by Ben Rehder
Now on COPS, some slow-witted guy without an ID was saying his last name was spelled D-L-F-U-M. He couldn’t name the year he was born. No surprise that he ended up in handcuffs.
Speaking of cops, the young deputy who had responded to my call earlier had done exactly what I’d wanted: he’d taken a report and collected some blood samples off the ground. I’d told him I’d been accused of assault by Gilbert Holloway, and that I suspected Holloway was trying to prevent me from investigating the death of Jeremy Sawyer, and that I further suspected Creek Guy had been sent by Holloway to send me a message. I kept it as brief as possible, and the deputy took it down, but ultimately I would have to tell it all to the detective who would get assigned to the case. Yes, just as a detective would be assigned to investigate Holloway’s claim that I’d assaulted him, a detective would be assigned to this case, too. Not the same detective, obviously. If I could identify Creek Guy and connect him to Holloway, that would go a long way in clearing me. More important, it might help me figure out what happened on the party barge.
Mia stirred. She lifted her head a few inches and looked at me, still half asleep. “What’re you doing?”
“Surfing porn,” I said.
“Finding anything good?”
“Well, if you like whipped cream, you’d love the video I just watched.”
“Mmkay,” she said, and lowered her head. Out again in seconds. Investigating Dennis Babcock had tuckered the poor girl out.
We’d had a discussion regarding whether she should alert the cops, but we both still agreed that we shouldn’t. We figured there were three possible scenarios: Number one, Dennis and Roscoe were playing mind games, because they were just that bored, holed up in their home, and because they were pinheads, getting their jollies by wasting Mia’s time. Number two, Dennis really was in some type of danger, but until we knew what it was, we might cause him harm by alerting the police. Look at the pizza delivery guy with a bomb around his neck. Or, number three, something was happening that we didn’t understand—yet—and that’s why Mia should keep after it.
I went to Google and tried an advanced search for “adam dudley,” and I limited it to results from Facebook. This would allow me to see some comments Adam Dudley had made on profiles or pages that were viewable by the public, and I’d be able to see if he had been tagged in comments other people had made on those pages. The drawback was that there were dozens of Adam Dudleys on Facebook, so I’d have to sort through a lot of junk to find anything useful.
It’s my job to thoroughly understand the workings of Facebook, and this was one area in which I was admittedly confused. You’d think there would be thousands of comments on public pages by people named Adam Dudley, but for reasons I didn’t understand, the search results were always much smaller than anticipated. In this case, there were 985 hits.
I quickly learned that there was a voice actor named Adam Dudley. And an author named Adam Dudley who wrote business books for entrepreneurs. And an Adam Dudley who worked for some sort of hunting-related organization. Plus lots of other Adam Dudleys with a wide range of interests and activities. But I wasn’t seeing any comments from Adam “Meatball” Dudley.
Until I got to the eighth page of hits.
He had commented on a page for a beer joint near Lake Travis called the Bock Dock. I had been in there a few times myself. Always an interesting collection of people—from bikers and frat boys to rednecks and millennials. Meatball had been there three weeks earlier for something called Miss Mermaid night, which was basically a bikini contest that had nothing to do with mermaids, but it tied in to the nautical theme set by the name of the place. Come on down! Half-price drinks for ladies in bikinis, and trophies for the three who get the most votes for the title of Miss Mermaid. The top vote-getter gets a cash prize of $250.
Whoever managed the Bock Dock page had posted an album of photos from that night—eighty-three in all, with the majority featuring women posing for the camera. A long list of comments followed—mostly from men offering their opinions on the event. A few were clever. Many were crass. Adam Dudley had said, Some fine lookin lady’s!
I began to click through the album photos one by one, and there were additional comments for the women in each individual shot. In some cases, the remarks went from crass to obscene. Frankly, I was beginning to feel embarrassed for my gender. In other words, it was just another day online.
Photo after photo showed a solo woman, or sometimes a couple, or an occasional group shot. Every now and then, a man or two would be in one of the shots—not as the subject, but as a nearby ogler or catcaller. I didn’t see Meatball in any of them.
But I did see someone I recognized—a leggy blond with perfect boobs, to paraphrase Jayci’s description of her. And Harvey had said this woman could be a friggin’ model.
Yep. Same girl from the barge party.
She was wearing a tasteful red two-piece swimsuit and a kimono-style wrap. Standing beside her was a pretty brunette wearing a minuscule black bikini, and her chest was crossed by a white sash declaring her Miss Mermaid. The smile on her face indicated that she was quite proud and excited.
But back to the leggy blond. Interesting to see her and Meatball in the same beer joint at the same time. Could be a coincidence. After all, there was a small population of young, hard-core partiers whose weekends revolved around the lake. It wasn’t necessarily surprising that a woman on a party barge on Devil’s Cove would appear at a bikini contest at a nearby bar, or that a deckhand on the boat would also attend that contest.
The photo of the leggy blond and the sash-winning brunette included a caption: Introducing this month’s Miss Mermaid, Amber Graeber!
I began reading the comments.
Based on the writing skills, some of the men hadn’t finished grade school, and some of them were intoxicated or stoned. Some of the comments didn’t even make sense. Punctuation was a thing of the past.
Then I found a comment from Meatball: Starlyn always looks great too!
He had tagged her, and I followed the link to her profile. Starlyn Kurtis. It was locked down tight. I couldn’t view any of her photos or posts.
Starlyn always looks great too!
Obviously Meatball knew Starlyn Kurtis fairly well. So why had he told me he hadn’t known any of the customers on the barge the night Jeremy Sawyer died? Why had he lied?
13
“I just don’t understand how it could work,” Mia said quietly, so nobody could overhear. “At some point, Dennis would have a chance to get away, don’t you think? I mean, for instance, instead of dropping that note for me, why not just make a break for it? There were people all around. It’s not like Roscoe could pull a gun on him or anything, right there in the Academy parking lot. There would be witnesses. Dennis could run into a store and beg for help. For that matter, all he has to do is walk with his hands down and the jig is up.”
“Hands down, jig up,” I said. “Clever.”
“But if Dennis and Roscoe are pulling a prank, why would Roscoe have that long conversation with me?”
“To make the prank seem that much more realistic?” I said.
“Maybe,” she said. Then, after several more seconds, she added, “But I think it’s scenario number three.”
We had gone over all of this last night, but she was feeling the need to discuss it further, and I didn’t blame her at all. Sometimes, when you came at it a second time, you saw things you didn’t the first time around.
“Which one is that again?” I asked.
“Something is happening, but we don’t know what it is yet,” she said.
“That’s pretty vague,” I said. “And not very helpful at all.”
“Right. You came up with that one,” she said.
“Sounds about right,” I said.
We were having breakfast on Tuesday morning at Magnolia Café on Lake Austin Boulevard, about two miles from Mia’s house. It was almost nine o’clock and the place was packed. We were drinking coffee and w
aiting for our food to arrive. Two tables away, a college-aged guy with a pretty woman his age was sneaking glances at Mia every chance he got. She had her hair in a ponytail this morning. I liked that look. I was starting to get used to the blond.
Speaking of blonds, I was still pondering the relationship between Kurtis and Meatball. What did it mean, if anything? Meatball had said he didn’t know anybody on the party barge, but that was untrue. What was he hiding?
“—don’t you think?” Mia said.
“I’m sorry, what?”
My mind had been wandering for a moment, but she didn’t chide me for it, because it happened to her sometimes, too. Earlier that morning, I had told her what I’d found on the Bock Dock’s web page, so she knew I had a lot to mull over.
“If it’s scenario two, Dennis’s wife has to be in on it, too, don’t you think? Because we know there are times when she leaves the house by herself. She could go straight to a police department.”
A waiter brought our breakfasts—huevos rancheros for me, poached eggs on an English muffin for Mia—and we went quiet for a few minutes, just eating and enjoying.
“Maybe I should just tell APD what’s going on,” Mia said.
“Yeah, but the note—”
“I know,” she said.
“I’d have to vote no on that,” I said.
“If you got a vote,” she said. “It’s my case now. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
“Yesterday you wanted my opinion,” I said.
“What can I say? I’m fickle. Besides, you have your own case to work on.”
“You’re gorgeous when you act tough,” I said. “Or when you don’t.”
She gave me the kind of smile that could make an otherwise normal man consider writing poetry. I could even come up with a decent title: I told her I loved her, but she never told me back, so should I say it again or wait for her to say it? And now you know why I don’t write poetry.
We continued eating, both of us unsure where to go next on our respective cases. I caught the college kid checking out Mia again, so I gave him a wink. He grinned and shook his head at me. I knew what he meant.
Mia’s phone was on the table and it vibrated. She picked it up, read for a moment, then leaned closer and said, “Ruelas got the autopsy results. Jeremy Sawyer drowned, no question about it now. No sign of any trauma.”
Mia and I split up in the parking lot and I wandered aimlessly for a few minutes. Then I pulled into Zilker Park and found a shady spot near the canoe rental. Good memories.
Mia and I had rented a canoe in the summer—or, rather, I’d surprised her by bringing her here and renting a canoe. Spur of the moment type of thing. She’d been dating Garlen at the time, and he’d later confronted me about the canoe ride, because he’d thought it was some sort of romantic overture on my part. He’d been drunk, obnoxious, and absolutely right. Not that I would’ve even admitted it to myself at the time.
I kept the AC running in the van because it was already heating up outside. September in Texas isn’t much more comfortable than August.
Yeah, that canoe ride.
What kind of jerk would make a move on his partner while she appeared to be in a happy relationship with a handsome, wealthy guy? Funny thing is, I didn’t feel bad about it in the least, and Garlen had eventually revealed himself to be an abusive stalker type.
After the car chase, if I’d had my way, Garlen would’ve spent several years in prison, and I made it plain to the county prosecutor that I wanted that to happen. But Garlen hired a high-dollar lawyer who negotiated a plea deal that centered around Garlen joining a treatment program and staying sober for three years. Sucks, but I understood the reality and practicality of the situation.
Back to things at hand.
I could probably track down Starlyn Kurtis and ask her some questions, but my gut told me I shouldn’t do anything else until I’d managed to identify Creek Guy. Figuring out his identity might just bust the entire thing open, whatever this entire “thing” was.
I knew now that Jeremy Sawyer had in fact drowned, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was an accident. Somebody might have tossed or pushed him over, and in his drunken state, he had floundered in the water and finally succumbed. But how did Meatball and Gilbert Holloway and Creek Guy fit in?
I had to step back and consider how I might behave if I were the captain of the barge, or even a deckhand, and some poor, drunk kid had fallen, jumped, or gotten pushed off into the darkness and drowned. How would I react? How would most reasonable people react?
Sadness.
Disappointment.
Regret.
Yeah, maybe a sense of responsibility or guilt, even if those feelings weren’t merited. One captain and one deckhand couldn’t possibly ensure the safety of fifty passengers, especially if those passengers were drinking. But the bottom line was that adults should be expected to behave like adults and not endanger themselves or others, right?
On the other hand, what if there was a reason for Meatball and Gilbert Holloway to feel guilty?
The interior of the Bock Dock was one large room, with a bar running down the left-hand side and tables, booths, and two pool tables taking up the remainder of the space. When I walked in, there were exactly two customers—a middle-aged man and woman seated in a booth in a far corner. They had mugs in front of them and a half-empty pitcher of beer. It was 11:15 on a Tuesday morning, but maybe they were on vacation or something. There were no windows, so the place was fairly dim. The AC was working well.
I grabbed a stool at the bar and nodded at the bartender, a tall, thin guy in his early thirties. I recognized him from at least one previous visit.
“What can I get you?” he asked, tossing a coaster in front of me.
What the hell. It would be noon soon enough. I could see the beers on tap behind him. “Fireman’s Four,” I said.
“Nice,” he said. “My favorite local.”
He filled a chilled pilsner glass and set it on the coaster. I took a drink and it was just as refreshing in the morning as it was at night. Go figure.
The bartender started washing some glasses. Guess they were left over from the previous night, because there wouldn’t have been many dirty glasses from the present crowd. A TV above the bar was tuned to a foreign soccer game, but the sound was off.
“I’ve always been curious about something,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“You’ve got sort of a nautical theme going on here,” I said. “A pelican on the sign outside. Big nets hanging from the ceiling. Sea shells. An octopus painted above the urinal in the bathroom...”
“Right.”
“But that’s ocean stuff,” I said, “and you’re on a lake.”
“Ha,” he said. “I never thought about that. Doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?”
Friendly guy. Open to conversation. Perfect. Helped that the place was dead.
“And the Miss Mermaid contest,” I said. “Do mermaids live in lakes?”
“I guess the owner didn’t think about it much,” he said.
“Who is the owner?” I said. “I’ve been in here several times, but I don’t think I’ve ever met him. Or her, as the case may be.”
“Lawrence Crider.”
The name sounded familiar, but I shook my head, indicating I didn’t know him.
“He’s the original owner?” I asked.
“Yep. He’s been in this area for a long time.”
I extended a hand over the bar. “My name’s Roy.”
He wiped his right hand with a towel, then clasped mine. “Zane.”
I took another drink of my beer and he went back to washing glasses.
“I’ve never been to one of those Miss Mermaid contests,” I said, “but I know one of the winners.”
“Yeah?”
“Amber Graeber.”
“Sure, Amber. She’s a cool girl.”
“And she’s friends with Starlyn Kurtis, I think.”
“Right. So how do you know Starlyn?”
“Met her at a friend’s party. I don’t know her well.”
“But she’s the kind you remember,” Zane said, grinning.
“That’s a good way to put it,” I said.
There was a wink-wink tone to our conversation. We didn’t know each other well enough to say, “Damn, she’s got a smoking body, doesn’t she?” And, of course, I was much too refined to make such a comment.
So I said, “I met her boyfriend, too, but I can’t remember his name.”
“Anson Byrd.”
“That’s right. You know them pretty well?”
His shrug said they were just acquaintances. “They come in now and then,” he said. “I think she’s going off to get her master’s degree somewhere this fall.”
“Oh, that’s cool. In what field?”
“Don’t know, but don’t let her looks fool you. She graduated with honors from UT. She’s been interning for a state rep. Or maybe it’s a senator. I can’t remember.”
“Interesting,” I said. “She never mentioned that to me. Beauty, brains, and modesty, all in one.”
“Hard to beat that,” Zane said.
“Bet she could win Miss Mermaid in a landslide,” I said.
“Yeah, if she ever entered, but she doesn’t.”
“How come?”
“Probably wouldn’t sit real well with the congressman.”
“Good point. Is Starlyn planning to run for office herself someday?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Otherwise, why intern for a congressman?” I said.
“Exactly.”
At this point, I figured if I asked any more questions about Starlyn, Zane might get suspicious. So I veered in a different direction.
