Bone Dry bcm-2

by Ben Rehder

  “Bert Gammel? Name’s familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  “An employee with the Public Works Department,” Garza said evenly. “He was murdered earlier this week.”

  Mameli snapped his fingers. “Dat’s right, I remember now. Poor guy. Wasn’t he shot or something? Out on a deer lease?”

  Marlin spoke up: “That’s right. Did you know him?”

  “Well, lessee. I think I mighta met him a time or two. Probably out at a work site. It’s kinda hard to remember.” Vinnie Mameli appeared in the doorway, still shirtless. His father made no move to introduce him.

  Garza said, “Do you remember having any direct dealings with him? Maybe you met with him to go over some specifics on a job?”

  Mameli leaned his head back and appeared to be thinking. “Nope. Never met with the man. Not as far as I can remember.”

  Garza asked a few more questions, and Mameli continued to answer coolly, using several I don’t knows and I can’t remembers. To Marlin, the conversation seemed almost scripted, as if Mameli had prepared for this little discussion in advance.

  Finally, Garza took a more direct approach: “Mr. Mameli, I’m going to be frank with you….”

  Mameli offered a canned smile. “By all means.”

  Vinnie Mameli strutted over to the wet bar and removed a soft drink from the small built-in refrigerator.

  Garza cleared his throat. “We found an envelope of Bert Gammel’s-and in that envelope was a large sum of cash. He had it tucked away pretty well.”

  Sal Mameli nodded and furrowed his brow. His son took a position behind the sofa. “Yeah?” Sal grunted.

  “When we find something like that in the possession of a county employee-especially a guy like Gammel, who takes bids for large construction projects-it raises a lot of questions.”

  “I’m sure it does,” Sal said. He gave a sudden raucous laugh. “Sure glad I never met wit’ the guy, otherwise I’d think youse was lookin’ at me for dis.” It was a comment intended to elicit a response from Garza, maybe a No, Mr. Mameli, that’s not the case. But Garza remained silent. Mameli looked from Garza to Marlin, then back to Garza. “Oh, you gotta be kiddin’ me.”

  “What’s going on here, Pop?” Vinnie asked.

  Mameli held up a hand to silence the boy. He sneered at Garza. “Where the fuck do you get off, comin’ in here with bullshit like dat?”

  Garza remained unruffled. “Can you tell us why we found your fingerprints on that envelope?”

  Mameli waved his hand dismissively, as if he were making a backhanded swat at a mosquito. “Dat’s it, I want you outta my house!”

  “Mr. Mameli,” Garza said quietly, “if there’s an explanation, we’d like to hear it.”

  Vinnie walked around the sofa and stood to the side of Marlin’s chair.

  “Outta here, I said!” Mameli shouted. “You got any more goddamn questions, you can ask my lawyer! I got nothin’ more to say!”

  Garza didn’t move. “How well did you know Emmett Slaton?” he asked.

  Mameli’s face contorted in rage, but before he could answer, Vinnie spoke up harshly. “You got a lot of balls, you know that? Now it’s time for both of youse to leave.”

  Marlin’s head snapped toward Vinnie and they locked eyes. Marlin could feel the anger boiling in his chest. Earlier, when Inga had told Marlin about the attempted rape, she’d told him everything the attacker had said. And one phrase matched what Vinnie had just said. Word for word: You got a lot of balls, you know that?

  Marlin rose slowly, flexing his hands to keep from clenching them into fists. He faced Vinnie, their noses six inches apart. “What did you just say?”

  Vinnie stood his ground, a chiding smile on his lips. “I said it was time for youse to leave. Otherwise, you’re trespassing, and I got every right to throw you out.”

  Marlin could feel a spasm ripple across his cheek. He wanted nothing more than to drive his fist into Vinnie’s mocking face-and he slowly, discreetly drew his arm back to throw a punch.

  It had been a long night. Smedley’s bones and joints burned. He was hungry. He had to go to the bathroom. And both his captors could benefit from switching to a new brand of deodorant. But the thing that bothered him most was the fact that GQ Todd would have a field day when he found out about all this. Smedley Allen Poindexter, U.S. Deputy Marshal, had been bushwhacked by a couple of rednecks.

  Now it was obvious these guys weren’t hit men any more than Smedley was a fashion model. The shorter, skinny one-named Red, if they were using their real names-had told Smedley they were employees of Emmett Slaton’s, and they needed to find the body so the will could be read. I promise, just tell us where the body is. We’ll let ya go and won’t never say how we found it. Ya got my word. Sounded legitimate to Smedley. Unfortunately, Smedley didn’t have the answer. And it was obvious that Red was starting to lose patience. He had taken off in a huff earlier, leaving the big guy, Billy Don, in charge. Maybe Red wasn’t a hit man, but he didn’t necessarily seem like a choirboy, either. Who knew what he might do?

  Smedley cursed himself for thinking that thought, because he heard Red’s truck pull up outside-almost as if the redneck had been drawn back to the trailer by Smedley’s ruminations. The truck door slammed, and a moment later Red stomped into the room, moving quickly and deliberately. He was carrying what looked like a DVD player, which he set on one of the desks. The big guy-Billy Don-followed with a large TV set. They started hooking the two components together.

  Red glared at Smedley as he fumbled with some cables. “We got a sayin’ out here in the country, mister. ‘If you cain’t run with the big dogs, you better stay on the porch.’ Well, bubba, get ready, ’cause we’re ’bout to find out if you’re a big dog or a little dog.”

  After Red and Billy Don had the electronics in place, they grabbed a chair from one of the desks and hoisted Smedley into it, three feet from the television. Red produced another roll of duct tape and made several loops around Smedley’s torso and legs, securing him to the chair. Then he slipped some headphones over Smedley’s ears and ran a few lengths of tape under his chin and over the crown of his head. Lastly, he placed one long strip over Smedley’s mouth.

  Red stepped back and smiled at his handiwork. “Yessir, we’re gonna find out ’zackly what kind of man you are.” He turned and pushed the POWER button on the DVD. A freeze-frame image came onto the TV screen, one Smedley instantly recognized, even though he hadn’t seen it for at least twenty years. It was a scene from Hee Haw-a couple of hicks dressed in overalls, preparing to sing a song.

  Red gave Smedley one last glance, a look of pure evil on his face. Then he pushed the PLAY button. The bumpkins on the screen began their little ditty.

  “Where, oh where, are you tonight?”

  Smedley thought this was very strange.

  “Why did you leave me here all alone?”

  Why on earth were they showing him this old clip?

  “I searched the world over and thought I’d found true love.”

  Hell, watching Hee Haw would be better than enduring Red’s questions for another eight agonizing hours.

  “You met another and-pffft-you was gone.”

  Might be kind of fun, actually. A way to break up the tedium.

  Then something happened to the image on the screen. It froze for a moment, then returned to the starting point. The two men began singing again, wailing about lost love.

  Smedley was hoping it was a malfunction with the DVD…but it happened again. The song ended, the disc backed up, then began again.

  And again.

  “Whaddaya think?” Billy Don asked.

  Red removed his baseball cap and scratched his head. He could see Smedley reclining in the chair in the next room. “Hell, it should work. The CIA boys use this kind of technique all the time. Gets so where a song-even a great song like that one-can plumb drive a man crazy.”

  Just as Marlin was about to come around with a surprise haymaker, he felt Bobby Garza
’s hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go, John.” Marlin stood firmly for a moment, locking eyes with Vinnie, then allowed Garza to steer him out of the door to the den and down the hallway.

  Outside, back in the cruiser, Garza asked, “What the hell was that all about? Some bad blood between you and that kid?”

  Marlin asked Garza if he had heard about the assault on Inga earlier that morning. Garza had, of course, but he wasn’t clear on the specifics since he hadn’t seen the report yet.

  Marlin said, “The guy that attacked Inga. He used the exact same phrase as our friend Vinnie in there: ‘You got a lot of balls.’”

  “You sure about that?”

  Marlin gave him a look that said he was sure. “You ever hear anybody using that phrase around here?”

  Garza didn’t answer, just fired up the cruiser and left the Mameli property. Finally, he said, “You and this Inga…?”

  Marlin knew what Garza was asking. “Just friends.”

  Someone other than Garza might have given Marlin a smirk, a Come on, you can tell me look, but the sheriff concentrated on the road ahead. “Didn’t the perp take a pretty good whack in the head, with a lamp or something?”

  Marlin nodded. “Yes, but he was wearing a ski mask, which might’ve softened the blow a little, or at least kept him from getting cut. Could’ve walked out of there with nothing more than a lump.”

  Garza pointed toward the glove compartment. “Notepad in there. You better start writing an incident report. Jot down everything the Mamelis said. The entire conversation.”

  Sal turned to Vinnie and growled, “They got nothin’ on us, right?” His son nodded at him.

  “That’s right, Pop. They got dick.”

  Sal trusted Vinnie, but this was no small thing. “You sure of dat? I mean abso-fuckin’-lutely, we’re not all going to prison for life sure?”

  Vinnie smiled-a killer’s smile, like the one Sal used to have when he was young. “Yeah, Pop. If you only knew what-”

  “I don’t wanna hear it! Just so long as everything’s taken care of.”

  “We got nothing to worry about, Pop. Trust me.”

  Sal wanted to. But what made him nervous was that he had to.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Hank Middleton had been hunting buddies with Frank Ross for twenty-five years. They were so inseparable during deer season, their names would run together when people referred to them. It would be: “I hear Hankenfrank got a nice ten-pointer this morning.” Or, “Looks like Hankenfrank are gonna win the big-buck contest again this year.” And it was true-not a season went by that one of them didn’t bag a fairly respectable trophy, and they always hauled the deer back to Frank’s house on the ATV. Hank knew every detail of that four-wheeler, from the dent in the gas tank down to the Dallas Cowboys sticker on the left rear mudguard. Now, as he exited the convenience store in Johnson City with a twelve-pack of Miller Lite, Hank saw a stranger at the gas pumps refueling Frank’s ATV. A scruffy-looking guy, who kept glancing around nervously. The man was wearing a camo jacket, but it didn’t sit on him right. Like one of those city boys who would come out to a deer lease and try to act country. Sizing him up a little more, Hank figured this guy wasn’t anybody that Frank would associate with. No sir.

  So he sauntered casually over to the pumps and said, “Howdy.”

  The man smiled back. He had finished with the ATV and was now filling a one-gallon gas can.

  “Nice-looking ATV you got there,” Hank said.

  “Thank you,” the scruffy guy murmured, watching the traffic pass on Highway 281.

  “Funny thing is,” Hank continued, “it looks just like the one my friend Frank owns. You got any idear why that is?”

  The man bobbed his head several times, without making eye contact. “I purchased this vehicle from Frank just this morning. I can understand your confusion.”

  Hank was stunned for a moment. Frank hadn’t said anything about selling his ATV-and Hank told the stranger as much.

  “It was a spontaneous transaction on his part,” the stranger said. “I happened to see him riding it and realized it was the exact model I’ve been looking for. I made an offer that your friend was generous enough to accept.”

  Now Hank was pretty certain something squirrelly was going on. He and Frank had bagged an eight-pointer on Thursday evening, and had celebrated by drinking late into the night at Frank’s place. Hank hadn’t seen Frank since then, because Frank had to work this weekend. That meant Frank would have been out at the job site since sunup this morning, installing some cabinets. He wouldn’t have been out riding his ATV.

  Hank wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t the type for confrontation, but he couldn’t just let the guy go without checking it out, could he? “You happen to have the title on ya? Maybe a receipt?” Hank asked.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” The stranger lifted the gas nozzle out of the can and went to place it back into the slot in the pump. That’s when his sleeve slid down far enough for Hank to see the handcuff on his wrist. In an instant, Hank knew exactly who this guy was: the fellow who had escaped from John Marlin, the game warden.

  The men locked eyes for a moment, both of them knowing the pretense was over. Hank was about to make a lunge for the keys in the ignition, when the stranger aimed the nozzle at Hank and hosed his chest down with gas. Hank dropped his twelve-pack onto the concrete.

  “I advise you to remain quite civil,” the stranger said. In his hand he now held a disposable lighter. “At least until I’ve made my departure.”

  Hank suddenly realized that Frank’s ATV wasn’t really that important. They could haul deer just as easily in the back of Hank’s truck. Hell, if Frank was caught in the same situation, Hank would say, Man, just let it go.

  “Kindly take a few steps back,” the stranger said.

  Hank did what he was told, keeping an eye on the lighter.

  The scruffy guy strapped the gas can to the back of the ATV and straddled the seat. He turned the key and the motor sputtered to life.

  “Please tell your friend I apologize for any inconvenience,” the stranger said. Then he put the ATV in gear and roared out of the parking lot.

  “What next? Maynard Clements’s place?”

  Garza nodded. “I guess so. Until we can find a way to get at Mameli. It’s gonna be tough if we have to go through his lawyer.”

  Garza proceeded down Ladybird Lane and came to a wood-and-stone entry way that said RANCHER’S ESTATES. They found Maynard’s place-a well-kept home on Pitchfork Lane-and pulled in behind Clements’s dusty brown Jeep Cherokee. Maynard answered the door wearing sweatpants and a Texas A amp;M T-shirt.

  “Hey, guys,” Maynard said. “What are y’all doing here?” Before they could answer, he gestured over his shoulder. “Game’s about to start. Come on in.”

  Marlin and Garza followed Maynard in and took a seat on a vinyl sofa, while Maynard sank back into a worn recliner. Next to the recliner, a pitcher of orange juice and a large Big Gulp cup sat on a small table. Marlin thought he could smell some kind of liquor. Not even noon yet.

  “Playing Oklahoma State today,” Maynard said. “Should be a good one. Can I get y’all anything?”

  “No, that’s all right, Maynard,” Marlin said. “Sorry to interrupt….”

  “Aw, no big deal. It’s nice to have company.” He looked at them suspiciously. “Y’all are Aggie fans, ain’t ya?”

  On the screen, the Aggie band built to a crescendo as A amp;M kicked off.

  “I just wanted to talk to you a little bit more about Bert Gammel,” Marlin said.

  Maynard turned the volume down a tad, but kept his eyes on the set. “Figured as much, but I’m not sure what else I can tell ya.”

  “Well,” Garza chimed in, “we were just wondering what you know about Salvatore Mameli. I believe he’s had some dealings with your department.”

  “Oh, sure, I know Sal,” Maynard said. “Nice guy-for a Yankee.” Maynard chuckled, then got distracted by the h
appenings on the field. “Aw, damn! What the hell was the defensive end doing on that play? You see him miss that tackle?”

  Oklahoma State was marching downfield.

  “You ever know Mameli to do anything dishonest, like maybe try to pass some cash under the table?” Garza asked.

  Maynard shook his head, but remained focused on the game. “Hate to shoot you down, but me and John been through this already. Seriously, that kinda thing just doesn’t go on out here. At least not in my experience. I can’t speak for Bert, but he was about as honest as they come. I’m tellin’ ya, there ain’t no way he’d take a bribe. And if someone offered one, he’d tell me about it. I guarantee it.”

  Garza and Marlin both asked a few more questions, but discovered nothing new. Finally Marlin described finding Gammel’s cash supply in the deer feeder.

  “Well, yeah,” Clements said, “that does seem like a strange place to keep your cash, but that doesn’t mean it was dirty money.”

  “No, I guess you’re right,” Garza said. “The odd thing was, we found your fingerprints on the envelope.”

  Maynard narrowed his eyes, but didn’t seem rattled. “What kinda envelope?”

  “Standard manila.”

  The project manager smiled. “Like you’d find in an office, I guess?”

  Marlin nodded.

  Maynard stood and walked over to a small hutch that was buried with paperwork. He extracted several manila envelopes from the pile. “Look like these?”

  Marlin said that it did.

  “Come on down to my office if you want. We got hundreds of these lying around. Betcha that’s where Bert got it. Hell, he mighta grabbed one off my desk.”

  Garza stood. “Yeah, that’s what we were thinking, Maynard. Just had to check it out.”

  But Clements wasn’t listening. The Oklahoma State quarterback had found a wide-open receiver in the end zone. Clements groaned and let loose with a string of profanities. He grinned at the two men. “Could be another rebuilding year, I guess.”

  “He seem nervous at all to you?” Garza asked, back in the cruiser.