by Doug McCall
The line went dead. Scallion cursed the arrogant snitch, who had managed to get the last word in—as always. Without putting the phone down, he dialed Wendell Ross’s extension.
25
Scallion and Ross arrived at Sam Houston Race Park within minutes of each other. The track was located on the northwest quadrant of the massive tollway circling the city. They had decided to travel in separate vehicles, since they would both be heading home following the meeting with the snitch. It had taken some doing to talk Wendell into the meeting, getting the argument that he was overloaded with other cases needing his attention. In the end, the younger detective recalled the accuracy of the tips Max had provided his former partner over the years they were a team, including the major one from the year before, so he agreed.
Spotting Ross’ car in the parking lot as he pulled into a slot, Scallion looked toward the entrance of the grandstand, managing a glimpse of the homicide detective moving at a gingerly pace. He hurried to catch up.
“Say, Wendell,” he said, adjusting his steps to match the other man’s stiff movements, “how’s the healing coming?” He had decided to ease off on the sarcasm involving Ross’ embarrassing injury, since it was obvious they would have to work together to solve both their cases.
“Hi, Pete. The doc says it’s healing fine, but it still feels like someone’s got a huge twist-tie around my butt. So I’m gonna take it slow for awhile.” Ross grimaced as he stepped up on the curbing of the sidewalk leading to the clubhouse entrance.
“Don’t blame you. Listen, Wendell, I’m not trying to horn in on your case, but could you bring me up to date on Brand’s murder? Got anything concrete yet?”
“Only thing worthwhile so far is a faint bit of possible DNA trapped in the bathrobe of Brand. Whoever did it strangled him from behind, probably straddling him. Marla thinks it’s a few drops of sweat from the perp. She’s looking at it now.”
“If it’s there, she’ll find it. She’s done good by me lately.”
“I’ll bet she has,” Ross said, raising his eyebrows and showing a sly grin.
Scallion ignored the jab. “How about the woman?” he asked.
“Nothing. Putting her body in the pool accomplished just what the killer most likely wanted, cleaned off any possible evidence.”
“Any thoughts about it being a jealous boyfriend of hers?” Scallion was willing to play devil’s advocate for a moment, hoping to eliminate other possibilities.
“We’re looking at that, but doubt it. Our belief is the killer didn’t know she was there. She was outside skinny-dipping, then happened to walk in, catching the killer off guard. Since she saw what was going on, she had to be silenced.”
The irony of Ross’s statement struck Scallion hard. If his theory about what had happened to the missing women was correct, that meant the skinny-dipper had met the same fate — being in the wrong place at the wrong time —witnessing something that cost her her life.
Scallion eyed Ross for a second. He didn’t think he would hold out on him, but had to be sure. “Anything else? Witnesses? Any other possible suspects other than Kritz?”
Ross slowed, casting a sideways frown at his ex-partner. “You really got it bad for that guy, don’t you, Pete. Just like that asshole Corrigan last year.”
“And how did that turn out?” Ross was referring to the crooked politician they had put away together.
“Okay, so you got it right.” Ross came to a halt as they approached the ticket booths. “You mind getting this since I agreed to come meet with your guy?”
Reluctantly forking over six bucks for their entry fees, Scallion said, “Don’t forget this is your case we’re here about, Wendell.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll pay you back if this turns out to be anything.”
Entering the building a few seconds later, Ross motioned Scallion to step to the side, away from other gamblers straggling in. He leaned against a wall to relieve stress on his rear end. “Okay, here’s the deal. We did take a look at Kritz. Found out he drives a black Ford pickup, one of those extended cab deals. The only vehicle spotted that night that looked out of place was a small white car, parked near Brand’s house. The teenage daughter of one of his neighbors saw it when she came in from a date. She isn’t sure what make it was, or even if it was actually in front of his house. Could’ve been next door to him.”
Scallion thought about the car. “A rental car, maybe? A lot of ‘em fit that description.”
Ross sighed impatiently. “Already started checking on that. So far, none of the agencies have a record of a Luther Kritz renting anything through last Friday night. We’re still looking.”
“Have you talked to him yet? Checked out his alibi?”
“Based on what? The fact he didn’t want his lake messed with? I happen to think it makes sense. Water like that adds to a neighborhood. I thought you would lean in that direction too.”
“I do. But it doesn’t matter what you and I think about it. Didn’t you listen to Murtaugh the other day about Kritz’s nature. Plus, Brand told me himself the guy wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of a dollar.” Scallion stared hard at Ross for a second. “What’s the matter, Wendell? You don’t trust my instincts anymore?”
“It’s not that, Pete. I just want a little more in the way of evidence before I start puttin’ the squeeze on suspects.” Ross took a look at his watch. “We’d better go find your friend Max. It’s a little past six. You said the snack bar, right?”
“Yeah.” Scallion stared at Ross as he headed toward the rendezvous spot, frustrated by his stubbornness. He quickly followed.
The ever-present Astros baseball cap was the first sign of the man they had come to see. He sat at a small round table with a view of the large main concrete floor, which was broken into sections by banks of betting windows and beer kiosks. Cheap plastic chairs were arranged in clusters throughout, aimed at tv’s hanging from the ceiling, tuned to various tracks around the country, including several dog tracks.
The bushy head of brown hair that Scallion always assumed was a wig fell out from under the cap, while Max took furtive glances at nearby tables. Unnecessary dark sunglasses hid his eyes. A half-smile, half-smirk appeared on his thin lips when he spotted the Cold Case detective.
“Good to see you, Petey,” Max said. “And you must be Ross.” No one bothered with hand shakes; this wasn’t that kind of meeting.
“Lucky guess,” Ross said sarcastically, as he started to ease slowly into a chair at the table.
“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer you and Pete sit over there.” The shadowy little man pointed to an adjacent table.
Seeing Ross’ hesitation, Scallion spoke up. “It’s okay, Wendell. Max’s a little paranoid about being seen getting too cozy with cops.” It was how their past conversations had been carried out; sharing cryptic messages passed back and forth in dark rooms. It was overkill, but something Max insisted on. Making a show of rolling his eyes, Ross complied.
Noticing the younger detective’s labored movements, Max asked, “You okay there, Detective? I’ve seen statues more limber than that.”
Ross glared across at the comical looking snitch, while Scallion couldn’t hold in a chuckle. “Detective Ross had a line-of-duty injury recently, Max. Go easy on him.”
“Sorry about that, Ross. I didn’t know.”
Wendell didn’t respond directly to the comment, instead saying, “This better be good.”
“Don’t worry about that. I always come through, don’t I, Pete?”
Seeing the meeting getting off to a rocky start, Scallion tried to change the mood. “How’d you get started on the horses, Max?”
A grin exposing yellow teeth indicated it was a subject the man seemed to enjoy talking about. “The place I went to while I was lying low had a race track. Had nothing else to do, so I tried it out. Met a few locals who taught me how to bet, how to judge the jockeys and trainers as well as the horses. I liked it right off the bat. Then I got lucky on a coupl
e of big payoffs. You know what a pick-six is, Pete?”
“Picking the winners in six races. Right?”
“Yep. Six in a row. The odds against it are pretty big, leading to huge tickets. There’ve been some out on the West Coast and up in New York in the millions. I ain’t saying I won any that big, but I don’t have to eat hamburger for awhile.”
“So that’s why you’re willing to give us this one gratis? Goodwill, my ass.”
Max gave a sinister laugh. “You could be right, Petey.”
“Aren’t you afraid someone you’ve ratted out in the past might spot you here?”
“It’s a risk all right. But I’m willing to chance it. Guido Ventura’s the only one I’m really worried about, and I hear he’s keepin’ a low profile.”
“Can’t we get down to business?” Ross asked impatiently.
“Sure,” Max said. He looked at Scallion. “But first, I didn’t mean to be rude, Pete. How’s the wife and kids?”
The older detective cringed, giving Ross a quick glance, hoping it would indicate he didn’t want to explore the subject. Max had always delighted in letting him know he kept up with his family, a fact he found unsettling. He wanted to keep Marti’s current condition off-limits. “They’re fine, Max. Let’s get on with it.”
Taking another glimpse at his surroundings, Max leaned in slightly. “Okay, here’s the deal. There was a meeting late last week in a bar south of downtown–Spike’s is the name of it–but that’s not important. It involved one of Ventura’s former contract guys, one who had a fallin’ out with Guido. He was at the bar to meet with someone about a hit. According to my source, they talked for a while, but couldn’t agree on a price. The guy doin’ the hiring tried to drive the price down, but didn’t have any luck. Got all pissed and left. The hit man was pretty sure the other guy would call back and accept the deal, but he didn’t. Next thing he knew, he was hearin’ about the mark being taken out on the news. Figured the guy found somebody else, or did the job himself.”
Scallion and Ross were listening intently. When Max paused, the younger detective spoke. “You gonna give us names, or what?”
Max gave a satisfied grin. “Not the name of the hit man. Wouldn’t do you any good anyway. He’d never testify to anything, even if you set his hair on fire. But I can give you the mark and the man who wanted him eliminated. As I told Pete when I called him, the victim was the Brand guy, the son of the big-shot furniture dealer. And the other guy was a developer named Luther Kritz.”
Ross’ mouth hung open. “Kritz identified himself to the hit man?” he asked.
“Nah. He didn’t have to. He used a phony name, but the other guy recognized him soon as he walked in. Seen his mug on billboards around town. Trust me, it was him.”
“Did Kritz give a reason why he wanted Brand dead?” Scallion asked a question he already knew the answer to.
“Said something about the man was going to cause him trouble of some sort. That’s all he got.”
The three men fell into silence for a few seconds. Scallion looked at his old partner, hoping to see reality starting to kick in.
Ross began nodding slowly. “Okay, I’m convinced.” He looked at the snitch. “I guess it’d be a waste of time to ask if you or your source would testify?”
Max simply grinned without responding. “You did tell Detective Ross how I work didn’t ya, Pete?”
“Yeah. He knows. Just a little joke, Max. Got anything else for us?”
“Nope. That’s it for now.” He craned his neck to look at the closest bank of tv’s. “Gotta go guys. There’s a race about to go off out at Hollywood Park I’ve been waitin’ for all afternoon. Need to put a bet down.”
As the informer rose to leave, Ross raised a hand. “How do I get in touch with you if I need to?”
“You don’t. I’ll be in touch with you when I got something you might use. Next time, it’ll cost.” With that, he faded into the rest of the horse players.
Watching the man disappear, Ross turned to Scallion. “I know he’s been spot-on in the past. But where does he get his info?”
“Darned if I know, and I’m not sure I want to. I decided long ago not to try and dig too deep. Afraid I might scare him off.”
“Humpf.”
“So, you going to go after Kritz now?”
“Can’t see why not. I’ll fill Sam in tomorrow, then we’ll bring him in for questioning. Course we’ll have to bring Otto up to speed first.” Ross gave a hard look toward the Cold Case officer. “You still thinkin’ the reason Kritz didn’t want the lake bothered was to cover up him burying those bodies out there?”
“More so than ever. Taking Brand out was the surest way he saw to do it.”
Ross stuck his lower lip out and nodded, which told Scallion he was fully on board. “You and Murtaugh wanna join our little tea party again tomorrow?”
“No can do,” Scallion said. “Marti starts radiation treatments in the morning. I’ll be making myself scarce the next few days. And Denny... I think he’s about to pack it in.”
“Whatta you mean? Retire?”
“Looks that way. He’s got a few personal things he’s gotta take care of.” He left it at that, not wanting to discuss his partner’s private hell. “Anyway, will you keep me informed on your progress with Kritz?”
“Sure will, old timer. And I almost forgot about Marti. Give her my best, will you? Tell her I’ll be thinkin’ about her.”
“Will do. Come on, I’ll walk you back out to your car.”
“Nah. I’ll slow you down. You get on home and take care of your wife, who, by the way, you don’t deserve.”
“Can’t argue with you there.”
As they left the clubhouse, Scallion walked quickly to his car, leaving Ross goose-stepping behind him.
26
By 8:00 p. m. the blanket of night falling joined by overcast skies was bringing an end to any possible illumination other than that provided by an occasional streetlight. After fighting the steady stream of traffic along I-45 leading south from downtown, then the few twists and turns required to locate his neighborhood, Scallion breathed a sigh of relief upon making the final turn. Dreading the thought of what he would have to observe Marti endure the next morning, and the days following, he none-the-less welcomed the time he would be allowed to spend with her.
Within a block of his house, he spotted something that didn’t seem to fit, although why didn’t fully register at first. Then it hit him. The vehicle he saw parked on the opposite side of the street, in a spot seldom occupied before, was directly across from his home. It reminded him of something he’d heard only hours earlier. A black, extended-cab pickup. Wendell had described Kritz’s vehicle in those terms.
His cop’s antennae were instantly on alert. It wasn’t unheard of for a suspect to either attempt to intimidate an investigating officer into pulling off a case—or even worse, making sure he did. He wasn’t ready to jump to that conclusion yet, but there was no need to take chances.
Slowing his speed and dousing his headlights, he nudged the Harris County vehicle into position against the curb roughly thirty yards behind the pickup. Peering at the license tag ahead, he saw it was obscured, possibly caked with mud. Assuming the worst, Scallion took it as a sign the owner ahead was masking any chance to prove his identity. He was left to concentrate on the dark outline of the person sitting behind the wheel. It was a large person, his head turned to the side, appearing to be staring at something across the street, possibly his house.
The detective’s alarm was magnified when he saw the driver-side door open, and the figure inside the truck place a foot on the pavement. Whoever was behind the wheel was about to exit the vehicle. Scallion leaned in, squinting to make out something held waist-high by the man, something metallic, reflecting a glint of light from the nearest streetlight. There was no question it was a gun.
His mind was suddenly filled with anger and desperation. No more time for guessing. Turning his lights back on, he
accelerated toward the pickup. Screeching to a stop just behind the truck, he drew his own weapon as he jumped from his car. “Freeze! Police!” he yelled, only to see the man ahead instantly lunging to resume his position behind the wheel. Slamming the door, the driver put the truck into gear, his tires squealing loudly as he pulled rapidly away.
Scallion, halfway out of his car, using the front door as a shield, jumped back in, ready to pursue. Taking a quick glance across at his house, he hoped Marti hadn’t heard his command, or the sounds made by the vehicle ahead. Catching no glimpse of her through the front window, and seeing no lights suddenly illuminated, he focused his mind on the task at hand. Seeing the pickup turning at the crossing street ahead, he began the chase, walking the tightrope of maintaining a speed capable of not losing sight, moderated by the wish of not endangering other motorists—or himself.
Making the turn, he spotted the truck, swerving dangerously around a car pulling into the street from a driveway. He couldn’t tell from his distance, but thought the black pickup may have grazed the other car. Coming alongside the car the pickup had avoided, he saw the driver scrambling out, rushing to the front of his vehicle, checking for damage. Scallion was heartened to see a scrape across the bumper. If it was Kritz, his truck would be easy to identify now, with a corresponding mark along its passenger-side. The startled man watched in stunned silence as Scallion sped by.
The chase was taking the two vehicles through the tiny community of Nassau Bay, leading in a generally westerly direction. Scallion knew the man was searching for the nearest on-ramp onto I-45, hoping to merge with the heavy expressway traffic while heading back into the city. It was time to get help. Clicking-on to the correct frequency, he was ready to radio for help from the nearest locals, when he suddenly saw it wouldn’t be necessary; a patrol car coming out of a side street had spotted the fleeing truck, and was now in pursuit. The bright blue pulsating lights of the new-comer made Scallion’s job easier, keeping them in sight while the patrol car advanced on the suspect. He knew whoever was in the cop car ahead would be radioing for assistance, so the odds were in favor of a quick apprehension. He anticipated with satisfaction a late night grilling of Luther Kritz, questioning why he happened to be parked at his home, weapon in tow.