by M. G. Herron
She put her hands on her hips. “Mr. Gunn, at least show me the decency of assuming that I am telling you the truth until I give you a reason to think otherwise.”
I studied her carefully for a twitch of the eyebrow or another tell that would give her away. The only thing I noticed was that I'd offended her. She moved one hand to her protruding belly unconsciously, then let it drop again.
“He’s not here,” she insisted. “Mr. Gunn, I really should be going. It’s been a long day.”
Without waiting for a reply, she opened the door and stepped inside. I put one sturdy boot on the frame of the door. “I’m sorry. I had to ask. It’d be a lot easier for everyone if he turned himself in, you know.“
She turned back to face me, still wringing the towel. “Tell me about it.”
“Just one more question, Mrs. Kovak, if you don’t mind.”
After glaring down at my boot, she said, “Fine, one more.”
“Do you know where he’s hiding? Or where he might be headed?”
“That’s more than one question. And like I said a hundred times already, the way I figure it, there’s only two reasons Cam didn’t come home last night. He’s either on a bender and you’ll find him passed out in an alley somewhere. Or he left me for that skank ho, Patricia, and if that’s the case, he’s dead to me anyhow.”
Bingo, I thought. Another woman. There’s always another woman.
“Frankly, though,” Mrs. Kovak went on, “I find the whole thing hard to believe. Cam liked Dale. Said he reminded him of his Uncle Larry.” She glanced back at the boys, now setting plates out on a round wooden table. ”I don’t see why he would want to hurt the man. God, and I feel just awful for Dale’s wife and kids. This whole thing is unbelievable.”
I remembered what Sheila said about Dale Edwards’s body looking like a shed Halloween costume when they found it. Even if this woman’s husband was capable of murder, was he capable of doing something like that?
“There are lots of reasons people get into arguments,” I said. “It’s never a big deal… until it is. Has he ever gotten angry with you?”
“Well, sure, plenty of times.”
I raised my eyebrows suggestively.
She scoffed. “Are you asking if he hit me? No, Mr. Gunn. Never.”
I nodded, then removed my foot from the door frame. “Okay. I believe you. One last… last thing, Mrs. Kovak. Can I get a surname and last known address for your husband’s—er—special friend?”
“Like I told your pushy colleagues earlier when they asked the same question, her name is Patricia Wallart. That’s all I know. You’ll have to find her address on your own because if I found out where she lived, I might be liable to do something I’d regret.”
“Wait, do you mean Detective Gonzalez? You told Detective Gonzalez about Patricia Wallart?”
“No, not her. She was real nice. I was talking about the other pair of detectives. They left right before you got here. Pasty white guy who never spoke, and an African American woman with red hair.”
The skin at the nape of my neck crawled. It had to be the same pair who’d disappeared at the crime scene; now I had proof that what I’d seen had been more than just a heat mirage.
“Are you sure they were detectives?” I asked.
“I mean…well, geez, I just assumed.”
Since she thought I was a cop, I took that with a grain of salt.
Did that mean I had competition? Alek had given me the job exclusively, as per our arrangement, but like all bounties, any licensed bail enforcement agent could try to claim the reward if they caught the fugitive first. Even if Alek didn’t give it to them, it would make me look bad.
It was a black hat tactic, but actually not that original, for a bounty hunter to let people think he was a cop for the sake of convenience. People are more apt to open up to cops than bounty hunters.
Something white passed by in my peripheral vision. I turned sharply, looking up and down the street. My movements must have made Mrs. Kovak nervous, because she took a few steps back into the kitchen and set her hands on the counter next to the knife block.
Her son dropped a plate noisily on the table. “He staying?” the boy asked his mom, pointing at me and holding another plate in his hand.
She gave me a look that brooked no argument. “No, he was just leaving.”
I smiled politely. “Thanks, kid, but I have to run. Mrs. Kovak, I appreciate your help.”
“I hope you find him,” she said in a small voice, “so I can tell him how much he pissed me off this time.”
The door closed in my face and I heard the deadbolt click. I walked down the driveway, looking over my shoulder every few steps while chewing on my thoughts.
5
Back in my truck, I locked the doors and checked all my rearview mirrors twice. Only once I had taken the gun out of my glovebox and set it next to me on the passenger seat did I start to calm down and think logically.
Maybe I had it wrong. Maybe the Austin PD did assign a couple more detectives to the case and chose not to tell Sheila. Or, more likely, the odd pair of detectives were with the FBI, or maybe with the ATF. Investigating the explosion that caused the crater certainly seemed to fall under the purview of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.
On the other hand, if the pair were competing bounty hunters, they were doing a damn fine job of staying one step ahead of me. I slammed the heel of my hand into the steering wheel in frustration. If I lost this case, I’d probably lose the office. Giving up on the office felt equivalent to giving up on the business, somehow. I just couldn’t do it.
I needed an edge.
My thumb hovered over my phone’s call button. I knew exactly how she was going to react, but it was a chance I had to take. As the phone rang, I merged onto the highway and accelerated.
Gonzalez answered without so much as a greeting. “What now?”
“Is that any way to say ‘hello’ to an old friend?”
It was not a challenge to imagine her rolling her eyes.
“We just saw each other,” she said. “What do you want?”
I switched into the left lane to pass a big SUV. “Are there other detectives assigned to the Edwards case?”
“No, just me and Detective Simmons.”
“Feds?”
“No,” she scoffed. “I mean, I don’t think so. That wouldn’t make any sense.”
“Mrs. Kovak said she spoke to two detectives after you spoke to her.”
The air thickened as a beat passed in silence. I lowered the A/C so I could hear her better and passed another car. “You know how I feel about bounty hunters impersonating the police.”
Oh, yes. I knew. “Just what I need right now, competition.”
She snorted. “It’ll be good for you. Your ego is so huge it’s a miracle you can even fit in that tiny office of yours.”
“Hey! Low blow!”
“If the shoe fits.” There was a muffled sound as she covered the speaker for a minute. “Look, they’re probably just new in town. Do what you always do. Be stubborn. Stand your ground. And tell them that if I ever catch them impersonating cops, I’m coming after them.”
Another moment passed as I thought about how it would feel to be cuffed by Detective Gonzalez.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“Yeah, actually. Did you know Kovak has a mistress?”
“What?”
“Didn’t think so. Well, he does,” I said. “So, any idea where I might find a Patricia Wallart?”
“I could get in serious trouble for even having this conversation. Don’t you find people for a living? You could always just look her up on the internet like everyone else does.”
“First of all, you know I don’t get along with computers. Secondly, it’s easier to ask you.” I didn’t bother telling her my computer just took a dive.
“No.”
I clenched my jaw. I could practically hear her teeth grinding through the phone. T
he old, familiar stalemate.
“I told you,” she finally said, “we can’t work together.”
A thousand different ways to object sprang to mind, but I found myself unable to voice a single one of them. For in my rearview mirror, I noticed a white sedan that had been following me at a discreet distance for a couple miles. Instantly, my stomach lurched into my throat. I squinted into the glare of the headlights, finally making out two blurry figures in the front seats. I couldn’t be sure it was them.
“What,” Sheila said, “no smartass comeback?”
“I think my competition is tailing me.”
“Andy, this is getting ridiculous.”
“I’m serious!”
“I am a homicide detective, not your personal assistant.”
I set the phone on speaker and put it in a cup holder so that I could use both hands to drive.
“Sheila, this is not a drill.”
“I’m done with this conversation,” she said, her voice flat and humorless. “Goodbye, Gunn.”
Silence, louder than any concussion.
Jamming my foot down on the pedal, I swerved into the right lane. The white sedan mimicked me fifty yards behind. When I slowed down, they slowed too. Flooring the pedal, I accelerated hard, pulling them along behind me. The speedometer crawled up past eighty. I blew past a car, cut into the shoulder to get around the next one, cut back. They followed close behind. I pitched back into the right lane. When they were only a single car-length off my back bumper, I slammed on the brakes. My eyes glued to the rearview, I watched as their car smacked into the back of my truck, and finally made out their features—two people, one dark-skinned, the other pale.
I returned my eyes to the road just in time to avoid plowing into some road kill. I cursed as I cut around it, swerving into the shoulder and clipping a guardrail before regaining control.
When I looked back again, the white sedan had peeled off to the right. They were now on the access road, moving away from me.
I ran my hand through my hair, then pulled onto the shoulder of the highway while I caught my breath.
My pistol and Kovak’s paperwork had slid to the floor while I was driving like an idiot. I bent to collect them. Kovak’s home address caught my eye because it was on top, and that reminded me of something. Maybe I did have another lead. Hadn’t Alek told me he thought the DWI was a result of a romantic spat? Could it have been a romantic spat between Kovak, his wife, and one Patricia Wallart?
Alek was always good at giving me more details than I needed for a case. Sure enough, the address of the DWI was listed on a page describing the incident, along with the case number, the name of the cop who booked him, the company that towed his car, and other details.
I snatched my phone from the cupholder. Simply looking up the street address on a public search engine revealed that it was, in fact, Patricia Wallart’s house. Amazing what you can find on the internet.
I had planned to go home first, but in light of my new competition, I couldn’t afford to waste a moment. I reset the GPS with Patricia Wallart’s address and followed the blue line to her house.
By the time I arrived, it was full dark. Unlike the Kovak’s neighborhood, no street lamps lined the grid of Ms. Wallart’s trailer park. The place was filled with a motley selection of doublewides, tiny homes, and airstream trailers. A few porch lights were on, however, and it turned out that Patricia Wallart’s was one of them. The patch of lawn in front of her house was well-maintained, and the little strip of garden alongside her trailer was filled with succulents and sunflowers, small hints of beauty amid the gauche decorations of her neighbors.
I whistled the tune of Alek’s radio jingle while I strode up to the door. Something caught my eye in the distance—a white sedan, turning the corner and passing in front of the trailer park’s entrance off the highway. It moved by too quickly for me to tell if it was the same white sedan whose paint was on my bumper. This one, I saw from the rear, was a Mercedes.
There was nothing else to be done now, so I shook the sedan from my mind and mounted a series of cement steps leading up to the front door. The storm door rattled as I rapped on it three times. After twenty seconds or so, the interior door opened, leaving a screen between me and a short woman.
She didn’t look like a “skank ho,” as Mrs. Kovak had described her. Patricia Wallart looked to be in her late twenties and was pretty in a plain way—a bit like Kovak’s wife, actually, but with brown hair. The guy had a type. A relaxed smile spread across her face, pleasant and friendly.
“How can I help you?” It appeared manners weren’t altogether a thing of the past.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said. “I’m looking for someone and I have reason to believe you know him.”
She looked genuinely surprised. “Who?”
“Cameron Kovak”
“Cam? Really? He and I haven’t seen each other in… oh, I don’t know… at least a year?”
I took note that she, too, referred to the man as “Cam.”
“So you don’t happen to have any information regarding his whereabouts?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry.”
“It’s just—” I paused. “Mrs. Kovak, Cam’s wife, seemed to think you and he were… still involved.”
She shook her head and let loose a grim chuckle. “Georgia Kovak thinks everyone’s involved with her husband. I’ve never met a woman more paranoid.”
“But you and he did have a relationship?” I asked.
“That’s all over now. He’s done enough damage, I think.”
“And you haven’t heard from him lately?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, no.”
I handed her a business card with my contact information and thanked her for her time. As the door began to close, I added, “Has anyone else visited you today? Any detectives?”
She propped the door open. Her forehead wrinkled as she thought about it. Then she shook her head firmly. “No, sir. Just you.”
“You didn’t see or speak to an albino man and an African American woman with black and red hair?”
She chuckled. “That’s weirdly specific. No, I did not speak to anyone fitting that description. Bye now.”
“Thanks for your time.”
Who’s paranoid now, Gunn?
6
Paranoia’s a survival trait in my line of work. If you don’t watch your six, bad things can happen.
No surprise then that I’d been searching my rearview mirror for a white sedan since I started heading back to the office. It was difficult to tell the make and model of the cars behind me at night, but I didn’t think I’d seen a white Mercedes—yet.
While I drove, I let my mind wander back over the details of my assignment.
Something didn’t add up. I couldn’t figure out why Georgia Kovak would think her husband was sleeping with Patricia Wallart if Wallart hadn’t seen “Cam” for at least a year.
The problem was, my bullshit detector had been finely honed over a decade of skiptracing and I was ninety-nine percent sure Patricia Wallart was telling me the truth. There was always the chance she was an exceptional liar—I run into that sort person on occasion, the type who could lie to my face without breaking a sweat. Typically, they were gamblers, drug dealers, or a person who’d developed lying as part of a survival skill set. But not the Patricia Wallarts of the world. I’d looked her straight in the eyes, and there had been no deception there. She had been genuinely surprised when I mentioned Kovak’s name.
I didn’t have a good answer, but I wasn’t done with this lead. I knew better than to second guess Mrs. Kovak’s intuition. Kovak was cheating with someone, Georgia just didn’t know the mistress had changed. Count on a guy like Kovak to roll through more than one skank ho in a year. Many more, perhaps.
I guess I had my work cut out for me.
By the time I got back, east Sixth Street was already busy. The night crowd was making a strong showing and I had to park a few blocks awa
y from the office. No big deal. After all that time in the truck, it was good to stretch my legs.
I relished the basso feel of drums rolling out the open window of a lively corner bar. The place was crowded and sweaty, filled with dolled-up girls in tight denim shorts and cowboy boots, and the desperate young men chasing them.
A block later, a bachelorette party of a dozen women wearing glittery black t-shirts and high heels, danced around and past me while singing pop songs and waving phallic-shaped balloons in the air. One of balloons drifted to the ground and fell victim to a spike heel. When it popped, the whole group erupted in a fit of senseless giggling.
I was still shaking my head when I opened the door to my office and discovered an unexpected visitor sitting behind my desk. I rocked back on my heels.
“Annabelle?” I said. “What are you doing here?”
Annabelle Summers was what any hormone-producing male would have called a blonde bombshell. A knockout. She wore thick horn-rimmed black glasses, a black blouse, and tight white cotton shorts. Even in those cork heels, she would only stand about six inches shorter than me. A pair of silver hoops dangled from her earlobes. My laptop was open on the desk and she was thumbing through some bills.
I averted my eyes when it began to feel like I was staring. My mother always said hoop earrings were trashy. I guess I thought trashy was sexy.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Hey, you! Sorry to drop in like this, but Alek said you asked for help with your bills. He thought you’d be out for awhile.”
I felt my face heat up. “Erm, he didn’t have to do that.”
“Oh, it’s no problem. I’m more than happy to help. Would have been here earlier but, well, it’s been a busy day. Alek was right to send me though. Payments on this business loan are way past due. Between interest and late fees, you’re paying as much each month in administrative costs as you are on the principal. If you’d told me about this before, I could have helped you renegotiate payment terms… or… or something.”
