by Carolina Mac
DOG
THE BLACKMORE AGENCY: BOOK TEN.
Carolina Mac
Copyright © 2018 by Carolina Mac
DOG - 1st ed.
ISBN 978-1-988850-58-0
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To: My readers—the reason I get up in the morning.
Underestimate me. That’ll be fun.
―anonymous.
CHAPTER ONE
Monday, February 9th.
Coulter-Ross Ranch. La Grange.
THE DOG woke himself up with a groan of pain loud enough to echo off the walls of the room. The sheets were drenched with sweat, his hair hung in his eyes, and he’d never been so fuckin hot. Where the hell was he? He opened his eyes wide enough to see a narrow strip of his surroundings. Might be a hotel room but not one he could afford. Nothing this fancy in his budget.
So much pain filled up the space in his brain there was no room for a rational thought. Breathing was a chore. Even though he tried taking in only little gulps of air at a time, his body noticed and punished him. Every time he inhaled, his ribs made him sorry he had to breathe.
The door opened and as soon as he saw her gorgeous face, he let go the breath he was holding.
“I heard you on the monitor, sugar. Declan’s coming to give you your meds.” Annie sat down on the side of the bed and smoothed his sweat-soaked hair away from his face. “Did you have a bad night?”
“I’m okay,” he mumbled. The Dog didn’t need people helping him or fussing over him. Not even beautiful people—like Annie.
She reached over, picked up his water glass and put the straw in his mouth. “You’re hot, sweetheart. You might be running a temp.”
Declan, the Irish medic that lived on the ranch, came through the door with his bag of tricks in his hand. He flashed Dougie a smile. “Hey, lad, what mischief are you up to this morning?”
“Nothin I can’t handle on my own,” the Dog growled.
“Fantastic,” said Declan, “I’ll give myself the day off.”
A hint of a smile played around Dougie’s lips as Annie moved out of the way to let Declan examine Dougie’s wounded leg. Dec threw back the duvet, sat on the side of the bed and opened his bag.
“I’ll go make coffee and let you two fight it out,” said Annie.
Declan removed the bandages from the Dog’s bulked up right thigh and examined the stitches. A trauma hospital in Phoenix had done a stellar job of removing the bullet and patching up the big Dog.
“How’s it looking, Doc?”
“A little inflamed and too much pus for my liking,” said Declan. “Let’s clean the fucker up and start over.”
Dougie smiled as he lay flat on his back, unable to do one goddam thing. “Yeah, lets.”
The Blackmore Agency. Austin.
BLAINE let the dogs out for their early morning run. He had a quick smoke made even quicker by the chill of the gray day, then he hurried inside and brewed a pot of Panamanian blend in his newly renovated kitchen. The old Victorian was starting to feel like home to him now, and about time, he’d lived there for more than a year. The only thing missing was Annie. He’d never get used to living apart from her if he lived to be a hundred.
The place being so big and empty and having so many medium sized pokey rooms opening off the dingy back hallway, he’d moved the Blackmore Agency to the house and converted part of the main floor to office space. So far it was working well, and he didn’t have to get dressed and rush off anywhere first thing in the morning. Usually.
The previous day he’d put in a call to Davis Raney of the US Marshalls Service, but the man was busy and out of the office on a case. It had dragged on for so long, and he’d encountered so many setbacks, it felt like he’d never make any progress finding out what had happened to his parents.
Blaine couldn’t remember his parents. His first clear memory of his past came after the accident that claimed both their lives. He opened his eyes in Odessa, Texas, staring straight up at the underside of the bleachers in the fairgrounds. That was his first recollection, and nothing before no matter how hard he tried to remember details about his childhood. It seemed to him he was born when he was fourteen.
Carm sailed through the kitchen door as Blaine filled his mug and added a splash of cream. “You’re up early,” she said to him in Spanish. Carmelita Flores, a beautiful lady in her fifties with long black hair and expressive eyes, had owned the house before him and she continued to live there after he bought it from her. The two of them had a special relationship. Complicated, but a special bond between them all the same.
Blaine sat at the small antique table in the window alcove of the kitchen. His favorite spot in the whole house now that the back yard had been enlarged and landscaped—the perfect viewpoint.
He checked his phone for missed messages. One from Cat. No surprise. The new Governor, Catherine Campbell, depended on him a little too much. He read the message and while thinking about returning her call, the cell rang in his hand. He jumped as Farrell clumped through the kitchen door in his boxers and cowboy boots, his brother’s washboard abs reminding Blaine he’d been avoiding the home gym for too long.
“Scared of the phone now?”
“Fuck off,” said Blaine before he pressed ‘talk.’ “Yes, sir, I’m writing it down.” He waved frantically at Farrell to bring him a pen and paper from the desk in the corner.
Farrell plopped a yellow pad in front of Blaine and tossed a pen on the table.
Blaine scribbled, and Farrell couldn’t read it. “I’ve got it. We’ll be there shortly.”
Farrell took a sip from his mug and focused ice blue eyes on his foster brother. “Where will I be shortly?”
“The big blue barn. Some asshole killed Herman Fogarty.”
“Aw, shit. Why would somebody kill a nice old guy like that?” Farrell set his mug on the counter and stomped off to get dressed.
Blaine finished his coffee and stood up. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
Quantrall Ranch. Giddings.
JESSE carried Charity down the curved staircase, walked slowly towards the dining room a little out of breath, and strapped his baby girl into her high chair. “Want some Cheerios, little girl?”
“Sit down, Jesse,” said Ty. “I told you to call me when you were ready to come down. You shouldn’t be carrying her up and down the stairs. She weighs more than thirty pounds now.” He leaned down and tickled his niece and Charity squealed out her new word.
“Don’t.”
Tyler laughed. “What do you mean don’t? I’ll tickle you if I want to.” He tickled her more and made her squirm and scream.
By then, Jesse was back with a little plastic bowl of dry cereal. “Here you go.” He set the dish down in front of her. “
What do you say?”
Charity said nothing. Stuck her little hand in the bowl and stuffed cereal into her mouth.
“Same thing I’d say if you gave me dry cereal,” said Tyler.
Jesse gave Ty a hand signal and poured himself a coffee from the carafe on the sideboard. He added cream and sat down next to the baby.
Momma would have been so happy to have Charity in our lives. I miss her so much.
Glancing around the dining room everything remained the same as the day his mother had died. High wainscoting topped with a chair rail and the rough plastered wall above, hung with artifacts from her design shop. Tears burned behind his eyes thinking of all she was missing. Physically and emotionally, Jesse was a wreck.
“You okay?” asked Tyler. Of Jesse’s four brothers, he was closest to Tyler, emotionally and especially in looks. They were both tall, broad shouldered and dark-complexioned like their father.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Jesse. “Have to drive down to Coulter-Ross this morning and talk to a person Annie brought in from the cold.”
Ty screwed up his face. “What the hell does that mean? Is he a spy or something?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Jesse reached for the platter of sunny side up eggs Molly, the housekeeper, had placed in the center of the table. He flipped three eggs onto his plate along with a couple of sausages.
“You shouldn’t have mentioned it if you didn’t want to talk about it,” said Ty, as he pulled the basket of biscuits closer to him. “Now that you brought it up, I’d like to know what that means and who the guy is.”
“What guy?” Brian sat down at the head of the table, dressed in slacks and a pale blue dress shirt ready to leave for the clinic.
Jesse forked eggs into his mouth and said nothing.
“Annie brought a guy to the ranch and Jesse won’t tell me the details,” said Tyler.
“Maybe it’s classified.” Brian chuckled, not knowing he was verging on the truth.
“Maybe it is,” said Jesse. “I’ll take Charity with me and she can play with Jacks and Lucy while I’m doing my thing.”
Tyler pointed his fork at his brother and he wasn’t smiling. “What exactly is this thing you have to do?”
Jesse wiped his mouth with a napkin and got to his feet. “I better get going.”
“Think I’ll come with you,” said Ty. “I want to meet this new arrival and see what the hell is going on.”
“Why do you care?” asked Jesse.
“You know why,” mumbled Tyler.
“Suit yourself,” said Jesse. “I’m leaving in five.”
Fogarty’s Buy and Sell. East Austin.
BLAINE parked in front of the big blue barn with the Lone Star flag painted on the roof. Fogarty’s Buy and Sell Barn was an Austin landmark and home to the area’s largest flea market. He knew Mr. Fogarty personally, and wasn’t looking forward to seeing the old fellow lying dead on his own turf.
Austin Homicide was already on the scene along with the Medical Examiner, a crime scene unit and dozens of media vans.
Lieutenant Lopez, a short fiery Hispanic, met Blaine and Farrell at the door and he wasn’t smiling. “He’s upstairs in his office.”
“Shit,” said Blaine. He grabbed the handrail and started up the narrow stairs at the front of the barn, the chains on his Harley boots, clanking on every step.
The office was tiny and cluttered, Herman’s huge vintage oak rolltop and matching swivel chair taking up most of the space. Herman’s brand of pipe tobacco lingered on the air. Blaine had been in the office a couple of times talking to Herman and the space had been neat and orderly. It was torn apart now, stuff tossed off the shelves and pulled out of desk drawers—papers and receipts everywhere. The metal cash box had been jimmied open and was upside down on the desk—empty. No sign of a safe. Maybe he made a daily deposit and didn’t keep cash around.
Herman’s body was slumped in his chair, his head tipped forward onto his chest. Gravity had caused the blood to soak downward into the plaid shirt he always wore. One bullet hole at the back of his head. Small caliber. Up close and personal.
“Who found him?” asked Farrell.
“His helper, Bart,” said one of the techs. “He’s downstairs waiting to give his statement.”
“I’ll talk to him,” said Blaine. He descended the stairs and Lopez caught him by the elbow at the bottom. “You taking this one, Blacky?”
“Chief says so. It’ll be a huge media case. The barn and the flea market been around Austin for forty years.”
Lopez smiled, always happy to hand off a murder to the Blackmore Agency, a team that handled violent crime all across the state. “I’ll send you everything we have so far and good luck to you.”
“Thanks, Lopez. You always cheer me up.”
Big Bart Townsend sat slumped in a ripped green recliner near the snack bar. The confectionery wasn’t open, but Bart had helped himself to a Dr. Pepper from the cooler. A large man in his early fifties, Bart had two day’s stubble on his face and he was wearing the same clothes he always wore—Carhart overalls over a red plaid shirt and a ragged straw hat on his head. He stared straight ahead and didn’t risk a look at Blaine or Farrell.
“Bart, I’m sorry for your loss,” said Blaine.
“I’ll kill those fuckin kids with my bare hands,” he mumbled. He held up two meaty paws that could do the job quite easily.
“Did you see some kids?” Blaine squatted down in front of Bart and looked up at the big fellow.
“No, but I know it was them. The little bastards been buzzing around here for days, stealing whatever they could grab and running out the door with stuff, like it was a fuckin new game.”
“How many?”
“Sometimes four or five. Sometimes more.”
“Like a gang?”
Bart nodded. “I chased ‘em out so many times, but they kept coming back.”
“Anything on their shirts tell you the name of their gang?” asked Farrell.
Bart shook his head. “No, don’t think so. One kid had a red jacket and it looked like he painted letters on with a brush—a messy kid’s job.”
“What letters?” asked Farrell.
Bart shook his head. “Didn’t make any sense. Why would you ruin a jacket painting two big letter ‘E’s on it? Looked like shit.”
“East Enders,” said Farrell. “Heard they were growing their numbers. Operating out of a trailer park up route one eighty-three.”
Farrell’s network might come in handy.
“How old did they look to you, Bart?”
“A couple older ones in each bunch—maybe eighteen or twenty. Most looked like fifteen or sixteen—high school age—around there or a bit younger. Why would the older ones be hanging with young kids like that?”
“Training them,” said Farrell without hesitation. “Showing them how to steal and get away with it.”
“This place is always busy,” said Blaine. “Ideal spot for a training ground.”
“What are we gonna do now without the boss?” asked Bart, wringing his big hands together.
Blaine pulled the recorder out of his pocket and set it on the counter next to Bart’s chair. “Tell me about this morning, Bart. Start with when you came into the barn.”
Bart nodded. “Okay, I always come in early, have a coffee and clean up anything that looks messy from the day before. The people with the permanent rental stalls have to do their own housekeeping.”
Blaine nodded.
“I’m always here before the boss, so I was surprised when I looked up the stairs and the office door was open. The light was on too. I hollered up to him. ‘What the hell you doing here so early? Did hell freeze over?” Bart looked like he might cry. “Kind of a little joke, like that.”
“And he didn’t answer?” asked Blaine.
“He always hollers back at me,” said Bart, “and I stood at the bottom of the stairs for a couple minutes waiting for it. But nothing.”
“Yo
u went up?”
“I went up, and I hate those shitty stairs. I’m heavy and they kind of wobble under my weight. But, yeah, I went up and there he was sitting in his chair like always.” Bart dropped his head into his hands and let out a huge sigh.
“Do you know who Herman’s next of kin would be?” asked Blaine.
Bart inhaled a big breath and raised his head. “His son, Michael, I guess. I think the kid is a big shot in New York. Never found the time to come visit his Daddy.”
“I’ll find him,” said Blaine. “Thanks for your help, Bart.”
“You need a ride home?” Farrell asked Bart.
“Nah, I’ve got my truck out the back.” He got to his feet and pushed his hat back from his forehead. “You catch those little fuckers, Ranger B., and make sure they all get the needle, hear me?”
“I’ll make sure, Bart,” said Blaine.
OUTSIDE the parking lot was an entanglement of media vans. Reporters and cameramen milling about getting shots of the barn from all angles, there was even a news helo flying over probably taking shots of the flag on the roof for the news at noon.
“All this before ten in the fuckin morning?” asked Farrell. He was a bear without at least three coffees. He pointed past the media gridlock, “There’s our guys over there on the road.”
As soon as Blaine stepped past the yellow tape the uniforms had draped in a square at the barn entrance, media people mobbed him. He held up a hand. “There is nothing I can tell y’all yet. A crime has been committed. Next of kin has not been notified, and until that happens, there is nothing I can say. I’ll have Mary e-mail y’all something before noon.”
“Thanks, Ranger B,” said one of the more reasonable reporters. The rest ignored what he’d said and shouted questions at him until he reached the road and joined his crew.
“I’m going home to do research on Mr. Fogarty’s next of kin. I want Farrell and Fletch at DPS giving the Chief a preliminary report while Travis and Hammer spend time with the gang squad and get everything they can on the East Enders.” Blaine held up fingers. “Leader, club house location, any other gangs they hang with—any scrap you can grab on to. Come back to the Agency when y’all are done and we’ll have a planning meeting.”
