Nobody spoke for a few moments. Finally Jessup said, “Let’s go through it again.”
A half hour later, Jessup left and another investigator entered. He was younger and fatter and wore a lime green sport coat with western yokes on the shoulders. He asked the same questions. The suits scribbled more notes. After another thirty minutes, he left.
Jessup returned. He handed me an evidence box containing my guns, pocketknife, and cell phone.
“Don’t take any trips for a while, okay?”
“Or what?” I turned on the cell phone. The voice mail indicator flashed.
“How about trying to not be an asswipe, huh?” He left the room; the two suits followed.
I stuffed my weapons where they belonged and checked my voice mail. Nolan twice. Where the hell are you. Olson once. Call me. I left a minute or so later. Nobody I recognized was in the hallway, only a handful of uniformed officers and several clerical types.
I took the elevator down to the ground floor, a huge expanse of marble giving way to a commendation wall honoring officers killed in the line of duty. I walked outside. It was a little before noon on a Saturday, and the walkway in front of the building bustled with cops moving about.
The air was thick with humidity and the buzz of the freeway a few blocks north. I started to sweat within a few seconds. As I pulled out my cell phone to call Nolan for a ride, I smelled Old Spice aftershave. I turned around. Jesus Rundell stood a few feet behind me. The bright sun illuminated a series of old injuries on his bald head, one a jagged scar two inches long above his ear, next to a shallow indentation.
“That nigger cop don’t think you killed the greaseball,” he said.
“That’s because I didn’t. You did.” I pointed to the concave place on his skull. “How did you get the hole in your head?”
“That’s from Daddy.” Rundell touched the spot. “South Texas boys got hard heads, let me tell you what.”
I thought of a joke about postnatal birth control but decided against telling it.
“Used to fuck an old girl from Lufkin, what looked a lot like your partner.” Rundell pulled a pack of Juicy Fruit gum from his coat pocket. “ ’Cept she had one leg shorter than the other.”
“What do you want from me?” I reached for my Browning but didn’t draw it. It would be so easy at this range. One shot, right where the eyebrows met. But my course in life was not a suicide mission.
“She tried to stiff me on her weeklies one time.” He pushed a stick of gum in his mouth and let the foil wrapper drift away in the smoggy breeze. “Till I started playing on her nipples with a pair of pliers. Then she remembered where my money was.”
“What’s so important about the file Carlos stole?”
“You give it to me, an’ I’ll tell you.” He winked. I felt unclean, icky, like accidentally seeing Great-Aunt Mildred getting out of the shower.
“I don’t have the file. You know that.”
“Don’t lie to your buddy Jesus.” Two uniformed officers stood close by, lighting cigarettes. He lowered his voice. “That’d just make me angry.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Nolan picked me up fifteen minutes later in the two-year-old Mitsubishi that had been a gift from her ex-fiancé, Larry. It had a leaky valve and spit out blue smoke whenever she accelerated. I filled her in on the last few hours, including the name of our assailant from the previous evening. She had a knot on her forehead the size of a grape from her impact with the elevator wall the night before and a faint bruise on one cheek that was undoubtedly much worse without the makeup.
“How’s our houseguest doing?” I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Olson. No answer. I left a one-word message: Call.
Nolan honked at a slow-moving minivan. “As a personal favor to me, do you think you could try to not sleep with her?”
“Where did that come from?”
She sighed dramatically.
“I liked it better when you were still taking Wellbutrin,” I said.
“That was just to quit smoking.” Nolan banged her hand on the steering wheel. “I thought we all agreed on that.”
“Gotcha.” I watched the city drift by.
“She called somebody this morning,” Nolan said.
“Who?”
“No idea. She’s unhappy since.”
“So naturally you thought I would want to have sex with her?”
“You need to be careful with this one. Something’s off about her.” Nolan sighed again, signaled to change lanes, and turned onto Greenville Avenue. “Plus you know how you are with the whole damsel-in-distress thing.”
“Whatever.” We passed an Irish pub called the Tipperary Inn, and I imagined how good a pint of Guinness would taste in a dark bar, away from psychopathic South Texas whack jobs.
Nolan seemed to read my mind. “We need to check on her before anything else.”
I nodded.
A few minutes later we turned left at the Greenville Avenue Bar and Grill, and a few seconds after that we pulled into the driveway of Nolan’s rental. The grass was yellow and about a foot high, making the snug brick house appear shabbier than it really was.
“Want me to come over and mow sometime?”
“That was what Larry used to do.” Nolan slammed her car door shut. “Every Sunday afternoon.”
“Looks like it’s been a lot of Sundays since he broke a sweat on it.”
“Larry took care of me.” She sniffled once and kicked a beer can off the sidewalk and into the jungle that was her front yard.
“Like the time he threw the bottle of gin at you?”
She made an obscene gesture with one hand as she unlocked the front door and stepped into her living room, a plaster-walled area with a fake fireplace at one end and a worn leather sofa at the other. I followed her into the empty room.
“Tess?” I walked toward the kitchen.
Nolan went to the guest bedroom to the left of the front door. “Hey. We’re back.”
We both ended up in Nolan’s room at the rear of the house. Her dresser was all pictures, a shrine to her ex-fiancé: Larry at a shuffleboard tournament; Larry in a sleeveless T-shirt, holding up a twenty-inch striper bass in one hand, a can of Old Milwaukee in the other; Larry getting the Salesman of the Year award from his employer, Don of Don’s Used Cars.
“Was she going anywhere?” I said.
“Uh-uh.” Nolan picked up a picture of Larry wearing a Dale Earnhardt number-three jersey and eating sausage on a stick.
“What was the last thing she said?”
Nolan sighed and stared at the framed image.
“Maybe if you got rid of all those pictures, you wouldn’t feel so down.”
“I had so much invested.” She put the picture back on the dresser and picked up another. “I don’t want to end up alone.”
“You’re thirty-three. Plenty of time to find somebody.” I headed to the door. “I’m gonna look around some more.”
Five minutes later we had scoured every crevice of Nolan O’Connor’s two-bedroom house. Tess’s leather overnight bag was at the foot of her bed. Other than that, nothing. We ended up back in Nolan’s room.
“This is not good.” I paced in the narrow area between her bed and the far wall. “How about the garage?”
Nolan followed me through her kitchen and into the overgrown backyard. We passed the Weber kettle grill that Larry used to cook burgers on and the lawn chair where he used to sit and drink beer.
The garage was old, like the house, and had a sliding door rather than an overhead one. I pulled it open and stepped inside.
“Tess? You in here? It’s me, Hank.”
No reply. I fumbled for the light cord dangling overhead. The bulb flickered on.
She was in the far corner, wedged between the wall and a seldom-used workbench. She was sitting on a wooden crate.
“Tess?” I kneeled in front of her.
She rubbed her eyes and cleared her throat several times.
“What’s wrong
?”
She looked at me. “Never let them see you cry.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I should go home.” Tess took a sip of her three-dollar coffee drink and shivered.
“I don’t think your apartment is a good place to be.” I dialed Olson again. The call went straight to voice mail.
“No. I mean home where my family is.” She cupped the mug of coffee. “They need me.”
“Tess.” Nolan leaned forward. “Tell us what’s going on.”
“What if that guy from last night goes after my family?”
I didn’t say anything because there wasn’t a good response to that scenario.
We were at Legal Grounds, a small coffee shop by White Rock Lake, a quasi-bohemian section of the city a few miles south of where Nolan lived. The place was a daylong hangout for graphic artists and other creative types, guys with ponytails and portfolios tucked under one arm, banging on laptops or whispering into tiny cell phones while scribbling on yellow pads.
“We’ve got to get a handle on what’s happening.” I rolled a glass of iced tea across my forehead.
“Look. You don’t owe me anything.” Tess pushed her chair back from the table. It scraped on the tile floor. “Thanks for all you’ve done. But I’m not looking for your help. I just need to go home.”
“You want us to leave you here, by yourself?” I slid my chair back, too.
No reply.
“Tess.” Nolan kept her voice low. “This is the major leagues, the big bad nasty.”
“Shit.” Tess pulled her chair back to the table. “What am I gonna do?”
I took a look around the shop, trying to find the right words, something that would offer her a modicum of comfort. The room we were in was long and skinny, old law books lining one wall, scarred wooden tables dotting the open area. Two easy chairs were next to each other in the front window. We were sitting in the middle of the room. I had my back to the books, keeping watch on both entrances.
“We need more intelligence on the situation.” I spoke softly. “We need to find out who Jesus Rundell is and how he fits in with Black. And where Lucas Linville ties in with everything.”
A waitress came by and refilled Tess’s coffee cup.
“You work for Black,” I said. “Who would benefit if the Caddo Lake bill didn’t pass?”
“Nobody.” Tess took a drink. “Except for a couple of rednecks who want to hunt out there, most people are in favor of it.”
“The Barringers,” Nolan said.
“Who?” Tess frowned. “You mean like those East Texas mafia guys?”
“Yeah,” I said. “The cowboy Cosa Nostra.”
“What’s the connection?”
My cell phone chirped before I could respond. Olson’s number popped up on the screen.
“Yeah.”
“Where the hell are you?” His voice sounded muffled and angry at the same time.
I told him.
“Don’t go anywhere. I’m two minutes away.” A horn honked in the background.
Ninety seconds later, Olson shoved open the door of the coffee shop and stepped inside. He stopped in front of a stocky young man with close-cropped hair, wearing camo cargo shorts and an Olds 97 T-shirt. The young man was tapping away on an Apple notebook, head bobbing to the music from his MP3 player. He looked up, mouth open, hands frozen over the keyboard, as Olson stood there, swaying.
I could understand his apparent shock. I’d seen my friend worse off, but not by much. One eye was almost swollen shut. His silk shirt was torn in two places and a patch of skin was missing from an elbow. He staggered a little as he stepped into the room.
Mr. Apple swallowed once and continued to stare.
“What the hell are you looking at?” Olson bumped against the man’s table as he made his way to where we were sitting.
He sat down in the open chair between Tess and Nolan, facing me. He reached in his hip pocket, pulled out a silver flask, and took a long pull.
“What’s the other guy look like?” Nolan said.
“Worse.” Olson capped the flask and stuck it back in his pocket. “At least he’s not in pain anymore.”
“How many?” I said.
“Three total. Two meatheads plus the head-weirdo-in-charge.”
“His name is Jesus Rundell.” I relayed his warning about Olson’s arms business, given to me only an hour or so before.
“Jesus. Rundell.” Olson nodded slowly as if committing the information to longterm memory. “He is one mean motherfucker.” He squinted at Tess with his good eye. “Who are you?”
“This is Tess McPherson.” I made the introductions and filled him in on the last eighteen hours, starting with our encounter with Rundell in the elevator at Tess’s apartment, followed by my interrogation by the police about the dead body.
“These guys were friends of the three from yesterday?” I said.
“Looks that way.” Olson probed the corner of his eye socket with two fingers.
“You ever heard of this guy Rundell?” Nolan said.
“Nope. Looks like he’s a newbie on the local douche-bag circuit.”
“It’s like he’s an evil spirit or something.” Nolan rubbed her mouth again.
“No, he’s not,” Olson said. “Evil spirits don’t bleed. At least the ones I’ve tangled with.”
“Did you get a shot at him?” I said.
Olson didn’t reply. He pulled a lock-back knife from his waistband and dropped it on the table. The sunlight streaming into the coffee shop highlighted the blood on the handle.
Tess stared at the blade and trembled. “Is he dead?”
Olson shook his head.
“Then I bet he’s pissed off,” she said.
“Oh, yeah.” Olson took another drink from his flask. “Just a little bit.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Because it was past lunchtime and I was hungry, I ordered a sandwich. Nolan got a bowl of soup. Tess drummed her fingers and looked pissed off.
“You’re just gonna eat?” she said.
“Yep.” I dumped another packet of Sweet’N Low in my iced tea.
“You need to get some food in you,” Nolan said. “No telling when the next opportunity will be.”
Olson went to his truck. He returned a minute later with a second flask.
He took another long pull, wiped his mouth. “I need to tell you the interesting part.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You mean it gets better?”
Olson was outside the storeroom behind his new gun shop, unloading cases of shotgun shells with one of his employees, when they arrived. Three of them in the cherry red Mercedes. Jesus Rundell, decked out in the immaculately pressed linen outfit, exited first, followed by two goons in tracksuits and sneakers.
“I just trick-fucked your boy Oswald,” Rundell said. “Now it’s your turn.”
The two goons advanced, one pulling out a length of chain, the other producing a piece of metal pipe. They didn’t waste time. They almost covered the twenty feet from the Mercedes to the storeroom in a few seconds, about as long as it took Olson to drop the case of shells he was holding and pull the .45 automatic from its holster underneath his shirt.
When they were five feet away Olson fired a 185-grain jacketed hollow point into the chest of the one on the right.
The one on the left swung his bike chain at the same time, catching Olson on the side of the head.
If Olson had been a mere mortal, that would have been it, game over. But he was not. He was Olson, a former Dallas Cowboys linebacker who once got into such a fierce fight with a teammate that they demolished the back third of a house in Plano. (Olson liked to say afterward that Sheetrock is really underrated as a weapon.)
He went down to his knees. Dropped his .45. Shook his head. Put his hands on the ground to get up.
That’s when the guy hit him the second time with the chain, striking him across the shoulders and back of the head. Because the soft tissue cushioned the blow somewhat, the
second impact to the brain wasn’t as severe.
The goon started to pull the weapon back for another shot.
Olson grabbed it. Wrapped the chain around his fist. Pulled. The guy in the tracksuit was cannon fodder, not the most polished piece of silver in Jesus Rundell’s crime outfit.
He held on, fell on top of Olson, whom he had just whipped over the head with a piece of chain.
Olson went to work, making his way from top to bottom. Elbow to the man’s nose. Two quick blows to the stomach and ribs. Fist to the crotch. On the second pass, he gave the barely conscious man a fast one-two punch to the windpipe.
He grabbed his Colt, looked around for Rundell.
The bullet-headed man was to the right, well away from his Mercedes, where he’d last been seen. He had the unconscious gun store employee by the neck. He yanked the man’s shirt up, stuck a small-caliber handgun in his belly button, and pulled the trigger.
The sound was muffled by the flesh of the employee’s abdomen and the low power of the cartridge.
Olson passed out.
When he opened his eyes, Rundell stood over him. He said, “You’re pretty tough for a pole smoker.”
“You’re pretty lively for a dead man.” Olson’s gun was nowhere in sight. He sighed deeply, grimaced with pain, and let his right hand brush up against his waistband, where a Microtech SOCOM four-inch switchblade was hidden by a belt buckle.
“Big talk coming from somebody in your position.” Rundell squatted by Olson and pulled a small billy club from inside his jacket.
“Listen to my advice, Shit-For-Brains.” Olson eased the small knife out and palmed it. “Go back to whatever trailer park your whore of a mother spit you out in. You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
“There was this little blond boy on my cell block in Raiford.” Rundell ran the fingers of his free hand through Olson’s fair hair. “His bunkmate was a big ole nigger named Mon-roe.”
“You’re not getting the picture, are you, Freak Boy?” Olson coughed once to hide the sound of the blade popping open. His left hand covered his right, keeping the weapon out of sight.
“Mon-roe used to tie that boy up in the shower, sell a ride for a pack of Camels or a shot of pruno.” Rundell ran a callused finger down Olson’s cheek. “You’d a liked that, wouldn’t you?”
The Next Time You Die Page 8