Hole in the Heart

by Carolina Mac

  Joey laughed, and he laughed like a teenage girl—all high pitched and tittery. “Questions about what? We ain’t done nothing to concern the police.”

  “Questions need to be answered in connection with Benny Watson’s murder.” Farrell watched Joey carefully for a sign—any sign, and he didn’t pick one up.

  “Why? Is Benny dead?”

  “He is, and we’d like y’all to come to the office and answer some questions.”

  “Why should I? I never killed Benny.”

  “You provide an alibi and we’ll verify it and y’all will be on your way. Farrell tilted his head towards the door. Let’s go.”

  Joey seemed to be reaching under the parts counter for something.

  “Hands on the counter, Joey. Do it now. You don’t want to try to outdraw me.”

  The door opened behind Farrell and two deputies came into the office. “Everything okay, Ranger Donovan?”

  “Mr. Golden is having a hard time making up his mind to come talk to us.”

  One of the local lads knew Joey. “Come on Joey. It’s only questioning. Nothing to get your boxers in a rat over.”

  “Can I call our lawyer when I get there?” Joey asked.

  “Sure can,” said Farrell. “Or have him meet you there. It’s your right to have an attorney present.”

  Joey picked up his cell and gave in. “I’ll call him on the way.” He walked between the two deputies out to the squad car and got in the back seat.

  Farrell strode through the connecting door into the three bay garage to see how Luke and Travis were doing with Jeff and he heard raised voices. Jeff was arguing with them. One of the mechanics leaned on a Ford Focus and listened to the back and forth.

  Farrell hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Your brother is waiting for you in the squad car, Jeff. Let’s go get this done.”

  “I ain’t going.”

  “Joey is calling your lawyer and having him meet you at the Sheriff’s Office. Let’s go.”

  “Are you deaf? I said I ain’t going.”

  “You gonna let your brother do this all alone?” asked Travis.

  “Why not. He does a lot of other stuff alone.”

  “What stuff?” asked Farrell.

  “You’d like that wouldn’t y’all. Me ratting out my twin brother. Well, you asshole Rangers, that is never gonna happen. Not today and not ever.” He waved his arm then reached back onto the workbench, grabbed a huge adjustable wrench and waved it in the air. “Y’all get out of my garage. I’ve got work to finish before five o’clock.”

  Farrell pulled his SW from his harness and moved a step closer to Jeff. “Put the wrench down and walk towards the door with your hands on your head. I’m telling you this once, Jeff, and I’m warning you, you don’t want to mess with me.”

  Jeff laughed and waved the wrench in a circle over his head. “Don’t touch me. Nobody touches Jeff Golden. Come one step closer and I’ll bash your skull in with this wrench. Come on, asshole.”

  Bang.

  The wrench flew out of Jeff’s hand and smashed through the window behind the workbench. Glass flew, and Jeff screamed in pain. “You shot my arm you cowboy fucker. You shot my goddam arm.” He clutched his arm above the wrist and blood spurted out between his fingers.

  Farrell grinned. “Hey, did I say don’t mess with me?”

  The other mechanic nodded his head and got back to work.

  “Luke, go ask Sheriff Oxford if they’ve got medical at the shop or where I should take this asshole for a Band-Aid.” Farrell kept his gun trained on Jeff while Travis snapped a cuff on the uninjured wrist. “Now walk out the door and we’ll see about your arm.”

  The Blackmore Agency. Austin. Texas.

  MISTY was upstairs napping and Blaine was alone in the kitchen when Lil came back from her visit to Pablo Acosta. She tossed her purse on the table and slumped down into a chair.

  “I can see that didn’t go well,” said Blaine. “Tell me.”

  “He’s turning into a user, boss. Says he needs a couple months for physio and you should be paying him while he’s getting back into shape.”

  “He has a contract, Lil. He signed it and it’s fair, but there are terms. He doesn’t get that long. If he needs more time, its on his own nickel.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he stretched it out as long as he can then quits. That’s the feeling I’m getting from him.”

  “Funny, he didn’t seem like that when I hired him.”

  “I think it’s the Annie thing. The guy is drowning in self-pity. He’s in a depression with a broken heart or some bullshit like that.”

  Blaine chuckled. “A broken heart is bullshit?”

  Lil shrugged. “I think I’m tired of looking for the perfect person. From now on, just give me any old bum off the side of the road.”

  Blaine snorted and crossed the room to get her a glass of wine. “You and Rick are obviously not hitting it off right now. It will pass.”

  “It already passed, boss. The bus has left the terminal.”

  Blaine was still laughing as he handed Lil her wine and headed to the Sub-Zero to get a Corona for himself.

  Sonora. Texas.

  FARRELL sat in room two across from Joey Golden waiting for the Golden boys’ attorney to show up. Travis and Luke had taken Jeff to the medical clinic to have his arm attended to.

  Farrell turned the recorder on and set it on the corner of the table. “What did you do with Sylvie Dennison?”

  “Shut your mouth. You can’t ask me nothing until Ralph comes.”

  Farrell chuckled. “I can ask you anything I want. Did Benny see you do something to Sylvie and you had to blow his brains out?”

  “Shut up, I said. Stop saying shit like that.”

  “Why? Is it bothering you?”

  “You shouldn’t have shot my brother,” said Joey.

  “He had it coming.”

  “I don’t think so. He was only fooling around.”

  “How do you know? You were already in the squad.”

  “Because he’s always fooling around. He don’t mean anything by it. He’s a little slow.”

  Farrell nodded his blond head. “Oh, I get it. You’re the smart one.”

  “You could say that. Uh huh.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Farrell.

  The door opened and a short man in a well-tailored suit walked in and offered his hand to Farrell. “Ralph Hill.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir, I’m Ranger Farrell Donovan.”

  Mr. Hill sat at the end of the small table and opened his briefcase. He looked straight at Joey Golden and said, “Ranger Donovan will ask a question and before you answer, look at me and I’ll tell you which ones to answer.”

  Joey nodded. “I got it.”

  TRAVIS and Luke returned from the Sonora Medical Center with the wounded Jeff Golden, subdued slightly from the pain killers he’d been given, but still shouting out nasty threats and being as uncooperative as he could manage. With Jeff’s right arm bandaged and in a sling, Travis and Luke secured him to the table in room one by his non injured wrist.

  “Sit down, Jeff,” said Travis, “and while we’re waiting for your attorney to finish up with your brother let’s start with a few questions that are…”

  Jeff hollered at the top of his lungs and interrupted Travis. “I’m gonna have my lawyer sue your asses off.”

  “Think again,” said Travis. “You resisted arrest and threatened a Texas Ranger in front of at least three witnesses. I don’t think your lawsuit will get too far.”

  There was a tap on the door and Ralph Hill stepped into the room. “I heard what happened, Jeff. Are you okay?” Mr. Hill set his briefcase on the end of the table and pulled up a chair.

  Jeff yanked on the chain attaching him to the table and yelled at his attorney. “No, I’m not okay. I want to go home and lie down. How soon can you get me out of here?”

  “You’ve been charged, Jeff, so I can’t do anything until your arraignment i
n the morning. Then I can ask for bail and we’ll get you out of here.”

  “You mean I have to sleep in a cell?”

  “That’s what it means. I’m sorry.”

  Travis intervened. “Okay, Mr. Hill, I want to ask Jeff a few questions.”

  “Go ahead,” said Hill, “I’ll advise him which ones to answer.”

  “That’s fine.” Travis referred to the list of questions Luke had written while they waited at the clinic. “How long did Benny Watson work for Twin Auto?”

  “A couple of months.”

  “Why did you fire him?” asked Travis. “You said in the garage it was for a personality conflict. Who was he having trouble with?”

  “Me, Joey, the other mechanics. He didn’t get along with people. Period. And that wasn’t all. He started coming in late to work and a couple of times he was so hung over he couldn’t work. Me and Joey decided to let him go.”

  Travis nodded. “Fair enough. Sounds like you had grounds for dismissal. Where were you last Wednesday night?”

  “Wednesday night last week? How am I supposed to remember that?”

  “Think about it for a minute,” said Travis.

  “Why? What happened on Wednesday night?”

  “Sylvie Dennison went missing and your garage was the last place she was seen.”

  Attorney Hill held up his hand and Jeff answered anyway. “Like I told Ranger dickwad with the itchy trigger finger, we finished her Jeep and she didn’t come to pick it up. Me and Joey closed up and went home. I remember now, we watched a game with Daddy.”

  “Okay,” said Travis. “Did Benny Watson work on Sylvie Dennison’s Jeep?”

  “Can’t remember, but the workorder would say,” said Jeff. “Is that important?”

  Jeff is playing nice now. Too late.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  He looked at his attorney. “Did Joey go back to the shop?”

  Mr. Hill nodded. “Yes, he went back to work.”

  “Ralph, phone Joey and get him to make a copy of that work order. Maybe that will get these cops off my back.”

  “Sure, Jeff, I’ll take care of it.”

  Wish Jesse was here to crack this jerk. He’s lying out his ass.

  WITH THE INTERVIEWS over, the boys took time for lunch.

  Travis passed the copy of the work order to Farrell after he read it himself.

  “Doesn’t tell us much,” said Farrell. “Joey was the mechanic, but Benny could have brought the Jeep into the garage.”

  “Why didn’t the forensic techs find Joey’s prints in the Jeep?” asked Luke.

  “They could have,” said Farrell, “but the Golden twins aren’t in the system—Jeff is now, but he wasn’t a couple of days ago.”

  “Bingo,” said Travis. “You better call Sue.”

  “Jesus, I better.” Farrell jumped up from the table, stood in front of the restaurant and made the call. “Hi, Sue. Still missing me?”

  She giggled. “Of course, I am. Sadly you only call when you want something.”

  “The prints from Sylvie Dennison’s Jeep.”

  “Uh huh. One guy in the system if I recall.”

  “There was an incident this morning and we booked somebody else. Can you see if Jeff Golden matches any of the prints you lifted and where in the Jeep you found them?”

  “Sure, I’m working on something else right now, but I’ll do it as soon as I can. Call you back.”

  “Appreciate it, Sue.”

  “How much?” She giggled.

  Farrell returned to the table and the server had brought a round of drafts and taken their food order. “That’s done. Sue’s going to try to match Jeff.”

  “What else do we have?” asked Luke. “Anything from Benny’s room?”

  “Got that in my pocket,” said Farrell. “Let’s have a look.” He unfolded the report and smoothed it out on the table.

  “I guess they ran the room before Jeff’s prints were in the system,” said Luke. “We’ll have to ask Sonora techs for a recheck on that.”

  Farrell called and made the request while they waited for their food. “Might take a couple of hours,” he said.

  “The twins might have worn gloves,” said Travis.

  Luke finished his draft and set the glass down. “We need the gun.”

  “Damn right we need the gun,” said Travis. “Might be in the farmhouse—if I ever get in there to look.”

  Farrell pointed a finger across the table. “Arraignment tomorrow morning for one of his boys. Daddy might leave his farmhouse and come to town.”

  Travis grinned.

  Austin. Texas.

  CARLOS followed the Escalade through the city and west as far as Lady Bird Lake. The big black beast pulled into a parking area belonging to an upscale condo complex and all four of the occupants got out.

  Without looking to right or left, three of the men surrounded The General and began walking towards the wrought iron gate. Being taller than the others, the top of The General’s bald head stuck up just high enough.

  The Blackmore Agency. Austin. Texas.

  BLAINE AND MISTY were having lunch with Carm and Lily when Carlos and Fletch reported back to the Agency. The dogs barked and mobbed the boys in the foyer.

  “How did it go?” asked Blaine. “Where is the Aryan fucker holing up?”

  “Almost holing up out by LBL,” said Carlos, “but not quite.”

  Fletcher tossed the address on the table. “Sniper got him, boss. Three bodyguards weren’t worth fuck all.”

  “What?” The number one came up on Blaine’s screen. “Chief, you want me?”

  “Don’t want to touch this, son, but Mark Woodford called me personally. His client was murdered and he’s demanding a full investigation.”

  “The Mark Woodford who’s running for State’s Attorney?”

  “The very same. I can’t see him getting elected. He defends some pretty shady characters.”

  “Who was his client?” asked Blaine.

  “Johnathan Frobisher.”

  “Oh, fuck,” hollered Blaine.

  Lady Bird Lake Area. Austin.

  MEDIA VANS clogged Lake Austin Boulevard, parked willy-nilly on both sides of a busy road with ‘no parking’ signs posted every hundred feet. Blaine turned on the siren and the strobes and dared the fuckers to get in his way. If they did, he had no qualms about ramming into their stupid fucking vans with the antennas sticking up like antlers.

  “Get out of my fuckin way,” he hollered, and nobody heard him but the boys in the truck. They knew better than to laugh when the boss was pissed. The fuse was short.

  The big diesel mounted the curb like it wasn’t there and Blaine parked on the grassy median between two flower beds. Before he had the door of the truck open, reporters surged towards him with cameras rolling. “I’ll kill every one of them,” he mumbled. He opened the door of the truck, stood on the sidestep and hollered, “If you don’t let me get to the scene I’ll never have a goddam thing to tell you. Get the connection?”

  A couple of the female reporters stepped back and gave him a small patch of grass to step down on. “Stay away from my men and let them do their jobs.” He swung his arm in a circular motion and hollered, “All your vehicles will be ticketed and towed in the next fifteen minutes. I’m calling it in now.”

  Some turned to move their rides, but most didn’t believe him. He called it in as he made his way to the black wrought iron fence separating the parking lot from the inner courtyard. Carlos and Fletcher stood on either side of him and they all gazed down on big bald John Frobisher reclining on the flagstone walk with half his tattooed head missing.

  Doctor Mort Simon was making a preliminary examination and Tim, his assistant, was scribbling down words of wisdom in his little brown notebook.

  “Anything, Mort?”

  “Oh, good, you’re here, Blaine. The Chief was looking for you.”

  “Is he inside?”

  “The lawyer and a couple of… bodyguards are i
n the condo they rented for The General’s return to civilization.”

  “Just missed seeing his new digs,” said Blaine. “Got as far as the gate.” To Carlos: “Where were you guys parked when the shot was fired?”

  Mort turned and cast a glance at Blaine.

  “I had men on him,” Blaine whispered.

  Mort nodded and helped Tim roll the huge corpse into the body bag. “Zip him up, Timmy. We’re gonna need the cart to move the big fucker.”

  “We were on the street, boss,” said Carlos. “Watched the four men walk to the gate, then bam, the big guy dropped like a rock.”

  “Show me the angle.”

  Without stepping in the blood and brains, Carlos stood as Frobisher had been standing when the bullet hit him.

  Fletch stood back to back with Carlos and pointed. “Had to come from the roof of that run of condos next door.”

  That’s a tough angle. Not many snipers could make that shot.

  “I’ll go tell the Chief we’re here and you guys check out the roof access. I’ll catch up with you.”

  “Roger that, boss.”

  INSIDE the luxury lakeside condo Blaine could hear the Chief talking to a bunch of men and he didn’t sound happy. He found the tight little group in the kitchen sitting on stools at the granite island. The two bodyguards had swastikas tattooed on their necks and beers in front of them. Next to Chief Calhoun sat a tall man in a designer suit with a golfer’s tan and a leather briefcase—Mark Woodford, Frobisher’s lawyer.

  Blaine crossed the room, chains on his Harley boots clanking. “Chief, Mr. Woodford.” He nodded at the bodyguards who he figured already pegged him as Latino and were planning his demise.

  Woodford offered a hand. “Nice to meet you finally, Ranger Blackmore. The Chief assures me you’ll do a thorough job investigating this case.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Doesn’t matter what I do, these guys will take care of it on their own.

  Woodford introduced the bodyguards who didn’t look the slightest bit devastated by the loss of their illustrious leader. “Wayne Mason and Darryl Dorrell.”