Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  Kodak slants his beady eyes at Ballard. “So what did your boss say about that phone call from the Dallas newspaper?”

  Ballard finishes swallowing a mouthful of pizza. “Said Pendergast found out about Hogan being in the fed’s security program. He’s shopping his story around.” He looked at the Chief. “It sounds like he knows about your trial, the charges—and that you want Hogan dead. His angle is he’s concerned that the people of Wilks are directly in the line of fire, and Jimmy’s father, the sheriff, is doing nothing to protect them.”

  The Chief nods, taking it all in. “Priority one remains kill Hogan. Priority two: Ballard, you and Kodak find this Pendergast guy and eliminate him.”

  “What’s the situation at the hospital?” I ask.

  “You should’ve kept the syringe after you injected the serum into Hogan’s IV,” Ballard says.

  The Chief’s eyes widen. “You were supposed to keep it with you and dispose of it later.”

  “Sure,” I say. “And risk injecting myself with tuberculosis? No, thank you. I put it in the hazardous waste disposal bin behind the bed.”

  “No, you didn’t,” says Ballard. “They found it on the floor behind the bed. You missed the bin, apparently.” He frowned. “What do you mean tuberculosis? That’s not what they found in the needle. It was digitalis.”

  “Digitalis?” I say, then turn to stare at Kodak.

  “We agreed on tuberculosis,” the Chief says slowly. “Death from a single dose of poison would be too sudden and raise flags which—” he glares at Kodak “—is exactly what has happened.”

  Kodak’s weaselly face hardens. “I know you wanted to protect your kid.” He nods toward me, but his eyes never leave the Chief’s. “My job is to protect you. Digitalis, when administered correctly, kills. Period. No ifs. And it’s not always traceable.”

  The Chief’s eyes flash with anger. “So you took it upon yourself to put my blood—” he points at me “—in peril? Brackenridge wouldn’t have even known to look for a problem for a week at least. Patients get pneumonia all the time.”

  “I did what I thought was right.” Kodak’s superior tone screams because you were wrong.

  I force myself to keep the Cheshire cat smile off my face, but inside I’m grinning from ear to ear. Kodak just screwed up.

  The Chief turns to me. “What do you have to say about all of this?”

  Play it cool, I tell myself. “This—” I gesture towards Kodak “—is how your second in command acts behind your back.” I shrug my shoulders. “Now you’ve seen it with your own eyes. The question is, who do you trust?”

  I pick up my pizza and take another bite, all the while sending a chilly smile in Kodak’s direction.

  Victory!

  ***

  The sun was deep in the western sky when James W. finally arrived back in Wilks. The live oak trees cast long shadows over the town square, and when he pulled up in front of the Ice House, his truck was in deep shade.

  Angie wasn’t making any money tonight, he reckoned as he walked into the empty bar. “Bo? You here?” he called.

  The lanky bartender came through the kitchen swinging doors carrying a plastic bin. “Just cleaning out the ice chest,” he said, sliding the stainless steel cover aside. “What’ll it be, Sheriff?”

  James W. wasn’t there to drink, but there was no reason he couldn’t have a beer while asking Bo his questions. “Fireman’s Four. Draft.”

  Bo pulled an icy mug from the freezer and began the pour. “Busy day for you.”

  James W.’s eyebrows rose. “What makes you say that?” Warren and Ben Yeck had been sworn to secrecy about moving Matt out of Brackenridge.

  Bo stayed focused on the tap. “It’s past happy hour—not that we had much of a one. I jes’ figured you’d had a long day.”

  “That’s true enough.” James W. sat down at the bar.

  “Did you get the ladies to Austin?” Bo slid the beer across the bar.

  “Yep. Made sure they got through airport security all right. They should be in the air by now.”

  Bo nodded. “I sure hope things go well on that trip.” He looked at James W. “I tried to talk her out of going through with this.”

  “Telling Elsbeth or marrying you?” James W. took his first sip.

  “Both.” Bo shook his head. “I know this sounds crazy, but I think Pearl can be more stubborn than Elsbeth.”

  “God help us both.” James W. took a bigger swig, then set the mug down. “Actually I’m here to ask you about a car I saw parked out front when I was driving the girls out of town.”

  “Shoot.”

  “It was a tad after 4:30. A gray Honda Civic. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Interesting you should ask.” Bo began scooping the ice out of the freezer. “The guy was looking for a friend of yours.”

  “Who?”

  “That snake-oil salesman Pendergast.” Bo shook his head. “Lord above me, that reporter made a scene in here on July 4th.”

  James W. smiled at the memory. “That’s when I knew our preacher was gonna make it in Texas just fine.”

  “That Pendergast fella ran for the door. ‘Course your having Richard Dube put him in the squad car and take him out of town helped.”

  Eyebrows furrowed, James W. took another chug from his beer. “You’re sayin’ the driver of that Civic was looking for Pendergast?”

  “By name,” Bo said.

  “What’d this fellow look like?” James W. asked.

  “Wiry, thin hair. Age spots something fierce. Beer belly. Nasty teeth.”

  James W. nodded. The bartender had just described Frank Ballard to a tee. “Did he say what he wanted with Pendergast?”

  “Nope. He came in, ordered up some pizzas, had a beer and asked his questions.”

  James W. scratched at his chin. “Did he pull out a badge or anything?”

  “Nope.” Bo picked up the full bin and took it to the sink. “What’s this all about?”

  “Have you ever seen him before?”

  “No.”

  Which made sense to James W. The one time Ballard had been in Wilks, he’d been visiting Matt at the parsonage. The Deputy Federal Marshal hadn’t been too happy that the sheriff walked in on their conversation. “He ordered food?”

  “Actually came in here looking for Dorothy Jo’s etouffee. I told him we were only serving pizzas. He ordered two.”

  James W. stared into his beer. “He didn’t ask about me or the preacher or Angie?”

  “No, and now you’ve got me worried. I see a lot in this bar. Is there something I should be looking for?”

  James W. didn’t answer, but instead raised his beer to his lips.

  Bo watched, then nodded as if he’d made a decision. “Look, I know the preacher is under your security. Hell, I went up to see him on Saturday and your guard almost took my fingerprints. Which I don’t have a problem with. But when I talked to Angie this afternoon and asked her what I should be doing about the staffing around here, she said she wouldn’t be in for the foreseeable future. I know she’s with the preacher. And I could tell from her voice something was wrong. So what’s going on? Did someone try to kill him? Again?”

  James W. slammed his beer on the counter. “You ask too many questions.”

  “You give too many clues. What gives? Is Matt in danger? ‘Cuz if he is, so is Angie.”

  “I can’t talk about it, Bo.” James W. pushed away from the counter.

  “Do you need a place to hide ‘em?”

  That stopped James W. in his tracks. Bo had never struck James W. as a dumb cluck, but he’d never realized the bartender could find a whisper in a whirlwind. “You got something in mind?”

  “Hell, take ‘em to Pearl’s. I can stay at my room here in town. Her place is out in the middle of nowhere. You could see a car coming up that dirt road from a mile away. And there’s lots of buildings to hide in if trouble comes their way.”

  James W. crossed his arms against his chest.
“You will not say one word to anybody. Not even Dorothy Jo.”

  Bo shrugged. “I’ll go out tonight, get my stuff and come back to town. The place won’t be the same without Pearl there anyway.”

  James W. threw a five on the counter and walked out without saying another word.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The Chase Begins

  I’m sleeping on the floor of my own apartment when Ballard slams through the front door.

  “What the hell?” I ask, jerking awake.

  He crosses the room, throws a donut box on the small dining table, then goes straight to my closed bedroom door. He knocks lightly. “Chief, we have a problem.”

  By this time Kodak has sat up on the couch and put his feet on the floor. “What’s going on?” He says in a fog. His ferret eyes are barely open, and there’s spit on his chin. I didn’t think the weasel could get any uglier, but I was wrong.

  I drag myself from the sleeping bag, grateful that I’d decided to sleep in my clothes, and overjoyed that Kodak had done the same.

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” I hear the Chief call from my bedroom. I go to the kitchen to put on some coffee, then look at the clock. It’s six-thirty in the morning.

  Kodak gets up from the couch and heads for the bathroom. I turn my attention back to Ballard. For his part, he’s had a shower and is freshly shaved. The SOB got to go to a motel, and, to add salt to the wound, he’d done it on the federal government’s dime.

  The Chief finally emerges from the bedroom, his square jaw stubbled with salt and pepper whiskers, his t-shirt and khakis fresh from a hanger. “What’s this all about?” he demands, as Kodak comes out of the bathroom.

  “Hogan’s left Brackenridge.” Ballard’s gaze is one of fury. I would think he’d be more afraid, but we all know how to bluff. That’s how a person survives working for the Chief. “My man got a scrub suit on and went up to the room to learn about Hogan’s condition. The room was empty.”

  “You said you had full surveillance on all the exits.”

  “I did. Apparently my subordinates did not.”

  The Chief sends Ballard an icy glare. “All right then. We’ve got to get moving. Apparently that shyster of a sheriff pulled one over on us. Kodak—your job is to find Hogan. Ballard, your job is to find Pendergast. And you.” He turns to me. “Today’s your day to use your job to find out absolutely everything you can about what’s going on. Go to work, have lunch at the bar, listen, listen, listen. You’re in the best position to observe what the locals are up to. Get it done.”

  “Will do.” I head to the bedroom.

  “Where are you going?” Kodak demands.

  I turn on him, squaring my shoulders. “You heard the man. I gotta get dressed for work.” I put a smile on my face, but make sure my gaze is full of hate. “Dibs on the bathroom, asshole. And remember. This is all your fault.”

  ***

  Angie was nestled comfortably into Matt’s shoulder when she heard a snicker from the guest bedroom’s doorway. She raised her head to see James W. leering at her and Matt.

  “Don’t be a pervert.” Angie threw back the quilt, and, fully clothed, slung her legs off the bed. She pulled the cover back up over Matt’s sleeping form, then tiptoed to the doorway. “We were so tired last night, we fell asleep before we even kicked off our shoes.”

  James W. nodded. “I’ve got some coffee on. Want some?”

  Angie followed him into the kitchen. Sunlight barely peeked through the window over the sink. “It’s kinda early, isn’t it?” She took the cup he offered and sipped.

  “We’ve got to get you two out of here pronto. Joan Fortner and her crew are coming at eight.”

  Angie sat down at the breakfast nook. “Who is Joan Fortner?”

  “Forensic anthropologist from Texas State University.” He took the seat across from hers.

  “Why is a forensic anthropologist coming to your house?”

  He raked his fingers through his burred hair. “Cuz I need her to dig Diane Turpin’s body out from under my hot tub.”

  A line appeared between Angie’s brows. “Come again?”

  “You remember when those two girls went missing?”

  Angie shrugged. “It’s been a while. Nine years, maybe?”

  “Ten. It was June—the day after the girls graduated from high school. Zach was pouring the cement for our slab that week. Remember we already found Melinda’s body half-buried in cement in the river behind my house when the drought got so bad. My guess is my spa is where he hid Diane’s body.”

  Angie’s eyes were wide. “Does Elsbeth know?”

  “Heck, no. I’m taking advantage of her trip to New York to get it done. Maybe she won’t ever know.”

  Angie put down her coffee. “You know they’re gonna have to jackhammer that cement out. It’ll leave a hole.”

  “I’m gonna tell her I bought her a new spa for an early birthday present. Already got the cement contractor on hold and the tub ordered. By the time Elsbeth gets home she’ll have a brand new, slicker-than-oysters hot tub.”

  Angie shook her head. “You’re hunting trouble. She’s bound to find out about this.”

  James W. nodded. “Yeah. But it’s easier to ask forgiveness than to ask permission.”

  The sound of a walker and feet shuffling in the hall had Angie looking up. Matt’s shirt was rumpled, his hair—or what was left of it—stuck out in jagged spears, but to Angie, he looked beautiful. She smiled. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

  “Is there coffee?” he asked with a yawn.

  “Have a seat,” James W. said. “I’ll get you a cup.”

  Matt settled in the nearest chair. “So what’s the plan for the day, Sheriff?”

  “Moving day for you, son,” James W. said.

  “Where to?” Matt asked.

  “Some place I hadn’t even thought of.” James W. poured out a cup and handed it to Matt. “I’m taking y’all out to Pearl’s place.”

  “So who thought of it?” Angie asked.

  James W. sat back down at the table. “Bo.” He turned to Matt. “I understand he visited you on Saturday. What’d you think of him?”

  Matt sipped his coffee. “I liked him. Seemed like a straight shooter.”

  “He is,” Angie nodded. “You can trust what that man says to you. And he’s loyal.”

  Matt put down his mug. “So when do we go?”

  “Soon as you’re ready,” James W. said. “I suppose you’ve got to do some medical stuff, so finish that up and we’re out of here. There’s a shower at Pearl’s. You can tend to that when you get there.”

  Angie heard the urgency in her brother’s voice and stood. “I’ll get Matt’s pills. I have to take his vitals.” She looked to James W. “We should be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll drive you out there.” James W. also stood. “Warren’ll come up later with your supplies.”

  “Any chance I can get my hands on a computer?” Matt asked.

  James W. nodded. “You have a laptop at the parsonage. Warren can pick it up on his way over.”

  “He has a key to the parsonage?”

  “Heck, Matt, he’s the church’s handyman.” James W. grinned. “He has a key to everything.”

  “Jack of all trades.” Mike nodded. “Do you think he could find me some index cards? And a couple of markers?”

  Angie’s mouth twisted. “What in the world for?”

  But the question seemed to delight the sheriff. His smile was wide. “I sure do, son.” He turned to Angie. “He’s putting together a crime board.”

  “A crime board?” Angie echoed.

  James W. patted Matt on the shoulder. “Looks like our boy here is coming back.”

  ***

  I’m out the door and headed to my car by 7:30. The Texas heat is already brewing in the early morning sun. It’s gonna be another scorcher. I unlock my car, get in, start the engine and drive one block to the corner gas station. My car’s tank is full, but I’m stal
ling. I pull in and slowly get out of the car.

  Kodak’s not the only one who can ignore a direct order from the Chief.

  The way I see it, Kodak is enemy number one. I have no doubt that he’s made up his mind to eliminate me. I know Hogan is the final target, but right now Kodak is my immediate danger.

  I stall for time by walking around the car and pump, then go inside and buy a Diet Coke, all the while keeping an eye on my apartment door. I wonder who’s going to leave next? Ballard or Kodak?

  My bet is on Ballard. He said the search warrants had gone through for Pendergast’s phone. The next time Pendergast uses his cell, Ballard will be all over him like a New Orleans whore.

  No, it’s not Ballard I’m interested in. I have to follow Kodak.

  I pull around to the side of the station to hide my ride. I get out, head for the dumpster that peeks out from behind the garage, and wait.

  Sure enough, Ballard is the first one to leave. Good luck, Pendergast. I remember folks talking about what a jerk Pendergast was the night of July 4th. I’d bet money on Ballard’s jerkiness trumping Pendergast’s jerkiness any day.

  Ballard drives by the gas station without a glance my direction. I look back to the apartment exit.

  My lips curl in a half-smile. Kodak’s in his rented Ford, pulling out of his parking slot. His wheels spit gravel as he floors it towards the exit. With barely a look to his left, he turns onto the road and speeds after Ballard.

  I suck in a sharp breath. The SOB is following Ballard!

  I run to my car, start the engine, and pull out as Kodak pulls a sharp right at the light. I’m able to get through the intersection just as the light turns red. Sure enough, as I head down the straightaway, I can see Ballard’s Honda about two blocks ahead, with Kodak’s Ford halfway between Ballard and me.

  I have to play this cool. I allow a car to get in between me and Kodak. Hopefully Kodak’s focus will be ahead on Ballard, not what’s behind in his rear view mirror.

  Well, what do you know? I think to myself as I take a slug of soda. This could be a very interesting morning.

  ***

  Frank Ballard pulled up in front of the Damek Lounge and Lodge, a two-story, frontier-looking building at the center of Dannerton—a twenty minute drive from Wilks. A derelict town, it was hard to tell where the trash dumps ended and the town began.