by Ben Rehder
“You hunt with scents?” Garza asked.
“Haven’t in years. Mostly I just grab my rifle and go. I guess if I was more of a bowhunter, I might try it more often.”
“Think it works?”
“I know old hunters who swear by it—especially the buck scents,” Marlin said. “And just think about what we saw at Harley’s place yesterday.”
“Good point,” Garza said. “Okay, so how does a piss-soaked clump of deer hair become a lure in a bottle?”
“That’s where it can become an art form,” Marlin said. “What you do is take a bunch of tarsal glands and soak them in a tincturing agent. You can use pure-grain alcohol or even cheap vodka, or probably some other things I’m not aware of. What that does is pull the smell out of the glands and create a dark-brown tea—”
“Okay,” Garza said, obviously not wanting to hear any more.
“That’s what they call it. Tea. This grosses you out, doesn’t it?”
“It really does,” Garza said.
They reached the city limits of Blanco and continued straight.
“When I was a kid, my dad took me on a charter fishing trip on the Gulf,” Marlin said. “Big boat with fifty or sixty people on it. The water was really rough, which didn’t bother me, but it bothered most of the fisherman, and pretty soon they started throwing up into five-gallon buckets. After awhile, they couldn’t even make it to the buckets and vomit was literally running back and forth on the deck of that boat. I started getting pretty queasy.”
“Now, see, being around somebody else who is vomiting doesn’t bother me a bit. Did you toss?”
“Almost, but no. I was glad when the trip was over, though.”
A few minutes later, Garza reached Ranch Road 473 and turned west toward Kendalia. The Endicotts owned two ranches, and this one—the one that they lived on—overlapped two counties, Blanco and Kendall, with the entrance being in Kendall County. That was why Marlin had had no interaction with the Endicott family to date; he’d always let the two game wardens assigned to Kendall County handle enforcement on that ranch, even before the Endicotts had bought it a few years earlier.
“I’ll lead the interview,” Garza said, “but don’t hesitate to jump in if you have any questions.”
“Will do. When did this guy Rosen first call Harley?”
“Five days after the date on the letter Harley mailed,” Garza said.
Not long after Deputy Turpin had shown them the Viagra prescription, he’d checked Harley’s phone records and found several calls from a cell phone number beginning with 310, which was one of the area codes serving Los Angeles. The number belonged to a man named Ron Rosen, who was the Endicotts’ manager.
“When was the last call?” Marlin asked.
“Two days before Harley was found,” Garza said. “It appears Rosen was the only one to make contact with Harley. No calls from any of the Endicotts.”
“Did Harley have a cell phone?” Marlin asked.
“Doesn’t look like it. We haven’t found one, and Ernie hasn’t seen any cell phone bills.”
“By the way,” Marlin said, “I talked to the warden in Webb County. She was the first on the scene where Jasper’s body was found. She said there were several bucks hanging around the area, but it didn’t sound anything like what we saw at Harley’s house. That doesn’t mean Jasper wasn’t using the scent. It could have dissipated by then, and there was a big storm the night before. Even if we can determine if he was using the scent, I’m not sure that information would even be useful.”
“No, it would be,” Garza said. “The better that scent worked, and the more people that knew about, the more likely it seems that somebody killed Harley for it.”
“In that case, if Jasper was using it when he died, it would be nice to know if that was his first time to try it.”
“And if it was, did he have a chance to tell anybody else how well it was working?” Garza added as he made a right at the entrance to the Endicott Ranch. Impressive gate. It featured a large, ornate “E” logo in the center.
Garza pulled alongside a keypad mounted on a post. A small engraved sign affixed to the post read: VISITORS PRESS 999. Garza did just that. Marlin expected a voice to emit from a speaker, asking who they were and what they wanted, but instead, after a few seconds, the gate began to swing open.
Red turned left onto the crushed-gravel driveway of a small, one-story frame house on Hackberry Street in Blanco, two blocks west of Highway 281.
Like many homes in town, this one was modest and well maintained. Unlike many homes in town, it was painted a vibrant purple, with pink shutters. There was a large metal sculpture of some sort of lizard affixed to the exterior wall on one side of the front door, and three smaller metal lizards on the other side. They looked like they were climbing up the wall.
“How do you even know this is the right woman?” Billy Don asked.
“Seriously?” Red said, killing the engine of his Ford. A small green Volkswagen Beetle was parked in front of him, at the head of the driveway. Not one of the newer Beetles, but one of the originals, from way back when. Like the home, the car appeared to be in great shape, except for a minor scrape on the passenger side.
“What?” Billy Don said.
“Harley mentioned a woman named Sparrow. How many other women named Sparrow have you ever known in your life?” Red asked.
“Ain’t known any.”
“So unless there are two women named Sparrow living in Blanco, I’m pretty sure we can use basic deductive skills to puzzle this one out.”
Coincidentally, Red had once known a woman named Sparrow, and he figured it had to be the same woman. He hadn’t heard that name, or thought of that woman, in years. Red had meant to ask Harley about her, but the conversation had gotten sidetracked on that particular day.
“Awright, awright,” Billy Don said. “Don’t be an ass. What’re you gonna say to her?”
Red wasn’t altogether certain, but he’d watched plenty of episodes of Magnum, P.I. and Columbo as a kid, and honestly, being a detective didn’t appear all that difficult. He figured you just asked questions until you learned something useful, or until someone said something they weren’t supposed to say. Then you fit all the facts together, and bang—you solved the mystery.
“Guess I’ll wing it,” Red said, making a pun, but Billy Don didn’t notice. “Sorta make it up on the fly.”
“I bet that’s Sparrow right there,” Billy Don said.
A gray-haired woman had poked her head out the front door and was staring out at Red’s truck, wondering who these unexpected visitors were.
“Here goes nothing,” Red said, opening his door.
“That sounds about right,” Billy Don said.
“You stay out of the way and let me talk,” Red said.
“Because that always works so well,” Billy Don said.
Both men stepped from the truck and started toward the house.
“Howdy,” Red called out.
“Morning,” said the woman. “How are y’all?”
She sounded cheerful enough. She had come out onto the porch, and Red saw that she was wearing a tie-dyed skirt that reached her ankles, and a simple white T-shirt with the words NOT AN INCUBATOR—whatever that meant—printed across the front. She wore no shoes, and her hair was gathered into a very long braid that came over her right shoulder and stretched down to her waistline.
This was definitely the same woman he remembered, although she had obviously aged quite a bit. Made sense, because she had to be 70 years old now, or even 75. She had some wrinkles near the corners of her eyes, and her cheeks showed just a bit of sag. But she was still slender and held herself like a much younger woman.
Red walked closer, saying, “I hate to bother you, but are you Sparrow?”
“That’s me,” she said. Now he could see those sparkling blue eyes. Still lively and playful. He remembered those eyes well. Other memories were coming back. She’d told stories about rock concerts
. Participating in peaceful protests and marches. A boyfriend who played drums for...he couldn’t remember. Some well-known band.
The men were now at the foot of the three-step porch. “Ma’am, I don’t know if you’ll remember me at all, but my name is Red O’Brien.”
Just as Red had hoped, Sparrow’s eyes widened with pleasure and surprise. “Oh, my word,” she said.
“So you do remember?” Red was grinning.
“Well, sure I do!” she said, coming down the steps. “You give me a hug right now!” And Red had no choice, as Sparrow wrapped her arms around him in a surprisingly strong embrace. Then she held him at arm’s length. “Of course, the last time I saw you, you were about three feet tall.”
“Ain’t much taller now,” Billy Don said.
“This here’s a smart-aleck friend of mine,” Red said, and Sparrow shook Billy Don’s offered hand.
“I’m Sparrow Holliday,” she said.
That’s right, Red thought. Holliday. He hadn’t been able to remember her last name.
“I’m Billy Don. How do y’all know each other?”
“Hard to believe it now, looking at this handsome full-grown man,” Sparrow said, “but a very long time ago, I used to be Red’s babysitter!”
11
Marlin had heard a year or two earlier that the Endicotts had built quite a place for themselves on the Blanco County side of the ranch, but he wasn’t quite prepared for the extent of it.
The main residence—and it appeared there were several smaller residences, based on the homes he had seen in the distance as they had driven onto the ranch—was an enormous log cabin built high on a hill. When most people hear the word “cabin,” they think rustic, but that wasn’t the case here. The two-story cabin was as well built and finished out as a fine hotel or hunting lodge, and it even included an expansive circular drive out front for visitor parking.
An attractive fiftyish woman named Caroline greeted them at the front door and ushered them into the huge central room, which was more like a hotel lobby, with a stained concrete floor, a ceiling at least forty feet high, and a massive limestone fireplace built into the southern wall. The stuffed and mounted head of a water buffalo gazed down at them.
The four members of the Endicott family, and Ron Rosen, their manager, had gathered to meet with Marlin and Garza, and after introductions and handshakes, they all sat in a cluster of oversized leather chairs arranged in a semicircle facing a soaring wall of windows. The westward view was truly breathtaking, overlooking a manmade lake that was at least a hundred acres in size.
“Can we get y’all anything to drink?” Donna Endicott asked. “Coffee? Iced tea?”
Caroline was lingering nearby. She was well-dressed in slacks and a blue blouse, but she also wore a red apron emblazoned with the same “E” logo that was built into the gate. Her short brown hair was fashionably cut. There was something about her face—maybe the cheekbones—that reminded Marlin of Nicole. Very pretty.
Both men declined Donna’s offer, and Donna said, “That’ll be all, Caroline, thank you.”
After Caroline left, Garza said, “Beautiful place you have.” Making the inevitable small talk that preceded many interviews.
“You’re so kind,” Donna said. “We just adore living out here.”
She had a gracious manner and a pronounced drawl. Donna had been the first Endicott to rise from her seat and welcome them when they had entered the room.
“Lot of deer in this area,” Marlin said.
“We don’t do much hunting here,” Sissy Endicott said. “Mama says the deer on the ranch are like pets. We’re managing the herd for now, and we might start hunting in a few years. We take a turkey now and then, but for deer, we go down to South Texas.”
“That’s where you film the show, right?” Marlin said.
“Yes, at our ranch in Webb County,” Donna said.
Where Jasper died, Marlin thought, but he didn’t bring it up.
“Incredible view from this hilltop,” Garza said.
“I can’t tell you how nice it is to look out the window and see actual hills and trees!” Donna said. “It’s such a welcome change from when I was a girl. I grew up in Monahans.”
“I guess we take it for granted sometimes,” Garza said.
Marlin remembered from the brief research he had done on the Endicott family that Donna had been born and raised in the flatlands of West Texas, not far from Midland and Odessa, where her father was an oilfield roughneck. Walter Endicott’s family had moved there from southern Louisiana when he was in junior high. He and Donna had dated throughout high school, and had gotten married just a few months after graduation, at which point Walter had worked in the oilfields himself.
But it wasn’t long before he made a name for himself as a skilled hunting guide—not just in Texas, but in New Mexico. If you wanted a shot at a trophy mule deer, elk, or pronghorn antelope, Walter Endicott was your man. He seemed to have a natural talent for leading rich clients to big game, especially deep in rugged mountain lands, where few hunters ventured. He used that reputation as a springboard to launch a small company that produced various hunting-related products. Sales grew slowly but steadily, and Walter and Donna were wealthy before they’d turned thirty.
“So...what can we do for you?” Rosen asked, getting right down to business, as a manager would. Time was money, and all that. Rosen grinned. “I have to say that your phone call was a little mysterious.”
Garza had mentioned to Marlin that he hadn’t told Rosen the reason for the forthcoming conversation. He’d only said that he needed to speak to the Endicott family about a current case. Rosen had said that as luck would have it, all of the Endicotts were in town and available to meet.
Now Garza said, “I didn’t mean to come across that way. I wanted to wait until we all had a chance to sit down together.”
So we can see your genuine reactions, Marlin thought, before you’ve had a chance to prepare for questioning.
Garza continued. “This shouldn’t take long, and then we’ll be on our way.”
“Well, whatever it is, we’re happy to help however we can,” Donna said.
Walter Endicott still hadn’t said anything. He sat with both hands cradled over the top of a walking cane. He had a nervous habit of occasionally bouncing the tip of the cane on the floor.
“I appreciate that,” Garza said. “Let’s start with this: When someone sends y’all a piece of mail, where does it go? To what address?”
The letter from Harley to the Endicotts had not listed a mailing address, and it wasn’t addressed to a specific person. All the letters to scent manufacturers had begun with a simple “Dear Sirs” salutation.
“Like, you mean fan mail?” Rosen asked. There’s an address for a fan club on the Empire website.”
“No, more like business mail,” Garza said. “If someone had a business proposition for you, where would that mail end up? Who would handle it? Could someone mail a letter to this house?” Garza said.
“Our personal mail goes to a post office box in Blanco,” Sissy said. “But very few people have that PO number. Somebody that didn’t know us personally wouldn’t know it.”
“But it would be easy enough for someone to find an official address for Endicott Empire, wouldn’t it?” Garza said.
“Keep in mind that Endicott Empire and Endicott Enterprises are two separate things,” Rosen said. “Any mail for Endicott Empire, the show, goes to the network, because they essentially own all of that. Endicott Enterprises, on the other hand, is the business Walter founded more than thirty years ago.”
“Okay, I understand,” Garza said. “Could someone dig up an address online for Endicott Enterprises?”
“Oh, sure,” Rosen said. “Not just online. It’s printed right on the package for every Endicott product. The post office box. Not the personal PO box Sissy mentioned, but a different box, for business.”
“And who receives that mail?”
“I do,”
Rosen said. “At my office in L.A. My assistant goes through it and lets me know if anything important comes in.”
That meant that if Jasper Endicott had indeed gotten a sample of Harley’s scent, he had heard about the offer through Ron Rosen, or possibly through Rosen’s assistant. Rosen had made the phone calls to Harley, but it was possible that none of the Endicotts other than Jasper had heard about the offer from Harley or knew anything about the scent.
“What is your assistant’s name?” Marlin asked Rosen.
The manager gave him a look that said he was puzzled by the questions, but was willing to play along. “Leticia Garcia. Everyone calls her Letty. May I ask what this is about? Does this have something to do with Jasper’s death?”
“Bear with me,” Garza said. “We’ll get to that shortly. The other thing I’d like to ask...Do any of you recognize the name Harley Frizzell?”
“Did you say babysitter?” Billy Don asked, already smirking.
Red had known this moment was coming. Billy Don was going to rib him about the situation.
“Yeah, Billy Don,” Red said, “she was my babysitter. I was four or five years old.”
“That’s cute,” Billy Don said.
“Billy Don never had a babysitter,” Red said to Sparrow. “They just kept him in a cage and tossed raw meat in every now and then. Look how he turned out.”
Sparrow laughed and said, “Y’all look thirsty. Why don’t you come inside? I just brought a pitcher of sun tea in off the back porch.”
Red and Billy Don followed her through the front door, and Red immediately noticed an odor he hadn’t smelled in a long time. Sweet, but harsh at the same time. Red knew exactly what it was, and he had to keep himself from laughing.
The inside of Sparrow’s house was neat and tidy, but it was also sort of funky. In one corner stood a very large metal sculpture of a pair of ravens perched on a tree. Looked like it had been created by the same artist who’d made the lizards outside—someone with a knack for blacksmithing. Someone with quite a talent.
At the center of the rear wall was a French door, which was flanked by large windows with strings of beads acting as curtains. Sort of a hippie thing going on. Plenty of natural light filled the room.