“Nope. Say, weren’t you two in on the manhunt?”
The darker haired cop raised his hand to shade his eyes, “Yeah. Everyone was. You’re from Alamoville, right? How’s your man? Aaron, wasn’t it? He gonna be OK?”
“Doctors think he’ll pull through.” Martin shifted his stance. “Say, did you two bring Wellington down? If so, I’d like to shake your hand. Aaron Jenkins and I patrolled together.”
The blond shook his head. “Nah. And that is the weird thing. None of us can figure out who did. Rumor is two from our force made the arrest, but no one is ’fessing up. Think they would, right?”
“Definitely.” Martin laughed. “You two the only team with blond and dark hair?”
They looked at each other and shrugged. “As far as we know, Andy here is the only blond on the force. Bill’s a redhead. The rest of us have dark hair.”
“I’ll leave y’all to it, then. Good luck.” He sauntered back to his vehicle and radioed in. “Sir. Found those two Grayson cops on the banks of Brushy Creek. They’re helping to thin out the nutria population and making a buck or two on the side. Whatever Janie’s friend’s cousin overheard, it wasn’t anything to raise concern.”
Hornsby’s chair hinges squeaking blasted through the phone. He spoke through a stretching yawn. “Good to know. Any money to be made?”
“A c-note per critter. Want in on it?”
“Sure. I was off for almost three months, remember? Meet you after your shift is over. Bet we can bag a few before dark.”
“That would be excellent, sir. My truck needs new tires. But, sir? Here’s the weird thing. They say nobody on the Grayson force admits to having collared Wellington. And Andy, one of the nutria hunters, is the only blond on the force.”
“Hmmm. I’ll inform Gates. He’s finally meeting with their chief for a late lunch. The man was down with a summer cold for four days.”
“I hope we find out who they were. I, for one, would like to buy them a brew or two.”
“Roger, Mike. My thoughts as well. Later.” He hung up.
Mike Martin started his engine and continued on his patrol. Why would any policeman catch a cop shooter and not want to crow about it? Much less two of them? Something didn’t sit right. He hoped the detectives figured it all out soon.
~*~
Arnie crouched in the corner. He fingered the matchbook case. Another bum snatched it from him. “Thanks. Need a light.” The tall, black man headed for the back entrance to the mission shelter.
“Hey, come back here with that.” Arnie followed him.
The lanky dude entered the alleyway and struck a match, which briefly illuminated his scraggly old beard. He took a long drag of the cigarette stub he’d retrieved out of his pocket. “Ease up, man. What’s so valuable about this anyway?”
Arnie’s fingers grabbed for it. The man blew smoke in his face and flipped open the cover. “What’s this? A message.” He held it up to the light. “1239 FM 371. 8:30 pm. Well, well. Got a hot date?”
“None of your business.” He yanked it back and shoved it into his jean’s pocket.
“Whoa. Or a connection for some good stuff?”
“I said, none of your business.” He grabbed the hobo by the shirt and shoved him against the wall. “Keep your grimy hands off my stuff. Got it?”
The derelict raised his hands, the tobacco smoke swirling off the butt. “OK. Chill.” He took one last puff, stubbed it out under his heel and strolled back inside. He shot Arnie a disgusted glare and then slammed the door shut.
Arnie realized he’d just been locked out and the mission wouldn’t open again until the morning. Overhead the sky rumbled and raindrops began to splatter the concrete.
He jabbed the brick wall with his fist as he hissed a curse. He retrieved his throw-away phone from his trousers and texted the writer of the matchbook message. Thought we broke it off. Will meet one last time. Better be worth it.
His collar turned against the rain, Arnie walked four blocks to the river and strolled down the bank under the highway bridge. As the cars swished through the puddles above him, he scrunched down to sit on his heels and chucked the phone into the current. He watched it sink below the murky waters that would eventually end up in the Gulf of Mexico. Tomorrow night after the meeting, he’d catch the 2:00 AM bus to L.A. Time to leave Texas for good.
TWENTY-NINE
Blake leaned over the rail of their fifth story hotel room and watched the waves tumble toward the shore. Melody came up behind him and laced her arms around his waist. “Kids are ready to hit the beach again. Where are you?”
He scoffed. “Still back in Alamoville, I guess. Sorry. It’ll take a while to shake the feeling something’s happening and I should be there.”
She squeezed his middle. “Something is happening right here and this is where you should be. We won’t have many more of these times as a family. In two years, Ellie will be off to college and out of the house.”
He spun to face her. “Until her laundry stacks up or she runs out of money.”
Melody swatted him. “Grab your towel, mister.”
Blake eyed his better half’s still-shapely backside hugging her bathing suit as she walked back into the room. Yep, he was blessed. So why did he have this tingling on the back of his neck? He huffed out a breath. Let go, let God—and Hemphill, and Hornsby—do their thing. Janie as well. He snatched his beach bag and followed his family to the surf.
The rays from the afternoon sun glistened on the sand. Melodies of the mariachi band floated on the gulf breeze from the hotel lounge. They gathered around a fire pit, roasted hot dogs and made s’mores as they shared memories and laughed. Then they walked along the beach searching for seashells as the waves, still holding the sun’s warmth, rolled toward their feet, leaving a foamy trail.
Blake slipped his arm around Melody as Jamie dunked a bucket of ocean over Ellie. The rush of water doused her curls. She let out squeals of joy and turned to splash him with her hands. Melody clapped, her laughter genuine and rich. A warmth flooded him as he realized how much his kids had grown. Both edged into adulthood. Where had the years gone?
~*~
The next morning, Ethel scratched her dog’s ears as he lay beside her on the bed. She fanned out the pictures and reports Blake and Mitch Hornsby gave her to review. She went over the timeline again and the discrepancy in the two officer’s accounts. True, Aaron had given his statement while still heavily sedated with pain meds. However, from the tape recording, his speech didn’t slur. He spoke cognitively and in complete sentences. His testimony proved valid in her mind. There had been three shots. One hit him, one penetrated the burglar in a lethal path, and one...? Where had it landed?
She called Janie. “Hey, I understand we’re not supposed to cross paths right now, but Aaron Jenkins swears there were three shots. You claimed you heard two, right?”
“There may have been two right together. Bam, bam. Almost simultaneously. I assumed it to be an echo. Why?”
“If a third shot fired, where’s the bullet?”
“You want to look for it?” Anticipation hung in her question.
Ethel smiled into the receiver. “You read my mind. Meet you in half an hour at Annie’s front lawn?”
“Is it still taped off as a crime scene?”
“When has that ever stopped us?”
Janie replied with a hearty laugh. “See ya there.”
The two arrived close to the same time and waved. The police tape no longer cordoned off the area, though residual pieces fluttered from a knot around a tree trunk. Janie rubbed her hands together. “Let’s recreate the scene.”
Ethel frowned. “Rats. We need a third person. I’ll call Mildred. She’s an early riser and only lives a few blocks away.”
“She’ll think you’re inviting her to go power walking.”
“We need to resume that anyway. Despite the Texas summer heat, it’s not so bad right now. Must be, what? In the low eighties?”
Janie f
anned herself. “With the same in humidity. I recall as kids we played in this stuff all day long and it never fazed us. Air conditioning has made us a nation of wimps.”
Mildred had been walking Poopsy and arrived in a few minutes. “OK. What do you need me to do?”
“Stand here.” Ethel led her by the elbow to the place Phil Edwards first told Les Holden to stop. “Janie, you be Holden and I’ll arrive on the scene as Aaron Jenkins.”
“Got it. How do you know where everyone stood?”
“It’s all in their reports. Pretty detailed. Except for one thing.”
Janie nodded. “A missing bullet. That’s what we need to find, Mildred.”
“Ah. How do we find out where it went?”
“Easy. Aaron says the perp shot twice. So, the first one must have missed. Which means he fired while upright, so it headed in...” Ethel raised her hand and pointed, “that direction.”
Janie followed Ethel’s finger. “Any idea how far it might travel?”
Ethel rubbed her chin. “I looked it up. A nine millimeter Glock has an excellent range of fifty yards. Then the bullet’s trajectory drops fairly dramatically.”
Mildred gawked. “Fifty yards? That’s half a football field. These homes are spaced only a few yards apart.”
Janie snapped her fingers. A sign a brilliant deduction had flashed across her brain. “Exactly. So, something stopped it. A tree, or brick siding. Or...” She hesitated as she scanned the area. “That mailbox over there.”
The three dashed in the direction Ethel determined must be the way the bullet traveled. Sure enough, a dent in the little red flag gave them a clue.
“It must have deflected off it and landed somewhere in the grass.”
“Or the street.”
They bent down like chickens pecking grain and slowly strutted as they ran their fingers through the green blades. Sweat beads appeared on Ethel’s back as the morning sun’s rays penetrated her t-shirt.
Mildred raised up, her hands pressed to her lower back. “This is no good.”
Janie squinted, pointed, and dashed over to a bush. One branch dangled at a weird angle. She lifted it and saw the greenish bark inside. A new break. Jammed halfway into the ground lay the bullet. She picked it up and held it up to the sun. “Bingo.”
Ethel and Mildred ran up to her and gazed at the metal object. Ethel whispered triumphantly. “The third bullet.”
The three senior citizens whooped and grabbed hands as they danced in a circle. A front door opened. A man clutched the folds of his robe. “What’s going on? Is this a rain dance? We sure need it.”
Janie wiped her brow. “Sorry, Bob. We thought Ethel had, um, lost something. But we found it.”
“Oh, OK.” He grunted as he stooped to pick up his morning paper, his hand to his sciatic nerve. He slowly straightened up with a grimace on his face and waved.
The trio returned his greeting and waited for him to go back inside.
When he closed the door, Janie spoke in a hushed tone. “I’ll take this to Chief Gates today.” She slipped it into her side pocket.
Ethel thrust her hands to her hips. “Oh, another date? For lunch?”
Mildred giggled.
“Oh, stuff it. I’m not Betsy Ann, and he’s not George. I’m simply assigned to report to him.”
“Uh, huh. Of course.”
Janie playfully stuck out her tongue and waltzed away.
THIRTY
Janie scooted around several lunch goers seated at the crowded bistro. Chief Gates waved and half rose from the table.
Janie extended her hand to shake his, but he bent and kissed it instead. Heat rushed to her cheeks. “Jonathan, please.”
He gave her a slight bow as he pulled out her chair. “Sorry. Still basking in the glow of the evening we spent together.”
Her eyes widened. “Hush. People will hear and think the wrong thing.” She smoothed her napkin over her lap as he returned to his seat, his eyes twinkling.
She sucked in a deep lungful of air. “Jonathan, I’m not sure this is right for me.”
He knitted his brow. “We can go someplace else. I thought you might like a lighter fare, not that you need to watch your figure.”
Janie narrowed her gaze. “Enough. No more flirting. It makes me nervous.”
Jonathan pouted. “I’m sorry. I must admit I’m rather rusty at this.”
She softened her face. “You’re acting like a hormonal teenage boy.”
He shrugged. “Last time I courted I guess. Marjorie was my sweetheart all the way through high school. We married when she turned eighteen. I never dated before, really.”
“Oh, that explains a lot.” She pressed her lips together. After a moment, she returned her focus to his eyes. “You must miss her horribly.”
He looked away. “We should order.” He waved the waiter over.
After they gave their orders, Janie pulled out a snack-sized plastic bag. “A present.”
He took it between his fingers, held it up, then frowned.
“It’s the third bullet from the crime scene. My guess is forensics will determine it also came from Holden’s gun. Which means Aaron’s testimony is accurate.”
“How in the world...?”
She gave him a wide, tight-lipped grin.
He shook his head. “You do amaze me, madam.” Then he blushed. “Oh, I called you the wrong thing. I wouldn’t want anyone to think that was your profession.”
Janie spewed half of her swallow of iced tea into her napkin as she laughed loud enough for the kitchen staff to hear. The bumbling man did possess a certain raw charm.
~*~
Betsy Ann squinted through the wet stragles on her forehead as her favorite hairdresser, Susie, clipped her bangs. A lively conversation between Josephine in the next chair and the new stylist named Jody caught her ear.
“People are so dumb to post on their pages they’re going on vacation. I mean, thieves can scan through those things, can’t they?” Jody removed another roller.
“Not sure. Wouldn’t they have to be their friends to see it?’
“Not if it’s posted to the public, Josephine.” She smacked her gum and untwisted another curler. “My sister’s next door neighbor got cleaned out. She’d posted she planned to be out of touch because her daughter invited her to come stay a while, and they lived out in the boonies with very poor reception. A week later this moving van shows up.”
“And no one wondered?”
“Well, seems the woman had recently been widowed. My sister and the other neighbors figured the daughter persuaded her to stay on.”
“Sorry, I need to use the restroom,” Betsy Ann whispered to Susie. She slipped out of the beauty salon chair and headed for the back, still draped in the vinyl cape. Closing the door to the facilities, she called Janie.
“Janie. Did the Baileys or Jane Stephens post on social media?”
“I think so. I know Jane does. She’s always snapping pictures of that cat of hers. Scrawny thing. Not half as gorgeous as Mrs. Fluffy but you don’t see me plastering her face all over the Internet.”
“Well, maybe that’s how the burglars discovered they wouldn’t be home.”
“Betsy Ann! Good for you. You may just be on to something. I’m going online to see if they did, and if Annie did as well. Bye.”
Betsy Ann felt her cheeks heat with pride. With her head held a bit higher she returned to her seat. “I feel bold, Susie. Let’s trim another half inch.”
~*~
Later that afternoon, Jonathan’s secretary called and asked Janie to hold for the chief. He came on the phone seconds later.
“Janie. Disturbing news. Ballistics ran the bullet through and it’s not a match to the one that penetrated Aaron Jenkins. So, Holden didn’t fire it.”
Janie felt her knees give way. She eased into her chair. “What? How could it not?”
He grunted. “Puzzling, right? I wouldn’t think too many of the citizens of Sunset Acres go around shootin
g pistols in their yards even though this is Texas.”
“Hmm. Any way to tell how long the bullet had been there? A week, a month, a year?”
“I’ll ask. Why?”
“Well, if it’s as recent as a week or so, then I’d run it through again. And, Jonathan, test it against a newly fired bullet from Phil’s gun.”
“Again...Why?” She heard him shuffle papers on his desk.
“Just a thought. What if the bullet that killed Les Holden wasn’t from your officer’s weapon after all?”
He scoffed. “Whose would it be from? Aaron Jenkins had no gun residue on his fingers. No other officer had arrived at the scene yet.”
“Not true, Jonathan. How about the stockier man in the black hoodie? You get it? The one who ran past my friends and I who later matched the description of the man face down in the river? He identified himself to Phil and us as a plain-clothed policeman.”
“Long shot, no pun intended.”
“Just check it, will you? For me, Jonathan?” She sugar-coated her plea and then made a face, regretting her stoop to using feminine wiles. “I’ll tell you my theory if it pans out.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, all right. Probably should’ve been done in the first place.”
“Thanks.”
“You think the two incidences are related, right?”
Janie ran her finger over the ribbing on her upholstery. “There may be another reason why the man in the river’s fingers were scraped other than to remove his fingerprints.”
She heard Jonathan’s chair respond as he must have sat forward. “To remove gun powder residue as well? Janie, I’m sorry I underestimated you.”
“Most people do. Females with facial wrinkles are rarely taken seriously.”
“I take you very seriously. Dinner tomorrow after church?”
Janie grinned into the phone. Smooth transition, guy. She dug her toe into the carpet. “Only if we go Dutch and you fill me in on the findings.”
Jonathan sighed. “You do play hard ball. I hope our conversation will be fuller than that. Plus, it is against my nature for a lady to pay for her own meal.”
“Jonathan, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I do it all the time. Even if a man isn’t around, I still have to eat, you know. I’m a modern woman who isn’t always tied to the stove by her apron strings.”
Threes, Sixes & Thieves Page 16