Back at the house J.D. made coffee and they sat in silence around the kitchen table. Colby teared up again and cried softly.
Finally Jack broke the silence. “Look, Colby, at least you weren’t living there and weren’t hurt.”
“Dammit, Jack, that’s not any consolation. That makes three attempts on my life and now my house is gone.” Colby lowered her voice. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”
Jack nodded his acceptance of her apology. “I see a little light in the east. Do you want to go back or get a little rest first?”
“Let’s go back. I want to see it now, not later.”
Boss was watching the news while he had breakfast when he saw the report of a house destroyed by fire in Monticello. Hearing it belonged to Colby Stripling, who, fortunately, was not home, he picked up his cell phone and walked to the back yard. When Hawk answered, he said, “Meet me at that abandoned Chevy dealership on North Main. Right now.” Not waiting for a reply, he clicked off the connection.
Thirty minutes later he pulled into the parking lot and saw Hawk’s pickup parked beside the building. When he stopped next to the pickup, he lowered the passenger window and commanded, “Get in.”
Hawk left his vehicle and took the passenger seat.
“You dumb son of a bitch. What the hell did you think you were doing?”
Rarely intimidated, Hawk knew he had screwed up. “Look, Boss, you told me that you were getting short. I thought that the quickest way to make both of us whole was to take down that Stripling woman. It was a perfect plan. I pitched two Molotov cocktails through her front windows, and the house erupted. I executed it perfectly, too; only, I didn’t know that she wasn’t living there.”
“Goddamn it. I don’t pay you to think. Some hired killer you’re turning out to be. One more strike and you’re out. I still want Stripling, but I’ll tell you when. For now, she’s going to put up even more defenses. Go back to your horse and kids.”
“Just a damn minute, Boss. Let’s get one thing straight here. There are two killers in this pickup, not one. And we’re both in it for the money. The day you forget that is a day you’ll regret.”
58
After Jack, Colby and J.D. took another look at the remains of her house, they returned to Jack’s. Colby took two sleeping pills and slept until late afternoon. While she slept, Jack called her office to learn the name of her homeowner’s carrier, called in the loss and arranged to meet the claims adjuster the next morning. Not wanting to leave Colby, he called Moe and asked him to make a sign that said the office was closed until further notice.
Colby woke about five that afternoon and immediately poured a large glass of vodka. She took it into the man cave, flipped on the television and drank until she was close to passing out. When Jack saw she was dropping off, he carried her back to bed and turned out the light.
The next morning he made sure that J.D. was staying home, and then drove to Monticello to meet the adjuster. It was a short meeting. She surveyed the charred remains from the street, made a few notes and then picked her way down the driveway to the back. When she returned, she said, “No reason to look any further. It’s a total. We’ve just got to figure out the value of the house and contents. When Ms. Stripling feels like talking, ask her to call me. I understand how devastating this is. Here’s my card.”
After she was gone, Jack walked to the place where the front door had been. Once he determined it was safe, he avoided what appeared to be a couple of hot spots, and used a charred stick to pick through the rubble. The first thing he found was a leather bound family album. The leather was scarred from the fire as were some of the pages, but at least half the photos were in good condition, including one with Colby as a young girl with buck teeth standing between her parents. Next he found a locket. When he managed to open it, he saw a photo of Colby’s mother. While he studied it, a police car stopped at the curb and a young officer exited. “Sorry, sir, but this is still a crime scene until we take this tape down. You’ll need to step over here to the curb.”
Jack did as he was told. “Sorry, officer. The owner is a friend of mine.” He showed the officer the album and locket. Okay if I take these to her?”
The officer glanced at what he held. “Sure. I suspect the arson guys will be finished today. If the tape’s gone this evening, you’re welcome to come back.”
Driving back to his house, Jack’s cell rang. He glanced at the caller i.d. to see that it was Joe Sherrod. “What have you got for me, Joe?”
“It was definitely arson, Jack. Looks like two fire sources. Someone tossed two Molotov cocktails through the front windows. The arson guys found pieces of two bottles.”
“Any suspects?”
“Not a damn one right now. Unless some neighbor saw an out-of-place vehicle that night, the evidence is destroyed. My guys are canvassing the neighborhood. I’ll let you know if we turn up anything.”
Joe was about to hang up when Jack said, “One more thing, Joe. May not be important.” Jack described his run-in with Beau Quillen.
“You want me to do anything?” Joe asked.
“Nah, I think that he’s got some money problems. He blames me for a big chunk of them. As long as it’s verbal, I don’t want to do anything. I just wanted you to know about it.”
Jack drove home to find Colby still asleep and J.D. watching game film. He put the album and locket on the kitchen table. He poured a glass of water, picked up the latest Sports Illustrated, and found a shady spot on the patio where he studied the top twenty-five college teams in the country. TCU was ranked number eight in the pre-season poll. He heard the back door open and close. Before he could turn around, Colby’s arms slid down his chest and her cheek nuzzled his.
“Thanks for finding the album and locket. Let me go get the album and a glass of tea and I’ll tell you about those photos.”
59
Over the next couple of weeks things slowly returned to normal. Colby made one last search of her property and arranged to have it razed. She sat on a neighbor’s lawn across the street with her arms wrapped around her knees and Killer beside her, watching the bulldozer work. When the last of the dump trucks drove away, she teared up but promised herself it would be the last time. Jack convinced Colby that she didn’t need to be running all over town alone; so, Colby cleared it with her boss to work part time out of the house and have other realtors show houses if necessary.
One morning Jack turned on the computer in the RV to find a Request for Production of documents from Ace Leyton. Leyton wanted every document in June Davis’s possession that might have Willie’s writing on it. That included checks, income tax returns, savings accounts, scraps of paper where he might have written down measurements in the garage, wall calendars, applications for social security, anything that they might use to establish Willie’s signature on the employment agreement was really his. Jack leaned back and thought. Well, well, Ace is worried about that insurable interest issue at the time of Willie’s death. He must figure that even if he prevails with McDowell, the appellate courts might reverse him. This could be interesting since June said Willie rarely signed anything. Might as well see what June has.
Jack reached for his cell phone and pulled up June Davis’s number. When she answered, he asked, “Morning, Mrs. Davis. This is Jackson Bryant. How are things with you today?”
“Just fine, Mr. Bryant. The kids have been working in the vegetable patch since their dad’s not around any more. I expect I’ll have you a basket full the next time we meet.”
“I’d appreciate that. I’m calling about your lawsuit. As you know, it’s going to trial in a couple of months. Allison’s lawyer is worried about this employment agreement and trying to prove Willie’s signature. He just sent me a formal request for any check books, tax returns, applications of any kind, wall calendars where he might have written a note, anything that bears his writing. Off the top of your head, what do you think you might have?”
“Maybe this is not a good thing
, Mr. Bryant, but I’m a packrat. I don’t ever throw anything away. I have cancelled checks going back twenty-five or thirty years. We haven’t made enough money to file tax returns since Willie retired, but before that we paid a little income tax and Willie would have to sign the returns. Then, I put up a new wall calendar every January and keep track of kid’s and grandkid’s birthdays, weddings, funerals, that kind of thing. It’s possible Willie put something on it occasionally. I always roll up the old one and stick it in a box with the others. Willie was on Social Security and I remember helping him fill out the form. I’ll have to look to see if a copy’s around here.”
Jack shook his head as she rattled off the possible places for signatures. When she paused, he asked, “Can you gather all of that stuff up and get Willie, Jr. to bring it to my RV, say, day after tomorrow?”
June thought a minute. “Yes, sir. I should be able to get most of it together. If I turn up anything else, I’ll have Willie, Jr. make a second trip.”
Jack clicked off the phone with a sigh.
J.D. turned from the computer where he was drafting a petition, alleging fraud against a credit card company. “We have a problem on the Davis case?”
Jack rose to pour himself a cup of coffee. “I hope not. She apparently has a lot of places where we might find Willie’s signature.” Then he smiled. “Fortunately, I’ve been down this road before. If we turn up a signature or two, Ace will hire a questioned documents examiner to evaluate the writing.”
“I don’t understand, Dad.”
“That’s someone who is basically a handwriting expert. If you were to decide to become a trial lawyer, you’d learn that for almost any issue in a case, there are people whose opinions are for hire. Doctors in every specialty, accountants, engineers, accident reconstruction experts, you name it. This case could boil down to whether Willie actually consented to Allison Southwest taking out a big policy on his life, even though he couldn’t read that four pages of fine print and just signed where someone told him.” Jack said. “Most of us don’t read legal documents. Put yourself in Willie’s place. He was uneducated and needed a job. He was going to sign whatever they put in front of him.”
“But, Dad, isn’t that a defense? I mean if he didn’t know what he was signing, why should he be responsible?”
“Nope. Rule is that if you sign it, short of proving duress like maybe someone had a gun to your head or incompetence, you’re bound by what is in the document. Actually, that’s the way it should be. Otherwise, when one person tried to enforce a contract, the other guy could just say, ‘Poor me. I didn’t know what I was doing.’ Fortunately, I know an old boy over in East Texas who’s a first class document examiner. He talks country but no lawyer wants to have to cross examine him. And, like most of these experts, he’ll claim to call them as he sees them, but he knows where the butter is on his bread and he’ll tailor his opinion accordingly. Hell, I might as well call him now and get him hired before Leyton does.”
Jack scrolled through his contacts until he found Jeremiah Buchanan and placed the call. Buchanan lived in a small house down a dirt road outside of Palestine in East Texas. Johnny Bob Tisdale had recommended him many years before. He was a short, dumpy man who lived with two dogs he had found roaming the highway near his house. His frowzy white hair and mustache gave him the appearance of Albert Einstein, which he used to his advantage in front of a jury. He worked in a spare bedroom with large picture windows he had installed to bring the sun into his work area. To complement the sunlight, he had the ceiling filled with fluorescent lights. His desk faced one of the windows. To his right was a large bookcase, filled with a variety of magnifying glasses and microscopes. A laboratory table stood against the far wall. He worked there when it was necessary to establish the age of a document or ink. When his phone rang, he put down a magnifying glass.
“Buchanan, here.”
“Jerry, this is Jack Bryant. How are things in East Texas today? You seen my friend, Johnny Bob, lately?”
“Jackson Bryant,” Buchanan said. “I heard you retired. In fact I think it was Johnny Bob who told me.”
“I’m trying, Jerry. Moved to Fort Worth and started doing a little pro bono work just to pass the time. Wasn’t long before I was swamped. Look, I’m representing a widow lady named June Davis. We’re suing a company called Allison Southwest about some life insurance proceeds. Allison is represented by Ace Leyton. Has he contacted you on this case?”
“Nope. Sure hasn’t.”
“Then I want to retain you. I should have some documents in the next few days.”
“Tell me a little more, Jack.”
“They say my client’s husband signed an employment agreement about thirty years ago and buried in it was some language authorizing Allison to take out life insurance coverage on him and keep it on him even after he left the company. It’s a long story that’s not pertinent to you, but after her husband died, she learned that Allison had a $200,000 policy that paid double for accidental death and had kept paying the premiums even after he retired. They claim he agreed to it. Ms. Davis says she can’t confirm it was his signature. I’ll send you the agreement and whatever exemplars of his writing my widow can find by next week. Obviously, I’m hoping there is no comparison between the signatures.”
“You didn’t have to add that last comment.” Buchanan laughed. “I knew which side of the case you were on. Get the stuff on down here and I’ll have a look.”
“You got it, Jerry. And, this case is set in two months. Shouldn’t take you long to come up with an opinion. I just ask that you don’t let it sit on the back shelf too long. And, of course, I’ll send your usual $5,000 retainer.”
“Gone up, Jack.”
“Pardon?”
“Retainer’s now $7500. I’m swamped with all these damn mortgage lawsuits. Figured I might as well go up on my fees. Everyone else is making money on this mortgage crisis. I might as well take a little bigger piece of the pie.”
Jack put down the phone and gazed out the window.
“What are you thinking about, Dad?”
“Just going over the Davis v. Allison facts in my mind, trying to figure out if we need any discovery ourselves. Right now I don’t think so. We have June, and I figure that Buchanan will come through for us. Whoops, almost forgot to get an insurance expert. I can take care of that with a phone call. They’ll call Allison and maybe another employee or two and find their own document examiner to swear that the signatures match and, of course, a defense insurance expert. There’s always the possibility that we may have to subpoena someone on short notice, but that’s okay. I think we’ll be good to go. Willie, Jr. is coming in on Wednesday. Let’s you and I do a little more gumshoe work tomorrow.”
60
Jack turned Lucille across the highway and parked in front of the small police department in Breckenridge. They entered the front door into a room maybe twenty by twenty. One wall was filled with wanted posters. A back door led to the jail. Three desks filled the small space. Two faced each other along one wall and one in the middle had a nameplate with “Sheriff Luttrell” on it. The man at the desk wore a tan uniform with an open shirt. His sidearm rested in its holster on the desk while he worked on a computer.
As they approached, he turned. “What can I do for you?”
“Sheriff, I’m Jackson Bryant. I’m a lawyer and a reserve deputy over in Tarrant County. This is my son, J.D.”
Luttrell rose to shake their hands. “J.D. Bryant. Well, I don’t cotton to lawyers much, but I know who your son is; so you’re welcome. Have a seat.”
“Sheriff, we’re here trying to find out why someone has made three attempts on the life of a friend of ours. We’re checking into unsolved violent deaths in Fort Worth and surrounding counties, looking for a connection. It’s admittedly a shot in the dark.”
The sheriff folded his hands on his desk and said, “Go on.”
“Back in November there was a man named Jim Morris who was run over and killed i
n front of the pool hall here. Just wondering if you turned up any leads.”
“Hell, I remember it. Happened in a driving rainstorm and late at night. He got hit and the driver never stopped. May be that the driver never even saw him.”
“Can I ask a question?” J.D. said.
“Fire away.”
“Can you tell us anything about the victim?”
The sheriff rose to go to go to a cabinet where he pulled open a drawer and flipped through a few files. “Here it is,” he said as he returned to his desk. “I ran across Morris a time or two at the Dairy Queen or at Nellie’s diner. Quiet type. Let’s see. Now I remember. He was an auto mechanic for the Dodge dealer we used to have in town. They sold mostly Dodge Ram pickups. Old man Bridgers owned it; sold out to some mega dealer a few years back, but it was still known as Bridgers Dodge. Wasn’t but a couple of years later that the economy collapsed and the dealership closed. Bridgers died of a heart attack last year. As to Jim, he got a job with an oil field service company. Nice guy. Too bad what happened to him.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Jack said. “Here’s my card. Let me know if you remember anything else.”
“Sure thing and, J.D., we want us a national championship this year, you hear?”
J.D. just nodded and smiled as he turned to leave.
After they buckled up, J.D. said, “Where to now?”
“Brownwood is just a little piece down the road south of here. That’s where they found a man drowned below a bridge, but his Harley was back at the house. He worked at a feed store on the edge of town. That’s our next stop.”
The forty-five minute drive between the two towns was hardly a scenic route, particularly in the middle of the summer. Other than a couple of rolling hills, the land was flat. A summer drought left the landscape barren, save for a few mesquite trees and a good smattering of cactus. The water tanks were down by three feet and what few cows that were in the pastures huddled under the scant shade thrown off by the mesquites.
Dead Peasants Page 17