Wildburn (A Whicher Series Novella)

by John Stonehouse

  “This here's a crime scene.”

  McCoy tilts his head on one side. “My evidence officer signed it off.”

  “Long as I'm investigating,” Whicher says, “you keep Lynch out of here.”

  The sheriff draws himself up to his full height. “I'm responsible for keepin' the peace, marshal. And enforcing the law in this county.”

  “While we're standing around bandying suspicion,” Whicher says, “how about you tell me a little more about that DEA interest?”

  “In Lynch?”

  “I'm a criminal investigator, that means looking at every side.”

  “You want to talk with 'em, go talk with them. How about looking at what's in front of your face, marshal?”

  “You got a name? At DEA?”

  “Clark Schmidt,” the sheriff says. “Works out of the Lubbock office.”

  Whicher rubs a hand across his jaw.

  “That DEA interest never amounted to a thing.”

  “I'll call the Lubbock DEA,” Whicher says. “Meantime, I'm advising you to keep Lynch away from the house.”

  The sheriff's eyes harden. “I don't answer to you, marshal.”

  “You'll answer same as I do. You'll answer to a court of law.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Lubbock, TX.

  * * *

  The brick surface of Broadway glows red in the early evening sun. Buildings downtown cast long shadows to the curbside. Whicher steps away from his truck, heads beneath the awning on a double-front unit.

  The name of a company is picked out in gold letters across a plate glass window—Fairgreen Bail Bond.

  Whicher pushes open the door to a dim, cool lobby—an open-plan office to the side.

  A heavy guy is seated at a desk.

  He breaks off from staring at a computer monitor, looks up, runs a hand over his bald head.

  “Mister Delacourt?”

  “You must be the marshal? About Mister Fallon?” The man stands, extends an arm, indicates the seat in front of his desk.

  “Has the Motley County Sheriff been in touch?”

  “Yesterday.”

  Whicher sits, takes off his hat.

  Delacourt clicks on a lamp, arranges a group of slim folders on the desk. He sits, smooths down a neck-tie pinned with a ruby clip. “They weren't especially forthcoming,” he says. “They said Tommy Ray had been shot in Torero. I tried asking a couple of questions, they cut me off—said the Marshals Service was investigating.”

  “Sir, that's why I'm here.”

  Delacourt opens a folder, takes out a sheet of printed paper. “I have a photocopy of his driver license. Plus Private Security Board certification, to level four.”

  Whicher glances at it.

  The man hands it across the desk.

  The driver license photograph shows a dark haired, thick-necked man in his late-twenties. “I keep this?”

  “I can make you a copy.”

  Whicher hands him back the sheet of paper.

  Delacourt lifts the lid on a printer-scanner, puts the paper in place.

  “Can you tell me a little about Mister Fallon's background?”

  “The military, then private security.” Delacourt starts the scanner. “None of the recovery agents are employed directly by us. They're independent—they know the law, they know how to handle themselves.”

  “You know what he was doing up in Torero?”

  “We sure didn't send him.” Delacourt takes the copy from the print tray. “I know you think there's some connection with a Miss Juanita Jones. My secretary, Mrs Thomas told me.” He hands over the sheet of paper.

  The marshal folds it, slips it inside his jacket. He takes out his note pad, finds the page. “Martha Thomas,” he says.

  “That's right. She told me you called.”

  “Sir, if somebody misses a court appearance, how fast are y'all informed?”

  “The bond goes into default, we're informed right away. We get ninety days statutory to return the accused—depending on the case. Typically, we'll get a tracer working it—they'll start with phone calls, internet searches...”

  “Did you have a tracer looking for Juanita Jones?”

  Delacourt shakes his head.

  “You're sure on that?”

  “I checked our records, marshal, nobody gave Miss Jones's case to any tracer. We sure as heck didn't ask Mister Fallon to bring her in. But anybody could find out if she missed a court appearance—all they'd need to do would be to check with the court.”

  “Do you know if Fallon did that?”

  “No sir, I don't know.”

  Whicher stares at the crown of the hat on his knee. “Did you know that Miss Jones turned herself in yesterday?”

  “Her attorney informed us of that, this morning. Ms Evelyn Lopez.”

  “Tommy Ray Fallon knew Juanita Jones, did you know that?”

  Delacourt's face is still a moment. “No, sir.”

  “What I hear, they had some kind of a thing. She broke it off, he stayed interested.”

  Delacourt sits forward at the desk.

  “If Fallon knew she got in trouble,” the marshal says, “if he knew she got herself arrested, I'm thinking maybe he could've been keeping an eye out for her.”

  “Lubbock's not that big of a town I guess,” Delacourt says. “It's not like he wouldn't hear about her.”

  “If he saw she skipped out on court, maybe he wanted her to turn herself in.”

  “What happened in Torero?”

  “Fallon was shot,” Whicher says. “He died of his injuries. That's pretty much all I can tell you.”

  The man picks at the ruby clip on his tie. “So, you think he could have been looking to help her?”

  Whicher dips his head.

  “I could buy that,” Delacourt says. “He would've known we'd find her, sooner or later. If anybody skips, the only person that loses is them. If they're re-arrested, the bond comes out of default. We'll find them before the ninety days are up, Tommy Ray would've known that, well as I do.”

  Whicher pictures the man laying face down at Brandon Lynch's back door. “He was looking for her—trying to find her, thinking to help her out...”

  Delacourt watches from across the desk. “You don't sound much like you're buying it, marshal.”

  “Why get yourself shot?” Whicher sits back in the chair. “Why end up dying for your trouble?”

  Out on the east side of the city of Lubbock, the wide spaces of McKenzie Park teem with groups of people—cars and trucks packing the service roads around the lake. In the lot of Joyland Amusements, Whicher leans against the fender of the Silverado. He watches traffic crawl down Cesar Chavez Drive. Eats a chili dog and salsa out of a paper napkin.

  Clark Schmidt, from Lubbock DEA, eats fried cheese on a stick.

  Behind him, a roller coaster ride is lit up neon against the oncoming night—tube lights glowing in the darkening sky.

  “We get done eatin',” Whicher says, “I'll walk you on over to the Panhandle.”

  “I'll walk with you, man, but not too close. You look too much like a damn cop.”

  Whicher takes in the DEA agent—knee-length shorts, sneakers, a rumpled T. His blond hair is shoulder-length, the goatee beard untrimmed.

  Schmidt leans out over his body, trying not to spill food down his front.

  “You pay a bunch for that T-shirt?”

  “Hey,” Schmidt says. “You ever try getting spicy mustard out of cotton?”

  “I don't know how you can eat that.”

  Schmidt grins. “They fry it, I'll eat it. I like a cheese patty on a length of stick.”

  Whicher nods. “I see that.”

  “You want a slice of pie?”

  “Is it fried?”

  Schmidt flips him the bird. He checks his shorts for change, slopes across to a bright-lit food concession.

  Whicher finishes the chili dog, wipes his hands, tosses the napkin in a garbage can.

  From his jacket, he takes out th
e copy of Tommy Ray Fallon's driver license. He folds it so that only the picture shows.

  Schmidt carries back two slices of pie from the food stand. He holds one out. “Blueberry.”

  Whicher takes it from him. “Thanks.” He shows Schmidt the folded paper.

  The DEA agent looks at it.

  “Reckon you know this guy?”

  Schmidt shrugs. “No, man. I don't think.”

  Whicher takes a bite of the pie.

  “That's the guy from Lynch's house?” Schmidt says. “The guy that was shot, the bounty hunter?”

  “You know him now?”

  “Maybe I've seen him, it's hard to say.”

  Whicher puts away the paper—inclines his head in the direction of a nearby overpass.

  The two men start to walk along the line of a rusted mesh-wire fence.

  Music is pumping, the smell of roasting brisket in the air. Traffic speeds by on the Parkway into downtown.

  The marshal settles to the pace of a group of people headed for the fair. “Tell me about Brandon Lynch?”

  “You looking at anybody else?”

  Whicher thinks of Juanita, finishes the slice of pie, silent.

  “Lynch is nothing more than a small-time dealer,” Schmidt says.

  “So why were DEA looking at him?”

  “He's low-hanging fruit.”

  Whicher cuts a sideways glance at the agent.

  “We're looking for people higher up the tree,” Schmidt says. “But you got to start someplace, right? You look for weak points.”

  “He one of 'em?”

  “Brandon Lynch's of the world are your way in.” Schmidt scarfs down the last of the pie.

  Beneath the overpass, road noise batters the confined space.

  Out the far side, they follow a crowd snaking past the head of a curving lake.

  A ragged line of trees mark the route of the Parkway west toward the fairground.

  “I thought guys working drilling rigs already made a bunch of money,” Whicher says.

  “Guy's a user,” Schmidt says. “He funds his habit selling to greasers.”

  “I spoke with a rig boss down in Gaines, he said they screen for drugs.”

  “For the most part, I guess they're clean.”

  “Some of the independent land guys, he said it's a different story.”

  “They're working crazy hours,” Schmidt says. “Things get missed.”

  Through the trees they can see the back of the fairground, rides lit up.

  “How's it work with Lynch?” Whicher says. “He ever deal from the house in Torero? The sheriff's department had a crime scene guy go over it, they didn't find a thing.”

  “He buys from a couple of truckers,” Schmidt says. “They bring it out from Corpus Christi, from Dallas. Lynch is one of a bunch of people buying off of them. They do it at a truck stop on 87.”

  “Why not arrest him?”

  “Like I said, we're looking higher than that. When the time's right we'll shake the tree.”

  “You say 87 just now?”

  “Highway 87,” Schmidt nods his head. “Outside of Lamesa, a place a lot of oilers use.”

  “Lynch told me he slept in his truck there—the night before Fallon was killed.” The marshal walks on silent a moment across the flattened grass wasteland.

  Along the frontage road, security guards move people into wait lines.

  “There's three hours Lynch can't account for,” Whicher says. “He left one rig, showed up at another. He claims he slept in his truck—right there, at that place.”

  “I'm guessing three hours is long enough to pique your interest?”

  Whicher stares at the myriad lights of downtown. “Plenty time enough to kill a man.”

  Halfway down a line of stalls on the cinder ash row, the bottle-hoop stand is lit up, light boards flashing above the counter.

  Whicher slows. “You want to drop back some?”

  “Might just do that,” Schmidt answers under his breath.

  Emilio Zamora stands to the side of the stall. An older guy is with him—the two men talking, smoking cigarettes.

  Zamora's dressed in the same faded red T-shirt as the day before.

  “The guy at the side, there,” Whicher says. “The younger guy, wearing red.”

  “Don't know either of 'em.”

  The marshal turns side-on. “Sure on that?”

  “Yeah. I'm sure.”

  Whicher turns back to face the stall. “Alright. Well, thanks. That's all I needed.”

  “Want me to stick around?”

  “That's okay.”

  “You want my two cents, I don't think Brandon Lynch shot your man in a drug deal.”

  “You don't, huh?”

  “He's a nobody,” Schmidt says. “A user, for sure. But small-time, the same way he's a dealer. He's not connected enough with anyone to raise the stakes to that kind of a level. And those two guys on the stall are not on any DEA books.”

  “Alright.”

  “I'm not saying it's impossible,” Schmidt says. “But a drug deal gone bad—that's low percentage.” The DEA agent steps briefly into Whicher's eye line. He grins, scratches the goatee. “You got my number, if you need me, if you think of anything.” He turns slow, strolls away.

  The marshal watches him move between gaudy stalls, cutting in and out of the light.

  He takes a pace forward, moving out into the center of the row.

  Zamora sees him.

  Whicher indicates with a finger—to step away from the side of the stall. “You and me need to talk,” he calls over.

  Zamora says something to the older man.

  “You lend your car to Juanita yesterday morning?”

  Zamora throws down the cigarette, grinds it out.

  “She says you lent her your car.”

  “If you know,” Zamora says, stepping forward, “then why're you asking?”

  “An '81 Camaro,” Whicher says. “Metallic green. Did she tell you why she needed it?”

  “I'm here the whole time the fair's on, it's not like I'm going to drive it no place.”

  “Anybody else use that car? Apart from you?”

  “Look, I told her she needed to go ahead and show up at the court...”

  “Anybody here witness to you being around yesterday morning?”

  Zamora stiffens.

  “Any of the stall holders?”

  “I'm right here on the site,” Zamora says, “staying out here. I had a light-string needed fixed. I had to borrow tape, tools. Ask around, people will remember.”

  “But you did lend her your car?”

  The young man nods.

  “What happened after you lent it to her?”

  “She took off.”

  “What time?”

  “I don't know. I gave her the keys, I was on the site from around seven. She was back here by noon.”

  “She tell you where she went, what she was doing?”

  “No, man. But she worse than before, worrying, sweating on everything. She hung around in the trailer.”

  “Any witnesses to that?”

  “There'll be plenty.”

  “Alright,” the marshal says. “What do you think she figured on doing?”

  Zamora looks at him, uncertain.

  “I mean, about all of it,” the marshal says, “the whole thing, skipping court.”

  “I told her, call your lawyer, go to the police. Do something. But she wouldn't. She was talking about coming away...”

  “With you?”

  The young man nods.

  “You mean when y'all move on?”

  “I told her it's not like she'd be safe.” Zamora shakes his head. “What's going on with her now?”

  Whicher raises an arm, points to where the lights of the city show from the tallest buildings. “She's over yonder.”

  Zamora pulls at the T-shirt. “Is she going to be alright?”

  “She won't be leaving with any circus.”

  Chapter
Thirteen

  Lubbock, TX.

  * * *

  On Texas Avenue scant light shows from the windows of the federal building. Whicher sits behind the wheel of the Silverado, the truck facing down a wide, empty street.

  Along the avenue, wind is blowing hard in the live oak, the sidewalks deserted. The marshal picks his cell from out of the door pocket. Keys a number.

  There's a pause before it answers.

  He pushes back in the seat. “Leanne?”

  “You're not coming home, are you?”

  “I'm in Lubbock. I'm over at the federal building.”

  “I talked with Butch,” she says.

  “He call you?”

  “I called him.”

  At an intersection down the street, stop lights rock on a curved steel arm. “How's Lori?”

  “I just put her in bed.”

  “She alright?”

  “She's fine,” Leanne says. “Missing her father.”

  Whicher sinks an inch in the seat.

  “Butch didn't sound so good. Are you still working?”

  “I was going to file a report, check in with the Marshals office. But nobody's here.”

  High above the city, ragged cloud races in the night sky. Cars flash by at the intersection.

  “Butch is going out of his mind,” Leanne says. “I don't think he even really wanted to talk.”

  “I know.”

  “He was out somewhere, out driving—I think going over to see Dolores...”

  “I think she left him again.”

  Leanne sighs into the phone. “I didn't want to come right out and ask. You think she knows about all this?”

  “I don't know. Did Butch tell you what's going on?”

  “He said he talked with Juanita's attorney.”

  “With Lopez?”

  “He said they're moving Juanita to the county jail. I don't know if they already did it yet.”

  “She'll go in the detention center,” Whicher says. “No way she's posting bail twice.”

  “Butch doesn't think she'll be able to cope.”

  The marshal stares out the windshield at the long, dark, empty street. “I called the Motley County evidence guy. I've asked for gun shot residue samples from Juanita, and from her clothes—he said he'd go over with a bunch of dabs. Maybe it can help.”