Get Busy Dying (Roy Ballard Mysteries)

by Ben Rehder

  The phone number listed for Hopper on the bill was the same cell phone number I’d had for Cooney—the one that was now out of service—so it was a safe bet that Pete Hopper and Zeke Cooney were one and the same. I had already known Cooney was a scumbag, but these new revelations were pissing me off. Why is it so easy for a guy like Cooney to abuse the system and walk away unscathed from a mountain of debt?

  After I’d sorted through the mail, I jumped online and began conducting searches for Zeke Cooney and Pete Hopper. At this point, I couldn’t be certain which name was authentic and which was an alias. Maybe both names were aliases.

  Intuition told me that instead of starting with a general Google search, I should check the sites that carry mug shots, which have become more and more numerous. These sites operate in such a way that if you surf too long, you feel the need to take a shower afterward. See, if your mug shot is featured on a site, you have the option to request its removal, but it’ll cost you several hundred dollars. How is that not blackmail? I surfed over to one of the most popular mug shot sites and plugged in the name Zeke Cooney. I was rewarded with immediate success. Zeke had an impressive and wide-ranging criminal history.

  It can be depressing to view a collection of mug shots for a career criminal over the span of his or her lifetime. In the early shots, they often seem almost amused to have been arrested. It’s a lark or a bit of whimsy. It’ll make a good conversation starter at a party. But their expression in subsequent mug shots becomes progressively more bitter or hostile. Or, like Zeke Cooney, they appear completely indifferent. Got arrested again. Who the fuck cares?

  Nearly twenty-seven years earlier, Cooney had had his debut arrest—for driving while intoxicated in Escambia County, Florida. That led to another arrest less than a year later for driving with a suspended license and failure to carry proof of insurance. Well, sure it did. Wasn’t that the way it always worked? I could just hear the objections Cooney probably raised at the time. The system was rigged against a guy like Zeke, see? How was he supposed to work if he couldn’t drive? How was he supposed to pay his fines if he couldn’t work? That’s why he eventually turned into a thief and con man. It wasn’t his fault.

  He had three arrests for possession of marijuana, two for possession of methamphetamine, one for fictitious license plates, a whopping five for theft by check, and then a biggie: he’d been busted seven years ago for sexual assault. I wondered what had happened with that case. Would he be out now if he had been found guilty? Doubtful. He had either walked or pled to a lesser charge.

  I was about to do a search for Pete Hopper when Mia called. She cut right to it, saying, “I just sent you a link. They think Boz Gentry crossed the border yesterday afternoon.”

  “The Mexican border?”

  “Yeah, in Laredo.”

  “They’re sure it was him?”

  “I’m looking at a frame from a video right now and I’d say it’s him.”

  Her email arrived and I clicked the link, which led to a short piece on a local news website posted less than an hour ago. First thing I saw was the photo. I found myself leaning toward the screen for a better look.

  “Damn,” I said.

  “You agree it’s him?” Mia asked.

  “Him or his long-lost twin, yeah. He’s looking right at the camera. Where was it?”

  “A few blocks from one of the bridges.”

  I quickly scanned the brief text, but there were no helpful details. Facts were scant. Authorities were reviewing additional video for footage of Gentry actually crossing the bridge to Mexico.

  “Guess he’s following through with his original plan,” I said. “Fleeing the country, except without the three million dollars.”

  “And without Erin,” Mia said.

  “Well, yeah.”

  There wasn’t much else to cover on that topic, so Mia said, “How’s it going over there?” She knew I’d been getting ready for Hannah’s visit. I couldn’t believe my daughter would be arriving tomorrow. Thirty hours from now, to be precise.

  I didn’t tell Mia that I was still trying to track down Zeke Cooney. I’m aware that my vengeful streak can be a bit disconcerting, and the news might upset her. Instead, I said, “The apartment’s ready.”

  “Are you?” she asked.

  I started to make a wise-ass remark, but instead I said, “Yeah, I am. Can’t wait.”

  I focused my attention back on the website and conducted a search for anyone named Pete Hopper, which was obviously a more common name than Zeke Cooney. But it was unique enough that the list of resulting hits was fairly brief. I scrolled downward and the photo of the fourth man on the page was Zeke Cooney.

  Cooney’s Pete Hopper alter ego had only one arrest listed, six years ago in Daphne, Alabama, for criminal mischief. That charge covers a lot of ground, ranging from class C misdemeanor to a first-degree felony, depending on what sort of act was committed. This mug shot site didn’t contain specifics, so I logged into an archival newspaper site. Quickly found a daily called the Baldwin County Press. My search for “pete hopper” returned a single hit:

  DAPHNE MAN ARRESTED AFTER CAR FIRE

  That got my attention. The article was no more than two hundred words long, but the gist was clear. “Pete Hopper” had had some sort of dispute at a bar with another man named Foster. It almost led to a fistfight, but other patrons broke it up. Hopper left shortly thereafter, and ten minutes later Foster’s twenty-year-old Buick Skylark went up in flames in the parking lot. Hopper was the only suspect. He denied any involvement.

  Wow. What were the odds? Zeke Cooney—a.k.a. Pete Hopper—had a penchant for setting things on fire. I saved a copy of the article.

  I was about to broaden my search to see if Hopper had been convicted, but my phone interrupted me again. I checked the caller I.D. and saw a number I didn’t recognize. I almost always let unknown callers route to voicemail, but something told me to answer this one.

  “This is Roy,” I said.

  “It’s Shane Moyer.”

  “You got something for me?”

  “I just heard from Zeke. I know where he is.”

  41

  Considering my line of work, and that I live in an enormous state, I’m used to driving. A lot. The thought of jumping in the van and covering two or three hundred miles on a moment’s notice is nothing to me.

  Ten minutes after I ended my call with Shane Moyer, I was on the road to Port Arthur, Texas, which was about 20 miles southeast of Beaumont, which was about 80 miles east of Houston. I had no idea why Zeke Cooney had chosen Port Arthur, but I didn’t care. Why does a man who has wandered the Gulf Coast for twenty years choose any place in particular? Steady work? He likes the ocean?

  According to Moyer, Cooney was staying at the Motel 6. There was only one in Port Arthur, so that made things easy. I left at ten-thirty and arrived at just after three o’clock that afternoon.

  I had no plan. Maybe Cooney would simply admit what he’d done, and then I could punch him in the face. Knock out a few teeth. If he didn’t admit it, well, what then? Punch him anyway? Even if he didn’t set fire to Mia’s house, he probably deserved it for something else he had done. Shame on me. That was a copout—the kind of rationale a small-minded redneck uses to justify the execution of someone who might not be guilty.

  The Motel 6 was near the intersection of two major highways. Three stories tall—a long, rectangular box painted in the familiar tan-and-rusty-orange color scheme. Clean, but stripped of any visible frills whatsoever, except for a small pool on the north end. Hard for a motel in Texas to make it without a pool. The parking lot was sparsely filled with aging cars and trucks—workers’ vehicles, dirty and battered. One thing did surprise me: The doors to the rooms were accessed via interior hallways. Didn’t that make it a hotel instead of a motel? That presented a problem for me.

  On one side of the motel was a small retail store that sold safety apparel—not unusual for a blue-collar city that revolved around the oil refining indu
stry. Almost directly across the highway was the public library, but I was willing to wager they didn’t get much traffic from the motel.

  It wasn’t until I turned the corner to the rear of the motel that I spotted Zeke Cooney’s truck—backed into a spot beside a dumpster, just steps away from a glass door leading into the motel. Why walk farther with your belongings than you had to? There was still a mountain of random belongings strapped down in the bed of the green-and-white GMC with the headache rack and the tool boxes.

  I parked two spots over from the truck and pondered the situation. If the doors to the rooms had been outside, as they were with most motels, it would have been easier to determine which room was Cooney’s. He’d park as close to his room as possible. But the interior hallways made it difficult. And the three floors.

  Think logically. Figure it out.

  Cooney was an experienced traveler. He’d stayed at hundreds of cheap motels, and he knew that not all of the rooms were created equal. He would ask for a first-floor room, and because the motel wasn’t even close to full, he’d get it. He would ask for a room on the rear side of the motel, away from highway traffic noise, and he’d probably get that, too. He would ask to be as far from the pool as possible—again because of the potential noise—and that was why he was parked on the south end of the motel. He’d want a window looking out at his truck, for security purposes, and he’d want to be as close to an entry door as possible. All of these things narrowed it down greatly for me, and that meant I’d have to knock on fewer doors. Maybe just one—the room with the window two yards from the tailgate of his truck.

  I exited the van and locked up. I was wearing a loose button-down shirt that allowed me to carry my handgun holstered on my hip with a minimal bulge.

  Was I about to do something incredibly stupid?

  Nearly twenty years ago, my closest friend was sucker-punched by a bully at a party and needed eight stitches over his left eye. The next night, I went looking for the bully with an aluminum baseball bat. Didn’t find him. Probably fortunate for both of us. To this day, I wonder how I would react if I spotted him in a crowd. I have no doubt there would be an impulse to injure him severely. Could I resist?

  For better or worse, that’s the way I feel when someone close to me is harmed or even placed in danger. I want to punish the transgressor. Get revenge. I’ve discussed this topic with many male friends, and about half of them begin nodding their heads in agreement before I even ask if they can identify with my violent primal urges. The other half looks at me as if they should be concerned for their welfare around me.

  I yanked opened the door to the motel and stepped inside. Let my eyes adjust to the difference in light. Then I started down the hallway. There wasn’t anyone in sight. The check-in office was at the other end of the hallway.

  The thing that was propelling me forward was the fact that Mia could have been in the house when the fire had started. She could have been napping or taking a shower. Death from smoke asphyxiation comes quickly. Whoever set the fire needed to pay. And for a guy like Cooney, a prison term wouldn’t do much good. He wouldn’t change. He’d get out eventually, and then what? Who would he harm next?

  Third door on the left. I stopped when I reached it. Stood there for a moment. I could hear the TV. Someone was inside the room. I was aware that I was breathing more heavily than I had been just moments earlier. Not hyperventilating, but not far from it. I could feel my heartbeat in my temples.

  My plan was simple. Tell him who I was. Accuse him of the arson. See how he reacted. I’d be able to tell if he’d done it. If the answer was yes? I hadn’t worked it out that far. But I knew I wouldn’t walk away. I knew I’d take action. I was starting to wish I’d brought a baseball bat instead of a Glock.

  I reached out and knocked on the door.

  At this point I was a jumble of emotions. Anger. Fear. Even some guilt. Should I be here? I knew Mia would answer that question with a firm “no.”

  I knocked again, and at the same time my phone gave the alert for an incoming text.

  I waited. There was nothing to hear except the murmuring voices coming from the TV. Maybe the room was empty after all. Maybe Cooney had walked to a nearby restaurant or bar.

  I grabbed my phone and saw that the text had come from an unknown number.

  U asked abt my camera. Still wnt 2 see vid?

  I didn’t understand? I had no idea who this was from or what it was about. A spam text? But it seemed—

  The door to the motel room swung open, and there was Zeke Cooney, wearing dirty jeans and nothing else. It appeared he had just woken up. Eyes red, hair disheveled, crease marks on his face from the sheets. He wasn’t a big guy, and he might’ve been closing in on 50 years old, but his torso was lean and well muscled.

  “Yeah?” he said, and there wasn’t anything friendly about it. Jens Buerger had taken that photo of Mia and me in the parking lot at Trudy’s, but he must not have shared it with his buddies, because Cooney didn’t seem to recognize me. I was just the guy who had ruined his nap, and that was enough to piss him off.

  But I couldn’t put the text out of my mind. Video from a camera? And then realization washed over me. Oh, man. I had completely forgotten. The house in Tarrytown, down the street from Mia’s place. They had a security camera aiming at the street. I’d left a note.

  Now Cooney made an impatient gesture with his arms, like Are you going to say something or what?

  “Sorry,” I said. “Wrong room.”

  I didn’t reply with a text. I called from the parking lot, before I’d even made it back to the van.

  A man answered by saying, “This is Tom.”

  I tried to sound as friendly as possible. Casual. Didn’t want to scare him away. “Hi, Tom. This is Roy Ballard. You just sent me a text.”

  “Oh, hey, right. The note. Sorry it took me so long to get in touch. I was out of the country.”

  “You’re probably wondering what I want,” I said. I had reached the van and now I climbed inside and closed the door.

  “Well, yeah,” Tom said. “But I heard about the fire at the house down the street, so...”

  “That’s my partner’s house,” I said. “Her name is Mia Madison. Do you know her?”

  “We haven’t met, but, yeah, I’ve seen her around. What line of work are you two in?”

  “We investigate insurance fraud, mostly.”

  I asked whether his security camera had been active on the day of the arson, and if it was the type of camera that backed up to a DVR or to the cloud. He answered yes to both questions. Great news.

  “I’m going to ask for a big favor, Tom. I’m out of town at the moment, but I’m hoping you can check your archived video on that date and see if a man jogs past your house a few minutes before the fire at Mia’s place. That would’ve been about 12:15 or so. He was probably wearing blue shorts and a white T-shirt. He might’ve been carrying a water bottle.”

  “You think this guy in the blue shorts set the fire?” Tom asked.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that. We just don’t know. So I’d like to see if he’s on your video, and if he is, can you email a clip to me?”

  “Oh, sure,” Tom said. “I have a Dropcam and it’s super easy to do something like that. Just give me a few minutes to go through it.”

  Perfect. Dropcam was the same brand of surveillance camera I’d bought for Mia’s house.

  “I really appreciate that, Tom,” I said. I gave him my email address.

  “You help me catch this guy and I’ll buy you a beer. Or perhaps an entire brewery.”

  Some people fumble around with fairly simple tasks involving technology, while others can dive right in and get it done in minutes. They just seem to pick new things up quickly. Mia, for example, was one of those people. When we first partnered, I noticed that she had the kind of intuitive mind that enabled her to understand the various surveillance devices and software programs we used on a regular basis.

  I was hoping Tom had the
same ability. Would I really hear back in a few minutes? Or would it be a few hours?

  I waited.

  If I was lucky, the man in the blue shorts would be on the video. If I was luckier, the video would be sharp enough to identify the man as Zeke Cooney.

  Then... what?

  Should I still confront him, or would the video be enough for the arson investigators to make an arrest? Would it qualify as probable cause?

  Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. I took that as a good sign.

  If Tom knew what he was doing, it would take him just a few minutes to narrow the video down to the right date and time, watch it, and see if the man in the blue shorts appeared. Then it would take just a few more minutes to extract and export the five or ten seconds in which the man appeared. Then Tom would email it, which would take a few more minutes, and then I would hear the sweet chime of an incoming email. If Tom knew what he was doing.

  Twenty minutes had passed now.

  Before we’d hung up, I had made it clear that I was sitting in my van, specifically waiting to hear back. Tom had said he’d get back to me one way or the other. He’d send me a text if there was a problem, or if the man in the blue shorts did not appear. I was beginning to think I should send him a text and see—

  Then I heard it. Incoming mail.

  Subject: Video clip

  Hope this is useful. Let me know if you need anything else. Please tell Mia I’m sorry about her house.

  — Tom Delaney

  The attached MPEG file was less than two megabytes. I double clicked and it opened with no problem. The time indicator showed that the video was 58 seconds long. I was looking down Tom Delaney’s driveway toward the street. The quality was surprisingly good. Crisp. In focus. Colors were vivid.