Chill Factor

by Chris Rogers

  Now that she had an objective, Dixie itched to take action, but it was far too early to knock on doors. The sun’s orb had not yet joined the ribbon of color above the horizon. Also too early to pick up Marty. He’d slept at Amy’s house, with instructions to stay put until Dixie’s arrival, and the Royal household didn’t rise with the sun.

  Dixie regretted now that she’d agreed to tether Marty to her side—poking around in a cop killing would be tedious enough. Yet he’d need that airtight alibi should the sniper strike again.

  As the gravel road came to a dead end, where brush had grown across it from lack of use, Dixie’s busy thoughts locked on a blur of faces: the remaining six officers who’d shot Edna, all young and proud in their blue uniforms—but shocked and stunned. In all probability, none of them had ever before shot a weapon in the line of duty. Turning toward home, Dixie saw those faces in obituaries, one by one, victims of a sniper’s bullet.

  A sense of urgency quickened her pace.

  On her way to Amy’s house, she could stop by the restaurant where Ted Tally was killed. Investigators had already examined every inch of it, but Dixie wouldn’t be looking for physical evidence.

  The restaurant faced the Southwest Freeway and shared a parking lot with a three-story motel. All the rooms featured outside access, either directly from the parking area or, on floors two and three, from partially enclosed stairs and an outdoor walkway.

  In line with an eight-foot square of the parking lot roped off with yellow crime-scene tape, Dixie spied a police seal on the door of a second-story room. The task force must’ve calculated the sniper waited in that motel room to drop Tally. Quite a shot: about four hundred yards from that angle. Other rooms offered better positioning, but perhaps they’d been occupied.

  She climbed the stairs and examined the door. The cardaccess lock appeared to be intact. The killer either possessed the skill to disarm it or had rented the room under a false name. Or one other possibility: According to the newspaper, Ted Tally’s murder occurred at approximately two-thirty in the afternoon. With checkout time at one, the rooms would be cleaned between noon and three, and wouldn’t start filling up again until five o’clock, ground-floor units going first. The killer might’ve scoped out rooms with the best angles, then slipped in during housekeeping.

  Dixie scanned the distance to the crime scene below. Sit in the darkened room, door open a crack, rifle ready. Wait for Ted to arrive for his usual afternoon coffee stop. But no—when he arrives, you don’t see a clear shot. He walks too fast, or a car blocks your target. You wait … take aim as he returns to his car … and pop! Freeway traffic disguises the shot. Afterward, slide the rifle under your shirt, down your pants leg, skip downstairs, melt into the landscape. The killer either knew Officer Tally’s habits or had followed him until the right moment presented itself.

  Dixie retraced her steps down the stairs and approached the taped-off area. A brown stain marred the asphalt beside the parking space Ted’s car had occupied. She sighted back toward the motel room, then along the bullet’s exit path. In the restaurant’s rear wall, near the ground, she found the spot where Forensics had extracted a slug of lead from the wood siding.

  Inside the restaurant, Dixie took a seat at the counter. A middle-aged couple occupied a table in the smoking section, and a single male sat in a booth near the front. A waitress was filling a shelf with pies—fresh-baked, judging by the aroma. Thirty-something, with stout arms and a pinched face, the woman glanced at Dixie unenthusiastically, wiped her hands, and laid her cleaning towel aside. Another waitress moved among the tables with a tray of salt and pepper shakers.

  A menu dropped onto the counter in front of Dixie.

  “Coffee?” The pinched face split into a forced smile.

  “Yes, thanks. Black.”

  When the coffee arrived, Dixie ordered an omelet in her friendliest voice.

  “Quiet in here this morning,” she commented.

  “Finally!” The woman rolled her eyes heavenward. “Lord Almighty, you should’ve been here a couple hours ago. Thought the late-nighters would never leave, everybody talking about that cop got killed here yesterday.”

  “That was here?” Dixie looked around, feigning surprise. Damned good job of it, too, she thought. The newspaper article hadn’t given an exact location, but anyone who knew the area could read between the lines. “Didn’t happen on your shift, though. Unless you work longer hours than I do.”

  “I come on at eleven. Night shift. But Sarah was here.” She nodded at the second waitress. “That poor cop was a regular.”

  “I guess a lot of cops eat in here.”

  “A few. Ted lived nearby. Stopped in almost every day, sometimes twice.” She gave Dixie’s order to the fry cook and went back to filling the pie shelf.

  Dixie sipped her coffee, then slid off her stool, strolled casually to the ladies’ room, and washed her hands. On her return, she veered toward a table where Sarah had just deposited her last pair of salt and pepper shakers. Her freshly pressed uniform suggested she’d recently come on duty. Dixie handed the woman a business card.

  “I’m looking into the death of Officer Ted Tally. I understand you talked with him yesterday.”

  “I told the cops everything I know.”

  “Yes, and I’m sorry to ask you to repeat it, but we’d like to take the psycho who killed him off the street.”

  “I hope you just shoot him down, the way he shot Ted.”

  Dixie allowed her serious mouth to lift a trifle at the corners. “Believe me, that’s exactly what I’d like to do. Did you know Ted well?”

  “I’ve only worked here a few weeks, but I liked him.”

  “Did he usually come in alone?”

  “Sometimes he came with another cop, like yesterday.”

  Tom Dietz, the news story had said. “Always the same two?”

  The waitress nodded. “And that other officer who was killed. I think they were all pretty good friends.”

  “Arthur Harris?”

  “Yeah. I feel so sorry for Art’s wife, them with a new baby and all.”

  Officers on duty weren’t allowed to eat outside their beat, so Harris must’ve placed a premium importance on meeting Ted. “Do you remember if Art stopped in with Ted on Tuesday morning?”

  “Tuesday …?” Sarah frowned. “Sorry, I don’t—”

  “You might recall a number of police cars going by—”

  “Oh! Yes! That poor woman was shot. But Ted didn’t … he wasn’t one of those cops … was he?”

  “Sarah, I’m merely following up all the loose ends, trying to find out who shot those officers. Were they in here together that morning?”

  “Yeah. About nine-thirty—”

  While Edna was waving her .38 at Len Bacon.

  “—Ted didn’t usually come in that early.”

  Two anomalies, then. Art off his beat, maybe—Dixie needed to check his work schedule—and Ted stopping early for coffee.

  “Did you notice any customers who struck you as unusual that morning? Perhaps someone who asked about the two cops? Or watched them?”

  Sarah shook her head slowly. “You think the killer could’ve been here?”

  “Just a routine question,” Dixie assured her. The killer could’ve seen the officers leave the restaurant and join the police pursuit. “I’d appreciate your thoughts. Did anyone follow them out?”

  Sarah continued frowning and shaking her head.

  “What about yesterday?” Dixie prompted. “Did you notice anything different when Ted was here?”

  “You mean, did Ted look like he planned to walk out and get his head blown off? Did he say, ‘Sorry I can’t keep our date, Sarah. I’m wanted for target practice’? No! It was a day like any other day. He had coffee and pie. His friend had coffee and pie—”

  “You dated Ted?”

  “No, not—” Her voice broke. “Not yet.”

  “But you intended to.”

  “He said we’d take his wav
e runner out after I finished work.”

  “Did Ted ever talk about his job?”

  “We never talked about anything, really. Just him asking me out and me saying no.”

  A couple entered the café and waited at the door to be seated.

  “Until yesterday?”

  “Yeah.” She said it softly. “Listen, I have work to do, and I really don’t know anything, but I hope you find the sonofa-bitch, ’cause Ted was a damn nice guy. And so was his friend.”

  Dixie’s omelet awaited her at the counter. She poked at it and finished her coffee. As she fished money from her pocket to cover the tab, a familiar shape dropped down on the stool beside her.

  “What the hell’re you doing here, Flannigan?”

  “A sharp detective like you, Rash, ought to pick up on the clues. Plate of half-eaten eggs, utensils, empty coffee cup …”

  “Long way from home, and too damn close to a case you need to butt out of.” He signaled the waitress to bring him a coffee.

  “Marty didn’t kill those officers, Rash. If I butt out, who’s going to prove it?”

  “Always the smartass. Always think you know more than a team of good police officers.”

  “Your boys jumped on the first convenient suspect.”

  “Not my boys. Goddamn task force.”

  “What could they have on Marty? That he was in town when he claimed to be in Dallas? That he once owned a rifle?”

  “Whole gun case full of rifles.”

  “Only took one to do the job. Since I know it wasn’t Marty’s, your ballistics report isn’t all you’d like it to be, is it?”

  “Stop baiting me, Flannigan.”

  “You know it’s strictly political. Make an arrest, even if it’s wrong.”

  He glared at her. “Did you know your friend has a record?”

  Dixie struggled to keep the surprise off her face. “For spitting on the sidewalk?”

  “Cocaine. He and his Dallas buddy.”

  “Next civilian party you attend, Rash, frisk all the guests. Bet you’ll find a few carrying nose candy.” When she got her hands on Marty, she’d wring his scrawny neck. “Why not tell me what you have? You know Belle Richards will get disclosure on every piece of evidence the DA’s planning to use.”

  The waitress arrived with his coffee. “Put it on my friend’s tab,” Rashly told her.

  When Dixie nodded, the woman turned to another customer.

  “The way I see it,” Dixie said, “the big question is: How would Marty know which officers were involved in the shootings? Unless you think he’s psychic.”

  “I’m warning you, Flannigan, butt out of this one. Don’t expect anybody to cut you any slack.” He took one sip of his coffee, shoved it aside, and walked out of the restaurant.

  Watching him go, Dixie wondered what had brought the Homicide sergeant here at this hour—only to bark at her and leave. Until now, she’d maintained a mutually beneficial relationship with HPD and other law enforcement departments across the country. If that relationship soured, she could forget bounty hunting. If it soured enough, officers she’d once counted as friends could make her life damned miserable without overstepping the legal line to harassment. All the goodwill she’d racked up over the years would be as worthless as pigeon poop.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Before leaving the café parking lot to pick up Marty, Dixie phoned the only couple she knew who could get information on police officers fast and without alerting the other five thousand cops in Houston. An elderly male voice answered. In its rusty squeak Dixie heard enthusiasm and instantly pictured Smokin’s trim white beard, half-size reading glasses, and orange suspenders.

  “Yep, yep. It’s Dixie Flannigan, Pearly,” he called away from the phone. Then he came back. “Felt in my bones we were due some fun today. Told the old woman so. Long before sunup, coffee still dripping, I said, ‘Today we’re due some fun.’ Didn’t I, Pearly?”

  “He says that every morning, Dixie,” came a throaty female voice. Pearly White had picked up on an extension.

  Snowy-haired and even smaller than her five-foot-one-inch husband, Pearly would be perched at a desk made from a wooden door slung across a pair of sawhorses. Smokin’s identical desk sat nearby, on the other side of a thick black tape line that divided their home office precisely down the middle.

  “Let’s have it.” Smokin coughed, and Dixie could almost smell the Marlboro burning steadily in his butt-crammed ashtray.

  “Can you get me some general information, then follow wherever that leads?”

  “Yep, yep. Lay it on us.”

  Dixie’d met the remarkable pair through a mutual friend. The couple’s expertise with computers rivaled any teenager’s, and they loved tapping into the most secure databases. But asking them to snoop in the HPD personnel files didn’t sit well with Dixie—and it might feel as offensive to them.

  “I suppose you’ve heard about the officers who were murdered,” she began awkwardly.

  “Sweetie, you’ve seen our big-screen television,” came Pearly’s throaty answer. “What do you imagine we do when we’re not on-line?”

  Right. “And we’ve discussed the fact that investigation starts with the victim.” Despite appearances, Art Harris’ and Ted Tally’s deaths might have nothing to do with their involvement in the robbery shootings. The killer might’ve piggy-backed on the shootings to throw investigators off. In that case, the slain officers’ backgrounds might provide a clue to the killer’s identity. In fact, one cop might’ve been the true target and the other killed to make their deaths appear connected to the Granny Bandit shootings. “Which means looking into the officers’ backgrounds.”

  “We understand, sweetie. Now what, exactly, do you want to know?”

  Good question. “I’m not at all certain what we’re looking for, Pearly. By examining everything we can find, I’m hoping to recognize a pattern.”

  Pearly delicately cleared her throat. “And you’ll use this information to find out who killed those officers?”

  “Absolutely.” Dixie could already hear the click of computer keys. “A few more names I need you to look up—” She ran through the list: Lucy Ames, Terrence Jackson, Jessica Love, Vernice Urich, Lonnie Gray. Marty’s focus might’ve changed since his arrest, but Dixie still intended to find out why an otherwise ordinary pair of senior women ended their lives in such a bizarre manner. After an instant’s hesitation, she added Marty Pine, Essence Gallery, and the two churches—Uptown Interdenominational and Church of The Light—to the list.

  “And Edna Pine?” Pearly added.

  “Yes, but leave Edna till last. I want you to be as thorough as possible on the others.”

  “Sweetie, you know we like to help you any way we can, but peeking into other folks’ lives is … well, we can’t be arbitrary about it. If you see what I mean. Are all these individuals suspects?”

  “They could be.”

  “Even the two dead women?”

  “Pearly, what’s going on? You’ve never had a problem with this before.”

  “No, no … when a person’s life is at risk, that’s good reason, but to invade a stranger’s privacy, without suspicion of criminal activities … Dixie, we’re not comfortable with that. Are we, Smokin?”

  “Speak for yourself, old woman. I love it. This here Terrence Jackson fellow makes a hunk of money for himself. Stock market investments. Spends a bundle, too.”

  “Stock market?” Rebuke sharpened Pearly’s voice. “That’s my bailiwick, Smokin. Get your fingers out of there.”

  Smokin chuckled. “Gotcha, old woman. I wasn’t even—”

  “Wait,” Dixie cut in. “What I need first are the two officers’ home addresses. Can you get those?”

  “Right here,” Smokin said.

  Dixie jotted down the street numbers he rattled off, then left the pair feuding over who would acquire the information she sought. But Pearly White’s remarks burrowed into her thoughts as she drove to Amy’s. Her ow
n bank account had been plundered by a person who knew how to “wash” checks—and it infuriated her. How would she feel about computer-savvy snoops tapping into her personal records in search of anything that looked wrong? Did her records contain information that could be misinterpreted?

  The questions soured her stomach. Maybe she needed a new line of work. Maybe she needed a new life.

  After picking up Marty, Dixie drove to Arthur Harris’ southeast neighborhood, parked at the curb across from his trim front yard, and felt the sourness in her stomach rise into her throat. Harris’ bereaved young widow had a right to be alone with her grief—and no reason to answer Dixie’s questions.

  Marty, however, had seemed damned eager when she’d told him their destination. He hadn’t been nearly so eager to answer her question about the cocaine charge in Dallas.

  “The charges were dropped,” he told her. “And it has nothing to do with what’s happening now. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You need to tell Belle. It could influence—”

  “It wasn’t even my coke. One of Ashton’s friends brought it. Then he picked a fight with Ashton, and the cops showed up. Are you satisfied?”

  “You’ll talk to Belle?”

  “Yeah, okay—”

  Dixie’s cell phone warbled.

  “You’re out early,” Parker said.

  “Early if you’re a beach bum.”

  “This particular bum picked up a sizable lead last night.”

  “At Fortyniners? We were trolling for clues, not sales.”

  Marty climbed out of the car.

  “Your colorful friend Judge Garston’s in the market for a twenty-five-foot motorcraft.”

  “He’s not my friend, Parker, in case you called me for a character reference.”

  “You’ll never believe who called me this morning.”

  “Nope.” Parker knew she despised guessing names.

  “Vernice Urich.” Dramatic pause. “She heard you’d asked about her last night, and since I gave her my card …”

  “Someone must’ve noticed us leaving together.”

  “Dixie, everyone noticed us. You were extremely noticeable.”