Death, Taxes, and Silver Spurs

by Diane Kelly

  Sheesh. “Is that what it’s like after you’ve been married a few years? The romance dies?” I hoped that would never happen with me and Nick.

  Eddie shrugged. “Yeah. Some. But the nice thing is you get to take each other for granted.”

  I snorted. “That’s a good thing?”

  “Sure,” he said. “It’s a lot less work. Cheaper, too.”

  Eddie and his wife were as crazy about each other as Nick and I were. Though I hoped my relationship with Nick would always be romantic, Eddie had a point. Knowing someone would always be there, having that assurance, was worth much more than any material gift. Still, my scope was pretty darn awesome.

  “Besides,” Eddie added, “it’s not like the romance is totally gone. I took her out for pizza last month and we made love afterward.”

  “For one, that’s too much information,” I replied. “For two, you haven’t had sex since last month?”

  “You try getting it on when one kid or another climbs into your bed every night. There are limited windows of opportunity.”

  I made a mental note not to have children until I was ready to give up sex. Then I realized my mental note made no sense because I wouldn’t be able to have children if I gave up sex.

  I snatched the scope back out of Eddie’s hands. “Gimme.”

  Right at seven, Burkett exited the building, a glowing green apparition. “Jeez. The guy looks like an alien.”

  I handed Eddie the scope so he could take a look. “You got that right.” He handed it back to me.

  I put the scope back to my eye. “Wait. Is that a drill bit in his hand or an anal probe?”

  As we watched, Burkett climbed into his car and headed our way.

  Eddie and I scurried back to our car. Burkett drove past, making a stop at the historical marker again. As he’d done the week before, he dropped the cash envelope, flashed his lights three times, then made a U-turn. A moment later, a car came up the road from the other direction. The night-vision scope made the headlights unbearably bright and I had to remove the lens and blink several times to clear the spots from my vision. I exchanged the scope for my field glasses and watched as the car stopped at the marker. Sure enough, it was the same Toyota Corolla from the week before.

  Once the driver of the Corolla had picked up the envelope, circled around on the highway, and driven back in the direction from which he had come, Eddie and I pulled out of the feed lot and followed the car. We were the only vehicles on the road.

  “It’s a little hard to be inconspicuous out here in the middle of nowhere,” Eddie said.

  “We might’ve been better off borrowing Nick’s pickup,” I said. “That would’ve fit in better out here than this Taurus.”

  Fortunately, once the Corolla pulled onto Interstate 20, traffic was heavier and we could blend in easier. The Corolla headed east, merging onto I-30 in Fort Worth, then exiting to drive north on 360.

  “Where’s he taking us?” Eddie asked.

  “Apparently it’s not Six Flags,” I noted as we passed the amusement park, the bright lights from the roller coasters lighting up the sky.

  Our question was answered five minutes later when the driver took the exit for the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport.

  “What should we do?” I asked Eddie. “Stop him before he goes through security and question him?”

  Timing was critical in an investigation. If an agent waited too long to make a move, a target might escape. But moving too fast too soon could put a target on notice that he or she was being watched. The evidence could disappear and the case could fall apart. Knowing exactly when to swoop in for the kill was an acquired skill, and one that could never be completely honed. After all, each investigation and each suspect was different and unique.

  Eddie shrugged, noncommittal. “We’ll just have to play it by ear.”

  The man pulled into long-term parking and circled up three flights, bypassing several empty slots.

  “Why hasn’t he pulled into one of the available spots?” I asked. “You think he’s on to us?” What if he led us up to the roof, blocked us in, then pulled out an AK-47? That would really suck.

  Before Eddie could reply, bright red brake lights illuminated ahead and the Corolla pulled into an empty parking spot. Eddie quickly pulled into an empty space on our right and cut the engine.

  The car next to us had tinted windows, impeding our view of the Corolla and its driver. I unfastened my seat belt, swiveled to a kneel on the front seat, and wiggled over into the back so I could keep an eye on things through the back window. As I watched, a Caucasian man exited the car. He was dressed in jeans, a loose-fitting dark sweatshirt, and a knit winter cap. The green cap covered his hair, so I couldn’t tell what color it was. The cap only partially covered his ears, though. Heck, it would take two caps to cover those enormous ears. His nose was definitely long and skinny and trunklike. Despite the fact that it was nighttime he wore dark sunglasses.

  “Michelson’s son was right,” I told Eddie. “This guy looks like an elephant.”

  The man slung a backpack over his shoulder and, to my surprise, headed neither for the elevator nor the sky bridge that led to the airport terminal. Rather, he began walking up the ramp.

  “He’s walking up to the next level,” I told Eddie.

  “I’ll follow him on foot,” Eddie said. “Get behind the wheel. Have your phone ready in case I need to contact you.”

  Eddie exited the car, slid into his suit jacket, and retrieved his briefcase from the trunk. He pulled his cell phone from his breast pocket and held it in front of him, pretending to be viewing the screen as he began his ascent up the row. His dress and behavior made him look like any other business traveler. Of course if anyone gave it much thought, the person might wonder why a businessman who’d only taken a day trip would have parked in long-term rather than short-term parking, but hopefully elephant man wasn’t a deep thinker.

  A minute later Eddie sent a text to my phone. Dumbo got in a silver Mer. He also sent me the license plate number.

  I jumped onto my tablet and quickly ran the plate. According to the DMV, the Mercedes belonged to a Russell Cobb who lived on Amherst Avenue in Dallas.

  Amherst Avenue. Hmmm … Where was that? The name didn’t sound familiar, though it did sound hoity-toity.

  I was just about to plug the address into my GPS when movement in the rearview mirror caught my eye. The Mercedes passed behind me. I craned my neck to see the car turn the corner to go down to the next level. Better follow the guy in case this car was untraceable, too.

  I cranked the engine and zipped back out of my parking place.

  A simultaneous screech and honk filled the quiet space, echoing off the concrete walls and ceiling. An enormous SUV rocked back on its axles, its front bumper mere millimeters from the back fender of the G-ride. Oops. Guess I should’ve looked before I leaped.

  With a conciliatory wave, I threw the car into drive and pulled forward, only to yank the gearshift into reverse and back out again a second later. Honk! A second car that had been obscured by the SUV had driven up now. Jesus Christ, didn’t they know I had a criminal to pursue? Ugh!

  Unlike the enormous SUV, this car was a little commuter car, one my G-ride could easily best if the two went head-to-head. Or should I say headlight-to-headlight? Rather than pull back into my space, I forced the driver to wait and continued backing out. Eddie ran up and jumped into the passenger seat. As I drove past the waiting vehicle the driver mouthed a word at me. From the way his lips first spread, then pursed, I surmised the word was asshole.

  I took the curves and straightaways at breakneck speed in pursuit of the Mercedes, slowing only when a family in a minivan pulled out in front of me and took their time circling down the ramps.

  “Come on, Daddy!” I cried. “Move it!” I tried to pass him but was blocked by a car coming up the ramp from the other direction. “Dammit!”

  Unfortunately, we arrived at the exit line just in time to see Cobb drive out of the
garage. Even more unfortunately, there were three cars ahead of us in line to pay their parking fee. The attendant, a gray-haired man with oversized glasses, seemed to be in no hurry, counting out the change first to himself, then to the driver. He pushed his glasses backward on his nose before taking the bill extended by the driver of the next car.

  I turned my face to the ceiling of the car and screamed at the gods of fate. “Ugggggh!”

  “That goes double for me.” Eddie put his palms on the dash, pushing against it as if the motion could somehow force the cars ahead of us to move forward.

  I handed Eddie my tablet, which still displayed Cobb’s address. “Figure out where his house is.”

  Eddie tapped the screen. “I’m on it.” A moment later he looked over at me. “It’s in University Park.”

  By the time we exited the garage, the Mercedes had a two-minute lead on us. What’s more, we didn’t know whether the driver had headed for the airport’s north exit or south exit. If Cobb were heading home, he’d take the north exit. But if he were going somewhere else first, maybe dropping the cash somewhere or passing it off to someone, it was possible he could be headed to the south exit.

  Eddie pulled a quarter from the cup holder. “Heads we go south, tails we go north.” He flipped the coin. “Tails.”

  I floored the car and headed to the north exit. Still no sign of the Mercedes. We made it all the way out of the airport property and onto the freeway, using GPS to direct us to Cobb’s residence. It took us on 635 to the Dallas North Tollway, then directed us to head south to the exclusive University Park neighborhood. No sign of Cobb’s car anywhere along the route.

  In minutes we were on Amherst Avenue. We pulled to a stop across the street from Cobb’s house. The residence was traditional, part red brick, part whitewashed wood with black shutters. The house featured several gables, dormer windows, and a brick walkway. There was no garage door on the front of the house.

  “Looks like these houses have rear-entry garages,” Eddie said. “Go down the alley.”

  I drove to the end of the block, took a right onto the side street, then another right into the alley. Cobb’s house was the third one from the corner. The garage door was shut. Unfortunately, the garage had no windows, so there was no way to tell if Cobb’s Mercedes was already inside or not.

  We parked on the street at the end of the alley, keeping an eye on things for the next hour. A car exited from the garage of the house next door to Cobb, but that was it.

  While we sat, we used our phones and tablets to look up information on Cobb. According to our search, Russell Cobb was a named partner in Cushings, Cobb, & Beadle, a downtown public relations firm. Their Web site listed a number of high-profile and influential clients, including a former U.S. senator, several players for the Dallas Cowboys, a member of the city council, and a local writer who penned western sagas. A Web search indicated the firm had also been involved in repairing the reputations of a real estate mogul swept up in a cocaine bust and a local athlete who’d suffered fallout after assaulting his girlfriend.

  Why would a PR man be surreptitiously accepting cash from Palo Pinto Energy under the table? If PPE was trying to mitigate the negative publicity resulting from the lawsuit, it could just hire the firm outright, no need for secrecy. Clearly a piece of the puzzle was missing.

  We finally decided to call it a night. Even if we saw Cobb pull into his garage, we were unlikely to glean any pertinent information from that fact. After all, there’d be no way to tell where he’d come from. Besides, for all we knew his car was already in the garage, locked up tight. What’s more, it was Friday night. Who wanted to be sitting in a cold car staring down an empty alley when we could be at home with our significant others watching TV and taking each other for granted? Besides, there was always next week. We’d make sure he didn’t get away then.

  chapter twenty-one

  The Terminator

  When I arrived home Friday night after following Russell Cobb, I gave my cats some kibble and attention, started a load of laundry, and walked down to Nick’s place. Nick and I stayed up late watching movies on Netflix. We each picked one. I chose a romantic comedy, of course. Nick chose a blood-and-guts high-action thriller. We watched his first. I didn’t need to go to sleep with visions of bloody knives in my head.

  After the movies, Nick carried Nutty upstairs, though tonight he laid him on his doggie bed on the floor rather than on the bed. I took this as a sign that Nick wanted to be intimate, and I was glad about that. It wasn’t the physical aspects of sex I’d missed, it was feeling close to Nick. Our relationship had experienced so many ups and downs lately it was as if we were on an emotional trampoline. I was ready to perform one final flip, make a soft landing on my ass, and climb off the ride.

  Nick and I were fully engaged when Nutty let out a soft whine. Nick turned his head and stopped moving. “You okay, boy?”

  “It’s gotta be his arthritis,” I said.

  Nick dismounted. “I need to get him another pill.” He climbed out of bed and left the room, fully erect and bare-assed, going down to the kitchen to fetch Nutty’s Rimadyl.

  I sat up and looked over at the dog. “Daddy’s getting your medicine, sweetie.”

  Nutty didn’t lift his head, but he did raise his tail in a single wag.

  Nick returned with the pill. He’d wrapped the medication in a slice of cheese to entice Nutty to take it. Still lying on his side, Nutty sniffed the cheese but didn’t attempt to take it from Nick.

  “Come on, boy,” Nick coaxed, kneeling down next to his dog. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  Nutty closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. My heart contracted into a tight ball. I wasn’t sure whom I felt worse for, Nutty with his joint pain or Nick with his breaking heart. I joined the two of them on the floor, putting one hand on Nick’s shoulder, the other on Nutty’s flank.

  Nick scratched his dog under the chin. “Please, Nutty? For me?”

  At the desperate sound in Nick’s voice, Nutty opened his eyes and extended his snout, taking the cheese and pill from Nick.

  “Good boy.” Nick gave the dog another scratch and kissed him on the forehead before turning back to me. By now, his arousal was gone.

  I stood, retrieved my nightshirt, and began to slip it on.

  Nick reached out a hand to stop me. He cleared his throat as if to clear it of the emotions choking him up. “I need some lovin’ even more now.”

  I understood. Nick was upset and frustrated that he couldn’t do more for his beloved pet. He needed a release. I gestured at his crotch. “Looks like we’re back to square one.”

  Nick glanced down, then looked back up at me with a roguish grin. “Say those dirty things you said the other night and I’ll be ready to go in five seconds flat.”

  “Good boy!”

  * * *

  We slept in late the next morning. While Nick whipped up some pancakes for breakfast, I phoned Katie Dunne.

  “Does the name Russell Cobb mean anything to you?” I asked. “Or maybe the name Cushings, Cobb, and Beadle?”

  “Is that a law firm?” she asked.

  “No,” I replied. “They do public relations.”

  She was quiet for a moment, apparently thinking. “It rings a bell, but … I can’t quite place it.”

  “Keep mulling it over,” I said. “If something comes to you give me a call.”

  After our late breakfast, Nick and I cleaned up and drove over to visit his mother, Bonnie, taking Nutty with us.

  As we climbed out of Nick’s truck, I reached down to grab the copy of the Dallas Morning News from the driveway. Nick’s mother was traditional, still preferring her news in print form rather than reading it on the Internet. My parents were the same way. My mother liked to curl up in an easy chair with a cup of coffee and the newspaper, and leisurely peruse the news from our hometown and the world. My father would take the sports page and his coffee at the kitchen table.

  Bonnie met us at her f
ront door. She was tall, like her son, with the same dark brown hair, though hers had a hint of silver here and there. Unlike Nick’s whiskey-brown eyes, Bonnie’s were blue. She was a pleasant woman, down-to-earth and friendly. She doted on her son, but she didn’t let him get away with much, either. She lived alone. Nick’s father had passed away years ago, leaving her a widow.

  Bonnie eyed Nutty as Nick led him in. The dog tripped over the small threshold, landing spread-eagled in her front hallway.

  Nick was on him in an instant, lifting the big dog into his arms as if he weighed no more than a puppy. Nick cocked his head so he could look Nutty in the eye. “You okay, buddy?”

  Bonnie gave her son a stern but empathetic look. “Nick, you’re going to have to do something about that poor dog.”

  “Not yet,” was all Nick said in reply. He carried Nutty into the living room and laid him down on the braided rug in front of the fire.

  Bonnie’s eyes met mine and she shook her head. “Losing that dog is going to break that boy’s heart,” she whispered.

  Nick was hardly a boy, but there was no doubt the rest of what she said was true. Since Nick had returned home from a forced exile in Mexico last year, he and Nutty had been constant companions. They watched the Cowboys games together, sharing a bucket of wings. When Nutty’s arthritis wasn’t acting up, the two would take walks around the neighborhood together. Nick even took Nutty out with him on his bass boat. I knew I was special to Nick, but Nutty filled a space in Nick’s heart that only a furry, four-footed creature could fill. I feared that space would soon be empty.

  I handed Bonnie the newspaper and she tucked it under her arm. “Come see what’s growing.” She gestured for me to follow her into the backyard.

  Bonnie and I shared a love of gardening, an interest I had little time for these days, unfortunately. Between work and helping Alicia prepare for her upcoming wedding, I had little time to walk the aisles at the nursery or dig in the dirt. I missed it. Gardening had always relaxed me. Something about working the soil just brought things into perspective somehow. Maybe once I got the cases against PPE and Brazos Rivers resolved, I’d take a day or two off and work on the flower beds in my yard, maybe buy a new hanging basket for the shepherd’s hook near my front porch.