Here Comes the Night

by Linda McDonald

  The old geezer at the register even looked like his dad. Gnarly hands, cigarette hanging from his lips, like there wasn’t any law against it. “That’s $9.62 on the gas. Anything else? Got fresh cinnamon rolls.” He didn’t seem to care either way.

  “You got beer?” Tony asked.

  The old man sized him up a moment. “In the case back there.” He motioned his head toward the other side of the table area.

  A small television with a smeared screen was giving the local news. As Tony opened the door to the refrigerated case, a reporter start talking.

  One of the locals said, “Shh, guys, here it is.” Tony grabbed a longneck and turned around to see the screen.

  Some guy standing in front of University Hospital had a microphone in his hand. “Doctors here say that barrel racing champion Candy Myers is still in serious, but no longer critical condition, after being struck by a car last night while riding horses with her fiancé near the family ranch.”

  Tony’s eyes darted around the room, wondering if anybody was eyeballing him. But the locals were busy watching the t.v. They responded with quick little cheers, obviously pleased with the news.

  “Turn it up,” somebody said.

  The local anchor piped in with, “Thanks for that report, Bob. And now we go to Tammy Willis at the Oklahoma City Police Department. What have you got, Tammy?”

  Tammy looked like someone who regularly did fluff pieces about runaway dogs who sniffed their way back home, but this morning her demeanor was serious. “Thanks, Linda. Police here aren’t saying much about the Ford Mustang found several miles from the scene of the accident, but KOCO has confirmed that they are testing it for hair and blood samples. The most shocking news here is that the owner of the car has been identified as Buck Dearmore, former O.U. football star and runner up for the Heisman Trophy.”

  Tony opened his beer and took a big chug.

  “Locals are stunned,” Tammy continued, “with this development. And we found out just minutes ago that Dearmore, the alleged driver of the car, has been arrested and is now being questioned by Oklahoma City detectives.”

  Tony made a fist and whispered a “yes” to himself. Tammy droned on as the coffee drinkers shook their heads and debated whether it was possible that Buck was involved. But Tony had heard all he needed to.

  At checkout, Tony got a buzz giving the old geezer the C-note for his relatively small purchase. The owner’s chin fell. “Don’t you got anything smaller?”

  “Sure don’t,” Tony said with a smile.

  “Man, you’re going to clean out my bank here before I’m even open.”

  “You can give it to me for free,” Tony said. No answer. He got all tens and fives as his change. No thanks for the purchase.

  Tony relished this turn of events. He had already checked in with his P.O. so he wasn’t in violation. He had a fast bike to get him out of state. Maybe he could even find a new license tag for it if he came across another bike somewhere. And the cops weren’t looking at him for the accident. He’d be two states away before they had a clue.

  Tony mounted his bike, chugged the rest of his beer and tossed the long neck bottle behind him. It hit the wall with a clatter. The quick ingestion of the alcohol, making the old fart change his hundred, then Tammy’s news put him in a great mood. That was all he had ever asked for, the occasional break.

  The sky was mushy with early morning grays, but the clouds were clipping along like the relentless winds of the Oklahoma plains. It was his day, when things would turn around for him.

  But even Tony was unprepared for the good fortune ahead when he looked east, down the two lane highway. Coming his way, headed toward Oklahoma City, was a 45-foot Safari motor home, towing a gold Porsche. And he knew the bastard who was driving it.

  Chapter 71

  Inside the station, Edgars and Horse sat down with Indigo to discuss Gordon’s will and insurance policies. She had spread legal forms out over the interview table.

  “There’s a lot of stuff here that’s more than curious,” Indigo began.

  “Like what?” Horse asked.

  “Well, first, the insurance policies are all up to date, but he changed the beneficiary just last week,” Indigo said.

  Edgars perked up. “From who to who?”

  “From his wife to his daughter. You can see the e-form confirmation.”

  “His wife didn’t mention a daughter.” Edgars flipped through the forms and shrugged. “Who is she?”

  “I haven’t met her myself. Mr. Wesner was arranging a sitdown to meet her when he died.” Indigo pulled out a copy of Wesner’s will. “And this is even spookier. A new will. He only signed it on Thursday morning, the day before he died.”

  “Has he got ESP or something?” Horse asked.

  “Hardly. More a ruthless pragmatist than ethereal. But he was going to meet his daughter for the first time this next week. He wanted the new will in hand when that happened.”

  Edgars was not completely convinced. “Why would he leave everything to someone he’d never even seen?”

  “Blood, I guess. In my experience it can have a powerful effect.” Indigo sat back and waited for their questions.

  Edgars fingered his lip. “There was something…” Then it came to him. “Oh yeah, he left a note in his desk. ‘Make appointment to see D.’ That’s a capital ‘D.’ That was about his newfound daughter.”

  Horse nodded in agreement. “So the next obvious question, does the wife know about any of this?”

  “I doubt it,” Indigo said. “While he was dictating the will, he as much as told me he couldn’t trust her anymore.”

  “Playing around?”

  “He wasn’t specific.”

  “Man, I wish we had those safe contents,” Edgars said. “What got him interested in finding the daughter anyway?”

  “Other way around. She found him,” Indigo said. “Through some kind of internet place, I think. He didn’t know she existed until he got a letter a while back. Of course he scoffed at first, but surprise, surprise, it checked out. Some ancient fling.”

  “How would you describe his state of mind last time you saw him?” Horse asked.

  “Certainly not suicidal, if that’s what you’re asking. Look, I was one of the few fans Mr. Wesner had. Granted, he was a complicated, difficult, even grating sort of man at times. Not the happiest. But this new development? Finding this child when he didn’t think he had any? Believe me, he could not wait to meet her.”

  Edgars cell phone buzzed. “Edgars.” He listened a moment, then, “Be right there.” He looked over at Horse. “It’s the lab. They’ve got the labs from the Mustang.”

  They quickly made arrangements to copy Wesner’s documents and thanked Indigo. Then they headed down to the CSU lab.

  In the elevator, Horse said, “I get the idea his lawyer isn’t heartbroken about the wife getting cut out.”

  “Yeah,” Edgars agreed, “but I can’t tell if she’s got her own dog in this fight or not. The lawyer, that is.”

  “She’s a pretty cool cookie,” Horse agreed.

  Max Gholston ran his Trace Evidence lab like a titan, and his favorite task was parsing out pertinent information at the rate that pleased him. An enormous slob in perpetual suits of what Edgars dubbed turd brown, his minute work was, nevertheless, always precise and accurate, even with his log-like fingers. The secret, as he was fond of showing to people, was a specially designed set of tools and custom made clamps.

  Max waited with heavy lids and a sly smile as the detectives entered his domain. “Afternoon, boys. You’re going to love what we found. Coffee?”

  “I would,” Horse said. “I’m beat to shit being up all night.”

  “Yeah, okay. Me, too, then.” Edgars looked around, always impressed by the office’s slick organization. A place for everything and everything in its place. That was Max’s iron rule. No room for flaky little interns here. He’d wipe the floor with them if they tested him.

  “Here you go,
boys,” Max said, handing them their coffees. The cups were engraved with “C.S.U.-O.K.C. Fingerprint Lab.” On the other side it read, “You leave it, We lift it.”

  “How do you like our new cups?”

  “Very clever there, Max. Did you come up with that yourself?” Horse asked.

  “Nope, group vote. I personally favored, ‘D.N.A. Markers: Read ‘em and weep.’ But I was outvoted by our democratic enclave. They think they’re smart.”

  Edgars hoped to segue right to the point. “What about your report? Does Buck Dearmore need to read it and weep?”

  “As the saying goes, ‘The jury’s still out on that.’ There’s good news and bad news,” Max said with a grin. “What would you like first?”

  Horse said, “Bad. Let’s have it.”

  “Alrighty then,” Max said, warming to the task, but talking slower all the while. “The Mustang got a pretty good wipedown. If my assistant wasn’t so damn fine as a result of Yours Truly’s training, you’d have squat. However, and you may not like this, the owner Buck Dearmore’s fingerprints are nowhere near the steering wheel. They’re in the glove box and the back seat, but don’t connect him to being the driver.”

  “You mean other than the fact that he owns it,” Edgars said.

  “Of course, there’s that. But that’s not my area. That’s yours, isn’t it?”

  Horse’s turn to speed him along. “Okay, what’s the good news?”

  “The hair and blood on the grill belong to Candy Myers, and the horse hair is from her mount, alright. Hell, the car left paint smears on the poor horse. Talk about a collision.” Max was really enjoying himself now.

  “What else?” Edgars prodded.

  “Well, here’s where the fun starts. We have a third party, ladies and germs, someone very unlikely to know Buck Dearmore, the car’s owner.”

  Edgars and Horse leaned forward.

  “I ran these tests myself, so I speak with complete confidence,” Max said. “There was one five-point and one partial found. The five-point was, get this, inside the steering wheel.” Max gripped his fingers around an imaginary wheel to demonstrate. “He held that wheel so tight, his fingers wrapped clear around to the other side, and that’s how he missed wiping it away.”

  “Did you run it?” Horse asked.

  “Patience, gentlemen, I’m getting to that,” Max said. “We put it in the database and got a hit almost instantly. God, these recognition programs are just amazing these days, you know it?”

  Edgars’ leg was pumping up and down at this point. Continents could drift apart between Gholston’s sentences. “Spill it, Max, you’re giving me restless leg syndrome.”

  “Ooh, testy, testy,” Max said. “I can tell you guys have been up all night. Okay, let me see here.” He leafed through to a new sheet in the file. “Here we go. Your newly identified suspect is one Tony Bonner. B-O-N-N-E-R.”

  Edgars took the sheet from him. “Somebody really did steal his car? Well, fuck me.” He studied Tony’s picture. “Just released from McAlester six months ago. Here. Know him?” He passed the picture to Horse.

  Horse studied it a moment and shook his head. “Still on parole, though. I wonder if our boy has been checking in.”

  Edgars grinned. “Only one way to find out.”

  Chapter 72

  Angie pulled her BMW into the circular driveway of her Heritage Hills mansion. The Tudor style home with its turrets and landscaped grounds had served as a solid fortress against the past, especially her family, who had reappeared at first, looking to profit from her newfound status.

  Gordon had handled that with chilling resolve, telling them to either get the fuck off the property or face child abuse and rape charges if he ever saw them again. He had been her hero that day. No one from her family had ever surfaced since.

  Her domestic, Juanita, a sweet, tiny woman from Columbia, greeted her at the door with tears in her eyes. “Good morning, Mrs. Wesner.”

  “Good morning, Juanita. How are you?”

  “No, no, how are you, is the question. I’m so sad to hear about Mr. Wesner on the t.v.”

  “Yes, it was quite a shock,” Angie said. “I’ve been up most of the night. I’m going to try to rest for a bit upstairs.”

  “Of course, ma’am. I’ll see that you aren’t disturbed. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Angie thought a minute and said, “I need to take Mr. Wesner’s clothes to the funeral home. Would you mind laying out his dark gray suit, the newest one, and his pale blue silk shirt? And one of the dark red ties, please. Any shoes and socks will do. They won’t see them.”

  “I’m sure you’d like to pick our his jewelry,” Juanita offered.

  “Yes, just put the box out. I’ll look through it.”

  “You look so pale, ma’am. Can’t I fix you something to eat first?”

  Angie could feel her stomach twisted in knots. She hadn’t managed to take even one bite of her order at the O.K. Corral.

  Juanita encouraged her. “I have some fresh goat cheese. Perhaps your kind of omelet, with only the egg whites? There’s fresh squeezed mango juice, too.”

  Angie hesitated, but Juanita pressed on. “You need to eat, Mrs. Wesner.”

  “You’re right. An omelet would be nice,” Angie said as she started up the stairs. She turned on the landing, stopped by a dizzy lightheadedness.

  Suddenly, she was as hungry as she had ever been in her life. “What the hell, make it with regular eggs. And throw in a couple of slices of bacon, fried crispy the way I like it.”

  Chapter 73

  Sitting in his cell, Buck’s mind was a pinball machine gone crazy from too many hits. Still reeling from the night in captivity, he could not piece together what had gone on with the Mustang. The thugs could have brought it along somehow and had an accident that nearly killed somebody. But he had been with Meatface and Jorge the whole time, so he didn’t see how that could happen.

  With a lawyer on his way in, Buck had no idea how much to tell him. He had never been like his brothers, who occasionally still made the papers, such as, “Buck Dearmore’s brother in jail for public drunkenness,” or “Football star’s brother jailed for petty larceny.”

  Buck had always been the squeaky clean one, Mr. All-American, the escapee from a drab small town. But no more. Now that he had completely crashed, his brain was grasping a new, grim reality. He was a murderer and there was no going back.

  It still amazed him, though. If killing Gordon had not been as simple as one tiny flex of his finger, he didn’t think he could have gone through with it. Gordon had goaded him just enough, though. That was all it took. One simple click, and now nothing would ever be the same.

  Buck had never met Indigo’s partner, Terrence Hackman, who showed up an hour later to meet with him. A crisp, handsome young African-American with a low soft accent, Terrence had talked briefly with the detectives and then brought Buck the bad news.

  “They do have the right to hold you for 24 hours if they want. We might get you out sooner if it weren’t for the Mustang being seized,” Terrence explained, “but as it stands, no.”

  “They haven’t charged me with anything, have they?” Buck fought off a slight panic.

  “No, not yet. But they’re not going to let you go until they take a few more hours to see what they’ve got.”

  “I was nowhere near the Mustang last night,” Buck said.

  “We’ll get to that,” Terrence said. “But first, are you alright? Your face looks awful. Not to mention your hand. Did the cops manhandle you?”

  “No, this was all from the thugs that hijacked my car.” Buck looked down to see the bandage around his right hand had soaked through again. “At least the pain is keeping me awake.”

  Terrence pulled a cell out of his gray silk coat. “I can get you something for that. There’s no reason to…”

  “No,” Buck said quickly. Then another gut rumbling pain shot through his arm, leaving him shaking and faint. “Well, maybe something t
hat doesn’t knock me out?”

  Terrence was already talking low to someone on the other end. After he hung up he said, “I’ve got some meds coming and some real food. How long’s it been since you ate?”

  Buck had to think. “I don’t know. Yesterday morning.”

  “No wonder you’re coming apart.” It was a statement, not a question, Buck noticed.

  Terrence continued. “Maybe we should wait until you feel better to start talking.”

  “I’m okay,” Buck said, anxious to get it over with. “We might as well get going.”

  Terrence wrote some notes on a legal pad and looked up at him. “They’re going to want to know about your car. And where you were last night.”

  “I got carjacked leaving work yesterday afternoon.”

  “Did you see who did it?”

  “No, they came at me from the back. Knocked me out. Next thing I know I’m sitting in a garage somewhere.”

  “What did they look like?” Terrence asked.

  “They had a hood on me. I don’t know,” Buck answered. He had realized that much of the actual night’s events could be used to explain his whereabouts. It could give him a way out yet.

  He had to be careful not to mention the poker game from Thursday night. That would tie him with Angie. If the detectives connected them, it was all over.

  “Could you hear them talking? Anything that might help identify them?” Terrence was asking.

  “Some young guys, I think. They were pretty proud of kidnaping the great Buck Dearmore, they said.”

  “Did they want money or what?”

  “I think it was kind of spur of the moment because one of them recognized me or my car,” Buck said. “After they took the cash from my wallet, they wanted to talk football.”

  “So why the beating then?”

  “I mouthed off to them. And they were punks. Didn’t like that, I guess.” Buck paused, trying to imagine the scene in his head. “Resented the world and everybody in it.”

  “They’re also talking about your office getting broken into?” Terrence spread his hands and shrugged.