by K. P. Hilton
“Yes, Camden?”
“I've already called the police, but felt you should know as soon as possible. The reporter guy that was here yesterday, Toby Sanders. David and I found his body in the alley behind the storefront a few minutes ago.”
Chapter 7
Martin Lane lived in a red brick house in a cul-de-sac located only a few miles from Betty. Like her, his spouse had died years before and he hadn't seen the need to remarry. The two had met at their local church and eventually become close friends.
Though small, his home contained the main features he desired – a garage to tinker around in, a covered porch in back where he could grill and relax, and a well-stocked kitchen. Like Betty, Martin liked to cook.
Yet to Martin, the house's best quality of all was the absence of a mortgage. He had never been comfortable owing others anything except the occasional favor. Just the opposite, in fact – he liked giving them and he enjoyed helping others.
He was up and dressed and almost finished with the local newspaper. Though he got the bulk of his information on-line, he liked doing the daily crossword puzzle with a good number two pencil. He'd worked as a news reporter years earlier before going into business for himself and he still liked the feel of paper in his hands.
Betty had phoned earlier and asked to come over. She explained the call she'd received from Camden that morning and needed someone to talk to. Martin told her to come over whenever it was convenient, that he would be there all day. He was semi-retired and did minor consulting for businesses at his desk in the room he'd converted into an office.
The doorbell rang. Martin went to the front, checked the peephole, then let Betty inside. After a quick greeting, the two went into the den. Martin sat in his recliner. Betty took up residence on the nearby sofa.
“So,” Martin began, “it's only Tuesday, and I understand you've already had a full week.”
Betty nodded. “First it was the wiring in the storefront. A situation I'm still working on. Then issues with Brianna, and now someone's dead behind my as-yet unopened bakery.” Betty kicked off her shoes and curled her feet underneath her.
“Toby Sanders,” Martin said matter-of-factly. He recalled seeing the man's feature piece in the paper that morning. Possibly the last one to carry his byline, thought Martin.
“Yes, and without trying to sound callous about it – his name will now be associated with my work address, which will be associated with me.”
“I'm sure the city police are already working on it,” Martin replied. “They'll do their job, and ultimately justice will be served.”
Betty sighed, lowered her head, and gave a soft, “Um hmm.”
Martin gave his friend's reaction careful consideration, then coughed with the force of a hurricane into his left shirt sleeve. The noise made Betty jump.
“What?” she asked, startled, looking directly at Martin.
“Do I have your attention now?”
“What? I – ”
“We've been friends for a long time, Betty. Let's fast forward and get to where this is headed.”
Betty repositioned herself on the sofa, but said nothing.
“I know you respect the law, as well as the men and women in uniform who are investigating the case. I also know, however, that you're not one to sit on the sidelines and wait and watch. Having said that,” Martin said, leaning forward in the chair, “what are your plans, and what is my part in them?”
Betty fidgeted. “I suppose the first thing to do is figure out who would want him dead.”
Martin nodded. “You might want to start with Toby's father.”
Betty sat up straight and looked at Martin in a curious manner. “Why do you say that?”
“Besides writing features, Toby periodically pounded out columns. A major part of what he wrote about involved his family, including his father who he hinted at was violent at times when he was growing up.”
“He was physically abusive?” Betty asked.
“That's what he indicated. Think that the paper may have his columns archived online if you want to review them.”
“Thanks for the information,” Betty said. “Like you said, a good starting point.”
“What else is on your mind?” he asked.
Betty told him about Brianna. When she mentioned Ethan, Martin arched a brow.
“What?” she asked.
“Well,” he began, “you know that he once worked at the newspaper, right?”
“No, I didn't,” Betty said, her eyes widening. “But I'm learning there's a lot I don't know about my children. What do you know?”
“Nothing officially. But it's my understanding from a friend who does some freelance work that he was an intern there for a short period of time. Scuttlebutt was that he crossed someone and was summarily dismissed.”
“Any idea who that was?” Betty said, planting her feet on the floor again and leaning in toward Martin.
“No, but I can check.”
Betty's phone went off. She mouthed, Excuse me, to Martin who smiled and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. When he was about done, Betty walked in and said, “That was Lieutenant O'Brien from the police department. I've been asked to come in and give a statement.”
Martin nodded. “Standard procedure, I'm sure. But if you like, I can come with and keep you company.”
Betty nodded. She wasn't sure how other people got along without friends helping out. Right now, she was having a hard enough time with her current support system. “I'll get my things,” she said.
Chapter 8
Martin Lane walked into the lobby of the Yellow Rose Police Department. He'd told Betty he'd like to have a word with those in charge of the case privately before she was questioned. She hadn't understood the request, but trusted Martin and told him she'd be along in another twenty minutes or so.
“Looking for Lieutenant O'Brien,” he said to a uniformed female behind a glass panel.
“Name?” the woman said.
“Martin Lane.”
The woman punched in the information at her terminal. She instructed him on how to go through the security scanner located to his right, then informed him someone would join him momentarily.
Martin did as told and, sure enough, moments later a police sergeant escorted him to a room with a table and three chairs and was told to wait.
Martin waited. Five minutes later, two men walked in. They each wore off-the-rack suits with narrow ties and serious expressions. The taller of the two eyed Martin for several seconds before walking up and introducing himself. “Name’s Lieutenant O’Brien, and that’s First Deputy Cortez.”
Martin repeated his name in the same firm, polite tone as he'd given to the woman at the front desk.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve interfered with an investigation, is it?” the First Deputy asked.
Martin shrugged, hoping he wasn't about to get pulled into a pissing match with the local law.
“Only if asking questions is interfering,” he said.
“We got a call about a vic found behind the storefront occupied by Betty Hitchens,” the Lieutenant said.
“She'll be here momentarily. She's got a lot on her plate right now and I'm helping her out,” Martin said. “I'm guessing you were the ones who were at the scene?”
Cortez nodded. “From the doctor’s report, Toby Sanders has lesions on his forehead, indicating he'd been hit in the back of the head. We're still looking for the weapon.” He furrowed his eyes at Martin, who was savoring every word.
O’Brien stepped in, feeling the tension between them.
“Betty was one of the last people to have talked with Mr. Sanders before he died. We'd like to ask a few questions, see if we can get a lead on who may have killed him. Find out what hours she was at the store yesterday, if she saw anyone suspicious, knows of anyone who could have had a problem with him. That sort of thing.”
Cortez crushed the empty Styrofoam cup in his hands. He appeared to be having a ha
rd time standing in the same room as Martin. He tossed the cup at the waste bin, then watched it bounce off the edge and onto the floor. What remained was an angry cop seemingly not wanting anyone sniffing out his territory, not before he’d claimed it.
“Okay, spill it,” Martin replied.
“What?” Cortez puffed out his chest. “You’ve got a problem with me, Lane?”
“It's your problem with me, isn't it? That series of stories about your brother in Houston that I contributed to. The ones that got him fired from the force for corruption. I only reported the truth, Cortez. What he did, he brought on himself.”
“Let’s try and stay focused on the issue at hand,” O’Brien said, moving between the two. “Tell us what you know, Lane, even if it's only second-hand information.”
O'Brien glared at Martin.
“It’s okay. None of this was meant to stir the pot for all of us,” Martin said, holding his hands out. The gesture didn’t totally go unnoticed. Cortez pushed O’Brien out of his way, moving away from Martin Lane and closer to the room's exit.
Martin's attention went straight to Lieutenant O’Brien, thinking it might be that he knew something when he arrived at the scene of the crime.
“If you guys came along, that means the boys in blue must have stumbled onto something,” Martin said.
O’Brien hooked two fingers in his belt loops and hitched it up his waist.
“There’s already been a search of Toby’s residence. Turns out his wife's missing. One of her suitcases is gone and a drawer was pulled out with clothes scattered about. Looked like someone packed and left in a hurry. There was also a map with some notes regarding Lake Travis lying on the floor. We've got someone scheduled to go out and talk with one of the managers in case she fled there.”
Cortez snorted and chimed in with his own sense of things.
O’Brien dug his finger into Cortez's chest.
“You and I are gonna have a problem if you can’t keep it together, Deputy.”
Cortez smiled, placing a toothpick in the corner of his lip. He looked like he'd taken the last crack that he needed. Martin never understood the joy of tearing another person down. Taking people down a peg was all that mattered, regardless of the cost. It was like a badge of pride or something. The man was painful – like a bone fracture that kept breaking and never healed.
“Well, looks like someone needs to get busy,” Martin said.
“You’ve gotten in the way long enough,” Cortez said." Why don’t you let the professionals take it from here, huh?”
“Is a professional the man who I’m staring at right now?” Martin asked.
“Lane,” O’Brien cautioned.
Though most likely Cortez would have liked nothing more than to knock Martin's lights out, he simply flashed another arrogant half smile as he followed Lieutenant O’Brien out of the of the room.
Chapter 9
Betty had been interviewed by Lieutenant O'Brien. The Q&A had been brief and professionally done. She still wasn't sure why Martin felt he needed to arrive before her, but she'd question him on it later.
In the meantime, Betty had borrowed Martin's phone directory and gotten Arnold Sanders' address. Toby's father apparently lived outside the city limits. She drove over and parked by the curb behind a rusting green Impala. She went up to the front door, which had a latched screen door in front of it. Pushing the button gave her thumb a tingling sensation as a shrill noise emanated inside.
The door opened and the frame was filled by a large pale-skinned man with dark circles under his eyes dressed in a white T-shirt and well-worn jeans. Betty didn't have a carry-and-concealed license, but the idea was suddenly very appealing to her.
The man stood six-four with wide shoulders and arms as thick as her legs. The rest of him was proportioned accordingly. Betty pegged him at around thirty, with wavy dark hair and a set of thorns tattooed around his left arm. He looked at Betty without expression and said, “Yeah?”
“Hi. I'm Betty Hitchens. I understand Arnold Sanders live here. Is he available?”
The giant man rubbed his chin. His gaze was even and unemotional. He could be pondering my request, thinking about a leaky pipe, or considering tearing off one of my arms and beating me with it, thought Betty. It was hard for her to tell.
“Food’s cooking,” he said. With that, he turned and walked inside. He gave a backwards motion with his arm and said, “Come on in, if you want.”
Oooh, that's probably not a good idea. Still, Betty was bound and determined to get her information. She fingered the small chemical spray container in her pants pocket and followed the man inside to the kitchen. Bacon grease popped and sizzled in a cast iron skillet. The man lifted a half dozen slices individually with a fork and placed them on a plate covered with a paper towel. He stirred a pot of oatmeal, then killed the flame underneath it. A Denver omelet the size of Colorado overflowed on a plate next to the range. He took a long pull from a half gallon juice container before digging into the oatmeal, crushing two pieces of the bacon into it first.
“I’m Jim, Arnold’s cousin,” he said between mouthfuls. “He's not here any more.”
Betty nodded thoughtfully as if absorbing ancient wisdom from an all-knowing sage. She didn’t want to speak or move too quickly in the off-chance Jim was high strung underneath all that nonchalance. A meaty arm swung up and down like a piston as he ate the oatmeal.
“Any idea when he’ll return?”
“He's not coming back,” he said. “Moved.”
“Can you tell me where?”
“Out of town.”
“Got an address or a phone number?” Betty said, hoping she wasn't testing the man's patience.
“Think he headed to Frisco.”
“But you’re not sure?”
Jim shook his head.
“Any idea why he left?”
“Didn’t say. Might have something to do with his legal problems.”
Oh, goody, thought Betty. More problems.
“Here’s my card,” Betty said, placing one of her new business cards with her work number on the counter next to the toaster. “I’d appreciate a call if you hear from him.”
Jim gave Betty a look that told her he didn't want to get involved.
“Your choice as to what to do with it,” Betty continued. “You could leave it at a restaurant that draws cards for business owners next time you eat out if you like. I could win a free lunch. I’d even share it with you.”
Jim put his fist to his stomach and gave a soft belch. “Anything else?”
Betty told him no and thanked him for talking with her. She offered to let herself out and was met with no objection.
Frisco was over four hours away. She decided to let the police track Arnold down, assuming that’s where he really went. Her only regret was that she hadn't made a pitch for her cakes. She was pretty sure Jim could pound down at least one a day. She got in her car, knowing where she needed to head next.
Chapter 10
Down by the lake the next morning, the air was fresh and crisp – like the spray from an apple after taking a deep bite. Martin Lane parked and made his way down to the lot. Crumpled fliers and plastic bottle caps littered the grass. He picked up one of the fliers, crushed it in his fist, and tossed it at a rain-soaked plastic bin. It circled the edge, then teetered over the side. A sinewy looking young woman wearing a wrinkled canary-yellow polo and shorts covered in grass stains crouched down, stood full length and threw away the trash, sighing in the process.
Yeah, well. We can’t all be NBA all-stars.
The LAKE TRAVIS sign shown bright as the sun's light reflected off its surface. Bungalow type trailers bordered the blue edges of the lake. People puttered around in small groups wearing cargos and sandals, but Martin was comfortable in his lace-ups. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d driven this far out of the city. Out here it was quiet. The kind of quiet where he could actually hear himself think. A few yards ahead he caught sight of th
e rental office, but the manager wasn’t inside. He backtracked, calling out to the woman picking up the trash.
“Any idea where I can find the guy who runs this place?”
She looked like she wanted to turn and go but answered the question anyway.
“Hold on for a second.” She raked the loose hairs falling into her eyes. “I’ll go get him.”
Martin looked around as he waited, taking it in. Though the thought of being out of range for cell phone service would give Betty the hives, he knew she would love the idea of sinking her toes into the chilly water out here as the sun rose, then strolling around edge of the water by nightfall. More than once, she'd recanted camping trips as a child with her father with great fondness.