what led him to go from two hundred pounds down to his West Point graduation weight of one hundred sixty pounds in a few months.
None of that seemed important anymore.
Sometimes Case beat his assistant to the office, but usually Sam got there before he did. Samuel O. Garcia, a retired NCO from the Army, loved his job running the office and took pride in being the first one in every day. Today, Case was first, and he nearly stepped on a piece of paper addressed to him.
Someone had slid it through the mail slot, where it had landed on the floor. Case was bending down to read the multicolored, cut-and-paste words when Sam slammed Case with the door as he opened it. The door hit Case so hard, it threw him off balance. He stumbled across the reception area and banged into the wall on the opposite side of the room.
“You all right?” Sam asked.
“Don’t step on the paper!” Case blurted as he composed himself.
He had never received a formal death threat before—at least not in writing. It was pretty funny, since he wondered if he gave a shit about living anymore.
Sam did what looked like a rain dance to avoid stepping on the paper. “What is it?”
“Just your run-of-the-mill, magazine cut-and-paste death threat,” Case said. “Did you read it?”
“I came in a little fast on my first fly by,” Sam said.
“Lock the door for a minute, so we don’t get door-butted again.”