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

by Ben Rehder

  On my way.

  We did have bourbon, and we fooled around a lot, and at nine-thirty, we had food delivered from an Indian place a few blocks away. I tried not to think about anything, especially Mia, who still hadn’t responded to my apologies.

  At one point, Kiersten, lying by my side, said, “You’re kind of quiet tonight.”

  “Busy having sex with a beautiful woman,” I said.

  “Don’t let me catch you with her,” she said.

  I laughed and said no more, but I could feel her looking at me. So I said, “Just a little preoccupied, I guess, but it’s all good.” Then I told her about the acreage I was considering. Using it as an excuse for my subdued mood.

  She asked some questions about the property, and I answered them, and during a lull, she drifted off sometime around midnight.

  As hangovers go, this one was about a six on a ten-scale. Not horrible, but my head ached and my mouth was dry. I’m sure my breath was horrible. No problem, because Kiersten was still asleep, what with it being 5:47 a.m. I reached over to the nightstand and grabbed my phone.

  Still nothing from Mia.

  This was unusual for her. She is typically an extremely forgiving person, an example being her willingness to speak to Garlen on the phone yesterday morning.

  I lay quietly and listened to the gentle hiss of the air conditioner through the filter in the return vent. There was surely traffic on the downtown streets below by now, but I couldn’t hear any of it.

  Mia would forgive me. I knew that. But it left a hollow place in my gut to know she was that upset with me. I felt ashamed for trying to coerce her to behave the way I wanted her to behave. Not only was it overbearing, it was unnecessary. She is one of the strongest people I know. She would not be a victim.

  5:51.

  Kiersten stirred beside me, but she didn’t wake up.

  In hindsight, it seemed like a fairly normal morning. Well, not that I routinely wake up beside a beautiful woman who might be involved in a bribery scheme, or that I wake up with a hangover, or even that I wake up hoping I can set things right with my partner, because I screwed up the day before. In all other aspects, though, it was normal.

  Until, at 6:02, I had one of those oh-so-rare moments when a memory that had been dancing just out of reach suddenly presents itself.

  All I was doing was lying there, and it came to me.

  Timberline.

  Now I knew why that street name had lodged in my mind two days earlier.

  The name itself was unimportant.

  But it intersected with nine other streets, and now I remembered that one of them was called Riley.

  I texted Mia.

  You awake?

  She was an early riser.

  Need your help.

  She often worked out—Krav Maga or jogging—well before sunrise.

  I think I know the meaning of Riley.

  Maybe she was taking a shower or getting a cup of coffee or still sleeping. Or ignoring me.

  Need you to do a search.

  My phone was oftentimes useful, but it wouldn’t be ideal for what I needed now.

  Need to know if Dunn ever lived on Riley.

  Finally, she replied.

  Hang on.

  She’d know where to search. The tax rolls wouldn’t work. If Alex Dunn ever lived on Riley, it could have been decades ago. Even a general Google search probably wouldn’t pan out.

  6:14. Still no word from Mia, but I wasn’t going to push her. I was just glad we were communicating. If I were searching, I’d check newspaper databases. Kiersten was still sleeping soundly.

  At 6:19, Mia sent another message: He lived on Riley in 1985.

  Yes! Maybe this hunch was going somewhere.

  Then: Found his address in a letter to the editor.

  Great luck that the Austin American-Statesman used to put addresses with letters. Nowadays they’d probably get sued for it.

  She sent the numbers: 707.

  I said: Thank you. Stay tuned.

  My theory was that Dunn used the name of his old street as a prompter for his password, which was the numerical address, plus the numeral 2, since the bookmark had been “Riley2.” What better way to remember a password without having to write it down anywhere? Most of us could remember all of our different mailing addresses going back to childhood.

  That’s all it was right now—a theory.

  I surfed to the log-in page for Hushmail and entered Alex Dunn’s email address, which I already knew. Then I entered 7072 in the passphrase field.

  I held my breath and hit return.

  Sorry, we don’t recognize that passphrase.

  Well, crap. What a disappointment. I had been convinced my theory was going to work.

  What the hell else could “riley2” mean?

  Maybe it was because of my hangover, but it took me a solid minute to figure it out.

  I typed again, but this time I entered 707707, operating on the revised theory that “riley2” meant the street address, 707, two times in a row, rather than with a 2 after it.

  I hit enter—and without any further complications, I had access to Alex Dunn’s secret email account.

  40

  I was too excited to stay in bed, so I slipped quietly out from under the covers, closed the bedroom door behind me, and went into the living room.

  As soon as I sat down, I texted Mia: We’re in. It worked.

  I was hoping she’d call me immediately, but my phone didn’t ring. Damn, she really was pissed at me. Not even a huge potential breakthrough was enough for her to set it aside for the time being.

  I would have to worry about that later and focus on the task at hand for now. Like most email accounts, Dunn’s Hushmail account had an inbox, plus several other boxes, such as sent mail, drafts, and trash.

  The inbox had exactly one email in it—from a person named John Smith, who had a Gmail address that was his name with six numbers after it. Or her name. Couldn’t assume it was a man, because this was obviously a fake name with a throwaway email account. The email was dated three days before Dunn’s death. The subject field was blank.

  I opened it and saw the most recent message from John Smith to Alex Dunn. It was just one word:

  Agreed.

  Below that, Alex Dunn had said:

  You have my word. If they ever tell you I’m talking, they are lying. Now I’m going to delete this email account. You should do the same. No more contact. Agreed?

  Oh, I liked the sound of this. Innocent people don’t talk about deleting email accounts and cutting off contact.

  In order to read the conversation in chronological order, I started at the bottom and read upward. The long exchange had started more than a year ago.

  John Smith: It’s time for the second installment. Meet at the place we discussed?

  Alex Dunn: Yes. Always the same place. Wednesday at noon. Be discreet.

  John Smith: Of course I will, but I can’t make it until four that afternoon.

  Alex Dunn: Fine. I’ll be there at four.

  Then, a month later...

  John Smith: First of the month again. Same time?

  Alex Dunn: If you mean four o’clock, that works for me.

  John Smith: Yes. See you there.

  And another month later...

  John Smith: Third installment. Same time—four?

  Alex Dunn: Can you do it on Friday instead?

  John Smith: If we do it in the morning. Anytime works.

  Alex Dunn: Ten?

  John Smith: Yes. See you then.

  I was wide awake now, and my hangover was a distant memory. I was looking at pure gold. This was the break Mia and I had been searching for. Of course, there was still work to be done, because I couldn’t determine who “John Smith” was based solely on these messages. I’d guess it was Marcus Hardy, but guesses weren’t good enough in court.

  Both parties had obviously opened throwaway email accounts for the sole purpose of communicating secretly. T
hey exchanged brief messages every month to arrange a meeting when another “installment” was due. Sometimes they had to change the day or time because it was difficult for two busy people to mesh their full schedules.

  After their seventh meeting, there was some paranoia.

  John Smith: Did you see that dark sedan when you left?

  Alex Dunn: The Crown Victoria?

  John Smith: I’m not a car guy. It was parked in the lot near the volleyball courts. There were only a few other cars out there. It was navy blue.

  Alex Dunn: I saw it when I first got there. It was empty then and empty when I left. Nothing to worry about.

  John Smith: I hope not.

  The last part of the conversation occurred the week before Alex Dunn died.

  John Smith: Final installment. Tomorrow at four?

  Alex Dunn: Yes.

  Then a day later...

  Alex Dunn: I guess we’re all done now. Remember, as long as both of us keep our mouths shut, there will never be a problem. Nobody can prove anything.

  John Smith: I know, and I will never talk. That has to go both ways.

  Alex Dunn: You have my word. If they ever tell you I’m talking, they are lying. Now I’m going to delete this email account. You should do the same. No more contact. Agreed?

  John Smith: Agreed.

  And that was it. The end of their communication.

  Alex Dunn had never deleted his account. Maybe he simply forgot. Or maybe he wanted to be prepared if this John Smith blamed everything on Dunn at a later date.

  My mind doesn’t spin often, but it was spinning right now. Did John Smith kill Alex Dunn to make sure the conspiracy was never uncovered? Or was the bribery unrelated to his homicide? What were the odds that three different crimes had occurred—the theft of the coin collection, the bribery, and the homicide? One thing seemed certain: Alex Dunn had bribed John Smith directly, with no middleman.

  “Wow, that is an intense look on your face,” Kiersten said.

  I jumped. She had come out of the bedroom, but I’d been so focused, I hadn’t heard her coming.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey. How long have you been up?” Her voice was raspy. She was wearing a robe.

  “Maybe thirty minutes.”

  “You look pretty chipper considering how much bourbon we drank last night,” she said.

  “I think I just broke the Alex Dunn case,” I said. I was so excited, I had to tell her.

  She looked confused. “I thought you already figured that out. You found the coins in Callie’s pump house.”

  “I’m talking about the murder,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “You know who killed him?”

  “Not yet, but I think I’m on the right track. I found Dunn’s secret email account and just started digging into it.”

  “That’s great.” She cupped her forehead with both hands.

  “You okay?” I said.

  “I’m a lightweight,” she said. “I don’t feel good at all. My head is pounding.”

  “You want some aspirin? Then some breakfast?”

  “How about if we just start with coffee?”

  “Sure thing. Where is it?”

  “The coffeemaker is already loaded. Just flip the switch.”

  “How do you want it?”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “Black is fine.”

  I could tell she really felt lousy. My fault for being a bad influence.

  “Be right back,” I said.

  “I’m going back to bed,” she said.

  I went into the kitchen and got the coffee going. While I waited, I pulled out my phone again and went back to Alex Dunn’s Hushmail account.

  I checked the box for trash and saw that it was empty. It probably emptied automatically every week or month, based on Dunn’s preferences.

  I checked the box for drafts and it was also empty.

  I checked the box for sent mail and it had quite a few emails in it, because every time Dunn had replied to John Smith, a new sent mail had been created. I scrolled downward, and downward still, and then I stopped, because I saw something that simply didn’t fit.

  There was an email from Alex Dunn to Kiersten.

  The subject line was simply I’m sorry.

  I stared at the screen for a long moment. I didn’t want to click the link. Whatever I was about to learn was not going to be good, I knew that. What was Alex Dunn sorry about?

  What I didn’t know at this moment was that Kiersten was in her walk-in closet, opening a fireproof lockbox she used to store important paperwork, along with jewelry and other valuables. But she was nervous and emotional, and she was fumbling with the dials.

  I opened the email and began to read the message from Alex Dunn to Kiersten.

  K, quite honestly, I can’t understand why you became so angry in Mumbai. All I did was tell you the truth. If I had previously given you the impression that our relationship was anything more than it was, I apologize. That was never my intention and I thought that was clear. After the way things went with Alicia, I decided it was time for me to take some time to—

  “Stop.”

  I twitched again. Kiersten was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She was aiming a small handgun at me.

  I lowered my phone. I said, “Oh, come on. I wasn’t that bad in bed last night.”

  It wasn’t my best line, but I figured it was never smart to say, “What’re you gonna do? Shoot me?”

  Kiersten didn’t respond, except that she was beginning to cry. The gun was a small, black semi-automatic, probably a .32 or a .380. Not a huge caliber, but deadly nonetheless. What gun wasn’t?

  “So you and Alex, huh?” I said. “I never saw that coming.”

  Kiersten still didn’t speak. She was working up the nerve to do it. And there was a good chance the neighbors wouldn’t even hear the shot.

  “Sounds like he jerked you around,” I said. “That wasn’t cool. I can understand why it made you mad.”

  “Don’t, Roy,” she said. “Just don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  She shook her head.

  The entryway to the galley kitchen was no more than four feet wide. I was boxed in. Trapped.

  “Think this through, Kiersten,” I said. “You had a relationship with Alex Dunn, but so what? If you did something to him, they’ll never be able to prove it. Why make it worse by doing something stupid now?”

  It was a lie. I was guessing Alex Dunn and Kiersten had taken steps to keep their affair a secret. But once the cops started focusing on Kiersten as a suspect, they’d find something. They’d keep digging until they had a case.

  “Get yourself a good attorney and you’ll be fine,” I said.

  Kiersten was too smart to buy it. She raised the gun higher and sighted down the barrel, leveling it right at my face.

  “How will you get me out of here, Kiersten?” I said. “There are security cameras all over the building. Mia knows where I am right now.”

  Weak argument. Kiersten had plenty of money. She could be on an international flight in a few hours. She could leave me right where I fell and just take off.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, beginning to sob now. “I have to.”

  I stood perfectly still. Perfectly silent. A long moment passed.

  Then I dropped straight downward, and before I hit the floor, she pulled the trigger. The shot was even louder than I’d expected in such a small space.

  If the bullet hit me, I didn’t feel it.

  I scrambled to my feet, staying low, and rushed her.

  She shrieked and extended the gun again, but before she could shoot a second time, I hit her around the midsection, wrapping her up and driving her backward, and we landed hard on the carpet behind her.

  I don’t know where the gun went, but she no longer had it.

  I grabbed her wrists and held tight, but she wasn’t struggling. The fight was gone. She’d given up. It was
all over.

  41

  I spoke to her afterwards, of course, but she wouldn’t reply. I’m not sure she was able. She seemed to have gone into a catatonia or some sort of shock. She simply sat with a glazed expression on her face, staring forward.

  Then I called 911, reported the attempted murder, and made sure to stress that everything was under control and there was no need to enter with guns drawn. A uniformed officer showed first, followed by a pair of detectives, and then we all took a ride to APD headquarters. Forensic technicians would process the condo and gather evidence to build a case against Kiersten.

  While I waited in an interview room, I texted Mia.

  Kiersten tried to shoot me about 30 minutes ago. This is not a joke. I think she killed Dunn.

  My phone rang immediately.

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  So I gave her the story as quickly as possible, knowing a couple of detectives were going to walk through the door at any minute and I would have to hang up. I managed to cover the high points in about four minutes.

  When I was done, Mia’s first remark was, “Roy, I am so glad you’re okay.”

  She was saying that a lot lately.

  “Thanks. Me, too.”

  She said, “Maybe both of us should just give up on dating altogether.”

  I could only laugh, and then I was suddenly overcome with emotion.

  “Mia... ” I said.

  “What?”

  The door to the interview room swung open. “I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

  I told them everything that had happened in Kiersten’s condo, in painstaking detail, several times, along with everything else I’d learned that morning about Alex Dunn and John Smith. They grilled me hard for inconsistencies, but that was their job. They couldn’t just take my word for the truth.

  For all they knew, I’d been threatening or assaulting Kiersten, and she pulled the gun in self-defense. She might even make that very claim, if and when she spoke to them. But the evidence would back me up. It was her gun. They’d find powder residue on her hands. They’d find an unlocked fireproof box in her bedroom, indicating that she had gone in there to retrieve the gun while I was in the kitchen. And the crime scene itself would tell the story. I had been trapped in a small space, with nowhere to go, when she’d fired.