by Chris Rogers
“I looked every one of those jurors in the eye that last day. The prosecution showed photographs of Betsy lying beside the road like a pile of discarded clothes. I thought about how I’d feel if I were one of the jury listening to the prosecutor’s case. I’d throw my sorry ass so far in Huntsville Prison the world wouldn’t even be driving cars when I got out.”
Dixie was tempted to tell him what she’d learned about Keyes. But first she needed to talk to Belle Richards and find out if the lawyer thought the information would make enough difference to alter Dann’s case.
“If there’s evidence out there to find, I’ll find it.”
“I wish I knew.” His eyes held a solemn resolve she’d never seen there before. “I wish I knew if there was any evidence out there to find. I wish I could promise you absolutely that I wasn’t behind the wheel when my car hit Betsy. I just don’t friggin know. But two things I can promise. One. I’d never intentionally hurt you, or hurt Mud, or cause you any unnecessary anguish. Two.” He sighed again, his gaze never wavering from hers. “I won’t go gently to prison.”
After transferring the contents of the ammunition cabinet to the Mustang’s trunk—just in case that was sparking Dann’s sudden interest in locks—Dixie spent the few remaining hours of the night wrestling with sleep. Rows of numbers and letters bounced around against a glowing computer screen in her brain. She’d hoped to avoid returning Belle Richards’ phone calls until she had something concrete to present in Dann’s favor. But the attorney would need time to reorganize her case presentation for court on Monday. Only five days remained, most of them weekend or holidays.
When the alarm finally rattled Dixie out of bed, she pulled on some clothes and headed straight for the phone, knowing Belle’s habit of keeping early office hours. The lawyer picked up on the first ring.
“You weren’t joking when you said you’d let me worry right up to the last minute, were you, Flannigan?”
“Did I get your attention?”
“Trust me, you better have good news after keeping me waiting. What’s going on?”
“First, let’s set your mind at ease. Parker Dann is here.”
“Where?”
Dixie glanced through the hall at the guestroom door. Mud would be dutifully on guard beside Dann’s bed.
“A friend of mine is keeping an eye on him. But I have some other news.”
She told Belle what she’d learned about Courtney’s swimming “accident,” about Jonathan Keyes talking to Dann at the Green Hornet, and finally about her suspicion of Keyes. Belle was silent for a long beat.
“I see where you’re pointing,” she said finally. “But you of all people, Ms. Former Prosecutor, must be aware of how nasty it would look to present unsubstantiated allegations against Keyes which, if they’re wrong, could ruin his reputation.” She hesitated. “I don’t suppose you unearthed any actual proof?”
“Child molestation is hard enough to prove when the victims are still alive. I seem to recall that you won a couple of my cases by merely planting a ‘seed’ of reasonable doubt in the jury’s ear.”
“Never a seed so insidious. If a jury didn’t buy it one hundred percent, they might convict Dann in a backlash of sympathy for Keyes.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. So here’s a seed with the sort of hard numbers juries like.” She told Belle about Travis Payne’s $50,000 deposits and erratic spending sprees after the deaths of both stepdaughters. This time she could almost hear the lawyer’s mental wheels grinding. Juries could imagine a man murdering his stepchildren for money. Travis Payne’s “motive” was so obvious Dixie wondered why Belle’s investigator hadn’t picked up on it. Everybody considered Betsy’s death an accident. No one had noticed that Payne pocketed a substantial amount of insurance money. According to Belle’s notes, he claimed he was at the hardware store repricing inventory when Betsy was killed. No one was there to substantiate his whereabouts. Dixie would bet a similar situation existed during the time Courtney was killed. Small business owners often worked odd hours.
She hated providing evidence that implicated an honest man, but suspicion was not conviction. If the jury believed the “evidence” against Travis Payne cast reasonable doubt on Dann’s guilt, they’d acquit. The DA would investigate Payne, but they’d never arrest him without substantial evidence. Meanwhile, Dixie would turn over to the prosecuting attorney all her information against Jon Keyes, and the right man would go to jail. Maybe.
“After the swimming accident,” Belle argued, “my investigator questioned the counselors at Camp Cade and didn’t see any connection.”
“No reason they should. For your people, as well as the police investigators, the two deaths were separated by months and miles, and were totally dissimilar. I got news of both accidents within forty-eight hours.”
“Still, I should’ve picked up on the coincidence.” She paused. “Why did you go to all this trouble?”
“Let’s say I don’t trust packages that are too neatly tied.”
“If you’re right, Keyes put together a tidy frame against Dann, all right, a package that twelve people in the box were ready to buy.” Belle fell silent again, and Dixie knew she was still processing the information. “Frankly, it sounds like Payne is more likely to have the calculating sort of mind to follow through on such a diabolical plan. Maybe he really is the killer.”
It didn’t surprise Dixie that Belle would favor Travis Payne as the prime suspect over Jonathan Keyes. Even the best lawyers were squeamish about looking into the cesspool labeled “Sex Crimes Against Children.” As soon as Dann was cleared, Dixie would have to go after Keyes on her own.
“You’ll need to send another operative to follow up on Travis Payne” she said, describing her run-in with Rebecca. “I don’t think either of the Paynes will talk to me again. Also, you’ll need to verify the fifty-thousand-dollar deposits were indeed insurance claims. If so, when were the policies written, who was the actual beneficiary, and how much insurance does Payne carry on Rebecca and Ellie?”
“Gee, Flannigan, it’s been a long time since anyone told me how to do my job. Are you bucking for a consultant’s fee, too?”
“Justice is its own reward, Ric. Haven’t you heard?”
“That’s a nasty rumor. Don’t let my clients hear it.”
“On one condition. Let me know what you find out on this.”
“You’re worried about Ellie Keyes?”
“Naturally, I’m worried.” And she’d been digging around in this case too long to drop it now. She wanted to know everything Belle found out.
“Hang loose, right where you are,” Belle told her. “Checking the insurance records won’t take long.”
Two minutes after Dixie hung up, the phone rang. She scooped up the receiver.
“Once again, Ric, you exceed my expectations.”
“And once again you baffle the hell out of me.” Benjamin Rashly’s tobacco-gruff voice rumbled in Dixie’s ear.
He would be calling for only one reason.
“Valdez is out?”
“Released ten minutes ago. On her way home right now.”
“Shit.”
“I’ve been talking to my doctor about that. Gets harder every year.” Rashly chuckled over his obscene joke. “Get on it, Flannigan. A deal’s a deal.”
“I’m on it, Rash.” Even as Dixie clicked off, she shrugged into her overalls and vest. She hooked a jacket out of the closet—the weatherman had predicted another temperature drop—and stuffed the cellular phone into a pocket. She didn’t want to miss Belle’s call while she staked out Hermie Valdez.
The plumbing van had worked before, and although Dixie usually preferred to change tactics, time was short. Her “plumbing” tools were already loaded. She pulled the van into the driveway of a vacant house she’d spotted half a block down from Valdez. Before jumping out, she tossed a shovel and plumber’s snake to the ground.
A police car stopped at the Valdez house. Departmental escort was rar
e, probably a direct order from Rashly, including instructions to take their time, allowing Dixie a few extra minutes to get positioned. A large, angular woman in rumpled clothes emerged from the cruiser, slamming the door rudely.
Turning on the portable receiver clipped under her coat, Dixie heard Valdez enter the house. Footsteps on the wooden floor came through loud and clear.
Dixie chose a likely spot and started digging, not putting much muscle in it. Should anyone ask, she was searching for a clogged sewer line. Until Hermie contacted her fugitive boyfriend, the only thing to do was wait. And dig.
For the first hour, Dixie listened to footsteps from room to room, drawers opening and closing, a shower running, a hair dryer wailing. Then Valdez must have decided to take a nap, because the house grew quiet.
By that time, Dixie had dug a trench about a foot deep and six feet long, with no idea whether a sewer line was anywhere within fifty yards. Her legs were growing numb and she shivered so hard the UHF receiver shook loose from her belt. She barely caught it before it hit the ground. For once the weatherman had been right about the temperature.
When the phone in her pocket bleeped, she was glad for the chance to sit down in the van’s cab, out of the cold.
“The policy on Rebecca and the girls” Belle said, “was written two days after the wedding. And get this, the insurance agent is Dennis Payne, a younger brother of you know who.”
Which explained why the policies were so large, Travis throwing business at his younger brother. “Closed that sale fast, didn’t he?”
“Twenty-five thousand on each child, a million each on Travis and Rebecca, double for accidental death, with the surviving spouse as beneficiary.”
“Those two fifty-thousand-dollar boosts to Payne’s cash flow disappeared like ice on a griddle. I bet he could spend the hell out of two million.”
“Are you swinging toward Payne now as the killer? You think he really murdered those girls?”
Dixie didn’t, but she knew that’s what Belle wanted to believe, so she could sell it easier at Dann’s trial. If Belle thought she and Dixie were thinking along the same lines, the information flow would continue.
“He sure looks good for it,” Dixie hedged.
“Payne’s the one who got the goodies. By the way, did you know this is not Rebecca’s third marriage, but her fourth?”
“Woman has a hell of a hard time hanging on to men.” Dixie’s breath was fogging the van window. She rolled it down to keep Hermie’s house in sight.
“Trust me, she does all right. The first husband lasted nineteen months. Rebecca got a nice settlement, ninety thousand dollars and a cabin on Lake Livingston. Apparently he moved out of state. Now what were the other phantom deposits you asked me to check out?”
“Payne’s account showed a thirty-thousand-dollar deposit, which came from Rebecca. Then in June of last year, twenty thousand dollars was deposited to the joint account. It might’ve been a personal sale—furniture or jewelry, but it might also be a small insurance claim. Maybe something was stolen.”
“Actually, I think there was something here…”A sound of paper rustling. “Something about—yes, here it is. Same policy, dismemberment clause. Rebecca lost two fingers in an accident.”
Dixie recalled seeing the disfigured hand. Running a restaurant must be more dangerous than she realized.
“Does it say how the accident occurred?”
“A power saw. Travis was bulling a shelf unit for the hardware store. Rebecca was helping. That’s all it says.”
Dixie felt the hair rise between the goose bumps on her arms.
“I just flashed a gruesome old joke, Ric. Remember the one about the down-on-his-luck farmer with the three-legged singing pig? Farmer shows the pig to a friend. Pig sings a moving rendition of ‘Old Rugged Cross,’ bringing tears to the friend’s eyes. He wants to know how the pig lost his leg, and the farmer says, ‘If you had such a wonderful singing pig, would you eat him all at once?’”
“Jesus Christ, Dixie! That’s gross. You think Travis cut his wife’s fingers off on purpose?”
“Maybe the fingers were an accident. But maybe that twenty-thousand-dollar check spurred a gruesome plot to keep the money flowing.”
Dixie shuddered at the thought. It was no more gruesome than her own theory that Keyes murdered his stepdaughters to keep the world from discovering his sexual perversions. Her money was still on Keyes, but… an image of Travis Payne slipped into her head… Santa Claus in orange overalls, friendly, cheerful, optimistic.
Belle said, “You mean, he couldn’t cut off more of his wife’s fingers when he ran short of money, but he could create a traffic accident and bump off one of the kids.”
“After all, they’re not his k—Oh, fuck!” Dixie had glanced toward the Valdez house. “The car’s gone.”
“What?”
“I’ll get back to you.”
She jabbed the OFF button and turned on the VHF receiver. After a moment she heard a faint blip. Valdez’s Toyota was almost out of range.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Dixie maneuvered the van around a detour for construction. The transmitter’s signal was stronger now, but not strong enough. One missed traffic light and Valdez could zip out of range.
Abruptly the signal faded. Hermie must have turned down a side street. Dixie drove three blocks, then flipped a mental coin and turned right.
Blip. Stepping on the gas, she closed the distance. Valdez was headed into an Asian-American district near downtown, east of the George R. Brown Convention Center.
The cellular phone rang.
“Dixie?” It was Amy. “I called the house first, but that nice Mr. Dann said you’d gone out, said he was a friend of yours, doing some work for you there at the house, so I took a chance on catching you in your car. That’s right, isn’t it? He is a friend?”
“Yes, he’s a… friend.” Jesus, Amy, I don’t have time for this now. Valdez turned again. This time Dixie was close enough to keep up.
“It’s Ryan. Now that he’s almost over the flu, he’s being a real pill. I told him you’d see him tonight—”
“Tonight?”
“Dinner! Remember? Carl’s barbecuing a turkey. You promised to be here.”
“All right, I will, but right now—”
“Great. Now here’s Ryan.”
“Wait, Amy, let me call—”
“Aunt Dix.” Ryan was using his spy voice, close to the phone, muffled. “You won’t believe this latest E-mail. A pilot, a real air force pilot. That oughta blow Snelling out of the race.”
“Ryan, there’s no race.” The Asian-American neighborhood ended at a warren of semi-abandoned buildings where ethnic boundaries tangled like frayed threads. Valdez parked in front of a row of four shotgun shanties, a slumlord’s version of town homes.
“I think I should reply, Aunt Dix. Tell him to meet us when we fly our models on Sunday.”
“No, please, wait till tonight. I want to be there.” She cruised past Valdez’s Toyota just as the big woman, wearing a shiny purple coat, climbed out of her car and stomped toward the back of the houses. Dixie couldn’t tell which door she entered.
“Well, okay. I just hope he doesn’t find another girlfriend. Here’s Mom.”
“No, Ryan, I need to hang—” But he’d already handed off the phone.
“Dixie, Carl bought a huge turkey,” Amy said. “Why not invite your friend? There’s always room for an extra plate.”
Jeez, Amy. “Okay, I’ll ask him. I really have to go now.”
Turning at the next block, Dixie pulled to the broken curb and parked. She would have to walk back to the shanties, locate Valdez and make sure Sikes was with her, then phone Rashly to make the collar. Her plumber’s garb was no good here as cover. People in this neighborhood didn’t call white-bread to fix their pipes.
Fortunately, it was cold, the neighbors all indoors. She pulled on a knit cap to cover her hair and turned up her collar to hide as much of her f
ace as possible. After silencing the ringer, she shoved the cellular phone in her pocket, locked the van, and headed toward the row of shacks. Not too fast, not too slow. Confident, as if she belonged here. Trying to ignore the shiver sliding down her spine.
Touching the .45 holstered under the overall, and flexing her ankle against the shiv in her boot, she felt safer. After all, I she had no intention of trying to take Sikes in herself Like a good hunting dog, all she had to do was find and point.
The sky had clouded over, blocking the late morning sun, | turning the day even colder than it started out. The shabby clapboard buildings that crowded the narrow street appeared I empty, until an eye peeked through a broken window covered over with cardboard or voices seeped through the dry rot that riddled the walls. She stepped off the sidewalk to avoid a pile of ruptured trash bags where a boarded-up grocery store had been built in front of an old house, pushing outward almost I into the street. A few boards had been pried loose and the smell of burned cooking grease hung in the air.
Compared to the buildings she’d just passed, the row of shanties might be touted as upscale housing. Finding a torn window shade proved easy: most of them were either torn or threadbare and nearly transparent. Unfortunately, the shanties almost touched one another, leaving no room for side panes. The front windows looked into living rooms, the back windows into bedrooms.
At the first house, two kids sat watching cartoons on a portable television. A scrawny Christmas tree behind them was hung sparsely with tinsel. The second house appeared vacant. If someone was farther back, in the kitchen, Dixie couldn’t tell. In the third living room, empty beer cans littered a coffee table, a magazine lay facedown on a ratty sofa. At the fourth house, two women argued over a red polka-dot dress.
Circling to the back, Dixie entered a narrow alley separating the four houses from an identical row that faced the next street over. Valdez might have gone into one of those, after parking on the wrong block to throw off anyone following. But the woman didn’t strike Dixie as especially cunning. Other than a few extra turns, Hermie had taken no precautions against being tailed, and Dixie was certain she hadn’t been spotted.