The living room was decorated in soft earth tones with quilts folded over the back of a recliner and a couch. A curio cabinet displayed the boys’ awards for both athletics and academics. Joseph’s diploma from the local college was framed and stood on a shelf next to Moses’ certificate from the police academy. Photographs of Martha Franklin and her sons at various ages dotted the white mantelpiece and the walls. Cass stepped closer to the fireplace and moved the frames around. An older photograph, yellowed with age, showed a young Martha Franklin looking down at twin toddlers hugging her legs. A handsome man stood next to her, his broad face smiling directly into the camera. Cass assumed this was Martha Franklin’s first husband, a man who had died when the boys were young. She scooted the frames back to their original arrangement before moving to the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
The first door on the left was a small coat closet reeking of mothballs. The door almost opposite opened into a bathroom. From the contents of the medicine cabinet and the towels hanging to dry, it was shared by the Franklin men. The laundry basket held casual clothes and workout gear. If this was the outfit Moses had worn last night and presumably home today, he had also changed when he came home this morning. Another fact Petchard either failed to notice or to share with her. Cass photographed and bagged it all.
Moses’ bedroom was through the second door on the right and Cass stood just inside, taking photographs. Reluctantly, she searched the disorganized room, smiling slightly at the faint smell of Moses’ cologne when she opened the closet door. She found no evidence of his uniforms or work shoes, badge, or gun. His wallet, cell phone, and car keys were missing.
The room directly across the hall was Joseph’s, and Cass was surprised at its neatness. His wallet, a cell phone, and a set of car keys were on a dresser. Cass checked the closet and the drawers in the dresser, bedside table, and small desk and found the paperwork relating to Joseph’s release from prison in New York. She took it, the wallet, and the phone, with her.
The master bedroom was feminine without being overtly so, the furniture dark and heavy. Martha Franklin’s dressing table was crowded with make-up and perfumes. A plastic box held an assortment of prescription bottles. Cass looked at their labels and found a variety of drugs used to manage the side effects of chemotherapy.
A heavy desk was in one corner. Its surface displayed only a mug holding pens and pencils, a large Bible, and another photograph of a young Martha with the same handsome man from the photo in the living room. They were standing together in front of a wood frame house, its white paint beginning to peel, their arms barely touching. Their eyes were bright and optimistic as they smiled at the camera.
Cass gasped as she tugged open the drawers. It seemed that Martha was something of a paperwork pack-rat. Tightly jammed folders were labeled in reverse chronological order. They went back years and contained all the paper required to live a modern life: utility bills, property tax receipts, a second mortgage on the house, records pertaining to automobile maintenance, receipts and warranties for major appliances, income tax forms, and bank statements. Cass skimmed these and saw regular deposits from two retirement accounts. All of the disbursements were via check, and she reviewed the images included on several statements, finding only payments to the expected places. The income tax records were for both Moses and Mrs. Franklin. They were self-prepared forms and varied little from one year to the next.
The bottom left drawer stuck when Cass pulled on it, refusing to open. She considered using a pocketknife to jimmy it, but decided the risk of damage was too great. Chances were it contained more meaningless paperwork. Cass debated: she could keep fighting this drawer, or get to the station and start digging into Moses’ cases and Joseph’s arrest.
Her phone rang. “Elliot.”
“Cass, it’s Carlos. I had one of the patrol officers check into the drug dealer’s and Rob Conroy’s status.”
“Anything interesting?”
“The drug runners are still in prison. But Conroy is out.”
“Since when?”
“About six weeks now. Do you have time to go see him? I can send Scott Truman to meet you.”
Cass bent and tugged on the stuck drawer once more, then stood, decision made. “Give me the address. I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER 28
CASS AND TRUMAN WALKED up the concrete steps and stood facing Rob Conroy’s apartment. The teal paint on the door was peeling and the rubber welcome mat disintegrating. A rancid liquid oozed from a split in a bulging garbage bag.
“You sure this is it?” Truman asked. His uniform was sweat-stained. Cass didn’t have the heart to tell the usually immaculate young officer that he stank of smoke and burned meat.
“Yup,” Cass answered.
“Wow.” Truman moved to the metal handrail, drew in a lungful of fresh air, and looked down at the scraggly patch of grass and sagging benches that passed for a courtyard. “It’s kind of a step down from his mom and dad’s place, isn’t it?”
“Yup,” Cass confirmed.
Truman took off his mirrored shades and eyed her. “You okay?”
She drew in a cautious breath and rolled her shoulders to fight the stress building in them. “I ran into Petchard at the Franklin house.”
“He’s out of the station?”
“Guarding the house.”
“Guess his daddy’s campaign contribution cleared the bank.”
Cass suppressed a smile. “That’s what I said.”
“Sad, but true,” Truman stated matter-of-factly. “He shouldn’t be in uniform after the stunt he pulled, but money talks. The good news is that everybody knows why he’s still on the force, that it has nothing to do with ability.” He turned to face her. “And everybody is furious at Sheriff Hoffner for not bringing you back sooner, just so you know. We even sent him a petition demanding that he sign your release papers.”
Cass examined Truman’s face and found stiff resolve there. “You did?”
“Damn straight.” Truman shrugged, the motion causing his tan uniform shirt to pull up from his trousers. He tucked it in and shrugged again, with less vehemence. “I don’t know what he did with it, but I took it to him and told him that we had signatures from ninety-eight percent of the force.”
She cleared her throat. “Ninety-eight?”
“We couldn’t get to everybody who’s off sick, and nobody cares what Petchard thinks.”
Cass swallowed hard, grateful that she still had her shades on. “Thanks, Truman. I think that’s about the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for me.”
“Nice had nothing to do with it. Everybody’s tired of working so much overtime.” He flashed a grin and nodded at the sad front door. “Ready?”
Cass knocked. A series of choking barks sounded from inside the apartment. “Sounds like a big one.”
“It’s probably a Chihuahua,” Truman said, hazel eyes wide as he flipped the strap off his holster. “Try again.”
Cass pounded on the door. “Conroy? Forney County police. Open up.”
A chain scratched against the door and it opened a slit. A bleary eyeball peered out, and a pair of slathering jaws lunged at the opening from knee level. “What?”
“Rob Conroy?” Cass asked.
“What if it is?” he demanded in a slurred voice.
“Step outside, please. We have a few questions.”
“About what?”
“Outside, please.”
Conroy rolled the visible eye and slammed the door. The dog barked again, then yelped. The chain slipped and rattled and a man inched backwards through the door, poking at the dog to keep it inside. He wore only threadbare boxer shorts, ripped down the middle seam and bearing a brown stain. Cass winced at the hairless cheek that appeared when the fabric around the damaged seam fluttered, and took a short step back at the flash of pubic hair that greeted her when Rob Conroy turned to face them. He wore a grubby wife-beater that strained across his potbelly, and tufts of graying brown hair protruded from
his armpits. Cass bit back a grimace at the stale scent of body odor that floated their way.
“What do you want?” Conroy demanded.
“Where were you last night?” Cass asked.
Conroy sucked at his teeth and ran both hands over his dark hair, combing it back from his face and around his ears. He was taller than Cass, perhaps two inches taller than her five feet ten inches. That jived with the height of the shooter the Grove twins had seen in Deadwood Hollow. “What time?”
“From six onwards. All night.”
He looked Cass up and down, gaze stopping on her breasts. Truman shifted near the handrail and Conroy’s gaze snapped to Cass’s face. “I went to a NA meeting at six. No, six-thirty. Talked to my parole officer over coffee at eight-thirty.” His teeth clicked as he talked and his eyes bobbed back and forth between her breasts and her face.
Cass resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest. “After that?”
“Came back here. Had friends over.”
“And?”
He stuck a grimy toe in the garbage bag and lifted it. More brown liquid dribbled from the slit. “Watched TV. Went to bed.”
“What time did your friends leave?”
“Around eleven, I think. The news was over.”
“Their names?”
Conroy’s tongue flicked over his lips and he looked from Cass to Truman, who stood motionless near the handrail. “Who’d you say you are?”
“I’m Detective Elliot. That’s Officer Truman.”
“Why do you want to know who was here?”
Cass raised an eyebrow.
“I need an alibi? For what?”
“Names, Conroy.”
Huffing, he ticked the names of three small-time hoods off on his fingers.
“That everybody?” Cass asked.
“Yes.”
“Nobody stayed with you?”
“Overnight? Nope.” Conroy rubbed at his nose with his forearm. “What’s this about?”
“A shooting.”
“Who got shot?”
“The shooting was at the Franklin house.”
Conroy’s face was blank for a moment, then recognition dawned. “That black cop who arrested me? Shit. I thought I might get a chance at him. But if he’s dead, I’m not complaining.” He picked at a fresh scab on his lip. “I’m surprised nobody’s gone gunning for Hoffner. Lots of folks in the joint want a piece of him.” Conroy giggled, exposing even rows of white teeth.
Cass realized that he’d probably developed meth mouth over his long period of drug abuse, and received dentures courtesy of the Texas taxpayer. A jailhouse fit explained the clacking when he talked. “Are you threatening the Sheriff, Conroy?”
“Me? Threaten a Do Right Boy?” Conroy shook his head once. “And it wasn’t me who killed Franklin, but I sure wish it was. I woulda burned his house down, too. Cooked him to a crisp.”
Cass sighed inwardly. They would check with the guy who ran the Narcotics Anonymous meetings and Conroy’s parole officer. If his story checked out, Conroy couldn’t have killed the Franklins. “What other weapons have you got in there?” Cass asked, lifting her chin at his front door.
Conroy crossed his arms over his skinny chest and Cass spotted old scars and a few newer sores. “I ain’t got no weapons.”
“That pit bull counts, Conroy. What else have you got? Guns, knives? Have you started using again?”
He swiped at his nose with his forearm and shook his head. “Are you crazy? Fat Frannie’ll put me back in if she catches me with a gun.”
Cass noted the absence of a denial on the drugs. “Fran Starkowsky is your parole officer?”
He nodded, picking at his forearms.
“You working?”
“Loading lumber every afternoon down at the True Value. Hopin’ they’ll give me more hours.”
“Where’s your ride?”
“Black Toyota pickup out in the parking lot.”
Cass flipped her notebook closed. “We’ll talk to Frannie and your NA buddies. Make sure the meeting chair knows we’ll be calling. Let’s hope it all checks out, Conroy, or you’ll be making a repeat visit to our fine establishment downtown.”
CHAPTER 29
CHEWIE RODRIGUEZ BACKED HIS zero-turn mower off the trailer and paused so his jaw could crack open in a wide yawn. He was tired but elated this morning after the birth of his niece the night before. He’d held her just after she was born, a fiery-faced bundle of indignation but healthy and whole – what more could an uncle want?
He aligned the mower for his first pass and his sleepy eyes narrowed at the slender stems of Bahia grass poking above the smooth, emerald carpet of St. Augustine in the front yard. Their presence in this otherwise immaculate lawn was an abomination, an inauspicious start to this otherwise pristine day, and Chewie knew just the chemical to restore order. He shut off the mower and carried a backpack sprayer and jug of weed killer to the garden hose attached to the house, measured and mixed, then hunched the backpack’s straps over his shoulders, adjusted his wide-brimmed straw hat, and prepared to do battle.
Creeping through the two acres that surrounded the house, Chewie sprayed judiciously. Although this particular mix was effective at eradicating Bahia, it was expensive. As sole proprietor of his own lawn care and landscaping business, Chewie knew to the drop how much controlling this weed would cost him. And Miss Moore. His father, an exalted landscaper who had passed the family business, along with a love of vocabulary, down to Chewie, would be proud of his son’s exacting methods of lawn maintenance.
He started at the property’s north edge, near the stone wall, and slowly spiraled in toward the house, circling the flower beds and avoiding the root area of the small trees he had recently convinced Miss Moore to allow him to plant. Her yard was his masterpiece and he took periodic photographs for his website, as evidence of his horticultural prowess for prospective customers. To date, the work invested in Miss Moore’s property had brought him three new customers who wanted a similar degree of care for their lawns and beds. At only nineteen, Chewie was already gaining a following. His one fear was the weather. Texas had been short of rain for some time now, and this summer was predicted to be the hottest and driest for nearly a century. His only weapon against such seemingly insurmountable odds was diligence, and he monitored the moisture levels in his lawns as carefully as his sister would watch her new baby’s diet.
As he moved around the house and to the western section of the yard, Chewie stopped short. A slick of mud marred the lawn near the stone wall. He drew several deep breaths, counted to ten, and slipped the sprayer from his shoulders, balancing it carefully to ensure none of the liquid spilled. Chewie wished he could levitate as he walked gently across the St. Augustine, inspecting the muddy footsteps. A combination of gray and red clay from the freshly plowed field bordering Miss Moore’s property. They drew a map the perpetrator had traveled toward the rear of the house.
A farm worker, he concluded. Coming into the yard for a drink from the hose.
Chewie clicked his tongue and walked carefully to the house to unreel the water hose and wash the muck away. It would take a very light spray to deal with the footprints close to the house, more water to deal with the sticky smear by the stone wall. But the heat was intense this morning. Nodding, Chewie decided the entire backyard would be dry by the time he was ready to mow.
A prickle of unease lifted the hairs on the back of his neck, and Chewie stopped, looking up suddenly. The west side of the house was still in shadows and he could see clearly into the bedroom through the tall windows, marred in one spot by a strangely beautiful star resembling a dandelion gone to seed. A mannequin lay in the unmade bed, red paint sprayed on the tufted silk headboard. A chill swept up his spine. Against his better judgment, Chewie stepped closer. He recognized Miss Moore’s mass of dark hair spread across the pillow and his mind balked as he focused on the brilliant flower blooming in her forehead.
Vision drawing to a narrow point of
light, Chewie Rodriguez dropped to his knees, crossed himself, and fumbled the cell phone from his pocket.
CHAPTER 30
THE OLD MAN ROUSED from his meditation and realized that his wife had refilled his coffee without his noticing. He lifted the cup with a steady hand and took a sip. Perching his glasses on his forehead, he pressed a speed dial number on his phone and inspected his fingernails.
“I thought we were in a total blackout,” the man who answered said.
“Unless one of us is murdered, Mayor,” the old man retorted. “Then I expect a call. What happened to Whitehead?”
Through the phone, he heard the bite of gravel under tires and the sliding home of a gear shift. “He was hung and burned to death,” Mayor David Wayne Rusted answered, his voice brittle. “The police have no leads.”
The old man sipped more coffee. “Is this something to do with The Church?”
“I have no idea. Hoffner is on his way back to Arcadia. He won’t get in until this afternoon.”
“It’s just as well; he’ll only be another barrier. We’re out of resources in the police department, so you’ll have to do some digging with his staff.”
“Me? I have no business going over to the station side of the courthouse. I don’t even have access to that wing.”
The old man shook his head at his empty living room. “Then get it, David Wayne. You’re Arcadia’s mayor. You can go wherever you want.”
A car door opened and slammed shut. “I suppose that’s true. And Calvin Whitehead was a respected businessman in Forney County. It wouldn’t be unusual that I would ask questions.”
“It would not. Find out what you can this morning. We need to know if there’s a threat to the rest of the members. They’ll all have seen the Forney Cater and be wondering if they should take precautions.”
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