by Ben Rehder
This all meshed with the photo Jayci had taken. Jeremy had flipped backward over the railing before Anson had gotten close enough to grab him.
“But you’ll talk to Anson about it again, right?” I asked.
“I called and he refused to meet with me again. Said he’s done talking about it.”
I was reluctant to give up, even though the time had clearly come. “What about Harvey Selberg?” I asked.
“What about him?”
“I assume that case is still active.”
“Of course it is.”
“I still think it’s tied in somehow,” I said.
“Last time I’m gonna say this,” Ruelas said. “Do you understand you gotta come up with evidence to back up your theories?”
“Isn’t that your job, too?” I said, knowing he’d hang up on me, and he did.
I sat there for a moment, trying to process what I’d just learned.
Such a simple explanation. Made sense, too. Starlyn had been reluctant to tell the cops exactly what had happened, and Holloway had helped cover it up.
It all fit.
So why wasn’t I buying it?
Before I could figure that out, I got an alert on my phone. Garlen’s BMW was on the move.
25
At about that same time, Mia was getting a phone call from Roscoe. She was seated in a chair at her stylist’s salon, the roots of her hair wrapped tightly in foil, waiting for the “highlights” to kick in.
“I saw the retraction online earlier,” she said. “Thank you.”
“That ain’t why I’m calling,” he said.
“What’s up?”
“Lorene is all upset ’cause Dennis has gone missing.”
“Since when?”
“This morning, after we talked to that lady newspaper reporter. Far as I’m concerned, it’s good riddance. But Lorene won’t have none of that. She wants to know he’s okay.”
“How do you know he’s missing? Doesn’t he sometimes leave the house on his own?”
“Well, sure,” Roscoe said, “but he ain’t answering his phone, and he won’t text, either. Plus, a duffel bag is gone, along with some of his clothes.”
Mia started to suggest that Roscoe should call the police, but she knew that wouldn’t do much good. Dennis wouldn’t be classified as a missing person because he had left voluntarily. Yes, he had a mental disorder, but so did thousands of other poor souls wandering the streets of our cities. As long as Dennis wasn’t a danger to himself or others, he still had the right to make his own choices, including taking off without telling anyone where he was going.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mia said, at the same time wondering how Dennis was carrying a duffel bag while walking with both arms straight up. After all, even though Roscoe and Lorene had admitted their part of the fraud scheme, Dennis’s delusion about the effect of the tetanus shot wasn’t faked.
“That don’t get me real far,” Roscoe said.
“Pardon me?”
“You can say you’re sorry and all, but what I need is help. Yesterday you said to call if we needed anything. So now I’m calling. Did you mean it for real, or was that just a line of bullshit?”
“No, of course I meant it. I’ll help however I can. What would you like me to do?”
“Well, you proved you’re pretty damn good at nosing around in people’s lives, so why don’t you find Dennis for us?”
Garlen’s BMW stopped at a taco truck in south Austin, but before I could get there, it had moved on. He stopped at a dry cleaners, and then at a gelato shop, and then at a jewelry store. By then I’d been following him around for thirty minutes, waiting for my chance. Then he finally pulled into a Home Depot. Perfect. Even if you needed just one item at a Home Depot, it was almost impossible to get out of there in less than ten minutes. Hell, just locating the item could take longer than that.
I watched him walk inside, and then I gave it another full minute. Then I drove my Toyota closer to his BMW and parked a few slots away. Waited another minute. Stepped from the Toyota and strolled over to the BMW.
I dropped to my back and shimmied underneath the BMW—and immediately realized that something was wrong. The tracker wasn’t where I had attached it. And I knew it hadn’t fallen off the vehicle, because the app was still showing me the correct location. That meant the tracker was inside the car.
Then the situation got worse when a pair of shoes appeared about four feet from my head. Garlen’s shoes, of course. Attached to Garlen’s feet.
I worked my way out from underneath the car and stood up, facing him. He appeared fit and healthy, but that was the way he had appeared a few months back, when he’d been dating Mia and drinking heavily.
“Your tie rods look fine,” I said. “But your idler arm has some play in it, and that could affect the handling before too long.”
Garlen had his arms crossed and appeared pleased with himself.
“One of my tires felt a little wobbly yesterday, so I had it checked out,” he said. “The guy spotted your little toy. I put it in my trunk and figured you’d show up before too long. Clever, huh?”
I said, “Nobody ever said you were a dimwit—except, of course, me.”
“You always have an answer for everything,” he said.
So I didn’t answer.
“What you did was illegal,” he said. “I should call the cops.”
“Do it,” I said. “I’ll stand right here and wait. I’d love to hear you explain why you violated the protective order.”
“She allowed me to come talk to her,” he said.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “She can’t give you approval to break the law. I’m sure you already know that, but you’re the kind of guy who thinks the law is for other people. Just like sobriety.”
“Well, that’s really fucking low,” he said. “I’ve gone fifty-three days without a drink.”
“And yet your personality hasn’t improved,” I said.
“I’m trying to make a fresh start,” he said. “From what I understand, you’ve needed a couple of those yourself.”
He was trying to needle me, and it was working. I could feel my cheeks heating up. “True, but there’s a slight difference. I’ve never stalked a woman who wants to be left alone. I’ve never tried to run an innocent person off the road. Plus, I can drink a beer or two, and then stop.”
Honestly, I wasn’t particularly proud of some of these comments—who says that sort of thing to a person with an addictive disease?—but I couldn’t stop myself from saying them. That’s how much I disliked this guy. I had a feeling that, even if he weren’t an alcoholic, he would still be a jerk who caused problems for other people.
“Your problem,” he said, “is that you’re basically a mean guy.”
“Give me the tracker,” I said.
“Plus, you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he said. “My relationship with Mia is none of your business.”
Now I could barely restrain myself. I edged closer to him and he stepped backward.
“You don’t have a relationship with her,” I said. “Can’t you get that through your head? It’s over. If you really care for her, and if you’re any kind of man, you’ll leave her alone.”
For a moment, his face bunched up and it looked as if he might cry. Or he was about to fly into a rage. Or possibly he had gas pains.
Then he said, “You’re doing the same thing I used to do—rationalizing your manipulative behavior.”
I laughed. “You’re a therapist now?”
“Don’t you see that you’re trying to control her—to isolate her from other people—and coming up with lame excuses for why you’re doing it?”
“There is only one person I don’t want her to see, and that’s you. Look, seriously, I wish you all the best in your recovery, and I hope you transform yourself into a totally different person, but in the meantime, I’m going to be right here, in your way, doing what I think is best for Mia.”
&nbs
p; “Oh, man, you don’t even know, do you?”
He wanted me to ask “Know what?” So I didn’t. He continued anyway.
“She told me she’s not in love with you,” he said. “But she hasn’t figured out how to tell you. You wormed your way into her life, and now she feels stuck.”
I could feel my temper beginning to flare. He was lying. I knew it. That’s what guys like him did. He was trying to plant seeds of doubt in my head, to erode my confidence. That meant it was time to end the conversation, or I would hear more of the same.
“I need the tracker,” I said.
“Ha. Right. That takes a lot of gall.”
“Give me the tracker.”
“Not a chance. I’m keeping it. That’s the price you pay for thinking you’re some sort of slick investigator.”
I took a deep breath. I was beginning to get tunnel vision—a sign that my anger was reaching a tipping point, and violence was almost inevitable. His face was right there, just waiting for me to smash it. Right now, with my judgment clouded, it seemed like such a reasonable solution. Who wouldn’t do the same, right? He deserved it. He was asking for it. And it would feel so good. Reminded me of Gilbert Holloway grabbing me by the arm. Pushing his luck. What was up with these morons?
“Garlen,” I said slowly. “If you don’t give me the tracker, I will take your keys from you and get it myself. Your choice.”
I meant it. I was done talking. If he showed any resistance or made any more comments, I was going to lose my shit. That would be bad for him in the short term, and likely even worse for me in the long term. I would do some serious damage, as long as nobody stopped me.
I could tell that he wanted to resist—to tell me to go to hell—but ultimately he didn’t have the guts. Guys like Garlen and Gilbert Holloway never did.
He stepped to the rear of the BMW and popped the trunk.
“What kind of phone does Dennis have?” Mia asked.
“Just some cheap brand,” Roscoe said. “Came with the plan.”
“Does it have a find-my-phone feature built in?”
“A what?”
“Like GPS tracking, so you can find your phone if it’s lost or stolen.”
“Man, I got no idea.”
Just great.
“What about social media?” Mia asked. Before Roscoe could ask what that was, she said, “Facebook, Instagram, Twitter—stuff like that. Does he use any of them?”
Of course, she had looked into that when we were first investigating him, but as far as she had been able to tell, Dennis had no social media presence. Still, he could’ve been using a screen name instead of his real name.
“Don’t think so,” Roscoe said.
“Okay, I want you to make a list of all the places he might go. Where would he hang out? Is there anyplace he talks about in particular that he’d like to visit? Friends, too. Write them down for me.”
“He ain’t got no friends,” Roscoe said.
Which was sad as hell.
“Does he have any money?” Mia asked.
“No telling how much he might’ve squirrelled away over the years. I’d guess he’s got at least a couple hundred.”
“Does he have any credit cards?”
“Hell, no. Can you ’magine turning a guy like him loose with a credit card?”
“Where are you right now?” Mia asked.
“Driving around, looking for him—but it’s real tempting to drive to Florida or California and never come back.”
“Where’s Lorene?”
“At home, waiting.”
“How about I meet you at the house in two hours?”
“Fine,” Roscoe said. “Although this sure as shit ain’t how I wanted to spend my Saturday.”
26
I couldn’t help myself. The Jeremy Sawyer case was a dead horse—but I wanted to speak to Gilbert Holloway and Meatball to see if their accounts of the evening matched the new information provided by Starlyn Kurtis. Obviously, they knew about the kiss, because they were the ones trying to cover it up. Once I revealed that I knew about it, too, and that I’d be out of their lives as soon as they told me the story in their own words—well, who wouldn’t jump all over an offer like that?
Also, I was hoping to make a deal with Holloway: if he would drop the assault charge against me, I wouldn’t press charges against him or Dirk Crider for that little charade at the creek. Seemed fair to me.
So after I’d cooled off from my encounter with Garlen, I went back to my apartment, changed into some appropriate marina-wear, then hopped back into the Toyota and drove toward the lake. We were enjoying a break in the heat today. The high was supposed to be in the mid-80s, and right now I was enjoying driving with the windows down and some Tom Petty cranked.
I took Bee Caves Road west, turned right on Highway 71, then took another right on 620. Seven miles later, I took a left and went north on Hudson Bend Road. This road went straight up the middle of a fat thumb of land created by a horseshoe-shaped curve—the eponymous bend—right before the river reached Mansfield Dam, which formed the lake. Hudson Bend had been a busy and popular area for as long as I could remember, but in the past ten or twenty years, it had nearly grown to maximum density. I just didn’t see how they’d be able to jam any more houses or businesses into this area—but I guess the developers would figure out a way.
I stopped at a convenience store for a Dr Pepper and I noticed that Mia had called earlier and left a voicemail. This is when I got the latest news about Dennis Babcock.
Hey, Roscoe called. Dennis is AWOL since earlier this morning. He took a bag and some clothes, so Lorene is pretty upset. Can you give me a call when you get a minute? I’m meeting with them in a couple of hours. She let out a sigh. Then she added, Remember when I told them to call me if they needed any help? Don’t let me do that in the future, okay?
I contemplated calling her back right then to get the specifics, but I didn’t want to tell her I was on my way to speak to Holloway. She’d say it was a bad idea and try to talk me out of it, and because she is almost always right about such things, I decided to call her back later.
After driving for several minutes on Hudson Bend Road, I took a right on a smaller road and began winding my way downhill to the marina. I’d checked the booking calendar for the Island Hopper online earlier and saw that it wasn’t going out until a sunset cruise starting at six o’clock this evening. Which meant Holloway and Meatball would likely already be there, preparing the barge for another voyage. If they weren’t, I’d wait until they showed.
I could have called first, but I wanted the element of surprise. I also realized that I would need to strike a somewhat conciliatory tone. Indicate that I understood their inclination to keep Starlyn out of this mess. She didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, she was being nice, giving Jeremy an innocent kiss. Not her fault that Anson saw it and got mad. Not her fault that Jeremy flipped backwards over the railing and was never seen alive again.
The marina lot was fairly full, but I managed to find a parking spot with a view of the lake—and the Island Hopper—below. This time, I carefully checked the vehicles around me. Didn’t see anybody. So I grabbed my binoculars and focused on the party barge. Sure enough, I could see Meatball moving around on the lower deck, getting things in order. No sign of Holloway, which might be a good thing. Meatball would be less confrontational. Probably.
I took a deep breath, then opened the car door. Time to get this over with.
I reached the end of the long wooden pier and was now standing beside the Island Hopper. Meatball, who had been doing something in the storage area beneath the steps to the upper deck, came out and saw me waiting. He immediately pointed at me in an angry manner, obviously about to tell me to hit the road, but I spoke first.
“I come in peace,” I said, raising my hands in surrender. “Promise. Everything’s cool. But we need to talk. Just give me a few minutes. I know the real story about Starlyn. I know what really happened.”
He lowered his arm slowly, but he was watching me suspiciously. Glaring a hole in me was more like it.
“She finally told the cops everything,” I said. “And I believe her.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I want to hear it from you. You or Gilbert.”
“Why? What’d she say?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” I said. “If I tell you what she said, what’s the use of me asking to hear your version of it?”
“I got no version of it. I didn’t see anything.”
I gave him the look that said I didn’t believe him, but he just shrugged.
“Look,” I said. “I understand your reluctance, but just give me the highlights—a quick recap—and you’ll never see me again.”
“I told you, I didn’t see anything.”
“Come on, Meatball. Time to ’fess up.”
“You calling me a liar?” he asked.
This was not going as smoothly as I had hoped it would.
“Well, you told me you didn’t know anybody on board that night,” I said. “In reality, you knew Starlyn, and so I’m guessing you knew Anson, too. Wasn’t that a lie?”
“None of your damn business,” Meatball said. “Who the hell are you, anyway? You’re not a cop or anything. You’re just some insurance guy that pokes his nose into everyone’s shit.”
“I have to say I’ve heard more poetic descriptions of my career choices,” I said. “But in any case, why do I get the feeling I still don’t know the full story?”
“I don’t give a fuck about your feelings,” Meatball said. “And if you don’t bounce right now, I’m gonna kick your ass.”
“Wait a sec,” I said. “You’re the kind of guy who says ‘bounce’? I’m afraid I overestimated you.”
“Bro,” he said, taking a few steps toward me, “you really do like pushing your luck, don’t you?”
Now we were less than eight feet from each other—me on the dock, him on the boat.
“I just want to know what happened,” I said.
“You need to leave.”
