It’s still hot outside. I start the car, and on my way down the driveway, crunching along that yellow gravel, I see a state trooper rolling slowly down the road past the iron gate. I turn his way and come up behind him. He’s going about half the speed limit in a black-and-white Dodge Charger with red and blue flashers on top. License plate says 8-TA. I wonder if he’s an old Cowboys fan. Troy Aikman—TA—wore number eight. I pass him and he follows me for a while, no lights or sirens. After a few minutes, he disappears.
I have Franklin Dorsett’s address in the GPS. He lives about ten minutes from here, in a neighborhood where the houses are only two or three times normal size. That must be where the regular millionaires live.
Dorsett’s house looks good from the outside. In front is an acre of dark-green lawn, manicured bushes, and neatly mulched beds. No cars in the driveway. The stone porch has flowers in giant urns on either side. A lawn jockey holds a lantern beside the front door.
I ring the bell a few times but get no answer. Through the front windows I see an empty hallway. I go around the corner and look in, but that side of the house is in the late-afternoon shade, and I can’t see much. Around back, where the sun is still shining, I can see into the kitchen. There are crumpled paper towels all over the counter, Chinese food containers lying on their sides, and Lone Star beer cans scattered around the sink. If the guy’s so rich, why’s he drinking beer out of cans?
There’s not much to see here, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone around. I go back to the car and head out along the freshly paved asphalt driveway.
My phone rings just as I’m turning onto the street. It’s Miriam, and she launches right into a fight without so much as a hello.
“What did you tell Lenny?”
“Excuse me?”
“You told him a lion was coming to his birthday party?” She’s outraged. “A lion? And a panda? In our house? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He wanted the animals to come to his birthday,” I say. “That’s why we went to the zoo. To invite them.”
“OK, first of all, we’re taking him to Chuck E. Cheese’s—”
“He said the party was going to be at home—”
“I’m talking,” she says. “OK? Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking. The party is going to be at Chuck E. Cheese’s, with people, not lions. Three friends and their moms.”
I can hear Lenny crying in the background. Miriam says, “Lenny, go back to your room, sweetie. Mommy’s talking.”
“Why’s he crying?” I ask. “Did you tell him he can’t have the animals over?”
“Freddy!” I hate that exasperated what-is-wrong-with-you sigh.
“Look,” I say, “I went to four toy stores to find a stuffed elephant, a gorilla, a panda, a lion, and a cheetah. I told him they were all coming. We even made a seating chart. His heart’s set on it.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“Didn’t Lenny explain it?”
“He’s four,” she says. “He doesn’t explain things. What am I supposed to think when he tells me half the zoo is coming to his birthday party?”
“OK, well now you know.”
“You need to be clear about these things, Freddy. How was I supposed to know you did all that?”
“Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“Why didn’t I talk to you?” she says. “Oh my God, you’re the one who never talks.”
“I’m talking now,” I say.
“You’re yelling!”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are!” she says.
“Why do you have to contradict everything I say?”
“Why are you yelling at me?”
“I’m not yelling, goddammit!”
“Listen to yourself!” she screams.
“OK,” I say, taking it down a notch. “You want to know why I don’t talk to you? This is why. Every time I say something, you contradict me.”
“No I don’t.”
The red-and-blue flashers come on behind me. It’s Troy Aikman again. I didn’t see him sneak up on me, but it looks like he wants to have a talk.
“Hey, Miriam. I gotta go. I got some trouble here.”
“Freddy, you—”
I hang up before she finishes her sentence. We’ll pick up this argument next time, just like we always do. The divorce has just been a continuation of the marriage, only now it takes place on the phone. Every time I start wondering if there’s a way to divorce yourself from a divorce, I remember the wedding vows. Till death do you part.
I pull over, and the trooper walks up beside the car. He looks nothing like Troy Aikman. He’s short and stocky, around fifty years old, with black hair shaved close beneath the sides of his cowboy hat. He wears reflective, wrap-around sunglasses, and his scalp shines with sweat. He tells me the registration decal on my license plate expired a few days ago, on September thirty-first. I want to tell him September only has thirty days, but he doesn’t look like the kind who’s interested in trivia.
I tell him the car is a rental. He says he doesn’t care. If the registration’s expired, it can’t be on the road. He takes my license and goes to his cruiser to run a check. A few minutes later, he comes back and asks if I’m a cop. I tell him I’m not.
“Step out of the car, Mr. Ferguson.” He tells me to stand behind his car, and he pops my trunk, pulls my suitcase out, and opens it up. It’s one of those little black deals that has wheels and fits in the overhead bin on the plane.
He goes through all my clothes, dropping each piece on the ground after he examines it. Then he tells me to pick it all up and repack it. I know when a cop’s looking for an excuse to make my day a whole lot worse, so I don’t protest.
He says, “You know it’s a crime to carry a concealed weapon in Texas without a permit?”
“I’m not carrying.”
“I didn’t ask you if you were carrying.”
Fucking prick. Then why’d you open your mouth?
“I asked if you know the law,” he says.
“Yes, officer, I know the law.”
“You down here on business?”
“Yes.”
“What business?”
“Investigation for a corporate client.”
“Where’s your gun?”
“I’m not licensed to carry in the state of Texas.”
“Smart ass.” He puts his boot up on the bumper of the Malibu. “You leave the force in bad standing?”
“What?”
“A retired cop can carry a gun, long as he leaves in good standing. It’s the law.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“And you never were?”
“Never was,” I say.
“Not a Fed?”
“No, sir.”
He looks at me a little differently now. Kind of nods and tries again to size me up. “What were you doing at Sheldon Brown’s house?”
“Talking to a girl.”
He lets out a long, wheezing laugh that almost doubles him over and makes his face and neck flush a deep crimson. It takes him a few seconds to collect himself. Then he wipes the sweat from his brow and says, “Talking, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I hope you had yourself a nice little talk. What were you doing at this house here?”
“Dorsett’s house?”
“I was wondering if you knew his name.”
“Seeing if anyone was home.”
“Any luck?”
“No sir.” I see a tow truck coming down the road. I think he’s serious about not letting me drive with expired tags.
He says, “If your corporate client needs help, tell them they can talk to us. Texas Highway Patrol is always happy to help.”
Yeah, you seem pretty happy to be helping me.
The tow truck pulls in ahead of my Malibu and starts backing up.
“When you leaving?” the cop asks.
“Call an Uber. You’ll make the airport in plenty of time.”
As I reach for my phone, the tow truck driver hauls a pair of chains off the back of the truck and says to the cop, “Hey, Tommy!”
“Hey, Bill. Take her to the impound lot.”
I have both phones in my front right pocket: my personal Android and the little burner flip phone. As I pull the Android out to call an Uber, the flip phone falls to the ground. The cop looks down at it, then up at the phone in my hand, then back to the one on the ground. I want to grab it, but I don’t want to set him off.
He sees I’m uneasy. He squats down and picks up the flip phone and says, “You need two, huh?”
I don’t respond.
“That was a question, son. A simple affirmative would do.”
I say with a sigh, “Yes, sir. I need two.”
He hits a button on the phone and says, “You only have one number in the contact list? Must be someone special, huh? You mind if I give ’em a call?”
I picture Anna answering a call from this guy, mister warmth and good cheer. What if he tells her he’s a cop? She’s terrified of being taken into custody, because in her mind, it’ll lead right back to Lomax.
I start to tense up, ready for a fight.
He says, “That’s a mighty big fist you got there, son. I wouldn’t go swinging it.” Then he adds, “You know what kind of problems we have to deal with out here? We get these guys running drugs. They send a car up ahead to call back and give reports on where the cops are. Now you don’t look like the type to be mixed up in that kinda thing, but I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t make sure.”
The more pissed off I get, the more he seems to like his job.
“I’m going to give your friend a call here—”
“Please don’t.” What if he hears the fear in her voice and understands there’s something wrong? What if he decides to send someone by to check on her? I can just see the cop at her front door. Something wrong, ma’am? You look scared. What’s with all the newspapers about that plane crash? May I see some ID?
Would it come out that she had a seat on that flight and didn’t board? Would she plead with him not to turn her over to the FBI? How would that come off?
“What’s the matter, son? You look mighty uneasy all of a sudden. You don’t want someone on the other end of that phone to know you’re in custody?”
She’s on the edge, and so am I. Give her a nudge in the wrong direction, and she might shoot herself.
“I’m not in custody,” I say. “This is a traffic stop. Gimme that phone, you redneck bastard!”
He chuckles and shakes his head and says, “Now that is no way to talk to a lawman.”
“Give me the goddamn phone.”
“Wrong tone, buddy. That sounds like a threat.” He’s all business now.
Fast as lightning, he grabs my right hand, gives it a twist, and spins me around. I drop the smart phone, and he’s got me up against the hood of the cruiser. He pushes my head down, kicks my feet apart, and puts one of my wrists in the cuffs. I let him cuff the other one without resistance.
I spend the next ten minutes in the back of his car. He cuts the engine and the air conditioning and stands outside chatting with the tow-truck driver. When the cop returns, I watch the little white Malibu being dragged nose-up down the road, like a fish on a line. My suitcase is still in the trunk.
The cop says, “Whooo-wee! It’s hot in here! Don’t know how you stand it without the AC.”
He starts the engine, picks up the radio, and tells the dispatcher he’s bringing me in for processing.
We’re still sitting there on the side of the road when he takes the flip phone from his pocket and says, “Let’s see who we got on the other end of the line here.”
“Hey,” I say in the most reasonable tone I can muster. “I’d appreciate it if you left her alone.”
“Her, huh?” He turns with a knowing smile. “Got yourself a lady-friend on the side? That one you were talking to at Sheldon Brown’s ain’t enough for you?” He lets out a laugh and says, “You do a lot of talking, huh? You got some kinda stamina, dontcha pal?”
He hits the button to dial the number, I hear a little click over the hum of the air conditioning, and then her voice comes through the speaker.
“Hello?”
“To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking this fine afternoon?”
“Who is this?” she asks in an uncertain voice.
“Who is this?” asks the cop. “That’s the question.” When he turns to look at me, his holster makes a creaking sound against the fake leather seat. He gives me a smile and says to Anna, “You know I got a little magic phone here with just one number in it, and I’m wondering what makes you so special you can’t be on the regular phone.” He lets out his wheezy laugh as he turns and faces forward again.
Her voice goes a full octave higher, and I can hear her heart in her throat. “Oh my God, who is this?”
“Look, lady, you’re friend here ain’t too bright. Whatever he’s trying to hide between you two, he already blew it. You want to stay out of trouble, I suggest you move on. Find yourself a fella that’s got his shit together.” Then he hangs up the phone and eyes me in the rearview.
As we pull away from the roadside, he tosses the phone onto the seat beside him and says, “I noticed you don’t wear a ring. You take it off when you travel?”
“I’m not married.”
“Then why you gotta go sneaking around with the ladies?”
I say, “Hey, what’s it mean, shit rolls uphill?”
“Come again?” he says.
“Shit rolls uphill. Is that a Texas expression?”
He laughs his wheezy laugh and says, “You got it backwards, son. Shit rolls downhill in Texas.” He slows for a left turn, which he makes through a yellow light changing to red. No turn signal. Fucking cops.
I say, “I thought I heard Sheldon Brown say that once.”
The cop’s eyes move from the road back up to the rearview mirror. He gives me a long, hard stare and says, “That don’t sound like the kind of thing Sheldon Brown shoulda been saying to anybody. You know what I think, pal? I think you got better places to be than Texas.”
25
After a long drive, he hauls me into a station with half a dozen highway cruisers parked out front. Inside, he cuffs me to a bench in the main office and leaves me sitting for a long time. My friend Troy Aikman, or whatever his name is, lets me know his shift ended thirty minutes ago, and he’s processing my disorderly conduct on his own personal time, as a service to the community. I ask him what I did that was disorderly, and he tells me now would be a good time to shut up, seeing as our previous conversations didn’t go so well.
I’ve been listening to the cops’ chatter and watching the guys they’ve been bringing through here in cuffs. There’s been one drunk, one reckless driver, and five drug arrests. One was for possession, four for possession with intent to distribute. The one they busted for possession was all bent out of shape about his money and whether he was going to get it back. It sounded like the cops relieved him of a lot of cash.
Every cop coming into this place and every one going out stops to say hello to Aikman. The only exception is the barrel-chested Latino cop with the long, skinny legs. While Aikman stands at a counter making small talk with the female officer on the other side, the Latino cop silently fills out paperwork. They’re standing five feet apart, but they don’t acknowledge each other.
The female cop asks Aikman which guy was picked up coming out of Franklin Dorsett’s place. Aikman turns and points to me. The Latino cop turns and gives me a thorough looking over.
The female cop says, “He says he’s an investigator?”
“That’s the story,” Aikman says.
“He show you a PI license?”
“Nope.”
“We’ll
get him on the transport.” She pushes a paper across the counter for him to sign. He signs it, says he’ll see her tomorrow, and walks away. Doesn’t say a word to the Latino, but on his way out of the building it’s goodbyes all around.
The Latino cop stays at the counter with his back to me, flipping though papers on a clipboard and occasionally checking his phone. A female cop opens a door over on the far left side of the room and says, “Bring ’em on.”
A burly cop unlocks me from the bench, then he and his buddy march me toward the open door.
The Latino cop turns and says, “That one goes to 3A.”
The cop on my right repeats, “3A.”
They take me twenty feet down the hall, through a door on the left, and leave me cuffed to a chair in a small room with a desk and an overhead camera.
A few minutes later, the Latino cop comes in with a cup of coffee. He introduces himself as Lieutenant Alfonso Jiménez, then he goes behind the desk, puts his coffee down, stands up on the chair, and pastes a sticky note over the lens of the camera. He fiddles with something else up there while he’s at it. The microphone, I think.
He pulls a pen from his shirt pocket, takes a seat behind the desk, and gives me a long look and says, “So you’re an investigator?”
“That’s right.”
“Who you working for?”
“We’ve been through this already.”
“I wasn’t part of that conversation,” he says. “So let’s go through it again. Who are you working for?”
“The airline.”
“Which airline?”
“The one that crashed.”
He nods and says, “The plane Sheldon Brown was on. You were at his house?”
“I was.”
“Part of your investigation?” He watches my face closely.
“You could say that. I might be off on a tangent here. I don’t know yet.”
“You find anything interesting?”
“Just a girl. You guys always get this many narcotics busts through here?”
This guy has a stare that takes in everything. “That’s an interesting question,” he says. “You work for the airline directly, or someone else?”
“Right now a guy named Ed Hartwell.” I lean toward him and pursue the line of questioning he interrupted. “Because, you know, what’s odd is that Highway Patrol doesn’t usually pick up a lot of drug dealers. The dealers are on the city streets, not the interstates.”
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