If I Had A Nickel (Roy Ballard Mysteries Book 3)

by Ben Rehder

  “That’s a good point,” I said. “I had kind of forgotten about Nathan.”

  “We had no reason to think about him when we were looking for the coins. But now... ”

  “No, you’re right,” I said, “and that introduces a third party into the mix. It’s like that old saying: Three people can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”

  “Who said that?”

  “I did. Just now. Weren’t you listening?”

  “I mean originally, doofus.”

  “I think it was Ben Franklin. Point is, I know bribery is a big leap, but if that’s what happened, then we have to wonder if Nathan Potter was in on it. The more people involved, the harder it is to keep it from unraveling.”

  The foreigners were snapping all kinds of photos now, and taking turns posing in various pairs and groups. It was quite a production. I was noticing that, just as they hadn’t been bothered by the hike up here, they didn’t seem bothered by the heat. It was nearly five o’clock now, but the temperature was still at least 95.

  “It all sounds reasonable to me,” Mia said, “and we should at least see if we can rule it out. But how would we go about proving any of it, or even determining if it’s plausible?”

  “Like I said earlier—talk to Strauss and some of the commissioners.”

  “Just go right at ’em, huh?” Mia asked.

  “Why not? We’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “If they’ll even talk to us,” she said.

  “They will if you call. Work your magic.”

  Mia always had better results with cold calls than I did.

  “I’ll start tomorrow morning and see if I get anywhere,” she said.

  Obviously, we wouldn’t come right out and ask these people whether there was potential for corruption in their business dealings, but we could ask some general questions about the process of gaining a demolition permit for an older home. Who knew what we might learn in the process? Maybe one of the commissioners had a reputation for cozying up to developers more than he should, or for suddenly changing his mind on a particular application.

  We got up to leave, and as we walked toward the viewing pavilion, one of the foreigners, a lean man of about 65, saw us coming and asked if we would mind snapping a photo of his entire group. Mia stepped right up and took his camera from him.

  After she had taken at least a dozen photos from different angles and distances, the man walked over to get his camera and thanked us.

  Mia said, “Where are you from?”

  “A small city in northern Germany called Wilhelmshaven. It is on the North Sea, a short drive from Hamburg.”

  He spoke better English than many people I encountered on a daily basis.

  “Well, we hope you are enjoying your visit,” Mia said.

  “We certainly are. Texas is quite beautiful, and may I say, so are you.”

  “That’s very sweet of you,” Mia said. I could see that she was blushing.

  One of the women in the group called out to him in German. I couldn’t understand what she said, but it was obviously some good-natured cajoling, because several others in the group laughed. I gathered that this man was known either for being overly friendly or for flirting outrageously.

  The man ignored them and said to me, “You are a fortunate man.”

  I could feel Mia looking at me, and I knew she was smiling, enjoying the way the man had put me on the spot.

  “I sure am,” I said.

  It was true, and I needed to remember that more often, and enjoy the good moments, because my day was about to take a most unfortunate turn.

  32

  We went back to Mia’s house, where my Toyota was waiting, and after agreeing to touch base in the morning, I headed toward my apartment, driving directly into the teeth of rush-hour traffic. Loop 1 was almost at a standstill, and as I crept along, I couldn’t help ruminating about the case.

  Was the bribery idea valid? I figured it was probably as feasible as one of the Dunn kids offing their dad for the inheritance. Then there was Alicia Potter, but what was her motive? She was out of the will and had to have known that. Was she angrier about Alex Dunn’s cheating than she had ever let on? Did she kill him for revenge?

  A massive SUV was directly in front of me, obscuring my view, so I had no idea why we were all going five miles per hour. Behind me, an Audi was right on my ass, impatient as hell, as if I could go any faster or even move aside to let him pass.

  I wondered if anyone on the landmark commission would be willing to speak to us. I’m sure Ruelas and his team had already spoken to all of them. Ruelas was no super-sleuth, but surely he had explored the McMansion angle in regard to Alex Dunn’s murder. Maybe Ruelas had even speculated that bribery was involved—in which case the commissioners might be gun shy at this point.

  Now the SUV in front of me came to a complete stop. The Toyota’s air conditioner was laboring to keep the interior cool. I had a suspicion that the little car wasn’t going to last more than another year or two. Then I’d have to buy another equally nondescript back-up vehicle that nobody ever noticed. One without any discernible—

  My thoughts were interrupted by a small jolt from the rear. I looked in the mirror. Had the Audi just bumped me? Honestly, I wasn’t sure. It felt as if he had hit me. There was too much glare on the Audi’s windshield for me to see the driver’s reaction. Screw it. What did I care? If he’d bumped me, it wasn’t going to hurt the old Toyota any.

  We finally began inching forward again, and I suddenly got a wild hair and merged into the exit lane for Bee Caves Road. Some barbecue from The County Line would be nice tonight. I could get a couple of pounds of brisket and ribs to go. A pint of potato salad and a pint of beans.

  Traffic through Westlake was heavy, but not as bad as Loop 1, and soon I was moving along at a blistering 30 miles per hour. I realized the Audi was still behind me, and still tailgating. What a first-class jerk.

  By the time I reached Walsh Tarlton, the Audi had had several chances to pass me, but he hadn’t taken them.

  Weird.

  Now I was wondering: What did Garlen drive? Had Mia ever mentioned what kind of vehicle he owned?

  Just for grins, I turned right a minute later on Westlake Drive.

  The damned Audi stayed with me. This was not a coincidence.

  I could get a glimpse of the driver, but the most I could tell was that it was a male.

  I was tempted to call Mia and ask what kind of car Garlen drove, but what if it wasn’t him? I’d look like an idiot, and it would also get her worked up for the evening. She didn’t need that.

  When I reached Buckeye Trail, I turned left. The Audi followed. I drove slowly—lots of deer on this thickly wooded hillside—and the Audi stayed right on my tail. There was no question now that this person was following me. Not just following, but harassing. The only question was, was it Garlen or someone else? Who else would it be?

  I took it easy on this narrow, winding residential street, and after a few minutes, I reached Bee Caves Road again. At this intersection, when you look left, oncoming cars appear suddenly from around a tight curve. No traffic was coming right now from the left, but I waited anyway, intending to take a right. The Audi was behind me. Still I waited. The Audi honked at me. Finally, a truck came from the left. I hit the gas, taking a sharp right onto Bee Caves, with the truck zooming up behind me.

  I gunned it, gaining speed as quickly as the little Toyota would let me. It wasn’t long before I was up to 60 in a 45-mph zone. Westlake Hills cops were always patrolling this stretch of road, or sitting with radar running, but that was a chance I was willing to take.

  There were plenty of vehicles ahead of me, so I had to change lanes frequently, darting back and forth, like an obnoxious teenage driver. When I reached the intersection with Loop 360, the light was red and I had to stop behind a cluster of waiting vehicles.

  And here came the Audi. I could see him back there, four cars behind me, in the other lane. There was no way I
could outrun or outmaneuver him in the Toyota.

  I opened the glove box—just to reassure myself, I guess—and my handgun was in there. It hadn’t magically disappeared. Nobody had stolen it. It was a nine-millimeter Glock. Full magazine, empty barrel. I wasn’t crazy about driving around with it, because I didn’t have a concealed handgun license, but the laws about carrying a handgun while “traveling” were ambiguous enough that I kept one in my vehicle when I felt the need. And I’d felt the need lately, considering Garlen’s strange and aggressive behavior.

  The light changed and the traffic began to move forward slowly. The Audi switched lanes and was now three cars behind me.

  I got into the left-turn lane, and when there was a break in the traffic, I turned onto Castle Ridge Road, then swung an immediate right into the convenience store on the corner. I drove to the far side of the parking lot, away from the store and the gas pumps and waited.

  A moment later, the Audi was able to make the left off Bee Caves and, as expected, he turned into the convenience store. I didn’t budge. He pulled up behind me and the driver’s door opened.

  Out stepped Garlen.

  Of course it was Garlen. Who else was it going to be?

  He walked toward the Toyota, his hands empty—no weapons that I could see—but I sure as hell wasn’t going to get into another brawl with him here. I dropped the Toyota into gear and goosed the gas, heading for a different exit that would put me back onto Bee Caves Road. I could see in the mirror that Garlen was waving his arms and yelling at me. Then he got back into the Audi and came after me.

  Son of a bitch.

  Maybe it was time to call the cops. I had dash cams mounted front and rear—same as on the van, as well as on both of Mia’s vehicles—so I’d be able to show footage of Garlen following me, and probably bumping me on Loop 1.

  The road was divided here, so I had to go east, back toward town, but I took the first available U-turn and went west again.

  Passed the County Line. No barbecue for me.

  Passed Barton Creek Country Club Road.

  Passed Riverhills Road.

  Garlen was back there, keeping pace with me.

  Passed Cuernavaca Road.

  Three minutes later, I reached Highway 71 and turned right, heading northwest. After I passed Hamilton Pool Road, traffic began to lighten up, despite all the recent development out here in recent years.

  I was just going to drive. Hell, I didn’t have any plans. I’d go all the way to Llano if I had to. There was plenty of good barbecue out there. A nice drive through the Hill Country right before sundown.

  I passed Bee Creek Road and the highway began a long descent. This had always been a dangerous stretch, just curvy enough in some places to limit the vision of drivers pulling out from smaller roads. I was keeping it at 60 miles per hour, and now Garlen was right behind me, tailgating again.

  We crossed Bee Creek and the highway began a long ascent. We passed Bob Wire Road, RO Drive, and Crawford Road, and now the Audi was less than ten feet off my bumper. I was tempted to jam the brakes and make Garlen hit me. I figured there was a pretty good chance he’d been drinking, and having a wreck while intoxicated would result in some serious charges. But our speed was too great. One or both of us might get injured. Plus, the dash cams actually worked against that idea. I couldn’t just slam on the brakes without a good reason. It would be obvious I had caused the crash.

  We crossed the bridge over the Pedernales River and I sped up to 70. Traffic was sparse here. Surely we would pass a sheriff’s deputy or a state trooper sometime soon. The cop would see Garlen tailgating and pull him over, especially if I flashed my headlights to attract attention.

  I was starting to get seriously angry. What was Garlen thinking? What was he going to do? Try to fight me again? Was he armed? Did he consider the possibility that I might be, and that I would have solid legal grounds to defend myself?

  Without thinking it through, I hit the brakes suddenly and whipped a hard left onto Fall Creek Road. Garlen followed. I had driven this county road plenty of times. It was narrow, with lots of curves and dips, and no shoulders. Right now I was moving at 45 and that was pushing it.

  I realized it had been a stupid move to leave the highway. I couldn’t maintain a decent speed without endangering any possible oncoming traffic. I dropped down to 35.

  Garlen hit my bumper.

  I held the steering wheel tight. I wasn’t going to let another impact swerve me off the pavement.

  He bumped me again, harder this time.

  I was officially done. This was insane. Time to call for help. I grabbed my phone to dial 911, but my heart dropped when I saw that I had no signal. That left one alternative. I had to stop the car, grab the Glock, and prepare for whatever might happen next.

  I needed to find a decent place to stop—a long stretch where traffic from either direction would be able to see us. Unfortunately, the road was too curvy.

  He hit me a third time, the hardest yet, and I almost lost control. It was clear that Garlen was in a rage—the type of fury that would make him come at me even as I aimed a handgun at him. I didn’t want it to end that way, but I wasn’t going to put myself in harm’s way by hesitating to stop the threat he presented.

  I could see him dropping back, but only so he could build some space between us and gain speed to ram me again. He was ten yards behind me. Now twenty. And then he came rushing toward me, rapidly growing larger and larger in my rearview mirror.

  I couldn’t outrun him, and I couldn’t outmaneuver him, but I had an advantage. I knew this road. I knew there was a hairpin turn just ahead, almost invisible, due to the high grass on the shoulder of the road.

  Just before the nose of the Audi slammed into my bumper, there was a break in the grass and I cranked the wheel to the left, left, and left some more, practically flinging the Toyota onto Old Spicewood Road. My tires squealed for mercy, and for a brief moment, I thought the small car wasn’t going to hold the turn. I just knew I was going to flip or spin out. But the moment passed. I made it, and I hit the gas.

  I assumed Garlen—who had been accelerating to ram me—would have no choice but to miss the turn and make a U farther down the road. But the idiot was too stubborn. He tried to make the turn, and even in a car that was much more nimble and performance-oriented than mine, he was simply asking too much of it. His speed and momentum were too great.

  I was watching in the mirror—and it happened quickly.

  In the time span of half a second, the Audi came screaming around the corner, the tires began to slide on the pavement, and then they hit the grass on the side of the road. The change in surfaces—and the difference in friction—was a killer.

  The Audi began to roll.

  The driver’s-side tires rose into the air, the passenger door hit the ground, and then the car disappeared from the reflection in my mirror.

  I braked hard, came to a stop, then slammed the Toyota into reverse and screamed backward.

  I reached the spot where the Audi had left the road, and I could see it seventy feet away, on the other side of a flattened barbed-wire fence, resting upright, but with the roof crumpled.

  Stay cool. First things first.

  I checked my cell phone. Still no service.

  I killed the engine, left the Toyota parked in the road with flashers on, and began to run.

  Slowed for a moment to pick my way over the fence, then sprinted again through the grass and weeds.

  As I neared the Audi, I could see that all the windows were broken. I ran to the driver’s side and Garlen was still buckled in, slumped in the seat, unmoving.

  “Garlen!”

  Nothing. Not even a soft grunt.

  I saw no blood. No bones protruding from flesh. No obvious injuries. Didn’t necessarily mean he was going to be okay.

  I put two fingers to the side of his neck and managed to find a strong pulse.

  Best thing I could do was get him some help. The nearest house was at lea
st a hundred yards away. Then I saw his cell phone, somehow still clasped in a little mounting bracket on the dash. I leaned in and grabbed it.

  No passcode required. That was lucky.

  And the luck held when I saw that he had a different carrier—and a strong signal.

  I made the call.

  33

  “I’m sorry, Roy,” Mia said.

  “Not your fault.”

  “I should’ve known he was capable of something like that.”

  “How? How would you have known that?”

  “I just should’ve known.”

  “People can fool you,” I said.

  She didn’t answer. She hadn’t been talking much.

  We were sitting in my apartment, five hours after Garlen Gieger had flipped his car. We were on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, both of us with a longneck bottle in hand. Our second. Last we heard, Garlen was in serious but stable condition at Brackenridge Hospital. His troubles were only beginning. He’d be arrested as soon as he was fit to leave the hospital.

  Mia had had to drive out and get me, because the Blanco County deputies had impounded the Toyota, which was standard procedure. I’d get it back in a few days. I’d forgotten that the first mile or so of Fall Creek Road was in Travis County, but then it entered Blanco County. Fine by me, because I figured the case would get more attention from a smaller sheriff’s department, as well as stricter punishment from a Blanco County judge and jury, and I wanted Garlen to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. What’s more, Mia and I were both going to apply for protective orders that would prevent him from having any further contact or communication with either of us.

  I said, “I dated a girl once who hit me with a croquet mallet when I broke up with her. Before that, she was a total sweetheart. I never told you that story?”

  Mia shook her head.

  I said, “We were at a party at her friend’s house, and while we were playing croquet, she brought up the idea of moving in together. This was like the fourth time she’d suggested it, and I wasn’t going to lie or lead her on. Not only did I not want to live together, I thought it was time to split up. She totally lost it and whacked me over the head. We’re talking blood, stitches, the whole thing.” At this point, I couldn’t resist feeling for the small, lumpy scar buried in my hair on the left side of my scalp. “Sucked, because I was just about to win the tournament. I think the grand prize was a gift certificate to Bath & Body Works, and at that point in time, my supply of mango-scented body lotion was running low.”