Final Table

by Carolina Mac

  “I didn’t know,” said Annie. “His name must be Santana Dela Cruz if I’m reading this right.”

  Rosalie nodded. “How will you find him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will he be like George?” asked Rosalie, her black eyes welling up.

  Annie couldn’t hold back a sob. “I hope so, Rosie. I miss George so much it kills me some days.”

  Blackmore Agency. Austin.

  FARRELL wandered into Blaine’s office and sat in one of the wing chairs next to the unlit fireplace. He leaned down and stroked Lexi’s ears. “This gonna take all morning, bro?”

  Farrell Donovan was Blaine’s foster brother—one of many juvenile bikers who had been rescued and raised by Annie on her ranch. Tall, blond and muscular, he looked nothing like Blaine who was a black-haired Latino.

  “You missed the first guy,” said Blaine, “but you didn’t miss much. He wouldn’t have been a good fit for you.”

  “Why not?” Farrell pried himself out of the leather chair in order to take the three steps to the coffee tray. “I love this fuckin zucchini stuff Carm made. She grew those little green guys in her garden.”

  Blaine grinned. “Yep, she did so.”

  “Why wasn’t the first guy any good?”

  The question hung on the air unanswered as Lily showed the second candidate into the office. “This is Hamilton Chisholm.”

  Blaine took stock of Chisholm. Over six feet tall, broad in the chest, the sleeves of his navy suit stretched tight over his biceps, shaggy brown hair hanging in his brown eyes. He nodded to Lily as she left the room, took a step towards Blaine and offered his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, sir. Feel like I know y’all. The Agency is in the news so much.” He showed a wide smile with nice white teeth.

  Blaine stood to shake hands, then pointed to Farrell. “Farrell Donovan.”

  Chisholm shook hands with Farrell then sat down in one of the club chairs in front of Blaine’s desk. “I’ll let you ask the questions, but when the employment group I’m registered with told me y’all were hiring my heart skipped a beat. Y’all have a rep.”

  “I’ve read your file, Mr. Chisholm,” said Blaine. “MP for the past six years. How long have you been out of the army?”

  “Couple of months. My first week I spent in Corpus Cristy, just fishing and trying to unwind, then I came home and caught up with my Mom. Did some repair work around the house for her. I guess I could get my own place but not yet. She’s happy to have me back home.”

  “Mom’s are like that,” said Blaine and Farrell nodded. He’d been in silent mode ever since his break up with Mary Polito.

  “Would you like coffee?” Blaine pointed to the tray on the sideboard next to his desk.

  “Thanks, I could use a cup. I’m a bit nervous.” He strode from his chair, filled a cup, added cream and sugar and went back to sitting. “This is a gorgeous house.”

  “Thanks,” said Blaine, “the renovations never end.”

  Farrell got up for a refill, then pulled his chair closer to Blaine’s desk.

  “You can ask questions, bro,” Blaine said by way of encouragement.

  “I’m okay,” said Farrell.

  Chisholm gave Farrell the once over but didn’t comment.

  “Let’s talk about your skills,” said Blaine.

  “Regular cop skills, I guess, with a military discipline. One thing I don’t have that y’all had in your wants is a PI license.”

  “If we hire you, you can get your hours in as you work and get it later.”

  “You both are Texas Rangers?” asked Chisholm. “I never could figure out your status, but I know you work out of DPS.”

  Blaine smiled. “We like to keep our status cloudy. It’s complicated.”

  “Somehow I figured it was. All I know is how to take orders from someone immediately above me. I’ve watched your cases and read about y’all in Mary Polito’s column, and I had the feeling you operated from a place of power.”

  Blaine terminated the conversation by rising to his feet. “I’ll show you into Lil’s office and she can set you up. Be here at eight in the morning.”

  Chisholm raised an eyebrow. “Y’all are hiring me?”

  Blaine stuck out his hand. “You have great qualifications and I’d like to give you a shot. See how the first three months go and if we haven’t killed each other by then, we’ll be a good fit.”

  “Thanks, can’t believe I’ll be working for the dream team.”

  Blaine walked Chisholm down the hall towards the back entrance and showed him into Lil’s office. “Mr. Chisholm is starting tomorrow morning, Lil. Do your thing.”

  “Y’all can call me Hammer. That’s what I go by mostly.”

  Lily flashed her gorgeous smile as she got ready to type. “Put your ass in that chair, Hammer, and give me your details.”

  “Yes, ma’am, happy to oblige.”

  BLAINE took Lexi, his big Newfoundlander, out to the backyard to have a smoke between interviews. He sat on the bench next to the fountain he’d had installed for Carm and watched the fish swimming in circles. He could relate. He’d been treading water since the most recent breakup with Misty—was it the second or third one? He’d lost count. How could you have a sane relationship with a person who was a little left of sane?

  His cell rang, and he put Misty out of his mind for the moment. “Judge Campbell, nice to hear from you.”

  “Dinner, sweetie pie. How about it?”

  “Could do. Where?”

  “You pick.”

  “Let me think. How about Tulley’s?”

  “I like their crab cakes.”

  So does Misty.

  “Do you want to meet me, or can I pick you up?”

  “I’ll meet you there at seven thirty and bring Donovan.”

  “Hired a new guy today and doing another interview in a couple of minutes.”

  “More crime fighters. I like it.”

  Blaine ended the call to Judge Campbell and headed back inside for the eleven o’clock candidate.

  Farrell met him in the office with a baloney sandwich in his hand. “I need fortification for the next interview.”

  “It’s not even noon yet,” said Blaine. “Let me see what the next guy’s name is.” He opened the folder Lil had given him. “Fletcher Bowden.” He read down the page. “Used to install security systems, then became a corrections officer.” Blaine screwed up his face. “Not something I’d want to do.”

  “Fuck that,” said Farrell. “Bad enough catching the fuckers and putting them in there. Wouldn’t want to look at them and listen to their bullshit night and day.”

  “Me neither,” said Blaine.

  Fletcher Bowden was right on time for his appointment. Blaine stood on the front porch and watched Jack let him through the ten-foot wrought iron gate and point at a spot where he wanted the guy to park his black F-150. Shining like a dollar, chrome glistening—nice looking truck.

  He hopped out and Blaine had a chance to size him up. Tall and slimmer than Farrell, but rangy and angular. Sandy colored hair sticking out from under his cowboy hat. No suit like Hammer Chisholm had worn. Jeans and a snap-front blue cotton shirt with a denim jacket over top.

  He strode up to the front steps without realizing Blaine was watching him. He looked up and colored slightly, then offered his hand. “Fletch Bowden.”

  “Blaine Blackmore, nice to meet you, Fletcher. Let’s go inside.”

  “Beautiful house.” Fletch glanced around the foyer that Blaine had renovated as close to Victorian as he could manage—with Annie’s help.

  “Ongoing project,” said Blaine. “Come on down the hall to my office. Can I get you a coffee?”

  “No thanks, I’m good. Maybe too nervous to drink anything.”

  “No need to be nervous, just you and me and Farrell.” Blaine gave a shout out and Farrell appeared from the kitchen doorway with another piece of the zucchini loaf in his hand. “This is Fletcher Bowden, Farrell. Co
me and talk to him.”

  “Yep, be right there.”

  “Farrell’s my foster brother,” said Blaine.

  “He don’t look much like you, Mr. Blackmore.”

  “Hence the word ‘foster.” But Fletch didn’t get it. Blaine read from the open folder Lil had prepared. “Your last job was at Travis County Jail.”

  Fletcher nodded. “Worked there for a year but couldn’t see no future in it.” He screwed up his face, “and it was nasty work.”

  “I bet it was,” said Blaine. “So you quit your job?”

  “Only after one of the assholes stuck me with a shiv for no reason, and my boss said I should have been more careful.” He touched his side, then jerked his hand away.

  That would have pissed me off too.

  “Let’s talk about before you went to work at the prison, you installed security systems?”

  “Yep, did that for a couple of years. Didn’t mind it, then the company went under and I lost my job.”

  “We have a surveillance unit with some state of the art equipment. I’d be pleased if you were familiar with some of it.” Blaine called to Farrell. “Hey, bro, take Fletcher out to the unit and see what he knows about our equipment.”

  “Right boss.”

  Tulley’s. Downtown Austin.

  TULLEY’S peak dinner hour must have been seven thirty. Blaine should have picked a less popular place, although he had slipped the hostess a twenty to put him and Farrell in the back corner, so he’d be able to hear what the Judge was saying.

  “Why the hell did I have to come?” Farrell chugged his first beer and was working on his second.

  “Her Honor asked for you specifically, bozo.”

  “Fuck that,” mumbled Farrell. “She’s too old for me.”

  Blaine chuckled and tossed back half of his Corona. “I don’t think she planned on doing you on the table between the crab cakes and the dessert.”

  “Never know what women are thinking,” said Farrell. “Learned that lesson the hard way.”

  Blaine stood up. “Here she is. Try to act civilized.” He beamed a smile in Judge Campbell’s direction and took her hand.

  Her red hair was newly cut, shoulder length, shorter than the last time Blaine had seen her. Perfect makeup and she wore a low-cut black v-neck sweater with tan pants and black stilettos.

  She’s looking pretty goddam sexy for a business meeting. Maybe she is hot for Farrell.

  “A good evening to my two handsome dates.”

  Blaine pulled out her chair for her and she sat beside Farrell, facing Blaine.

  “Am I behind on the drinks?”

  “You can catch up,” said Blaine. “What’s your pleasure?” He waved to their waiter at the next table.

  “White wine,” she said, “I’m not fussy. House wine or whatever. Doesn’t matter what it is.”

  When the waiter returned with the wine, they ordered.

  “Okay, let’s talk before the food gets here,” she said.

  “Sure,” said Blaine, “what’s the purpose of the meeting?”

  “I think you know,” she said, “we had a brief conversation earlier in the fall about the election and what I want from you if I move to the Capitol.”

  “Uh huh, and we can help you to a degree,” said Blaine, “But only if we aren’t otherwise engaged.”

  “What if I want you exclusively? Who’s pulling your strings, sweetie? I’ve tried to figure that out for the past month or so.”

  “Nobody controls me. Blackmore Agency is a free agent working in cooperation with several higher powers. I’m nobody’s puppet.” There was an edge to his voice that he didn’t intend.

  “I’ve insulted you, and I apologize.”

  Farrell felt the tension and escaped to the men’s room.

  As soon as Farrell left the table, Judge Campbell said, “I heard Donovan lives with you.”

  Blaine’s eyes narrowed, and he could feel his fuse burning down. “He’s my brother.”

  The Judge smiled. “Try again.”

  “What are you getting at? I don’t have to explain myself or my family to you or anybody else.”

  “I’m digging a hole I can’t get out of,” she said. “Can we start over?”

  “Don’t think so,” said Blaine. “If you were trying to upset me for some reason, I think you’ve succeeded. I’m protective of my family.”

  Farrell returned at the same moment the food arrived. “Thank God,” he said, “I was about to pass out.”

  After the meal was consumed in silence, Judge Campbell apologized again. “I’m sorry, Blaine. I wanted us to work together and develop a sense of trust.”

  Blaine’s black eyes flashed. “By questioning my allegiance, my work ethics and my family ties, you hoped to gain my trust?”

  “I can see where I went about this the wrong way.”

  “Ready, Farrell?”

  Farrell jammed in his last bite of pecan pie and wiped his mouth on his napkin. “Yep, ready to roll.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tuesday, October 30th.

  Blackmore Agency. Austin.

  LEXI raised hell at eight a.m. Strangers at the front door gave her doggie life renewed purpose. Lily got the door, and after Lexi greeted the newcomers, Lil showed Hammer and Fletch into the kitchen.

  “Boss can’t work until he’s had at least three coffees,” she said. “Have a seat and I’ll get y’all one. Have you had breakfast?”

  “I had a taco on the way said Fletcher, but a coffee would be great.”

  “I didn’t have time to eat,” said Hammer, “Couldn’t risk being late on my first day.”

  Farrell sauntered into the room and sat down on the same side as Blaine. “Morning to y’all.”

  “Today’s going to be orientation,” said Blaine, “Meeting the rest of the crew, discussing a few rules I have in place—I don’t have many—then we’ll have a gun drill and after lunch drive out to the range on my Mom’s ranch and see if anybody needs work on their accuracy.”

  Blaine’s cell rang on the table beside him. He glanced at the screen and said, “It’s Chief Calhoun. Maybe we won’t be doing any of that.”

  Coulter-Ross Ranch. La Grange.

  RIGHT AFTER breakfast, Annie closed her office door and began research on Santana Dela Cruz. She Googled the name and it came popping up on the first try. Santana Dela Cruz, forty-four-year-old leader of a motorcycle club called the Varmints. Once headquartered in El Paso, the club had moved farther out of town and their meth lab had been busted outside of Apache Springs by the DEA. Many members were arrested at the take down and were now serving sentences. Dela Cruz was not at the lab when the DEA busted it and his lawyer was able to get the charges against him dropped. The club had disappeared after the bust.

  “Oh, great,” mumbled Annie to herself. “I’m looking for a biker who’s gone into hiding.”

  She opened the drawer of her desk and pulled out a full-sized map of Texas. “Let’s see where my brother-in-law is.”

  Ranger Headquarters. Austin.

  BLAINE set a tray of Starbuck’s coffees on Chief Calhoun’s desk and introduced the new hires. “This is Hamilton Chisholm—goes by ‘Hammer’—and this guy is Fletcher Bowden. Hired them both yesterday and they started this morning. Haven’t got them broke in yet, so have to do it on the fly.”

  The Chief shook hands with both boys. “Nice to have you on board. Blacky was running a bit shy on manpower with him and Farrell hurt and Travis in the ICU.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Chief,” said Hammer. “Honored to be sitting in your office.”

  Calhoun colored slightly and said, “Thank you, son.”

  Fletcher shook hands, appearing more nervous than Hammer and said nothing.

  “What have you got for us, Chief,” asked Blaine, “You said robbery on the phone. Ain’t usually our gig.”

  “Not usually. We have a department for that, but this is the third robbery in Barton Hills and last night a woman surprised the t
hieves—at least that’s the consensus—and they killed her.” He pushed a slip of paper across the desk. “This is the address. Uniforms have the site secure and Sue is on her way with the techs.”

  “We’ll go have a look. Have one of the girls send the files on the other robberies to Lil.”

  “Already did that, son.” The Chief picked up his coffee and pulled the tab. “Keep me in the loop.”

  Bee Hive Lane. Barton Hills.

  BLAINE parked across the end of the drive just outside the yellow tape and Farrell wedged his red Silverado in behind him. The opposite side of the road was parked solid with media vans. Reporters and cameramen were pacing, filming the outside of the house—what they could see—and it wasn’t much because of the trees. They filmed police vehicles and police activity outside, but they were chomping at the bit for more.

  As soon as Blaine set foot out of his truck they began yelling questions. “What’s going on, Mr. B? How many are dead? Is this another serial killer?”

  Blaine held up a hand and hollered back, “Ease up, amigos. Give me ten.”

  A uniformed officer held up the yellow tape for the four of them to duck under. Blaine turned. “Gloves? Headsets? Notebooks?”

  The boys nodded.

  The victim, wearing only a blue nightgown, lay sprawled in the front foyer right at the bottom of the staircase leading to the second level. Most of her blood had seeped out of the three holes in her chest and had pooled underneath her body.

  Mort Simon was standing to one side of the corpse speaking to his assistant, Tim Mooney, who held a body bag in his hand.

  “Doctor Simon,” said Blaine. “Anything?”

  Mort knew that when Blaine asked for something or anything, he wanted anything out of the ordinary and nothing more. Neither of them ever wasted time on the obvious.

  Mort shook his head. “Just how it looks.”

  Off to the right of the front hall was a large living room, nicely furnished with a stone fireplace on the far wall. A man in a navy running suit sat on the leather sofa with his head in his hands, while several uniforms asked questions and took notes. Blaine forged ahead with his crew behind him, “Mr. Melanchuck, I’m Blaine Blackmore. I’m sorry for your loss, sir, but I need to ask you a couple of questions.”