West Texas Dead: A Kailey and Shinto Mystery

by Frances Hight

  West Texas Dead

  A Kailey and Shinto Mystery

  FRANCES HIGHT

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  For permissions contact: frances@franceshight.com

  Cover by Bavarart

  Copyright © 2021 Frances Hight

  All rights reserved.

  This book is dedicated to Midland, Texas

  where a piece of my heart is buried.

  Chapter One

  Kailey and Shinto

  The heavy gray metal stairway door opened reluctantly and inched closed. I took the stairs two at a time. No sense being late. I slid my key card in and waited for the beep to enter the squad room. Fresh out of FBI forensics classes in Dallas, it was time to prove my department’s sending me there hadn’t been a waste of my time and their money. I adjusted my belt, and felt for my gun and handcuffs, ready for the next chapter. The keylock clicked and I pushed. Kailey Carmichael, brand new crime scene analyst, top of her class, and back on the job.

  I heard Shinto before I saw her. My head abuzz with forensics notes and lectures and case examples, I can be excused for not recognizing my BFF from before there were BFF’s. I expected my first day back to the squad after forensics school to have a little drama. Trust Shinto Elliot to add her delicate spin to the concept.

  I came in the back of the squad room in time to see a rookie I didn’t recognize slap Shinto Elliot on her ass as she walked between the row of desks. All chatter died down. Even the phones cooperated and quit ringing.

  I stopped and crossed my arms. This was going to be good.

  Two, make it three seconds later, Shinto had the hapless rookie on the floor, arm bent backwards and up in a wrist lock, her foot pressed onto the back of his neck. Not a man in the room moved to help the guy. They knew better.

  “Good to see you haven’t changed, girl,” I said.

  “Kailey?” Shinto switched hands and used the free one to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Holy frijoles. They told me you belonged here. I looked for you, but I missed you by a few weeks. Big D get tired of you showing off that big brain of yours?”

  “Got back yesterday. On the job today.”

  “We need to catch up,” Shinto cranked the arm in her grasp a little higher. The guy squirmed and grunted.

  “Right? When you get off?”

  “Six-ish. You?”

  “Same.”

  “Owww. Owww. All right. I’m sorry. Ahhhhh!” Today’s unfortunate object lesson squealed, his face smashed into the tile floor. Every man in the squad winced for him, and stifled grins at the same time. Apparently, my best friend had made quite an impression in her short time on the job.

  “Hell, Shinto, let the poor dude up. Your ass is fine, I grant you, but is it worth all this?”

  She chuffed and said, “Every bit of it, girl.”

  “Glad to see your time in Afghanistan put to good use. MP a tough gig over there?”

  Shinto let go and dusted her hands off before helping the guy up. “Tough? Nah. Different? Yes. They tell me I don’t get to blow stuff up here in Midland.”

  “They do frown on that,” I said. “But we can always find something to amuse you, like teaching manners to rookies maybe?”

  Shinto laughed and clapped her pupil on the back. “No hard feelings, man? Just a reaction, you know? PTSD and all.”

  Dispatch over the squad room speakers cut short our reunion.

  “MVA downtown. Injuries. MFD called to the scene. Buses rolling.”

  “Shinto, you and Allen take that,” the Captain called. “Kailey, welcome back. Your old partner’s around. Go find Mike and earn your pay.”

  Chapter Two

  Junior

  I pulled the crumpled business card from my front pocket and checked the address: 1500 Midland Court Drive, Office 333.

  Today is the day I, Junior Alvarez, Number D723497, meet my PO Mr. Robert Miller. Parole officer is a fancy term for leash, and the system loves its leashes.

  I looked above the entrance of a ten-story building and saw the numerals etched in gold—1500—over a bank of revolving doors. I heard the whoosh as people pushed through them, felt the cool puffs of A/C scooped out from the lobby with every turn. The street scene behind me reflected in its glass doors. The shabby dude in the center of the scene clearly did not belong. Dressed like an ex-con. Posture like an ex-con. Haircut like an ex-con. Even a low-rent downtown like Midland, Texas has its standards, and I didn’t measure up.

  I hesitated, deciding if I really wanted to go inside. The screech of tires yanked my head from my ass, and I squinted at the reflection in front of me to see a black jacked-up dually Ford pickup jump the curb, clip a blue U.S. mailbox, and send it flying. People dove to the right and left to get out of its path. I saw the driver through the windshield slumped over the wheel, head bobbing like a crazy, out-of-control doll.

  The hot breath of the Ford blew past me, and I glanced over at a car stopped in the exit driveway. The truck bore down on the little red sedan, and the wide-eyed woman inside traded looks with me as the front of the pickup buried the hapless vehicle under three-quarters of a ton of Detroit steel.

  The whole thing took less than a few seconds and played out in my head in slow motion.

  The crash of crumpling metal, the squeal of tires and shrieks of women faded as I ran for the wreck. I heard nothing but my own breathing and the thud of my heart when I rounded the back of the Ford and saw the damage.

  The jacked-up truck with its oversized tires rested on top of the little car like a mastiff dominating a poodle. The driver of the truck slumped against his door, unconscious. I didn’t worry about him. I still envisioned the wide eyes of the woman staring back at me the instant before the crash. Where the hell was she?

  The icy tang of gasoline cleared my head and added urgency to my movements. I had seconds, maybe, before this beauty ignited and ruined my whole afternoon.

  On the far side of the wreck, the door to the tiny sedan accordioned down to half its height; a fabric of shattered glass hung down like a sparkling tongue. I ran to it and pulled the glass free to get a better look inside, scared shitless of what I might see.

  The still body of the woman formed itself around a crumpled steering column. The impact had shoved her sideways and pinned her. I saw her eyes blink, and she licked her lips. Those big blue eyes met mine, and she smiled as if to say, “Some mess I made, huh?”

  “Don’t you worry,” I said. “We got this. Piece of cake.”

  Someone yelled, “Fire!” What happened after that comes in flashes. My hands yanking on the door, trying to leverage it open. Hunks of doorframe coming away in my fists; pulling bits of car and tossing them behind me. Clawing my way toward the poor woman, all the while smelling gas and waiting for the explosion to come.

  I touched her arm, and she closed her eyes. Did she faint? Die? Give up? I didn’t know and didn’t really care. No way I could leave her to be incinerated.

  I had leverage, and I’ve been told I’m pretty strong. I hooked my hands under her arms and pulled and pulled, fully expecting her to slide from the car. She wouldn’t budge.

 
Far as I could tell, she should have moved a little. Dash held up pretty good. No collapse of the car frame on her legs. The steering wheel bent and pushed into her waist, but this woman seemed to be in decent shape. What the hell?

  I tried again, pulling hard, with people yelling all around us. “Get out!” “It’s going up!” “Save yourself!”

  I wrestled and twisted to pull her to me with no friggin’ luck, until I noticed the wide strap across her torso. The seatbelt she’d dutifully clicked into place before starting on this epic disaster held on like a champ.

  I backed out of the car to get a better angle, reached down into to my right boot, and pulled my knife, my daddy’s KA-BAR from his Marine years. I don’t always carry it. Only those times when I’m going places that make me nervous, like the downtown streets of a new city and going to meet my parole officer. God bless Texas.

  I clamped the well-balanced blade in my teeth and snaked back into the car, crawling on my elbows, pulling on anything I could grab to propel myself forward. She hadn’t moved, showed no signs of life. No matter. I sawed at the nylon seatbelt, flipped the frayed ends out of the way, and yanked once more.

  This time she slithered forward as I inched back. For a little woman, she weighed like someone three times her size, but as I backed from the ruined car on my knees, she came with me. Her limp form folded out of the misshapen window, and several pairs of hands appeared, helping me, supporting her as I stood.

  They say people cheered. I never heard it. I did hear the EMTs barking orders as they took over. The folding stretcher clanked as they popped it up. They wheeled her, running, for the back of an ambulance parked a good way down the street. People ran after it, pulling me along, still screaming about the fire that appeared a half second later. The fireball lit the afternoon sky behind me and singed hairs on the back of my neck.

  EMT’s roused me, and I came to sitting on a curb, breathing bottled oxygen through a mask. I’m not sure how long I’d been out. I tried to stand. A little wobbly at first, shook off the EMT team’s concerns. I pointed at the building across the street and told them I had a date with my parole officer. They shrugged their shoulders and let me go. Minutes later I inhaled the cold air of a mac daddy air conditioner inside the entrance of the building that started this whole dang mess.

  Chapter Three

  Kailey and Shinto

  I killed the siren as Mike pulled us up beside one of the two ambulances at the scene. He took care not to block them from making a fast getaway.

  “You ready for this?” My old partner, Sergeant Mike Sorenson, turned to me with a serious look in his eye.

  “Hell, yeah, partner. You know me.” I loved this guy more than people who’ve never shared a squad car with someone could know. I’d never let him know that of course. “What are you asking?”

  “Wondering if all that time in Dallas might have softened you up a tad.” His barely contained grin gave him away and I socked him on the shoulder.

  “Not too soft to kick your ass, old man.”

  He unbuckled his seatbelt, “Let’s not keep our fans waiting, sweet pea.”

  We popped our doors and got out. The smells of gasoline and burnt metal hit me first. Blistered asphalt and the body odors of people in a crowd came second. I inhaled like a swimmer needing oxygen. I was home.

  Shinto and Allen parked tight behind us. They joined Mike and me and the four of us took quick stock of the situation. A jacked-up Ford dually, black, teetered atop a tiny red car. The little car could have been anything, its crushed metal and squashed windows an all too effective disguise. Steam escaped from beneath patches of MFD’s foam fire retardant and I could still hear steam hissing from shattered radiators and the crack of cooling metal.

  Mike and Allen grabbed rolls of yellow crime scene tape and headed off to secure the mangled automobiles for the traffic investigators. Shinto and I made stops at both rescue buses. The first held a silent man with a bloody lip and strips of white adhesive tape on a cheek and forehead. He rocked side-to-side and looked pissed.

  Shinto sniffed and grinned at me. “I got this,” she said. “Check out the other bus.” I heard her say, “How many Lone Stars you slam this morning cowboy?” as I made my way to the second ambulance.

  An older woman lay strapped to a backboard inside with two EMTs attending to her.

  “Make it fast, officer,” the female EMT said. “We just got her stable and we’re heading for home.”

  “Ma’am?” I said softly. “These fine folks will take great care of you. We’ll talk later when you’re stronger.”

  “He saved me,” the woman whispered.

  “I’m sorry? What did you—”

  “The nice young man saved me. He’s a hero. I need to thank him.”

  “Sorry, officer” said the first EMT. “Time’s up. We’re out of here.”

  I looked at her with pen poised over my pad and nothing written.

  “She’s talking about the man who pulled her from the burning car, said he had to see his parole officer in that building.” She pointed. “You’ll have plenty witnesses out there to get your story straight. Right now, we gotta roll.” She slammed a fist on the side of the truck and yanked the rear doors shut. The siren lit up and the ambulance pulled away with its engine roaring.

  We finished working the scene. Gawkers crowded as close to the wreckage as Mike and Allen would allow. Shinto and I had our trusty notepads at the ready and canvassed the crowd. The EMT was right. We found no lack of witnesses. Though many became uninterested and a bit deflated when they learned there’d be no TV today.

  Chapter Four

  Junior

  I wondered, looking around the high-ceilinged lobby, if the building architects were told to design something that kept close to the penitentiary theme. Don’t want the criminals getting ideas when they’re summoned to appear. Keep the windows tinted dark and the concrete gray.

  A bored security guard barely noticed me. Brown linoleum stretched in every direction like a shiny dirt floor. Brass doors circa 1950 on the elevator across way gleamed. A round information kiosk squatted in the middle of the room listing names and businesses.

  I confirmed R. Miller in 333 and felt validated in a weird way. I took the nearest elevator to the third floor. Frigging thing rocked and creaked every foot along its journey. I pitied the poor fools forced to take the thing to the top floor. You’d need a lunch for the trip.

  The name stenciled on the dimpled glass door matched my card and the info kiosk. I knocked and a gruff voice yelled, “It’s open.”

  Mr. Robert Miller in his sandals and Hawaiian shirt, looked unlike any P.O. I’d ever known, and I’ve known my share.

  “You Mr. uh, R. Miller?” I made a show of consulting the card in my hand.

  “You must be Mr. uh, J. Alvarez. J for—Jesus! What the hell happened to you?”

  “No, sir. Not Jesus. The J’s for Junior.”

  He narrowed his eyes, like he couldn’t tell if I was messing with him or not, which I was. His smile told me he got it when he stood to shake my hand. “Have a seat, Junior. May I call you Junior?”

  “That’s what they call me.” I sat in one of two gray metal chairs in front of his desk.

  He jerked a thumb at the windows on the side of his office. “Something you want to tell me?”

  I shook my head.

  “Maybe explain the blood on your shirt, the scratches on your hands, and your gasoline cologne?”

  “Nope. I’m good.”

  He sat back in his chair and thought a moment. “Right. If that’s how you want it.”

  I nodded.

  “Then let’s begin like this is your average first meeting and this is your average starting-off-on-a-new-life kind of day.”

  “I’d like that fine, sir,” I said.

  “Oh, and about that.” He drummed his fingers. “I appreciate the sir. It’s not necessary. Sounds like coerced respect. I don’t need it nor do I want it. Call me Robert, Rob, Mr. Miller, if
you like. We don’t stand on a lot of formality around here. No one likes it, and I find it counterproductive. You don’t want to be here; I get that, and I don’t want to waste my time on lost causes. Are you a lost cause, Mr. Alvarez?”

  How am I supposed to answer that? “I guess we’ll have to wait and see, sir—I mean, Mr. Miller.”

  Miller smiled. “Good answer, Junior.” He sat back down. “I have only two rules, really.”

  I must have frowned, because he held up a hand.

  “I know, I know, but they’re simple. I tell all my folks the same thing. One, be on time.” He counted on his fingers. “Two, be honest. That’s it. I’m here to help you, not check boxes on a form. If we do this right,” he pointed from me to him and back, “you’ll have a smooth transition back to the world. Buy a home, marry a girl, have babies, get a dog, whatever fevered your dreams while you were incarcerated. I’m here to help you get the whole mai tai. Dig?”

  I had no idea what a mai tai was. I nodded anyway.

  “All right.” He rubbed his palms together. “Let’s begin.”

  Miller made quick work of my interview from then on. Probably gave the same speech ten times a day. He explained about the small stipend I’d receive from the state until I got on my feet. He handed me a key with Apartment 211 on a plastic fob, a pamphlet for Chaparral Apartments, and a bus schedule for Midland Transit, with vouchers I could use to buy food at the market.

  “That’s my spiel, Junior. You have any questions, my number’s on my card.”

  On my way out he said, “Hey, hold up, Junior. One more thing.” He opened a bottom drawer on his desk and pulled something from it. “Check this out. We’ll talk about it next month.”

  “What’s that?”

  He sailed a thin book across the room at me. I caught it and read the cover. “Midland Community College?”