They entered the building and were met by an attractive receptionist with a professional smile. “Good morning, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
“Morning, ma’am,” Jack said. I’m Deputy Jack Bryant with Tarrant County. This is J.D. We’re here to do some follow-up on an unexplained death a few months ago. The deceased was William Davis, lived up in the north part of the county.”
Jack took out his billfold and showed her his Tarrant County creds.
The receptionist glanced at them and turned to her computer. “Sergeant Reeves was the investigating officer. We don’t have any suggestion that there was any foul play.”
“Understood, ma’am. You think Sergeant Reeves could spare a few minutes with us?”
Five minutes later they were escorted into a small, featureless conference room, furnished with a table and four chairs. Jack and J.D. spent the next half hour talking football and staring at pale white walls. The door opened and a large black man dressed in jeans, boots and a white shirt entered. “Deputy Bryant, I’m Sergeant Reeves. How can I help you on this Willie Davis death?”
Reeves took a seat and put a small manila folder in front of him.
“First of all, I don’t want to be here under false pretenses. I am a reserve deputy, but I’m also an attorney and represent June Davis in some litigation that arises out of Willie’s death.”
Reeves remained silent.
“And there’s one more thing you should know. A friend has had two attempts on her life. Both remain open. There’s a connection to Mr. Davis in that they used to work at the same Cadillac dealer a number of years ago.”
Reeves opened the file. “I don’t think I can be of much help. I actually knew Mr. Davis. I played Little League with his son. Fine, gentle old man. I studied the scene myself. All I could determine was that it was accidental. Take a look.”
Reeves turned the file around so Jack and J.D. could see the photos of the body at the scene. One of them showed him head down in the creek with the back of his skull caved in.
“The back of his skull was crushed,” Jack said. “You figure that much damage could have been done just by a small man falling back on a rock. And how did he end up face down if he fell backwards? Did you consider that someone could have crushed his skull with one of those big rocks around the creek?”
A scowl crossed the sergeant’s face. “Look, Mr. Bryant, I don’t appreciate your questioning my investigation. I told you that I knew him personally. Yes, it was a lot of damage from slipping in the creek. I looked but found nothing to suggest anything other than an accident. Besides, there’s hardly any motive to kill an old man like that. Let’s see, he had $8.67 on him, a pocket knife and a little fishing gear. It was still at the scene. If you can prove it was a murder, more power to you; only we don’t have any evidence. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some real felonies I need to be solving.”
Reeves pushed his chair back, banging it against the wall, and left the room, taking his file with him.
J.D. looked at his dad. “I think that’s our signal to leave, too.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I wanted to tell him about the life insurance, but he didn’t give me a chance.”
That evening after football practice, Jack and J.D. drove to a bar north of the stockyards. Off the beaten path, it was definitely not on any tourist map. They parked in front and were met by the sound of mariachi music as they pushed their way through multi-colored beads hanging from the door. The smell of stale tamales mixed with that of beer. The music was loud and the patrons, all Hispanic men, raised their voices louder to be heard. They approached the bartender.
“Two Coronas, please,” Jack said.
The bartender turned to the cooler and handed them the beers. “That’ll be six bucks,” he said. Jack handed him a ten and told him to keep the change.
J.D. took a sip of his beer and surveyed the room. At one table four men were talking loudly and pointing toward them. “Dad, I get the feeling that we aren’t welcome here.”
Jack nodded and turned to the bartender. “I need some information.” He dropped a fifty on the bar. “Two months ago a man was killed in your parking lot. Looked like he was clobbered with a baseball bat. You got any idea about who did it?”
“No, senor. The guy that killed him wasn’t one of our regulars. At least, that’s what one of the witnesses said.”
About that time the four men rose from the table J.D. had been watching. J.D. said, “Dad, we’re about to have a little trouble.”
Jack dropped another fifty on the bar. “Look, we may be in a little hurry here. How about description?”
“It was dark. Someone said he was an Anglo, had long hair and a beard. That’s about all. There hadn’t been any ruckus in here. So I don’t know what caused it.”
The first man approached and stood in front of J.D. “We don’t like your kind in here. You see any other gringos?” The other three men pushed him almost into J.D.’s face.
J.D. decided that the best defense would be a good offense. He drove a shoulder into the chest of the first man, shoving him and the one behind him across the room and over a table. Before the one to his left could react, J.D. had kneed him in the balls. When he folded over, J.D. put him out with a right uppercut. The one to the right, a few feet in front of Jack, flicked open a switchblade and started toward J.D.
Jack raised his cane and flicked a button on the handle. A ten inch blade sprang from the end and into the man’s neck. “Drop your pig sticker, hombre, if you don’t want this one to slice open your neck.”
The Mexican may not have understood English, but he certainly understood the blade pressed against his neck. He dropped his knife as the room fell silent. J.D. picked up the knife and stuck it in his pocket. “Gentlemen,” Jack said. “We’ll be on our way. We seem to have overstayed our welcome.”
Jack flicked the button again, and the blade retracted into the cane. He nodded to J.D. and they pushed their way through the beads out into the night air. “Hell, J.D., I wasn’t in the mood for Mexican food anyway. By the way, don’t be carrying that switchblade around. They’re illegal in Texas.”
J.D. nodded his understanding, then said, “Dad, where’d you get that cane?”
“Bought it at a gun show a few years back. Hell, it’s illegal, too, but I never thought I’d use it. I have a few others with tricks in my collection. Remind me to show them to you sometime.”
When they drove away, J.D. asked, “Did we do any good, Dad?”
“Yep, Son, at least a little. We have the beginnings of a description of a killer, kind of matches that New Orleans police sketch. Not much, but it’s a start. And I don’t believe that Willie’s death was an accident. Now let’s go home. We have fifty-eight more deaths to go.”
55
It was late in the afternoon, way past time to head over to Moe’s for a couple of drinks and a game or two of dominoes. Jack had counseled a continuing stream of pro bono clients on the usual credit card, mortgage and car payment problems. J.D. manned the computer, taking notes as each client came through the RV. About mid-afternoon J.D went to the house to change for afternoon practice. Finally, the line outside grew short and Jack was able to put a sign on the door, “Closed. Please Come Back Tomorrow.”
What have I gotten myself into? Jack thought. I was okay until I won that mortgage case and made the Star Telegram. Since then I’ve been inundated with potential clients. Still, on balance, I enjoy helping those who can’t help themselves.Jack was at the computer, checking the closing prices of his stocks, when the door opened. Without looking back, he said, “Sorry, I’m closed for the day. You’re welcome to return in the morning.” When the door closed, Jack realized that the stranger was standing at the top of the steps. He turned to see a tall, lean, gray haired man wearing a three piece suit in spite of the hundred degree weather.
“Well, you don’t look like my usual clients,” Jack said as he rose to face the stranger. “What can I do for you?”
A look of understanding crossed his face as he noticed that Quillen was not sticking out his hand. “Certainly have, Mr. Quillen. In fact, I believe I exposed some irregularities in your bank mortgage practices, and an associate of mine is building up quite a clientele who are suing your banks for a bunch of wrong doing.” It was then that Jack noticed that Quillen had turned to grab the windshield sign, directing persons with mortgage problems to Jacob Van Buren.
“Mr. Bryant,” Quillen said between clinched teeth, “My banks are being served with five to ten lawsuits a week. Mr. Van Buren is suing Empire and some other financial institutions that I sold packaged loans to, along with my banks. His name is on the pleadings, but I know they’re coming from this RV and this goddamn sign.” His voiced trembled and his hands shook as he ripped the sign in half and dropped it on the floor.
Jack picked up his cane and rose, holding it in front of him as he sensed he was facing a man out of control. “Mr. Quillen, I don’t know what your purpose is in coming here, but I suggest you leave right now.”
Quillen’s face reddened. “Not before I give you this warning, you two-bit shyster. My banks could go under because of your god damn lawsuits. If they go down, I go down. You quit referring clients to Van Buren, and we’ll go our separate ways. But, hear me good, you keep fucking with me and you do so at your peril. I will not go down without a fight, and it won’t be in a courthouse, Mr. Bryant!”
Quillen turned and stepped out the door. As he left the RV, Jack called Van Buren. “Jacob, we’ve got one pissed off banker.”
“Which one?” Jacob asked.
“Quillen. He just left here after threatening my life if we keep up these lawsuits.”
“What do you want me to do, Jack? We’re going make a good sized fortune on these before it’s all over and done.”
“We’re going to keep doing exactly what we have. I don’t need another fortune, but I’ll be damned if we’ll abandon our clients who were screwed by Quillen and his buddies. Not the first time in my life I’ve been threatened, and it won’t be the last.”
Jack clicked off and rummaged in a drawer until he found some Scotch Tape. He taped the sign back together and put it back on the windshield.
56
Jack turned into the driveway and circled around to the back where he parked Lucille in her garage. He clicked the garage door shut and started toward the house. After a few steps, he realized his knee was aching and he used his cane to traverse the driveway and climb the steps. Colby met him at the door.
“Gee, you look like you’ve been rode hard and put up wet. I’ve just finished peeling three pounds of shrimp. That’ll be a half a pound for you and me and two pounds for J.D. If I fix you a drink, you up to grilling when J.D. gets home?”
After Colby made two drinks and poured peanuts into a bowl, they adjourned to the patio above the pool. Killer joined them and settled down at Colby’s feet.
Colby reached over to squeeze Jack’s hand. “Okay, spill it. I’ve never seen anything other than the up-beat, exuberant Jackson Douglas Bryant.”
Jack took a swig of his drink before he started. “I had a visit from Beau Quillen about an hour ago.”
Jack described the confrontation while Colby listened. When he finished, Colby said, “I’ve known Beau Quillen since I was a kid. He’s never been a violent man. He works behind the scenes for charities, gets in the paper and the media occasionally, but doesn’t seek attention for what he does.”
Jack excused himself to fix another drink. A slight buzz was overtaking his thinking, but he really didn’t care. He was home and figured he could navigate his way to bed without a DUI. When he returned, he faced away from Colby toward the setting sun.
“Times are changing. Businessmen saw the money being made by their contemporaries and saw that the government didn’t really give a damn what they did as long as they didn’t rob a bank with a gun. They seized the opportunity to rape and pillage the people of this country and the economy,” he continued as he returned to his chair.
“Quillen is pretty small potatoes compared to robber barons on Wall Street, but he was loaning money for a house to anyone who could fog a mirror, usually with interest only for five years and a balloon. Then, he’d package his bank’s mortgages and sell them to the big boys. Until 2008 he was worth several hundred million on paper. Then the wall came tumbling down and he went the way of Humpty Dumpty. I suspect that he still puts on a good façade, but he’s barely keeping his head above water.”
While they were talking J.D. drove down the driveway and parked his pickup in the RV spot. He took a seat beside his dad and listened.
“Dad, you need to do something. You can’t have Quillen threatening you and ignore it.”
“If I were to file a complaint with the police, it would go into a computer as nothing more than a verbal dispute between two businessmen. Cops have better stuff to do.”
“Well, at least you could call Joe Sherrod and have him make a note of it.”
Jack turned to face his son. “Look, J.D., I’m not concerned and I don’t think you should be either. This so-called Great Recession is wreaking havoc with nearly everyone. You see the lines outside our RV every day. Businesses are suffering, too. Maybe the Wall Street banks are too big to fail, but not local ones.”
“Look at Allison Southwest,” Colby said. “No one can check Allison’s books since it’s a private company, but just drive around this part of the state and you’ll see weed-filled parking lots where Allison dealerships once thrived.”
Jack sipped his drink and chewed a mouthful of peanuts as he rose to face J.D. “Quillen saw what the other bankers were doing and went for the easy money. Before you got here, Colby was saying that he’s not a violent man. I believe her, and I’ll continue to believe he’s just making verbal threats until something happens that convinces me otherwise. Still, just to make you happy, tomorrow I’ll start packing my gun.” He smiled at Colby. “However, I’m not quite ready to get myself a guard dog to ride shotgun. Now, Son, what’s your schedule tomorrow?”
“Samuel’s giving us a day off. You want to do some more police work?”
“Yep, I’ll pick out three or four tonight and we’ll get an early start.”
“I want to go, too,” Colby said. “Talking about the economy, my business has gone colder than a brass cup in the Yukon. I’m not even getting any showings, much less sales.”
57
Their plans were interrupted by a three a.m. call on Colby’s cell. She groped around the night stand until she found it and put it to her ear. “Yes,” she said in a groggy voice. Then her voice changed. “Oh my God! We’ll be right over.”
She threw on a robe and ran down the stairs, throwing open the door to Jack’s room.
“My house is on fire! I’m going back upstairs to put on some jeans.”
Jack jumped out of bed in his boxers. “Wake J.D., too.”
Colby raced up the stairs and beat on J.D.’s door, yelling about the fire. Then she returned to her room where she put on jeans and a T-shirt. She dashed from her room and ran into J.D, wearing shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops. They met Jack at the bottom of the stairs
“What happened, Dad?”
“Don’t know, but we’re about to find out.”
Killer barked as they left the house, surprised to see all three of his humans rushing out at that hour of the morning.
“Killer, you stay,” Colby commanded.
Five minutes later they were in Monticello and could see flames and smoke coming from Colby’s house. The fire department had established a perimeter as flames appeared to engulf the entire house. They parked and rushed to the fire line and were pushing under it when a firefighter stopped them. “Sorry. You can’t go past here.”
“That’s my house!” Colby screamed.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you can do now. Is anyone living
there?”
“Thank God, no.”
Jack felt someone touching his shoulder and turned to find Joe Sherrod in shorts and an undershirt. “Joe, what are you doing here?”
“You forgot I live two streets over. Our patrol called me. Give them a few minutes to get it under control and make sure it’s not going to spread to the neighbors’ houses. Then, I’ll get the captain over here.”
If ever there was a helpless feeling, it had to be watching your own house burn to the ground. Colby started crying quietly and soon was sobbing as Jack pulled her to his chest. “It’ll be okay. Houses can be re-built.”
“But, I was born there. All my family heirlooms are gone, my photos. my albums.”
They watched in silence for another half hour when Joe motioned to the captain to join them. “Captain, I’m Joe Sherrod, Tarrant County District Attorney.”
The captain took off his helmet and unbuttoned his coat. “I know who you are, Mr. Sherrod.”
“This is Colby Stripling. That was her house. I know it’s too early to know much, but what happened?”
Colby wiped her eyes with her T-shirt and listened.
“Our fire station is over on White Settlement, no more than three minutes from here. The patrol called it in and we were here in less than five minutes. By then the house was totally engulfed. We were forced to do damage control. I’m sorry, Ms. Stripling.”
“Are you suspecting arson?” Joe asked.
The captain hesitated before he spoke. “Yes, sir. That’ll be at the top of the list. Houses in this neighborhood don’t go up like a stack of kindling from the usual fire sources. Also, there appear to be two ignition points and that smells like arson. I have an arson team on the way. They’ll start their investigation as soon as it’s safe.”
Joe turned to Jack and Colby. “I’ll open an arson file and put one of our team on it, too. Sorry, Colby, but that’s all we can do for now.”
“Thanks, Joe,” Jack said. “Come on Colby. Let’s go back to the house. We can return as soon as it’s light.” Jack wrapped an arm around Colby and gently led her away.
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