by Ben Rehder
“I appreciate that.”
Marlin glanced past Grady’s shoulder and watched Leigh Anne at the bar, chatting with the two couples, and pouring samples of a white wine into glasses.
“Do me a favor, Grady. Keep that copy of the photo, but don’t even think about it for a couple of hours, or until tomorrow. Then look at it again, with a fresh set of eyes. Maybe that’ll help you remember if you’ve really seen her.”
Just before two in the afternoon, after turning off A. Robinson Road and heading north on Highway 281, Bobby Garza spotted a blue diesel-powered dual-cab GMC truck in the parking lot of the Kountry Kitchen. It wasn’t the only diesel truck he’d seen that day, but it was the first one with dog boxes mounted in the bed.
Earlier that morning, in Garza’s office, Marlin hadn’t seemed willing to conclude that it was a very good possibility that dog runners had been involved in the shooting yesterday evening. But Garza figured they deserved to be checked out just as closely as anyone else. Maybe closer.
He pulled into the parking lot and cruised slowly past the truck. Nobody in the cab. First thing he noticed was a faded bumper sticker that read: WHERE IS THE BIRTH CERTIFICATE? Another one said: GOT AMMO?
Garza stopped for a moment and jotted the license plate number down. Then he continued north into the lot next door, which served a liquor store and a dry cleaners. He whipped his cruiser around and parked parallel to the highway, facing south, giving him a clear view of the big truck.
He grabbed his microphone handset. “One oh one to Blanco County.”
“Go ahead, one oh one.” It was Darrell, the county dispatcher, replying.
“Need a ten twenty-eight and twenty-nine when you’re ready.”
“Ten four.”
Garza recited the license plate number.
“Received, one oh one. Stand by.”
While Garza was waiting, two men exited the Kountry Kitchen and walked in the direction of the truck. Dog runners for sure, from the black felt hats with a feather in the band, down to the scuffed Justin Ropers. They were both about six feet tall. Maybe thirty years old. Similar build. One had a goatee, one was clean-shaven.
“One oh one, that comes back to a GMC quad-cab truck. Registered owner is Dustin Bryant out of Jasper. Insurance is confirmed. Negative twenty-nine.”
No wants or warrants.
“Ten four.”
The men reached the truck, but instead of getting in, they stopped by the tailgate. One of them took out his cell phone and appeared to be checking messages, while the other one slipped a can of snuff from his back pocket and stuck a dip into his mouth.
Garza waited. Watched. A steady stream of traffic moved past the cruiser. A group of four elderly people exited the restaurant and got into a Buick.
The guy with the Copenhagen glanced northward and spotted Garza’s cruiser. Now he was staring. No matter. Garza hadn’t been trying to hide. The snuff user said something, and now the guy fiddling with his phone looked in the direction of the cruiser.
Garza could see a physical change in the demeanor of both men. Most people who suddenly realize they are being watched by a cop show it in their body language. Typically they become self-conscious. Or they go the other way, like these two men. They become cocky. A rookie might not be able to spot the difference, but Garza could, after all these years on the job. Even the way the men were standing by the truck now had a swagger to it. Arrogance. Similar to the way a drugstore cowboy leans backward against the bar on a Saturday night, scoping the place out, letting the ladies know he’s the coolest guy in the room. Other signs weren’t so subtle, like the man with the dip leaning forward slightly and spitting on the ground, all the while keeping his eye on the cruiser. Pure attitude. Letting Garza know what he thought of him.
Garza had become immune to that sort of provocation. These guys were just punks. Dime a dozen. Spit all you want, dude. It was almost comical that they thought Garza cared how they behaved. So predictable. And then the guy with the phone looked to his right, at someone else leaving the restaurant.
A very tall man. Probably six-five or more. Not slender. Not fat. With red hair. Or that’s what most people would call it—“red.” But like a lot of redheads, this man’s hair color was actually closer to orange.
When the tall guy reached the other two men, they exchanged a few words and—just as Garza knew he would—the redhead turned and looked toward the cruiser. He smiled.
Then he gave Garza a big, slow, exaggerated wave.
CHAPTER 18
As far as Red O’Brien could remember, not once in his life had he ever been inside a flower shop. The few times he’d bought flowers for a woman, he’d ordered them by phone, like a normal American male. Or he’d grabbed a discount bouquet at the grocery store on the way back from the beer aisle. Nothing unmanly about that. He always figured the women in your check-out line thought you were being romantic, and the guys all knew you were just trying to get lucky that night.
But now here he was, inside a flower shop for the first time, and the first thing he noticed, being honest, was that it smelled pretty good. Like a bunch of flowers. Duh. And they also had some kind of music playing in the background. Not country or rock or pop. He didn’t know how to classify it. Just soft, quiet music, with a woman singing, although he couldn’t make out any of the lyrics. Or maybe she was just making sounds instead of words.
“I don’t see Armando,” Billy Don said.
“Me, neither, and this place ain’t that big. You sure this is the right one?” Then he thought of a joke. “Oh, I bet I know where he is.”
“Where?”
Red waited a beat, then said, “In the closet.”
Either Billy Don didn’t get it, or he didn’t think it was funny, and maybe it wasn’t, because Armando wasn’t in the closet at all, was he? Or maybe Billy Don was distracted, because an old lady had just come out of a back room and she was headed their way.
“Good morning!” she said in a very sing-songy fashion. “How are you two today?” She glanced at her watch. “You’re a little early, but if you’ll give me just a few more minutes, I’ll have your arrangement ready in a jiffy.”
“Our what?” Billy Don asked.
“Your calla lilies?” the old woman said. She waited a second or two. “Well. Judging from your reaction, may I assume you aren’t Matt and David?”
“We’re Billy Don and Red.”
“Okay. Then I’m guessing you aren’t here to place an order for your commitment ceremony.”
Red realized, with a sinking feeling, what had just happened. The other day, Armando had been joking when he acted like Red and Billy Don were a couple. But this woman had been thinking that for real, and Red was quickly beginning to regret coming in here. Sure, he wanted to know what Armando had learned from Sharon Greene, and since Armando hadn’t returned their calls, they’d decided to make the drive to Marble Falls to see him in person. But there was only so much humiliation Red was willing to endure for a shot at a $50,000 pig.
“No, ma’am,” Red said. “And no offense, but I think you need to get your eyes checked.”
She blinked at him a couple of times. Then she grinned. “You may be right, young man. Judging by Matt’s voice on the phone, I suspect that he and David aren’t quite as stylish and well-groomed as you two fellows. Of course, I could be wrong, because the world is made up of all types of people who don’t meet our preconceived notions.”
Red didn’t know if she was kidding or not, or even what she meant by that last part.
“Actually we’re looking for Armando,” Billy Don said. “We need to talk to him about something for just a minute. Is he around?”
“He’s in the back. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Marlin’s first inclination was to speak to a couple of Sammy’s friends. Ask them if they recognized the woman in the photo. Yes, some of the kids had already been interviewed by the deputies, but they hadn’t seen this photo yet. Then he thought, If I w
ere a buddy of Sammy’s, and Sammy had managed to get together with a beautiful older woman, would I tell an adult? Probably not. Even under these circumstances.
But what if there was an adult who might’ve been privy to some details of Sammy’s private life? It made sense to ask the adult first, then talk to the kids.
Marlin drove out to the high school and found Coach Milstead in his office, with some time to spare before football practice began after school.
“Have y’all made any progress?” Milstead asked, after shaking hands with Marlin and sitting back down behind his desk.
Marlin sat in one of two armless chairs facing Milstead. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell. I think so. But I’m hoping you can help me out with something.”
“Whatever I can do.”
Marlin opened the manila folder and placed the photo on the desk, facing Milstead. “Do you recognize this woman?”
Milstead picked the photo up and studied it. Then he furrowed his brow. “Hmm. I think...”
Marlin waited.
Milstead said, “She does look familiar, but I’m not sure from where. Like I saw her out in public. Or... is she a celebrity of some kind?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m almost positive I’ve seen her. How old is she?”
“The general consensus is that she’s in her early or mid-twenties, but that’s a guess.”
“Huh. She looks younger than that to me. I was starting to wonder if she was a student, but I guess not.”
“She could be a former student.”
“Yeah, but I probably wouldn’t know her, depending on when she was here. I’ve only been here four years.”
“Can you remember where you might have seen her?”
Milstead kept staring at the photo, obviously racking his memory. He was starting to shake his head when suddenly he said, “Oh! I got it. I was getting gas at the Super S and she was filling up her car on the other side of the pump. I’m pretty sure this is the same woman.”
“When was this?”
“Quite awhile. Several weeks. Maybe more than a month.”
“That long ago, but you remember her?”
“Well, not to sound like a dirty old man, but when you see a woman who looks like that in Johnson City, you tend to notice her. I mean, we have our fair share of attractive women, but this one was all dressed up and made up like a model. She just really stood out.”
“And that’s the woman in the photo?”
“I think so, yeah. Not positive, but pretty sure. Can I ask what this has to do with Sammy’s death?”
Marlin was tempted to say, “Probably nothing,” but that wasn’t the way to keep a cooperative witness engaged. So he said, “That photo was on his phone. We’d just like to know who she is.”
“You should show this picture to some of his friends.”
“That was going to be my next request. If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I know the boys would love to help, if they can.”
“Yes, I talked to her,” Armando said. “This morning, before work. Sorry I didn’t call you back. It’s been crazy around here.”
“And?” Red said. “What’d she say?”
They were behind the flower shop, in a small parking area, standing beside Armando’s Prius. Armando was smoking a cigarette. Something called a “clove,” which had an unusual smell to it. He was being careful to stand upwind of the cigarette, so the smell wouldn’t get all over him.
“Sorry, guys, but Sharon didn’t know anything. She wasn’t involved in any of it.”
“Damn,” Billy Don said. “That sucks.”
Red’s heart dropped—but only for a moment. Because something wasn’t right. Something about Armando’s behavior. The way he wasn’t making eye contact. The way he was being quieter than he had been the other times Red had been around him.
“Wait a sec. Sharon didn’t help Emmitt round up the pig?” Red asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” Armando said. “So she wasn’t able to tell me anything.”
“Huh. That seems weird, because from what I’ve heard, she’s a hell of a shot. And a hell of a hunter.”
“She said Emmitt tranquilized the pig.”
“Really? Last I knew, he had all but given up shooting, because he could hardly see a damn thing. Even if the pig was in a trap, Emmitt would have to be able to see through a sight.”
Armando shrugged and sucked on his cigarette. Still not making eye contact. To Red, the signs were unmistakable.
“That really seems weird,” Red said.
“Sorry, guys. Anyway, I need to get back to work.”
“You know what I think, Armando?” Red said.
“I can only imagine.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“Red!” Billy Don said. “What the hell’s wrong with you? You don’t just call a guy a liar like that. ’Specially when he was trying to do you a favor.”
But Red wasn’t listening. Instead, he was watching Armando’s reaction closely. And all Armando did was give Red a weak roll of his eyes. That wasn’t right, either. Armando was a big drama queen—no pun intended—so if he was actually telling the truth, his reaction would’ve been much different. He would’ve been more insulted.
“I guess I don’t blame him, really,” Red said. “See, I pissed him off yesterday when I called him on his bullshit, so now he’s getting me back. Withholding information. Or maybe he’s planning to sell that information to some of the other hunters.”
Armando was glaring at him. “You are a horrible little person.”
“Oh, did I touch a nerve?”
Billy Don said, “You’re not lying, are you, Armando? Tell him to shut the hell up.”
Armando said, “Grady Beech is in mourning. Do you understand that, Red? Can you wrap your mind around that fact? It’s only been two months since he lost his son. This pig hunt is one way Grady is coping with his grief. I refuse to help anyone cheat.”
“Aha!” Red said. “So you do know! Sharon told you.”
“And what kind of person would I be if I violated my friend’s trust?”
“You mean like you violated ours just now by saying Sharon didn’t know anything?”
“Armando?” Billy Don said.
Armando looked at him. “I am so sorry. I started out with good intentions, but as I was sitting there with Sharon, acting out this farce—being totally dishonest with her—I realized I just couldn’t do it. That’s not the type of person I am. I apologize for getting your hopes up.”
He turned to Red. “And you. You are one of the most disagreeable and repugnant people I have ever encountered. As Oscar Wilde once said, ‘Some cause happiness wherever they go; others, whenever they go.’ I think he must’ve been foreseeing your very existence when he said that.”
“I don’t even know who that is. You might as well be talking about Oscar Mayer.”
“You, my friend, are a rube. Look that word up when you have a moment, if you own a dictionary.”
“Well, you know what you are?” Red asked.
“The anticipation of hearing your pronouncement is almost more than I can stand.”
“You... are a bigot.” Red said.
“Ha! Oh, my God! I’m a bigot? You’re saying I’m a bigot.”
“Exactly.”
“Pot, meet kettle.”
“What are you babbling about?” Red asked.
“That is laughable, and hypocritical, to boot. I can only assume you don’t even know what the word ‘bigot’ actually means.”
“Oh, I know exactly what it means. And right now, right here, I’m looking at a blue-ribbon bigot. You are a bigot against people like me.”
Armando said, “My gosh, I didn’t realize just how utterly un-self-aware you are until now. The irony is killing me.”
“See? Right there. You’re a bigot. You think you know everything, and a small-town guy like me—I’m just an idiot. You think I don’t even know what ‘bigot’ means.
I drive a truck and like country music, so I’m a ‘rube,’ right? You said so yourself. And it’s obvious you hate guys like me so much, you’re looking for a reason not to tell me what that pig looks like.”
“That is so not true. You’re the one who’s a bigot!”
“Yeah, that’s original. ‘I know you are, but what am I?’ Now you’re really sounding desperate.”
“This is ridiculous! I am living in the Twilight Zone!” Armando screamed.
“That’s what a bigot would say.”
“I am not a bigot! People like me are the victims of bigotry almost every day from people just like you—and believe me when I tell you, I am not a bigot!”
“Prove it.”
“I don’t have to!”
“What’s the pig look like?”
“Forget it!”
“Bigot.”
“Stop saying that!”
“But it’s true.”
“No, it’s not!”
“Bigot.”
“Aaaahh! It’s brown and white, okay? It’s a small brown-and-white pig! Are you happy?”
Armando tossed his cigarette butt to the ground and hurried toward the back door of the flower shop. Red thought Armando might’ve even been crying.
“Jesus, Red,” Billy Don said. “That was just mean.”
“Boar or sow?” Red called out, but Armando was already through the door, which slammed behind him.
CHAPTER 19
It was tempting to confront the tall redheaded man immediately, but Bobby Garza resisted, and simply watched as the three dog runners climbed into the big diesel truck and went south on Highway 281. Garza followed at a distance.
After less than a quarter-mile, the truck took a left into the lot for the Hill Country Inn. Garza went past, then turned left and parked in the lot for Ronnie’s Pit BBQ. If the diesel truck left the inn, he’d see it.
He scrolled through the contacts in his cell phone until he found the name he was looking for—Jerry Sharp, the sheriff of Jasper County for several decades.
