Stag Party (Blanco County Mysteries Book 8)

by Ben Rehder

  Marlin knew that the sheriff already had the answers to those questions.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Rosen said. “He generally keeps to himself, like I said.”

  “So how would he have known anything about Harley or the deer scent?”

  “That, I don’t know for sure,” Rosen said. “But it’s not like we meet behind closed doors. He could’ve been hanging around somewhere, eavesdropping. Or Jasper might’ve told him.”

  “Jasper and Aaron got along?”

  “Well, they were brothers. It’s not like the rest of the family keeps secrets from Aaron, and they don’t treat him like a leper. So, yeah, Jasper might’ve said something to him about it. And then maybe Aaron went to talk to Harley himself. Maybe he wanted to be the hero and bring home this new product, I don’t know. There’s really never even any point in trying to figure out what Aaron is thinking. Even when he’s not violent, his thought processes are just plain bizarre.”

  “Did you see that truck at any time after you left Harley’s house, on your way back to the ranch?” Marlin said.

  “No, but I noticed it wasn’t parked in front of Aaron’s cabin when we got back.”

  “Did the truck follow you all the way to Harley’s house?” Tatum asked.

  “Wish I could tell you. I noticed that it seemed weird that he was taking all the same turns I was taking, but then I got distracted by a phone call. When we got to Harley’s, I hung up, and by then the truck was gone. I hadn’t noticed when it had last been behind me. Didn’t seem important at the time.”

  “When did you first notice the truck? Where were you?” Garza asked.

  “On 473, not far from the ranch.”

  “And when you went north on 281...”

  “So did the truck, all the way to Johnson City, and then he turned left on 290, just like we did.”

  “Did he turn right on Towhead Valley Road?”

  “Yep, and that’s when it really started to seem like more than a coincidence, because that little road leads to the boonies.”

  “Did he turn with you on Klett Ranch Road?” Garza asked.

  “Sorry, but I don’t know for sure. I got the phone call, was distracted for no more than a minute or two, and when I looked again, the truck wasn’t back there anymore.”

  “Did you ever mention the truck to Jasper?” Marlin asked.

  “Yeah, he looked back, and he didn’t know if it was Aaron or not. Neither of us was real concerned about it at the time. Aaron does weird things. The idea that he might follow us somewhere wasn’t particularly unusual.”

  The room was silent for a moment. Rosen was waiting patiently for additional questions.

  “Are there surveillance cameras at the Endicotts’ ranch gate?” Tatum asked. “Or anywhere along the driveway? It would be helpful to see if Aaron left right after you did.”

  “Good idea,” Rosen said, “and yes, there are cameras, but the video records over itself after 72 hours. Sorry about that.”

  “Let me ask you a blunt question,” Garza said. “In your opinion, is Aaron Endicott dangerous?”

  Rosen actually laughed. “Well, sure. He’s proven that in the past, as you must know.”

  “Think he’d harm an old man?” Marlin asked.

  “Now you’re asking me to think like Aaron, and I just don’t think I can. I guess there’s no real way of knowing what he might do to anybody.”

  “Okay, we do appreciate you coming in,” Garza said. “Anything else you want to tell us?”

  “No, that’s pretty much it. All I’m saying is, I think I saw Aaron following us, and that concerns me, considering what happened. I don’t know if Aaron did anything or not, but I decided I should tell you about it, even though this kind of thing could obviously turn into a public relations nightmare for the Endicotts. I’m trying to do the right thing, but I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anybody I was here.”

  28

  Colby refused to slow down or move to the right. The Ford had two tires off the left side of the road, slinging gravel as he muscled his way alongside the bed of the Chevy.

  But they were closing in on a cattle guard, with a fence on either side of it. The Ford would have to hurry—or risk plowing into the fence. It was a game of chicken, but with both vehicles moving in the same direction.

  Colby took a quick glance to his left. Still couldn’t see the driver of the Ford, because the windows were tinted too darkly.

  The cattle guard was less than 50 yards away.

  Colby couldn’t resist. He gave the Chevy some gas. But the Ford goosed it even harder and was now even with the Chevy, so close that Colby could have reached out the window and touched it with his fingertips.

  Colby laid on the horn.

  Thirty yards to go.

  The Ford was not giving in.

  Twenty yards.

  Ten.

  Colby couldn’t do it. He stepped hard on his brakes and—

  BAM!

  What the hell?

  The Ford powered in front of him and roared over the cattle guard.

  Was that a shot he heard?

  Colby stayed on the brakes as he bounced over the cattle guard and came to a stop in the road.

  That sounded like a goddamn shot. Handgun. Maybe a .38.

  But there had been a lot of noise from both engines and Colby’s open window. Had the driver of the Ford lowered his window and taken a shot? Colby couldn’t be sure. Not even close.

  He opened his door and stepped from the truck. He was shook up, no doubt about it. Breathing too fast. Sweating.

  Had to have been Aaron Endicott. Who else would it have been? But Colby couldn’t be sure of that, either. There was nothing special about the black Ford. No bumper stickers or identifying characteristics that Colby had noticed. Everything had happened too fast for Colby to check the Ford’s license plate number. At this point, he might never be able to identify the driver. Chasing the Ford would have been futile. Colby wouldn’t have been able to keep up while towing a trailer.

  Colby began to inspect the driver’s side of his truck, looking for the telltale sign of a small, round hole. He started at the front bumper and worked his way to the tailgate. Nothing. The bullet could have missed entirely, or the guy might not have shot at all.

  Colby looked in the truck bed and remembered that there was a posthole digger back there. He’d had to do some minor repairs to a fence the day before. He grabbed the posthole digger and slid it with force from the rear of the bed to the front, so it slammed against the back of the cab—just as it would have when he’d stomped the brakes a few minutes earlier.

  It made a loud noise. Was that what he’d heard? Didn’t quite sound right, but it might have sounded different inside the cab.

  He got back into his truck, dropped it into gear, and proceeded down the road. When he reached 30 miles per hour, he stomped the brakes hard, and the posthole digger slammed loudly against the cab wall behind him.

  Was that it? Did it sound like a gunshot?

  Maybe.

  “Would it really be a PR nightmare?” Garza asked just seconds after Ron Rosen had left. “Or would this be exactly the kind of thing that would make a reality show’s ratings skyrocket?”

  “You know, I was wondering the same thing when he said that,” Tatum said. “From what I’ve seen—which admittedly isn’t much—those kinds of reality shows thrive on scandal. The more drama, the better. You hear about all that crap even if you don’t watch the shows. They’ll mention the latest gossip on the news, of all places. So and so is cheating on his wife, or somebody got into a slap fight at a nightclub. Nonsense like that.”

  Garza was nodding. “Yeah, I think they could turn this whole thing—our investigation into Aaron—into a storyline for the show. He’s the black sheep brother with a past so sordid he couldn’t even be included in the show, and now he’s suspected in a murder.”

  “You two are a couple of cynics,” Marlin said, “and I agree with you both completely. I
think Rosen could be baiting us.”

  Tatum said, “Okay, but the question is, do you think he did actually see Aaron following him, and he’s willing to use that for publicity, even if Aaron gets implicated in a murder...or is he making it up? Sending us on a goose chase and hoping the controversy will be good for ratings?”

  “Good question,” Marlin said. “He was vague enough with the details that it would be hard to prove he was lying. If we learn Aaron never went anywhere that day, or if he was down in South Texas or something like that, Rosen can say, ‘Well, like I said, I wasn’t sure it was him. I guess it was somebody else who drives a similar truck.’ He has an out, no matter what happens.”

  “So how do we respond to what he told us?” Tatum said. “Accept what he said at face value, or assume he made it up?”

  Tatum and Marlin both looked to Garza for an answer. “Hell if I know,” the sheriff said. “Even if we assume Rosen is telling the truth and Aaron was following him that day, that’s not what I would call damning evidence. And as long as the Endicotts keep stonewalling us, it’s going to be tough to make any headway.”

  Marlin knew from firsthand experience that Garza was right. The majority of cases were solved by repeated, aggressive interrogation of the suspect or suspects. You badgered them until their story began to change. Get them to admit one small incriminating fact and pick away at it until you learn more facts.

  For instance, a suspected poacher might initially say he was nowhere near the scene of a crime. Then, under pressure, he might admit that, yeah, he was in that area, but he definitely didn’t shoot a buck on the side of the road. Really? Then why was there blood in the bed of his truck? Oh, that’s just hog blood from a week or two ago.

  Then you really hammer at him. Say you’re going to test the blood—find out what species it’s from. And if the suspect is lying, he’ll be facing even more charges. Tell him he’s turning a simple poaching violation into a legal debacle that could affect him for years to come. Just be honest with me, you say. It’ll turn out better for you in the long run. And that approach routinely worked. The poacher would finally give up and tell the truth.

  But when a suspect refused to answer questions from the very beginning, the job became a lot tougher. In general, the more serious the infraction, the more likely the suspect would avoid questioning. They’d get scared. Dodge phone calls. Maybe even leave town for awhile. Or hire a lawyer.

  “For now,” Garza said, “I’m going to keep pressing this lawyer, Ted. I’ll tell him an anonymous witness spotted Aaron not far from Harley Frizzell’s place a few days before the murder, and it would really be best for Aaron—and all of the Endicotts—if we could clear this up. If we can sit down for one good Q and A with Aaron, I’m guessing we could rule him in or out.”

  “Of course,” Tatum said, “if Rosen is making his story up, he might’ve told Ted exactly what he was planning to do. Gave him a heads-up, so Ted wouldn’t freak out.”

  “True, but that’s okay,” Garza said. “If Rosen’s story is bogus and Ted knows all about it, then it doesn’t matter if I call him or not. We have nothing to lose. On the other hand, if Rosen is telling the truth, this might be just the thing we need to get Ted to realize he’d better start dealing with this situation.”

  Billy Don had eaten two fried pies, a large can of mixed nuts, and half a dozen Slim Jims, confirming Red’s suspicion that he had gotten stoned earlier, and now the big man was snoring softly on the passenger side of Red’s truck.

  Red was passing the time by daydreaming. The topic of his daydreaming was, as usual, fantastic wealth. Fame would be nice, too, but when it came down to it, money was more important.

  He felt deep in his soul that he deserved all kinds of expensive possessions. A huge ranch with a river running through it. A fancy house with a swimming pool, a shooting range, and some horses. A brand-new truck, plus a sports car, just to shake things up. Plenty of walking-around money to spend on dates with hot ladies at the finest restaurants. Not younger girls, who wouldn’t fully appreciate what he had to offer, but older, more sophisticated women with a little mileage on them. In his experience, as limited as it might be, those were the types who would appreciate a man for what he was, imperfections and all, rather than what they thought he should be.

  Fun to let his mind wander—except for the fact that he eventually had to return to reality. Well, screw it. He wasn’t a complainer. He had always believed that if you wanted things to change in your life, you had to make things change. And that’s what he was trying to do. Not just right now, but all the time. Billy Don could make fun of Red’s ideas all he wanted, but one of these days, Red was going to hit on something big. Just wait and see.

  He cranked his window all the way down, because it was warm and muggy out, even for October. He finished the last few drinks of his Keystone beer, then popped another one. The radio was playing quietly, tuned to KDRP out of Dripping Springs. All in all, being on a stakeout wasn’t so bad. The hiding spot they’d found earlier had turned out perfect.

  They had cut the lock on the chain strung between the two posts, pulled Red’s truck onto the property, then put the chain back in place, hanging loosely. They’d found that the dirt driveway proceeded straight for about fifty yards, then bent left and ran parallel to the county road. Perfect.

  Now they were parked underneath the drooping canopy of an enormous live oak tree, about sixty yards from the road. Some of the oak limbs hung so low they nearly touched the ground, and as a result, the truck was neatly concealed in a dark, cave-like space under the tree. They were practically invisible. If Red’s truck were brand new and shiny, this spot wouldn’t work very well. But since his paint job was dull and faded from decades of oxidation, the truck blended right in.

  From this little hidey-hole, Red could see all the way to the Endicotts’ front gate. Not that there was much to see. Only one vehicle had passed through the gate—a black Ford F350, which had arrived at the ranch a couple of hours earlier. Red couldn’t see who was inside it. If it had been leaving, Red would’ve followed it, because that was the whole point of being here. He couldn’t blame the Endicotts for staying put. If Red owned a ranch like theirs, he wouldn’t leave very often either.

  Oh, wait a second. What if they had an airstrip? Or a helipad? Maybe they didn’t drive much. Maybe they took a helicopter everywhere they went. Now that would be cool. Say you have to run to the hardware store for some three-inch deck screws. You set down in the parking lot, just as pretty as you please, and strut inside like you own the place. Red could picture himself doing something like that. People staring and pointing. Who’s that big shot?

  He had really been hoping this deer scent business was going to be his ticket to a better life. Instead, all it had done was cause trouble and make him a suspect in a major crime. But if he could just—

  His thoughts were interrupted by something he heard on the radio. The announcer on KDRP had mentioned Harley’s name. Red turned it up.

  ... a reward in the amount of $3,000 for information leading to an arrest and conviction in this case. Callers may remain anonymous. Anyone with information is asked to call the Blanco County Sheriff’s Department.

  The announcer gave a phone number, but Red already knew it by heart, because of his extensive dealings with the sheriff’s department over the years.

  Three grand? Hell, that wasn’t bad. He was already trying to find the killer, so three thousand bucks would be gravy.

  He looked over at Billy Don, who had pie crumbs on his chin. What a slob. Sleeping on the job. Red decided Billy Don wouldn’t get one red cent of the reward.

  29

  Late in the afternoon, several hours after Phil Colby had returned from Kerrville with a load of hay, one of his hunters called from the lower pasture and said he’d shot a wild pig, and he was hoping Colby would help him quarter it. Colby told him to bring it on up to the butchering shed.

  As he waited, sitting on the tailgate of his truck, Colby k
ept thinking: Let it go.

  He knew that’s what he should do. Let it go, because he had no way of knowing for certain whether the driver of the black Ford truck had really fired a shot. Yes, he might have, and Colby felt confident he had heard something that sounded like a shot, but he knew that the senses can play tricks on you.

  Then there was the fact that Colby would never know if it had been Aaron Endicott driving that truck. It looked like Endicott’s truck, sure, but there was more than one black F350 on the road.

  So let it go.

  Of course, there was one other option: Call the sheriff’s department again. Let them know that Aaron Endicott—if it was him—had escalated his aggressive behavior. Let them take care of it. Problem was, they wouldn’t, because they couldn’t. Just as they hadn’t been able to do anything about Endicott’s threatening visit to Colby’s house, they wouldn’t be able to do anything in this situation. Instead, they’d ask Colby some questions:

  Can you identify the driver?

  Did you get a license plate number?

  Did the Ford do any damage to your vehicle?

  Are you positive you heard a gunshot?

  If the tinted windows prevented you from seeing inside the truck, meaning the windows were up, how would the driver have fired a shot at you?

  The answers? No, no, no, no, and I don’t know. Maybe he lowered the passenger window a few inches right before he fired the shot.

  This was the sort of thing that would eat at Colby. Not just the not knowing, but the possibility that some dangerous lunatic was going to get away with crazy behavior. Might he hurt someone else?

  Colby hopped off his tailgate as the hunter—a man named Dale—pulled up to the butchering shed. He stepped out of his vehicle and said, “I appreciate this, Phil. I’ve never gutted a pig before.” He opened the rear hatch of his Chevy Tahoe, and the pig was lying on a tarp in the cargo area.

  “No problem,” Colby said. “I’ll walk you through it. It’s really not much different than dressing a deer.”