by Deanna King
She pulled away a hair, their lips just touching, and she opened her eyes, locking hers onto his. “Wow, can we do that again?” She muffled a laugh, as he took her lips again.
Kissing her, he felt like a sixteen-year-old boy. Jack hated to leave, but he had to. From her place, it would take him twenty minutes to get back to the station.
“Gretchen, I’ve had a fantastic night, but I have to meet my partner at the station at ten. The food was wonderful, the cobbler was delicious, and you’re a wonder of a woman.” He took her hands in his. “I hope to do this again, soon, very soon.” He pulled her in, taking her lips, and she responded.
“Lord, woman, it makes it hard to leave with kisses like that.”
“I’ve saved plenty of ‘em for you, Cowboy Cop. Now, go save the world, and I’ll see you soon.”
She watched him back up, and as he drove off, he waved to her. Gretchen felt like a fourteen-year-old girl, a bit giddy and fabulously happy.
Lucky was already in the parking garage, a scowl on his face and the works when Jack arrived.
“You ready to go clubbing, Luck?”
“Not my kinda club I’m sure, but let’s get going.”
. . .
The Crystal Barrel—what a nasty hole-in-the-wall dive. A large neon sign hung above the building and in large red letters Crystal Barrel flashed, and some of the bulbs were out. The letters were over a large barrel, which looked like a huge wooden keg. Outlined in tiny white lights, the keg sparkled, and it resembled crystals or diamonds, thus the name, Crystal Barrel.
“They should have called it the Old Crystal Keg. Can’t wait to see what this place looks like on the inside, what a dive, Jack.”
“Come on, I’ll buy you a glass of water.”
“Hey, you’re chipper again, you gonna tell me or what?”
“Nope, let’s just work, and you stop worrying about my chipper.”
Jack was in a super cheery mood. He felt that he and Gretchen had connected.
“Damnit, Jack, I love gossip, fill me in.”
“Nope. Let’s see what we can find out in here, ya with me, Luck?”
He was keeping Gretchen to himself, besides, he loved driving his partner bonkers.
Jack wasn’t talking, but he would one day. Right now, they needed to be detectives, not gossiping old hens.
The place was just as Lucky had feared—rundown, drab, and filthy. White linoleum flooring, now yellowed, scuffed up, and in some places, torn. Mismatched seating, and the stale smell of old cigarette smoke and beer filled the vents. The smell saturated the club. Lucky was sure that anywhere in the place he sniffed, from floor to the bottles on the shelf behind the bar, it would smell like smoke.
“Don’t want to have a drink here, Jack, not even water, this place reeks, and I am sure it is not sanitary,” Lucky whispered.
It was a Thursday night, not many customers. Those that were there looked tired and worn out. Regulars sat at one end of the bar grouped together—older barflies, men who reminisced about the old days and drank beer. A coupla’ road crew workers were at the pool tables. In the back corner, there were a few old women, worn looking, and rough around the edges. At a table in the middle, closer to the bar, a few bikers were drinking and laughing.
The bartender sauntered over; he wasn’t in any hurry.
“What can I get for you gents tonight…whiskey, beer?”
He was a hairy man in his mid to late fifties, stocky and gruff-sounding. The only place he was missing hair was right in the middle of his head. Lucky didn’t say it, but he thought the man should take some of the hair on his arms and neck and have it transplanted to his head.
“Naw, not drinking tonight, we’re looking for some information.” Jack laid his badge on the countertop for the man to see.
He stepped back, holding up his hands. “Look, I don’t want any trouble here, okay?”
The man stepped back up to the bar. “I gotta serve ya something, looks odd if I don’t, this crowd,”—he gestured toward the bikers—“can get a bit uneasy when Johnny Law comes in.”
“Sure, a short mug of beer then,” Lucky said and then he angled his head toward where the bikers sat. There were five bikers, and two of them. No sense in tempting fate. One small mug of beer would not hurt.
The hairy bartender drew them both a mug. He wiped off the bar, and then leaned on one elbow, eyeing the crowd, not looking at either detective.
“Whatdaya want to know?”
“Your name for a start.” Jack lifted his mug.
“Name’s Ralph Delvecchio, what else you wanna know?”
“Delvecchio, that’s an Italian name, huh?” Lucky picked up his mug of beer, raising it to his lips.
“So, what’da ‘bout it, you got sumtin against Italians, or what?” Ralph was easy to anger, and Jack saw his jaw tighten up.
“No, he doesn’t at all, neither do I. Matter of fact, Houston’s medical examiner is Italian, we love him to death.” Jack took another drink of his beer, watching the burly bartender.
The stocky man folded his arms. “Is that all ya needed to know cuz I need ta…”
Jack cut him off. “No, wanted to know who you are first, like to know the man’s name I am talking to. So, who owns this joint?”
“I do, me and a silent partner,” Ralph divulged.
“Who’s the silent partner?”
“Silent, that’s who, and they want to stay silent, it’s in our legal agreement.”
“You’ve owned this joint for a while then.”
“Yeah, thirty long years now.”
“Do you remember a guy named Skip? He used to bartend here.”
“I know lots of people, mighta been a Skip here, back in the day.” He was evasive.
“You recall a last name by any chance?” Jack wasn’t letting him off the hook.
“Hell, it’s been way too many years and way too many people that have come and gone, so no, I don’t remember. Youse guys have some more questions?” Delvecchio plopped the bar towel on top of the cracked countertop and wiped off a clean spot. Jack didn’t reply. He knew the man was lying through his teeth.
Delvecchio rubbed his chin with his stubby thumb and index finger. “I have to go to the back, gotta change out two kegs. Sumtin’ else you want an answer to, you can come back another night when I ain’t so busy.” He locked the cash register and disappeared to the back.
“He needs to change the kegs all right, this beer tastes like horse piss,” Lucky said as he pushed the near full mug toward the back of the bar top.
“I guess he is not charging us for the beer neither. He is lying, I know that. His body language said it all. Stiffened up when I asked him about Skip, he had that unmistakable dark angry look in his eyes.”
“I had a look in my eyes too, I was eyeballing the bikers out of the corner of my eye. It’s crazy. No matter what clothes we wear—suits, jeans, shorts, and a ball jersey—how do they always know that we are five-oh?” Lucky didn’t understand it.
“Maybe it’s our smell.”
“Jack, you’re a dumb shit,” Lucky said, but Jack cut him off.
“No, I think the smell you’re looking for is pig,” he hooted.
He deserved it…Dawson Luck flipped him off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Okay, last night we got zilch, what’s the plan today?” Dawson Luck was a grump.
“You know, I was thinking about going to evidence lockup.”
“What the hell for?”
“I want to go through the Mason evidence.” He saw th
e look on Lucky’s face. “I know, I know.”
“Jack, just what do you think you know?” Luck crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.
“That you think we’re just gonna spin our wheels looking because this stuff was processed twenty-five years ago, so what new stuff is there to find that wasn’t found then, right? But the fact is, Bullard and Simpson didn’t work the case back then. According to Simpson, they got money to cover it up, Jack. They stuck all the evidence in storage, leaving it there to rot, and no one was the wiser.”
“Damn, Jack, the entire department wasn’t on the take. Besides, you think they had someone on the payroll that worked in CSU doing their bidding too?” Dawson Luck couldn’t fathom that these people had at least one person in every department on their payroll back then.
“To be honest, I don’t know. You know how it goes, you get someone to do you a favor, turn a blind eye for me, here’s a hundred bucks…that kind of deal. Unfortunately, I think Layton Conch, the past M.E., was on the take too, but he died, can’t ask him.”
“Ain’t that funny, Jack, I mean, let’s tick off all these people that have died.”
“Sure, Lucky, tick away.”
“Dead people, let’s see—Scottie Buccella offs Roger Stockard and Archie Bowers. Ian Simpson admits to putting a hole in Scottie Buccella, and Pete Bullard offs his partner’s son, Randy Simpson. Pete Bullard dies of a heart attack. Troy Wolf allegedly killed the whore, JoAnn Cutter. The man who did her autopsy, Layton Conch, is dead and may have covered up evidence. Celeste Mason was declared dead, what, twenty some odd years ago, but might be alive. Not to mention that Ian Simpson is pretty much dead for the life he has now.”
“You’re not spouting out information I don’t already know. What’s your exact point here, Lucky?”
“Well, damnit, Jack. Ain’t very many living people in the mix, you know? I guess I don’t know. What I’m saying is that all leads are just that—dead or dead ends.“
Jack saw he was frustrated.
“Let’s just focus on the ones we know are alive, or assume are alive.”
“We can do that, don’t know how that will help us. We need some f’ing physical evidence, not a retold story, because that’s all it is, a freaky story.”
“Let’s just assume, mind you, that Wolff had something to do with the death of the prostitute. And we assume that Celeste Mason is not, in reality, dead, and it wasn’t her in that car.”
“I follow you so far, ain’t hard.” He was grumpy.
“Two things I’m thinking about, equal DNA.”
“Uh, Jack, that’s one thing, what’s the other?”
“It’s all DNA. Partner, we know DNA wasn’t tested back then like it is today. If they preserved the evidence, then Wolff’s DNA will be on something, and I think there will be no DNA for Celeste Mason on any of the evidence.”
“Jack, I read some of the reports in her murder book. It was her car, and the clothes were said to have been her clothes. The possibility of finding her DNA is pretty damn high I would think.”
“Lucky, she wasn’t in the room, so any sexual items, if there were any, won’t have her DNA, will they…like maybe on her panties?”
“Yup, I see your point there. Are we going to look for this Skip fella?”
“Oh yeah, we’re looking for him, he’s a major person of interest. We’re going fishing tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?” Lucky had date night with his beautiful wife tomorrow night.
Jack knew the look on his partner’s face, and as much as he could, he tried to suppress a grin. “Date night, huh?”
All Dawson Luck could do was nod with a sad look on his face, and Jack bust out laughing.
“It ain’t funny, Jackson West, this has been happening more often. We had to change it up the last time, and we have to keep changing it up, but she knows what I do for a living.”
“We aren’t leaving until late, you’ll have plenty of time for date night. By the way, don’t call me by my full name again, you sound like my mom used to sound when I was in trouble.”
“If I knew your middle name I would’ve used it,” Lucky sassed back.
“I ain’t telling and don’t go trying to be a detective about it either. Now let’s go look through old evidence.”
“Do you think we’ll find something?”
“One way to find out, wanna take a ride?”
. . .
“This place is pretty big.” Lucky eyed the building.
“Houston’s big. The growth of the city has increased the crime margins.” Jack opened the front door to the main office.
“Hiya, Jack, here to get old evidence?” An older man stood behind a wooden desk that had seen better years.
“Smitty, haven’t seen you in ages.” Jack stuck out his hand.
“I know, you fellas don’t come out here much since the new building’s in place, heard it was a humdinger too. I just see some of ya when you’re working a case that has gone cold and stayed that way for over twenty, is that why you’re here?” He eyed Lucky, wondering who this pup was.
“Smitty, this is my partner, Dawson Luck. Lucky, this is Smitty, he’s been with the HPD for, what is it now, thirty-five years?”
“Yep, been here all my life, or at least it feels like that. By the way, Jackson, I’m retiring at the end of the year, so’s won’t be here. Gonna go fishing, a long, well-deserved fishing trip.”
“If anyone deserves to retire and go off fishing, it’s you. Going to miss ya, sorry I don’t get this way too often, you know.”
“Yeppers, murder and mayhem never retires or we’d all be out of a job, ain’t that right, Jackson? Thar’s plenty of fresh’uns to solve, why ya out here?”
Jack explained briefly that they had been working a cold case and they needed the old evidence.
“Lemme warn you though, the people who are supposed to keep the place straight ain’t worth a plug nickel, and I am just one man, sorry about that in advance.”
They walked through several hallways and through a double door.
Lucky was laughing because Jack was telling a short Smitty story, but as he pushed open the double doors to the storage unit, his face fell.
“Holy shit, look at this place, doesn’t someone ever come in here and straighten up?” Lucky was meticulous about order. He might not do so well with things like people and diplomacy, but reports and order, he was numero uno. Smitty was right, the place was a mess, and very disorganized. “Gawd dang, Jack, it’s going to take us the rest of the afternoon in here.” Lucky was pissed off.
“Here, look for this case number.” Jack handed him a slip with the Mason case number on it. “We better get started, or we’ll be here until we have to head over to the club, and there goes date night for you.”
That was all it took. Lucky grabbed the file number and went to work trying to locate the boxes, and didn’t hear the end of Jack’s Smitty story and didn’t care. He started numerically, but that didn’t work, nothing was in order. Jack headed to the other side to work the other side of the aisle…it would hopefully go faster that way.
Over three hours later, both of them were dusty and grimy, but they found the boxes. Lucky had even straightened out some that were misplaced and misfiled on the shelves.
“Here, take these two boxes, I’ll take these two, go over there, there’s a long table we can use.”
“Is her car at impound, I mean, after all these years?” Lucky pulled on his latex gloves, and taking a small knife, he cut the red tape with the words “Evidence. Do Not Tamper” that sealed the boxes.
“The reports say it
’s there, we can check it out. Let’s dig through these boxes first, see what we come up with.”
“You think the car could have prints inside?”
“I’ve thought of that, was thinking about that when we were out in Waller. You know something else? We should run Max Renner through the system, can’t believe I haven’t done that yet.”
“I don’t profile that much, but by the looks of him, I’d say he’s had run-ins before.”
“Me too. When we get back to the station, let’s look him up, see what pops.”
Gloves on, Jack took his pocketknife out and cut the tape, sealing the evidence box in front of him. Inside the boxes, he found the paperwork from the glove box, items found in her car, an empty plastic cup, a street map of Houston, an umbrella, jumper cables, even the trash from the floorboards. The box wasn’t full, so he moved to the next one. This box contained her purse and the contents of her purse, bagged and tagged. Costume jewelry not listed and the shoes she must have been wearing. Picking up the items, he looked at each of them. Her wallet, compact makeup, a brush, her driver’s license and social security card, the cash that had been in her wallet, and a roll of condoms. The condoms had always niggled at him, and now he knew why…they didn’t belong to Celeste Mason, they were the property of a prostitute named JoAnn Cutter.
“Hey, here are her clothes in this box.” Lucky began lifting out each sealed and bagged item. “Damn good thing this ancient storage is climate controlled, you know, Jack, otherwise, this old shit would smell to high heaven.”
“Houston has tons of evidence. Even the new facility can’t hold all the stuff that is twenty to forty years old. I’m just glad it is all intact. So, what clothing do we have?”
“A blouse, a blazer, pants, a bra, and some scarves, but no underwear, Jack, that’s odd.” Lucky ticked the items off as he removed them from the box.
Jack’s head popped up. “Scarves, did you say scarves?”
