We briefly explained my theory about Poison Ivy and the Dismembered Bunnies. Susan remembered Bret talking about his time as a musician, but she was the only one he shared that part of his life with. Although he had brought instruments into their marriages and acquired more while married to each, he’d never mentioned it to the other women. Susan had thought it incredibly sexy to be married to a guitar player, but wasn’t too keen on his banjo practice. They all thought it unlikely a band mate from thirty years ago would want to hurt Bret now, but we asked them to please take precautions for the next few weeks, going so far as to ask them to request drive-bys from the local police on a regular basis at their homes and work.
As I suspected, each of the women had agreed to hold a package for Bret over the past several weeks, which explained the FedEx and UPS charges on the winery’s credit cards. On Bret’s instructions, none of the women had opened the packages, but all were about the size and shape of a guitar or banjo. We asked them to open the boxes and check for a cassette tape or tapes. All did, although one Texas ex-wife offered to bash the banjo in her box to bits to find the tape. We told her the Gibson she was threatening might be worth thousands of dollars, depending on its age and condition. That saved the banjo, since she figured she could sell the thing and recoup part of Bret’s borrowing. Only two guitars contained anything, both of them notes addressed to ‘Shitbird’, presumably Sonny, telling him he’d failed to find ‘it’ yet again.
The third current Texas wife, a jewelry designer named Frannie Whitehouse, offered to drive the package to our office in Arcadia, and we took her up on the offer. I think we were all curious to see what she looked like.
I wasn’t sure Nicole Ivy was ready to compare notes with Bret’s other wives, but when I talked to Blue at a little after eight-thirty, she was all for it. I guess the grief, what there had been of it, was fading. Blue had started the morning at the winery but was coming into the office at ten o’clock to meet Nicole.
When Kay told us that Texas wife number three lived south of Nacogdoches and would be with us by ten to meet the other wives, we were stunned.
Cindy regained her composure first. “Not only was Bret Ivey a lying, cheating, dog of a man, but he must’ve had massive balls. Imagine having two wives living roughly an hour apart.”
Cass checked her phone. “Mitch texted and said they’re interviewing Billy Garcia this morning. I shouldn’t be there, but Hoffner’s in Austin. You want to come with me, Maxine?”
“You’d better get going.” Babby checked her watch. “And it’s time to call the glazier, Kay. Let’s flip to decide who picks the sign for the window.”
WE’RE NOT DONE LOOKING
EVERYBODY KNOWS HOW INTERVIEWS of suspects go on TV. Good cop, bad cop, and the suspect caves and confesses. Seems it’s not that easy in real life. Big Billy was mute when we arrived, waiting on a public defender. Mitch paced outside the interview room, shaking his head.
“The idiot won’t talk,” he said. “We’ve got him dead to rights on the break-in at Blue’s, stealing that truck, and assaulting Maxine. That’s some shiner, by the way. I hope you’ve taken a picture of it.”
I scowled, which hurt.
“Seriously. How often is it that a hot chick gets a black eye stopping a criminal? You need to start building your portfolio of experience. Nice work.”
That made me smile, which also hurt.
Mitch continued. “Turning off the breaker and tossing a brick through the window is a little uncertain, but it’s got to be him that did it.”
“How long will it be before the public defender gets here?” Cass asked.
“Who knows? Want coffee?”
We took cups to the forensics room and sat while Kado finished a phone call.
“Nice black eye, Maxine,” Kado said.
“Yeah, yeah, it makes me look tough.”
“Given that Billy Garcia’s still not sitting right, you more than look tough.”
“Got anything for us?” Mitch asked.
“Several things. Sugar Murphy trashed Maxine’s apartment last night, but he did it alone. Your place is really clean.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Kado nodded. “Fingerprints confirm Sugar flipped the breaker at the agency and Billy Garcia threw the brick. More good news is that Sugar was in Annie’s house. Truman went back and lifted all the partial prints from the pieces of the guitar we found at Annie’s. We got enough detail to be sure Sugar was there. We’ve got partials that could be Billy’s, but not enough to be sure. We have Billy’s prints on the guitar that was smashed at Daphne’s house.”
“So they did kill the girls,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” Kado said. “I also talked to the crime scene guys in Dallas. They found prints from Billy Garcia and Sugar Murphy at Nicole Ivey’s house. There’s plenty of evidence that says they damaged all the instruments, but nothing linking them to any of the murders.”
“So Blue’s still our best suspect,” Mitch said.
“Yes, unless you two have found somebody else.” He looked at me and Cass.
I shook my head. “But we’re not done looking.”
Kado snapped his fingers. “There’s something else I need to follow up on. I thought I got fingerprints from all the employees at Cedar Bend Winery, but I missed two. A kitchen worker called Oscar Matalan and the guy who was coordinating it all, Will Sterling.”
“Can’t you go back to the winery and print them?” I asked.
“I called out there this morning. Oscar hasn’t been in since Saturday. Truman’s going to get Will’s prints this afternoon.”
The courthouse receptionist buzzed Kado and said Garcia’s public defender had arrived. Mitch looked at us. “You can’t be here,” he told Cass. “And you definitely shouldn’t be here,” he said to me.
“Then we’re not here,” I answered. “But if Cass can’t help you interview Big Billy, please remember he doesn’t know he’s not a suspect for three murders.”
“He’s not.”
“But he doesn’t know that.”
“How does it help us if Billy thinks we’re looking at him for murder?” Mitch asked slowly.
“We need to know why he’s smashing guitars. I think Sonny Arellano sent him to find those missing Dismembered Bunnies’ tapes.”
“Why do you think that?”
I bit my lip. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“That’s nothing new.”
He was right. I explained my theory about the Bunnies’ search for those missing tapes.
“That’s far-fetched,” he said. “But not impossible. How does accusing Billy of three murders help us?”
“If there’s something damaging to Sonny on those tapes and Bret is blackmailing him, and if Sonny sent Billy and Sugar to find the tapes, you can bet Billy’s more afraid of Sonny than he is of you.”
“But if he thinks he’s looking at three murder charges,” Cass said, “he might be more afraid of you.”
IT’S A GOOD ONE
SUGAR PICKED HIS WAY across the rotting floor, unzipped his jeans, and peed in the kitchen sink.
“That’s disgusting,” said the small man. He raised the flame on the camp stove and watched the percolator.
Sugar lifted a bucket and poured pond water down the sink. “The toilet’s stopped up.”
“Be a man. Go outside.”
“This place is a dump.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’re leaving.”
“To look for Billy again? We just got back. I need coffee first.”
“We’re leaving because Billy knows where we are.” The percolator spat and then settled into a steady burble, and he poured two cups of coffee.
“Billy wouldn’t tell, man.”
“Even if it could save him jail time?”
“We don’t even know he’s locked up,” Sugar protested.
“We can’t find him. He hasn’t called.”
“Maybe he can’t find a phone. Nobody has pay phone
s anymore.”
“Why won’t he carry a cell phone?” He ran his hands through his hair. “Everybody has a phone.”
“He thinks they’ll give him cancer.”
The small man grunted. “We’re going anyway. Get rid of that shotgun.”
Sugar picked it up and caressed the stock. “It’s a good one. The barrel’s the perfect length.”
“I said get rid of it.”
“Why?”
“It links us to that chick’s apartment.” He sipped. “You wore gloves, right?”
Sugar pulled at his nose. “Um, yeah.”
“Is that a yes?”
“For most of the time.”
The small man glared. “What does that mean?”
“I had to pee. I couldn’t touch my todger with the gloves.”
He muttered to himself in Spanish, then looked up. “Throw it in the pond. Way out.”
“But it’s a good -”
“What did I say?”
“Throw it.”
The small man drained his coffee. “Go do it, and pack up.”
“Where are we going?”
“To look for Billy again and find out exactly what the girls know.”
LETHAL INJECTION HIGHWAY
MITCH DID THAT SLOW walk thing men do when they’re trying to look tough but not too aggressive. He was an attractive man. Tall with blue eyes and blond hair and in his early forties, he was still trim and had that air about him that told you he knew he was good looking, but didn’t really know how good. Detective Martinez joined Mitch and the two made a formidable pair. I guessed Mitch would play the good cop, and Martinez the bad.
Cass and I stood in the observation room and watched through the one-way glass. She’d turned the volume up so we could hear the conversation. Big Billy Garcia’s lawyer was a smartly if cheaply dressed defender named Chet Rubins. He was a few years older than us, and I remembered him as a shy kid from school. Billy sat with his skinny shoulders slumped, his gaze fixed on his hands, which were clasped atop the table. He kept shifting in his chair as if he couldn’t find a comfortable position. I felt a little tug of pleasure at the bruise blossoming on his nose and the bandage on his left cheek. He looked like a beaten man.
Rubins, on the other hand, had a quiet but confident manner and he listened with interest as Mitch explained why Billy was in custody. Once Mitch finished, Rubins said, “Before we go any further, I want to file a complaint against the department on behalf of my client.”
“For?” Mitch asked.
“Mr. Garcia was assaulted by department personnel while being arrested,” Rubins said.
“He was fleeing a crime scene and captured by a citizen.”
“That’s not how my client tells it.”
“Maybe your client is embarrassed to admit a woman half his size did that,” Mitch lifted his chin at Billy’s face. “He got in a few licks and she’s filing assault charges.”
That was news to me, but if it helped Mitch convince Billy to talk, I’d gladly file assault charges.
Billy’s chin dropped to his chest.
“Well?” Rubins asked. “It’s best if we don’t start this session with a false claim about how you were injured.”
“It might’ve happened like that.” Billy’s voice was deep but quiet. “It was dark. But I wasn’t fleeing a crime scene. I was jogging.”
“We’ve got your prints on a piece of paper that was wrapped around a brick that broke a window in a building downtown. We’ve also got a witness who saw you flee the scene.”
Billy shrugged. “It might’ve happened like that.”
“For a man who’s already done time, Mr. Garcia,” Detective Martinez said, “you’re not a very careful criminal. We have your prints and those of your colleague Mr. Murphy at five other crime scenes.”
Rubins sat straighter. “I was told it was only four.”
“Mr. Garcia and Mr. Murphy broke into a house in Dallas and trashed some instruments there, too.”
“Whose house?” Rubins asked.
“We’ll get to that,” Mitch said. “The important part about three of the four break-ins here in Forney County is that someone from each of those homes turned up dead.”
“You’ve already arrested Blue Ivey for those murders.”
“We’re keeping an open mind,” Mitch said. “Given the evidence, and we’re still processing it all, it’s very possible Mr. Garcia could end up doing time for three murders. Once we find Mr. Murphy, any benefit of the doubt we might extend to your client will disappear. Instead, Mr. Murphy will have a shot at our benevolence.”
Rubins glanced at his client, who was still examining the table.
“I don’t know what it’s like out in sunny California,” Martinez said, “but we don’t like men who murder innocent women and law abiding men here in Texas, Mr. Garcia. Often, they enjoy an extended stay in one of our fine prison establishments or receive a bonus, a trip down lethal injection highway. Maybe you’d like to tell us why you’re only a B&E man and not a candidate for a permanent resident visa here in Texas.”
THE LONELIEST NUMBER
BIG BILLY MIGHT NOT’VE been too bright, but he was smart enough to recognize wiggle room when he saw it. Given that he’d spent time in prison in California, he probably wasn’t too keen on repeating the experience in Texas. Rubins asked for a moment to confer with his client, and Mitch and Martinez joined us in the observation room. Sadly, the microphones were off and all we could see were two men talking.
“What do you think?” I asked. “Will he spill?”
“I think so,” Martinez said. “Making him think he might be up for a few murder charges was a good idea.”
We watched as Rubins leaned forward and tapped the table in front of Billy.
“What’s happening?” I asked, biting my lip, but gently.
“His lawyer is telling him to confess to all the break-ins he and Murphy were part of,” Mitch said. “Because we’ve got solid evidence for those.”
Billy shook his head, slowly at first and then with more vigor as Rubins continued to talk.
“He’s refusing to give up himself or his partner,” Martinez said.
Rubins sat back and threw his hands up, then stood and paced.
“And now Rubins is telling him if he doesn’t account for his whereabouts at the times of the murders, chances are we’ll pin them on him because we prefer cooks like Blue over crooks like him,” Martinez said.
Billy glared up at the lawyer and spoke.
“Ah,” Mitch said. “Now we get to the good stuff. Big Billy says there’s a bigger fish involved. A fish with humongous teeth who will take his swollen testicles off in a single bite, or worse, if Billy talks about the break-ins or anything else.”
Rubins stopped walking.
Martinez chuckled. “His lawyer is asking whether it’s worth spending life in prison for this big fish. If the fish paid him enough to do the time for those crimes and murder.”
Billy crossed his arms over his chest. His lower lip poked out. Rubins picked up his briefcase and paused with one hand on the doorknob.
“Good,” Mitch said. “Rubins is telling him if he’s not interested in talking with us, he’s got other clients to see. Garcia can sit in his cell all alone and think about what’s coming next. Rubins will be back after the murder charges are filed.”
Billy scrubbed his face with both hands, leaned forward to put his elbows on the table, and started talking.
“Hey presto,” Martinez said. “One really is the loneliest number.”
FISH FRY
IT ONLY TOOK BIG Billy ten minutes to tell Rubins his story. His lawyer sat and pondered, and then asked questions and took notes. Cass left to get more coffee. By the time she returned, Rubins was talking non-stop and Billy’s head was bobbing in agreement.
Rubins motioned to the mirrored window. Mitch and Martinez met him in the hall and left the door to the observation room open a crack. Cass and I eased forward to hear bett
er and although I couldn’t see Rubins, I felt the energy crackling from him.
Rubins: “My client has critical information about a high-profile drug family. He would consider sharing this information in exchange for immunity for any and all crimes he might have committed in Texas.”
Mitch: “What drug family?”
Rubins: “A prominent family in Mexico with violent tendencies.”
Martinez: “No name? We’re not interested.”
Rubins: “Before my client divulges any information, he needs your assurance that he will not be called to testify in criminal proceedings regarding this family. He would also like protection.”
Mitch: “Why do we care about a drug family in Mexico? This is Forney County. I’ve got three murders, four break-ins, destruction of property and maybe theft, one act of vandalism, and one assault to solve.”
Rubins: “He’ll confess to the break-ins, destruction, vandalism, and assault. He says nothing was stolen during the break-ins. The murders aren’t his or his partner’s.”
Martinez: “We’ve got him on everything but the murders, and we’re working on those. Why would we deal?”
Rubins: “This family’s violence isn’t limited to Mexico. Mr. Garcia has information about specific crimes committed in the US, mass graves in Mexico, along with details of drug trafficking routes and high level players here and across the border.”
Martinez: “You think the DEA will want what he has?”
Rubins: “Mr. Garcia will also turn over a key member of the family who is here in Arcadia with him.”
Mitch: “Let me call the DA.”
THE OATH
FORNEY COUNTY’S DISTRICT ATTORNEY was a quirky man called Sammy Mathison. He was forever in pointy-toed cowboy boots, pearl-button shirts, blue jeans with big belt buckles, and a cowboy hat. The press loved him because he was usually a friend to the Sheriff’s department and was forthcoming to reporters. Sammy’s office was housed off the square, but in the five minutes it took him to make the short walk, he was drenched in sweat.
“I’m ready for this heat wave to be over,” he drawled, drying his face with a paper towel.
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