by Ben Rehder
Not long ago, I’d bought a nice little piece of land out here. Nine acres with one hundred feet of Barton Creek frontage. Gorgeous place. Heavily wooded with oaks, cedars, and a few madrones. I’d planned to build a home here, near the pristine waters of the creek, but then things had changed—for the better. Mia and me.
I got out of the van and walked down to the creek. The recent rain had it flowing well. I simply stood there on the bank and enjoyed a quiet moment.
It was right here that I’d told Mia I loved her, and now this spot would forever hold a place in my heart. That’s why it was so difficult to come to terms with the idea of selling it. But it made sense. Mia and I were getting married, and we planned to remain in the Tarrytown house afterward, and I was all for it. So why keep this tract of land? If I sold it, I would make a nice little profit, too.
Because we were getting married.
Right?
What if we weren’t?
Letting that thought take root in my head brought a wave of melancholy over me as palpable as the leading gusts of an unexpected cold front.
It was too much to take. What if Mia couldn’t live with the news I needed to share with her?
Worse, what if she decided she could live with it, and we moved forward, and she ended up terribly unhappy as a result? I couldn’t bear to think about that.
But come on. Not so fast.
I was getting ahead of myself. Maybe the problem wasn’t a problem after all. I wouldn’t know for sure until I spoke to the specialist. I’d called his office this morning and scheduled an appointment in three days.
But I would talk to Mia before then. Probably as soon as she got back home. She deserved to know what was at stake.
I walked up the hill and got into the van.
Normally I left the Barton Creek property feeling recharged and a little less stressed, but this time I simply felt down. Sad and anxious.
I got back onto Fitzhugh and turned left on Highway 290, and my mood did not improve when I began to suspect that I was being tailed by a black GMC truck.
After two miles, I pulled into a gas station. The black GMC continued down the highway. As the tank filled, I got back inside the van and retrieved my Glock nine-millimeter semi-automatic from a secret hiding compartment under the rear bench.
Five minutes later, I got back on the road, and before I reached the Y—a busy intersection in Oak Hill—the black truck was behind me again.
14
The truck’s front license plate was missing. That’s illegal in Texas, but some people—even those who weren’t tailing someone—liked to remove the front plate. This was especially true for owners of expensive vehicles who didn’t like the plate ruining the slick look of a high-dollar sports car. Cops might pull you over for it occasionally, but it wasn’t high on their list.
I took a right on William Cannon Drive and the truck followed, staying eighty or ninety feet back, with a small coupe between us.
I turned right on Escarpment Boulevard, left on Convict Hill, and right on Beckett Road. The truck followed, but still hanging back. This shows you the level of skill I was dealing with, which wasn’t much. The GMC truck thought I still hadn’t spotted him. What was his plan? It could be something as ill-conceived as pulling up next to me and opening fire. That’s the kind of thing an amateur would do. Sloppy, sure, but I could wind up just as dead. So I had no intention of letting him catch up. Good thing I knew this neighborhood.
I hung a quick left on Hitcher Bend, a quiet road that provides a shortcut to Davis Lane, a busy thoroughfare with a median in the center. A privacy fence at the intersection of Hitcher Bend and Davis was blocking the truck’s view of me for the moment, which was handy. Instead of staying on Hitcher Bend, as most people do when using it as a cut-through, I took a right on Neider Drive, then a left on Fulbright Lane, and then I eased to the curb and waited.
From here I could see Hitcher Bend again, and I would easily spot the black truck. It was doubtful he would look to his right and see me, because he would be turning left toward Davis. Basically I was pulling the same trick Steve McQueen pulled in Bullitt. One minute the truck was following me, the next I would be following him.
A few seconds later, the black truck appeared, moving slowly, and sure enough, he hung a left and continued to the stop sign at Davis Lane. By then I had eased away from the curb and followed behind him.
The rear window of the truck was tinted fairly dark, but as I pulled up behind the truck, I could see two silhouettes inside, both of them looking left and then right—looking for me. Wondering where I’d gone. How had I disappeared from view so quickly?
I noticed the truck had no rear license plate, either. That was a major red flag. You don’t remove your rear plate unless you’re planning to commit a crime and don’t want anyone to ID your vehicle.
The truck still hadn’t budged from the stop sign, and now the person in the driver’s seat froze, plainly looking at the rearview mirror. I’d been spotted. I gave him a dainty wave, fluttering my fingertips. The passenger turned and looked directly at me. Wish I could’ve gotten a better look at him and the driver, but the tint was just too dark. Was one of the men Damon Tate? Impossible to tell.
I gave them a shrug, like, Well, it’s your move. How are you going to play this now?
Frankly, I was having a good time.
But I would be ready with the Glock, too, if I needed to be. Right now I had it cradled between my thighs, muzzle pointing downward, chamber empty.
Finally, there was a break in the traffic on Davis, but the black truck didn’t move. No other vehicles had pulled up behind me. I put the van’s transmission in park, just in case. I could see the men inside the truck talking. Arguing, even. The passenger looked back at me again.
I racked the slide on the Glock, popped my seatbelt loose, then gripped the door handle with my left hand, ready for action. If either man started to exit the truck, I’d hop out and wait just long enough to see a weapon. Then I’d do whatever I needed to do. I was glad my dash cam was recording all of this.
By now my heart was pounding in my chest, palms getting warm and moist. I tried to breathe deeply and slowly.
I knew I should just back the van up and leave, but I couldn’t resist the temptation to stay and fight. If something happened—if one or both of them stepped out of the truck—there was a good chance I would learn something from the ensuing confrontation.
The passenger door opened about ten inches.
Now a garbage collection truck was coming down Davis Lane from the right.
The passenger door of the truck closed, and now the driver mashed the accelerator and took a hard left, tires squealing, pulling in front of the garbage truck, which had to hit the brakes.
Not a bad move.
I pulled into the center of the road, to the break in the median, but I was stuck waiting for the garbage truck to pass, and then there was a car behind it, and a motorcycle after that, and by the time I was able to make the left, the truck had a sizeable head start.
The van isn’t any rocket ship, but it moves along a little more quickly than most people would suspect. Still, most vehicles were faster, and by the time I passed the garbage truck and had a view of the road ahead, the truck was leading me by at least a hundred yards. I could see it blowing through a stop sign and then pulling into the left lane to turn onto the expressway—but several cars were waiting there at a yield sign. So the driver changed his mind and swung back into the middle lane, passing under the expressway and picking up speed quickly.
I was in the left-hand lane. Just as I began to give it some gas, an SUV took a right out of an apartment complex and pulled straight into my lane. I couldn’t switch to the right-hand lane because the motorcyclist I’d passed earlier was coming up quick from behind.
Stuck again for t
he moment.
But the SUV drifted into the left-turn lane and now I had open road ahead. The black truck was now just a speck, but I gunned it hard and tried to catch up. The speed limit was 40 through here, but I was hitting 75.
Blew past Copano Drive.
Blew past Corran Ferry Drive.
Now I was going 85 miles per hour and was gaining on the truck. Less than forty yards ahead.
Stupid, yeah. Risky. But I had open road. I saw no pedestrians. No joggers. No bicyclists.
Then I approached Ovalla Drive, which intersected from the right, and a large panel van—a repair vehicle of some kind—started to make a left from Ovalla, crossing in front of me, a T-bone collision waiting to happen.
I had to stomp the brakes hard. I mean hard.
The driver of the repair vehicle saw me and panicked, also hitting his brakes, which made the situation worse, stopping directly in my path. His eyes were wide and fearful as my van bore down on him. My wheels were locked and my tires were smoking.
And my front bumper stopped two feet from the terrified man’s door.
After my nerves settled, I pulled into a convenience store parking lot and called JMJ Construction.
“Brandi Sloan, please.”
“I’m sorry, she’s not available right now. May I take a message?”
“Cindy?”
“Yes?”
“This is Roy Ballard. The guy who was in there this morning? Handsome and charismatic?”
“Oh, hi!”
“I’m just wondering about Brandi. Any word from her?”
Cindy lowered her voice. “Not yet. I called the police, like you said I should, but they said she wasn’t home. They said there wasn’t a lot they could do right now, and that I should check with her friends and family members, which I did.”
“Nobody has heard from her at all?” I said.
“Not that I know of. It’s kind of scary, but everyone up here is acting like it’s no big deal.”
“Does Mr. Jankowski know what’s going on?”
“I haven’t seen him today.”
“He hasn’t been in?”
“I don’t think so, but he doesn’t come in every day. Sometimes he has meetings, or he visits the construction sites.”
“Hands on kind of guy, huh?”
I was talking just to hear her tone of voice or hope she might say something useful. You just never know.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t think I ever got the company you’re with.”
For the first time, she was wondering why I was asking so many questions and had an interest in Brandi’s whereabouts.
“I’m just a subcontractor,” I said, which was true, in a sense. “I had a meeting with Joe three days ago. That’s when I met Brandi, and she seemed so nice, and that’s why I’m a little worried about her. Hey, does the name Lennox Armbruster ring any bells?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“How about Damon Tate?”
“Oh, I remember him calling for Mr. Jankowski a couple of times last week. He works for us, I think, but I’m not sure what he does. I have to ask…are you like a cop or something?”
Not suspicious, just curious.
“No, I’m looking into a case of insurance fraud. That’s all I can share with you, but I do appreciate your help so far.”
“Oh, no problem. Will you let me know if you find Brandi?”
“Absolutely.”
Man cannot live on cookies alone, so I stopped at a little Tex-Mex joint called Casa Arandinas, on Brodie Lane, just south of Davis. It was nearly three o’clock and I was ravenous. The place was fairly quiet at this time of day, so I got seated right away. Didn’t bother with a menu, but instead went with the beef enchiladas. Always a good test meal at a new Tex-Mex place.
The décor was about what you’d expect. The walls were faux stucco. Arched niches—recessed no more than six or eight inches—were painted with kitschy murals, such as a sombrero-wearing gentleman dancing with his señorita. Heavy wooden tables were surrounded by barrel chairs made from red pleather and brass studs.
Members of the wait staff wore crisp pink button-down shirts with the restaurant’s logo over the left breast. A full bar on one side of the room had dozens of glasses hanging upside-down from overhead racks. Guessing they would serve up a damn tasty margarita.
And, of course, half a dozen TVs hung at evenly spaced intervals around the room. Most of them had the volume off, or so low I couldn’t hear, except for the one TV closest to my table.
It was tuned to a local channel, and before I could get the first tortilla chip into my mouth, I heard a short promo for the upcoming news at five.
New information on the major crash on MoPac last night, said the anchor, a perky blond woman with extremely white teeth. More at five.
New information was always promising. What would it be? More details about the cause of the accident? An update on the injured driver’s condition?
I pulled my phone out and went to the website for the station that had just aired the promo. Found the relevant article and clicked on it.
And I finally learned that Lennox Armbruster was the driver who’d been taken to Brackenridge. His injuries were no longer considered life threatening.
Witnesses said that in the minutes leading up to the crash, Armbruster had been the victim of an apparent road rage incident. The truck in question had been following him closely, then pulling around him and swerving into his lane, or getting in front and hitting the brakes. Trying to intimidate him, at a minimum, or hoping to make him lose control and crash. Which is exactly what had happened. One woman claimed that the passenger had pointed a gun at Armbruster.
What kind of vehicle? Witnesses said it was a black GMC truck with tinted windows.
Of course it was.
And a few witnesses mentioned that it had no license plates.
Of course it didn’t.
15
I still wasn’t ready to share everything I’d learned with the cops. Part of that was ego—me thinking it was better to look into things on my own—and part of it was apprehension that the cops would interview Damon Tate and perhaps Joe Jankowski, and learn nothing, but alert them both that I knew that Tate was the man from my porch.
I’d asked Doris Donovan to put a star on the list beside the names of Brent’s five closest friends, and when I got home, I called them. None of them answered, which was not a surprise. Unfamiliar phone number. I left a similar message each time.
My name is Roy Ballard and I’m trying to find your friend Brent. I’m not a cop. Actually, I work for an insurance company as a legal videographer. I learned about Brent through a different case involving someone Brent knows and, quite frankly, it just seems weird to me that the police aren’t making more of an effort to find him. If you have a minute, please call me back and let’s talk about it. I spoke to his mother Doris today and she’d love to know where her son is. Thanks. Call anytime.
My theory was the same as it had been when meeting with Doris: If these five people knew that Brent was alive and well and maybe even knew where he was, they would not call me back. But if they were concerned about him and hoping someone would do something to find him—something more than the cops had done—they would return my call. They would be grateful that someone was looking into it more deeply.
So I sat. I waited. I got up and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. Sat back down again.
Checked the time. Wondered what Mia was doing right now.
The weather had gotten cooler in the past few hours and the heater had been running. I made a mental note to check the filter.
Then my phone rang.
One of Brent’s friends, Raul Ablanedo.
“Dude, I am so glad somebody is final
ly doing something about this,” he said. “He, like, disappeared, and I know it looked like he probably just took off, but there ain’t no way. He’s the kind of guy who would face the music—know what I mean? He’s not a runner. He wouldn’t run. That’s not his style. He’s got friends, you know? And his mom. No way would he just take off.”
All I had said so far was, “Hey, thanks for calling me back.” He hadn’t even asked me to explain in greater detail who I was and why I was interested in the case.
“How long have you known Brent?” I asked.
“Since middle school,” he said. “Sixth grade. He’s my bro.”
Raul struck me as the laidback stoner type.
“And you haven’t heard from him?” I said.
“No, man. Not a word. He, like, vanished. I’m telling you, he would serve a couple of years in jail instead of running away forever. He’s a mellow guy. If he did run away—which he wouldn’t—he’d let me know he’s okay. He’d email me or something. Or get a new phone and send a text.”
“How often did you see him?” I asked.
“In person? Maybe every two months or so. Life’s busy, you know? But we were texting all the time.”
“Did he tell you anything about the incident at the job site?”
Raul laughed. “The incident? You mean the scam he was trying to pull? Yeah, he told me a little, but not much. Just that he accidentally got hurt, and then one of his coworkers ratted him out, and then his boss was doing every damn thing he could to make sure Brent went to jail for it.”
“When was the last time you texted or talked to him?”
“Well, the last time he replied was the day before he went missing. It was on a Friday. Of course, nobody knew he was missing right then, until it became obvious he was gone, and the cops figured out a few days later that the last time anybody saw him was that Saturday. I texted him Sunday, the day after, but he never got back to me. It wasn’t a big deal, because I was only asking if he wanted to come over and drink a couple of beers.”
