Now You See Him (Roy Ballard Book 4)

by Ben Rehder

  I ran Dirk through my usual screening process and came up with less than I expected. One arrest for possession of marijuana under two ounces, and the mug shot confirmed without a doubt that Creek Guy was Dirk Crider. That’s all I found. If he was on Facebook or any other social media, I couldn’t find him. Probably used a nickname.

  I wanted to know the exact family connection between Dirk and Lawrence Crider. Not that it mattered, necessarily, but it wouldn’t hurt to find out. I found Lawrence Crider on Facebook, but I couldn’t see his friends list or many of his posts. I found other Criders who lived in the Austin area, but I couldn’t tell if they were relatives or not.

  So I did the next-best thing and logged in to a popular ancestry website. Very often I could find complete family trees for anyone I was investigating, and that could be incredibly helpful, assuming the trees were accurate. I didn’t know if the information would turn out to be helpful this time, but in less than ten minutes, I learned that Lawrence Crider was indeed Dirk’s uncle.

  I could hear Rita, the resident in the apartment directly across the breezeway, closing her door as she entered or exited her apartment. She was great, as neighbors went. A cashier at Whole Foods Market. Quiet. Didn’t have a lot of people coming and going.

  I’d been meaning to move out of this damn apartment for several years, which is why I’d bought the acreage on Barton Creek. But then Mia and I had gotten together, and that muddied the picture. Or it did for me, at least. I would move in with her tomorrow, if she asked. Or I’d build a dream house for the both of us. Maybe I needed to tap the brakes a little. I’d never been the type to rush things before. Why do it now?

  Contemplating the situation with Mia was making me restless.

  At a minimum, maybe I should move to a different apartment. Something nicer and bigger, in a complex with people closer to my age. Get a lease that was a year long, max. Six months would be even better.

  Now I spent some time researching Anson Byrd, but there wasn’t much to find out. If he had a Facebook account, I couldn’t find it. He had a Twitter account, but he didn’t tweet much, and none of his tweets were helpful. I learned that he played lacrosse in high school, and he had boxed for a few years at the Golden Gloves level, which was kind of unusual for a white kid who had grown up in western Travis County. He had never been arrested, or if he had, it had been expunged from his record. He didn’t own any real property in Travis County. He wasn’t registered to vote. Dead end after that.

  I was sitting on the couch with my laptop. I placed it on the coffee table and stretched out.

  At the moment, I wasn’t sure what to do next. I’d hit a roadblock. But I’d hit them before many times, and I’d learned that often you simply had to set the problem aside for awhile, then come at it from another angle later.

  So I took a nap. Two solid hours. Woke up at nearly four o’clock.

  It was still warm outside, so I went to the pool for an hour. I had it all to myself. Not unusual on a weekday.

  While I was there, I called Mia and got an update on her situation with Dennis Babcock. She sounded tired and a little stressed, so I told her to have a good evening and I’d touch base in the morning. Some alone time wouldn’t hurt anybody.

  I returned to my apartment and had a quiet evening. Went to bed at ten. Read a Tim Bryant novel for a while, then set my Kindle aside and lay quietly in the dark, thinking.

  I’m not exactly sure what I would do if I were ever in Dirk Crider’s position, mostly because I’ve never been in that position. Squeal on somebody or face criminal prosecution. Tough choice. I guess, for me, it would depend on who I would need to squeal on. Was it a relative? A friend? Ouch. But an acquaintance or someone I didn’t know at all? Much easier decision.

  But I knew one thing for sure.

  Once I decided that I would squeal, I would make the call in the middle of the night, just to inconvenience the person who had forced me into that position. Just to wake him up and enjoy that small measure of satisfaction.

  And that’s exactly what Dirk Crider did.

  The ringing woke me at 2:47.

  Maybe he’d been drinking, or doing drugs. It was hard to know for sure, because I didn’t know the guy. He sounded agitated, by any measure.

  “This fucking sucks,” he said.

  “I’m sure it does,” I said. “But you’re doing the right thing.”

  “So if I tell you, we’re good—me and you?”

  “As long as it’s the truth,” I said, easing myself out of bed.

  “No charges for what happened at the creek?”

  “As long as you tell me the truth, and you weren’t involved in anything else. And you answer all my questions—now, and later if I have any.”

  By now I had grabbed a little digital recorder and was holding it up by my ear to capture our conversation. Just in case. It was legal in Texas for one party to record a call without the other knowing—not that it would have stopped me if it hadn’t been legal.

  “And you won’t tell nobody I told you?”

  “That’s the deal.”

  A fellow has to stretch the truth on occasion.

  “Okay,” Dirk said. He took a deep breath. “It was Gilbert.”

  “Gilbert Holloway?”

  “Right.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I used to work for him.”

  “On the boat?”

  “Right. I was a deckhand.”

  “On the Island Hopper?”

  “Right.”

  “When was this?”

  “Coupla years ago.”

  “And you quit?”

  “He fired me. But Eric made him do it.”

  “Why was that?”

  “I screwed up on a cruise and didn’t have enough life jackets on board. Totally my bad. The friggin’ game warden wrote us a ticket, and Eric said we could’ve lost our insurance because of that. So Gilbert had to fire me.”

  “You’re talking about Eric Moss?”

  “Right.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “I met him a couple of times, that’s all.”

  “How long did you work on the boat?”

  “Four years, but just during the summer.”

  “I assume you heard about Jeremy Sawyer.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy who drowned last Friday.”

  “Oh, man. Is that what this is all about? I didn’t remember his name.”

  What a jerk.

  “Did you talk to Gilbert or Meatball about it?” I asked.

  “A little, yeah. To Gilbert, not Meatball. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “I just told you I didn’t talk to him.”

  “I’m talking about Gilbert.”

  “Oh. He said it was just an accident and nobody did nothing wrong. The guy jumped off when nobody was looking and he drowned. End of story. But Gilbert was pretty stressed about it. He’s a sensitive guy.”

  That made me grin, but I didn’t laugh.

  “Okay, so tell me about the reason you came after me.”

  “Well, Gilbert called and said he needed a favor, and he wanted to get together and talk about it. I asked what kind of favor, but he didn’t want to say on the phone. He said I could earn five hundred bucks if I’d help him out with something. So I met him at the marina yesterday afternoon.”

  I knew what was coming.

  Dirk said, “We were talking in his truck, and he was saying there was a guy that was giving him some trouble, and he was wondering if I’d, you know, kick this guy’s ass. I asked him what the problem was, and he just said it wasn’t anything too important, but this guy deserved an ass kicking, and if I didn’t want to do it, that’s fine, but he’d find someone else who wanted to earn the money. I figured, like, Gilbert probably had a pretty good reason to be asking, so I said yeah, I’d do it.”

  I couldn’t help being disgusted with the guy.

  “T
hat’s all it took?” I said. “You didn’t even ask any more questions?”

  “Hey, man, I was gonna, but before I even had the chance, Gilbert says, ‘Holy shit, there he is now.’ And he points to your van. We could see you scoping the place out with your binoculars.”

  Yep. That’s what I had suspected. Terribly sloppy work on my part. The kind of thing that could blow a case or get me seriously injured. Stupid. Couldn’t do anything about it now except learn from it.

  “And then what?” I asked.

  “Gilbert was rushing me, saying I’d better make up my mind right now, because this would be a great chance to follow you and take care of it.”

  “So that’s what you did,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  I couldn’t resist asking, “How’d that work out for you?”

  “Dude,” he said, “that rock hurt. I still have a headache.”

  “Did you go to a doctor?”

  “Yeah. Got seven stitches.”

  What do you do with a guy like this? Lecture him and hope he learns from it? I wasn’t in the mood.

  “Are you the one who broke into Harvey’s house?”

  “Who?”

  “Harvey Selberg.”

  “I got no idea who that is.”

  “Then I’ll put it this way. Have you broken into anyone’s house lately?”

  “Hell, no. I don’t do that kind of thing.”

  “He wound up in the ER.”

  “Wasn’t me, I swear. I don’t know him.”

  “You know Starlyn Kurtis?” I asked.

  “Sure. What about her?”

  “I want her phone number.”

  “Ah, man. What for?”

  “None of your damn business, really, but I’ll tell you anyway. She was on the boat that night, so I might want to ask her some questions.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yep. I’m not even sure if I’ll call her or not. And I won’t tell her where I got the number.”

  He reluctantly gave it to me.

  “I might have more questions later,” I said. “Don’t dodge me if I call.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said with all the enthusiasm of a kid kicking the dirt.

  16

  I managed to sleep late and woke up the next morning at eight o’clock in a much better mood.

  Gilbert Holloway had an assault case pending against me, but now I had an ace card to play against him. He’d sent someone after me—not just for retribution, but to stop me from investigating the death of Jeremy Sawyer.

  But the question remained: Why?

  The other question: What was I going to do about it?

  I had the recording of my conversation with Dirk Crider, and despite what I’d told him, I’d use it as leverage to force Holloway to drop his assault case, if need be. But that wouldn’t get me any closer to figuring out why there was a cover-up in regard to Jeremy’s death.

  I texted Mia, but she didn’t reply right away, so I showered and shaved.

  When I was done, she had sent a reply. Good morning. Slow start today.

  I didn’t know if she was referring to me or her.

  She’d added a little heart emoji. Was that the same as saying she loved me? Of course not.

  I said: What’s your plan today?

  Again, she didn’t reply right away, so I went outside and climbed into my little gray Toyota. That was my back-up vehicle when the van had been seen too many times by a subject. I stopped at Maria’s Taco Xpress for a couple of breakfast tacos with egg, bacon, and cheese, and then I decided to grab a few extra and make a stop at Mia’s. If she’d already eaten, that was fine. She could save them for tomorrow.

  I made my way up to Tarrytown, and as I approached Mia’s house, I saw a shiny new BMW with dealer plates parked in her driveway.

  Something weird happened. I started to pull over to the curb, but I changed my mind—don’t know why—and kept going instead. Drove past her house. The curtains were all closed.

  I went to the end of the block and pulled over for a moment. Why was I having an odd feeling about this? Partly because Mia generally texted me back fairly quickly, especially if she was at home, as opposed to out running errands or tailing a subject.

  And who would be at Mia’s place at 9:12 on a Wednesday morning in a spiffy new BMW? An answer sprang to mind, but I didn’t want to believe it.

  I double-checked my phone. Mia still hadn’t answered my last text.

  I turned around and drove slowly back to her place. This time I pulled to the curb. I knew from being inside her house that, with the curtains drawn, nobody inside could see me. I got out and walked to the BMW. Put my hand on the hood and immediately felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

  The hood was warm.

  The car hadn’t been parked there long. Not overnight.

  I checked the dealer plate, but the handwriting was so poor, I couldn’t make out the name of the new owner.

  I got back into my Toyota and drove to the other end of the block. I knew I should do one of two things: either go back to Mia’s and knock on the door, or go on about my day without a further thought. She had a visitor. So what? Could be a neighbor. A friend.

  I made it as far as Lake Austin Boulevard, and then I turned around.

  Drove back to Mia’s block and parked at the curb, thirty yards down from her place. I was in the shade of an enormous Spanish oak, but if Mia should happen to come outside and glance this way, she’d recognize my Toyota immediately. I couldn’t see her front door, but I could see the BMW in the driveway.

  What was I doing?

  Just checking, this one time. Just making sure. After this, never again. That was reasonable, wasn’t it?

  The bag of tacos was in my passenger seat, but I had no appetite now.

  Fifteen minutes passed.

  Still no text from Mia.

  A couple of cars drove by, but in general, this was a quiet street. The walkers and joggers had probably already finished their morning routine, when it was ten degrees cooler.

  Fifteen more minutes passed.

  I realized that I could be sitting here for hours. Was I ready to do that, considering that I was feeling more pathetic with each passing minute?

  The answer, apparently, was yes.

  Ten more minutes passed.

  I reached for the key, and right then I saw a man walking toward the BMW.

  There was no mistaking who it was.

  Garlen Gieger, Mia’s former boyfriend.

  I drove.

  Probably a danger to everyone else on the road.

  Pulled over in a grocery store parking lot.

  Sat quietly for a few minutes and tried not to let my emotions get the best of me. It wasn’t easy.

  I don’t know if I’d ever felt more betrayed.

  She had texted me back just moments after Garlen had left her place, but I hadn’t answered yet. Too angry. Without question, I would say some things I’d regret.

  But here’s something I knew deep down inside. She wasn’t seeing him again. There would be some other explanation—and I wouldn’t like it—but she wasn’t seeing him again. I would bet my life on it. Literally.

  Not that Garlen wasn’t trying to make that happen.

  I pondered my options.

  One was to confront Garlen and possibly beat the living hell out of him. Oh, so tempting. Stupid, though. Especially since I was currently suspected of assaulting Gilbert Holloway. Didn’t want to establish a pattern.

  The second option was to call the cops, which is what Mia and I were supposed to do if Garlen reared his ugly head, because we both had active protective orders against him. There was supposed to be zero contact between Mia and Garlen. Not even a text, an email, or a phone call. Not a smoke signal or a carrier pigeon. The cops could enforce the protective order even if Mia hadn’t reported the violation herself. I’d been flustered watching Garlen walk out to his car, but I’d had the presence of mind to snap a couple of quick photos. Great evidenc
e, if needed. Garlen would go to jail, his plea deal scrapped. But why hadn’t Mia reported it?

  Ten minutes ticked by and eventually I began to calm down a little.

  The mature course of action—if I insisted on doing something—would be to tell Mia I’d seen Garlen walking out of her place, and ask her in a measured, trusting tone of voice why he’d been there. That would be reasonable. After all, the guy had nearly killed me. I deserved to know why he’d been at her house. There would be a logical explanation. Still, I couldn’t imagine what she might tell me that would make me any less upset. I had helped her out of that abusive relationship, and I felt that I deserved to know what was going on. Right?

  I exited the grocery store parking lot and drove eastward.

  When I stopped at the light at the intersection of Lake Austin Boulevard and Loop 1, a scruffy-looking guy was standing in the median with a sign saying MY HOUSE IS AN OVERPASS. I lowered the window and gave him the bag of breakfast tacos.

  I was almost back at my apartment—with no clear agenda for the remainder of the day—when my phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize. I took a chance and answered it.

  “Hey, it’s Harvey,” a voice said.

  In my semi-agitated state, it took me a moment to process the name. Then I had it. Harvey. The guy I’d interviewed in the hospital.

  Something funny and then something bad.

  “Oh, hey,” I said. “You sound good.”

  “I’m learning to talk without moving my mouth as much,” he said.

  “Good to know,” I said. “You still in the ICU?”

  “Nah, man, I came home a little while ago. You wanna know how much my bill was?”

  This was exactly the kind of distraction I needed at the moment.

  “I’m afraid to guess,” I said.

  “Seventy-four thousand dollars,” Harvey pronounced with as much disgust as he could muster between clenched teeth.

  “Yowser,” I said. “Are you, uh, insured?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got a deductible of five grand. Think I’ve got five grand sitting around? Like hell. They’ll have to settle for a hundred bucks a month for a long time.”

  I was in traffic on Lamar, but I pulled over into the BookPeople parking lot. I was hoping Harvey had something good for me, but I wasn’t counting on it.