by Rehder, Ben
She stopped what she was doing and turned around, grinning. “Aw, ain’t that cute. Two precious boys setting up house together.”
She giggled, so Red glared at her, and that only made it worse. She went back to mixing up each concoction: a healthy dose of vodka, a splash of tomato juice, a blob of Tabasco and Worcestershire, followed by the horseradish, some salt, and a blast of pepper. Then she jammed a stalk of celery into each drink and handed one to Red. He couldn’t remember ever holding a beverage so exotic. He tasted it, and the vodka brought tears to his eyes.
Lucy moved in close and quietly said, “You and Billy Don live here together, but you’ve got your own bedroom, right?”
Red nodded, feeling a sneeze coming on from the pepper.
“That’s good,” she said, strutting her way into the living room, speaking over her shoulder. “You never can tell when you might need a little privacy.”
Red’s eyes got wide.
The first thing Buford had done was panic. He’d gathered up his gear, wiped down every surface that might hold one of his prints, and hauled ass, leaving Little Joe right where he’d died. Sure, Buford would be letting Uncle Chuck down—giving up on the job like that—but some things are more important. Like staying the hell out of prison.
He’d been fifty miles up Highway 281 when he realized something. Little Joe had signed for the motel room, not Buford. Buford hadn’t even set foot in the office. There was nothing to connect Buford to Joe on this. There were no prints on Colby’s rifle, no prints in Colby’s house. In short, no reason to run. Hell, boy, he’d told himself, just calm down and think things through.
So he turned around and drove back to Johnson City. This time, though, instead of parking right in front of the room, he parked around back. Didn’t need some busybody describing the car later.
Inside the room, he stripped off all his clothes—to keep them clean—and dragged Joe to the bathroom. Then he flopped the stiffening corpse into the tub.
Buford got dressed again and poked his head out the door for a look-see. Lucky thing was, the ice machine was right around the corner. He grabbed the trashcan, which was much bigger than the ice bucket, and got to work. It took a dozen trips, but twenty minutes later, Joe was buried under a foot of cubes.
Next, Buford called the front office, changing his voice a tad without sounding obvious about it. “I want to book my room for three more days…That’s right, till Monday…Just use that credit card I gave you when I checked in…Okay, thanks. Oh, one more thing. Let’s put a hold on the maid service…Yeah, no service at all. I’ll take care of it myself…No, I won’t even need fresh towels. No service at all…Yeah, thanks.”
Buford hung up and remembered to wipe off the handset. No prints anywhere, because he might not be back. He’d told them three days, but that was just a cushion.
Hell, he might be ready to leave in three hours. Because he was going back to see Phil Colby again.
And this time, he wasn’t fucking around.
Phil Colby and Bobby Garza entered the interview room at ten o’clock, and Marlin was watching from behind the one-way glass. He could tell from Colby’s body language that he was tense, maybe a little angry, and the questions hadn’t even begun yet. In fact, Colby had no idea what was in store.
Marlin hadn’t talked to him since the night before, when Garza had revealed the findings of Scofield’s autopsy. There were several times, lying awake in the middle of the night, when Marlin had wanted to call Colby and talk it through, but he decided it was best to keep out of it for now, as Garza had asked. Another thought had occurred to Marlin at about four in the morning. There was another person who needed to be looked at closely. A man who had become very angry at Scofield because of a dead white-tailed buck.
“Thanks for coming in,” Garza said as he and Colby took seats around the small round table. “You sure you don’t want coffee?”
“Thanks, but let’s just get to it,” Colby replied. “Like I said last night, I’m not sure what else I can tell you.”
“No, you’ve done great so far, Phil. We appreciate your patience. You get your truck fixed?”
“It’s over at the shop right now getting new tires.”
“Good. Man’s gotta have his wheels. I guess you didn’t have two spares on hand, huh?”
To Marlin, Garza seemed to be stalling. Why the interest in Colby’s truck?
“Even the one spare I had was flat,” Colby said.
“Listen,” said Garza, “I know we’ve gone over this, but I want you to think hard and see if you can come up with any reason somebody might’ve fired those shots. Any recent run-ins with anybody?” Garza smiled. “You been chasing somebody’s wife?”
“Yeah, you know me, a regular Casanova. But for the record, no.”
Now the door to the interview room opened and Bill Tatum entered, carrying a manila envelope. He sat next to Garza without saying a word. He looked at the sheriff and nodded once.
Garza continued, “Actually, Phil, the other thing I wanted to talk about is Vance Scofield.”
Colby nodded. “If he hadn’t drowned, I would’ve figured he was the one who shot at me. Could be one of his high-fence buddies, though. Is that what y’all are thinking?”
By now, Marlin could feel his face flushing with guilt. Last night, Garza hadn’t told Colby how Scofield had died, and he had asked Marlin to remain silent about it, too, until Garza held a news conference later this morning. So Marlin had had no choice. Now he had to sit back and watch Colby get ambushed.
Bill Tatum quietly said, “That could be a possibility, Phil, but let’s put the shooting aside for a minute. What I need to tell you is, Scofield didn’t drown, he was the victim of a homicide.”
Colby looked from Tatum to Garza and back again. “He was murdered?”
Tatum nodded. Garza didn’t speak.
“How was he killed?”
“Well,” Garza said, “we’re gonna keep that to ourselves for the time being.”
His skull was cracked, Marlin remembered Garza saying. Subdural hematoma. The kind of injury that has a lot of anger behind it. Not a drowning, according to the ME. No water in the lungs. That’s why, at that very minute, Ernie Turpin was returning to Vance Scofield’s house, securing the place in preparation for a more exhaustive search.
“I’m not seeing what this has to do with me,” Colby said. “Am I a suspect or something?” Colby was smiling, but he was starting to stiffen up.
Garza drummed a pencil on the table, and Marlin was familiar enough with the sheriff’s mannerisms to know he was searching for the right words. “Considering the bad blood between the two of y’all, we’re just trying to get a better picture of the situation. All we’re doing right now is trying to rule various people out. That includes you, because you and Scofield had a history.”
Colby leaned forward. “So I am a suspect? Oh, come on, Bobby. You’ve gotta be kidding. You know me better than that.”
“Yeah, I do, Phil. But you almost got into a fistfight with the man a few months back. So I’ve gotta ask you some questions. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing my job. It’s just routine.”
Colby now had an expression that Marlin knew all too well. A pained smile that signaled a flaring temper. His voice was getting more belligerent with each statement. “This is ridiculous. You’re wasting your time.”
“Just bear with us, Phil. Will you answer a few questions?”
“Hell yeah, I’ll answer them. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Okay, then, just settle down and let’s get through this. For starters, tell us why you called Vance Scofield last Saturday.”
Colby leaned his head back in exasperation. “I already told your deputy. The fencing crew was working my property line, so I called Vance and told him they’d better stay off my land. It was just a harassment call, I admit it. Besides, he’s got a couple of poachers working on that crew.”
Marlin noticed that Colby referred to Scofield in the present tense, which was a good thin
g.
“What did Scofield say?”
“He told me to fuck off and hung up.”
“Those were his words?”
“Yes, exactly. He said, ‘Fuck off,’ and hung up on me.”
“What did you do?”
“What do you mean, what did I do?”
“Right after the call, what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. Like I said, I just wanted to get under his skin, and I figured, with a response like that, it must’ve worked.”
“You didn’t decide to drive over to his place, maybe settle this thing once and for all?”
“Hell no.”
“Have you ever been to his ranch?”
“No.”
“Does anybody else ever drive your truck?” Garza asked.
“Nobody drives it but me.”
“So your truck was in your possession and nobody else’s last Saturday?”
Marlin was starting to sweat. Garza had something, there was no doubt about it.
“Well, yeah. I was working cattle all day.”
Now Bill Tatum opened the manila folder. He removed several photographs and placed them on the table in front of Colby.
Marlin’s heart sank as he realized what was in the photos. Oh, Jesus. There’s no way.
“These are shots of one of the tire tracks we found at Scofield’s place,” Tatum said. “Last night I compared them to the tires on your truck. They were close enough that we’re gonna send the tires to the DPS lab in Austin for a closer look.”
Colby leaned forward in disbelief. “You’re gonna take the tires off my truck?”
“Actually, we’ll have to take the whole truck, plus the two flat tires.” Tatum slid a document in front of Colby. Marlin couldn’t recall the sheriff and the senior deputy ever looking so grim as they served a warrant.
There was a long pause, and Marlin waited for Colby to provide a reasonable explanation. He wanted his friend to defend himself, to spit out some logical reason why the photographs couldn’t possibly be accurate.
But all Colby said was, “Am I under arrest?”
“No, you’re not,” Garza said.
“Then I’m done answering questions,” Colby said, rising from his chair. “If you want anything more from me, call my lawyer.”
18
AFTER PHIL COLBY left the interview room, Marlin entered and sat in the same chair his friend had been using. Bobby Garza was stone-faced. Bill Tatum wouldn’t meet Marlin’s eyes. None of them spoke for several minutes, until Marlin finally said, “I wish y’all would’ve warned me about all that.”
Garza said, “We didn’t even know for sure if we had anything. We wanted to see what Phil would say.”
“But still—”
“Hey, we don’t like this any more than you do, John. We’re his friends, too. Maybe not as close as you are, but friends just the same.”
Tatum murmured something similar.
Marlin said, “I’m surprised you didn’t get a warrant for his house, too.”
Garza and Tatum exchanged glances.
“Let me guess,” Marlin said. “You did try to get a warrant for his house.”
“Yes, we did,” Tatum replied. “Judge Hilton said we didn’t have enough.”
Marlin didn’t know what to think. “I’m having a tough time following your line of thinking, to be honest,” he said. “I mean, why did you compare those tracks to his tires to begin with?”
Tatum softly said, “It had to be checked. We had things pointing at Colby—his problems with Scofield, the phone call he made. When Bobby called and said Scofield was murdered, I knew we’d have to take a look at Phil. If nothing else, to rule him out, like Bobby said.”
Marlin found himself looking for a mental foothold that would allow him to make sense of everything. Surely, the answer was somewhere in the details, the one piece of information that would clear Phil Colby and reveal what had really happened. But it wouldn’t come. “What about the shooting last night? How does that come into play?”
Garza said, “That happened before we even knew Scofield was murdered. Colby might be right—just one of Scofield’s buddies keeping the high-fence feud going.”
Marlin figured that made as much sense as anything else. “So are you looking at other people for this, or just Colby? Have you talked to this guy Chuck Hamm? I told you what Howell Rogers said.”
Garza said, “At this point, we’re looking at everything. Reinterviewing everybody, for starters. We’ll talk to Hamm and the rest of those guys again if we need to, but, well, it just doesn’t look likely, John.”
“From what Howell said, Hamm was angry as hell.”
“Yeah, but that was months ago, and why would he all of a sudden decide to do something about it? Besides, I don’t think Scofield’s been in touch with anybody in that hunting club since then. There weren’t any phone calls in his records.”
“Let me talk to Hamm.”
“Pardon?”
“I want to talk to Hamm.”
Garza and Tatum exchanged a glance. “You’re jumping the gun. We haven’t been through Scofield’s house top to bottom yet, but that’s our next step. Let’s wait and see what we find. I’ve got Henry coming in.”
Henry Jameson was a young and very talented forensics technician who worked for five counties in the central Texas area. The Blanco County budget alone couldn’t handle the expense, so Garza had worked a deal with several neighboring counties, pooling resources, giving them all access to Jameson’s services.
Tatum calmly said, “John, if Hamm was involved, which is a stretch, he had plenty of time to plan it out. This type of murder—someone whacking Scofield over the head—that suggests…spontaneity.”
Marlin could understand that assumption. Murderers who plan in advance rarely kill through blunt-force trauma. They use guns or knives, or in some cases poison. They rarely use clubs, bats, or other crude weapons unless it’s a heat-of-the-moment killing. But Marlin also knew that that line of thinking continued to point the finger at Phil Colby. It would be easy to envision: Colby gets enraged by Scofield’s “Fuck you,” he goes to Scofield’s house, they get into a fight, Colby finds a handy two-by-four…
“But what about the Corvette?” he asked. “Can’t we assume, just for the sake of argument, that whoever killed Scofield also stole the car?” His point was that it was robbery, not animosity, that fueled the murderer. That motive would seem to eliminate Colby. Of course, it probably eliminated Chuck Hamm, too.
Garza said, “It’s a possibility, if Scofield didn’t park the Vette somewhere else. Hell, he could’ve stashed the money somewhere else, too. That’s why we’re gonna tear that place apart. Trust me, if there’s something to be found, we’ll find it.”
Marlin said, “What about Stephanie Waring?”
Garza spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “We’re still calling her. Until we can track her down, we just don’t know.”
“Can we search her place? Maybe figure out exactly where she is?”
“We still don’t have probable cause. We can’t get a warrant just because we want to talk to her.”
“Okay, then at least let me try to find her,” Marlin said. “I know you don’t want me on this case, but what can that hurt? Let me talk to Chuck Hamm and let me try to find the girl.”
Garza glanced at Tatum, who didn’t say a word.
Marlin continued. “Damn, Bobby, you’ve obviously got your hands full. Gotta search Phil’s truck, take another look at Scofield’s place.”
“I’ve already talked to the night shift. Brought in some reserve deputies to cover the regular patrol. Everyone’s working overtime.”
“And they’ll need every minute of it,” Marlin said, not far from pleading. If push came to shove, Marlin could make his own call and work the case anyway. Anything having to do with Scofield was tied in to his original case, and he knew, technically, he was free to pursue it. But the sheriff is the highest-ranking law enforce
ment officer in any Texas county, so Marlin wanted Garza’s blessing before he forged ahead.
Garza gave Marlin a stern look. “Let us know if you get anywhere.”
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked, setting a napkin down. Lucas had no idea what time the bars had opened that morning in Key West, but Duval Street was buzzing and the drinks were flowing by the time he got there. They’d decided it would be best if Stephanie stayed back at the motel—the cheapest place in town and still a small fortune, but it had cable TV, even Internet access, and that would keep her occupied until he got back. Hopefully, by then, he’d have things all set up.
“Beer,” Lucas said.
“Bottle or draft?”
“Whatever’s cheaper.”
While the bartender grabbed a glass and poured from the tap, Lucas looked around the bar: already crowded and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. Nothing but a bunch of sunburned tourists wearing baseball caps and gaudy T-shirts, eating nachos and Buffalo wings. The place wasn’t anything like he thought it would be. From what he’d read, he’d pictured a place dark and quiet, where artists brooded and writers tried to spark their creative juices. Instead, there was peppy music piped in from recessed speakers and neon-colored parrots dangling from the rafters. Some guy was setting up equipment on a small stage.
“Three dollars.” The bartender’s name was Mike, according to a name tag on his shirt. He wasn’t much older than Lucas.
Lucas handed him four singles, the extra being a tip for not asking to see ID. He was about to ask Mike an important question when he heard a woman say, “Oh, Rob, it’s fabulous!”
A loud male voice responded, “Was I right or was I right?”
“You were right!”
Then Lucas’s elbow was jostled as a man wedged himself onto the barstool to his right.
“Sorry about that, pal.”
Lucas turned and saw a middle-aged man with a broad, smiling face, a salt-and-pepper beard, and a gut the size of a beach ball. The woman, who was still oohing and aahing about the bar’s decor, had a similar build, short hair, and a masculine jaw.
“No problem,” Lucas muttered, returning his attention to his beer. Shitty luck. Now he’d have to wait for them to leave before he could talk to the bartender.