by Doug McCall
“Actually,” she said, adopting a more serious tone, “Ted Sandifer. He’s an attorney with a small firm in San Antonio. They specialize in assisting military personnel with disability claims, retirement issues, or anything related to disagreements with the government. With all of the bases in the area, he stays busy.”
“A lawyer, huh?”
“Not a defense attorney. I know how you feel about them.”
He needed no reminder of his distaste for what he saw as low-lifes, the types who would stoop to anything to manipulate evidence and testimony to put dangerous people back on the streets. He knew it was all part of the system of justice he worked for, but it still rankled him. The thought suddenly struck him that, with Lori’s looming law degree, there was a chance there might be two lawyers in the family soon.
She continued. “He’s thirty-six, grew up in Kerrville, went to Southwestern, then got his law degree at Saint Mary’s. He’s divorced too, has one son, Luke, who’s in my class—that’s how we met. And, as far as I know, unlike Bo, he has no other girl friends.”
Pete couldn’t resist a grin at that last attribute. He digested it all, not responding right away. Seeing the delay, she jumped in again. “Pete, I know y’all are concerned. I understand that, and appreciate it. Chris even brought it up. But look at you and Mom. It can work out sometimes.”
“I can’t argue with that, although you’ll have to admit, we’re one of the exceptions that prove the rule.”
She leaned in suddenly. Her eyes bored right into him. “You’re not going to have him investigated, are you?”
“Of course, not, honey.” He laughed, but none-the-less thought it might be a good idea. He remembered the other point Marti had brought up. “You doing okay? I mean, financially?”
Julie feigned an exasperated look. “As a matter of fact, I am. Bo’s finally kept to the schedule my attorney laid out, so I’m gettin’ by.” She stood to leave, stretching. Evidently, the matter was settled. Leaning to kiss his bald expanse, she said, “Love ya, Pete. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Let’s just worry about Mom for the time being, okay. Good night.”
“Okay, good night, honey.” he watched her leave, unable to keep down a certain pride in her self-confidence. He was proud of both of them—Julie and Chris. Having had nothing to do with bringing them into this world, he at least had helped shape what they had grown into, and he felt satisfaction in that as well. Rising and flipping off the lights, he went to join Marti, hoping she would be satisfied with what he had, or had not, learned.
11
Loud voices, either bragging, or complaining over misfortunes certainly no fault of their own, filled the carpeted dining room, drowning out the sounds emanating from two TV’s hanging from the ceiling at opposite corners of the room. The short-order grill and bar was the refuge of over-heated golfers finishing up their rounds at Laurelwood Country Club. Primarily a golf club, Laurelwood was nestled on the edge of an old, abandoned pecan tree orchard. Located halfway between I-10 and U.S. 290, it was ideally positioned for membership growth due to the ever-expanding population along the two corridors, especially for the upwardly mobile set.
Placing their orders for burgers or chili-dogs, along with something cold to wash them down, they joined in the ritual of talking-up their scores into something better than they actually were. They acted as if they all knew each other, whether they did or not. The club was growing so rapidly, there were always new faces to learn. The testosterone-laced conversation didn’t allow any slack for the few women who chose to brave the atmosphere. If they were offended, they simply left; very few actually complained to club management.
One face they all did know, and did their best to steer clear of, while hoping not to be too obvious about it, sat at a corner table. He sat alone, as he usually did, which seemed to be perfectly fine with him. Among the many opinions and beliefs the others had of the man was the whispered story he was three months behind on his club dues. Most wished he would do the honorable thing and drop his membership, but no one wanted to be the one to tell him to do so.
Oblivious to the glances that came his way, before quickly turning away, Luther Kritz sat with his long legs stretched under the table, an unlit cigar in his mouth, a glass of Jack Daniel’s and water and a cell phone placed in front of him. His golf cap was tilted back, showing a face redder than usual from the sting of the natural sauna produced by the blistering March sun. It looked painful. His playing partners had melted away soon after the round was complete, all offering lame excuses for not joining him for a drink. Anyone with thinner skin would’ve been insulted—but not Kritz; he preferred his own company. Being alone gave him a chance to think through his problems. And there were plenty—most having to do with money.
Luther Kritz was a big man. He moved like a big man; he sweated like a big man. Now in his early fifties, his girth was expanding in the middle, causing him to appear even larger. His attitude toward those he came in contact with was to bully his way right through them if they stood in his way, using his size and forceful personality. He took great pride in the fact that whatever he had created, he had done it on his own. Driven to succeed by a father long since departed to places unknown, who hounded him into the ground, both physically and mentally, about his perceived shortcomings, he had absorbed the forced lessons well. The mental scabs only made him stronger.
Staring intently past the other golfers, who chattered away like idiots, looking at nothing in particular, he focused on the things that bothered him, things that were gnawing away at the edges of his hard-earned empire.
From every standpoint, Cypress Bridge Acres, his initial development, had been an enormous success. Four-hundred and sixty homes had been constructed, sold, and occupied over the last ten years. Some were spec jobs, others were custom-built to match the lot owner’s desires. They were all spectacular, surrounded by lush common grounds, sodded with Bermuda grass now matured to a thick, lush carpet; carefully maintained walkways between beds of azaleas, pampas grass and other plants snaked through the homes. The money had begun rolling in after a couple of years, as families with enough for a down payment, and a desire to put distance between themselves and the city started flocking to Cypress Bridge Acres and similar neighborhoods. He had thrown most of the money back into the development, trying to entice more new home-owners.
And that was part of his problem; he had over-extended himself, not putting enough aside. Now interest rates were spiking, choking-off the hopes of buyers. Having re-financed his construction loans a year earlier while rates were still low, there remained very little equity to draw from, and banks were reluctant to go any deeper into Kritz Properties, LLC. They were getting nervous about their existing paper; new loans were out of the question.
Part of the loans already in place covered his purchase the previous year of 150 acres off I-10 near the community of Katy, the site of the future Cypress Bridge South. The land had been cleared and graded, but no other preparation work had been done; things had come to a screeching halt.
His nagging thoughts were interrupted by the chirping of his cell phone. “Kritz,” he answered.
“Mr. Kritz?” It was the gravelly tobacco-voice of Trudy, his one remaining employee, filling the role of receptionist and secretary. The others had been let go or had left, tired of dealing with his threatening moods and late paychecks.
“Yes, Trudy. What is it?”
“It’s the Katy city building inspector. He’s been calling all day, asking when you’ll meet him to go over your plans. He says the city council wants him to give a report at their next meeting.”
Another headache to add to the list. Kritz couldn’t go over plans with the inspector, since they didn’t exist. He had given the bank a preliminary site plan in order to get the loan, but there was no money to hire a professional planner. “Christ! Just tell him I’ll call him tomorrow. And if he asks any questions, tell him I’m having the plans revised.” Lies might buy a little time.
“And, one more thing, Mr. Kritz.”
“What?”
Trudy hacked out a cough before answering. “The president of the Cypress Bridge Acres homeowners association called. She wants to know if you’ll be attending their meeting next week.”
“When is it again?”
“Wednesday, a week from now, at 7:00 p. m.”
He despised those gatherings. Usually a wasted two hours of belly-aching, most aimed at him, and pointless discussion, evolving into heated arguments. But he had no choice. If he wanted to unload the few remaining lots, he had to give a show of interest and cooperation. “Yeah. Tell her I’ll be there.”
Ending the call, muting the ring-tone to avoid more annoyances, he was reaching for his drink when a form appeared at his table, hovering like a vulture.
“Hi there, Luther,” the man said, taking a seat without being asked. Kevin Brand, who would run a close second to Kritz’s unpopularity at the club, crossed his legs, leaning back in his chair. “Have a good round today?”
Kritz glared across at the uninvited guest. His dislike of the man was partly due to the fact he didn’t defer to him like most. Money had a way of giving a person confidence they wouldn’t otherwise have. In his mid-thirties, slender, with black hair gelled into place, he was the son of the owner of a furniture store chain in the Houston area, who had provided his offspring with more than he deserved. The last name had allowed his father to use the clever name of Brand-Named Furniture for his outlets, helping the chain amass a small fortune over three decades. The younger Brand was a spoiled brat, tolerated by the club because of his family name. And his dues were paid-up.
“My answer still hasn’t changed, Brand,” was the only greeting Kritz extended.
“Oh, I didn’t expect any other reply, Luther. At least, not at this point.” Brand gave a cocky smile, the smile of a man who knew he only had to wait. He turned to wave at the bartender, who knew what to prepare. “Just thought I’d have a drink with you. See how things are going.”
That was another reason Kritz hated the arrogant bastard; he knew very well how things were going. Through his father’s connections with bankers and other money-men, he was fully aware of his struggles to stay afloat. Brand had made two tenders to buy-in to his operation over the last six months, each time upping his ante. The offers were tempting—the money would solve many of his problems. But they came with stipulations Kritz couldn’t agree to, one of which would surely destroy him.
“How many times I have to tell you? I like doing my own thing. And as soon as interest rates let up, the market’ll take off. I’ll be just fine.”
The bartender placed a scotch and soda in front of Brand before he replied. He leaned on his elbows. “Who are you kidding, Luther? Even if rates go down, which I doubt, you’ll still have trouble selling your remaining lots. They’re the runts of the litter. You’ve already sold your best parcels.” He spent a second smoothing-out the sleeves of his French-blue, pinpoint cotton shirt, then took a sip of his drink. He wasn’t dressed to play golf—he rarely was, since no one wanted to play with him. He had obviously come to the club today for the sole purpose of rattling Kritz’s chain. “And your new project’s not going anywhere until you get some backing.”
“How in hell do you know that?” Kritz’s face turned purple, his eyes bulged out.
“It doesn’t matter how I know it, but it’s true.” Brand allowed himself a satisfied smile; the big man had just tipped his hand. “Listen, Luther,” Brand continued, relaxing his tone, “I’m not unreasonable—you know that. You’re the man with the experience in development. You did a heck-of-a job with Cypress Bridge Acres, and I wouldn’t want to interfere with your ideas. All I’m asking is a fifty-fifty stake, which is only fair, seeing the amount I’m willing to put in.”
Kritz didn’t answer, trying to regain some sense of composure. Taking advantage of the delay, Brand added, “I’m ready to increase my offer to three-and-a-half mil, just so you’ll know I’m serious.”
Kritz was stunned by the amount. His eyes rolled up, staring at the ceiling, trying to give the impression he was considering the offer, rather than hiding his desperation. He looked back at the other man. “And what about the other thing?”
Brand hesitated, caught short by the man’s apparent weakening. It was time to press on. “Luther, can’t you see you’re leaving too much on the table? We...or rather you, could build what, twenty, maybe thirty homes on that spot? Even more if you go zero-lot line or patio homes. They’re becoming more popular every year. I’m talkin’ between five and six million in sales. And the extra home-owner assessments would make the existing owners happy.”
“Nobody’s touching that damn lake!” Kritz reacted quickly. “It’s the focal point of the whole development. Besides, the people there now wouldn’t stand for it. They love it—their kids love it. You might as well forget that idea.” His eyes were glaring again; he fought back the same panic he had felt when the subject had first surfaced. Even if it meant losing the money Brand was willing to throw in, the lake had to be protected at all costs.
Brand was mystified. He knew Kritz to be a hard-nosed builder, letting no one stand in his way of raking-in more profit. He would certainly never be labeled as caring about what his customers wanted after they were sold. Sure, the lake may have been a selling feature to get the ball rolling ten years earlier, but now it was wasted space.
“I think you’re wrong about that, Luther. And you could always put in smaller reflecting pools in different areas, if they feel that strongly about water.”
Kritz pulled his legs in toward him, ready to stand. “I’m afraid it’s non-negotiable, Brand.” He poured the remainder of the drink down his throat, then pushed away from the table. “When you’re ready to deal on my terms, give me a call.” He stood and marched through the dining room tables, a storm washing across the landscape.
Muttering curses under his breath, Brand watched the big man lumber out of the dining room. The man was wrong, he assured himself. When things got bad enough, and it shouldn’t be long, he would come begging, and then he would be the one calling the shots.
In any event, what he had planned for the following week sould surely put the screws to one Luther Kritz, and perhaps end his stubbornness.
12
Marti was insistent on leaving the hospital following one night’s stay, in spite of her doctor’s advice she stay a second. Two nights was the usual minimum recommended—more if there were complications. She was equally insistent that her husband and children stop babying her. “You’re all making me feel like an invalid,” she complained. So early Thursday afternoon, she was wheeled out in a wheelchair to her Explorer, and almost made it home before a delayed reaction to the anesthesia forced Pete to pull into a convenience store. Helping her gingerly to the restroom, he stood guard dutifully outside while she dealt with her nausea. Chris and Julie had pulled in behind them, both ready to take her back to M. D. Anderson. Their arguments fell on deaf ears. They made it home without further incidents.
So with the dawning of Friday morning, Julie having returned to San Antonio the night before, and Chris staying to give his mother his full attention, Marti gave Pete orders to return to work, which he did reluctantly.
He arrived at the Sheriff’s Department office on Baker Street in downtown Houston at 8:45 a. m., somewhat later than usual. His habit of showing up before anyone else was forgotten for once, especially since he felt guilty about even being there. Murtaugh still hadn’t made an appearance, and didn’t until shortly after nine. The man’s work ethic still bothered Scallion, seeing it as a loss of interest in the job. True, they weren’t under the gun to solve things quickly, but they had to be solved none-the-less. He tried not to show his impatience when the older detective wandered in, tossing his perspiration-stained coat across his cubicle desk.
“Welcome back, partner,” Murtaugh said nonchalantly, casting a glance in Scallion’s direction. “How’d things go with the
wife?”
“Went okay, Denny. She’s already giving me orders again.” It also bothered Scallion that his new partner evidently didn’t know his wife’s name, or at least chose not to say it, even though it had been discussed several times. It was always “the wife”, or “the Mrs.” Murtaugh himself was divorced. He had three kids; a son and two daughters, whose names Scallion made a point to mention when the subject came up. And one of their names had come up a lot recently; the youngest daughter was waging a war with drug addiction. He tried not to let what he saw as slights get to him, but they did.
“What were you able to find out about our friend, Mr. Kritz?” he asked, anxious to focus his mind on work.
“Quite a bit, actually.” Murtaugh loosened his tie, then pulled a file from a stack of others. “He’s been a busy boy since I last locked horns with him. Other than a couple of speeding tickets and a D. U. I., there’s not anything of a criminal nature to talk about. But he’s spent a lot of time in court on civil and domestic matters. Ex-wife had a restraining order issued right before she filed for divorce—that was seven years ago. Throw in a few lawsuits from builders and sub-contractors, and it amounts to a lot of time in court, plus a piss-pot full of attorney fees.”
“Sounds like the man needs a little anger-management time.”
“Yeah. It fits the Luther Kritz I remember.” Murtaugh flipped a page in his report. “And he has managed to make a lotta money along the way; lives in a large home he was able to keep after his marriage went under; belongs to a country club out west—Laurelwood, to be exact.”
“I can believe that, judging from the houses we saw out there.” Not to mention the ones he and Marti saw. Scallion was fairly certain his partner would eventually know of his off-duty trip out, but saw no reason to bring it up now.