CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I caught Judge MacGregor just as he was about to convene court and told him I needed a search warrant on Zorn. “And just what will you be looking for?” he asked.
“Among other things, there’s the possibility that we might find a million dollars worth of cocaine.”
A small, white-haired leprechaun of a man, MacGregor gazed at me for a moment with eyes of the purest blue, then sighed. “You have never joked at a time like this, so I will assume you aren’t now. But I must say it grieves me for things like this to come to our little town. And what is the legal basis for the warrant? An ‘unnamed informant’?”
“No. I have solid information I obtained from the FBI. But I don’t want to mention the coke on the warrant.”
He blinked a time or two. “And why not?”
“My real interest is in finding anything that might connect him to the Twiller killing. Amanda Twiller was carrying on an affair with Zorn.”
“So I’d heard,” he said. “Very sad.”
“Right. But the Bureau doesn’t want Zorn blown on the coke right now. They’re after a bigger fish, and I need to accommodate them if I can.”
“I have also heard that Mrs. Twiller had developed a prescription drug problem. Do you think that’s true?”
“I have every reason to believe it is, including her husband’s word on the matter.”
“I see,” he said and nodded. “Then let’s list prescription drugs and ‘other’ controlled substances on the paperwork, but keep it generic. Don’t name any drug specifically. That way you can still use it later if you find a big sack full of cocaine or something equally distressing. I think that’s reasonable since everybody in town seems to know that the woman had developed a substance abuse problem. Tell my secretary to type it up and bring it into the courtroom for me to sign.”
* * *
I’d been back in my office about fifteen minutes when Linda Willis came in and laid a piece of paper on my desk.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“The ballistics report on the Twiller murder gun. The Bureau’s lab wizards claim it came from a CZ nine-millimeter, and it doesn’t match up with anything previously used in a crime.”
“What in the Sam Hill is a CZ?”
“Designwise, it’s a double-action modification of John Browning’s Colt 1911 semiauto, like you carry. They’re made in the former Czechoslovakia for the former Czech army. I think their cops use them too.”
“Are they commercially available here, or are we dealing with something rare and exotic?”
“No, you can get ’em here,” she said. “Very sweet pistols, as a matter of fact. I’ve shot a couple of them. Great trigger pull right out of the box. Actually, they’re a lot like the FN-made Browning Hi-Power, which you probably remember was another of old man Browning’s designs.”
I leaned back in my big chair and peered at her skeptically. “Linda, it’s plain unseemly for a sweet young woman like you to know so much about firearms.”
“Gotta be ready for when the commies invade, boss.”
“The commies are defunct. Now it’s A-rab terrorists. They’re the enemy du jour.”
“Whatever,” she said. She pivoted around, snapped to attention, and started marching out of the room singing the Marine Corps Hymn.
“Whoa!” I yelled.
She executed a perfect about-face and saluted.
“You’ve got another search to do,” I said. “This time take Toby with you.”
“Groovy. Who’s the subject?”
“Emmet Zorn. And where is Toby, anyway?”
“He took a domestic disturbance call as soon as he came on a little while ago.”
“Damn,” I said. “That’s how many in twenty-four hours? Five?”
“Six.”
“What’s wrong with people?”
“I think it’s the weather. This drought is getting on everybody’s nerves. Even my parents’.”
“Well, Linda, you should realize that anybody who went through the ordeal of raising you is bound to get a little cranky from time to time.”
“Thanks, Bo. What are we looking for at Zorn’s place?”
“The warrant lists any documents or physical evidence that might connect him to Amanda Twiller. Drugs are also mentioned.”
“Unscripted prescription drugs?”
“That’s an interesting question, isn’t it?”
“You want me to call Toby?” she asked.
“Yeah, tell him to cut it short or call somebody else to take over. Have him meet you at Zorn’s place. If Zorn’s not there, which he probably won’t be, secure the warrant to the door.”
* * *
I got a call from one of my informants that caused me to pause and reflect for a few seconds. Then I picked up the receiver and dialed Hotch’s cell number. I decided it was time for him to pay me back a little for his mendacity at our first meeting.
“Hotchkiss here,” he said.
“Indeed it is, and I already need your help on something. Time for you to start paying for your sins.”
He laughed. “Mack told me this would happen. So what do you need?”
“I just talked to one of my snitches on the phone.”
“Yes?”
“I’m busting a bookie in a few days and I need a little help with him. My informant gave me some particulars on the guy, and I’d like to be able to apply a little federal pressure on him. He’s already had one interstate gambling charge that was probated, so—”
“So if we catch him with the goods he’s a shoo-in for about five years’ federal time.”
“You got it,” I said.
“But you’re after bigger fish.”
“You got that too. I’ll tell you about it the next time we talk.”
“Okay, but try to give me at least a day’s notice on the bust.”
“I’ll do my best.”
* * *
We hung up and I spent a dull morning applying myself to more of the paperwork that was becoming a constant plague of my occupation. Then, at about ten-thirty, Walter Durbin appeared in my doorway. “I’ve been fired,” he said.
“As Raynes’s lawyer?” I asked. “Did he get somebody else?”
“Yeah. Harvey Holbrook.”
“Damn,” I said. Holbrook was one of Houston’s top criminal defense lawyers. He was also a truly vicious little queen with no more sense of ethics or common decency than a hog in heat.
“My sentiments exactly,” Walter said. “Holbrook showed up in court and told the judge that he’d been retained to represent the boy. He claims he knows you.”
“Yeah, I know him too.”
“What’s he like personally?”
“Queer as a three-legged goat and mean as hell.”
“Well, from what I garnered in our short conversation this morning, he doesn’t care for you, either. What’s the story on that?”
“About six or seven years ago he tried a pretty big case here in town and won. He got a little drunk at the post-trial celebration, and damn near slammed his Jaguar into my cruiser on his way out of town. While I was trying to reason with him, he called me a motherfucker and got physical. So I slapped the fire out of him.”
“Did you charge him with drunk driving?”
“Nope,” I said. “I nailed him for public intoxication and disorderly conduct. Easier to prove and more humiliating. Plus I threw his ass in the drunk tank overnight.”
He laughed. “I hope he got a letter of censure from the state bar.”
“He did, and he didn’t like that either.”
“Well, he’s what you’re up against now. The judge had no choice but to let him get to the boy, and it didn’t take him two minutes. When I tried to tell Holbrook about the deal the DA offered, he suggested I take a hike. Says he’s going to fight it out in court.”
“Arrogant little prick, isn’t he? What about bail? Did MacGregor deny it?”
He nodded. “Yeah, but Holbrook is a
ppealing the ruling. He’s going to the appeals court over in Tyler this afternoon.”
I stared at him in disbelief, and I’m sure my mouth was gaping wide open for the second time in less than two days. “So you’re telling me that one of the most expensive criminal lawyers in this state is not only representing this kid, but that he’s tooling over to Tyler to bell the appellate court on behalf of a poor little drug skank who probably couldn’t raise a hundred dollars cash if his life depended on it?”
“That’s right.”
“Walter, what in the hell is going on?”
“I can’t begin to imagine, but I would dearly love to know who’s fronting Holbrook’s fee.”
“So would I,” he said. “Why don’t you come by about five and have a drink with me and Nelda, and we’ll do some speculating on that.”
“I will if I can, but I don’t know where I’ll be then. This case has been turning me every which way but loose.”
* * *
Two hours later I’d finished my budget and cleared all my other paperwork, and I was trying to decide what to do for lunch when Toby and Linda cruised back in, wide-eyed and excited. “You’ve got to see what we found,” Linda said, pulling a small digital camera out of her pocket and nudging my shins with her foot. “Get up and gimmie your chair. I want to download these photos to your computer.”
“Don’t mind me,” I said. “I’m just the boss, and I sure don’t want to get in your way.”
“Oh, hush, Bo. You’re going to love this. It’s a real mystery.”
She was right.
It was a box, about fifteen inches long, a foot wide and two feet deep, built into Zorn’s floor. The hardwood flooring had been carefully sawn out and the box had been framed in between the floor joists. One shot showed the underside of the flooring, revealing how the strips of oak had been tacked to a pair of one-by-half inch pine planks, a setup that allowed the flooring to be replaced as a lid for the box.
“Somebody went to one hell of a lot of trouble here,” I said. “How did you find it? I suppose it was under a rug or something.”
“The hall runner,” Linda said. “I stepped on it and it felt different somehow, so I pulled the runner aside.”
“She’s got sensitive feet,” Toby said. “We put it all back together, and I couldn’t feel a thing when I stepped on it.”
“I’m guessing it was empty,” I said.
They both nodded. “And clean as a pin inside,” Toby said. “No dust, no residue, no nothing.”
“What do you think it was made for?” Linda asked.
“Guns, gold, money, jewels, or drugs,” I said. “Take your pick.”
“Drugs,” Toby said.
Linda nodded her head in agreement. I sat in thought for a few moments. “Anybody want to hazard a guess why Zorn was out of pocket when Peet came to town?” I asked.
“That’s been worrying me too,” Toby said. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“What I’m about to tell you stays between the three of us for the time being. The Bureau says Zorn has been muleing cocaine for Sipes. Large amounts of cocaine. Peet says he brings the stuff up from Houston and holds it for the buyers in Dallas or wherever. That explains the hidey-hole you found. Now, Peet said he came down here to set up the St. Louis transaction. What if Zorn misunderstood and thought he was supposed to meet Peet for the actual buy? Let’s say maybe he opens the cupboard only to find it bare. So with the stuff missing, he must know it wasn’t a casual burglary, right? Not some guy who broke in and just happened to find the stuff. Which means somebody else must have known it was there, somebody Zorn trusted but who decided to rip him off. So what does Zorn do when he finds the stuff is gone?”
“He goes ape shit,” Linda said. “And he starts frantically looking for the friend and fails to connect with Peet.”
“Good theory,” Toby said.
“But why would he let somebody else know about the stuff?” Linda asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he had an accomplice or a partner. Did you leave the box like you found it?”
“Yeah,” Linda said. “We both thought you’d want us to.”
“You did good,” I said. “Let’s just keep it our little secret for now. Did anything else turn up on the search?”
“No,” Toby said. “Except we found out that Zorn is very neat and organized. And he’s got about fifty of those string ties and fancy tie clasps hanging in his closet.”
“You should see that damn place,” Linda said. “It looks like some young bachelor’s dream pad out of Playboy magazine back about 1970. He’s got a round waterbed with satin coverlets and a bunch of airbrushed nudes hanging on the walls. What an asshole.”
I sat on the corner of my desk. She was still in my chair, swiveling back and forth a little, her feet barely touching the floor.
“Now, Linda,” I said. “I was thinking I might tell ole Emmet that you’re available so maybe he’d come sparkin’ you some fine fall evening. Probably with a bouquet of roses in one hand and a dainty, heart-shaped box of chocolates in the other.”
“Bo, only a damn fool would talk that way to a woman who’s wearing a .357 Magnum,” she said.
I laughed and stood up. “Young folks, I’m happy as a lark all of a sudden. Whether or not we ever unravel this mess, the image of Emmet Zorn down on his knees peeking into that damned hole in his floor with those little eyes of his has made my day. Lunch is on me, so let’s go.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sycamore Ridge Cemetery is a two-acre strip of land that lies on a low bluff a half mile past the western edge of town. It’s bordered by an oil-topped county road on one side and the edge of the bluff on the other, with a perimeter marked by a century-old fence of wrought iron that’s overgrown with masses of honeysuckle. In the spring the ground is a carpet of wildflowers that ripple gently beneath the spreading branches of tall magnolias and ancient cedars. But now the grass lay in withered strips among a forest of tombstones that ranged from humble, homemade concrete slabs on up to the great granite and marble obelisks erected by the leading citizens of the previous century.
I had two reasons for attending Amanda Twiller’s four o’clock service. In the first place, it was the right thing to do since the family was well established in the community. And second, there is a strong belief among lawmen that oftentimes a killer can’t stay away from his victim’s funeral.
The Methodist bishop had sent a young man fresh from the seminary to function as Twiller’s assistant until he recovered from his wife’s death. Twiller started to read his wife’s favorite poem, but he broke down and the new preacher had to finish it for him. After a short eulogy, we sang “Amazing Grace,” and then the young man gave a closing prayer. And that was all. I saw no one that looked suspicious or stood out in the crowd of perhaps two hundred that showed up. Before I left the cemetery I asked the funeral director, an old hunting buddy of mine named Leonard Ott, to photocopy the guest register for me before he turned it over to the family.
* * *
I never made it to Walter’s office that afternoon. Two more minor shooting scrapes out in the country and a robbery attempt at the north boundary of the county kept the whole department tied up until well after dark. Everybody was grateful for the fall of night. The day had been miserably hot and dusty, and the very world itself seemed wilted under the burning sun.
I went home and took a quick shower and decided to turn in early. As I was brushing my teeth I looked out the bathroom window to see the waxing moon, now a thin, menacing crescent, where it hung red and ominous in the eastern sky. I peered at it and shuddered and said a silent prayer for rain and cool weather. Before it rose again the following night I would have yet another murder on my hands.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The next morning I decided to drive down South Main Street to the Burger King at the edge of town to get a couple of sausage biscuits to eat at my desk. On my way back, I passed the Caravan and saw Sheila in front of the building wr
estling with a guy twice her size. Muttering imprecations about the needless complexities of life, I wheeled into the parking lot and climbed out of my cruiser after first slipping a fifteen-inch lead-filled slapjack into the back of my Wranglers.
As I drew closer I could see that her tormentor was about forty or a couple of years younger. He was bulked up like a bodybuilder and had a narrow head on a big body, black hair, and a face that reminded me of a sink full of dirty dishes. Dressed in the same sort of trendy nylon wind suit Peet had sported, his eyes were glazed and pinpoint, and he held Sheila’s left forearm in one huge hand with a viselike grip.
“Turn her loose and back off,” I ordered.
He looked at me and smirked, but he didn’t give up his hold on Sheila’s arm. Bad move on his part. He made another unwise decision when he concluded that a little debate was in order. “Who the hell are you, country boy?” he asked.
I decided to show him who I was. There’s no point in arguing with somebody stupid enough or hopped-up enough to contest a lawman’s point of view in such a situation. At least not in my part of the world. I reached behind me and grabbed the slapjack and brought it around in one smooth motion. His right hand was busy holding Sheila, but his big, thick left arm was available in all its bulging glory, his elbow sticking out in virtual invitation. And that’s where I got him.
It must have hurt something fierce. It took him a full second to react, but when he did his eyes bugged out a little and his mouth made a silent O. He let go of Sheila and reached for his elbow, but by that time I’d lost interest in any voluntary cooperation he might have been willing to offer. My second blow was a truly vicious roundhouse backhand that caught him just behind his right ear and brought him to the ground.
“God, Bo!” Sheila said.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, but gee … I’ve never seen you do anything like that before.”
I grinned at her. “You had Uncle Bo pegged as the teddy-bear type, huh?”
“Not anymore I don’t.”
By then muscle boy was on all fours trying to get to his feet. I put my knee into the center of his back and came down with all my weight, driving him down on his belly. He tried to resist when I started pulling his arms around behind him to get the cuffs on, but another middling hard lick with the slapjack took all the fight out of him, and I had him trussed up in a matter of seconds.
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