Low Pressure

by Sandra Brown

  Fortunately he and the dentist played golf together, so Rupe had his cell-phone number. “No, it can’t wait till regular business hours tomorrow,” he’d said when the dentist balked. “It’s an emergency. I’ll be there by eight.”

  At the hospital, the ER doctor recognized him despite the damage done to his face. “Say, aren’t you the King of Cars? What happened? You sell somebody a lemon?”

  “I ran into a door.” He’d had to speak carefully to prevent his loosened caps from falling off. He’d already lost one, creating a significant gap in his top row of pearly whites.

  “Yeah, that happened to me once,” the doctor said, adding archly, “When I owed a guy money.”

  Ha-ha. I get it. The doctor turned out to be an intern, and once he’d stopped with the wisecracks, which Rupe had borne with false good humor, he confirmed that Rupe’s nose had indeed been “busted all to hell and back.”

  With Rupe gnashing his teeth despite the loose caps, the doctor had repositioned his nose the best he could, taped it, and then told Rupe that plastic surgery would probably be required to make it cosmetically pleasing again.

  “But nothing can be done until the swelling goes down.”

  “How long with that take?”

  “Several weeks. Six, eight maybe.” The prospect of a long, slow healing process seemed to delight him. He ripped a prescription for painkillers off a pad, and as he handed it to Rupe, he said, tongue in cheek, “Don’t be a stranger.”

  Cute. That was the tag line with which Rupe signed off all his television commercials.

  He had stopped at his house long enough to wash down two of the pain pills with neat scotch and to change his clothes, which still bore the heel marks of Moody’s boots. Fortunately, his wife and kids were spending two weeks in Galveston with his in-laws, so he hadn’t had to make explanations. By the time they returned, he wouldn’t look quite so bad, and he would have thought of something plausible to explain his altered appearance.

  At eight o’clock, the dentist had met him at the back door of his office, and then Rupe had spent four grueling hours with a blinding light in his eyes and sharp instruments in his mouth.

  When he awoke this morning, his nose was throbbing, his eyes were swollen practically shut, and, although his caps had been re-cemented to last for a thousand years, his gums were too tender even to sip coffee.

  Looking at himself in his bathroom vanity mirror, he muttered, “Fucking Moody,” and pledged to find the former cop and kill him.

  Toward that end, he called Haymaker.

  “Hey, Rupe,” he answered cheerfully, “how’s it hanging?”

  “You son of a bitch, you turned him on to me, didn’t you?”

  “Who? Turned who on to you? What are you talking about?” Haymaker’s voice was so ridiculously innocent it was taunting.

  “I’m going to ruin you.”

  “If you could’ve, you would’ve. Know what I think, Rupe? I think you’ve lost your touch. That edge you once had just ain’t what it used to be.”

  “I’m giving you one last chance, Haymaker.”

  “To do what? My car note is current. I even paid a month ahead. So don’t send one of your goons after that sorry tin can you sold my wife, or I’ll have to report it stolen.”

  “Tell me where Moody is.”

  “Oh,” he said, dragging out the word. “So that’s what this is about. Moody. You haven’t found him yet?”

  Rupe could swear Haymaker smothered a laugh. “If you don’t tell me—”

  “I swear, Rupe. Dale hasn’t shared his current address with me. Waterboarding wouldn’t get it for you.”

  “Find out where he is. You have until this time tomorrow. If you don’t come through, you’re going to have me as an enemy for the rest of your life. And, Haymaker, you don’t want that.”

  “Uh, Rupe. I don’t think you ought to be worrying about Moody.”

  “I’m not worried. I can shut him up forever. I can shut you up forever. And I don’t even have to get my hands dirty. I don’t even have to leave my office. I can—”

  “What I mean is,” Haymaker said, interrupting. “I don’t think having Dale and me killed is gonna solve your problem. Because, see, I’m looking out my front window as we speak, and guess who’s coming to call?”

  Chapter 16

  While Bellamy was showering and dressing, Dent swapped out their cars, then made toast and scrambled eggs, which she ate hungrily when she rejoined him in the kitchen. More casually dressed than he’d ever seen her, she had on a pair of snug jeans and a white shirt. She looked good and smelled great.

  Once they were on I-35, driving back to Austin in her car, she asked him where they were going. “Haymaker. He partnered with Moody during the investigation.”

  “I vaguely remember him.”

  “I saw them more than you did and got the impression they were pals off the job. Maybe he can tell us where Moody is.” Then he reintroduced the subject of Jerry. “What do you make of your number-one fan being in the Georgetown park yesterday and then apparently following us to the airport?”

  “I admit that it smacks of stalking. If I ever come face-to-face with him again, I’ll tell him that his behavior is making me uncomfortable.”

  “Oh, that should put the fear of God into him.”

  She shot him a dirty look and the conversation died there.

  Donald Haymaker lived in one of Austin’s older neighborhoods, which hadn’t yet had an influx of younger people looking for homes to redo and modernize. As they approached the small porch of his house, Bellamy asked, “How do you think we’ll be received?”

  Dent didn’t have time to venture a guess. The former police officer opened his door even before they rang the bell. He regarded them as curiously as they assessed him.

  He’d developed a pot belly, which looked comical in contrast to his hairless, bandy legs and knobby knees. His eyes were small and squinty, his nose upturned and sharp at the end. Put a silly cap on his head, and he’d look like one of the Rice Krispies elves.

  He made a point of appraising the cuts and bruises on Dent’s face. “Still finding trouble, I see.”

  “I guess no introductions are necessary.”

  Haymaker snorted. “You I would’ve recognized anywhere. Even with your face messed up.” Then he shifted his gaze to Bellamy. “You? I wouldn’t have known, except that I’ve been seeing you on TV.”

  “May we come in?” she asked politely.

  He hesitated for only a moment, then stood aside. Beyond a small foyer was a cluttered living room that boasted a large flat-screen TV. Family pictures were lined up on the mantel. A mutt lay sleeping in the corner of the sofa. Taking up a lot of the floor space was a faux leather recliner with an oil stain matching the size and general shape of Haymaker’s head.

  He motioned them toward the sofa, where Bellamy crowded in between Dent and the dog, who wasn’t instructed to vacate his spot in order to make room for them. Haymaker took the recliner and adjusted it to a comfortable angle with the footrest up. The bottoms of his white socks were gray.

  He grinned puckishly. “What can I do for you folks?”

  Dent got straight to the point. “Produce your buddy Dale Moody.”

  The former cop laughed a little too loudly and loosely for it not to sound forced. “Old Dale,” he said, shaking his head and smiling fondly. “Wonder what became of him?”

  “Well, for one thing he got drummed out of the Austin PD.”

  Haymaker lunged upright in his lounger and stabbed the air with his index finger. “That’s a damn lie. Where’d you hear that? Dale left the department by choice. He wasn’t fired. He wasn’t even suspended.”

  “So no one ever found out about what he did to me?”

  Beside him Bellamy twitched with surprise, but she didn’t say anything. He’d asked her to let him loosen up Haymaker. He hadn’t told her how he intended to go about it.

  Haymaker’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Okay, y
eah, Dale was a tough cop. He wasn’t always politically correct. Sometimes he got a little carried away, especially with punks like you who thought they were smarter than him.”

  “I was smarter than him. I called his bluff and didn’t confess, and he didn’t follow through on his threat. I still have both eyes in perfect working condition.”

  He turned to Bellamy. “Moody showed up at my house when my dad was at work. He bent me backward over our kitchen table and pressed a Phillips screwdriver to my eyelid. He said if I didn’t confess to choking Susan, he was going to puncture my eyeball and destroy forever any chance I had of flying an airplane.

  “I was alone. I didn’t have a lawyer. For over an hour, Moody tried to get a confession out of me by threatening to blind me.” He turned back to Haymaker. “And this son of a bitch held me down while he did it.”

  Haymaker rolled his narrow shoulders. “No harm was done, was it? You made out okay.”

  “Allen Strickland didn’t.”

  Bellamy’s softly spoken words had a noticeable impact on Haymaker, who began fidgeting even more, making the faux leather beneath him squeak. “You can’t lay it at Dale’s door that Strickland was killed in prison. The boy was tried in a court of law. He was found guilty by a jury of his peers—”

  “On nothing but circumstantial evidence.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” he said quickly. “I was present only a few of the times that Dale questioned him, then I was assigned to another case.”

  “You didn’t help Moody and Rupe Collier cook up the case against Strickland?”

  “No.” Then, realizing he’d walked into a trap, Haymaker began backpedaling. “What I mean is, they didn’t cook up anything. They had a solid enough case to get a conviction. The jury thought so.”

  “What did Detective Moody think?”

  In response to Dent’s question, his beady eyes blinked nervously. “What do you mean?”

  “Was it sheer coincidence that Moody left the police department shortly after Allen Strickland died in Huntsville?”

  Haymaker squirmed some more. “Dale didn’t confide in me why he quit. He… he had some problems with the bottle. Lots of cops do, you know,” he said defensively.

  “Why did he?”

  “Trouble at home. He was married to a real harpy. My wife wouldn’t win any prizes, but that one of Dale’s—”

  “We’re not here to talk about his marital woes or his drinking habits.” Dent sat forward, propping his forearms on his thighs as he moved closer to the former detective and lowered his voice to a confidential pitch. “Bellamy and I think that maybe the reason Dale Moody quit being a cop, and seemingly dropped off the face of the earth, is because he couldn’t live with his guilty conscience.”

  Haymaker was finding it hard to look either of them in the eye. “I wasn’t his priest or his shrink.”

  “You were his friend, though. His one and only.” Dent gave Haymaker several moments to wonder how he knew that before enlightening him. “After that screwdriver incident, I wanted my pound of Moody’s flesh, so I started following him. You were the only person that he met after hours. You were his only drinking buddy. I trailed the two of you for weeks, night after night, from bar to bar.

  “Then Gall, who I never could pull anything over on, demanded to know what I was up to. When I told him, he called me a numbskull and told me that if I wanted to assault a cop and ruin my life, fine, but that he wasn’t going to be a party to my ruination. He ordered me off his property and told me not to come back.”

  He spread his hands. “I loved flying more than I hated Moody. I gave up my revenge plot, and the only thing that came from my amateur surveillance was the knowledge that Detective Moody had only one friend.” He tipped his head toward Haymaker. “If anybody knows where he is, it’s you.”

  The man rubbed his palms up and down the legs of his baggy plaid shorts. “What do you want him for?” Looking at Bellamy, he said, “You already did a number on him in your book. You looking to drive the nails in his hands a little deeper?”

  “I wanted to interview him for my book but couldn’t find him,” she said. “I was as accurate as I could be, based on the impressions of a preteen girl. It wasn’t my intention to cast aspersions on Detective Moody. Why would I? He captured and helped convict the man who killed my sister.”

  “So there you have it,” Haymaker said, slapping the padded arms of his chair. “The end.”

  “No, not the end,” she said. “Not if you think I ‘did a number on him.’ Is that how he perceives it, too?”

  “I don’t know what he perceives.”

  “You’re lying,” Dent said.

  Bellamy placed a cautionary hand on his knee. In a gentler, less combative voice, she asked, “Does Moody see it that way, too, Mr. Haymaker? If so, wouldn’t he welcome the chance to set me straight?”

  “Uh-uh. No way. He won’t talk to you.” Haymaker gave a decisive shake of his head.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he won’t even talk to me about it, and I’m his best… only… friend. As wiseass here has pointed out.” He cast a sour glance at Dent. Dent didn’t respond. Bellamy was making headway where he hadn’t, so he yielded the floor to her.

  She asked Haymaker, “Have you tried to get him to talk about it?”

  “For eighteen friggin’ years. I don’t know what-all went on. But what I do know, Dale wasn’t ever the same after that boy got killed in prison. After it happened, he stayed drunk for a month, then just up and announced to me that he was leaving the department, leaving his family, leaving Austin, and that was that.”

  “But you’re still in contact?”

  He shifted his weight, scratched his head, and seemed to consider how much he should impart. When he looked at Dent, it was with hostility, but he responded to Bellamy’s calm gaze.

  Releasing a long sigh, he mumbled, “We talk by phone. Off and on. Not regular. Half the time, he doesn’t answer or call me back if I leave a message. I worry about him. He’s not a well man. Chest wheezes like a bagpipe.”

  “That’s too bad,” Dent deadpanned. “Where does he live?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Dent looked around the room. “Got a Phillips screwdriver handy?”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t know where he lives!” Haymaker exclaimed. “Swear to God I don’t. You could put my eye out and I still couldn’t tell you.” Then he raised his pointed chin defiantly. “Even if I could, even if he lived next door to me here, I wouldn’t tell y’all, ’cause Dale would want nothing to do with talking to you. You’ve wasted your time coming here.”

  Dent and Bellamy exchanged a look, each conceding that they believed him but were at a loss as to where to go from there.

  Then, moving suddenly, Dent reached across the space separating him from the small table at their host’s elbow and picked up a cell phone.

  Haymaker’s recliner sprang upright. “Hey!” He tried to snatch the phone from Dent’s hand.

  He held it just out of the other man’s reach. “Moody’s number is in here, right? Call him. Tell him we want to talk to him. Tell him you think it would be a good idea. It would give him a chance to validate the outcome of his investigation.”

  “He doesn’t have to validate shit.”

  “Then that’s what he can make clear to us.” Acting on a hunch, Dent added, “At the very least, he can explain how he and Rupe Collier built their case against Allen Strickland.”

  Haymaker’s elfin eyes darted back and forth between them. “You’ve got nothing on them.”

  “So there were some machinations?” Bellamy said.

  “That’s not what I said,” he sputtered. “Don’t put words in my mouth, missy.”

  “We’re not really interested in what you have to say, Haymaker. We want to talk to Moody.” Dent grinned with malice. “If he bent some rules, we’ll be giving him a chance to cleanse his soul. When he dies, he’ll go to heaven instead of hell. Good fo
r everybody.”

  “Call him, Mr. Haymaker,” Bellamy softly urged.

  He silently debated it for several moments, then held up his hands in surrender. “Okay. Fine. I’ll think about it.”

  Dent said, “You’ve got five seconds.”

  “Look, come back tomorrow—”

  Dent made a honking sound like a quiz-show buzzer. “Can’t wait till tomorrow.”

  “How come?” Haymaker looked at Bellamy. “What’s your all-fired hurry?”

  “I have my reasons for needing to see him as soon as possible. Call him.”

  The former cop continued to fidget, continued to stew.

  “Time’s up.” Dent slid his thumb across the bottom of the screen, engaging the phone. “If you call him, you’re his concerned friend offering advice. If I call him, you’re the buddy who betrayed him. You choose.”

  When Steven saw the name on his phone’s caller ID, he signaled William to take over for him at the hostess stand and quickly made his way into the relative quiet of the office behind Maxey’s busy kitchen. His phone had stopped vibrating by the time he closed himself in, so he redialed. Olivia answered on the first ring.

  “Sorry I couldn’t answer in time, Mother. Is it Howard?”

  “He’s holding on by a thread.”

  Steven could tell by the hoarseness in her voice that she’d been crying.

  “So am I,” she added shakily. “A very slender thread. He’ll have minutes of perfect clarity, and then periods when he lapses into a semiconscious state that terrifies me. I’m afraid he’ll never come out of it. He looks so old and feeble I can barely believe it’s my Howard.”

  “Jesus. I know how hard this must be for you.” If William were dying, he would feel like his world was collapsing and he was powerless to stop it. “I’m sorry you’re there dealing with this alone.”

  “Bellamy was here last night.” When he didn’t say anything, she softly added, “I know she came to see you, Steven. She told me. I was surprised she went all that way, given Howard’s condition. He was desperate to talk to her last night.”