Cut and Run

by Allison Brennan

  “My brothers work with Sean.”

  “Security.”

  “Yeah. Runs in the family, I guess. I have a sister who’s a detective in San Diego, one of my brothers is a former cop married to an ADA, and my oldest brother is a forensic psychiatrist.”

  “And you’re the lone federal agent.”

  “Two of my sisters-in-law are agents, both SSAs, one at Quantico and one in Sacramento.”

  “You’re all spread out. I have a brother and sister, local. Four nieces and nephews—two each. My parents live five miles from my house. I’m never leaving, and I threatened my siblings that if they leave I’m arresting them.”

  “We’re close, but our careers have taken us in different directions.”

  Lucy was feeling homesick again. She didn’t know why—she loved San Antonio. And it wasn’t that she wanted to move back to San Diego or to DC … she just wanted to see her family more than she did.

  Like for Thanksgiving.

  * * *

  Sean immediately spotted Clemson alone in a booth in Russo’s bar. A small but classy restaurant was attached to the dark and intimate bar, which catered to couples or private business meetings. Sean sat at the bar where he could watch Clemson in the mirror.

  “What’s your poison?” the bartender asked.

  Sean glanced over to what they had on draft. He noted a decent selection of local microbrews represented and asked for Ranger Creek on tap.

  He put ten bucks on the bar and kept Clemson in sight. He was drinking whiskey and had already drained his first glass.

  A fortyish woman came in from the restaurant side of the bar. She was dressed impeccably in a classy cocktail dress, white with black trim, her dark-blond hair molded up around her head in one of those sleek, twisty styles that Sean marveled at.

  She walked right over to Clemson and sat down. She looked irritated. She said something. Sean couldn’t hear any of their conversation, and he wished Lucy were here, because she was much better at reading lips.

  He took out his phone, pretended to text, and took a couple pictures, shooting into the mirror. He didn’t use his flash and the images were on the dark side, but he could enhance them to get a good view of the woman.

  The woman did most of the talking. She didn’t smile, didn’t look like she wanted to be there at all. Less than a minute later she rose, said one thing to Clemson with her back turned to Sean, and returned to the restaurant half of the establishment without a look at anyone else in the bar.

  Clemson looked more worried now than he did when Sean came in.

  Sean said to the bartender, “Send that poor guy over there another drink, on me.” He put a twenty down on the bar. “Looks like his girlfriend just dumped him.”

  The bartender gave Sean a half grin, then brought the drink over to Clemson. A minute later, Clemson came over and sat next to Sean. “Thanks.”

  “You look like your dog died or your girl left. I know how both feel. Though I miss my dog more.”

  “Dogs don’t give you bullshit.”

  “Damn straight.” Sean tapped his mug against the whiskey glass. He wondered how many Clemson had before he got here.

  Sean could get people to talk in a variety of ways, but with a guy like Clemson, who might be involved in something illegal and definitely was acting suspicious, the best way was just to let him talk on his own and gently push him along when there was an opportunity.

  It took about two minutes. Sean drained his beer, said, “Thanks, buddy,” to the bartender, and got up to leave.

  “Have another with me,” Clemson said.

  Sean looked at his watch. “I guess I have a little time.” He sat back on the stool. “I’m Sean.”

  “Robert.”

  Clemson motioned for the bartender to get Sean a beer, but he was still nursing his whiskey.

  “Haven’t seen you here before.”

  “I’ve been here a few times. Usually at the restaurant with my ex,” Sean said. “Love their veal parm. Since we split a couple months back, I now sit in the bar, especially after a shitty day at work.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Computer programmer.” He always stuck with a job that he could easily bluff.

  “Smart guy.”

  Sean shrugged. “It pays the bills. You?”

  “I own Southern Supply. We provide tiles, bricks, trim, things like that, to builders. Primarily new homes, but we have a warehouse open to the public.”

  “Over off Guadalupe, right? Way out there, in the county?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I put in an apartment over my garage last year, picked up all the tile there. Got a good deal because of a manufacturing flaw or something—but once I got it in, I couldn’t tell.” While Sean had put a studio apartment above his garage, he’d hired someone to do it and had no idea where they got their supplies.

  “Remainders are great, really good deals for do-it-yourselfers.”

  Sean sipped his second beer. Clemson stared at himself in the mirror and sighed.

  “Was that hot blonde your ex? I wasn’t prying, I saw her reflection. A looker.”

  “God, no. What a ball-breaker. She’s my lawyer, trying to get me out of a prickly financial situation. Have you ever made a mistake—just a little mistake—and it snowballed into an avalanche?”

  “Once or twice,” Sean said.

  “And no matter what I do, the damn avalanche doesn’t stop.” He drained his whiskey. “I’d better go. The last thing I need is for her husband to see me.”

  Odd comment, Sean thought, for someone clearly not having an affair.

  “Thanks for the beer. Drive safe,” Sean said.

  “You too.”

  Sean waited for him to leave, then texted Lucy:

  He’s leaving. He met for less than three minutes with a woman, here’s the best pic I got. Said she’s his lawyer and he’s in a “prickly” financial situation. I’ll be out in a couple minutes.

  Sean didn’t want the second beer. He put a generous tip under the glass and got up, heading toward the entrance. The bar and restaurant were separated by a small waiting area. A long hall led to the restrooms and kitchen.

  At the same time, the blonde was walking toward him. But it wasn’t the blonde who caught Sean’s eye; it was the man walking behind her.

  Sean went quickly down the hall toward the restrooms and slipped inside. His heart was beating, but he didn’t think Harrison Monroe saw him. And he might not recognize Sean, though Sean couldn’t count on that. If he were a guy like Monroe, he would have done the research and known who was who.

  He just couldn’t take the chance.

  From the bathroom, he texted Lucy:

  Harrison Monroe is here with the lawyer. I think it’s his wife. Will confirm in a second.

  Sean searched for Faith Parker Monroe and there was little on her. But he did find a photo in a magazine where she was quoted about a case she had pursued against a corporation. He didn’t have time to read about the case, but the woman in the photo was clearly a younger version of the woman he saw in the bar.

  What was Robert Clemson doing with Faith Monroe as his lawyer? This was a hell of a big coincidence—and then not wanting to be seen by her husband? They didn’t act like lovers or ex-lovers. She had the attitude of someone who was in charge, and Clemson was worried. Concerned.

  “A prickly financial situation.”

  Sean waited three minutes, then left.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  THURSDAY NIGHT

  Jennifer drove Lucy back to her car. They had discussed the possible implications of what Sean observed, and Lucy asked her, “You talked to the woman Clemson had drinks with that night. What was she like?”

  “Smart, attractive, too young for the guy, but who am I to judge.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “I didn’t ask. But I have her name and address. Shall we go by?”

  It was after eight, but Lucy thought it might be important. “I
s it far?”

  “A condo on the River Walk.”

  “I’m ready.” Lucy texted Sean to give him the heads-up.

  “You sure? You look tired.”

  “I was up early to serve a warrant in Kerrville. It’s been a long day. But I’m good.”

  “I was ready to go home after my shift and binge watch Netflix, but this is more fun.”

  Max definitely had the wrong impression of Detective Reed, Lucy thought. She was a good cop, she liked her job, and she was willing to go above and beyond. Reed likely put up every barrier for reporters, Max included.

  “Did you suspect anyone else before Stanley Grant confessed?” Lucy asked her.

  “No. We looked at both her partners, Grant and Corta. But they didn’t click for me, and while Grant’s alibi was weak, he seemed to be sincere in his grief. But I’ve seen people kill and regret it—their grief is real, even if they have a streak of self-preservation. I looked heavier at Corta because ex and all, but his alibi was solid. I talked to the people up in Bandera, and there’s no way he could have gotten back in time to kill her. But the manner— She knew her killer. No defensive wounds, up close and personal like that.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “She didn’t have enemies that we could find—no restraining orders, no lawsuits against her or the company. And she hadn’t even dated much after her divorce. One ex-boyfriend we talked to—he didn’t click at all, he’d moved on, they hadn’t even dated that long. I wondered if she and her ex were still doing it, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “Sure. I’m blunt. I wanted to know. He said that they were still good friends and worked well together, but didn’t answer the question. Seemed almost embarrassed that I’d asked, which I thought was both hilarious and weird. But I got the impression he still loved her, so I was looking at him—maybe he wanted her back, she didn’t want to go back, he stabs her in a fit of jealousy, I don’t know. But it didn’t fit, and again, his alibi was solid.” Jennifer glanced at her as she pulled into a visitor parking spot outside a pricey condo off the River Walk. “What’s with this Harrison Monroe?”

  She explained what they knew about Harrison and his circle of friends, plus the illegal gambling accusation from college and the likelihood that he had a new operation locally. “Now three of the six are dead, and proving money laundering of ill-gotten gains has been difficult. Our white collar team is looking deep into Albright’s records, and as soon as I get them a thread they’ll look into Monroe as well. But I need that connection.” She hesitated, then added, “I should also tell you that Max is dating a federal agent—a white collar crime expert out of New York. She’s talked to him about it, though I haven’t. If I talk to him, I can’t keep it off the record, so to speak. I’ll have to go through channels or risk stepping all over my own office. And right now I have a good relationship with our White Collar Crimes unit.”

  “What do they say?”

  “They’re digging in, but it’s a long-tail investigation. Ryan told Max and Sean one thing, though, that they’re focused on—and that’s why I reached out to you. He talked about Al Capone, how hard it was to get him on murder and conspiracy, but easier to get him on tax evasion. We think the opposite is true with Monroe.”

  “Why would he kill her? If she’s part of his conspiracy, why knock her off?”

  “Max thinks it has something to do with Denise Albright’s body being found.”

  Reed laughed. “Yeah, I’ll tell that to the judge. Great motive.”

  “Hence, my dilemma. The Albright case is three years cold—but Victoria’s murder is fresh. It’s still open—even though you said you handed it to Vice.”

  “Technically, I handed the Stanley Grant homicide to Vice. Gambling, eh?”

  “That’s where Max leans. She talked to someone who was part of Monroe’s old network.”

  “And Grant was a gambling addict.”

  “That’s how Max started down that path, though everyone thought he was clean. And Grant told her he wasn’t gambling again.”

  “I’ve dealt with addicts before. My ex-boyfriend was an alcoholic. I couldn’t take it anymore—the on and off the wagon. And he was a mean drunk, so I cut him loose. I had to for my sanity. When he was on the wagon, he was the nicest guy on the planet. But he couldn’t stop. My grandpa? He knew he couldn’t handle his booze, never drank. Gambling is like alcohol. Some people can overcome their addiction and stay clean, others can’t. Grant may have been clean for a while, but if he was around the lifestyle staying clean might have been impossible. Just one bet. One more bet. Just another … yeah, slippery slope.”

  Jennifer got out of her truck. She looked at her phone, and said, “Randolph is in Three A, one of the luxury town houses. I sure can’t afford to live here.”

  They looked at a map of the complex, located Melissa Randolph’s unit, and walked to the correct building.

  They knocked. A moment later a woman came to the door.

  Jennifer said, “Is Melissa Randolph available?”

  “I’m sorry, she isn’t here.”

  Jennifer showed her badge and identified herself. “When will she be back?”

  “In a year or so.”

  “A year?”

  “She was transferred to Chicago. I’m leasing the place and taking care of her cats.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “In September—like around the fifteenth? Whatever the weekend around the fifteenth was.”

  Jennifer glanced at Lucy. Lucy knew she was thinking about the timeline. Melissa had been interviewed about Clemson two days after Victoria’s murder, and only days later she’s gone. Clearly, she hadn’t said anything to Jennifer about it.

  “Your name?”

  “Diane Resnick.”

  “Do you have some ID?”

  “Is this necessary?”

  “I expected Ms. Randolph to be here for follow-up questions as she’s a witness in a criminal case, but she’s not, so I need to make sure that you are who you say you are.”

  “Oh. Yeah. One sec.” She closed the door and a minute later came back with her ID and a copy of her lease agreement. Lucy scanned it. It was simple and straightforward. Lucy took a picture of the signatory page just to confirm Randolph’s signature if they needed to.

  “Where do you work?” Jennifer asked.

  “I’m a receptionist for a law firm.”

  “Which firm?”

  “Um, Hollinger, Corben, Fuetes, and Parker.”

  “And Ms. Randolph?”

  “Um, the same?”

  “Is that a question because you don’t know?”

  “She works for Hollinger, too, as a paralegal. Mr. Hollinger and Mr. Corben are based in Chicago. Mr. Fuetes and Ms. Parker are in San Antonio.”

  “Was this planned?” Jennifer asked. Lucy let her take charge because it was clear that Jennifer felt like she’d been played and if that was the case she would dig in.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “What I mean is, Ms. Randolph was a witness to a crime I am investigating. I talked to her, got her statement, and now need to clarify something in the statement. Yet she never told me she was leaving town.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I just work in the same firm. It’s a big company. She sent out an email asking if someone could lease her place for a year and watch her cats, and I’d just broken up with my boyfriend and was living with a friend on the couch and this place is amazing. And she’s not even charging me what it would be worth because I’m taking care of the place and stuff.”

  “Who’s her direct supervisor?”

  “Well, Mr. Hollinger.”

  “And before she left?”

  “Ms. Parker.

  “Faith Parker?” Lucy asked.

  “Yes. Do I need to call her?”

  “No,” Jennifer and Lucy said simultaneously.

  Jennifer said, “Thank you for your time.”

  Jennifer didn’
t say a word until they got back to her truck. “Well, fuck this,” she said. She picked up her phone and called someone. “Mike?… It’s Jen Reed. I need a meet first thing in the morning, and I’m bringing a fed with me. I have a juicy case and we need to bring in all the big guns.”

  “Who’s Mike?” Lucy asked when Jennifer hung up.

  “Michael Flores. Assistant district attorney. We go way back, he’ll listen to me. So be prepared, because I need to sell this and it’s not going to be easy. But fuck if I’m going to have some prick and lawyer lie to me and make me a fool.”

  “Jen?” Lucy said. “You are no fool.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Detective Garrett Douglas didn’t like the feds much, and he really didn’t like that hot bitch fed who cut him out of the loop. What did that say about their so-called community relations? Their wanting to work with all the other agencies? Just lies.

  Garrett was a good cop—he knew he was a good cop—but he was a small-town deputy. He’d just been going through hell three years ago, it wasn’t his fault.

  He’d asked Carl about the Albright case, and Carl told him what he’d told him three years ago. And Garrett had no reason not to believe him.

  Except … there was something bugging him. And he couldn’t figure out what it was.

  He went home Thursday evening, bringing all the Albright files with him. He’d looked at them on Monday, but he wanted to look at them again. To make sure that he or Carl hadn’t missed anything. Double-check.

  Because there was one thing that he was pretty sure about. The fed was right, and the Albrights had never left the country. They’d been murdered that Friday. All but the boy.

  Carl had said they must have left without him or the timeline was off and the Young family didn’t remember exactly when the kid left. Which was possible. But still, it would have been really close. Based on the timeline and the facts that they knew about when the girls left school, the family had about an hour from when they would have been home after school to when they’d have to leave to reach the border. And to leave a kid behind?

  He didn’t see it. Garrett’s daughter was the world to him. She was the bright spot when everything else was shit. If he was in trouble, he would do everything to protect her—and maybe that’s what the mother was doing. Protecting the kid because she knew that she was in danger.