Let the Guilty Pay

by Rick Treon

  She would remain on that property for the rest of her life.

  25

  Franklin Jones

  July 4, 1999, 2:32 p.m.

  Jones didn’t have time for this, but he’d driven without thought to the county courthouse. His BMW always wanted to slip into its favorite spot. Jones had been powerless, even though he was expected in San Antonio soon.

  Since he was there, Jones decided to stay for at least a few minutes. He reached into the center console and pulled out a relatively cheap cigar, one he’d picked up on his last trip to the city. He didn’t smoke often, and when he did, he preferred the Cubans in his humidor at home—another promotion gift. But a drive was no time to fully appreciate and enjoy a Cuban, so he kept less expensive singles in his car.

  Jones unsheathed the cigar and rolled down his window before cutting the tip, taking great care to make sure no tobacco blew back into the car. Then he rolled it around in his mouth, took his time to evenly light the tip, and settled in.

  As he hung his left arm out of the car, Jones saw her. Summer was walking toward the Sinclair station. He’d watched her make cigarette runs at least once a week for months. She’d become a dedicated smoker since Heller had killed that neighbor girl. They’d been close, but Jones was glad the girl would no longer be competing for Summer’s time.

  He watched as she moved briskly toward the store, then turned his attention to an unsealed envelope in his passenger seat. On it was written MY DEAREST SUMMER. Jones picked it up and pulled out the letter he’d handwritten on his bank stationery.

  * * *

  My beloved,

  Words cannot express how thankful I am to be back in your life. And by the time you’re done reading this letter, I think you will be ready to move on from Butch Heller and accept my undying love.

  During the two years since we’ve spoken, I have been made aware of Heller’s continued affair with another woman. This woman, who has asked me to not reveal her identity, is a prostitute who frequents nearby drinking establishments. She first met Heller while working, and they had a sexual encounter in the back of his truck. He no doubt told you he was working late on a job or used some other excuse.

  They had many more sexual encounters during a months-long affair, but she had to quit seeing all her clients when she became pregnant. Though nobody paid for a DNA test, she introduced the newborn girl to Heller, and it was obvious he was the father.

  The baby, whom Heller had kept secret, soon fell ill. Her mother had no means to pay for medical care and Heller, not wanting to expose himself as the philanderer he is, was unwilling to pay for treatment. The baby died less than two months after her birth.

  If you would like to meet this woman and hear her awful story in person, I can help arrange that. In the meantime, I sincerely hope you kick that animal out of your home for good and allow me to help you heal.

  With all my love,

  Franklin W. Jones III

  * * *

  Jones had written the letter immediately after pretending to be with the Census Bureau and meeting Ethel “Candy” McDonough and her eight-year-old daughter, Verna. To maintain his cover, Jones asked how long they’d lived there. Candy said she’d inherited the house from her parents, as most people in the area did, and she’d lived there her whole life. To round out his fake interview, Jones asked if they were the only people who’d lived at the residence since Verna’s birth.

  That question sent Candy into a crying fit that bordered on hysteria. Verna eventually told Jones that she’d had a baby sister for a few months, but that the baby girl had died earlier that year. Candy finally steadied herself enough to shoo away Verna and tell Jones the rest.

  Jones had nearly mailed the letter, but backtracked when he realized Summer may choose to bring the letter to the attention of the authorities and put their reunion in jeopardy. And, since the restraining order’s expiration date was so close, he opted instead to tell her in person. If she reacted negatively and did not allow him to explain, he could still leave the letter with her.

  Either way, Jones was about to get what he wanted.

  He was only about halfway done with the cigar when she crossed Louisa Park on her way back to the party. He tossed it in the parking lot and started the car. He was already going to be late for his meeting. They were only going to wait so long and pissing them off would be a dangerous move.

  Jones was a bit thrown to see the two FBI agents in street clothes. They were usually in suits, always gray or black, with dull-colored ties and cheap black shoes. Now they were both in khaki shorts and T-shirts. They were, however, wearing their familiar dark sunglasses.

  Jones approached the men, who were sitting outside a coffee shop in downtown San Antonio. “Agent J, Agent K, how are you this fine afternoon?”

  “I can’t believe people are still making that goddamn joke,” said Agent J, a thirtysomething failing to pull off the just-rolled-out-of-bed look.

  Agent K smiled. “Hey, if you want to compare me to Tommy Lee Jones, I’m okay with that. I’d be even more okay with it if you did it in front of my wife.”

  All three laughed as Jones pulled over a patio chair to the round, glass table.

  “So, what’s so important it couldn’t wait until after the holiday?” Jones asked.

  “You haven’t checked in with us in over a month,” Agent J said. “We figured scheduling a meeting on the Fourth of July would get your attention.”

  “Mission accomplished,” Jones said. “But I haven’t contacted you because I don’t have anything to say. Just because I’m the president of the bank doesn’t mean I can ask for all the documents you want. I inherited my secretary from my uncle, and if you think that old bird doesn’t tell him everything that goes on in the bank, you’re dumber than you look.”

  J bristled, but K started talking before his younger partner could respond. “We know that, obviously. But we’ve also got to get somewhere on this investigation. We have enough to arrest you for a whole lot of bad stuff, but we want the old man since he’s the real criminal. Well, the real financial criminal, anyway.”

  Jones suppressed his urge to shout at the older agent. Did he think a dig like that would make Jones more likely to cooperate? It’s hard enough to ask someone to bite the hand that’s feeding him.

  But agents J and K had shown Jones the federal documents they were waiting to file. All that was missing was the name. It could be his, they’d told Jones, or it could be his uncle’s. The choice was his.

  The crime—the big one, anyway—was embezzlement. Essentially, cash was being taken from his bank’s vault and deposited into another bank under a version of Jones’ name, Frank Jones III. If only ten percent more customers than usual came for cash withdrawals, his vault would be empty. The agents also had a hunch that the safe-deposit boxes had been raided for cash and valuables, though they had no proof.

  Jones had no idea about the account or the embezzlement until the FBI had confronted him about a year ago. He couldn’t take any money out of the fake account because it had been flagged for activity.

  Jones hadn’t tipped off his family. He wasn’t sure what to do. So, he’d done nothing. And he damn sure wasn’t going to get caught up in anything criminal until after he was clear to get Summer back.

  “Do you have any better suggestions than last time?” Jones said. “Ordering a random accounting of the physical cash in our vault is a nonstarter, and I can’t just hang out all day waiting to catch someone in the act.”

  “How about going in after-hours, doing the count yourself, and taking photos then?” K asked.

  “I’d have to disarm the security system, which is logged in a central computer. And the police would notice a car in the parking lot after hours, so they may call it in. Then I’d be arrested for stealing the money anyway.”

  J cleared his throat. “I know that seems like a risk to you, but the alternative is that we arrest you for the embezzlement.”

  “Or, like we discussed before,
” K said, “you could confront your uncle while wearing a wire. Get him to let you in on the scam, give us the recording, and you’re home free.”

  Jones knew that was his best option. But he’d be cut off. No money, no car, no suits, no cigars. And, most importantly, no Summer.

  “Tell you what,” Jones said. “Not this weekend, but next weekend, I’ll plan on going into the vault with a camera. I’ll come see you on Monday the nineteenth and show you what I have. Deal?”

  They agreed and broke up the meeting. Jones now had two weeks to confront his uncle and figure out how to get as much of the old man’s cash squirreled away as possible. Then he could ride off into the sunset with Summer.

  But he had to get the girl first. Jones checked his Yacht-Master before getting back in the BMW. It was four p.m.—just enough time to get to Summer’s house by five.

  26

  Walker’s eyes were upon us as she and Agent Orange waited outside the tin building. Jorge pulled into the parking lot at Site One at seven sharp. Orange was spitting into a short Styrofoam cup. She was taking long draws of a silver Yeti.

  “Wow, they’re not messing around,” Jorge said. “What did your girl say she needed from us?”

  “The last place Jillian worked and her age. And she’s not my girl.”

  Jorge opened his door. “But you know you want her to be.”

  “Shut up.”

  We slid out of Jorge’s truck and shuffled toward the investigators. I was exceptionally tired after a fitful night of not sleeping, my brain not allowing for any rest. I kept thinking about getting arrested, wondering what handcuffs would feel like on my wrists. The alternative scenario was me trying to outwit two Texas Rangers to get the information Veronica wanted.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for coming back to visit with us again,” Walker said as we approached.

  “You make it sound like we had a choice,” Jorge said.

  She smiled, taking Jorge’s comment in the good nature it was intended. “You always have a choice. But, had you chosen not to come, we’d’ve chosen to get arrest warrants.”

  Jorge and I laughed as Orange dug out the tobacco from his bottom lip. “All right, let’s get to it. Mr. Hernandez, you follow her.” Orange looked at me. “You’re mine, Bart.”

  I tried to remember Orange’s real name as he opened the door. I’d started calling him that because something about his name reminded me of orange juice, but what was it? I was still drawing a blank as we sat down on opposite sides of a cheap desk.

  “So, I’m Lieutenant Owen Johnson, in case you’d forgotten. And you, Mr. Bartholomew John Beck, have more explaining to do.”

  I felt my eyes widen as he placed a briefcase on the desk and opened it. “I’m still not sure what you’re after. I haven’t lied about anything, and I did not kill Sylvia.”

  He didn’t respond as he laid files on the desk and put the briefcase on the floor beside his chair. He fidgeted with them for a few more agonizing moments before finally looking up at me. “We’ll see about that. Let’s start with you telling me about Tight Strips.”

  Tight Strips was the name of the strip club where I’d earned my nickname. It occurred to me that what happened there could be construed as an illegal sex transaction.

  “That’s a strip club in Oklahoma City. I was there a couple of months ago with a few of the other guys.”

  “And what happened while you were there?”

  “I had a few drinks, got a few dances. It was fun. I don’t see what it could have to do with Sylvia’s death.”

  “Do you always wear glasses, Bart?”

  I shook my head at the non sequitur. “Yes.”

  “When’s the last time you had your eyes checked?”

  “I… um… I don’t know. Less than a year ago, I guess.”

  “Well, you should go get them checked again. Bad eyesight is the only way I can explain how you could have gotten a lap dance from a girl, found her dead less than three months later, and not know it was the same damn woman.”

  Agent Orange slapped a large photo onto the desk in front of me. It looked like a black-and-white still shot taken from closed-circuit TV. It was grainy, but you could plainly see a woman leading me by the hand toward the stairs that led to Tight Strips’ VIP room. Her hair was dyed auburn, but it was Sylvia.

  She hadn’t given me the now infamous tug job, but Sylvia must’ve gotten to me later, after I was already drunk.

  “Sir, I honestly don’t remember all the dances I got that night. I had no idea she worked there, and I definitely didn’t recognize her when I saw her on the job later.”

  “As a professional writer, I’m sure you’ve heard guys like me say this before, but people who investigate murders for a living don’t believe in coincidences.”

  He ripped the photo off the table, replacing it with a photo of her body in the pipe.

  “You got a lap dance from a stripper. Then you started working together. You tried getting close to her, to get her to take her clothes off without you paying. When she said no, you assaulted her. Then you found her dead two days later.”

  I shook my head and stammered again, trying to proclaim my innocence, but Orange was having none of it.

  “You mean to tell me you were able to immediately identify Sylvia Davenport in this condition—” he pointed at the photo “—but you didn’t recognize her as one of the strippers you bought dances from less than a month earlier?”

  He continued talking, but my brain was too busy trying to catch up. I had obviously gotten a dance from Sylvia that night. But was I the only one? Jorge and Paul were there, too.

  “Excuse me, Agent… I mean, mister… Shit. Lieutenant Johnson, another welder, Paul Henry, was there, too. And he’s the one that brought her to the job as his helper. What has he said about all of this?”

  “We haven’t gotten him in here yet. We’re starting with those of you who found her and were also at the club that night. Are you familiar with a Venn diagram?”

  I fought back a smile. “Yes, I am. But it seems to me that Sylvia might’ve given Paul a lap dance that night, and during that time they decided she could make more money working with us. Does that sound possible?”

  He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “My working theory was that you, knowing that Paul needed an assistant, talked her into convincing Paul to hire her. I’m also looking into any other connections between you and Sylvia.”

  “There are no other connections. That was the first and only time I was ever at that place.”

  He leaned forward and began writing on a notepad. “Let’s move on. When was the last time you interacted with the FBI?”

  It seemed non sequiturs were part of Orange’s interview-room routine. “I’ve talked with them for some of my books, but the last time was at least three years ago.”

  Orange tapped on his notepad with his pen, as though he was building up to something. “You see, I just don’t believe anything that comes out of your mouth, Bart.”

  I shook my head. I was getting nowhere defending myself with this fucking guy.

  “Look, I go by Beck, so that’s how you’re going to address me from now on. And if you don’t believe me, I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “You’re not getting it, are you? See, when I tried to do a standard background check on this woman, I got a stiff arm from the feds. The FBI has her marked as part of a high-profile case. They all but told me to fuck off when I asked them what her role was.”

  I did my best not to react. Were the FBI behind Sylvia’s crazy actions on our job site? “Sounds like you have a good lead that has nothing to do with me.”

  “Except you have a known connection with the FBI.” Orange pointed at me. “Every time I turn over a rock in this case, something with your fingerprints comes crawling out.”

  “Except my actual fingerprints. You have no physical evidence, or you’d’ve arrested me already, instead of this bullshit interview trying to get a confession.”
r />   Orange leaned back in his chair. “Well, you’ve got me there. I was hoping you might be generous enough to just tell me what happened. If you do that and put me in a better mood, I might be able to get you less time, though the FBI won’t take kindly to you murdering one of their CIs.”

  Orange was convinced I was guilty, and there was nothing I could do to change his mind. He was a seasoned investigator and knew I was lying about something. Fortunately for me, he was investigating the wrong case.

  “This is obviously going nowhere,” I said. “I did not kill Sylvia Davenport. I’m going to need a lawyer present at any future interviews.”

  “If that’s how you want it. But I wouldn’t leave Hutchinson County.” He handed me his business card. “In case you decide to make it easy on yourself.”

  Agent Orange stood and motioned for me to leave the office. Jorge and Walker were laughing at an empty cubicle. He was obviously not under much suspicion.

  After we got into Jorge’s truck, I was anxious to find out how his interrogation had gone. “What did you find out?”

  “That Miss Walker is divorced with a pre-teen daughter. She doesn’t have much time to date, but she did give me her phone number.”

  “Dude, she knows you’re married. And I was talking about the murder investigation. You know, the one where I’m a prime suspect.”

  Jorge started his truck. “I was trying to flirt my way into getting information. It didn’t work though.”

  “Did she ask about me?”

  “Yeah. She asked how I knew you, when we met, why I brought you on with me, that kind of stuff. She also asked me if you were home the night Sylvia died. What did the old man ask you?”

  “He all but asked me why I killed Sylvia.”

  Jorge looked at me, the playful spark gone from his eyes. “Why do they think you killed her?”