by Jim Riley
“Will do.”
I could hear him paging through his notes. “Eco-Terrorists are getting real interested in that large development going in west of you guys. The developer has gotten a few death threats, and there’s been some monkey-wrenching on a few bulldozers and graders.”
“Monkey-wrenching?”
“Have you read anything I sent you?”
“Only the stuff with pictures of girls.”
“Monkey-wrenching. It’s their word for fucking with equipment. Loosened lug nuts, sand in the oil pan, sugar in the gas, things like that.”
“Oh, like throwing a monkey-wrench into the works.”
“And people say you’re stupid.”
“Which people?”
“There’s also some renewed interest in the Neo-Nazi movement.”
That caught my attention. For whatever reason, I found the White Supremacist and Neo-Nazi movements interesting. Utterly disgusting, but interesting. We only had a few such players in my area, and they were greatly outnumbered by the Freemen-type Constitutionalists and Patriots. But what can I say, my interests were what my interests were. “What’s up?”
“Nothing that concerns you. Mainly in the south. A new group. It started in Georgia but moved west as far as Texas. The numbers are growing. They call themselves New Millennium.”
“That’s different. Doesn’t sound quite so … ” I couldn’t think of the word I was looking for.
“Redneck-ish?”
“Exactly.”
“Yeah. The group actually got its origin from a Neo-Nazi group in Germany.”
“Ah, the Fatherland.”
“Don’t try and be smarter than you are.”
“Bite me twice.”
“Anyway, they’re growing at a phenomenal rate. Faster than anyone thought, and spreading geographically, too. Seems they have someplace for everybody.”
“What makes them so appealing?”
“Good question. They’re very organized, for one thing. The organization doesn’t seem to be built around one figurehead, but the actual organization itself. Maybe more like a movement instead of an organization.”
“That would be a change.”
“Yeah, and even though they’re spitting out the same rhetoric, they’re packaging it differently. Like they’re trying to appeal to a classier audience.”
“KKK tried to do that, too. It didn’t work.”
“Yeah, but the Klan was too steeped in its own history to reinvent itself.”
“So what’s the bottom line?”
“Nothing really that pertains to you over there. We don’t have any intel of any recruiting in your area, or any members. Just keep your ear to the ground and if someone walks up to you on the street and tells you that they hate all Jews, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, etc., get their name.”
“I can do that.”
“I know you can, that’s why I got you on the task force. Just make the next meeting.”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Right.”
It was three days past Coop’s phone call and what seemed like forever since we’d gotten any new information on the case. I was sleeping sound and dreaming of something nice. I don’t remember what it was, only that I wished I could go back to sleep and finish the dream. I couldn’t, though. All I could think about was what had woken me up, and what had been bugging me all this time about the Gittlesons’ house. There had been no briefcase or laptop. In fact, there was nothing to do with work. There was no way a man who checked in with his office at least one time a day from his vacation in Colorado, was not going to bring work with him. How had I missed that? Shit.
I told my boss that I was going to have to go to Lubbock. It turned into an argument. He couldn’t understand why I needed to go down there if the murder happened up here. I tried to explain it to him, but he was still balking. I tried to think of some analogy from the security industry, which was his area of expertise. I don’t know crap about security. The only thing I could think of to tell him was that he was an idiot and I knew what I was talking about. As bad as I wanted to, I didn’t, though. I finally convinced him that I had exhausted all the leads I could here and had to do a face-to-face interview with Mrs. Gittleson, as well as pay a visit to my victim’s office. He finally relented. To this day, I have no idea why he cared. The department had more than enough money for me to take the trip, and the time away from the office wasn’t a problem. Maybe he was feeling a little threatened because he had no idea how to work a homicide. I had a newsflash for him; he wouldn’t have known how to work a shoplifting either.
I managed to talk Toby into letting Kelly go as well. His department didn’t have the money and I knew it, but Toby realized the importance of the trip. Boy, what a difference in leadership. I didn’t tell Toby but I planned on paying for everything for both of us, or at least as much as I could without getting caught.
I had decided that we would drive, since it would only be a one-day trip. That way, we would already have a car and not have to rent one. Besides, I couldn’t get away with buying Kelly’s plane ticket. The trip to Lubbock from Logan County was everything I’d remembered it to be. Lots of nothingness, broken up by lots of sagebrush. The conversation had gone from casual and light to none, which was where I like it. I had no problem with hours of no conversation. Silence has never bothered me. Kelly wasn’t like that. Like with most people, she thought silence was not golden, it’s wrong, and it must be overcome with something. Once we got to where the only radio station was an AM channel playing mariachi music, she turned it down and started talking.
“Where you from, Dell?”
“Texas.”
“Really. Where at in Texas?”
“Tyler. It’s in east Texas.”
“No kidding? How far is that from Lubbock?” I saw her getting the map out.
“Long way.”
“Everything in Texas is a long way,” she said as she unfolded the map.
“Yep.” It got quiet for a few minutes while she looked at the map. I knew it wouldn’t last. She seemed to hate mariachi music.
“I’m from California.”
“Really.” I was wondering how long she could keep the conversation going all alone.
“Yeah. San Diego.”
For the next several hours I found out all about Kelly’s family, pets, last boyfriend, and her experience in the Police Academy. Considering we had started off on the wrong foot, I now knew more about her than I ever would have wanted to. I finally decided that if we had to talk, we might as well talk about something worthwhile.
“What’s your opinion on the case?”
“I don’t know. I think you’re probably on the right track suspecting the wife. I mean, she had the motive, the means, and everything.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know. Something about the victim doesn’t seem right.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“What is it about him you don’t like?”
“I don’t know. Maybe just ’cause he’s a lawyer.” She thought that was funny. “The wine bothers me. The clean kitchen bothers me. The lack of a briefcase or computer bothers me. But I don’t know if I can put that on the vic. Maybe someone else cleaned up and took the stuff.”
“Maybe the wife had it done.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe there was more on his computer than just work stuff. Maybe something she didn’t want us to find.”
“Maybe.”
“You still think it’s the wife, though, don’t you?”
“If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and looks like a duck, ninety-nine out of a hundred times it’s a duck.”
“What about that one out of a hundredth time? Is that simply a coincidence?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen that one.”
We were sitting in the outer office of Hathcock, Moen, and Thatcher. It was what you would assume a rich lawyer’s office
would be. Nice furniture. New Yorker and Texas Monthly magazines arranged neatly on the mahogany table. Fresh-cut floral arrangements, and plush carpeting. I guess when you charge $450 an hour, you can afford such things, and they are practically expected.
Once again Moen had kept me waiting. I had called him the day before on the trip down to schedule an appointment to see him. I didn’t even ask him if Mrs. Gittleson would be able to be there. I figured there were things we needed to get out of the way first.
Even though the appointment was at 10:00, Kelly and I had gotten there at 9:30. It was now 10:45 and I was still perusing Texas Monthly. I had no interest in New Yorker, but it was still early yet. Finally, a well-dressed and very proper young girl opened the waiting room door.
“Mr. Moen will see you now.”
Moen probably had one of those offices filled with expensive art, sculptures, or other items depicting how rich and sophisticated he was. We would never find out because he had us escorted to the conference room, which he came into a few seconds after we got there. It was a power thing to remind me that he was in complete control. By taking me to a neutral room and keeping me out of his inner sanctum, he was telling me I didn’t rate his time or space. Screw him.
“Detective Moffat,” he said as he reached out his hand to shake. He wasn’t what I expected. For some reason, I had assumed him to be normal build and height. The man was 6’7” tall if he was an inch. I couldn’t really tell how much he weighed because he was so enormous. Not fat, he was just big. He was fairly well-proportioned, and his hands were the size of a catcher’s mitt. I felt dwarfed. Kelly was also a little taken by him. Probably more so by his looks, though. He was a square-jawed, clean-cut man. His hair was perfectly groomed and his teeth whiter than a January snow. He was a very large, brown-haired version of my GQ chief. I hated him already.
“I never heard back from you about my list of questions for Mrs. Gittleson so I thought I’d pop in and see you.”
“Thanks for calling ahead. It’s pretty busy around here.”
“Sure. Any chance of me getting to talk to your client?”
He looked down at the table and drummed his fingers. He was thinking, and that may have been a good sign. Then again, who knows.
“No.”
So it wasn’t a good sign.
“Okay. Can I ask you why not?”
“I see no reason for her to talk to you. She spoke to the other detective and told him everything she knew.”
“Everything she knew about what?” I had just played a somewhat dangerous game by sparring with him, and to be honest I had done it without thinking it through. I caught him misspeaking and tried to use it against him. It works on perps all the time. I had a feeling it wasn’t going to work on him.
“My client has nothing to say to you.”
Huh. I was right, it didn’t work.
“Look. How about if I show you some of my cards?” This was another risky move, but I was getting close to the end of the game anyway if he wouldn’t play.
“Okay.”
“Sure, she’s a suspect. She was having an affair and got caught. They had an argument and she left. But I have a little bit of trouble figuring out how she would have suddenly, that night, found someone to kill her husband way up in Colorado. My guess is there’s some other reason he’s dead, and I really do need to eliminate her as a suspect.” I should have been a lawyer. I took two tablespoons of truth and turned it into a gallon of bullshit. He looked back down at the table and drummed his fingers some more.
“What exactly do you want to know from her?”
Gotcha. “Who else would have had a reason to kill him? Was he seeing anyone? Was anyone else sharing their bed at the house in Colorado?” The question about someone else sharing the bed made him look at me. He hadn’t been prepared for that one. He was smart enough not to ask me about it right off, but he began drumming his fingers again. It was his tell.
“I tell you what. I’ll talk to her again and get back with you tomorrow. How can I reach you?”
I gave him my cell phone number. I didn’t want him knowing where I was staying. I just don’t trust anyone. It’s a cop thing.
We all stood to leave and I pulled my Columbo question on him. I like doing that. “Oh by the way, one more question for her. Did she know that her husband had a Viagra prescription, and if so, does she know when the last time was that he took some? I know that’s kind of personal, but ... ”
“Why?”
“I don’t really want to say right now.”
“I’ll ask.”
I bet he would. That information, coupled with my question about someone else being in the bed, had to get his juices going. If he thought that I had some information that was going to help his client, he wasn’t going to rest until he knew what it was. He’d call me back. Even if I didn’t get to talk to Mrs. Gittleson, I’d be talking to Mr. Moen again, I felt sure.
Out of professional courtesy I had contacted the Lubbock Police Department to let them know we were in their jurisdiction doing follow-up interviews in a murder investigation. All cops did it. Well, most cops did it. Like I said, it’s professional courtesy. Usually the host agency offers to match you up with one of their detectives to help you out and also to keep you out of trouble. Cops can be the most juvenile men in the world when they’re on a road trip. I had already spoken to Bell to see if he thought he could partner with us. He said he was still on the shit list and probably shouldn’t even ask. He did say that he would come out and play with us on his days off. Problem was, we would be gone back to Colorado by his next days off. I told him how much I appreciated it but not to worry about it. Since I couldn’t get Bell, I told the P.D. we wouldn’t need any escorts. Damn, was I wrong.
There are three things every cop knows about his town—where to avoid when he’s off duty, where to drink without getting into trouble, and the good places to eat. Bell told me that the Rancher steakhouse had as good of a cut of meat as I was going to eat anywhere. It wasn’t fancy but it was good. Since it was my treat I got to choose. Kelly had suggested a Japanese restaurant. I told her I would drop her off there if she wanted but I was going to Rancher’s. She said steak would be okay.
Bell had been right. The New York Strip and stuffed baked potato had been as good as he had told me it would be. He had also been right about it not being fancy. The napkins were paper, the glasses were Mason jars, the tablecloth was vinyl, and the fork had a bent tine.
Not satisfied with eating in peace, Kelly had finished a story she had started earlier on the trip down about some of her frustrations with the academy experience and law enforcement in general. One of her frustrations was the macho crap male cops felt like they had to live up to. I grunted occasionally to let her know I was still awake.
I normally eat pretty fast. Even though I really enjoy a well-cooked meal, food is still a utilitarian item for me and not an entertainment thing. I finished my steak about the time she was just cutting the second or third bite off her filet mignon. This meal was going to last about as long as the drive down.
Kelly finally finished her steak. Fortunately, she decided to forego the dessert menu, even though it had been a decision she seemed to struggle over. I would have bought her the whole menu’s worth if she would have taken it to go. It wasn’t that she was bad company; I just am not a big conversationalist with people I don’t know well. Which is everyone but five people in the world.
Lubbock, Texas winter weather was not as cold temperature-wise as Eaglenest, but it still cut me to the bone. I was glad I had my heavy leather jacket on. The wind was out of the north and bit like a viper at my exposed neck. The night sky was clear, and both vehicle and foot traffic were light in the area. There was a strip mall across the highway and down a short distance. The Rancher was positioned well on the corner of a major intersection, and even without the good food it would have no doubt stayed in business just based on its location. Across the large parking lot, which could accommodate mo
re vehicles than the restaurant could hold people, was an office building, or maybe some kind of short strip of storefronts. I never did find out for sure, and that’s no doubt where the person must have been standing that lobbed a 9mm my way. I heard it zip by my ear, and it shattered the driver’s side rear window just as I was reaching to put the key in the lock. I had already pulled my Sig and was on the off-side of the vehicle before Kelly had figured out what was going on. I even had to grab her by the arm and pull her down behind the car.
A patrol officer responded to my 911 call. I had explained to the dispatcher who I was and that I was in town on official business. I would have taken off in the direction I thought the shooter had been, but within seconds of my call I heard a siren coming my way. Pretty good response time. Within five minutes we had eight P.D. cars on scene and two supervisors. Bell showed up to a little later. I had called him.
“You’re a shit magnet, Moffat.” It was Bell talking to me as he walked up to where I was standing next to my vehicle and scraping broken glass off the back seat.
“Yeah. Others have told me that, too.”
“Hi. I’m Bell.” He was reaching out to shake Kelly’s hand and looking at her like he’d found his next ex-wife. I’d have to remember to warn her off. I hadn’t taken her to raise, but she was my partner. “Who shot at you?”
“You tell me. It’s your town.”
About that time the patrol sergeant came back to where we were. He greeted Bell and shook his hand. They seemed to be getting along just fine, as though they were friends, so I assumed he didn’t have any responsibilities supervising my friend. Supervision and friendship seemed to be mutually exclusive when it came to Bell. He talked with Bell a minute, and another patrol officer walked up and started talking to them both. Even though I was a cop and had been the victim in this thing, I didn’t horn in. Eventually, the sergeant walked over to me, and Bell was with him. “We think it was a random deal. We found one shell casing in the alley over there.” He was pointing to the office building on the other side of the parking lot, where I had assumed the shot had come from. “That’s a long way away for a 9mm if someone was really trying to kill you. Probably a gangbanger firing off a round, or maybe it was a stray from something else that was going down, like a bad dope deal.”