Autumn Secrets (Seasons Pass Book 4)

by Susan C. Muller

  He’d have been so much happier if he hadn’t asked that question.

  Driving home in Lola, his beloved truck, Noah tried to put his visit to the morgue out of his mind. He didn’t want to think about the four unknown women and their last hours.

  He didn’t want to think about the morgue at all.

  Yet, despite his hatred of the place where he’d identified Betsy’s lifeless body, he hadn’t suffered the stomach cramps that usually preceded his visits. Had offering to be the one who attended the autopsies finally paid off by hardening him to the building, its long echoing corridors, and offensive smells?

  Or had it all happened on August 26, the one year anniversary of his wife’s death, the day he’d dreaded most in the world?

  He’d planned to spend the day alone, with only Sweet Pea for company. After all, the little Yorkie had known Betsy long before Noah barged into their world. It had taken months for them to accept each other. Now they were inseparable.

  But his family and friends would have none of that.

  Conner, Jeannie, and baby Betsy had showed up at his door by nine o’clock carrying breakfast tacos complete with chorizo sausage and salsa. Later they dragged him over to Rachelle’s house where his sister had obviously instructed Emma and Iris their job was to make Uncle Noah laugh.

  And against all odds, they had.

  The two girls ganged up on him in the swimming pool and tried their best to dunk him. Later, as his brother-in-law, Frank, grilled vegan hot dogs and hamburgers, they’d pop out unexpectedly from behind a bush and soak him with water guns. He’d chase them, growling, and scoop them onto his shoulders.

  Even Sweet Pea had fun, running and playing.

  In the weeks since, each day he’d felt himself grow stronger. Maybe that’s why today’s trip to the morgue, while unpleasant, hadn’t been devastating.

  And why he could go home, play with Sweet Pea, take her for a walk, eat some of Rachelle’s vegetarian lasagna, and not obsess over dead young women.

  There’d be plenty of time for that tomorrow when he could actually do something about it.

  Lieutenant Jansen glared at Noah from under bushy eyebrows knitted together into one line, like the sleeve of a woolen sweater after a cat attack. “You want me to do what?”

  “Check with the Chief. See if we can get a cadaver sniffing dog or one of those ground penetrating radar things. There are more women buried in that field. I can feel it in my bones. This guy’s been up to no good for a long time.”

  “As much faith as I have in your bones, the Chief may want more proof.”

  Conner stepped in to back him up. About time he pulled his weight. “There’s circumstantial evidence to indicate the woman found in the deserted apartment building and the ones in the field were killed by the same person. All were murdered by someone who was careful to leave no trace evidence.”

  “So your evidence is that there’s no evidence? That should go over well.”

  Damn Conner, hadn’t he learned? You always start with the sexy stuff. Don’t bury the lead. “All were strangled, slowly for maximum effect, even though the trachea was broken, indicating the perp was strong enough to finish the job quickly. He then washed away any evidence and left their nude bodies hidden with the expectation they wouldn’t be found for several years.”

  “Yet they were found within a few months.”

  “That field was in a hundred-year flood plain. He wouldn’t have expected her body to float up, and that apartment building should have been a safe disposal site. The county is covered with demolition projects that will wait decades before facing the wrecking ball. Still, I think the fact that one was left aboveground and two shared a grave indicates the perp had lost track of where his other bodies were buried.”

  “You’re saying that site’s a killing field?”

  Conner’s voice was soft, an indication he was serious. “That’s exactly what we’re saying. He could have spent the last several years perfecting his craft and filling up the available space.”

  Good. Conner was always cautious. If he’d convinced him, his wild theory maybe wasn’t so wild after all. “Victims three and four were killed quite recently and only a couple of weeks apart, yet victim number two died four months ago and victim one has been dead for ten years. Why the different time frame? I believe he didn’t change his M.O. We just haven’t found the ones in between.”

  The Lieu visibly shivered at the thought. “I’d like to help you guys, but I’m not even sure HPD has the things you’re asking for.”

  Noah leaned in, pressing his point. “No one else is, either. If not, let’s call the FBI. They always have the latest toys.”

  “You’d be willing to work with those guys?”

  “Yes. I am.” And wasn’t that a sign of his new attitude toward life?

  “It’s barely eight o’clock. The Chief’s not in yet. Give me an hour to research this and I’ll get back to you.”

  Tom Meyers stood over the apron-front porcelain sink with his first cup of coffee and a toasted bagel. The coffee was too hot to drink, so he set the china cup in its saucer on the granite countertop and switched on the TV. His own image filled the screen.

  Not the best photo he’d seen—his mouth was open. And not the most recent—that tie had to be ten years out-of-date, and the suit looked more Men’s Warehouse than Armani. Hell, there were areas of brown in his trademark white hair. But definitely him. Still a baby lawyer, first starting out, before he hit the big time.

  Normally he’d be overjoyed with the free publicity, but this didn’t feel right.

  He was plenty busy—filing affidavits, taking depositions, interviewing witnesses, researching, schmoozing with possible clients—but not one of the multiple cases on his desk was newsworthy at this point.

  He lifted the coffee and blew on the hot liquid before taking a sip.

  And where was that photo taken? An official-looking hallway, but not the Criminal Courts Building, or City Hall or police headquarters. If it was one of the outlying stations, he didn’t recognize it. The hall was grubby, but not filthy enough to be the Harris County Jail.

  The camera panned to the side and he caught a glimpse of a hauntingly familiar face before the scene changed and the traffic report came on with the woman forecaster whose smile made Houston’s abominable traffic almost, but not quite, bearable.

  He waited, frozen in place for one nanosecond, while the face registered. The gold-rimmed cup slipped from his fingers and shattered in the sink as his phone chirped.

  Three texts. One from his secretary. One from his junior partner. One from his mother.

  This couldn’t be good.

  Noah busied himself with paperwork while he waited for his boss to call. He tried, but failed to keep his eyes from straying to the phone on his desk. The hands on the old-fashioned clock over Lieutenant Jansen’s office crept forward so slowly he worried the battery had given out.

  When his phone rang he grabbed for it, knocking over his Styrofoam cup and spilling cold coffee over his desk. “Yes?” He didn’t bother to identify himself.

  “Detective Dougherty?”

  Shit. It wasn’t Jansen.

  He scrambled to rescue papers from the spreading puddle while balancing the receiver against his shoulder. “Yes.” A bottom drawer held paper towels and he built a dyke to protect his keyboard.

  “This is Tom Meyers.”

  Silence.

  “Conner Crawford’s attorney in the Aldo Rogers case.”

  He knew who the shyster was. He just didn’t want to speak to him.

  “Something’s come up that I’d like to consult with you about. Could we meet in my office later today?”

  Hell no. “I’m rather busy at the moment. Can’t you tell me about it over the phone?”

  “It’s a very delicate matter. Perhaps I could buy you lunch at a restaurant near the courthouse.”

  And take a chance someone would see them together? According to that fucking clock, it
had only been twelve minutes since he left the Lieu’s office. It would be a cold day in August before the Chief made it to his desk by nine-thirty. And who knew how long after that till he took the Lieu’s call or gave him an answer.

  “I can come over right now if you guarantee I won’t sit there cooling my heels for an hour.”

  “You have my word.”

  Conner shot him a questioning look, but he simply shrugged as he swept the last of his spilled coffee into the trashcan. “I have to run a quick errand. Text me when you hear from the Lieu.”

  He lied to suspects every day. He didn’t like it, but that came with the job. Lying to his partner was out of the question. Omitting a fact wasn’t.

  No way would he let Conner know the lawyer he trusted with his future had a problem.

  Conner glared at his partner’s retreating back. All this secrecy caused him to wonder if he’d made the right decision about returning to Homicide. Maybe he should reconsider the offer of a transfer to Internal Affairs with its regular hours and lower stress level.

  Betsy’s colic had both him and Jeannie exhausted. Heading home at five every night sounded like Heaven. If Jeannie went back to teaching in January, it would be essential.

  Some cops acted like Internal Affairs was the kiss of death. He didn’t feel that way.

  In Homicide, you might bring a sense of justice or closure to a victim’s family and friends, but their loved one was still dead.

  Working IA would allow him to take bad cops off the street—protecting the public—and clear good cops—saving their careers. Both of which would give him absolutely as much satisfaction as spending his days surrounded by the scum of the earth.

  Especially if he had to waste energy trying to decipher his partner’s hidden agenda.

  “I didn’t grow up in Houston, you know.”

  Tom Meyers wasn’t a big man, probably five ten, but he looked imposing as he sat behind his polished mahogany desk in a room filled with framed certificates and photos of him shaking hands with two different presidents and various celebrities. A monogramed dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up just so, a silk tie, and a full head of snow-white hair added to the image of accomplishment.

  He wasn’t as old as the hair made him seem. Only forty-seven.

  Noah knew this because he’d Googled the guy. He also knew where he was born, where he went to law school—SMU—and where he started his career. But if that’s the way the lawyer wanted to play the game, Noah would bite his tongue, sink back into the butterscotch leather chair, drink coffee made from the finest Arabica beans, and let the guy tell the story his own way.

  “My father had a very successful law firm in Austin. He was also active in the Republican Party. At one point, he was on the short list for a federal judgeship.”

  Your father was a damn crook who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  “My mother was a former Dallas debutante, a member of the DAR, the Junior League and every other organization that coincided with her high standards. They met at SMU and, from what I could see, were quite happy for the next thirty years. I joined my father’s firm straight out of law school and made junior partner in two years.”

  Yeah, yeah. Get on with it. I need to get back to work.

  “The firm specialized in business—contracts, negations, etc.—with a side order of keeping politicians out of trouble. Of course, we wouldn’t be caught dead representing your common thief or murderer, but sometimes one of those business men or political leaders, or their children, needed a little discreet help. That’s where I came in. My mother was horrified, but little by little, I was sucked into the practice of criminal law.”

  Noah glanced around the office with its thick carpet and stunning view of the Houston skyline. It’s a shame how much you’ve suffered.

  “Then one day my father ran into some trouble himself. Seems he liked to bet on college football and baseball and the ponies and maybe play an occasional game of high-stakes poker. He’d been skimming a little here and there from different accounts until a client died and his widow demanded an audit. His firm covered it up, of course. Paid off all debts. But rumors got out. He was done.”

  It wasn’t all covered up. Charges were filed, but dropped. Everybody knew. Good thing it was only a poor widow. If it had been a politician, he’d have been in the federal pen.

  “He retired to their place on Inks Lake where he fished and golfed and Mother berated him daily. He died after four years. In the end, your name and reputation is all you have, as my mother was fond of pointing out.”

  The guy actually made quotation marks with his fingers. Did people really do that?

  “The Meyers name wasn’t worth shit in Austin, so I moved to Houston and started over.”

  Noah couldn’t take it any longer. “I hate to rush you, but what does any of this have to do with me?”

  “I want you to look into one of my old cases.”

  “I’m a homicide detective. Not a private investigator. I work for the City of Houston. No one else.”

  “I wasn’t planning on paying you.”

  What the fuck? I should help you out because what, we’re such good friends?

  “Your partner, Conner Crawford, still owes me $8,000.00. And that’s after the discount I gave him and the money you collected. Which he will never know about, as promised.”

  Noah felt his face turn red and Meyers must have seen the steam coming out of his ears because he held up his hand in a stop motion.

  “I realize that must seem like a lot, especially since Internal Affairs cleared him in the death of Aldo Rogers and the man’s family dropped their suit, but you have no idea what went into making those things happen. I flew to Nashville twice, hired a court reporter and videographer to record Paige Reimer’s deposition. By the way, she asked after you.”

  Ah shit. Now he really felt bad.

  “I also traced down the young officer—Nguyen—that Rogers shot. He left the department and is working on a shrimp boat with his cousin in Victoria. At least I didn’t have to spend the night there.”

  “I didn’t realize Nguyen had quit the force.”

  “He claimed getting shot once was enough. He’d take his chances against Mother Nature from now on.”

  Nothing like being shot point blank to encourage a change of career.

  “I invested a lot of man hours here in Houston, also. I took depositions from Roberto “Lefty Bob” Hernandez and Earl Sparks. I had several meetings with your legal department, which, I must say, didn’t impress me. Then there’s the Rogers family. I should charge you the $8,000.00 for having to deal with them alone. I’m still fumigating my office.”

  The whole batch of them were scum, no doubt about that.

  “So, what do you say? Do me this one favor, which falls well within your area of expertise, and I’ll wipe the debt clean. I’ll tell him it’s a baby gift.”

  Tom Meyers watched Noah wrestle with his decision. He’d spent many hours with the detective’s partner, Conner Crawford, while preparing his defense after he’d killed a man to save Noah’s life.

  He’d even spent some time with Noah, taking his deposition and questioning him on the events that led up to the shooting.

  He knew Conner well, but had a fairly good handle on Noah’s personality, also. If fact, he’d made a dossier of both men.

  At thirty-seven, Conner was the oldest by one year, yet Noah was lead detective because Conner had spent two years in Seminary before joining the force.

  Both men were fiercely loyal to each other and the citizens they served, although Conner might have showed a bit more respect for their top brass. Noah seemed quicker to anger, but that didn’t make Conner a pushover.

  Physically, they were both imposing men. Conner stood about six feet tall with a trim, athletic body. Noah sported two more inches and twenty pounds of muscle. They both had brown hair and eyes, but Noah’s edged closer to black.

  And those dark eyes glared at him, lava-hot. />
  “I don’t fix cases. Not to help you, not to help Conner, not for any reason.”

  “I would never ask you to do that. I was hoping you could check over one of my old cases. See what you think.”

  “Same answer. I won’t feed you confidential information.”

  “Don’t need any.”

  “If I find anything incriminating I’ll turn it over to the DA.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  Tom could almost see the wheels turning in Noah’s head.

  “Which case is it?”

  “I can’t tell you. Attorney client privilege.”

  “How am I supposed to know where to look?”

  “I’m betting $8,000.00 you can figure that out.”

  “Is your client in jail?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any open charges?”

  “None.”

  “And all I have to do is read over the evidence and tell you what I think?”

  “Well, I’d like you to do a little investigating. Don’t take any information at face value. Other than that, you don’t even have to tell me. Simply satisfy yourself.”

  “I’m working on an important case right now. Your job might have to wait until I’m finished.”

  “Don’t let it wait too long, but at this point a few more days won’t make any difference.”

  Well, that was interesting.

  Noah’s drive back to the office was short and he spent it considering everything Tom said.

  Eight thousand dollars wasn’t an insurmountable amount for Conner, but with the extra expenses surrounding Betsy’s difficult birth and resulting health problems for Jeannie and the baby, he might need time to pay it down. The guys had already chipped in and Noah wasn’t about to ask them for more.

  He’d made a substantial contribution himself and could pay another thousand or two, but if Conner already had the bill, he’d know and that couldn’t happen.

  So, was Tom’s “favor” something he’d be willing to take on?