Texas Target

by Barb Han

  Getting a strong lead with no real break was frustrating. Dawson had been involved in enough investigations over the years to know not every case was solved. As sad and frustrating as it was, there were times when the trail went so cold there was nothing left to follow.

  And yet, he couldn’t let himself think they wouldn’t find the truth. Besides, they had a secret weapon. They had Colton and Gert back in Katy Gulch. Once Gert latched on to a case, her nickname quickly became Pit Bull.

  The name responsible for Cheryl’s and Autumn’s murders were not in that file. Dawson was almost one hundred percent positive, which didn’t mean he wouldn’t retrace Detective Libby’s tracks. He had every intention of interviewing Jasper Holden, Drake Yarnelle and Sean Menendez. Dawson never knew when a seemingly insignificant piece of evidence or interview might blow the case wide-open.

  When he glanced over at Summer and realized she’d cleaned her plate and was studying the paper that contained their notes like it was the night before a final exam, he knew it was time to go. Her finger tapped double time on the wood table, a sign her stress levels were hitting the roof again.

  The waiter stopped by the table and asked if they needed anything else.

  “Just the bill,” Dawson said, noticing how much the good-looking waiter kept staring at Summer.

  She was beautiful, and he’d noticed most men checked her out when she walked into a room. Not exactly easy to keep her on the down low. Dawson tried to convince himself that was the reason their stares burned him up and not because a piece of him—a growing piece at that—wanted them to stake a claim on each other.

  The waiter disappeared, returning a minute later with the bill. Dawson always carried cash. He never knew when he would need it on the road or in a small town, so he’d learned to keep a small stash with him at all times. This was one of the times he was grateful for the habit because he was ready to get her back to the hotel and out of plain view.

  He wrapped his arm around her as they headed out the door, again noticing how right she felt in his arms. Again, ignoring the part of him that wanted this to be permanent.

  It was dark outside and would be easier to move around at night without risking her. Most of the time, his witnesses were moved under the cover of night. Of course, it all depended on where he was going. Night in a big city still bustled with activity and no one really paid much attention to each other after a quick, primal is-this-person-a-threat-to-my-safety check.

  Clean-cut couples barely hit the radar. That was always a good thing in Dawson’s line of work and generally the goal. Colton had been in touch with Detective Liddy to let her know about the connection to Autumn and what they were now investigating. Dawson had to follow the right channels.

  “I want to make a pit stop before heading back to the hotel.” He’d scratched down Drake Yarnell’s address on the notepad.

  “Oh, yeah?” Summer’s face lit up and he wondered if she realized how much danger she was in, still in, despite being with a US marshal.

  “Yarnell lives in downtown, on the southwest side of Austin. I’d like to swing by his last known address. Detective Libby wrote down that he’d taken over the family home once his mother passed away five years ago. I’m thinking it’s a safe bet he still lives there if the house is paid for. Holden and Menendez could be more mobile, especially Holden.” They already knew one was a college student and the other worked at the apartment complex where Cheryl lived. A few years after the fact, he might’ve moved on. It was a safe bet he would stay in the same line of work but that didn’t mean he would be at the same place of employment.

  She nodded quietly and he wondered what was going through her mind. It took him a second to register that she would be wondering if she was about to come face-to-face with her sister’s killer.

  He walked her to the passenger side of the truck, and opened the door. Not because he didn’t think she was capable of doing it for herself, but it was part of that cowboy code that required putting others first. It was a tradition well rooted in a Texan and one he hoped would never die.

  Aside from being ingrained in him, it was protection for Summer. The less she was visible, the better.

  He ignored the fact that he liked being in constant physical contact with her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The southeast area of Austin’s downtown was a row of bungalow-style houses in various states of disrepair. Rentals to university students—the kind who used lawn furniture inside the house and might have a keg on tap at all times but no food in the fridge—ensured the area was prone to crime.

  As always, there were a few residents who’d decided to stick it out and whose social security checks or pensions weren’t enough to cover new sod when needed or paint.

  It was an interesting mix on Fourth. There was a steady wail of sirens in the background and, despite being what most might consider a rough area, an almost constant stream of foot traffic regardless of the late hour.

  He pulled the truck up to the house across the street from Yarnell’s place and pointed. “His is that one.”

  The porch light wasn’t much more than a bulb hanging from a wire, and it kept blinking. Not exactly a good sign for stable electricity. He reminded himself to ask Yarnell to step outside. Getting fried by electrical current wasn’t high on his list of favorite things.

  Lights were on inside the house. Didn’t necessarily mean Yarnell himself was home but someone had to be. One of the lights in the front window turned off. Proof someone was moving around.

  The front door opened, and a big burly guy stepped out.

  “Wait here,” Dawson requested as he hopped out of the driver’s seat. The person’s back was to him. The guy wore a black leather jacket with a massive orange logo covering the entire back. It explained the motorcycle parked in the front yard and they already knew Yarnell was a biker from Cheryl’s case file.

  Dawson crossed the street and made it to the metal fencing with overgrown scrub brush winding through the slats.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  Motorcycle Guy turned his head to one side but didn’t look at Dawson. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I’m looking for Drake Yarnell.” This guy fit the physical description of five feet eleven with a stocky build. His arms were covered by the jacket so Dawson couldn’t tell if there were tattoos. But then, tattoos in Austin were commonplace so they didn’t exactly stand out necessarily as an identifier. According to the files, Yarnell had a snake winding up his left arm, the tail of which stopped at the middle finger on his left hand. Now that was distinctive.

  Dawson’s question got the guy’s attention. He slowly turned, looking ready for a fight. Dawson noticed his right hand fisted around his key. There was no reason to poke the bear.

  “You found him.”

  Yarnell had grown a beard and mustache since the photos of him were taken two years ago. He looked like he’d aged more than two years but hard living could do that and, based on the condition of his home, it looked like he was doing just that. There were empty beer cans littering the yard. Dawson wasn’t sure he wanted to know what else was.

  “I’m a friend of Detective Libby’s. My name is US Marshal Dawson O’Connor.” He pulled out his wallet and produced his badge.

  Yarnell’s dull blue eyes widened. His skin was sun-worn, his hair a little too long, and it looked like he’d just gotten off tour with a heavy metal band with a red bandana keeping his hair out of his eyes.

  “I told the detective I wasn’t involved then and nothing’s changed, man.” Yarnell put his hands in the air, palms out, in the universal sign of surrender. “But I hate that Cheryl’s gone and hate the bastard that killed her.”

  “Good. Because I’m here in the hopes you can help us find him and lock him away forever.”

  “I’d like to help out but I’m late for work. You know how it is.” If Yarnel
l was waiting for Dawson to ask him to schedule an appointment and give another statement he had another think coming.

  “All I need is a couple minutes of your time,” Dawson said.

  Yarnell glanced at his watch before glaring at Dawson. “I’ll do it for Cheryl. But, damn, I thought this whole thing would go away by now.”

  There was a weariness in Yarnell’s voice that said he’d been put through the ringer. He’d been the prime suspect for a while according to the file. His shoulders deflated and it looked like the wind was knocked out of him.

  “Not until her killer is behind bars,” Dawson said, matching Yarnell’s intensity.

  “Fair enough.” Yarnell relaxed his hand by his side. “What do you want to ask me that can’t be found in my statement or in the files?”

  “There’s been another murder.” Dawson figured coming out with the truth was the best way to gain Yarnell’s cooperation.

  “Who?” Yarnell asked.

  “Autumn Grayson. Do you know her?”

  Yarnell shook his head. His response was instant, which made Dawson believe the man was telling the truth.

  “Do you think I did it?”

  “No. But, to be honest, I would’ve interviewed you, too. Possibly more than once. Because Cheryl deserves justice and in talking to you, I might have found a clue.” Using her first name would bring this conversation onto a personal level. It was personal, too. Any time a life was taken, it was personal for Dawson.

  Yarnell’s gaze traveled over Dawson like he was sizing him up for a fight.

  “Good,” he finally said. “Because she didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

  “How did you first hear about the murder?” Dawson asked.

  “When four cops showed up at my house with a battering ram,” he stated matter-of-factly. “No one seemed to care that we’d been broken up for a while. I’d thought she was cheating on me and I said some things I shouldn’t have. An older couple used to live next door and they were always calling the law on me. I guess my shouting at her gave them ammunition.”

  Dawson already knew Yarnell didn’t retaliate against the neighbors. No additional reports had been filed against him despite the fact he’d been watched like a hawk.

  “I’m a day late and a dollar short but I care about your history with Cheryl. When the two of you broke up, did you have any proof she was seeing someone else?”

  “Nah, just a suspicion. She started acting weird. Secretive. She would disappear for a morning and get offended if I asked where she’d gone.” He tucked his hands in his pockets. “Hell, I was just curious at first but after a while I started to think something was up. She would tell me she had to work an extra shift at the hospital where she checked patients in and then I’d show up to surprise her with dinner but her coworkers said she wasn’t on the schedule. She got real upset about me going to her job.”

  “Did you stop?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “I’m not going to lie. I waited out in the parking lot for her a few times with my lights off. I got caught by the night guard once and he threatened to turn me in if I did it again.”

  “Was that the end of it?”

  Yarnell shrugged. “I’m not proud of the fact now but I used to drink and I waited for her more than once across the street from the hospital. She always parked in the south lot. I’d cruise through with a friend to see if her car was there.”

  “Was it?”

  “Sometimes. Others not so much. She would make up some lame excuse about having to leave early. I guess she got tired of all the questions and moved out.”

  “She lived with you here?”

  “For a few months. She didn’t have enough saved up for her own place. She needed first and last month’s rent, which was pretty steep. So, she stayed here and cooked instead of pitching in for rent. My roommates weren’t crazy about it at first but they got over it. It’s my house.”

  Dawson nodded. The report never said she’d lived with Yarnell. The detective must not have thought the fact was important. He couldn’t say he would agree with the assessment and it also indicated a sloppier investigation than he would’ve liked to see.

  “Over the course of your relationship, were you ever physically violent with Cheryl? While you were drinking?” He added that last part after catching the look of disappointment in Yarnell’s eyes. He seemed like the kind of guy who’d partied a little too hard and became something he wasn’t proud of. The report said he couldn’t hold down a job and Dawson wondered if the drinking was a big part of that.

  “I left marks on her arms a couple of times from grabbing her too hard. If you’re asking if I roughed her up, the answer is no. She did come home with bruises sometimes. It got worse after she moved out. Suddenly, she had enough money to pay the deposit on her apartment. I stayed over once or twice and there was cash in her nightstand—”

  Again, Yarnell put his hands in the surrender position.

  “Hey, I was just looking for a condom. I wasn’t rooting through her stuff like some crazed stalker.”

  “When was the last time you saw Cheryl?”

  “Alive or dead?” He was goading now, understandably angry at having to dredge up what must’ve been a painful past.

  Dawson didn’t respond. There were times when it was a good idea to shut someone down and remind them to be respectful and there were times when the law had chewed someone up and spit them out on the other side. Yarnell would pull it together if given a minute to regain his composure. His stress level was through the roof and he looked like he was about to blow. He needed a release valve. In this case, a few minutes to blow out a sharp breath and reset was all it took.

  He covered his mouth with his hand, a move someone did right before they were about to lie. In this case, though, he seemed like he didn’t want to say the words he had to say next.

  “I saw dead pictures of her. The detective, the blonde...what was her name again?”

  “Libby.”

  “Right.” He blew out another breath and looked up to the stars. “The Big Dipper.”

  “Excuse me? I’m not following.”

  “It was Cheryl’s favorite. She pointed it out every time we went outside at night. She would stop in the middle of the street and search for it.” He hung his head. “I can’t count the number of times I had to pull her out of the road before she got hit by a car.”

  Dawson had seen this before in investigations. The person interviewed needed to remember something good about the deceased. The memories just bubbled up and it was like they had to come out. Remembering was a good thing. It connected Yarnell to Cheryl’s memory. It would rekindle his anger that her life had been cut short.

  “I can’t say that I remember anymore. Whatever I said in the report is right. It had been months since I’d seen or heard from Cheryl, but I lost track of how many.” He glanced down at an empty beer can with a deep longing. Like he needed one of those but couldn’t because of work.

  “The report says she called you a week before her murder. The call lasted forty seconds,” Dawson pointed out.

  “My girl answered when she saw my ex’s name. She said a few choice words and Cheryl never tried to call back. Detective Libby brought that up a lot before. She swore I was lying but it’s the truth. I never spoke to Cheryl before...” His voice broke on that last word and he turned his face away before clearing his throat and regaining his stiff composure. “I never got a chance to say goodbye.”

  Drake Yarnell’s suffering could be seen in his weary eyes. “What if she was calling for help or to get back together. If she’d come back to me, I could’ve taken care of her.”

  It was easy to see Yarnell cared for Cheryl and that he’d been racked with guilt ever since her death.

  Dawson brought his hand up to Yarnell’s shoulder in a show of comfort. “You didn’t know what was about to happ
en. There’s no way to go back and undo the past. Try to make peace with it if you can.”

  “I appreciate that, bro.” Yarnell seemed genuine and his honesty touched Dawson. One of the bright spots in his job was being the one to help someone see a tragedy wasn’t their fault or helping a family find answers or justice.

  He was frustrated that he hadn’t been able to do that for Summer, or for Autumn for that matter.

  “If you ever need to talk.” Dawson pulled a business card out of his wallet. “I’m around.”

  Yarnell looked Dawson in the eye like he couldn’t believe his ears.

  “That’s cool, bro. Uh, thanks.”

  What was the point of his job if he couldn’t help people? He was usually picking up some lowlife with a felony warrant who’d evaded law enforcement and was considered dangerous. Yarnell had made mistakes in his past and Dawson would never condone being physical with the opposite sex.

  He did, however, believe in second chances if any person was serious about cleaning up his or her act.

  “I’m serious. Use it.”

  “I will.” Yarnell took the offering. Those dull blue eyes held a momentary spark of hope—hope that he might get some relief from the hell he’d been living in since the dark day Cheryl was murdered.

  This was the hell of investigations. A suspect who was innocent. The toll it took on a person’s life.

  “I’ll let you get to work on time.”

  Yarnell nodded and tucked the business card in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. As Dawson left the yard, he accidentally stepped on a beer can, crushing it with his boot. He kicked the can aside before making his way back to Summer.

  “He’s innocent. There’s nothing more to get out of him,” Dawson said as he reclaimed his seat. He’d left the keys in the ignition in case Summer had needed to make a quick getaway.

  “I’m wondering if the coffee shop is still open. Maybe we could stop by there and ask around for Holden.”