by Doug McCall
The senior detective smiled a knowing smile. “Well, things may not be all they appear to be.”
“How so?”
“Talked to a contact I’ve got in the Contractor’s Association. Sales have pretty much dried-up all over the place, and that includes Cypress Bridge Acres. And his new deal out on I-10, the one you saw hyped on that billboard, seems to be having trouble gettin’ off the drawing board. Now, my guy ain’t privy to Kritz’s financials, but he says he can’t see how the hell the man’s gonna be able to hang-in there, unless he either sells out, or takes on investors.”
Scallion digested it all. Somehow, he couldn’t see how the business climate over the last decade would have bearing on their case. But he’d learned long ago never to rule out any possibilities. He started to speak, but Murtaugh flipped to yet another page.
“By the way, Pete, just in case anyone at Staff Finders could remember who our girls reported to at Cypress Bridge, I gave a follow-up call.”
Scallion felt a sudden pang of self doubt. It was something he’d thought about, but in his excitement of connecting the four victims, he had neglected to ask Luci Hughes that question. She had said the reports were limited back then, but he should’ve asked anyway. It was a careless oversight. “Any luck?” he asked.
“Afraid not. Those kinds of businesses must have a high turn-over rate. No one working there now was around in ninety-one. I did get the name of the office manager at the time. She’s living in Beaumont now. Tracked her down on the phone, but she didn’t have a clue. She did say if she had to make a guess, it was probably whoever was in charge at Kritz.”
“Which was probably the man himself. Looks like everything still points to Kritz, so far.”
“Everything except motive,” Murtaugh pointed out.
Scallion nodded and sighed. “That’s correct, partner.”
Murtaugh folded his file shut, then drummed on his desk with a pen. He looked at the other man. “I think we’re at the point where we have to go see my old friend Luther. Maybe we can rattle something outta him. You with me on that?”
“Absolutely. Right now, he’s where the girls all intersect—at least his development is.” Scallion was busy running something else through his brain. “Say, Denny. Do you recall how during the I-45 cases nobody shared information about what happened in their own backyard? It slowed things down for awhile, kept everyone in the dark until they started working together?”
“How could I forget?”
“Well, I don’t remember reading in the files about any other disappearances in neighboring counties that coincided with ours, but that doesn’t mean there weren’t any. Maybe nobody bothered to check.”
“Might be worth a few calls.”
“Your checking with Staff Finders gave me the idea, Denny.”
“What?” Murtaugh raised his eyebrows, wondering what he might have said.
“We’ve been going back, talking with family members, friends, anyone else who might have clues they overlooked about what happened to the women. It occurred to me we ought to check with other authorities, other jurisdictions, see what they might have missed ten years ago. Or what we might have missed. Like you did with Staff Finders.”
“Who are you thinking about?”
“Possibly Austin, Waller and Fort Bend Counties, the three that border us on the west. I know it’s a shot in the dark, so we don’t need to get too ambitious. Since some of the vehicles were recovered in those counties, those might be worth checking. I say we give it a try before we stir Kritz up, in case we do find something else to talk to him about.”
They spent time on the phone placing calls to the sheriffs of the three counties, only one of whom had been in office at the time. All three promised to check for reported disappearances on or about February 21, 1991. Within fifteen minutes, Sheriff Willie Amos of Austin County called back with a possibility, a man by the name of William Lamb, or Billy Lamb, as he was known by. Lamb was a contractor who had been reported missing by his employees and a girl friend within days of the girls’ cars being located.
Scallion and Murtaugh started preparing for the forty-five minute drive out to Bellville, the county seat, with a side visit to Cypress Bridge Acres, since it was in the neighborhood. There was little hope of uncovering ten-year old clues at the site, but the desire was to get a feel for what they were beginning to believe may have been a crime scene.
The senior Cold Case detective was pushing back from his desk when his phone lit up. He listened in silence to the caller, his only reaction being to tighten his grip on the arm of his chair until the veins in his hands surfaced, turning purple, knuckles growing white. After a few seconds, he said a meek “Okay, thanks”, and hung up. He gave his partner a sideways look, pain and embarrassment showing on his face.
“Hey, Pete. Think you can make this run by yourself? Looks like Cindy’s gotten herself in trouble again. She’s been picked up on a bust by H. P. D. out near Galena Park. That was a friend on the force giving me a heads-up. I’m gonna see if I can keep her outta lock-up. Probably shouldn’t, but I’ll never hear the end of it from her mother if I don’t.” Shaking his head sadly, he grabbed his coat. “Sorry about this, partner.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Denny. Hope things go well.” Scallion watched the man walk rapidly from their tiny capsule of an office. He genuinely felt for the man, wanting to erase his earlier critical judgments.
Sheriff Willie Amos brushed the last bit of dust off the thin file-folder containing the information about one William Lamb. He gave a doubtful look to the detective from the nearby city. “Afraid there’s not much in here,” he said.
“I understand. Anything you’ve got will be more than we have now,” Scallion replied. He sat across from the muscular black lawman, appreciating the man’s receding hairline, which matched his own. Dressed in a grey uniform, similar to those worn by many officers in smaller communities, Amos was in his late forties. His physique made him appear larger than his actual height, which was just under six feet. He wore glasses, which he removed to read the first page of the file.
“Okay, let’s see. William Lamb—no middle name—better known as Billy, born July 10, 1946. Reported missing February 25, 1991, the same day his pickup was found parked behind a bar in Sealy.”
“Any prints? Any clues at all?”
“Nope. I was a newly appointed deputy at the time. I do recall the case, although I didn’t do any of the investigating. Since we have limited capabilities, Sheriff Weems called in the Texas Rangers. They checked for prints and what-not, but came up empty.” Amos squinted at the file. “There’s a note here left by Weems, says a bar employee actually noticed the truck all weekend out behind the bar, but didn’t think anything about it. Folks have been known to leave their vehicles at that place for days at a time for various reasons.”
“I think I can understand that,” Scallion grinned. “What finally made the bar employee report it?”
“He didn’t. Says here a couple of his employees came looking for him when he didn’t show up for work the twenty-fifth, which was a Monday. They canvassed the area, spotted the truck, then came in to our office to file a report.” Amos squinted at the pages. “Goes on to say Lamb’s girl friend at the time reported him missing on the same day.”
“So his employees actually filed the report?” Scallion said, more rhetorically than anything else. “Exactly what kind of contractor was he?”
Amos read the notes. “An excavation contractor. He lived in Sealy, but worked jobs all over.”
Scallion’s interest rose. He was getting that feeling again. “Did they say where they were working the week before?”
“Right. They were over in west Harris County, not really that far from here. Place called Cypress Bridge Acres.”
Scallion’s body stiffened; he sat rigidly, as if molded into his chair. He couldn’t speak for a few seconds, as his mind tried to connect things. The sheriff picked up on the reaction.
; “You said you were investigating four girls who went missing back then. You think this ties in?”
“I think there’s an excellent chance. The last place they were known to be was the same development, most likely on that Friday. Their cars were scattered from Waller to Brookshire, left clean, just like Mr. Lamb’s truck.”
Amos’ eyes widened. “I’ll be damned! Looks like your folks and our folks should’ve been talking to each other.”
“You might say that.” Scallion decided to hold his tongue. He knew from memory as well as from reading the file that Harris County had contacted neighboring jurisdictions, as well as all state jurisdictions about the missing girls. But that wasn’t on Amos; he hadn’t been the man at the time. Instead, he had another thought. “Did anyone interview the owner of Cypress Bridge? Ask him when he saw Lamb last?”
The sheriff scanned the notes. “Yeah. Here it is. A Luther Kritz. Kritz said that he had given Lamb the pay for the week late that Friday. He gave him cash, since that’s how he wanted to be paid. Lamb was going to see his men over the weekend and settle-up with them. He went on to say that he knew Lamb liked to drink, so he hoped the men would actually get their share. But that was the last he saw of him.”
Scallion considered the story. It sounded too neat—too convenient. If you were going to paint someone as a drunk, what better proof than to park his truck at a bar. But it was a plausible explanation. Ordinarily, he might see Lamb as a candidate for the girls’ fates. But that wouldn’t explain his own vanishing act.
“And no one, not family, friends, or anybody else has seen him or heard from him?” he asked.
“Don’t think there was any family. But no.”
A few minutes later, after requesting and receiving a copy of the file, Scallion thanked the sheriff for his time and information, cranked up his Harris County vehicle, then set his sights on what was beginning to take on the appearance of a scene of past horror, possibly multiple deaths.
He again parked at the sales office near the entrance of Cypress Bridge Acres. Before exiting the car, he used his cell phone to check on Marti.
“She had another bout of nausea this morning,” Chris said. “But not as bad as yesterday. Seems to be doing fine now.”
“That’s good. I’ll be home early, soon as I finish up out here. You can take off after I get there, if you want.”
“I’ll stay the night. Get a fresh start in the morning.”
Scallion also wanted to call Murtaugh, let him know about Billy Lamb. But the poor guy probably had his hands full already. He decided it could wait.
Entering the sales office, Scallion was greeted by the same pushy saleswoman he and Marti had escaped from earlier in the week. Her eyes lingered on his face for a moment, evidently trying to place it. He didn’t give her time to figure it out, pointing at his badge.
“Detective Pete Scallion, Harris County Sheriff’s office,” he introduced himself. “Wondering if you might be able to answer a few questions, Miss...?”
“Lyons. Brenda Lyons.” She stared at the badge, then at his face. She no longer seemed interested in recalling him, since he obviously wasn’t a prospect. “Questions about what?” Her smiles turned to a suspicious frown.
“I’m looking into the disappearance of four young women who may have been employed here several years back—1991 to be exact. Anything like that ring any bells with you?”
“Why, no. But I’ve only been showing out here for nine months. I’ve never heard anything about that.” A furrowed brow showed concern.
“Were you placed by an agency?”
She appeared confused. “An agency? If you mean real estate agency, then yes. I’m an agent with Froelich and Byrnes. We have an exclusive arrangement with Kritz Properties to show lots and homes here.” Walking over to a side table in the foyer, she grabbed a business card, which she gave to the detective.
He studied the card, then asked, “How long has your agency had this arrangement with Kritz?”
“I’m really not sure. I’ve only been with Froelich and Byrnes about a year and a half. I’m sure they had it a couple of years before that.”
Scallion thought for a second he may have hit a roadblock. “Has Kritz always used realtors to sell their properties?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure about that either. You may want to talk to them about that.” She was studying his face again; a light went on. “I remember you now. You were here with a woman this week. Cute woman – beautiful hair.”
He felt a tinge of embarrassment, knowing he had been caught in what amounted to a lie. “Guilty as charged. I’ve driven by Cypress Bridge before, and was impressed by what I could see from the road. Thought I’d bring my wife by on a day off, see what she thought of it.”
The agent was quickly back in realtor mode. “Did she see anything she liked?”
“Of course. What’s not to like,” he shrugged. “A little out of our price range, I’m afraid.”
She nodded slowly, as if not fully believing his story. “Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any help.” Pausing, she gazed through a front window. “You may want to talk to Carlos—Carlos Valvez. He’s responsible for maintenance of Cypress Bridge Acres. He’s the only person I know of who’s been here from day one, so he might know something. I think I saw him out by the lake earlier.”
Thanking her for her time, Scallion headed outside, noticing once more the notice about the property owners’ meeting posted on the bulletin board. It still grabbed his attention for reasons unknown. The heat was starting to bear down, blasting him in the face as he exited the air-conditioned office. Stopping by the car long enough to remove his coat, loosen his tie and roll-up his sleeves, he crossed the street to the lake he and Marti had viewed earlier in the week. Had it only been three days ago? It seemed like weeks.
Cupping his eyes, he was able to make out a figure at the far end of the lake, standing near a small, motorized utility vehicle. The man appeared to be trimming weeds from the edge of the water. The few minutes it took to draw near the man had his shirt clinging to his skin, his thin tufts of hair over his ears soaked with sweat.
Five-plus decades in southeast Texas had done nothing to acclimate him to the drenching humidity.
Carlos Valvez was a small dark-skinned man, with a thick head of salt and pepper. He wore an olive jump suit, the pant legs tucked in to brown work boots. In contrast to the man approaching, he showed no signs of perspiration, though he’d most likely been in the sun all day. He glanced in Scallion’s direction briefly, then stared suspiciously when it was clear the man was aiming in his direction.
“Good afternoon, Sènor,” Scallion said loudly over the noise of the weed-eater. “Are you Carlos Valvez?”
The man silenced the trimmer, then straightened up. “Sì, Sènor.”
Scallion grinned, hoping to appear non-threatening. As with Arturo Juarez, experience had taught him there was usually a degree of unease on the part of certain minorities when questioned by authorities. Putting himself in their position, he understood it, and made efforts to factor it in to encounters such as this.
“Hot day,” he said, taking a minute to wipe his brow. “And it’s not near summer yet.”
Valvez managed a thin smile. “Sì. It is getting warm.” The dark eyes on his friendly face searched the other man’s.
“Carlos, my name is Pete Scallion. I’m a detective with the Harris County Sheriff’s Department.” Once again, he pointed at his badge. “I was wondering if you might be able to answer a few questions?”
Valvez’s hands immediately tightened around the trimmer. “About what, Sènor?”
“Well, actually about this place.” The detective waved a hand through the air. “I understand you’ve been here since the development was begun?”
“Si. I have worked for Sènor Kritz for twelve years. I have been responsible for upkeep at Cypress Bridge Acres.”
Scallion nodded, scanning the property. “I’d say you’ve done a good job.
Everything seems perfect.”
A glimmer of pride appeared; his grip loosened slightly. “Gracias, Sènor. I take care in my work.”
“Do you like working for Mr. Kritz? Is he a decent boss?”
“Ah, sì. He has been very good to me. He helped me become a citizen of this great country. And to bring my family from Mexico.”
“He no doubt has a great deal of faith in you too, so I’d say it’s worked out well for you both.” Enough foreplay, it was time to get down to it. “Carlos, do you recall a man by the name of Lamb, a William Lamb?”
There was a perceptible breath sucked in before answering. “Sì. I believe he was a man who dug the soil.” Valvez made a scraping motion with his hand, pointing at the lake. “He took up the earth for the lake.”
Scallion locked his eyes on the man, judging his body language and inflection.
“Yes, an excavation contractor. Were you aware he disappeared while working here?”
“Sì, I remember he left one Friday after receiving payment, only never to return.”
“So you were here when he left that day?”
The caretaker was now wringing the trimmer handle with his hands. “Oh, no, Sènor. I had left for the day. Sènor Kritz told me the man took the money to pay his workers with, and never returned.”
Scallion already had enough from his mannerisms to know the man either knew something, or suspected something. But he needed to press on. “There were also four young women, one from Panama, who had appointments to do some work out here, probably selling property. They disappeared in the same manner, most likely on the same day. Did you see them?”
Valvez’s eyes flicked out onto the lake, then back, so quickly it was barely noticeable. But the detective saw it. He almost turned around to peer into the water, but kept his eyes trained. “No, Sènor, but Sènor Kritz told me about them. He said they met with him to discuss their jobs—and you were correct, Sènor, they were to be sales people. After the meeting, they left together. Sènor Kritz told me they were going to go to a restaurant, but he did not know which one.”