Look the Other Way

by Leigh Jones

  “Something special?” Kate shuddered. “What do you think that was? Not the prostitution ring at The Clipper.”

  Muriel shook her head again. “Rico said there was some place on the Bay. He called it ‘The Retreat.’ It sounded like a house to me.”

  Excitement started to bubble in Kate’s chest. “Do you know who the boss was?”

  “No,” Muriel smiled sadly. “I wish I did. But I only know who the other longshoremen were.”

  Kate’s eyes widened in expectation, her pen poised above her notepad. She leaned forward slightly when Muriel didn’t immediately say anything else.

  “I’m going to give the police their names. But you’ll have to get that information from them.”

  Kate considered pressing her to reconsider, but Father Tomás spoke up.

  “We’re trying not to get ahead of the police investigation. Muriel is willing to accept the consequences of her actions. But we are hoping they will show mercy.”

  Kate nodded. The DA might have less sympathy if he knew the newspaper had all the details of the case before he did.

  “We’re also asking you to hold off on publishing any of this until the police make some kind of announcement about the case.”

  Kate pursed her lips in disappointment. She looked down at her notebook and back at the widow. Father Tomás stood, and Kate took the hint. She tucked her notepad back into her purse and tried to think of something that would reassure the widow she had made the right choice in calling her.

  “Thank you for trusting me with your story,” she finally said softly. “I promise I’ll do it justice. I do believe your husband was a good man.”

  Muriel offered a thin smile and nodded. Kate stood to leave.

  “Wait,” Muriel said, just as Kate was about to walk back down the aisle. “When you came to talk to me about the murders, you said your mama died when you were young and that it was all over the news. Was that even true?”

  Kate’s cheeks burned. The familiar nausea started to churn in her stomach. She clenched her teeth together and nodded.

  “What happened?” Muriel asked.

  Kate looked toward the door, debating whether to be completely honest. Her heart hammered, as it did every time someone asked about her mother. She usually brushed the questions off with a curt reply. But she owed Muriel the truth, after everything the widow had entrusted to her.

  “She hung herself,” Kate finally said, willing her teeth to unclench enough to get the words out. “She was staying at a mental hospital, where she was supposed to be getting help. Every news report called it a tragedy, but they never bothered to ask the most important question: why? I vowed never to make that mistake.”

  Muriel held her gaze for a long time before nodding. For a moment, they shared in the camaraderie of suffering.

  “Don’t ever stop asking why,” Muriel whispered. “It’s the only question that matters.”

  When Kate turned to walk away, the tears that had been threatening during the entire interview finally broke through the dam of her self control and flowed freely down her face. She now had the answer to a question that had plagued her for almost six months. But it didn’t bring her any peace. Or satisfaction in the assurance of justice. Julian Costa had paid the ultimate price for his crime, but his young wife and children would be the ones to truly bear his debt. And his killer seemed likely to go unpunished. How would Johnson explain the righteousness in that?

  Chapter 31

  Johnson made it back to the island from Houston in record time. As soon as he got back to his office, he began filling out paperwork and giving the DA the information he needed to pursue a warrant for Finney’s cellphone and financial records. The judge didn’t hesitate to sign it. Johnson handed off the information about Finney’s cleaning crew to another investigator. He didn’t believe the janitors had anything to do with the necklace or the dead girl, but he had to follow up on the lead, just in case. After that, he sat down with the police chief to go over what he’d learned.

  Johnson was convinced the most recent murder was tied to the first unsolved case and the prostitution ring at The Clipper. He smiled at the thought of what Kate would say when he had a chance to catch her up on all the new information. She’d been the one trying to convince him the day before. Now he was trying to persuade the chief.

  “That’s a big leap,” Lugar said, drumming his fingers on his desk and looking at Johnson through narrowed lids. “You’ve got a lot of gaps to fill before you can make that case stick. And besides figuring out who did all this killing, you’ve got one big unanswered question: Who’s behind this whole thing?”

  “One step at a time,” Johnson said, leaning forward eagerly, his hands on his knees. “The first step is to tie Finney to Galveston and then bring him in and see whether he’s willing to talk. If not, we’ve got other leads to pursue. His wife said at least some of the other men on these ‘fishing’ trips belonged to the same country club. If we can get a warrant for the club’s membership records, we might be able to figure out who some of the others are.”

  “How?” Lugar huffed, loading that one word with more skepticism than Johnson thought possible.

  “Do what I did with Finney. Run their driving records. If we get any hits, we can get a warrant for financial records. Or we can interview staff at the club and find out who the Finneys hang out with while they’re there. Who does he golf with? Who does he do business with?”

  The chief shook his head. “You’ll never get a judge to issue a warrant on such circumstantial evidence. This has got to be more than a fishing expedition, no pun intended.”

  Johnson grimaced and sat silent for a moment. He had one other line of enquiry he wanted to pursue, but the chief wasn’t going to like it.

  “There is one other possible connection that we haven’t talked about,” Johnson started, feeling his way through what was bound to be a minefield.

  “What’s that?”

  “The only other Houston businessman whose name has come up in any of these investigations: Eduardo Reyes.”

  Lugar started shaking his head before Johnson even finished.

  “You cannot make that connection without very, and I mean very, good cause,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning over his desk, to fix Johnson with a steely glare. “I don’t want to even hear you mention that unless you can come in here with watertight evidence that he’s involved.”

  “So, what? We’re giving Reyes special treatment now? Why shouldn’t we investigate him just like anyone else?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Lugar said, wiping his hand down his face and pinching the bridge of his nose as though just the thought of Galveston’s favorite son being involved in something so sleazy—and illegal—made his head hurt. “But you can’t go waving that line of questioning around like a rodeo clown with a red handkerchief. Reyes will come down on us so hard we won’t know we’ve been gored until we’ve bled to death. That’s not a fight I’m willing to take unless we’ve got a very good reason.”

  The chief’s cautiousness sucked away some of Johnson’s enthusiasm but not his resolve. He expected opposition.

  “Well, I’m not willing to discount the possibility that he might be involved just because he’s the mayor’s biggest supporter and the island’s most vaunted mascot. He owned the hotel where a major prostitution ring set up operations. I know he placed all the blame on the manager, but who’s to say he wasn’t getting a cut of the take? And now we’ve got reports of Houston businessmen coming to the island, most likely to meet prostitutes. What are the odds? If he knew about any of this, I’m going to find out. I’ll tread carefully, of course.”

  “You’d better,” Lugar growled. “If I get so much as one call from the mayor, I’m shutting you down and you’ll just have to wait for someone else to implicate Reyes—and be willing to testify about it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Johnson said, standing to leave. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “I want an update at
the beginning of every day and the end of every day. Oh, and Johnson … be careful.”

  Johnson nodded and walked down the hall to his own office. He had one last clue he hadn’t shared. Amanda Finney said the men called their meeting place “The Retreat.” Of course, that might have been a code word. But she suspected it might be the name of a boat, or a house. If he could find it, he would have another major clue and possibly the murder scene.

  Sitting down behind his desk, Johnson opened his rolodex and flipped to the card for Galveston Yacht Basin, the island’s biggest marina. The manager offered no resistance to pulling up the list of boats moored there. None was named “The Retreat.” Inquiries to a few of the smaller marinas produced the same results. Johnson groaned as he hung up the last call. Of course it was possible the boat was kept at a house, but there were only a few places on the island where a vessel large enough to host several men comfortably on a fishing expedition could get that close to land.

  Johnson stood up and walked into the conference room, where an aerial photo collage of the entire island stretched along the back wall. He scanned the canal neighborhoods of the West End. That seemed like the most obvious option. But the houses were packed together like sardines. Surely they would have gotten complaints by now about regular parties. A lot of the houses were vacation properties, but the West End’s full-time residents liked their peace and quiet.

  He continued to scan the back side of the island, finally stopping at Sportsman Road. The isolated finger of development sat well off FM 3005, the only road that ran the length of the island. About forty houses dotted the shore, perched high on pilings, with docks stretching out into West Bay. Large, modern houses sat between older ones, bait camps built in the 1950s and 1960s. They were smaller and surrounded by more property. The island’s scrub brush provided a measure of privacy. Johnson squinted as he stood inches from the map, prying as much information as he could from every pixel. It looked like at least some of the houses were almost completely hidden from the road by greenery.

  He slapped his palm against the wall in excitement. That was the place to start. He marched with renewed determination back to his office and typed the address for the county tax assessor’s website into the browser on his computer. A quick search pulled up a listing of all the property on Sportsman Road. He scanned the list of owners and didn’t see any names he recognized. But several of the houses were owned by corporations. It would take longer to figure out who was behind those benign-sounding names. But it could be done.

  Springing up from behind his desk one more time, Johnson strode into the main room where officers shared desks. It was nearing a shift change, and uniformed men and women filled the small space, trading good-natured insults and cutting up. Johnson scanned the crowd until he found the rosy-cheeked face he was looking for.

  “Conner,” he shouted. “Come here a minute.”

  Officer Dylan Conner looked up, waved in response, and trotted over. If he had a tail, it would have been wagging.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  “I need someone to do a little internet research for me, and I know you’re good at that.”

  “Yes, sir! What am I researching?”

  Johnson led Conner back to his office and pointed to the list of properties on his computer screen.

  “I want to know who’s behind those companies. I’m trying to figure out who owns these houses. Can you do that?”

  “Sure can. It might take a little while, depending on how straightforward the incorporations are. But I should be able to figure it out sooner or later.”

  “Let’s say sooner, okay?” Johnson slapped the young officer on the back and grinned. “It’s important. Call me when you have something. I’m going to take a drive.”

  “This is connected to the murder investigation, huh?” Conner asked, his grin pushing his round cheeks so high they squished his eyes into bright slits.

  “Yeah, but don’t go running your mouth about it. I’m following up on a hunch, that’s all. It may be for nothing.”

  “Got it,” Conner said, nodding vigorously. “I’m on it. I’ll call you as soon as I have anything.”

  “Good man,” Johnson said as he walked out the door.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Kate chewed on everything she’d learned in the last hour as she drove slowly back toward the newspaper offices. The Retreat. The name kept ricocheting around in her mind. Without realizing she had turned, she found herself heading down Stewart Road. She loved the West End. It was a little slice of country that felt a world away from the tourists, the souvenir shops, and the downtown boutiques. It felt a little bit like home.

  Kate had no plan to drive randomly through neighborhoods looking for a house where young girls might be imprisoned. That would be like searching for one specific crab hole in a sand dune. But she wanted to imagine what it might look like, gaze out over the same placid expanse of wetlands they might see through the windows of their jail. If they were ever allowed to look out the windows.

  Kate turned down Sportsman Road. She’d last driven down it in the spring, when she’d come to interview a local environmental activist angry over the new neighborhoods of fancy houses chewing up the wetlands. She rolled her windows down and let the fresh air blow across her face. She laid her head back against the seat and let her mind wander as she rolled by driveways and mailboxes.

  She almost missed it.

  In fact, by the time she consciously registered the words, she’d driven past it. A small sign nestled in the grass growing a little too high next to a gravel driveway: The Retreat.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  It was two thirty by the time Johnson got through all the lights on 61st Street and Avenue S and crawled through two school zones. He had his windows rolled down, his left arm perched on the door to soak up the sun’s bright rays. It was a perfect day, the clear air and soft breeze whispered promise. He hadn’t enjoyed this much optimism in months. For the first time since July, he had hope for some resolution. As he cruised down Stewart Road, he thought back to his last serious conversation with Kate. She had no idea how much the unsolved murders weighed on him, casting a pall over every day and sapping the enjoyment from almost everything. Having faith was not the cop-out Kate thought. He woke up every morning and willed himself to trust God to provide some answers. The months of silence to his repeated prayers crushed his spirit. Each day’s supplication became harder and harder to make.

  He continually had to remind himself that faith was the hope of things unseen. Today, that was a little easier to believe.

  As he drove down 8 Mile Road, Johnson marveled at how much vacant land still remained on the island and how many different environments such a small place could contain. This open expanse of marshy plain stretching into the water felt worlds away from the city’s tight, densely populated neighborhoods.

  He slowed as he turned onto Sportsman Road. Wetlands spread out to his left. Seagulls wheeled overhead, filling the quiet with their discordant cries. On the right, driveways met the narrow street every thirty yards or so. He peered carefully at each house as he rolled slowly by.

  Several houses sat behind tall walls with heavy metal gates. It would be easy to host fairly discreet parties at any of them. He dismissed houses built too close to the road as unlikely sites for regular gatherings.

  About half way down the street, the more tightly spaced development gave way to larger lots. The first house sat close to the water, well off the road. But the owners had cleared out all the brush, erasing any privacy they might have had. The house next door was almost completely hidden from view, with only the top of the roof peeking above the trees. Johnson slowed to a stop at the long driveway. It curved before it reached the house, keeping the building obscured. He scanned for something that might show the address, but no mailbox stood at the end of the drive. He was about to move on when a small wooden sign partially hidden in the tall grass caught his eye.

  He sucked in a breath. Adrenaline rocketed th
rough his veins, making him lightheaded. Every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He shuddered with anticipation.

  Two words were burned into the wood in small letters: The Retreat.

  Johnson forced himself to take two steady breaths to try to slow his thudding pulse. It took every ounce of self control not to gun the engine and speed down that curved driveway. But what was at the end? He looked up and down Sportsman Road, and for the first time, he noticed a familiar car pulled over on the side about 50 yards away. Kate.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Kate kept to the edge of the driveway as she walked slowly toward the house. It stood up on stilts, a wide deck wrapped around every side. The brown stain on its wood siding had faded slightly, but it didn’t look rundown. Just rustic, serene. Kate peeked around a scrubby bush and scanned every window. Blinds covered the glass. The only sign that someone was home was an olive green SUV parked near the staircase that led up to the front door.

  When she had pulled over to the side of the road and climbed out of her car, Kate had no idea what she planned to do. Now that she was half way up the driveway she realized how much danger she was walking into. No one knew she was here. And these were people who had already killed once to keep their secret safe. She had just decided to creep back to her car and call Johnson when she heard several loud thumps and a muffled yell coming from inside the house.

  Then a woman screamed.

  Heart thudding, Kate raced toward the stairs. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed 9-1-1 as she took the steps two at a time. The dispatcher answered just as she was pounding her fist on the door.

  “Help! A woman’s being assaulted! This is Kate Bennett. I’m a reporter for the Gazette. I’m at a house on Sportsman Road...”

  Before she could finish, the door burst open and the sharp stench of gasoline rolled over her. A man reached out and grabbed her by the throat. Kate yelped and dropped her phone as her hands flew to the man’s arm.

  “You!” he snarled. “Figures.”

  Kate immediately recognized the voice of the man who’d attacked her at The Clipper. Terror racked her whole body and she froze, unable to think or move. The man dragged her inside and Kate saw the source of the scuffle she’d heard. A woman with her hands tied behind her back was kneeling on the floor of the living room. Blood trickled from a cut on her forehead. Next to her sat a bright red gas can.