Walk a Crooked Line

by Susan McBride

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  On the way to Jason Raine’s house, Hank filled her in on the rest of Kelly’s postmortem.

  “They didn’t find any signs of epidural hematoma, so it wasn’t a head injury that killed her. But there was some kind of intracranial bleed. McCaffrey said that shows her head was the last thing to hit the ground. No evidence, either, that someone grabbed her hard to throw her over. McCaffrey said they would have seen some type of indentation in the strap muscles. Her neck wasn’t even broken,” her partner finished, one hand coming off the wheel to touch his throat. “When the blood work comes back, they’ll rule on cause. But, off the record, your boyfriend said it looks to be what it is.”

  “Suicide,” Jo said, because it was what she’d expected to hear, and at this point, it had about the least to do with why they were still investigating.

  Jo told him what she’d learned while he’d been gone—about Kelly’s missing blue party dress, the swipes from trolls on social media, and the existence of the Posse, the mysterious brotherhood formed by Trey Eldon and three of his buddies: Dan Trent, Scott Gray, and Jason Raine.

  “They’re all players on Trey’s squad, aren’t they?” Jo asked.

  Hank nodded.

  “It’s a good bet they were all at Trey’s party. Cassie Marks said she’s heard talk that Trey’s crew has been bragging about seeing Kelly there, falling-down drunk and throwing up by the pool.”

  “So they’re a bunch of disrespectful pigs who may have raped a teenage girl?”

  Jo felt Trey’s grip, holding her arms behind her back, pushing her down on the picnic table, and the hairs stood up on the back of her neck. “Anything’s possible,” she said.

  Maybe Robert Eldon believed his son walked the straight and narrow.

  Jo had her doubts.

  She found herself staring out the window as they pulled into the long, snaking feeder road that took them into the Winding Brook subdivision. It would have been hard not to think of Amanda Pearson, since they were fast approaching her house.

  She tried to see things differently this time around. Instead of admiring the sprawling ranch houses and the oversized trees shading the large lots, she noted that the path they were taking was the only way in or out of the neighborhood. There was another street that split off from Winding Brook called Creek Side, but it ultimately dead-ended. The next street over did not connect.

  So there was no true grid, no roads running perpendicular, like in so many neighborhoods. If anyone came into Winding Brook to commit a crime, there wasn’t an option of parking on the next street over or slipping out a back way.

  It stood to reason that whoever took Duke was familiar with the area. The perpetrator knew that Amanda Pearson had a dog that was let out to roam in the evening. It wasn’t like she lived on a main thoroughfare, where someone could park and observe without being noticed. Whoever took Duke hadn’t attracted undo attention. No one had reported a suspicious vehicle in the area the night he was taken.

  “I think Mrs. Pearson has visitors,” Hank remarked, and Jo cut short her mental meanderings.

  As they slowly passed by the Pearson house, she felt a catch in her throat. Indeed, there was a car in the driveway—a rental, from the looks of the Enterprise sticker on the bumper.

  “I hope it’s one of her kids,” she said. “She needs the support.”

  Hank grunted his agreement.

  He eased the Ford ahead, pulling past the Pearsons’ mailbox, near to where Duke’s tags had been found. They rolled alongside grass and a few rosebushes and fencelike hedges that marked the edge of Mrs. Pearson’s property.

  Then they were at the next lot, the brakes letting out a prolonged squeal as Hank stopped the car on the street, taking care to keep tires on the asphalt instead of trenching the lawn, although the grass looked pretty brown at this point. The summer wasn’t over yet, and an acre was a lot to water.

  Jo got out of the car, her gaze focused on the house, which wasn’t all that different from Amanda Pearson’s: part brick and part siding, shaded by thirty-foot oaks and maples. She heard the woof-woof-woof of a dog barking. Activity on the left side of the structure caught her eye, and she jerked her chin in that direction as Hank came around the hood of the car.

  “You want to knock, see if the parents are home?”

  “He’s eighteen,” Jo said. “He doesn’t need a chaperone.”

  They started walking up the long driveway. The barking got louder, as did music that streamed from around the back of the house, something that sounded like countrified pop, or maybe popified country.

  As soon as they turned the corner, Jo got the full impact of Jason Aldean riffing about cornbread and biscuits while a large gray-and-white dog barked his head off at them, growling as they got closer.

  Mrs. Pearson had mentioned a newly acquired sheepdog, and Jo figured that was it, although its fur was mostly shaved, giving it the appearance of an oversized poodle. With a loud bark, it lunged toward them from the grass but was yanked back by a bungee cord tethered to a zip line so it could run back and forth for about twenty feet across the backyard.

  She was just glad it wasn’t running loose on the property, hemmed in by an electric fence. That would hardly have stopped it from shredding the pair of them.

  A big ol’ pickup with extended cab sat on an area of asphalt the size of a small parking lot. The tailgate had a Texas flag painted on it, exactly like in the Facebook banner. The side of the house loomed two stories above them, a solid wall of red brick. She saw a brick wall of a human as well. He was using a hose to fill up a bucket that was close to overflowing with soap suds. Nearby sat a Big Gulp cup that looked to hold about forty ounces.

  Jo figured washing his truck made him mighty thirsty.

  The garage door was open behind him, and she glimpsed plenty of stuff: ladders, shovels, rakes, shelves filled with camping gear, stacks of plastic pots, even a couple of dog crates. But she didn’t see any other cars. For all she knew, the parents were on vacation, giving Jason free rein.

  Hank whistled. “Nice truck,” he said. “Country lift, thirty-five-inch mud tires.”

  “Down, boy,” Jo said under her breath.

  Jason looked up, frowning, before they’d even called out a hello.

  The pipes let out a squeak as he shut off the water. He tossed a sponge into a bucket and ambled toward them in knee-length swim trunks and an old football jersey with the sleeves cut off.

  “Hey, what’s up? You sellin’ something?” he asked in a rumbly West Texas drawl. “’Cause if you are, we’re not buying.”

  He had a lump beneath his bottom lip where he’d stuffed a wad of dipping tobacco. Sure enough, he reached down to scoop up the Big Gulp cup and spat into it.

  Jo winced. Ugh.

  Guess he wasn’t that thirsty after all.

  “You’re Jason Raine?” she said, as he wiped the back of an oversized paw across his mouth. She removed her wallet, flipping it open to show her ID and shield. “Detective Larsen.” She gestured at Hank. “My partner, Detective Phelps.”

  “You’re the po-po?” he said, brow wrinkled. He crossed thick-muscled arms over his broad chest. “Did I run a red-light cam?”

  Jo nearly laughed. Like Trey hadn’t told him the police were asking questions about the party, about Kelly.

  “We’re not here about your driving record,” she said and glanced at Hank, anticipating that he’d want to take over. “So you can relax about the red lights.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jason eyed her skeptically.

  Guys like Jason didn’t often want to listen to a woman, even one with a badge. But Hank gave her a nod, encouraging her to go for it. She was ready for this. She had more information in her pocket now than when she’d talked to Trey Eldon yesterday.

  She eased into things, asking a simple question first. “Are your folks around?”

  “Naw.” Jason shook his head. “My dad has business overseas. He took my mom along for a second-honeymoon
kind of thing.”

  “You’re home alone?”

  He smiled, showing spots of brown between his teeth. “You think I need a babysitter?”

  Maybe not, Jo thought. But he could have used a good flossing.

  “Did you know a girl named Kelly Amster?” she asked, watching his face as the smile faded from his lips.

  He squinted. “She’s the one who jumped off the water tower?”

  “Yes,” Jo said, “and she was at the party you attended at Trey Eldon’s house.” He started to open his mouth, probably to play dumb. So Jo added before he could rebut, “I heard you and your crew have been talking about Kelly being drunk and throwing up by the pool.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “A friend of Kelly’s.”

  He didn’t deny it, merely ducked his head, scratching at his crew cut.

  “What happened to Kelly at Trey’s party?” Jo asked.

  He turned his head and spat, hitting the ground near Jo’s left boot. “Sorry,” he said. “My bad.”

  Jo didn’t flinch. She waited for him to answer.

  “Um, yeah, so what happened was that T carried her upstairs.” Jason shifted his gaze to Hank. “T’s dad had spent, like, six grand on this big-ass teak daybed with a frickin’ canopy. That chick would’ve ruined it with one heave.”

  “You don’t say,” Hank murmured.

  “So did you go up?” Jo pressed. “Did you check on her?”

  He hung his head, going all “aw, shucks,” as he apologized. “Gosh, ma’am, I guess I kind of forgot about her once she was out of sight, you know. Never saw her again. End of story.”

  Jo wasn’t sure she believed him. “Did any of your friends go up?”

  He wrinkled his brow. “Now, why would they do something like that?”

  “I don’t know.” Jo shrugged. “Because she was a pretty girl who was unconscious? Because y’all figured it’d be easier to get in her pants if she couldn’t fight back—”

  “Hey, back up the bus there, Sarge,” Jason interrupted, and his bulky arms unfolded to wave dismissively. “You think one of us raped her post-puke? Is that where you’re goin’ with this?” He looked over at Hank, eyes pleading. “No way. I don’t Cosby girls, okay? And neither do my bros.”

  Hank gave the kid a nod, like he bought that argument.

  Jo sighed, impatient.

  “Whoever it was, we’ll find out soon enough,” she said. “That blue dress Kelly wore at the party, that wasn’t all she had on her rapist. So whoever broke into her house to steal it didn’t finish the job. Kelly had the smarts to hold on to other evidence. The crime lab’s working it up now.”

  Jo met his eyes, dared him to look away.

  He didn’t.

  “Blue dress? Breaking in? Sorry, ma’am, but I’ve gotta plead ignorance,” he said. He shifted his gaze back to Hank, who’d taken to walking around the truck, running a hand over the tailgate, peering into the bed. “Swear on the Bible, I didn’t touch her. That’s not my thing.”

  “What is your thing, Jason?” Jo asked.

  Hank glanced around, found a stick, and went back to the truck bed, picking up something that looked like a dirty old blanket.

  “My thing?” Jason repeated, doing a good impression of befuddled. “You mean, like hobbies?”

  No, that wasn’t what she’d meant at all.

  He was watching Hank like a hawk and didn’t appear too keen on having the po-po checking out his ride. The dog had stopped barking but paced back and forth, panting and slobbering.

  “Hey, Larsen,” Hank said, holding the blanket on the stick like a flag. It was covered in dark stains. “That look like blood to you?”

  Jo nodded. “Yeah, it does.”

  “Hey, man, you can put that back, all right? It’s my property.”

  “What’d you do?” Hank asked in his rumbly voice. “Cut yourself shaving?”

  “I hunt. Got a license and everything,” Jason explained. “You mind giving that back?” He strode over to Hank and reached for the blanket. Hank let it go. The boy quickly rolled it into an untidy bundle and went to the garage, pitching it atop one of the dog crates.

  “What do you hunt, son?” Hank asked when Jason came back. Jo’s partner stood beside the truck, leaning against the bed with his arms crossed.

  “Mostly white-tailed deer. Sometimes duck,” Jason said, squaring off with him. Feet planted apart on the pavement, arms similarly crossed.

  “You go on public land or private?”

  “We’ve got a spread up north, about a hundred acres.”

  “Sweet,” Hank said. “Whereabouts?”

  “West of Weston,” Jason told him without missing a beat. “Eastern edge of Celina.”

  “Is that where you lost your previous dog?” Jo asked him, and his face seemed to crumple, like she’d hit a sore spot. “What happened?”

  Jason clutched the back of his neck with a hand as big as a bear paw. “I crated Shale and took him up to our country place, I guess about a month back. I let him out to run around while I put away the truck. But when I whistled for him, he didn’t show.” His hand came off his neck as he sighed. “It was dusk, but I went out looking for him. Called the sheriff, too, to see if he’d help. But Shale never turned up.”

  “Did you hear that Mrs. Pearson’s dog went missing on Sunday night?” Hank said, and Jason nodded.

  “Yeah, she was over here, asking if I’d seen ol’ Duke.” He picked up his chaw cup and spat into it. “Do you know if they found him?”

  Jo glanced at Hank. “Yeah, they found him,” was all she said.

  “Oh, wow, I’m sorry,” Jason remarked. “He was a good dog.”

  “You’re sorry? For what?” She hadn’t mentioned anything about Duke’s condition.

  Jason blinked. “Well, I mean, the way y’all looked at each other, I assumed it wasn’t good news, but I’m glad for Mrs. Pearson if he’s okay.”

  “He’s not okay,” Jo confirmed.

  Jason frowned, nodding grimly.

  Hank took that moment to change the subject. “You take this dog up with you?” he asked, gesturing at the shaved sheepdog, which had settled in the grass, panting.

  “Yeah.” Jason shifted on his feet. “Shep rides in the cab when I go up alone, like I did the other night. When I’ve got people with me, I crate him and put him in the bed.”

  “You take friends there often?”

  “Sometimes,” Jason told him with a shrug. “If it works out, we head up a night or two before a game, light a bonfire, get revved up. We’ve got our own rituals.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” Hank said. “You can do a lot of primal screaming on a hundred acres.”

  “It’s an easy drive. I’m thinking the weather’s looking decent enough to make another trip. We’re supposed to get a full moon tomorrow night.”

  “That’s a good time to howl,” Hank quipped.

  Jason smiled. “You got that right.”

  Jo stood there, listening, letting Hank distract Jason with his he-man conversation. As they talked, she pulled a tissue from her pocket and reached down to the asphalt, wiping at the splatter of tobacco juice near her foot. Then she wadded up the tissue and stowed it away in her pocket.

  She strolled toward the dirty blanket that Jason had tossed over one of the dog crates just inside the garage. It was stained dark red, all right: small spots here, a few larger spots there.

  She hadn’t noticed the male conversation stop until she heard Jason yell at her.

  “Hey, what’re you doing there, Officer? You taking stuff?”

  Jo showed her empty hands.

  Jason picked up his cup and spat. He wiped a hand across his mouth. “Y’all done with me yet? I’ve got stuff to do.”

  They’d been dismissed.

  “Thanks for your time,” Hank said, tipping an imaginary hat to the kid. “We’ll be in touch if we’ve got any more questions. Take care with that bonfire.”

  “I will, sir,” Jason sa
id, even extending his hand so they could shake.

  Jo rolled her eyes.

  “Thanks,” she said briskly.

  But Jason kept his back to her, going about his business as if she wasn’t there. He went over to the brick wall and turned on the water. The hose bucked on the ground as it pulsed to life, and he picked it up.

  Her partner gave a final glance at the pickup bed before he fell into step beside her, walking away as Jason slapped a soaped-up sponge against the window of his truck’s cab.

  Neither of them said a word until they got to the sedan.

  “So he had a dog swiped from his family’s country property on the eastern edge of Celina,” Hank said as he yanked open the driver’s side door. “It’s a good bet it’s somewhere off FM 455, near where those dogs were found. You think there’s a connection?”

  “My gut says yes,” Jo replied over the roof before she got in. “But is he a victim or part of the problem?”

  “He’s got those crates and that bloody blanket,” Hank said, settling behind the wheel. “Could be as simple as he said, hauling his dog back and forth, going hunting. Maybe he takes the Posse up to toast marshmallows and sing ‘Kumbaya.’”

  Jo sighed. “Thanks for stepping in. I wasn’t getting jack out of him. He’d just as soon have spit that tobacco in my face as answer my questions.”

  “Speaking of wacky tobacky, what were you doing back there, mopping up his chaw spatter?” Hank asked as he stabbed the key in the ignition and started the car, which rattled a little at first, like an old man whose bones were shaking.

  “I was getting us some evidence.” She leaned sideways so she could tug out the wad of tissue from her hip pocket. She opened it up for him, revealing a nasty smear of brown. “His spit.”

  “Jesus, Larsen.” Hank made a face, adding dryly, “If you want a little Skoal, I could buy you a brand-new tin at the nearest 7-Eleven.”

  “Pass.” She laughed, wrapping the slug back up and setting it on the dash. Hank knew as well as she did that this nasty piece of evidence would either clear one of Trey Eldon’s posse or point a finger at him.