by Ben Rehder
After a couple of hours, they turned me loose, and one of the detectives was even kind enough to give me a ride back to my apartment.
I texted Mia and let her know I was home.
She called and once again I brought her up to speed.
I knew she would have a lot of questions, and she started with, “I agree it seems likely Kiersten killed Alex Dunn, but how are they going to prove it?”
I started to answer, but then I changed my mind and said, “Hey, why don’t you drive over here and get me? I need to go somewhere, and I want you to go with me.”
“Where?”
I didn’t want to talk on the phone. I wanted her near me.
“You’ll see,” I said.
“It’s beautiful, Roy.”
We were standing beside Barton Creek. The water ran cool and clear as glass, at least five feet deep and nearly 20 feet wide from bank to bank.
“I didn’t know the place would be this heavily wooded,” I said. “It’s perfect. You can’t see or hear any of the neighbors.”
“You’re serious about buying it?” Mia said.
She was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a green T-shirt, plus a Longhorn baseball cap. She looked at home in the country. She looked at home here, on this particular piece of property.
“Now that I see it,” I said, “yeah, I think so.”
“Mind if I ask the price?”
I told her.
“Worth every dime,” she said, “and you can afford it.”
She knew exactly what I made, because we made the same amount. It wasn’t a fortune, but it had grown significantly in the past year.
We both stood quietly for several moments and just listened to the burbling of the creek and the cooing of white-winged doves in nearby oak trees.
Then I said, “Here’s my theory. Kiersten and Alex Dunn were having an affair while he was married to Alicia. She might’ve been one of several, based on what Callie and Max said about him. Sounds like he might’ve given Kiersten the impression they had some sort of future together. But then Alicia asked for a divorce, and suddenly Dunn was free to be with Kiersten—except he didn’t want anything more than what they already had. It wouldn’t surprise me if the emails between them said something to that effect, but I didn’t get a chance to read that far, because, you know, she tried to shoot me in the face.”
“The bullet probably would’ve bounced right off your forehead,” Mia said.
“Oh, stop with the sweet talk,” I said. “It’s tempting to log into Dunn’s Hushmail account again and read the rest of the emails, and the only thing stopping me is that the cops specifically told me not to, and I’d likely end up rotting in prison. I like it much better right here.”
“Me, too,” Mia said.
“After Kiersten showed me the Raleigh house, we went to dinner, and she mentioned that she’d recently had a bad breakup. I think she used the word ‘unpleasant.’ She was referring to Alex Dunn. I wish I’d figured that out earlier.”
“You had no way of knowing that. Why would you even suspect?”
“True, but she also mentioned she’d recently taken a trip to Mumbai, and that’s what Alex mentioned in the email. You know what you can buy fairly easily in India?”
“Cyanide,” Mia said.
“Exactly. Just walk into a pharmacy and buy it with cash. You don’t even have to show an ID. Crazy. I’m guessing Kiersten had been under the impression that Alex was going to marry her someday, but when they were in Mumbai, he told her that wasn’t going to happen. First she got angry, and then she got vengeful, and that’s when she decided to bring some cyanide home. Maybe she’d already decided to kill him, or maybe it started out as a fantasy that eventually became reality when she worked up the nerve.”
“Think the cops might still find traces in Kiersten’s condo?”
“Possibly. Depends on how she transported it. They’ll also be able to figure out where she and Alex stayed in Mumbai, and then they’ll ask the police over there to show Kiersten’s picture to shopkeepers in that area. If one of them remembers her buying cyanide, she’s done.”
“I’ll admit, at one point I would’ve guessed Alicia Potter was the killer,” Mia said.
“Hey, me, too.”
“Think she killed her sister?” Mia asked.
“I don’t think we’ll ever know. If Alicia had killed Alex, I would’ve been more inclined to think she also killed her sister, but now I’m guessing it was really an accident.”
Mia said, “You don’t think Kiersten arranged the bribe between Dunn and Marcus Hardy, or whoever ‘John Smith’ is?”
“I really don’t think so. The email between Dunn and Smith seemed very clear that they were the only ones in on it. Dunn might’ve met Marcus Hardy, or whoever John Smith turns out to be—”
“Has to be a council member, whether it was Hardy or one of the others who voted no on Callie’s house,” Mia said.
“Agreed,” I said. “Those emails will tell the tale, and the cops will be able to get a warrant to track John Smith’s IP address.”
Mia said, “Honestly, I’ve been wondering why Dunn even bothered with a bribe. Albert Strauss said it takes nine out of ten council members to approve an application for landmark status when the owner is fighting it, and he said that doesn’t happen often.”
“Yes, but he didn’t say it never happens. Based on what I know about Alex Dunn, he wasn’t the kind to leave anything to chance. He wanted to get at least one council member to vote his way, and he was probably relying on that member to get at least one more member to vote no. We’ll just have to wait and see what the cops find out.”
Now we turned to face each other.
I smiled at her, but I had butterflies like I’d never had before. My life was about to change. I hoped it was for the better. I hoped I wasn’t about to alienate my partner and lose my best friend. I didn’t want our relationship to be strained or compromised. But once the words left my mouth, there was no going back. I knew that. And I was moving forward. It was time.
I said, “I apologize about being a jerk.”
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Mia said.
There was no more than two feet of space between us. Her eyes were locked on mine and did not waver.
“I deserve that,” I said.
“I forgive you, in case you’re wondering,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“The situation with Garlen kind of freaked me out, to be honest,” I said. “It made me angry. I’m not talking about the car chase, I’m talking about the way he acted toward you after the break-up.”
“I know.”
“You mean the world to me, Mia. I want you to know that, in case it isn’t obvious. You are the best person I know. So generous and caring in every way. So smart and funny.”
“Roy, you don’t have to—”
“I need to get this out. Finally. You probably know it’s coming. Or maybe you have no idea. And the truth is, I’m nervous. I don’t remember ever being this nervous. But here’s the thing. I love you, Mia. I’ve loved you for a very long time. This isn’t a passing crush or some silly phase. I really do love you and I’ve come so close to telling you so many times. I don’t want to ruin everything we have right now, but I guess I’m going to have to take that risk. I can’t stand it anymore.”
What was the expression on her face? A slight smile, or a grimace of pity or embarrassment? Why was she looking at me like that? Was she going to cry?
“Oh, Roy,” she said.
“What?” I said. “Tell me.”
She placed both hands behind my neck and pulled me close. Then she began to kiss me.
42
News on the hour, every hour.
Our top story this morning—
A local real estate agent has confessed in the poisoning of software executive Alex Dunn. Kiersten Stanley was arrested early last week after a shooting at her downtown condo
involving a local videographer who was investigating the homicide. The videographer was unharmed in the incident.
According to a spokesperson with the Travis County Sheriff’s Office, Stanley admitted to purchasing the cyanide while on a trip to India with Dunn, and later replacing his heart medication with cyanide-laced capsules.
In a related story, City Council member Marcus Hardy has resigned abruptly this morning after accusations that he accepted a bribe from Alex Dunn in connection with the demolition of a historic Tarrytown home.
We’ll have more coverage of both stories as additional details emerge.
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Turn the page for an excerpt from
BUCK FEVER
BUCK FEVER
CHAPTER 1
BY THE TIME Red O’Brien finished his thirteenth beer, he could hardly see through his rifle scope. Worse yet, his partner, Billy Don Craddock, was doing a lousy job with the spotlight.
“Dammit, Billy Don, we ain’t hunting raccoons,” Red barked. “Get that light out of the trees and shine it out in the pastures where it will do me some good.”
Billy Don mumbled something unintelligible, kicked some empty beer cans around on the floorboard of Red's old Ford truck, and then belched loudly from way down deep in his three-hundred-pound frame. That was his standard rebuttal anytime Red got a little short with him. The spotlight, meanwhile, continued to illuminate the canopy of a forty-foot Spanish oak.
Red cussed him again and pulled the rifle back in the window. Every time they went on one of these poaching excursions, Red had no idea how he managed to get a clean shot. After all, poaching white-tailed deer was serious business. It called for stealth and grace, wits and guile. It had been apparent to Red for years that Billy Don came up short in all of these departments.
“Turn that friggin’ light off and hand me a beer,” Red said.
“Don't know what we’re doing out here on a night like this anyhow,” Billy Don replied as he dug into the ice chest for two fresh Keystones. “Moon ain’t up yet. All the big ones will be bedded down till it rises. Any moron knows that.”
Red started to say that Billy Don was an excellent reference for gauging what a moron may or may not know. But he thought better of it, being that Billy Don weighed roughly twice what Red did. Not to mention that Billy Don had quite a quick temper after his first twelve-pack.
“Billy Don, let me ask you something. Someone walked into your bedroom shining a light as bright as the sun in your face, what’s the first thing you’d do?”
“Guess I’d wag my pecker at ’em,” Billy Don said, smiling. He considered himself quite glib.
“Okay,” Red said patiently, “then what’s the second thing you’d do?”
“I’d get up and see what the hell’s going on.”
“Damn right!” Red said triumphantly. “Don’t matter if the bucks are bedded down or not. Just roust ’em with that light and we’ll get a shot. But remember, we won’t find any deer up in the treetops.”
Billy Don gave a short snort in reply.
Red popped the top on his new beer, revved the Ford, and started on a slow crawl down the quiet county road. Billy Don grabbed the spotlight and leaned out the window, putting some serious strain on the buttons of his overalls, as he shined the light back over the hood of the Ford to Red’s left. They had gone about half a mile when Billy Don stirred.
“Over there!”
Red stomped the brakes, causing his Keystone to spill and run down into his crotch. He didn’t even notice. Billy Don was spotlighting an oat field a hundred yards away, where two dozen deer grazed. Among them, one of the largest white-tailed bucks either of them had ever seen. “Fuck me nekkid,” Red whispered.
“Jesus, Red! Look at that monster.”
Red clumsily stuck the .270 Winchester out the window, banging the door frame and the rearview mirror in the process. The deer didn’t even look their way. Red raised the rifle and tried to sight in on the trophy buck, but the deer had other things in mind.
While all the other deer were grazing in place, the buck was loping around the oat field in fits and starts, running in circles. He bounced, he jumped, he spun. Red and Billy Don had never seen such peculiar behavior.
“Somethin’s wrong with that deer,” Billy Don said, using his keen knowledge of animal behavioral patterns.
“Bastard won’t hold still! Keep the light on him!” Red said.
“I’ve got him. Just shoot. Shoot!”
Red was about to risk a wild shot when the buck finally seemed to calm down. Rather than skipping around, it was now walking fast, with its nose low to the ground. The buck approached a large doe partially obscured behind a small cedar tree and, with little ceremony, began to mount her.
Billy Don giggled, the kind of laugh you’d expect from a schoolgirl, not a flannel-clad six-foot-six cedar-chopper. “Why, I do believe it’s true love.”
Red sensed his chance, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bellowed as orange flame leapt out of the muzzle and licked the night, and then all was quiet.
The buck, and the doe of his affections, crumpled to the ground while the other deer scattered into the brush. Seconds passed. And then, to the chagrin of the drunken poachers, the huge buck climbed to his hooves, snorted twice, and took off. The doe remained on the ground.
“Dammit, Red! You missed.”
“No way! It was a lung shot. I bet it went all the way through. Grab your wirecutters.”
Knowing that a wounded deer can run several hundred yards or more, both men staggered out of the truck, cut their way through the eight-foot deerproof fence, and proceeded over to the oat field.
Each man had a flashlight and was looking feverishly for traces of blood, when they heard a noise.
“What the hell was that?” Billy Don asked.
“Shhh.”
Then another sound. A moaning, from the wounded doe lying on the ground.
Billy Don was spooked. “That’s weird, Red. Let’s get outta here.”
Red shined his light on the wounded animal twenty yards away. “Hold on a second. What the hell’s wrong with its hide? It looks all loose and... ” He was about to approach the deer when they both heard something they’d never forget.
The doe clearly said, “Help me.”
Without saying a word, both men scrambled back toward the fence. For the first time in his life, Billy Don Craddock actually outran somebody.
Seconds later, the man in the crudely tailored deer costume could hear the tires squealing as the truck sped away.
* * *
Just as Red and Billy Don were sprinting like boot-clad track stars, a powerful man was in the middle of a phone call. Unfortunately for the man, Roy Swank, it was hard to judge his importance by looking at him. In fact, he looked a lot like your average pond frog. Round, squat body. Large, glassy eyes. Bulbous lips in front of a thick tongue. And, of course, the neck—or rather, the lack of one. It was as if his head sat directly on his sloping shoulders. His voice was his best feature, deep and charismatic.
Roy Swank had relocated to a large ranch southwest of Johnson City, Texas, five years ago, after a successful (although intentionally anonymous) career lobbying legislators in Austin. The locals who knew or cared what a lobbyist was never really figured out what Swank lobbied for. Few people ever had, because Swank was the type of lobbyist who always conducted business in the shadows of a back room, rarely putting anything down on paper. But he and the entities he represented had the kind of resources and resourcefulness that could sway votes or help introduce new legislation. So when the rumors spread about Swank’s retirement, the entire state political system took notice—although there were as many people relieved as disappointed.
After lengthy
consideration (his past had to be weighed carefully—life in a county full of political enemies might be rather difficult), Swank purchased a ten-thousand-acre ranch one hour west of Austin. Swank was actually planning on semi-retirement; the ranch was a successful cattle operation and he intended to maintain its sizable herd of Red Brangus. He had even kept the former owner on as foreman for a time.
But without the busy schedule of his previous career, Swank became restless. That is, until he rediscovered one of the great passions he enjoyed as a young adult: deer hunting. The hunting bug bit, and it bit hard. He spent the first summer on his new ranch building deer blinds, clearing brush in prime hunting areas, distributing automatic corn and protein feeders, and planting food plots such as oats and rye. It paid off the following season, as Swank harvested a beautiful twelve-point buck with a twenty-two-inch spread that tallied 133 Boone & Crockett points, the scoring standard for judging trophy bucks. Not nearly as large as the world-renowned bucks in South Texas, but a very respectable deer for the Hill Country. Several of his closest associates joined him on the ranch and had comparable success.
Swank, never one to do anything in moderation, decided that his ranch could become one of the most successful hunting operations in Texas. By importing some key breeding stock from South Texas and Mexico, and then following proper game-management techniques, Swank set out to develop a herd of whitetails as large and robust—and with the same jaw-dropping trophy antlers—as their southern brethren.
He had phenomenal success. After all, money was no object, and the laws and restrictions that regulated game importation and relocation melted away under Swank’s political clout. After four seasons, not only was his ranch (the Circle S) known throughout the state for trophy deer, he had actually started a lucrative business exporting deer to other ranches around the nation.
Swank was tucked away obliviously in his four-thousand-square-foot ranch house, on the phone to one of his most valued customers, at the same moment Red O'Brien blasted unsuccessfully at a large buck in Swank's remote southern pasture.