by Carolina Mac
“She’s hot for you.”
“Shut up.” Farrell gave Blaine a hand signal and jerked open the driver’s door.
Blaine chuckled as he climbed in the truck.
Endicott Farm. Lexington.
AFTER searching for Max Endicott’s next of kin, Blaine discovered the dentist’s mother was living and she owned a farm south of Lexington.
Farrell drove in the laneway, weeds three feet high on each side of the dirt two-track. “Are you sure she still lives here?”
“This is the mailing address for her social security checks.”
“Look at the goddam house,” said Farrell. “There’s a tarp on the roof and chunks of plywood over the fuckin windows. Nobody could live in there.”
“Let’s knock on the door and see.”
Still grumbling, Farrell parked his truck and shut off the engine.
As soon as they stepped out of the truck, three dogs ran at them out of nowhere, barking and snarling.
“Pitbulls,” hollered Farrell. “We won’t make it to the fuckin door.”
The screen door opened with a loud screech of hinges begging for oil, and a large woman, with long gray hair hanging over her face stumbled onto the porch with a shotgun pointed in their direction. She wore a purple dress with a filthy white apron over it and knee-high rubber boots.
“Git off my land,” she yelled out in a high whine. “Ten seconds is all ya got.”
“Police, Mrs. Endicott,” hollered Blaine holding his credentials high in the air. “Need to talk to you about your son.”
“Don’t got a son.” She raised the barrel. “Now git.”
The dogs circled around them, growling and salivating and Farrell encouraged them to back off, but to no avail. “Wish I had some biscuits, but they’re in the truck.”
Blaine took a step closer to the porch and the growling turned up a notch. He decided to stay where he was and shout out the bad news from there. “Max was in a fire, Mrs. Endicott. He’s dead.”
“Boy was dead a long time ago, copper. No news to me. That bitch Renee kill him? Fucking gold-digger. All she ever wanted was my money and my farm.”
Farrell glanced around at the falling down house and the blackened barn and raised a brow.
“You think Renee might have killed your son?”
“Course I do and so would you if you had a lick of sense under that long black hair. Now you get your ass going.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Blaine, “call off your dogs.”
The old girl whistled once, and the dogs ran up onto the porch and laid down at her feet.
Blaine gave a wave and jumped into the truck.
“Jeeze,” said Farrell, “that was interesting.”
Tansy Court Apartments. Downtown Austin.
TRAVIS took the elevator up to the sixth floor, waited until the corridor was deserted then used his handy-dandy lock tool. He was inside Lovell’s apartment in thirty seconds looking for the perfect place to hide a tag.
He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and after the bug was perfectly placed, he glanced around like the boss wanted him to do. Rifling through drawers and checking any scrap of paper for a clue and putting everything back exactly the way it was. He came across a small black book of addresses and searched for something to copy the pages on.
In the second bedroom Lovell had set up as an office, Travis found a printer with copying capabilities. He copied all four pages listing the names and numbers of the murdered girls. Taking the book would have been simpler, but he didn’t want to trash the DA’s case right from the get-go.
He left Lovell’s apartment the way he found it, locked the door behind him and sat in his truck in visitor’s parking to call Blacky. “Hey, boss. Tag is in place and I copied some pages of his address book. All four of them are in there.”
“Fuckin Aces,” hollered Blaine, “Nice job, Trav.”
“Thanks, boss. Doing his ride next behind the building.”
“Old Jeep Wrangler,” said Blaine. “Army green.”
“Yep, I’ve got the tag number.”
Moffatt Home. Round Rock.
BILL Moffatt answered the door of the two-storey house in Round Rock where Renee Endicott had grown up. On a street of similar homes, the Moffatt residence showed pride of ownership, red brick with black shutters, a neatly trimmed lawn and flower beds bursting with fall blooms.
A husky man in his late fifties, he was a few pounds overweight, but appeared tanned and healthy. He was dressed casually in jeans and a blue Cowboy’s t-shirt. Behind him in the hallway was a lot of toddler activity and kid noise.
“Who is it, Bill?” called Mrs. Moffatt.
Blaine held up his credentials. “I’m Blaine Blackmore, we spoke on the phone a couple of days ago, and I wondered if we might ask you a few questions?”
Moffatt nodded. “Sure, come in.” He pointed to the living room off the foyer, shoed a couple of babies out and closed the double French doors. “Have a seat. Would you like some sweet tea?”
“No thanks, we’re okay,” said Blaine. “We won’t take much of your time.”
“Is this about Max again?”
“I’m afraid it is, sir,” said Blaine. “And it’s not good news. The cabin that your son-in-law rented burned to the ground and Max’s remains were found in the ashes.”
“What?” Bill Moffatt was on his feet and pacing in front of the fireplace. “What about Renee?”
“Forensic technicians combed through the debris and there was no sign of your daughter, sir.”
“You mean she wasn’t in the cabin when it burned?”
“It appears she wasn’t. We don’t know what happened, but only Max’s remains were found.”
“Have you heard from your daughter?” asked Farrell.
“No, we haven’t, and we’ve been wondering about that. We thought she would have called by now to check on the girls.”
“Her SUV was not at the cabin when I was there,” said Farrell.
Moffatt let out a breath. “So, she might not have been in the fire. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Her truck wasn’t there, sir,” said Farrell.
“Would it be possible to talk with your wife?” asked Blaine, “She might have some insight into what was going on with your daughter.”
“Hang on. I’ll get her.”
Linda Moffatt was in tears when she entered the room. Her husband had obviously passed on the news. “Bill is watching the girls. Do you think Max is really dead?”
“Yes, ma’am, we believe so. Do you have any idea where your daughter might go if she had a… disagreement with her husband and went her own way?”
“Do you think they had a fight and Renee left Max at the cabin?”
“We can only guess what might have happened,” said Blaine, “but her vehicle was missing from the cabin when my investigators arrived.”
“Renee was mad at Max,” said her mother, “I know that for sure. She told me Max was cheating on her with younger women.”
“Do you think she might have been angry enough to do something to her husband?” asked Blaine.
Linda frowned. “You mean like physically hurt Max?”
“Uh huh, that’s what I mean,” said Blaine.
Linda pointed a finger. “That’s why y’all are here, isn’t it? Y’all think Renee might have killed him.”
“It’s one possibility,” said Farrell.
Mrs. Moffatt shook her head. “I’d never believe it. My Renee would never do that. She was raised in the Baptist Church and she knows better.”
A lot of crying and screaming was coming from another part of the house. Linda Moffatt glanced at the French doors. “I better go. Bill sometimes loses patience with the girls.”
“Was Renee a good mother?” asked Blaine.
Half way to the door, Linda turned and glared. “Of course, she was. What kind of a question is that?”
“I apologize,” said Blaine. “I’m just trying to figure out what her sta
te of mind might have been at the cabin.”
“Tired,” said her mother. “She was worn out and tired. She deserved a week away.” Linda left, the crying stopped, and Bill Moffatt returned.
“Just one question before we go,” said Blaine. “Your wife indicated that Renee believed Max was cheating on her with younger women. Did your daughter say anything to you?”
A surprised look crossed Bill’s face and he shook his head. “Linda never said anything to me.”
“Your daughter borrowed your gun to take to the cabin. Did you think that was out of character?”
“What are you hinting at, sir? Renee would never shoot anybody. She didn’t know the first thing about guns.”
Blaine stood up and handed Mr. Moffatt a card. “If you hear from your daughter, please call me.”
“I’ll show y’all out.” Bill Moffatt wasn’t smiling.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Friday, September 14th.
Courthouse. Downtown Austin.
BLAINE left Misty and Carmelita planting flowers in the backyard. He gave them a wave from the back porch, picked up his briefcase on the way past his office and headed out to Farrell’s truck.
Travis was parked curbside ready to follow to the courthouse. If they let Lovell go, Travis would be his shadow.
“Think the judge will grant bail to Lovell, boss?” asked Farrell as they rolled up to the red light at the corner.
“Hope not, but if his attorney is worth his salt, he’ll put up a good argument for it.”
And he did.
Blaine and Farrell sat in the front row behind the ADA’s table as one of Leighton’s assistants countered everything Lovell’s lawyer said with a solid argument against letting Lovell loose.
The Judge on the bench heard both sides and jotted down a few notes. “The defendant, Benson Lovell has no criminal record, he’s lived at the same address and held the same job for the past five years. The charges against him are serious as Mr. Thomas has pointed out, and in that regard, I’m making the bond substantial. Bail is granted in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars.”
The ADA stood up. “A moment Judge. Would I be asking too much if the defendant were required to wear an ankle monitor?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, the judge said, “I think so.” He banged the gavel down and went on to the next case.
Farrell looked at Blaine. “A bouncer gonna come up with fifty thou?”
“Wait and see,” said Blaine.
They waited in the corridor while the bailiff escorted Lovell and his attorney to the bondsman’s office and a few minutes later, they did see.
Smiling like a hyena, Lovell strutted to the exit.
TRAVIS sat in his silver F-450 with his eye on the door of the courthouse waiting to see the outcome of the arraignment.
People went in. People came out. Then a smiling Benson Lovell swaggered out with his attorney and crossed the drop-off loop to the parking lot.
Blaine and Farrell were close behind and Blaine gave Travis a signal.
Lovell jumped in the passenger seat of his attorney’s Lexus and Travis started his truck.
Pleasant Acres. Route one thirty south.
PLEASANT Acres Mobile Home Park, didn’t look too pleasant as Farrell drove through the gate. Hidden from the highway by a stand of tall pines stretching across the road frontage, the true nature of the place wasn’t obvious until you were up close and personal.
Most of the trailers were single wide and crammed so close together there was barely a parking space between. This resulted in cars and pickups parked on both sides of the narrow road making driving treacherous and on two of the so-called streets, impassable. Farrell had to back up and go around the block.
Kids and dogs ran free along with a few cats and chickens and Farrell slowed down to a crawl to avoid hitting any of the residents—human or animal.
“See any street names?” asked Blaine.
“What are we looking for?”
“Crockett Avenue.”
“Shit,” said Farrell, “this place ain’t never seen an avenue.”
“Number sixty.”
“Roll down your window and ask those kids up yonder.” Farrell slowed, and Blaine stuck his head out and hollered to them.
“I live on Crockett,” said one of the bigger kids. Sitting astride his bicycle, he looked about ten or eleven and had to take a cigarette out of his mouth to answer the question. He waved an arm and pointed. “Way over on the far side of the park.”
“Thanks,” said Blaine.
Farrell navigated the narrow dirt track to the other side of the park and found Crockett.
Blaine pointed. “There’s number sixty.”
“Harley out front,” said Farrell. “What’s his name again?”
“Mike Longbow.”
Farrell parked on the road and they strode across a patch of parched dirt to the front door. He knocked and there was no answer. Blackberry Smoke blasted from an open window.
“I like the band but the radio’s too loud,” said Blaine, “Can’t hear us.”
Farrell pounded on the door and hollered, “Police, Mr. Longbow, we need to speak to you.”
The door opened a crack and a voice said, “What do y’all want?”
“Need to talk to you about Benson Lovell,” said Blaine. “Won’t take long.”
Mike Longbow came outside and closed the door behind him. A strong smell of weed circled around him. Native American, fit and muscled up, dressed in torn jeans with a bandana around his black hair. He pointed to a picnic table that didn’t look strong enough to hold the three of them. “Let’s sit out here.”
“Sure,” said Blaine. “Don’t matter.”
“What do you want to know about Ben?”
“Have you talked to him in the past couple of days?” asked Blaine.
“Nope. He wasn’t at the club for his shift and I didn’t have time to ask where he was. He in trouble with the law?”
“He was arraigned this morning on four counts of murder.”
Longbow smiled, and his teeth were bright white against his dark complexion. “You gotta be shittin me, man.” He laughed.
“Nope, not a bit.”
“Don’t know what I can tell you. Only know him at work. Nothing more than that.”
“The manager said you and Lovell hung out on your breaks,” said Farrell, “what did you guys usually talk about?”
Longbow grinned. “Sure, wasn’t about killing girls if that’s what y’all are asking me. Catch a fuckin brain.”
Farrell tensed. His fist tightened and the vein in his forearm stood out.
“Did you see ever see Benson with JoAnne Engels?” asked Blaine.
“Who?”
“JoAnne Engels,” said Blaine, “She was a regular at your club and some of the other dance places on the street.”
“Don’t know her.” He shook his head. “So fuckin busy most nights. No time to learn people’s names or any of that horseshit.”
“Did you know Sherri Lynn Temple?” asked Farrell.
“You deaf? I said I didn’t know any of their names. I’m not interested in kids that come to the club to dance. I’ve got other things on my mind.”
Blaine gave him a look. “Yeah? Like what?”
“None of your fuckin business. We’re done here.”
Farrell stood up and he was taller than Longbow by about four inches. He pointed at the bike. “Belong to a club?”
“That illegal?”
“Nope.”
“You have a nice day, Mr. Longbow.”
Driving out the gate Blaine said, “That wasn’t too helpful.”
“Sure, it was,” said Farrell. “That asshole is lying through his teeth about something. Can’t wait to find out what it is.” He pulled onto the highway and his cell rang. He handed it to Blaine.
“Oh, hi Sue. Yeah, this is Farrell’s phone, but he’s driving. Did you have something? Or was it personal?”
Farrel
l cranked his head around, curled his lip and gave his foster brother the finger.
“Yep, that’s great. We’re headed your way right now.”
“Did she match the thumb print?”
“Close enough to say ninety-five percent,” said Blaine. “Let’s run it by the Chief and see what he says.”
Ranger Headquarters. Austin.
FARRELL set a large Starbuck’s container in front of Chief Calhoun, then sat down in one of the guest chairs.
“Did Sue tell you about the print?” asked Blaine.
“Yep, she was up here ten minutes ago.”
“Can we haul his ass in here again?” asked Farrell with a grin. “I’d so love to do that.”
“New evidence,” said the Chief. “We have to bring him in again, otherwise we wouldn’t be doing our jobs, would we?” He flipped the tab on his coffee to let it cool a little.
“I’ll call Travis,” said Blaine. “He should be right outside Lovell’s building.”
The Chief smiled. “That’s handy.”
Tansy Court. Austin.
TRAVIS sat in his truck where he could see the front door of the apartment building. He wasn’t worried too much about Lovell using the back door and going straight to the parking lot, because he had a tag on the Jeep and as soon as it turned a wheel, his iPad on the passenger seat beside him, would alert him.
He finished his Coke and set the empty can in the holder. He needed to piss bad, and it would soon be an issue.
Shouldn’t drink soda while I’m on surveillance.
His cell rang. Blacky.
“Yeah, boss. Got something?”
“A match on the print. Do you want to bring him in, or wait for Farrell and me to get there?”
“I can do it,” said Travis, “by the time y’all get here, I’ll have him down to the lobby.”
“Umm… why don’t you wait for us to be on the safe side. We’re on our way.”
I can take this jerk into custody on my own. I need to show Blacky I’m worth the money he’s paying me.
Travis pulled his truck into the pick-up loop in front of the apartment doors and parked. He checked the Sig in his waist holster, then took the elevator up to the sixth floor. The corridor smelled of stale food and cheap cigars. The hallway was deserted as Travis knocked on Lovell’s door.
