Now You See Him (Roy Ballard Book 4)

by Ben Rehder

  “He was a deckhand on the Island Hopper until a few years ago.”

  “Okay, yeah, I remember now. The kid got us written up once.”

  “Right. His uncle is Lawrence Crider. Owns the Bock Dock?”

  “I know Larry,” Moss said.

  “I know you do,” I said. “I found several photos of you and Larry together at various business functions.” My way of revealing that I’d done my homework and I knew more than he knew I knew.

  “To be blunt, so what?” Moss said.

  “You know Larry, but you had trouble recalling that his nephew Dirk worked for you?”

  “If you have a point, please make it,” he said.

  “Dirk Crider attacked me on a piece of property I own. He tried to drown me in Barton Creek.”

  Moss let out a short laugh of disbelief. “Are you high? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Why would you have an opinion on it if you can’t even remember Dirk? How would you know what he might or might not do?”

  “Because you’re implying that Gilbert is behind it. Because it’s like something out of a dime-store novel. Laughable, really.”

  “I guess it’s natural to protect the captain of your boat. Is he your partner in the business?”

  “Why should I answer your questions?”

  If you’ve ever seen the show COPS, you know that most people will talk when they should remain silent. Many of them are concerned that they will appear guilty if they refuse to answer questions. Even someone like Eric Moss could succumb to that tendency, if you handled him correctly.

  I said, “So he is your partner?”

  “No, he’s an employee. Why would I make him a partner? But he is buying the Island Hopper from me. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “So he has a lot to protect,” I said. “His future.”

  Moss gave a sharp laugh. “Good Lord. You are obviously desperate to counter the charges Gilbert has against you, so you’re trying this lame bullshit.”

  My phone was in my hand, with the recording of Dirk queued up and ready to go. I held my phone up and hit the Play button.

  We were talking in his truck, and he was saying there was a guy that was giving him some trouble, and he was wondering if I’d, you know, kick this guy’s ass. I asked him what the problem was, and he just said it wasn’t anything too important, but this guy deserved an ass kicking, and if I didn’t want to do it, that’s fine, but he’d find someone else who wanted to earn the money. I figured, like, Gilbert probably had a pretty good reason to be asking, so I said yeah, I’d do it.

  I hit the pause button.

  I couldn’t read the expression on Moss’s face now.

  I said, “I wouldn’t call that lame bullshit. Would you? In case you were wondering, that was Dirk.”

  Moss didn’t say anything.

  “Dirk Crider, your former employee,” I said. “The one you can’t remember.”

  “I have nothing more to say,” Moss said. “Call the cops and see where that gets you.”

  Now it was my turn to give him a long stare.

  “Are we done here?” he asked.

  “Apparently Gilbert doesn’t like me asking questions about the night Jeremy Sawyer died. I figure that’s why he sent Dirk after me. He probably sent someone over to Harvey Selberg’s house, too. Maybe Dirk, or someone else.”

  “You are delusional.”

  “Did you not hear the audio I just played?”

  “That could be anybody. Some actor you paid.”

  “But Dirk will confirm that it’s him.”

  “I don’t think he will.”

  “Voice analysis will prove it.”

  Then the tenor of our conversation changed.

  Moss said, “I have a hunch he’ll say he was just jerking your chain. Making stuff up to string you along.”

  He smirked at me and the implication was clear. Moss would coerce Dirk to recant his story. Now I knew that Moss was involved in the cover-up.

  “Why would he do that?” I asked.

  “He has a lively sense of humor.”

  “Weird. On the one hand, you say you don’t even remember him. On the other, you seem to be familiar with his comic sensibilities. Can you understand why that would make me question your veracity?”

  “Question whatever you want. Your five minutes are up. Besides, I bet a good attorney could stop that recording from being played in court.”

  “Couldn’t stop it from making the rounds online, though,” I said.

  “I would sue you into oblivion,” he said. “I would totally destroy you.”

  I waited a beat, then said, “You forgot the evil laugh that’s supposed to come after that.”

  “Are you a mental defective?” he asked.

  “Probably. Your stepdaughter was on the boat that night,” I said.

  He pointed a finger at me. “You leave Starlyn out of it.”

  “I didn’t know she was in it,” I said.

  “She’s not.”

  “What is it?”

  “There is no it.”

  “Then how can she be out of it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I tried calling her,” I said, “but she hasn’t called me back.”

  “And if you call her again,” Moss said, “I will have you charged with harassment. Starlyn is a great girl. She has a bright future and doesn’t need some half-ass detective trying to drag her name through the mud.”

  Very defensive. Maybe I was getting warmer. Which meant I should keep poking.

  “I’m not a detective,” I said.

  “Then stop acting like one.”

  “I saw that she interns for Barry Blanche,” I said.

  I’d dug up everything I could about her, of course, and I’d learned that she worked in the office for the state representative in District 47. Blanche was your basic garden-variety Texas conservative, always placing an emphasis on smaller government. He had a reputation, however, as a reasonable, intelligent man who understood the value and necessity of bipartisanship. Rare nowadays.

  “What about it?” Moss asked.

  “I just thought it was interesting,” I said. “If Starlyn has political aspirations herself, she doesn’t need to be caught up in some scandal.”

  Moss leaned forward. “Follow me closely on this. There is no scandal. Nobody did anything wrong. Why are you trying to make something out of nothing?”

  “I just want to ask her some questions, in case she saw something on the barge.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the point of asking questions.”

  “If she saw something, she would’ve told the cops about it.”

  “Maybe she saw something and doesn’t even realize it’s important. Happens all the time.”

  “And don’t you think the cops would’ve figured that out by now? Or do you think you’re some kind of superhero who has to fly in and save the day?”

  “Just a concerned citizen doing my civic duty,” I said.

  “Now you’re just wasting my time,” and he began to push his chair back.

  “What about Anson?”

  “What about him?”

  “Several people told me Jeremy Sawyer was flirting with Starlyn that night, and it makes me wonder how—”

  “Forget it,” Moss said. “Anson isn’t a hothead. Besides, come on, just look at him. Good-looking guy. Built like a Cowboys linebacker. You think he’s worried about someone flirting with his girlfriend? He steals girls from the Jeremy Sawyers of the world, not the other way around.”

  “That’s something to be proud of, huh? Something for the résumé.”

  “You are really beginning to annoy me,” Moss said. “I didn’t even have to talk to you, but I did, and all I get in response is a lot of accusations and smart-ass comments.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “In that case, I’ll just ask you one more question, and I would appre
ciate it if you’d give me an honest answer.”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing all along,” he said.

  I waited.

  “What’s your damn question?” he said. “Last one, and then we’re done.”

  I gave the question all the gravity it deserved.

  “What happened out on that boat, Eric?”

  He shrugged impatiently, like Really? Haven’t we covered this already?

  “Some poor guy jumped off and drowned. That’s it. There’s nothing else to it. Nobody was responsible for his death except himself.”

  I was disenchanted and my motivation had bottomed out. What now?

  I checked my phone, but Mia hadn’t texted. Instead I saw that Regina, Mia’s neighbor, had called a few minutes earlier.

  I sat in my car with the AC running and called her back.

  “Look,” she said, “you know I’m not a busybody or a tattletale.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And I believe in letting adults make their own decisions and live with the consequences. Within reason.”

  “I’m with you on that,” I said. “Within reason.”

  “But I need to tell you something. I’m not positive, but I’m about ninety percent sure I saw that same BMW drive by about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “The BMW that was at Mia’s yesterday?” I asked.

  I noticed that both of us were avoiding mentioning his name. No real reason for that.

  “Right,” Regina said.

  “Did it pull over or what?”

  “Just drove by slowly.”

  “And you haven’t seen it since?”

  “Nope.”

  “Could you see the driver?”

  “The windows were too dark.”

  “Did it have dealer plates?”

  “Damn. I didn’t even notice.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  The Toyota was starting to cool off, but I was still sweating.

  “What should I do if I see it again?” Regina asked.

  “Let me ask you something. Do you happen to have any rocket-propelled grenades?”

  She laughed. “I wish. I’d take that son of a bitch out in a heartbeat.”

  “I bet you would.”

  “But I’d probably better just call you instead,” she said.

  “I would appreciate it,” I said. “And maybe take a few pictures of him and his car. From a distance. Don’t confront him.”

  We both remained quiet for a moment.

  “I don’t want to piss her off,” Regina said, “but at some point, we can’t worry about that anymore, right?”

  That insight hit me like a stone in the middle of the chest. Shouldn’t I do whatever was best for Mia, even if she became furious with me for it?

  I nodded, looking out at the quiet street.

  “Might not’ve even been the same car,” Regina said. “But I think it was.”

  21

  I resisted my earlier impulse—an overwhelming urge to do whatever I thought was right for Mia—for the longest time. It wasn’t my business. Mia and I were partners, and we were dating, but that didn’t give me the right to butt into her affairs.

  I resisted.

  But I couldn’t help wondering: If I were going to do something, what could I do?

  The most tempting option was still on the table, as far as I was concerned. Find Garlen and give him a beating he would never forget. Break his legs. Better yet, destroy his knee ligaments. Put him on crutches for the long term. Make him aware that he had crossed the line too many times. Let him know he would receive a beating every time he contacted Mia. The only drawback? I’d go to prison. I couldn’t give him beatings from prison.

  Next idea.

  Go ahead and call the cops and tell them Garlen had violated the protective order. Mia would say I’d derailed Garlen’s sincere efforts to make amends and start a better life, but so what?

  Maybe the solution was somewhere in the middle. Contact Garlen—preferably by phone, so I’d be less inclined to do something rash—and gently inform him that he was walking on thin ice. Reason with him. Allude with subtlety to potential repercussions. All of which would be a waste of time. Men who abuse and stalk women don’t think like normal people. Same goes for women who abuse or stalk men. Or anybody who abuses or stalks anybody else.

  There was a tiny part of me that was hoping—for Mia’s sake, as well as Garlen’s and mine—that he would stay true to his word and not contact her again. I decided to assume that would be true, while also putting a safety measure in place.

  He had a new job now, because his previous employer had let him go after the arrest. I found the name of the place on LinkedIn. Ten seconds later, I had an address in Westlake Hills. I drove over there, hoping he would be in the office. Fortunately, it was a multi-tenant three-story office building with lots of vehicles parked in front, on both sides, and in back. That way I wouldn’t be so conspicuous cruising the parking lot slowly.

  I spotted the BMW in the back, tucked between a Mercedes and a GMC truck. I drove past and found a spot fifty feet away. Parked and sat and watched. Studied the building itself. Not many people coming and going at this hour. Plenty of windows looking this way, but that was a chance I’d have to take. I could see a pair of security cameras mounted to the rear of the building, above the entrance, pointed toward the lot. I would be recorded, but I wasn’t concerned about that, even though I was about to commit a crime.

  I stepped from the Toyota wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses, and—believe it or not—a fake mustache. You could buy a pack of six for ten bucks on Amazon. They were comically large, but I trimmed them down to normal size. From a distance, it looked fine. Up close, I looked like a 1980s porn star.

  I was carrying a GPS tracker—one of the best I owned—in a plastic grocery sack. Each new generation of trackers improved on accuracy and battery life. The promotional materials for this particular model claimed it could operate for one hundred days on a single charge. I didn’t know if that was true, but even if it were half that, I’d be in good shape. Had a good, strong magnet to hold it in place.

  I strode purposefully across the lot and stopped between the BMW and the GMC truck. Dropped to the ground and quickly shimmied underneath the front end. It was a tight fit, but I was able to tuck the tracker into a discreet spot where it wouldn’t be visible to anyone looking at the engine compartment from above, with the hood raised.

  I slid out from underneath the car and casually strolled away. Got back into the Toyota and drove off, hoping nobody had seen me from the windows of the office building.

  Mia had called while I was creeping around under her ex-boyfriend’s car, so I called her back.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “I was wondering when you’d come crawling back,” I said.

  I figured, why not counter the tension with some humor? It was a gamble—and it didn’t pay off. I didn’t hear the slightest hint of a giggle. Which told me something about her mood, and where we still stood.

  “Too soon?” I said. “It was just a joke. Sorry.”

  Mia said, “I might be making some progress with Dennis Babcock. Figured you’d want to know.”

  “I do, yeah. What’s the story?”

  “Got a meeting set up with Roscoe, Dennis, me, my fake brother, and his fake lawyer.”

  “Should I fake being excited?” I asked.

  Another lead balloon. She obviously wasn’t in the mood for world-class wit and banter.

  “Now I just need to finish setting it up. You remember Diana Tait?”

  “You bet.”

  Diana Tait was a forty-year-old local actress with high cheek bones, long brown hair, and the uncanny ability to play just about any role—from Desdemona in a stage production of Othello to a folksy southern mayor in a popular prime-time dramedy currently airing on cable TV. Twelve years ago, she’d landed a nice gig as the national spokeswoman in ads for a popular brand of processed cheese product that you s
hot out of a can. (Tastes like real cheese!) We had used her once before for a staged sting and she had proven herself to be a great improviser.

  “I think she’ll make a fantastic lawyer,” Mia said. “Don’t you?”

  “Absolutely. Need any help from me?”

  “That depends. How’s your case going?”

  Even though we were ignoring the fight we’d had earlier, I was grateful we were talking about anything. So I gave her a one-minute update on what I’d been doing since that morning, omitting my visit to Garlen’s place of work, obviously.

  “I think you’re making progress,” she said.

  “Then why do I feel so lost?”

  “Name a case where we didn’t feel lost at some point,” she said. “Besides, you’ve got ample evidence that some kind of cover-up is taking place. Just keep twisting the screws on the major players and somebody will give in eventually, or make a mistake.”

  “Oh, damn, that’s what I forgot,” I said. “Twisting the screws. I’ve been driving the nails and, uh, stapling the staples.”

  “Stapling the staples?”

  “I’m not sure what else you do to them.”

  “You know I’m right,” she said.

  “Probably so,” I said.

  “So what is your plan right now?” she asked.

  “Ha,” I said. “Plan. Good one.”

  “Would you prefer to take a break instead?”

  “By playing the role of your brother?” I asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “When?”

  “Hoping tomorrow afternoon, if Roscoe agrees.”

  “When will you know for sure?”

  “I left a voicemail. Waiting to hear back. Roscoe is one skittish dude. Wouldn’t surprise me if he backs out entirely.”

  “Well, just let me know,” I said.

  I was hoping it would occur to Mia that we should get together and create a backstory, so we could put on a convincing show. Roscoe obviously assumed I was faking a neurological disorder, same as Dennis, and that we just wanted in on the scam, but he wouldn’t know I wasn’t actually Mia’s brother. If he began to suspect that wasn’t true, he’d become suspicious.

  And what about Dennis and his note to Mia? We still didn’t know what that was about, but maybe the meeting would help us clear it up. Because there was still the chance that Roscoe and Lorene were somehow forcing Dennis to participate in their scam—perhaps under threat of physical harm—I intended to be carrying a weapon. Maybe not my Glock, since it wasn’t easy to conceal that, even if I wore a jacket. But I had a small .38 I could strap to my ankle. Wear some baggy khakis and I’d be good to go.