Final Table

by Carolina Mac

  Blaine nodded. There would be cameras positioned inside so whoever was in the panic room could see the people who had invaded the loft. He pointed up, so Farrell would know to be clear of any cameras when he planted the tag.

  Farrell nodded and was gone, searching for the ideal spot.

  Angela’s Diner. Apache Springs.

  THE CRIME SCENE UNIT from Sierra County arrived at the diner and took the scene off Deputy Waters’ hands. As soon as he was satisfied he’d done his duty, he left and drove to the New Moon Motel to pick up Sheriff Dobson.

  Dobson grumbled as he got into the squad. “What the hell took you so long, Waters?”

  “The team just arrived ten minutes ago, sir. Couldn’t leave before that.”

  “No, I guess you couldn’t. Miss Moon ain’t taking this too well. Cried on my shoulder for a fuckin hour.”

  “Aw, too bad about Miss Angie, ain’t it? Who’s gonna cook our breakfast now?”

  “Won’t be her.”

  Waters drove up highway fifty-four for about half an hour and prattled on the entire time about his views on life and the TV shows he was particularly fond of. Sheriff Dobson closed his eyes and tried not to listen.

  “Is this the road we turn on, Sheriff?”

  Dobson opened his eyes and eyeballed the sideline to the right. “Don’t think so. Try the next one.”

  Waters stepped on the gas and drove another couple of miles. Highway fifty-four was nearly deserted. They passed a couple of pickup trucks and one semi. “This one?”

  “Uh huh. I think it’s this one.” Dobson pointed through the windshield. “I always remember it by the two tall pines standing side by side.”

  “Good one, Sheriff. Like a marker.”

  “Yep. Like that.”

  Waters turned the volume up on the radio and all he got was static. “No music stations out here.”

  “Watch where you’re going,” said the Sheriff. “Big snowbanks out here since our last trip.”

  “Pretty narrow trail to get through, Sheriff. Do you think we should go back?”

  “Go a bit farther. At least to the crossroads and see how it looks. We can turn around there if we have to. It’s wide enough.”

  “Okay, you’re the boss.”

  Another twenty minutes and they arrived at the crossroads. After they made the left turn heading for the Varmint’s camp there could be no turning back. No place wide enough to turn around and with all the snow, they’d be stuck for sure.

  Waters put the brakes on and sat in the middle of the intersection. “What do you think, Sheriff. Should we chance it?”

  “Sure, give it a shot. Won’t kill us.”

  Varmint Camp. Apache Mountains.

  ROBERTO stood at the gate smoking and taking a healthy swig out of his whiskey flask every few minutes to keep from freezing to death. His shift was almost over when a Sierra County Sheriff’s car pulled up to the gate.

  He smiled and stood beside the driver’s window. A dumb looking deputy grinned at him. “We need to ask the boss man some questions. Can you let us in?”

  “Sure can. Let me get the gate for y’all.”

  Roberto walked to the gate, stood with his back to the cops and texted Hondo.

  “Sheriff and Deputy coming your way.”

  “Got it. Let them come.”

  Roberto opened the gate wide and gave them a smile and a wave through.

  “HE SURE was nice and friendly, wasn’t he, Sheriff?”

  “Uh huh. Hope the rest are just as friendly.”

  “They weren’t that bad the last time we was here,” said Waters. “Felt sorry for them with no heat n’all. Why would they want to stay up here in the dead of winter anyways? Can’t figure it.”

  “Don’t care why they live here. Free country,” said the Sheriff. “Last trip up here was useless. Never found out nothing about Sheriff Newcombe.”

  “Maybe there was nothing to find out. Ever think of that?”

  “Of course, I thought of that. I’ve been trying to find Newcome for over two weeks now. I think I’ve thought about every possible scenario at least five times each.”

  “Yeah, guess you would,” said Waters as he steered along the narrow track towards the clubhouse. “Looks like they got lights working now.”

  “You can hear the generators,” said the Sheriff. “No electrical service up here. You’re on your own for utilities.”

  “Like camping,” said Waters, screwing up his face. “Don’t like camping much.”

  The Sheriff pointed. “Park by the clubhouse. Maybe they got some heat in there.”

  HONDO glanced up from his hand—jack, ten of clubs—when the Sheriff and Barney Fife came through the door. “Howdy, Sheriff, what can the Varmints do for law enforcement today?”

  “Any of you fellas at Angie’s Diner last night?”

  Hondo shook his head. “We had a meeting here, then an all-night poker tournament. No trips into town. Why?”

  “And I guess y’all would vouch for each other if push came to shove,” said the Sheriff. “Don’t know why I even bothered coming up here.”

  Hondo grinned. “Don’t know why you did either, Sheriff. Should stay where y’all belong.” He tilted his head towards Gage.

  Gage smiled as he left his seat at the poker table and sauntered towards the Sheriff, clenching and unclenching his fist. Four other club members fell in behind Gage ready to help out.

  Dobson held up a hand. “No need to get physical, boys. We only came to ask a couple questions because it’s our duty. We’re leaving now.”

  “Ain’t your duty, Dobson,” said Hondo. “We’re miles out of your fuckin county. Y’all are sticking your face where it don’t belong, and I can’t tolerate nosy people.”

  “We’re leaving,” said Waters. He turned and sprinted for the door, leaving the Sheriff to fend for himself.

  Parker jumped up from the table and tackled Waters. He caught him around the waist, knocked him to the floor and straddled the puny deputy. He pounded Waters in the face over and over until his knuckles were bloody.

  Waters moaned and struggled, but Parker outweighed him by fifty pounds and the deputy didn’t have much of a chance.

  “Tie him up,” hollered Hondo from his seat at the table. “Throw him in the bush.”

  “No,” hollered Waters, his voice garbled and nasal from his newly broken nose. “There’s bears out there.”

  “Damn right,” said Parker and hit him another couple of times to shut him up. “Shut up, Deputy, or I’ll knock every tooth out of your stupid fuckin head.”

  “Leave him alone,” hollered Dobson. “Y’all are under arrest.”

  Gage laughed in Dobson’s face. He took a stance while two of his lackeys grabbed Dobson’s arms and held him. Gage punched Dobson in the face, then gave him a hard right to the gut that doubled the Sheriff over. When Dobson groaned and bent forward, Gage kicked him under the chin with a filthy Harley boot and it was lights out for law enforcement. “Tie him up, hands and feet, and take them both a good piece into the bush and dump them.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tuesday, November 13th.

  Execuloft Complex. South Austin.

  JESSE and Travis were hunkered down in the surveillance unit parked in the visitors’ area behind Execuloft, the building where Danny Diaz made his home. So far, there hadn’t been much to listen to. Diaz might be still sleeping.

  “What time do you think rich murdering crooks get out of bed, boss?’ asked Travis.

  “No clue on that one, Trav. Hope to hell they don’t sleep past noon. I’ve got stuff to do.”

  Blackmore Agency. Austin.

  BLAINE finished his second coffee in his office waiting for Jesse and Travis to get something from their surveillance that the team could move on. This case had gone nowhere in a hurry. Sue had called from the lab to tell him that the big haul they’d got from Marko Balboa’s locker wasn’t the stuff they were looking for. Most of it Marko had picked up cheap at cou
ntry auctions and garage sales. Nothing matched the items stolen from the robberies in the hills.

  “Where the hell are they keeping the stolen stuff?” Blaine posed the question mostly to himself, but Misty came through the door and answered him.

  “I might be able to find it.”

  “How?”

  “Remember when you said the one lady lost her jewelry?”

  “Uh huh, right out of her bedroom closet while she was sleeping not ten feet away.”

  “I’m pretty good with jewelry. Maybe if you borrowed something else of hers I could work with it.”

  I’m desperate enough to try anything.

  “Let me call her.” Blaine found the number in his files and called. “Mrs. Brennan, this is Blaine Blackmore, I wonder if you have a few minutes this morning.”

  “Did you catch the robbers?”

  “Almost, but I’m also trying to find where they keep the stolen goods and you can help with that.”

  “I’d love to get my jewelry back,” she said, “Some of the older pieces were my mother’s.”

  “I need to borrow a piece that’s special to you. Do you have anything like that that wasn’t taken?”

  “The locket that Wade gave me for our tenth anniversary. I never take it off.”

  “That would be perfect. Could I borrow it?”

  “Umm… I’ve lost so much, I’m not eager to give it up. What are you going to do with it?”

  “I’m going to let my girlfriend hold it in her hand for a couple of minutes, that’s all.”

  Mrs. Brennan let out a little squeal. “Is she a psychic?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Oh, please, could she do it here? I’d love to watch her.”

  “This isn’t normal procedure and I’d like to keep it just between the three of us,” said Blaine.

  “I can keep a secret,” said Mrs. Brennan. “How soon can you come over?”

  “Half an hour?”

  Brennan Residence. West Lake Hills.

  BLAINE reached over and touched Misty’s hand as they drove into the hills. “Are you okay, sweetheart, doing this away from home?”

  “It might even be better being in her space when I’m trying to find her belongings. Try and see, I guess. Maybe nothing will happen.”

  Mrs. Brennan, was all smiles when she opened the door. “Please come in. I’m so excited this is happening. I’ve always had a strong leaning towards the occult.”

  Misty smiled and stepped into the front foyer. Blaine introduced her. “This is Misty Mulligan, Mrs. Brennan.”

  “What beautiful hair you have, dear. It shimmers. Your aura must be breathtaking.”

  “I hope it is.”

  “Let me take your coats. What brutal weather we’ve been having. Nothing like it in my memory.”

  She showed them into the sitting room where a fire crackled in the hearth. “I made coffee, would you like a cup?”

  Misty nodded and settled into a wing chair near the fireplace while Mrs. Brennan was out of the room. She returned with a tray of coffee and a plate of coconut squares.

  “I’ll have coffee after I concentrate,” said Misty. “It’s better if I don’t cloud my senses.”

  “Oh, so true,” said Mrs. Brennan. “I never thought of that.”

  I know so little about this.

  Mrs. Brennan reached behind her neck and undid the locket. “Here you go. I hope you have success.”

  “Thank you.” Misty held the locket in her hand.

  “Do you want the curtains closed, sweetheart?” asked Blaine.

  “I’m fine.” She closed her eyes and sat perfectly still with her right hand closed tight around the locket.

  Mrs. Brennan eased down onto the sofa and stared. She looked like she might speak, and Blaine held up a finger to caution her. She nodded and stayed silent.

  Misty let out one of the long low groans that Blaine had become accustomed to when Misty did her thing.

  Mrs. Brennan jumped and clamped her hand over her mouth.

  With her eyes still closed, the voice Blaine called the ‘psychic voice’ came out of Misty’s mouth. “The dogs are barking. They want to go home. Grandmother is the keeper of the gold. She owns the bidding numbers.”

  The room was silent until Misty opened her eyes. “Hi, did I say anything useful?”

  “You were marvelous, dear.” Mrs. Brennan was beaming. “I could feel a shiver all the way down to my toes.”

  Misty gave her back the locket and took a cup of coffee from the tray.

  “Eat something,” said Blaine. “You always feel faint when you’re finished.”

  Misty took a bite out of a coconut square. “Mmm… these are delicious.”

  Blaine read over what he’d written in his notebook and had no clue what it meant.

  Do the Diaz boys have a Grandmother?

  Blackmore Agency. Austin.

  BLAINE sent Misty upstairs to lie down when they returned home from the Brennan’s. Whenever she had a psychic experience, whether intentional or unwanted, it left her completely drained.

  He closed his office door and researched the two Diaz brothers to see if he could connect to a grandmother.

  Mist didn’t say much.

  He read his notes again. Dogs are barking. What does that mean? Keeper of the gold. Does the grandmother control the family money? What are the bidding numbers?

  After a few minutes of digging he found a grandmother on the paternal side. Father of the two boys, a man named Ramone Diaz, had died of a heart attack a few years earlier, but he had a mother still living. Maria Diaz lived south, down in East Riverside. She also owned an auction house in downtown Austin. Triple-D Auction House.

  “Bingo,” said Blaine.

  Bidding numbers.

  Blaine talked it out as he uncovered the information. “The grandsons steal the stuff using inside information from the girlfriends who are installers. The grandmother liquidates the higher end items through the auction house. Perfect setup. All I have to do is link the Diaz family to the robberies and the murders with solid, irrefutable evidence.”

  He pushed back in his leather chair and smiled. “How the hell am I gonna do that?”

  He hollered for Farrell.

  Austin-Bergstrom Airport.

  ANNIE and Jackson sat in the arrival’s lounge waiting for Santana to come through the gate. Jackson had been upset since Jesse’s visit. He and Lucy missed Charity every single day and it was breaking Annie’s heart. What could she do?

  “I want Jesse to move back to our ranch and bring back my baby sister,” said Jackson. He wiped at his eyes in a brave effort not to shed a tear.

  “There’s nothing I want more than that, sweetheart, but Jesse thinks Charity should be raised on the Quantrall ranch. It’s her heritage.”

  “I don’t know what that is, Mommy.”

  Before Annie could explain it, Santana was standing in front of them, looking handsome, tanned and strong, and wearing only jeans and a t-shirt. Annie stood up and he hugged her. “I missed you.”

  Annie tried to smile. “We had a terrible cold snap while you were gone and it’s not warm yet.” She pointed at his bare tattooed arms. “Do you have a jacket?”

  “It’s in my bag if I need it. I’ll be okay.”

  Jackson fell asleep as soon as they hit the highway and Annie took advantage of the moment to tell Santana about the tracker on his bike.

  “The boys in your garage found a tag on my ride?”

  “Not at first. Mack never looked for it until after four Varmints came into the garage staring hard at your Harley and asking where you were.”

  “Jesus, girl, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? They came to kill you, Santana.”

  He smiled. “Luckily, I was out of the country. They probably hung around for a while then went back to camp.”

  “I guess so,” said Annie.

  A couple of them didn’t go back.

  Santana sat quietly for a while, smoking and
thinking, then he turned and gazed across the console at Annie. “I’ll have to go back to the camp and straighten things out.”

  Straighten things out?

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Santana shook his head. “Bad idea. I can’t allow that to happen.”

  Ross Harley Davidson. East Austin.

  AFTER hearing about the tag on his ride, Santana insisted on stopping to pick up his bike on the way home from the airport.

  Annie leaned on the workbench while Santana listened to Mack tell him about the problem with his bike and how it had been rectified. Then they discussed the Varmints showing up and the finding of the tag.

  Jackson was asleep in the truck, and she was tired too. All she wanted to do was get home and sleep but waited thinking Santana would load the bike into the back of the truck.

  After the bike talk finally wound down, Santana said, “Go on ahead, Annie. I’ll ride the bike and be right behind you.”

  It was shaping up to be a long night.

  Maria Diaz’s Residence. East Riverside. Austin.

  GRANDMOTHER DIAZ lived in an old Victorian in south east Austin. A large, three-storey money pit similar to Blaine’s own relic. Hers resembled his before renovations—peeling paint, missing roof shingles, crumbling foundation and cracked driveway. No carriage house and a much smaller piece of property.

  “Want to knock on the door, bro?” asked Farrell, “and see what happens?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to see what her residence looked like and get a feel for it to see if we were on the right track.”

  “Misty has never been on the wrong track,” asked Farrell, “has she?”

  Blaine shook his head. “Nope. Never.”

  “Maybe we should visit the auction house too, and scope it out before we make our move.”

  “Yeah, let’s do that.”

  As they rounded the corner heading for I-35 Farrell gave a shout out. “There it is, bro, the dog pound. Barking dogs that want to go home.”

  “Jesus, Farrell. How does she do that?”