“Another body.” Blackie’s mouth tightened. “Five?”
“Five and counting,” McQuaid replied tersely. Five. And one bullet—one bullet from his gun would have kept them all alive.
A phone buzzed on the receptionist’s desk. She picked up, then glanced in their direction with a frosty smile that just missed being condescending. “They’re ready for you now, gentlemen. Down the hall, to your left.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I reckon we can find it without a map.” Blackie clapped his hat on his head, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and gave the young woman a broad Paul Newman wink that she pretended to ignore.
McQuaid grinned. Blackie was a quiet guy, but every now and then, when he was pushed a little, he liked to put on his western act. “Don’t mind my friend,” he said, sotto voce to the receptionist. “They don’t let him off the ranch very often these days.”
The two young lawyers—McQuaid thought they looked like they were just out of law school—were seated at a polished conference table that could have accommodated sixteen. They were looking for experienced investigators who could do pre-deposition background checks and interviews on two dozen witnesses in a criminal fraud case the firm was preparing for trial. The lawyers would supply the questions, but the interviewers would have to know the case well enough to anticipate a range of answers, decide whether the person being questioned was telling the truth, and know just how to worm the truth out of them, within legal limits. It was the kind of job McQuaid enjoyed, for it gave him the opportunity to do what he did best: ask the right questions and analyze the answers, verbal and nonverbal.
The meeting lasted a half hour and concluded with a round of cordial handshakes. “We’ll get back to you next week,” one of the lawyers said. “The partners have to approve our recommendation.”
“But don’t take on any other major work in the meantime,” the other lawyer said.
• • •
“THAT seemed to go well enough,” Blackie said, when they were out on the street again. “Good to have another paying job next month, too.”
After a cool morning, the sun had come out briefly, sending the temperature into the upper eighties. The sky was darkening to the southeast, though, which might mean rain. A pair of young girls in brief denim shorts and tank tops sauntered past on the sidewalk. Eyeing them, the driver of a Dirtnail Pedicab—masked and caped as Batman—gave them an appreciative whistle they pretended to ignore. A pony-tailed kid wearing a tie-dyed Keep Austin Weird T-shirt and carrying a guitar case painted with rainbows crossed the street in the middle of the block, and a mounted patrol cop on a horse stopped him for a lecture.
The afternoon was warm enough to make McQuaid want to take his jacket off, but he was mindful of the Glock in his shoulder holster. Instead, he loosened his tie. “If we get the job, it’ll keep us busy for a while.” He said if, but he agreed with Blackie. The meeting had gone well, and he was feeling confident. “Depending on the trial date, we might need to rearrange the calendar.” He glanced at his watch. It was later than he expected—nearly four. “You headed back to Pecan Springs?”
“Yep. You?”
“While I’m up this way, I think I’ll get off the freeway at Oltorf and swing over to South Congress. Brian’s renting a little house over there and he’s been after me to drop in and see it. I won’t stay long. Probably be a half hour behind you.”
“South Austin, huh? Nice place to live.” Blackie tipped his Stetson to the back of his head. “Doesn’t seem possible your boy could be in college already. I keep thinking of him as a little kid, same way I think of mine.” In addition to the baby he and Sheila were having, Blackie had a couple of grown sons by an early marriage.
McQuaid nodded ruefully. “When Brian was little, I kept thinking how great it would be when he grew up and we could do more guy things together—hunting, fishing, climbing. Now, he’s busy with school and we don’t seem to get together very often.” Which didn’t mean they weren’t good buddies. In fact, he cherished his relationship with his son, whom he had raised after Sally left. He didn’t like to brag, but there probably wasn’t a closer father-son duo in the whole state of Texas. There wasn’t anything they couldn’t talk over together.
He pulled out his phone and checked his email. “Nothing from Royce yet. If he comes up with an address, I’d like to check it out this evening. You available?”
“Sure,” Blackie said. “Sheila’s working on her budget, so I’m on my own this evening. Thought I’d pick up some takeout when I get back to Pecan Springs and drop it by the office for her. Give me a call when you know what you want to do. I can go with you or meet you where you’re going, whatever works best.” He gave McQuaid a stern look. “Don’t even think of going by yourself, you hear? You call.”
“You got it. Thanks, partner,” McQuaid said. “Catch you later.”
Back in the truck, he took off his tie, folded it into his pocket, and unbuttoned the top button of his blue shirt. A moment later, he was heading north on San Jacinto to East Fifteenth, hooking a right and then another right at the frontage road, and merging left into the stream of cars heading up the I-35 onramp. The southbound afternoon traffic was packed tight and frustratingly slow-and-go across the river and down to Oltorf. McQuaid was tempted to give it up and stay on I-35. Royce might be calling him any minute with a list of names.
But his conscience bothered him. It was too bad that Sally had unloaded on Brian—well, not unloaded, maybe, at least, it hadn’t sounded quite that way. But she had let the boy know that she was in trouble and that she needed his help. That was Sally, never around to let her son know that she loved him, but always the first one to ask for money or a place to stay or a shoulder to cry on when she was faced with a problem—and there was always a problem. And Brian was a thoughtful kid, a great kid, sensitive to his mother’s needs. He was probably feeling terribly guilty, maybe even depressed, because he couldn’t give her a place to stay. The least McQuaid could do was drop in and let the boy know that his dad was here to give him a hug. He thought of calling, letting Brian know that he’d be dropping in. But he was only a few minutes away. He’d let it be a surprise.
He swung off at the Oltorf exit, heading west past Travis High School and the Blunn Creek Nature Preserve, a pretty green oasis for the students at nearby St. Edward’s University. Wilson Street was a few blocks on the other side of South Congress. It was pleasant, McQuaid saw, a typical South Austin tree-lined street of small, one-story 1950s bungalows with inviting front porches, vegetable gardens in the front yards, and sidewalks, real sidewalks. There were young moms pushing strollers and kids riding bicycles and jumping rope. The neighborhood had a homey, family feel.
It was a change for Brian, and a good one, McQuaid thought approvingly, away from the West Campus frat environment where there’d been too much drinking and drugging—not that Brian did that kind of thing. He had always been a good student who cared about keeping his grades up. He’d done well in his first year at UT, pulling As and Bs and proving that he could handle the challenging course work in his environmental science major. Now that he had a part-time job, it made sense for him to get away from the campus. Kids had to strike out on their own sooner or later, anyway.
McQuaid drove slowly down the street, looking for the number. He couldn’t recall whether Brian was sharing the house with one or two other boys—he should have paid more attention to what China had told him. But from the size of the houses, he thought there probably wasn’t room for three, so it was probably just Brian and somebody else. A couple of blocks off Oltorf, he spotted it, a small yellow house with green shutters, white trim, and a large live oak in the front yard. And there was Brian’s car in the driveway.
Good, McQuaid thought. The boy was at home. He found the nearest empty spot along the curb on the other side of the street, two or three houses down, parked his truck, and took the key out of the ignition. But as he was
getting out, he saw the front door of Brian’s house open. His son—shirtless, barefoot, wearing olive-green cargo shorts—came out onto the porch and walked toward the car that was parked out in front. With him was a very pretty black girl in white terry shorts, a pink tank top, and pink sneakers. She had a bag over her shoulder and a tennis racquet in one hand. Brian was holding the other.
McQuaid quickly got back into his truck, hoping he wouldn’t be seen. But he didn’t need to worry, for Brian had eyes only for the girl. As he watched, the two of them walked around the car. Brian opened the driver’s door and the girl tossed her bag and the racquet into the back and started to get in. But the boy caught her shoulders, pulled her to him as if she were the last real thing left on the earth, and bent his head to hers for a long, deep kiss.
McQuaid found himself holding his breath, not sure he should be watching. No, he was sure he should not be watching. This was his son’s private life, and the boy was over eighteen. No. Brian wasn’t a boy now. He was a man, and he was clearly involved—in love? in lust?—with this young woman. This young black woman.
The kiss ended. Brian touched the girl’s face tenderly and they bent forward, foreheads together, for a moment. Then she got in the car. Brian stepped back and stood in the street, watching until she turned the corner, out of sight. Then, his hands in his pockets, he went jauntily up the walk to the house, skipping—actually skipping—a couple of steps.
McQuaid sat back in his seat, feeling a little like Spencer Tracy in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. But wait—he wasn’t prejudiced, was he? Or was he? If he wasn’t, why was he sitting here wondering how he was supposed to react? He thought back quickly over the talks he and Brian had had about sex, conversations about safe sex and unsafe sex and pregnancy and commitment. Conversations he thought he had handled pretty well at the time, helped along by his comfortable relationship with his son, with whom he could talk about anything, everything.
But he had never thought to bring up the issue of . . . well, interracial love. Interracial . . . sex. It just hadn’t crossed his mind. Not until now. Not until he had seen his son pull that girl to him and kiss her, kiss her intimately. Kiss her as if they had just—
McQuaid shook himself. Whatever the two of them had been up to before they came out of that house, it was their business, not his. So what if Brian was involved with her, even in love with her? Interracial relationships were a lot more common these days than they were when he was growing up, even here in Texas. Yes, it might be a rocky road. It might end unhappily, even painfully, and he certainly didn’t want to see his son get hurt.
But wasn’t getting hurt part of growing up, becoming an adult? And didn’t you learn by taking chances, challenging accepted ideas, testing yourself? Brian was young, yes, but he had a good head on his shoulders. McQuaid had always trusted him to make wise choices—and learn from his mistakes. He had no reason to start distrusting his son’s common sense now, just because he’d seen him kissing his girl.
Still trying to figure out what to do, he put the key in the ignition and drove around a couple of blocks. Making up his mind, he circled back to Wilson and pulled into the empty space where the girl had parked. It was hot, and he wanted to take off his khaki jacket. But he was still wearing the damn Glock, and he didn’t want to take it off and leave it in the truck, even locked. He got out, walked up the steps to the door, and knocked briskly. When Brian came to the door, clearly surprised to see him, he said, with an assumed casualness, “Hey, guy. I was on my way back to Pecan Springs after a meeting downtown and I thought I’d take a chance and see if you were at home. Okay if I come in?”
“Oh, sure, Dad,” Brian said, opening the door. He pushed his fingers through his tousled dark hair, smoothing it. He had pulled on a black T-shirt and was wearing a pair of flip-flops. “Gosh, this is . . . this is a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you.”
Obviously, McQuaid thought, stepping inside. The living room was small but neat, dominated by a large-screen TV in the corner. He looked around. “Nice place you’ve got here, son. A lot nicer than the co-op.” He hesitated. “Am I going to get to meet your roommates?”
“Roommate, singular.” Brian ducked his head. “Sorry. Casey just left.”
Casey, McQuaid thought. So his roommate’s name was Casey. But Casey could be a guy—or Casey could be the girl he had seen Brian kissing. He’d known a woman named Casey once. Damned good patrol officer, as a matter of fact. He’d seen her take down a guy twice her size.
“Too bad,” McQuaid said. “Well, another time.”
He stopped, waiting for Brian to tell him about the girl. After all, he and his son had always been close. There had never been anything they couldn’t talk about together. Surely he would tell his dad about this girl he was seeing—or living with.
But Brian only stuck his hands in his pockets. After an uncomfortable pause, he said, “Want to stay for supper? I could open a can of baked beans. There’s some hamburgers in the freezer. And cheese. And beer.” He brightened. “Want a beer?”
McQuaid hesitated. It looked like the boy wasn’t going to say anything about the girl. Should he tell Brian that he had seen her? He hesitated, then sidestepped the issue. “Will Casey be back in time to join us?”
Brian shifted from one foot to the other. “I don’t . . . I don’t think so. Tennis practice.”
Tennis. He didn’t have to wait for Brian to tell him who Casey was. He nodded and glanced at his watch. It was nearly five, quitting time, and there was still no word from Harry Royce. But there might be.
“I’d like to stay for supper,” he said truthfully, “but I need to hang loose. I’m supposed to get a call about somebody I want to see tonight.”
Brian frowned. “Does this have anything to do with you being on TV at noon?” His blue eyes were serious, worried. “Have they caught him yet? The guy who killed that DA over there in Houston, I mean. And the cop you used to work with.” He bit his lip. “I remember Carl Zumwalt, Dad. He gave me a toy badge once. I wore it all the time, even on my pajamas. He was a really nice guy. I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry he’s dead.”
Dead. McQuaid hadn’t thought about the murders since he had pulled off the freeway, and the reminder was like a splash of cold water. He took a breath. “Haven’t had an update on the situation for a couple of hours,” he said soberly. “So far as I know, Mantel is still on the loose.” Another breath, and he tried for a grin. “Hey. Before I go, maybe you can give me the grand tour.”
But Brian was still frowning. “I don’t like the idea that you’re kind of daring that killer to come and get you, Dad. I wish you wouldn’t do stuff like that.” His voice was thin. “I’m not telling you how to do your business. I’m just telling you how I feel. I mean, I trust that you wouldn’t do something . . . well, stupid. Or anything that was really dangerous. Something that might get you killed.” He stopped uncertainly. “Would you?”
McQuaid gave him a straight look. They were both dealing with issues of trust here, weren’t they? “I guess a man does what a man has to do, Brian. I’ve always tried to stay out of trouble, best I can. I wish you wouldn’t worry.”
Brian nodded slowly. “Yeah, I get it, Dad. The thing is that I feel the same way about you as I do about Sally—all that stuff she gave me about needing a place to stay, about it being her last chance. And she sounded afraid.” The look on his face and the tone of his voice reminded McQuaid that Brian was still his parents’ child. “I don’t want either of you to get hurt.”
McQuaid put his hand on Brian’s shoulder. “That’s how families are, son. I hate seeing you taking chances, too.” He held Brian’s eyes for a moment, remembering that kiss, wishing he could say something to Brian that would let him know that he knew about Casey. That he had seen them together, there by the car. He took a deep breath, searching for the right words. But he couldn’t find them—and when you got right down to it, the secret was Bri
an’s to keep, not his to give away.
So he said, “Look, Brian. I know there are some risks you feel you have to take. If things don’t turn out the way you hope, you’re going to get hurt. That’s the way life is. We just have to trust each other, do what we think is right, and hope for the best. And if it doesn’t work out, we learn whatever we can from the experience. And we go on from there.”
McQuaid flinched. True enough. But he was talking all around the real subject, which was his son’s relationship with a black girl. And what he’d said sounded like a shallow, simplistic philosophy without much depth to it.
But Brian squared his shoulders and nodded. “You’re right, Dad. We learn what we can and go on. Well, let me show you around.” He waved around the room. “It’s not a palace, but it’s comfortable. I like it here. A lot fewer distractions than at the co-op. I don’t go out much. Casey’s in pre-med, which is tough. When summer school classes start up next week, we’ll both be hitting the books.”
The house was sparsely but nicely furnished and surprisingly tidy. Brian’s bedroom contained his usual scramble of books, science equipment, rocks, animal bones and skulls, and his computer and printer. McQuaid noticed that the bed was neatly made up with the quilt China had given him when he went off to college. The door to the other bedroom—Casey’s—was shut, and there was nothing in the house that gave any hint that Casey was the girl McQuaid had seen. Nothing, that is, until they stepped out onto the back porch and McQuaid spotted a pink sweatshirt draped across the railing and a pink headband on the floor. Brian noticed it, too, and his neck reddened. McQuaid waited, thinking Brian might say something. But he didn’t, and neither did McQuaid.
Before they said good-bye, McQuaid went back to the subject of Sally. “I hope your mom didn’t lay too much of a guilt trip on you,” he said.
The Last Chance Olive Ranch Page 13