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Beneath Forbidden Ground

Page 16

by Doug McCall


  Kritz eyeballed the tall, slender, auburn-haired woman standing before him in her nightgown, hands on her hips. He decided he would overlook her insolence this time, since he needed another favor. She had already helped by renting the car he had used for the night, putting it on her card. Unable to receive an explanation from him about why it was necessary for her to rent it, she had given in when he began showing signs of getting rough again, something she’d just as soon avoid. Up until now, he had been content to use her to satisfy whatever sexual urges might strike him from time to time; now her usefulness in other areas might be critical.

  Brandy would never be considered unattractive, but only in her early forties, the beautician had allowed tobacco and alcohol to sap most of her younger looks. Her skin was beginning to adopt a chalky appearance, and more and more makeup was required to cover up the damage. Several times over the past couple of years, she had questioned why she had fallen to the point where the brutish man was her only option. Then she would come to the conclusion there were very few choices for her at this stage of her life. And he was decent enough to her—most of the time.

  Kritz softened his tone, wrapping his large hands around her waste, pulling her to him. “Okay if I stay the night, babe?”

  She tilted her head back, checking out his appearance. He didn’t seem to be drunk, although he had a strange look about him. And he stank of perspiration. “Since the night’s half over, you might as well.” She tried to wriggle free, but his grip tightened.

  “And one other thing, babe,” he said, staring hard into her eyes. “As far as you’re concerned, I’ve been here all night.”

  “What...what are you talking about?”

  “Just what I said. If anyone asks, you’ll say you and I were together all night. That’s all.”

  “Why? What have you done?”

  “Nothing that you need to worry about. Just a little game I’m playing.”

  “Game? What kind of game?” First the rental, now asking her to lie. What the hell was he up to?

  “Don’t worry about it. Just do as I say. Understand?” Growing tired of her questions, he squeezed a little harder until he saw a grimace of pain. A menacing smile crept across his broad face.

  Knowing she had no choice but to agree, she nodded rapidly. “Sure, Luther. Anything you say.”

  He relaxed his grip, then patted her on her slack rear end. “That’s my girl. Everything’ll be fine. You’ll see. Now come on, let’s go to bed. I’ve had a long day.”

  Leaving her staring after him, he yawned and headed toward her bedroom. She waited a minute, then followed.

  21

  The morning haze was beginning to burn away, opening up the skies to the blistering heat. Pete Scallion applied a third coating of high SPF suntan lotion to his fair skin, removing his straw hat to apply a heavy layer to his bald scalp. Past experience taught him the ultraviolet rays could easily pierce the hat’s tiny pores. Passing the bottle to Marti, he watched as she dabbed a tiny amount to the tip of her nose and her ears. It was all she required, her olive skin seeming to thrive in the sunlight. Pete had long since ceased fretting over the inequity of it all, realizing it was one of the small prices to pay for their life together, especially sharing what they both enjoyed so much.

  The waves were calm most of the morning, but were now starting to roil with the increasing wind currents, rocking the twenty-foot Nitro fishing boat gently as it sat anchored roughly half a mile off the western shore of Galveston Bay. They had departed the small marina near their home on Clear Lake hours earlier, then navigated the connecting channel out into the bay, hoping to land a few redfish and saltwater trout. But the true purpose of the outing was to remove from their minds the looming follow-up treatments beginning in the coming mid-week.

  She felt fine, she insisted, telling Pete not to worry whenever she caught him wearing a look of concern the past few weeks. He would quickly agree, assuring her he understood that was the case, but would feel better after the first session.

  It had been hard getting things started in the morning. Another connecting flight in Dallas caused a late arrival the night before. It was after dark when he pulled into his driveway, enthused over the results of the interrogation in Oklahoma City, but exhausted, none-the-less. It wasn’t as easy to rebound as it had been in younger days. He took it as another sign that Cold Case had been the right move. Thankfully, Murtaugh had offered to deliver the cup containing possible DNA to the M.E.’s office Saturday morning, since he lived closer-in. Neither man wanted to waste any time putting Marla Evans to work. Someone was normally on duty on weekends; it would at least be logged in.

  Now, as they floated aimlessly on the bay, they ignored their fishing rods sleeved in the metal cylinders at the boat’s stern. Bites were few and far between, so there was time to talk. He had wanted to share the scene of the Oklahoma City Memorial with her, and the feelings it had generated. Afraid it might set the wrong tone, he decided against it.

  “Sounds like the Becker case is a done deal,” Marti said, aiming an approving grin.

  Seeing his reflection in her dark sunglasses, Pete flicked away sweat from his forehead. “Yeah, as long as there’s any saliva at all in the cup we confiscated. Along with the blood Marla found in the harmonica, it should be a slam dunk. Probably shouldn’t say that. Might jinx my own case.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Not based on the guy’s history of violence, plus his reaction you described to accidentally having given you his DNA. By the way, that was pretty clever, Detective.”

  “It was a gamble. But then, we didn’t have much else to try. Our hope was he’d recognize the instrument we brought in wasn’t a match for the one he discarded. He relaxed when he saw the difference—let his guard down enough to get careless.”

  “And he definitely had thrown the cup away before you grabbed it?” She knew how the laws of evidence worked enough to know the cup could not be taken from him; it had to be confiscated after he rid himself of it.

  “Right. The video will show it clearly.”

  A few minutes of silence followed, the only sounds being the slapping of the waves against the sides of the boat. Many days were spent like this—just the two of them, allowing freedom from whatever pressures and horrific scenes they faced during the week. And there was a tacit understanding Marti’s condition would not be touched on today.

  “What about the other case, with the girls, and that lake? Where does it stand?”

  “Good question. Denny and I talked about it in Oklahoma. We came to the conclusion that unless we can put our hands on Carlos Valvez, we might be stymied. Short of having the lake drained—which Otto would never agree to without more evidence—I’m not sure where we’ll turn next.”

  “No idea where Valvez might be?”

  “None. We may have to tip our hand, get his address from the Kritz people.”

  “You’re thinking harm may have come to him?”

  “It’s a strong possibility. If his boss is as dirty as I think he is, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill to cover up the other killings. Certainly hope not, though. He may be our only chance. Plus, he appeared a decent enough guy. Probably caught up in something he doesn’t know how to handle.”

  By 2:30, with the drinking water exhausted, the fish not biting, and the sun bearing down, the decision was made to pack it in. Most of an hour was needed to return to the marina and secure the boat to its moorings. Only minutes were required for the dock-side bait house crew to clean and filet the meager catch of the day. The meat was then packed in two ice chests; one for the night’s meal, one to be frozen.

  Later, after a shower and an early dinner of baked redfish and dirty rice, Pete fell into his den recliner, while Marti chose to stretch out on the sofa. As he paged through the morning’s Houston Chronicle neglected earlier in the day, she flipped on the tv, catching up on more current news.

  Oblivious to the sounds from the set, and nearly drifting off, Pete missed the story being discus
sed by a local news crew, until Marti interrupted his reading.

  “Pete, isn’t that the guy you were talking about this week? The furniture man’s son?”

  “What? Where?” He lowered the paper to his lap, listening to the reporter in the middle of his story.

  “... to repeat, he is the son of Maurice Brand, founder and president of Brand-Named Furniture. The body of the younger Brand, along with that of an un-identified woman, was discovered in his home early this afternoon. Police are currently on the scene, and are treating it as a double homicide. Efforts to reach Maurice Brand have been unsuccessful.” The report ended with the usual ... “more on this breaking story at ten o’clock.”

  Pete forgot about the paper, looking instead at his wife. “I’ll be damned. He did it. He killed him,” he said with raised eyebrows, showing certainty.

  “Who? You think Kritz killed him?”

  “Definitely. Or had him killed. I’m sure it has to do with the lake. I think the guy really spooked him at that homeowners’ meeting.” He mulled the new development for a long, silent moment, then looked at Marti with a questioning look. “Would you mind if I ...?”

  He didn’t have to finish. “By all means. Go!” She knew her husband too well. He wouldn’t be able to rest without knowing as much as he could.

  Hurriedly placing a call to the county dispatcher to see if the Sheriff’s office would be working the case, he was informed it already was.

  “Happened just outside Missouri City, and just inside our jurisdiction,” the dispatcher said. “Missouri City police have responded too.”

  Missouri City was a fairly large community straddling the line separating Harris from Fort Bend County to the southwest, in one of the prime growth areas.

  “Who’s working the case from our office?”

  “Let’s see...” There was a minute’s pause, then, “Detectives Ross and Sadler. They may be on their way out there now.”

  Surprised that both detectives had been cleared for duty so soon after the shooting incident, Scallion was pleased to learn someone familiar would be on the scene. Jotting down the address from the dispatcher, he left, not bothering to change out of the shorts and golf shirt he had donned following his shower.

  Shadows were stretching out by the time he neared the home of Kevin Brand. Drawing to within fifty yards of the walled-in, private group of residences, Scallion found it would’ve been impossible to miss the crime scene. He counted three tv station vans, complete with satellite dishes mounted on the roofs, parked on the street. Evidently, there wasn’t room inside the compound for them. He soon saw why. The entrance drive was covered -up by local cop cars, ambulances, and several vehicles easily identifiable as belonging to Harris County.

  Pulling into the open gate, he was stopped by a uniformed Missouri City cop. Presenting the badge in his wallet, he had to wait while the officer scanned him curiously, checking out the informal attire.

  “Detective, er...Scallion,” he said, looking again at the ID. “We’ve got a full house in here already. A few of your other guys are down there now.” He pointed to the house where the activity seemed to be centered.

  Peering down the drive, Scallion saw a body bag being gurneyed to an open ambulance.

  “I can see that,” he answered. “I’ve got information that may be crucial to the investigation. I need to see Detectives Ross and Sadler.”

  “Yeah, I think they’re somewhere in the house. I guess it’s okay. But you’ll have to park out on the street. There’s barely room for the ambulances to make it out.”

  Backing out, Scallion fell in behind the media vehicles, parked, then made the short walk to the beehive of activity milling around Kevin Brand’s house. A few civilians appearing to be neighbors stood in a cluster in one of the yards. Reaching the end of the driveway, he wasn’t entirely shocked to see Otto Howorth holding forth in front of a gaggle of reporters. Standing next to him was a man he recognized as the Missouri City police chief. Directly behind them stood the familiar figure of Maurice Brand, staring at the ground through dark glasses. His face was contorted with grief. The sheriff spotted the cold case detective approaching, leveling a curious look of displeasure. He mouthed a silent “what the hell are you doing here?”

  Ignoring his boss, and the crowd outside, Scallion showed his ID to another officer in front of the house, then ducked quickly under the yellow tape stretching across the front of the building. Entering the front door, he first saw Sam Ladner, intently studying a series of photographs and recording notes in a flip-pad. The black detective did a double-take when his eyes locked on the new arrival.

  “Pete? What the hell?”

  “Sam. Just couldn’t pass up a good homicide scene.” Scallion scanned the imposing great room as he made his way into the house. “Where’s Wendell?”

  Ladner gestured with his head toward the open french doors. “Out by the pool. One of the bodies was found out there.”

  Keeping his hands in his pockets, hoping to stay as innocuous as possible, Scallion moved carefully through the room. A diagram of a body’s outline was near a wall, with blood smears on the floor inside it. He nodded in that direction. “That where Brand was found?”

  “Yep,” Ladner said without looking up.

  “The news said a woman was found too. That who’s outside?”

  “Right. She was a floater. But she didn’t drown. Appeared to’ve been strangled.”

  “And Brand? He must’ve been shot, based on the blood I see?”

  “He was shot all right. But he was clubbed on the head, strangled too.” Ladner paused, perhaps thinking he may have said too much. He looked at the other detective. “Exactly why are you here, Pete?”

  Before he could answer, Scallion’s attention was drawn to the door leading outside. Wendell Ross was entering the room, taking stiff, short steps. Images of the hulking creature in the Frankenstein movies he had seen as a child came instantly to mind. It was impossible to suppress a teasing grin at the man’s obvious discomfort.

  Ross came to a stop, spotting his ex-partner. He looked confused, as if things were out of whack. It took only a second for him to regain his equilibrium. “Hi, Pete. I’m guessing the early-bird special’s done for the night?”

  Glad to see the man in his usual form, Scallion replied, “Good to see you too, Wendell. Happened to be in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by and solve your case for you.”

  Ross seemed to ignore the comment, instead eyeing the man’s outfit. “Nice of you to dress for us. Too bad you didn’t have time to slip into your p j’s.”

  Scallion and Ladner both chuckled. The man was definitely fully recovered, except for perhaps a tender back side. The laughter was doused when a second body bag was carried through the room from the patio. Everyone in the room grew quiet and stopped to look, giving a semblance of respect.

  The wounded detective then continued his duck-walk into the room, pausing to lean against the back of the sofa. A dozen years younger than his ex-partner, he stood roughly five-eleven, with sandy brown hair. A slight paunch was beginning to peek over his belt. “What’s up, Pete?”

  Scallion looked around the room, noticing people from the coroner’s office, plus a few local cops milling about. “Is there somewhere we can talk, Wendell?”

  “How ‘bout the kitchen?” It was Ladner who spoke. “It’s been cleared.”

  “Okay,” Ross agreed. “After you.”

  Scallion and Ladner took their seats at the thick, glass-top table in the dining area of the kitchen. They peered up at the third man, hovering over them.

  “Think I’ll stand,” he said, as if there was a choice to be made.

  The seated officers exchanged quick muted smiles, but said nothing.

  Scallion looked from one man to the other. “I’m pretty certain I know who your killer is. Or at least, who’s behind it. A developer—named Luther Kritz.”

  Ross reacted with his standard sarcasm. “Now, you see there, Sam. Once you start sl
owing down, easing into retirement, you get senile. Start imagining you know the answer to everything, even before you know the questions. I was afraid this would happen.” He shook his head.

  Scallion leaned in his chair, stung once more by the man’s acerbic humor. “You want to hear this, Wendell, or not?”

  Ross raised his hands in surrender. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. We’re listening.”

  “Your case overlaps with one Murtaugh and I are working on. I’m sure of it. These killings were done to cover up the disappearance of four women and an excavation contractor back in ninety-one. You two might recall the girls, all in their early twenties. Their cars were found scattered over areas west of Houston. Bodies were never found.”

  “I’ll never forget it,” Ladner said, nodding. “My partner and I worked that case real hard for a year, maybe longer. We talked to families, co-workers, friends—anyone who might point us in the right direction. But nothing. Something else I recall. The father of one of the girls almost drove us crazy. Stayed on top of us all the time.”

  “That was Stanley Crews. His daughter was Tamara Crews. Mr. Crews passed away about a year after she vanished with the others.”

  “Right. Crews. An attorney, right? He was one persistent dude. Can’t say I blame him, though. Got a daughter myself.”

  “I remember it too,” Ross said. “But that was about the time you and I matched up. I don’t think we worked it.”

  “We didn’t,” Scallion confirmed.

  “So,” Ross said, “what’s it got to do with our deal here?”

  Scallion spent a couple of minutes covering what he and Murtaugh had learned over the past two weeks, starting with the placing of the four victims together at Cypress Bridge Acres on the last afternoon they were known to be alive. The odometer check on Laura French’s car, the interview with the shaky Carlos Valvez, and the discovery of the disappearance of Billy Lamb over the same weekend were all recounted.

 

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