Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  Like most front doors nowadays—especially doors in nicer homes—this one had leaded glass inset in the top half. So I could see inside the house. No light anywhere. I knew it was a long shot that any of the neighbors were watching me right now—hell, it was a longshot that any neighbors could even see me right now—but I pretended to ring the doorbell anyway. I couldn’t actually see the doorbell, so I just poked my finger out in the dark. Then I waited. Nothing happened, of course.

  I retreated down the steps and walked over to the garage on the east side of the house. No windows in the garage door. I was hoping that a motion-activated security light might snap on, answering the question for me, but no such luck.

  I stood quietly in front of the garage door for a few seconds, just listening. There could be a car or two inside the garage, which would explain why there were no cars in the driveway. Or the garage might be completely empty.

  The only windows I hadn’t been able to see so far were in the rear of the house. Had to go through a gate in a six-foot picket fence to get into the backyard. There was no lock on the hasp. I lifted the latch and slowly swung the gate open. Nice and quiet. Left it open and stepped into the backyard.

  Stood there for a minute and let my eyes adjust. There was a wooden deck, but there was no outdoor furniture of any kind on it. Growing along the rear property line was a wall of bamboo, which provided plenty of privacy.

  I moved forward, but after just five or six steps, I stopped cold. I saw a very faint glow in a window beside the back door. Light. Not much, but enough. The electricity was on. The house was occupied.

  I retreated as slowly as I’d come in. Closed and latched the gate behind me. Proceeded down the driveway and back to the Mustang. Fired it up and eased away from the curb and down the street, feeling conspicuous as hell because of the growl of the big engine.

  Now I was down to one. One house. If they weren’t there, well, I didn’t know what I’d do next. I had no ideas left. I still had the will to keep looking—tomorrow, the next day, the day after that—but I didn’t know where to look. Not unlike nine years ago. Driving the streets aimlessly. Wracked with frustration because I didn’t know what to do with myself.

  One house.

  I couldn’t get my hopes up. Wouldn’t allow it. Didn’t want the disappointment. Instead, I just drove. Back onto Bee Cave Road, then west. Took a right on Buckeye Trail and began the steep climb to the top of the hill. Then I followed the twists and turns past homes tucked in among the cedar and oak trees. Similar to Hanrahan’s current neighborhood on Toro Canyon, except maybe a tad less expensive.

  I watched the addresses as I got closer and closer. This home would be on the right-hand side. I came around one more curve and saw the right numbers painted on a mailbox. The fourth house on my list.

  The porch light was on. SUV in the driveway.

  Damn.

  I drove past.

  It had been a great idea. Creative. But it hadn’t panned out. I continued on Buckeye Trail, down the hill on the other side, to Westlake Drive. Took a left, then a right on Redbud Trail. Crossed the low-water bridge and turned right on Lake Austin Boulevard. Back into Austin.

  I was waiting at a red light, so close to heading back to my apartment, when I finally realized my mistake.

  45

  Daniel Wayne Bertram was not an easy man to track down.

  First call went to his probation officer, who had last seen Bertram at a regular monthly meeting three weeks earlier. She gave the detective all of Bertram’s info, including an address, which turned out to be a rental. Convenient. Texas law allows a landlord to inspect a property just about any time he or she wants. The detective called the landlord to see if he’d cooperate, maybe take a peek inside, but the landlord said, “Yeah, he was in there until a few months ago, but he skipped out. Owed me about four grand in back rent.”

  “Any idea where he went?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Any references listed on his application?”

  “Nope. I keep it pretty simple. If they pass the credit check and can cough up a deposit, hey, that’s good enough for me. This is the first time I seriously got screwed.”

  “You got a phone number for him?”

  “Yeah, but it was dead the last time I tried it.”

  “Let me have it anyway.”

  It was the same number that the probation officer had provided, which the detective had already checked himself.

  So the detective called the work number that the probation officer had given him. Manager said Bertram had quit two weeks ago.

  This was bad, but it might also be very good.

  Why was Bertram suddenly breaking all the rules of his probation? You change your address or quit a job, you’re supposed to report that immediately.

  The detective figured it wasn’t a coincidence.

  So he dug deeper. Bertram had no siblings, and his parents were long dead in a car wreck. He didn’t own any real estate in the county, or in any of the surrounding counties.

  He had an uncle, though. Sid Bertram. Sid was nearly eighty years old and lived in a house he and his wife had bought forty-seven years earlier up in Barton Hills. A widower now.

  The detective started to dial a number, then decided it was worth a drive. And once he got there, he was smart enough to knock on a couple of neighbors’ doors first, just in case. Neighbor on the left didn’t answer, but the neighbor on the right did. He was holding an acoustic guitar when he opened the door. Shirtless. Young guy with scruffy hair. Austin was crawling with wannabe musicians.

  “Yeah?”

  Despite what they say in books and movies, people can’t peg a cop from looks alone, especially when you’re wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a golf shirt. So the detective quickly identified himself and showed his shield.

  “You know Sid next door?”

  “Sure. What’s up? He okay?”

  “I haven’t talked to him yet. You seen anyone else around there lately?”

  “Actually, yeah. Young guy. Sid told me he had a grandson, so I figure that’s who it is. Wait, I mean a nephew, not a grandson.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “The nephew? No, I’ve just seen him come and go a couple of times.”

  “With Sid?”

  The man shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen Sid in a couple of weeks.”

  “You normally see him more than that?”

  “Almost every day—walking his dog, or out working in his yard. He’s pretty active for a guy his age. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Jack in awhile either.”

  “Who’s Jack?”

  “The dog. He’s a barker, always chasing squirrels. But now I’m realizing how quiet it’s been around here lately. You’re freaking me out a little. You think Sid’s okay?”

  “You mind if I come inside for a minute?”

  46

  Doorbell buttons are lighted.

  I sat unmoving in the Mustang as the stoplight went from red to green to yellow and back to red again. There wasn’t another vehicle in sight. Warm night, with the windows down, but I had goosebumps on my arms.

  Doorbell buttons are lighted.

  That way, when visitors are standing on your porch in the dark, they can see to ring the bell. In all but the most inexpensive homes, and maybe in some very old homes, doorbell buttons are lighted. But the doorbell button at the third home had not been lighted. I’d stood right there on the porch and not noticed it. I’d even poked my finger out into the dark, mimicking ringing the bell. But I hadn’t been able to see the bell.

  I could think of two possible explanations. The light had burned out or was otherwise malfunctioning. Or the electricity at the house wasn’t turned on after all.

  But what about the glow from the window I’d seen near the back door of the house?

  So what? Didn’t mean there was electricity. If I were Sean Hanrahan, hiding out in an empty house with my six-year-old niece, I’d want light of some kind. A
six year old might be freaked out in the dark. Hell, even without a six year old, I’d want some light. Some kind of battery-operated lantern. Maybe even a battery-operated TV. And a radio.

  The stoplight cycled through again.

  And I’d set up in a room to the rear of the house, where the picket fence and towering wall of bamboo would prevent neighbors from seeing faint light in a window.

  My hands were starting to sweat. This was it. It had to be. The light turned green and I made a U-turn.

  I parked farther away this time. Two blocks. In front of a house, along the curb. If the owner were an insomniac and peeked out the window, he might wonder why this kickass Mustang was sitting out front, but that wasn’t a concern at the moment.

  Maybe I wasn’t very creative, but only two plans had run through my head on the drive over, and I wasn’t positive I was choosing the right one.

  Plan A involved simply staking out the house and watching it. But for how long? Days? Weeks? Months? Sounded crazy, but it was possible it could stretch on that long. They could have laid in a stockpile of food. Even if Mia and I traded off shifts, it wasn’t a realistic plan. Besides, I didn’t have the patience for it. Tracy Turner was in that house. There was no other conclusion. So I was finally going to bring this ordeal to an end. No more delays.

  Which meant Plan B.

  Still sitting in the Mustang, I opened my phone and made a call. Three-thirty in the morning. Ruelas answered on the second ring, sounding groggy.

  “Yeah?” he said. Didn’t realize it was me. He hadn’t ever bothered assigning a name to my number. Probably figured it wasn’t worth the effort. Realistically, how many times would he talk to me?

  “It’s Roy Ballard.”

  I heard an exasperated groan. Then there was a long pause. Then he said, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “I inhaled paint fumes as a child.”

  “See, the problem is, you think you’re clever, but you aren’t. Your friends should be honest with you about that, if you have any.”

  I said, “I know where Tracy Turner is. I’m two blocks from the house where she is being kept.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “I’m going inside in about ten minutes. You should join me. It’ll be fun.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll go in alone.” I used that tone of voice people use when they are about to hang up. It worked.

  “Fuck it, I’ll play along. Where is she?”

  “We looked into South Padre, but we didn’t follow that path far enough. We didn’t think about other properties Hanrahan owns. The tax rolls show four houses in his name in Travis County.”

  I waited. The silence told me he hadn’t known about the homes, or it simply hadn’t occurred to him. All that manpower at the sheriff’s office, yet none of them had checked into something that now seemed so obvious.

  I said, “Tracy and Sean are in a house in Rollingwood, on Pickwick Lane.”

  “You’ve seen them?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “There was light in a back window, but the doorbell wasn’t lighted.”

  “Meaning no juice to the house.”

  I was a little bummed that he’d connected the dots so quickly.

  “Right.”

  “Or a faulty doorbell,” he said.

  “What are the odds of that?”

  “Sounds like a wild-ass hunch to me.”

  “Fine. I’ll go in by myself and take all the glory. Tell the media what a wimp you are. Tell ’em I gave you a chance to join me, but you weren’t interested.”

  Another long pause, accompanied by the creak of some wooden furniture. He was sitting up in bed. “What’s the address?” I gave it to him.

  He said, “You hang tight and I’ll—”

  “Forget it. Ten minutes, whether you’re here or not.”

  “You understand that you—”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “You’ll be committing a felony. I’ll arrest you myself.”

  “You’ve got nine minutes.” I hung up.

  I didn’t know where Ruelas lived, but chances were slim that he could get dressed and drive to the address in nine minutes. Didn’t matter. I would wait as long as it took—for him, or for whomever arrived first. I would wait just long enough for them to arrive and step from the vehicle.

  A patrol car arrived in seven minutes. Rollingwood isn’t a big place. A cop could reach just about any part of it in less than five minutes. So Ruelas had called, explained himself in about a minute, and they’d dispatched a car.

  The unit came slowly up the street, no cherries, no siren, and by then I was on the sidewalk leading to the front door of the house.

  My heart was pounding. Mouth dry. Palms sweaty. I was so ready for this all to come to an end.

  The patrol car eased to a stop in front of the house. Not stealthy. Obvious as hell. But that didn’t matter. Not for what I had planned. I could see the cop inside the car—just one guy, softly illuminated from the lights on the dashboard. He was maybe fifteen yards away from me. A few seconds passed. It was dark enough that I didn’t know if he could see me. I could feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. Had to be Ruelas calling. I didn’t look. I needed to wait and see what this cop would do. But he wasn’t going to go inside the house with me. Neither would Ruelas, if he were here. No cop would—unless he wanted to be fired.

  Now the patrolman turned on his exterior searchlight and quickly swept the yard with it. Landed on me and held steady. I held one hand up to block the light. Held the other hand out to my side, fingers splayed, to show that I didn’t have a weapon.

  Despite blocking the light, I couldn’t see anything. I heard his car door open.

  “Rollingwood police officer. Please face away from me and place your hands on your head.”

  No, he wouldn’t go inside the house with me. But he’d certainly go in after me.

  I turned away slowly, my hands remaining in plain sight, and then I began to trot along the sidewalk toward the house. The cop shouted something at me. I picked up speed, mounted the steps, and busted the front door open with one enormous kick.

  47

  It all happened so fast.

  That’s the classic remark from people who’ve been involved in a car wreck—or in any sudden, unexpected event that creates fear or panic. A street mugging. A fistfight. Getting caught in a flash flood. Being attacked by a dog.

  Studies show that adrenaline enhances your memory, and that seems true to some degree. If you’re in an airplane that makes an emergency landing, you’re not likely to ever forget that, are you? But the smaller details? Those are what people can’t remember. The color of the car that sideswiped them. The height of the man with a shotgun who held up a convenience store. Ask three people for a description of the robber and you’ll get three different responses. The big picture is clear, but the details are fuzzy.

  I remember this: When I went through the darkened doorway, I shouted, “Police!” as loudly as I could. Why not? Getting charged with impersonating a police officer was the least of my worries.

  I could see very little. Just seconds ago, the cop had been aiming his spotlight at me, and now I was in the dark, and my eyes weren’t adjusting. But I couldn’t hesitate. The cop would be right behind me.

  So I plowed forward almost blind. Fumbled my way through that room and went through an open doorway. No idea what type of room I was in now, because I still couldn’t see a damn thing. Dining room?

  And then there was some light. Not steady light, but dancing, swaying light, coming from behind. The cop—with a flashlight. He yelled, telling me to freeze. He was close. Very close.

  I ran straight for a closed door. If I hadn’t lost my bearings, that door would lead to a room that was in the rear of the house. The room I’d seen from the backyard. The room that had had light sneaking around the curtains.

  I didn’t even bother wi
th the knob. I just hit that door full force with my shoulder, running at nearly top speed. It was a typical interior door. Not solid wood. Hollow core. Lightweight.

  In the timespan of about a thousandth of a second, the veneer facing began to crunch under the impact, and then the door gave, swinging open violently and slamming into the wall at the end of its arc.

  What happened next?

  I can tell you, but I can’t be certain of the details. Then again, do they matter?

  I was standing in that doorway, facing a darkened room, and then a brilliant light hit me full in the face. Not from the cop, of course, because he was behind me. Someone was in this room with a powerful spotlight.

  In hindsight, I understand that the person behind the light shined it on me just long enough to ascertain that I wasn’t a cop—or at least I wasn’t a uniformed cop—despite what I’d yelled when I came through the front door. And he wouldn’t have guessed there was an actual cop following in my wake. It would have been crazy to shoot a cop, knowing that other cops would follow. But a civilian who appeared to be alone?

  I remember the briefest pause, standing there in that doorway, out of breath, not knowing what to do next, and wishing I could see whether I had been right.

  And then there was a sound. Extremely loud. Like a tremendous lightning bolt that strikes too close to home. I couldn’t have told you it was the blast of a .357. But I guess I should have expected it.

  The impact was enormous. I suddenly had no air, and I realized I was no longer standing.

  I heard a high-pitched scream. My memory is hazy on a few things, but I remember feeling some comfort in recognizing that it was the scream of a little girl.

  48

  The detective remained by a window, keeping an eye on the house next door, waiting for a patrol unit to arrive.

  The shirtless guy had put his guitar down. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He knew something big was happening, but he didn’t know what. “You want something to drink?” he asked.