The Righteous Path: A Parker County Novel (The Parker County Novels Book 1)

by James D F Hannah

  She blew out an angry sigh. “My mother is not perfect, but she’s better than that asshole deserved. I debated how to tell her, then decided not to. It wasn’t my duty as a daughter to destroy her world that way. So over time, I carved my father out of my world. For years he’d ask me why I was doing this to him. He pleaded with me to tell him what was going on, and every time I said the same thing, that he knew the reason. After a while, he stopped asking.”

  She glanced toward the windows. Dark clouds showed in the distance, and Matt thought he heard a rumble of thunder.

  “The children in the pictures in my parents’ living room, those are children from my mother’s side of the family. My parents had to make do with those substitutions because I’ve never given them grandchildren. Do you know why, Sheriff?”

  “I wouldn’t venture a guess.”

  “Because the greatest harm I could offer my father was to deny him another person to lie to whenever he told them ‘I love you.’ I’m sure whatever little bastard offspring he has running around might give him a grandchild someday—the shit stain is well into breeding years by now—but I chose to deny him one he could claim in public. When something happens to my mother, at her funeral, once she is in the ground and he believes the pain can’t be worse, I will stand there next to the gravesite and I will explain to him why I’ve not spoken to him for all these years. And I will walk away from him and everything in his world with him knowing his betrayal of my mother sealed this fate of him dying alone.”

  She turned back to Matt and flashed that empty smile again.

  Matt stood. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Warner. I’ll let myself out.”

  Matt’s hand was on the doorknob when he stopped and looked back at Iris. Her attention was back to the windows, though he felt as though there was nothing going on outside she could see. Those windows just showed a time two decades old and the hurt accumulated since then.

  “Ms. Warner?”

  She remained turned away. “Yes?”

  “How’s your mother doing?”

  There was a pause. “She’s going to die, Sheriff. What the people did to her, the damage was too much for a woman her age. The doctors don’t expect her to wake up, so the question becomes if the old man has enough guts to do what needs done. Based on his prior experience, I’m not holding my breath.”

  Matt let those words hang then walked out.

  With the door closed behind him, the air in the hallway felt cooler and more free to Matt, and he took in deep breaths on his way to the elevator.

  22

  Billy McCoy’s apartment sat over the garage of a split-level in a planned community that hadn’t gone according to plan. The sign at the outset read “Waterview Gardens,” which made Crash laugh since the only nearby water to have a view of was the Tomahawk River, and it was little more than a narrow strip of brown water trickling along to a better stream. The Tomahawk was shallow and slow, and the only time it caused an issue was during heavy rains, which threw debris in and blocked up the flow, backing up the water and spilling it out onto its banks. It didn’t seem worth paying money for the view.

  Not that many people did that at Waterview Gardens. Five or six houses were finished and families lived there, but the others were frozen in a half-completed state. Crash’s guess was the houses had been like that for a while. She had seen this in other places, where someone got the bright idea to construct a housing community but ran out of money before it was finished. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to build overpriced houses somewhere no one could afford them, Crash thought. Maybe that was too much common sense, and that was why she wasn’t in real estate.

  The lady who answered the door looked at Crash with caution shoved behind an overwrought smile. The model of a middle-class housewife, in yoga pants and a WVU T-shirt. A TV blared in the background, and from it a children’s show played something involving intergalactic warriors.

  Crash told her she understood Billy lived in an apartment above the garage, and that she needed to check it out. The wife said Billy hadn’t been there in about a week, that he had said nothing to them about leaving; he had just vanished.

  “My husband told Billy he could stay here,” the wife said as she unlocked the apartment door. “I didn’t like it, but Jake kept telling me what a good guy Billy was and how he needed somewhere to be for a while. Didn’t tell me much beyond that. I always kept all the doors locked, though. Got to be careful, right?” She paused, key in the lock, and said, “Billy’s not involved in anything, is he? Because I will beat Jake if he brought a criminal into my home and—”

  “Nothing like that at all. It’s where he’s missing. There might be a clue here somewhere.” Crash wanted to keep the peace between Jake and his wife. Last thing she needed was to find herself out here tonight breaking up a domestic.

  Crash stepped into the apartment. Nothing but a studio with a bathroom at the far end, so not much to see, but then again, Billy likely didn’t need much. Crash said thanks to the wife and that she’d lock up and let her know when she left.

  Crash snapped on latex gloves and started her search. The place stunk of weed. Crash figured Billy smoked a lot and didn’t open the windows much. Didn’t want the neighbors finding out. No bed, but a Walmart futon was pushed against the wall. Decorations were limited to posters fastened by Scotch tape. Crash recognized some of the movies—stoner comedies. Not shocking, all things considered. Other posters were of bands Crash had never heard of. The bands all looked like a variety of angry white guys striking the same poses as a thousand bands before them.

  Collaged together onto a corkboard were photos all done with an unmistakable feminine touch. Hearts and ribbons and girly shit that Crash didn’t get. She recognized Micki Miller. Took a minute, though, because what was here wasn’t the angry Micki in her pictures. This Micki wore an honest, unguarded smile. There was a joy she couldn’t hide.

  With her in some of the photos was Billy McCoy: a decent-enough-looking guy, with longish hair and narrow features and earrings lining up his left ear. He didn’t smile much and looked more bothered by the picture-taking process. In some he would glance over at Micki, and there’d be a flicker of a smile. Too busy being a tough guy.

  An end table next to the futon was stacked with books, with a bong resting on top like Excalibur erupting from the stone. They were ancient paperbacks, the covers tattered and worn, edges frayed and torn. The image on each cover was a freeze-frame depiction of crime, and they all had titles like The Sour Lemon Score and The Name of the Game is Death and Hell Hath No Fury.

  “Jesus, who thought up these titles?” she said as she tossed each one onto the tabletop.

  A small cafe-style table rested outside the bathroom door. Two guitars were propped up on stands. One was acoustic and the other electric, and both looked to have cost a decent bit of cash. Whatever money Billy had, this was where it went.

  Papers were scattered across the table. Crash pushed them around with the end of a pen. Sheet music. Guitar parts for various songs. Some Eagles, some Skynyrd. From Billy working to learn songs for The Nightside Regulars. He seemed like the type who would throw himself completely into something, no matter how useless or futile it seemed.

  Crash shifted the papers around. Bills and credit card offers and wildlife groups wanting money and printouts from newspapers.

  Crash looked at the printouts. A newspaper article, from the county paper’s website. The headline read: “Daring Bank Holdup Nets Half-Million Dollar Haul.”

  Her eyes scanned across the words, anticipating what was coming, but she knew already.

  The Guthrie National Bank robbery.

  She found other printouts about the second robbery. About the bank teller killed.

  Then she found the articles about Gary Campbell and Campbell’s Market, and her heart sank.

  23

  Matt met Crash at Billy’s apartment. A woman watched through the living room curtains as he pulled into the driveway and parked behind
Crash’s cruiser. She kept her eyes on Matt as he ascended the stairs into the garage apartment. He was winded once he reached the top, and he leaned into the doorframe and caught his breath.

  Crash was at the cafe table, assembling papers into stacks. She said, “You okay?”

  “The lady of the house gave me the hairy eyeball the whole time I was coming up here.”

  “I think she’s nervous thinking we’ll bust her for letting the son of pot farmers live here.”

  “Can you arrest someone for that?”

  “Almost positive you can’t unless she’s contributing to a crime. Which I’m sure she isn’t.”

  Matt walked into the apartment, surveying the space. “Might be fun to mess with her.”

  “Almost any other day I’d be all in for that, but there’re larger issues at play here.”

  Matt put on gloves and walked over to the table. Crash had put everything into neat, orderly stacks. She pointed to one stack. The top sheet was a newspaper printout.

  “That’s the stuff on the two bank holdups,” she said. She gestured to another stack. “That’s what they put together on Campbell and Carlton.”

  Matt flipped through the papers. Billy had put together a history of the business lives of Gary Campbell and Peter Carlton.

  “Campbell closed up shop three months after the bank robberies,” Matt said. “Carlton made a stronger go of it a little while longer, but he still folded within a year.”

  “Someone saw a connection between Campbell and Carlton and the bank robberies.”

  “Why, though? And why the attacks?”

  “Because if Campbell and Carlton had something to do with those bank robberies then somehow they can get money from it now.”

  “Those robberies, that’s more than fifteen years ago. That money’s long gone by now.”

  “You’ve got two old guys who still have names, respect in the community. Reputations to uphold. That’s bound to be worth something.”

  “Blackmail?”

  Crash shrugged. “I’m spitballing ideas here. Any idea is better than nothing.”

  “A world full of bad ideas out there would argue that point with you.” She held up a finger. “Oh, and I can’t forget this.”

  Crash disappeared into another room and came back holding a security guard uniform on a hanger. She showed Matt the patch sewn onto the arm. Tri-Comm.

  “Seems Billy was moonlighting,” Matt said.

  “It’s the kind of job that would give him access to security codes,” Crash said. “So he could get into the Campbell house.”

  There was a soft knocking at the apartment door, and Matt and Crash turned to see the wife standing in the doorway, her hands twisted together. She shifted back and forth like she needed to pee and the line for the bathroom was too long.

  Matt walked toward the door. “Hello, ma’am.”

  “Listen, I hate to ask this and all, but I’m wondering how long you all are going to be here, on account I’ve now got two police cars sitting in my driveway, and my neighbors—”

  “You have neighbors?” Crash said. The tone was more astonished than anything.

  The woman’s face dropped. “Yes, Deputy, I’ve got neighbors. Not many, because who wants a house like this in a place like this, but the neighbors I’ve got, they’re calling me, asking what’s going on.”

  “And what are you telling them?” Matt said.

  “What the hell do you think I’m telling them? I’m telling them my dumbass husband let the guy he’s buying pot from live in our garage.” She buried her face in her hands and shook her head. “My dad told me I could have done better. Why didn’t I listen to him?”

  Matt and Crash parked in the lot outside the cookie factory and waited. They sat in silence, waiting for the shift whistle to blow, eyes trained on the exit gate.

  The whistle shrieked, and five minutes later, Gloria Miller came through the gate and headed toward a beat-to-hell minivan. Her shoulders were slumped, her face drawn, her movements implying each step was a struggle.

  “Come on,” Crash said and reached to open her door, and realized Matt didn’t respond. His head was slumped against the driver’s side window, his eyes closed, a gentle snoring sound rolling out of him.

  She patted his arm. He stirred awake, eyes popping open like pulled blinds, his expression startled and shocked. He wiped at the corners of his mouth, pushing away imagined drool. His eyes flitted for a moment, and he looked embarrassed.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “I’m tired.”

  Crash smiled. “Guess so.” She pointed out the window. “Gloria’s coming.”

  Gloria’s face glowed with hopefulness as Matt and Crash approached from across the parking lot. She set her purse and lunch bag on the ground next to her minivan and threw herself around Matt.

  “Did you find her?” she said, her head pressed into his chest.

  Matt took her shoulders and pried himself loose of her. The light glistening in her eyes goddamn near broke Matt’s heart.

  “Not yet, but there are leads,” he said. “There’s a few questions we need to ask you, and they might not be questions you like.”

  Gloria’s face turned hard and confused. “What the hell are you saying, Matt?” She spun her attention over to Crash. “What’s going on with my girl?”

  Crash said, “Why don’t we sit in the van and talk.”

  Which they did. Gloria in the driver’s seat, Matt and Crash behind her. The van was cluttered with fast food wrappers and clots of dirt and Lego pieces and french fries that would never, ever go away.

  Gloria twisted herself to face Matt and Crash. A tidal wave of conflicting emotions washed over her face. Frustration, anticipation, fear.

  Matt said, “Do you know Gary Campbell? Or Peter Carlton?”

  Her expression flipped to confusion. “You’re not making sense, Matt. What do they have to do—”

  “Just answer the question, Gloria. Please. What about Gary Campbell or Peter Carlton?”

  Gloria sighed. “Gary Campbell. Yeah, I know him. I mean, I haven’t seen him in—Jesus Christ—well, back before Micki. Tyson worked at one of Mr. Campbell’s stores.”

  Crash said, “What did your husband do for Campbell?”

  “He clerked at the Campbell’s Market off of 232. Stocked shelves, mopped up when someone’s stupid kid shattered a bottle of ketchup or a jar of pickles on the floor. Tyson hated it, but after I got pregnant, he said he wanted to do something different with himself. Said it was important that he be this new person since he was going to be a father.” She smiled. “Before he disappeared, he started reading all the time. Always had a little book in his hand. Wanted to be smart enough to be a better dad than what he had.”

  “When did you talk to Campbell last?” Matt said.

  “It’s a small town, Matt. I’m sure I’ve said hi to him here and there a million times. But if you mean an actual conversation past two people being polite, it’s not been since Tyson vanished off to wherever it was he went. Mr. Campbell came by himself to drop off Tyson’s last paycheck, and he gave us extra bags of groceries. Said on account of Tyson leaving, that he was disappointed with him disappearing the way he did. Mr. Campbell had been working with him, coming by the house. Tyson said Mr. Campbell was getting him ready for management.” Gloria laughed. “I never pictured Tyson running a store, anything like that, but they’d sit in the dining room and talk for hours, sounding very serious.”

  Crash and Matt exchanged looks. Crash said, “Do you know what they were talking about?”

  “No idea. I was pregnant with Micki, and they’d all be in there smoking and drinking coffee, and I couldn’t be around all of that, so I kept to myself in the living room. I was learning to knit and trying to make Micki a blanket, so I—”

  “Did anyone else come with Campbell during these visits?”

  “A few times, a guy came by. I don’t remember his name. All of this is ancient history, Matt.” She sniffed. “I want my daugh
ter back. She’s all I’ve got left of Tyson. The boys are wonderful, but their dad was never any account, and I’d just as soon forget him and be thankful for what he gave me. Tyson, though, that was the one real love I got out of my life, no matter what sort of asshole he was, and Micki the only piece of that.” She looked at them both with sad eyes, as if trying to hide a secret shame. “You might think I’m a pathetic old bitch for still loving someone like Tyson, but that’s the way it is sometimes. You can’t help who you love.”

  Matt rested his hand on hers. “We’re doing everything we can to bring her home to you, Gloria.” He squeezed her hand gently. “About the other man who met with Tyson and Campbell. Are you sure you don’t remember his name?”

  “I don’t. I’m sorry. All this, it’s nothing I’ve given two breaths thinking about for years now. Is any of this going to help you find Micki?”

  “It might. I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think it would.”

  “I don’t get what Gary Campbell and Tyson have to do with Micki being missing, though.”

  “It’s complicated, so I need you to let us work this, and don’t talk about it with anyone, please. Trust us on this. Can you do that?”

  “If it’s for Micki.”

  Matt slid open the side door so he and Crash could get out. Gloria rolled down her window.

  “You’ll tell me when you find something, right?” she said.

  “We’ll call as soon as we find out anything,” Matt said. “One last thing. Where were you and Tyson living when all of this was going on?”

  “There was a trailer park out on Route 68, and we rented this shitty little single-wide. It was a fucking dump. The roof leaked, the floors were falling in, and anytime the wind blew, you’d think for sure the damn thing would topple over or cave in. But we were kids and didn’t know any better and didn’t have nowhere else to go, anyway. After Tyson left, I couldn’t even afford the rent on it, so I had to move to Section 8 housing. Jesus but that was even worse.”