But that isn’t what happened. It took a moment for Burgess to sort through his options, realize how limited they were, and decide that he would do better to bluff, at least until he could get lawyered up. He opened the garage door, surrendered his weapon, and began to discuss the matter with Sheila in a reasonably civil way. Seeing that he was behaving, I unlocked the Hummer and climbed out.
But Burgess participated in the discussion only until he understood that he was a prime suspect in the Kaufman hit-and-run and that Chief Dawson had brought a search warrant and was impounding his Hummer. At that point, he shut up and refused to talk without his lawyer present, which was smart, looking at it from the lawyer’s point of view. An officer escorted him to the squad car that would take him down to the police station, where he would be held for questioning and then booking. But before that happened, I caught him looking at me a time or two. I thought he had probably remembered who I was and was wondering why I was the one who had locked herself in his Hummer.
When Burgess was on his way, Sheila inspected the damaged front end of the Hummer, opened the rear and hauled out a large plastic garbage bag stuffed full of marijuana, and dispatched two officers into the house to search for the running shoes that might have made the print in my cottage bedroom. Then she called for a tow truck to haul the Hummer to the impound yard.
As for me, I was keeping a low profile. I propped myself against the Porsche to take the weight off my damaged ankle while I tried to figure out how Sheila, in the company of ace reporter Jessica Nelson, had managed to get to Burgess’ house just in time to keep him from shooting the intruder in his garage. That would be me.
It was Jessica who filled me in. I had told her to back off and I thought she’d complied. But, like any red-blooded, ambitious reporter, she had a different idea. She figured that I knew where the story was, and she was damn well going to be there, too.
But the more she thought about it, the more she thought it might be a good idea to check it out with Sheila, rather than freelance. After all, her standing as a crime reporter depended on just how close to a crime she could get, which depended, most of the time, on the chief’s goodwill. Cross Sheila, and Sheila would cross Jessie off her list of trusted reporters. Access is the name of the game.
So she stopped at the PSPD just about the time Sheila walked in. There had been a crisis in the mayor’s office, the mayor had canceled lunch, and Sheila was headed back to her desk to tackle her stack of paperwork. Jessica filled Sheila in on what she knew about the MacDonald case, the connection to the hospice, and my request for the addresses of Marla Blake and Christopher Burgess. It took Smart Cookie all of two minutes to run a vehicle check and discover that while Blake drove a red Lexus, Burgess (in addition to his silver Porsche) owned an orange Hummer.
Telling me this, Jessica laughed. “An orange Hummer. You should have seen her eyes light up, China. From that minute on, she was locked and loaded. The next stop was the JP’s office down the hall, where she got a search warrant.”
As a reward for her tip, Jessica got to ride along in Sheila’s squad car. When the two of them got to Burgess’ street, they spotted my Toyota parked a block below his house, so they knew I was there. On the driveway, they found my cap and my Thyme and Seasons clipboard. (“Sort of like following a trail of bread crumbs,” Jessica said with a chuckle.) They peered through the windows in the garage door—which was a sort of rusty orange color—and saw Burgess with his gun and his dog, standing beside the Hummer.
And that was the moment Ruby called my cell and set off my police siren. Jessica recognized it and told Sheila that my phone and I were somewhere in that garage. Which was when Sheila began pounding on the garage door and shouting and Burgess came unraveled.
I shook my head in exasperation. “You don’t back off, do you, Jess?”
“You bet your boobs I don’t.” She narrowed her eyes. “And you’d just better be glad of it. You might be dead by now. And your killer would invoke the Make My Day law and get off scot-free.” She pulled out her cell and dialed the Enterprise. “Go away. I need to call in my story.”
I was glad of Jessica’s intervention, yes. I was truly glad for that phone call, too, which had come at exactly the right moment. When I finally called Ruby back, I apologized for letting her call go to voice mail.
“I was sort of tied up,” I said, watching as a large, tilt-bed tow truck backed up to the garage. The driver got out, climbed into the Hummer, and got out again. “I hope your call wasn’t too urgent.”
“I was feeling pretty urgent at the moment I called,” Ruby replied, “but not so much now.” She laughed a little. “Now, it seems sort of silly. Hope I didn’t interrupt anything crucial.”
“Actually, you interrupted something extremely crucial.” The memory flickered through my mind like a bad movie. “And your timing couldn’t have been better.” The tow truck driver began pulling out a heavy cable, which he hooked to the Hummer’s rear end. “What were you calling about? Did something happen at the shop?”
“No, everything’s fine here. We’ve had good traffic all day, and no problems. Miriam has been a big help. She loves to answer people’s questions.” She paused. “Actually, I was calling to tell you that I suddenly realized what kind of door you’re supposed to watch out for. I was ringing up a customer when I sort of saw it, all of a sudden. It just popped into my head—no idea why.”
“Oh, really?” I said. “Just popped into your head, huh? So what kind of door was it?”
The tow truck winch motor whined and the Hummer began to roll backward out of the garage, and up onto the tilted truck bed. Out in the open, in good light, the damage to the front end was clearly visible. It would show up well when the prosecutor displayed the photographs to the jury and pointed out where the Hummer had made contact with the Astro and sent it careening off the road. He would also bring in that broken fog light and hand it around the jury box. Juries like show-and-tell.
“You’re going to think I’m nuts,” Ruby said apologetically. “But it was a garage door. Not the kind with hinges and a doorknob, that you push. It was the kind that goes up and comes down when you turn on a switch or punch a button. It was sort of rusty orange. In my mind, I suddenly saw it coming down, and I was afraid you might be in trouble. So I called.”
“You are not nuts,” I said softly, thinking that sometimes Ruby’s relationship to the universe is impossible to understand. “It definitely was a garage door, a sort of rusty orange. And after it came down, I was in some pretty serious trouble.”
The Hummer lurched to a stop on the tow truck’s bed, and the driver began to secure it in place. Perched up there, the monster machine looked almost ignominious, a leviathan rendered helpless, piggybacking to the impound yard.
“What kind of trouble?” Ruby’s voice went up a notch. “Are you okay, China? What—”
“I’m okay,” I said ruefully, “although after that door came down, there were a few moments when I passionately wanted to be somewhere else. But your phone call saved the situation, and everything turned out just fine.” Fine for me, of course. But not for Burgess. His troubles were just beginning. They wouldn’t be over for a long, long time.
“Hey, China! Come and take a look.” I glanced up. From the open garage doorway, Sheila was motioning to me.
“Gotta go now,” I said to Ruby. “I’ll tell you the whole story when I see you.” I paused. “And thanks again. You can’t possibly know how grateful I am for your call.”
“That’s sweet,” Ruby said. “It’s always nice to be appreciated.”
Sheila was holding two plastic evidence bags. Sealed in each was a single running shoe. She held up the bags so that I could see the shoe soles, which displayed an odd pattern of wedges, ridges, and lateral slices. “These were found in Burgess’ closet,” she said. “Think one of them might be a match for that shoe print in your cottage?”
“Sure looks like it to me.” I grinned. “And you didn’t even have to check every closet in town. Did you find anything else of interest?”
She laughed. “You mean, in addition to that thirty-gallon trash bag full of marijuana? Well, yes. Right now, the guys are upstairs photographing and bagging a significant cache of narcotics—oxycodone, fentanyl, hydromorphone, and some exotics. They appear to have been purchased by prescription from pharmacies in San Antonio and Austin under various patient names—hospice patients, probably, and Medicare beneficiaries, which could double the charge count. I don’t think this was just a matter of overprescribing. From the looks of it, he was running a retail narcotics business. There’s enough stuff in this house to qualify him as your basic neighborhood drug lord.”
“Wow,” I said quietly. “Just wow.”
“You bet. Thanks to you, maybe we’ll actually be able to put this one out of business.”
“You’re welcome,” I said modestly.
She shook her head. “Uh-uh. Don’t start feeling good just yet, China.” She gave me one of her chilly official glances. “Under the circumstances, I doubt that Burgess will be inclined to press charges against you.” Her voice sharpened. “But before we forget about your little escapade, would you mind telling me what in the name of all that’s holy prompted you to lock yourself inside that man’s Hummer, inside his garage?” She leaned forward until her nose was almost touching mine. “How was it that you got out of law school without understanding the consequences of trespass and the damned castle doctrine?”
I stepped back. “I’m afraid I don’t have a very good answer,” I replied meekly. “It was just one of those things you find yourself doing—and then wish you hadn’t.” I straightened my shoulders. “But you could at least give me credit for digging up the MacDonald connection and figuring out what Kelly Kaufman’s hospice patient files meant, and what Marla Blake and Chris Burgess have been up to at the hospice for the past couple of years. If it hadn’t been for all that, you’d still be scratching your head over a few flecks of orange paint on the rear end of the Astro. If Burgess had had time to think about it, he would have banged up the Hummer so he could get it repaired legitimately. And that would have destroyed the evidence.”
“I suppose you’ve got a point there.” Sheila put a hand on my arm. “But promise me you’ll stay out of other people’s garages from now on. I’d hate to have to be the one to break the news to McQuaid that some irate homeowner took you for an intruder and shot you. Dead.”
“If you put it that way,” I said, “I promise. I agree. It was not smart.”
“Good.” She dropped her hand. “We’ll need you down at the station this afternoon to make a statement. I’m not sure I get the MacDonald backstory, and this hospice fraud has some kinks in it that I don’t understand. Jessica gave me the general outline, but she doesn’t have a handle on the details. I need you to straighten all that out for me. And I’ll want to go over your statement with you before I sit down with the prosecutor to discuss the charges. This is obviously a complicated case.”
“Can the statement wait until after five?” I asked. “Ruby’s been holding down the fort all day, and it would be good if I went back to the shop to give her a hand.”
Sheila shook her head. “Sorry. I need it right away, please. I don’t think Blake is a flight risk, but I want to pick her up before she learns that her son has been detained. I hope that hasn’t happened already.” She looked at her watch, then up at me. “Oh, and McQuaid said for you and Caitie to go ahead and eat without him. He’ll be home tonight, but it’s likely to be pretty late.”
I stared at her. “Well, gosh, that’s great,” I managed. “You . . . you heard from him?”
“Indirectly. Blackie phoned me when I was on my way up here. They’re flying in this evening on a Texas Ranger plane. Both of them.” She grinned. “They got what they went for, but don’t tell McQuaid I said that. He’ll want to tell you himself.”
“Terrific,” I said. I was almost too giddy with happiness and relief to ask why, if Blackie could call Sheila, McQuaid hadn’t called me.
“And one other thing,” Sheila said. She held out her hand. “Give me your phone.”
I took it out and handed it to her. “What do you want my phone for?”
She manipulated it deftly for a moment or two, then handed it back. “Here,” she said. “You are no longer impersonating a police car.”
* * *
IT was after eleven. Caitie had gone to bed and McQuaid and I were sitting in the front porch swing, his arm around me, my head on his shoulder. Above us, the stars were brilliant sparks against the deep blackness of the sky, and the moon was a silver coin tossed among them. The air around us was sweet with the fragrance of the honeysuckle growing up the trellis at the end of the porch. From the nearby woods, our pair of resident owls traded quiet, meditative calls; far to the west, a chorus of boisterous coyote yips and yelps flickered across the distance. Winchester, sleeping at our feet, heard them in his dream, half woke, gave an answering snuffle, and went back to sleep again.
McQuaid put his cheek against my hair. “God, how I’ve missed you,” he said. “Out there, every time I slow down enough to think, I think of you. And Caitie and this place and Brian, but mostly you. I love coming home.”
I picked up his hand and kissed it, put it down again. “Was it a difficult job? What you were doing out there, I mean.”
Caitie had still been up when he arrived, and he had told her one or two funny stories about his trip before we sent her off to bed. We had tacitly agreed to save the rest of it until we were alone. I had related my narrative quickly and without a great deal of drama and entirely omitting my misadventure in Burgess’ garage, which I didn’t think it was necessary for him to know. It was his turn now.
“It wasn’t bad,” McQuaid replied lightly. “Anyway, you don’t want to hear all the gory details.” His arm tightened. “I’m home. Isn’t that enough? There are plenty of other things to talk about, aren’t there?”
You tell him for me, China, I’m his boy. Bob Godwin’s words came back to me again, and I remembered the pledge I had made. I hated the idea that McQuaid might be putting himself in danger, but I would always be his girl in a tight spot. Always and always. I needed to tell him that.
“Yes, it’s enough that you’re here,” I said. “And I appreciate that you didn’t tell me where you were going or what you were doing because you didn’t want me to be afraid. But I’ve learned that I worry more when I don’t know what’s going on. When I close out anything that might affect us. Might change our future together.”
I thought of my jealousy, of Margaret, of the silly things I’d conjured up. I turned my head and looked up at him, at the strong face, the firm mouth, the hard jaw. “I am with you and for you, McQuaid, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing. I want you to know that.”
“Really?” He kissed the tip of my nose. “After Blackie and I brought that young boy back from Mexico, you told me you didn’t want me to—”
“I was wrong,” I said. “There are things you have to do—that you want to do—that I might rather you wouldn’t. But I trust you to make smart choices, whether you’re here or in Mexico or wherever.” I lightened my voice. “Even if you are a danger junkie.”
And then I shivered, thinking of my own recent not-so-smart choice, going into Burgess’ garage. Trouble can happen anywhere. MacDonald died of morphine poisoning at home. Kelly was struck on Limekiln Road. Burgess could have shot me in his garage. All of this right here in Pecan Springs.
“Well, I don’t always make smart choices,” McQuaid said thoughtfully. “But I’m cautious. And I do my homework. Blackie and I and Felipe knew where we were going and what we needed to do when we got there.”
“Felipe?”
“Felipe Cisneros. Blackie and I were working for a task force—federal and state and l
ocal law enforcement, plus guys hired by drillers and oil companies—that’s trying to curb the theft of oil field equipment in West Texas. South of the border, the Mexican police are involved too, trying to reduce oil thefts. Mostly, the thieves are the cartels, picking up equipment—drilling pipe, drill rigs, trucks, dozers, pumps—they can use to tap into the Mexican oil pipelines. They steal the oil, then truck it back north across the border and sell it here. Felipe has been undercover for the task force six or seven months, on both sides of the border. Blackie and I worked with him.”
“Worked with him how?” I asked.
McQuaid grinned. “We were a pair of gringo wildcatters, aiming to track down our stolen equipment and buy it back. Felipe had a good lead on the two men we needed to see and was acting as a go-between. We connected with his guys in a seedy bar in Juárez, then went with them to a villa in the hills outside of town, where they were holding a big cache of stolen equipment bound for one of the cartels. We were about to fork over a bundle of pesos when the Federales showed up—surprise, surprise—and took everybody into custody. The guys at the villa went to jail, but the police turned the three of us—Felipe, Blackie, me—loose. Then they planted their own men with the equipment. When the cartel people showed up, they arrested them, too. Once that was done, we started bringing the equipment back over the border, several million dollars’ worth. It should all be in El Paso by now, heading back to wherever it belongs. And as part of the hit, three oil brokers in Houston were simultaneously charged with receiving stolen Mexican fuel. Once the oil’s in the system, you know, there’s no stopping it. It can go to any refinery of any legitimate company.”
Blood Orange: A China Bayles Mystery Page 26