Spanish Dagger

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “I certainly do,” the meter man assured her. “Did the officer get what he came for?”

  “I believe he did. He was carrying something with him when he left, so I guess maybe he did.” She leaned forward, smiling sexily. “Say, how about a cup of coffee? I’ve got the pot on in the kitchen. Doncha think you’re about due for a break? I could clue you in on the best places in town to go dancin’.”

  “Oh, hey, that’s a tempting offer,” he said. He held up his clipboard. “But I’m afraid I need to check this place out. Seems to be an overloaded circuit.” He put his head to one side. “I wonder…I hate to impose on your generosity, Miss Zany, but would you mind loaning me your key? I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”

  “I’d love to be able to help you out,” she said regretfully. “Honest, I would. But the police officer had to take it with him. Since the house is an official crime scene, see, they have to collect all the keys. He was very apologetic, and he hated to do it, but of course, I don’t need the key anymore, now that poor Colin is dead.” She batted her eyelashes, to simulate the blinking back of tears.

  “I see,” the meter man said, and became suddenly businesslike. “Well, I guess that finishes up my work here, then.” He yanked his cap down over his eyes, the party clearly at an end. “Thanks for your help, Miss Zany. You have a good day.”

  “Don’t go away mad!” she cried, but it was too late. The meter man was walking toward the driveway and around the house, his clipboard under his arm.

  “Aw, shit,” she muttered disgustedly. She stamped one bare foot and flounced back into the house, clearly out of the mood for sun-worshipping.

  Now was my chance, and I’d better be fast. I pushed the gate open and, with Rambo tugging me along, ran as fast as I could into the alley, turned left, dashed past the next two backyards to the cross-street, and made another left. Just before we came to the corner I slowed to a fast saunter, snapped Rambo’s leash, and said “Heel!” Thus paired, we made another left onto the street that ran in front of Colin’s house. A girl and her dog, out for a pleasant mid-afternoon walk.

  And sure enough, there was the meter man, just climbing into a nondescript blue Ford van parked across the street from Colin’s house. He had a cell phone stuck in his ear, and he didn’t look up as I walked past on the other side of the street, memorizing the license plate number and noticing that the right rear of the van sported a long scrape, and the rear bumper hung slightly askew.

  Big Red Mama was parked on the other side of the street, facing in the opposite direction. I reached it, opened the rear door and the door to the crate, and unfastened the leash. “Okay, Rambo,” I said. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  With a delighted “woof,” Rambo jumped in, pushed past the open crate, and vaulted into the passenger’s seat with the assurance of long habit, the perfect picture of a pooch ready for just about anything.

  There was no time to argue with him. I slammed Mama’s back door, ran around to the driver’s side, and climbed in, grabbing for my cell phone in my vest pocket. I punched in Sheila’s direct number, praying she would answer.

  She picked up snappishly. “Yeah? What? Who? I’m in the middle of an interview.”

  “It’s China. Sorry to interrupt but this is important. I’m looking at the man who snitched the box from Ruby’s house. He’s driving a blue Ford late model van. Here’s the plate number.” I rattled it off. “There’s a scrape along the right rear, and the back bumper is crooked.”

  “Where are you?” Sheila snapped.

  “In front of Colin’s house,” I said. “Hold on a minute, while I plug you in.” I put on my headset. That done, I added, “He tried to get into the house, but Crazy Zany from next door brandished her bazookas and he had to cease and desist.”

  “Bazookas?” Sheila asked, mystified. Her voice hardened. “And just what the hell were you doing at Colin’s?”

  I put the key in the ignition and started the van. Why did I feel so defensive? I was doing what she’d told me to do, wasn’t I?

  “I came to pick up Ruby’s dog. I’ve got him with me now. In fact, I was in the dog run with Rambo when the meter man made a try at getting into your crime scene. Colin must have good locks, though. His all-purpose key wouldn’t work.” I looked at Rambo, who was panting heavily, his tongue hanging out. Mama had been sitting in the sun, so I lowered the windows partway, to get some air. Rambo immediately stuck his head out. “The bazookas are…Oops, I can’t explain now. The meter man is pulling away. Should I follow him?”

  Sheila hesitated. “I guess, if you do it without being spotted.”

  “I’ll try.” I shifted Mama into reverse, backed clumsily into the nearest drive, and turned around, as the Rotti barked gaily at a mockingbird. “I’ll have to hang back, though. I’m driving Mama, and Rambo’s head is hanging out the window, so I’m conspicuous.” On the other hand, nobody would ever think that somebody in her right mind would attempt to tail in a vehicle that maneuvers like a garbage truck and looks like a circus wagon, complete with performing Rottweiler.

  “Just keep the guy in sight. I’ll get a car to pick you up.” Sheila was off the line for fifteen seconds, maybe half a minute. When she came back, she said, “Where are you, China?”

  “Making a left turn off Hendricks, onto San Antonio,” I said, suiting the action to the words. “He’s heading east, a couple of cars ahead of me.” I paused. “Did you send a plainclothes out to Colin’s place this morning?”

  “Who, me?” The response was so quick and natural that I knew it was the truth.

  “Well, somebody was here, with a badge. You might want to talk to the neighbor and find out what kind of badge it was.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Tell me again what this guy looks like. The guy you’re following.”

  “Tall, broad-shouldered, blond, buzz-cut. Square jaw, rugged face. Walks like he owns the world.” I paused, waited. No response. “Anybody you know?” I asked.

  “Nope, sorry,” Sheila said. This time, though, I wasn’t sure it was the truth. “Where are you now? Still have him in sight?”

  “Just coming up on the light at Laramie. And yep, I can still see him.” I was thinking about her reply. Why did it give me pause for concern? Or had my suspicion threshold, always pretty low, been lowered still further by what Hark had told me that morning? If Sheila was dealing with police corruption—

  But there wasn’t time to think about that now. The blue van was rolling through a commercial neighborhood, and there was more traffic. I had to pay attention. Staying in the right lane, we zipped through the green lights at Laramie and Toledo, Rambo barking gleefully at people walking along the street, like somebody shouting “Hello, I’m having a great day—hope you’re having one, too!”

  Sheila abandoned her interview and stayed on the line, and I kept her posted on our whereabouts. About four blocks later, at Hastings, the van hit a red light and pulled to a stop, a battered old pickup and a Harley with a sidecar between us. I looked to my left and saw a Pecan Springs black-and-white with two officers pulling out of a Circle K parking lot on the other side of the street. The squad car made a U-turn into the left lane of the two-lane street, pulling up just behind a green SUV, to the left of the blue van.

  “Your boys just picked us up,” I said to Sheila, as a Blazer towing a golf car pulled up behind the squad car, boxing it in. “But they stick out even worse than I do. I was hoping you’d send an unmarked car and a couple of plainclothes.”

  “Not available on short notice,” she said shortly. “This isn’t Houston PD, you know.” She said something to someone else, then to me, added, “Glad the guys got there, China. I’m sure you’ve got things to do at the shop this afternoon, and if you’ve got the dog, you’re probably anxious to get him home. You can drop out now.”

  “Not on your life,” I retorted. “I was the one who called this in, remember?” I paused. “Your boys aren’t going to pull him over, I hope. Better to keep an eye on him until we
figure out what’s going on here.”

  “I told them just to keep him under surveillance,” Sheila said. She didn’t sound too happy with my reply. “They’re not to stop him.”

  Surveillance in a black-and-white? Who was she trying to kid? That squad car was as obvious as a black mule riding herd on a flock of snowy white sheep. But Smart Cookie had to work with the police department she had, as somebody once said about an army. No good wishing for an unmarked car that isn’t in your inventory.

  “Well, I’ll just tag along,” I said comfortingly. “It doesn’t hurt to have an extra tail. You never can tell what might happen.”

  Sheila didn’t answer. The light turned green, I let out the clutch, and Mama rumbled forward as Rambo aimed a volley of complimentary barks at a red-haired girl wearing very short shorts. I kept my eye on the blue van and the black-and-white as they moved in tandem down the street ahead of me, wondering who the meter man was and what his role was in all this.

  But wondering was all I could do, I thought as I drove. I had no confirmed facts, no firm ideas, just unfounded speculation. Darla had overheard the man tell Colin it was payback time, or words to that effect, which had led me to guess that he might be connected to the Dallas Dirty Dozen. That notion had been reinforced when I found out that he’d taken the box of photos from Ruby’s house, and when I saw him trying to break into Colin’s place. And revenge was definitely a prime motivator. If the meter man was part of that Dallas gang, I didn’t have to look far for his reason to get rid of Colin.

  But Lucita’s murder was a complicating factor. Until she turned up dead this morning, it had seemed to me that any connection between her and Colin must have been business related, having to do with his account at the nursery or with a purchase. But now that she was dead—killed with a knife, as Colin had been—I had to admit the strong likelihood of a different kind of relationship. And Sheila, who is a smart cop with plenty of investigative experience, was no doubt thinking along the same lines, even if she wasn’t ready to discuss it with me.

  What kind of relationship? Not a romantic relationship, certainly. But there were other possible connections between Colin Fowler and Sonora Nursery’s bookkeeper. For instance, she might have had some sort of ties to the Dallas Dirty Dozen. Lucita had come from Brownsville, according to Betty, and the chances were probably better than even that at least one of the Dirties had connections to that troubled town, which has a reputation as a convenient border crossing for drugs of every description.

  But maybe there was another connection. I thought back to my earlier hunch about Cannabis and my speculation that maybe Dan Reid had decided to cash in on his law-enforcement experience in the underworld of Dallas drug dealing by becoming a dealer and reinventing himself as Colin Fowler, industrious shopkeeper and law-abiding citizen in small-town Pecan Springs. The lure of big money must be incredibly, perhaps irresistibly powerful for a guy like Reid, who understood the business inside out, upside down, and from both ends. He’d know every trick in the book for distributing the merchandise while keeping clear of the law—even the time-honored trick of the police payoff, the bribes that would keep the local gendarmerie off his back. If that was the story behind this story, there was certainly a role for Lucita, who might have been helping obtain the stuff. She had come here from Brownsville, a hub for dope traffic. A little digging into her background might turn up all kinds of dirt.

  And in the midst of all this speculation, there was one thing I felt pretty sure of: the man driving that blue Ford van, whoever he was, understood the connection between Colin and Lucita, whatever it was. I shivered, thinking of the man’s aggressive walk, his burly shoulders, his commanding style. In fact, maybe he was the connection. Maybe he was the killer.

  Sheila came back on the line. “You still there, China?”

  “I’m here,” I said. “Have you got a fix on the license plate yet?”

  “Stolen.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” I braked and shifted down as the car ahead of me slowed. “The van, too, probably.”

  “Nothing on that yet.” She paused, and her voice lightened. “What was that about bazookas?”

  I chuckled dryly. “You had to have been there. It was a masterful performance, on both sides. Tit for tat, so to speak.” I pulled in my breath. “Hey!”

  “What’s happening?”

  “The meter man has made a sharp right turn, without a signal, onto River Road. The patrol car’s moving on, straight ahead. They’ve lost him.” To give the officers credit, they might not have had a choice. They were stuck in the left lane behind that green SUV and a snazzy yellow convertible with the top down, and the right lane was occupied by a school bus—not the best place to be, if you’re trying to keep your options open. But Pecan Springs cops probably don’t get much training in how to do a tail.

  “Don’t worry, Sheila,” I added reassuringly, glad that I could be of some help. “I’m staying with him.” I swung Big Mama into a fast right turn. When she straightened up, the Ford was about a block ahead, heading south, and I slowed. “I’m on River Road. I’ve got him in sight, but I’ll have to hang back some. No need to advertise.” I checked my rearview mirror. The lane behind me was empty. “No sign of your boys. I wonder what’s keeping them.”

  Sheila said something I couldn’t quite make out. She didn’t sound very happy, which I could understand. Her officers had lost the guy they were supposed to be following. I wouldn’t like to be in their shoes. Sheila can be very bitchy when she’s displeased.

  “Okay, we’re heading down River Road,” I told her. I was feeling pretty good, and who could blame me? I’d spotted the guy and successfully stayed with the tail when the cops flubbed it. “There’s not much out this way but the park and the river. Wonder where he’s going.” I chuckled. “A shack in the country, maybe? A secret spot where he does a little cooking?” The Adams County deputies had busted a meth lab a dozen miles south on River Road the month before. Blackie says those damn meth labs are all over the place—close one down and two more open up.

  “What makes you think of drugs?” Sheila asked sharply.

  “Dunno,” I said. “A wild guess.” I looked around, getting a fix on exactly where we were. “Or maybe he’s heading for the Pack Saddle Inn.”

  The Pack Saddle Inn is a family-style place with a decent restaurant and an acre or so of landscaped grounds beside the Pecan River. The grounds are especially pretty at this time of year, with sweeps of bluebonnets, bright patches of coreopsis and daisies, and lush green ruffles of ferns. And since it’s out of the way, the place is private and very quiet, unlike the big motels along the interstate, where the traffic noise will keep you awake all night. If you’re going to be in town for a couple of days and don’t mind driving an extra couple of miles, the Pack Saddle is a good place to stay.

  In fact, there’s a specially nostalgic place in my heart for the Pack Saddle, which is where McQuaid and I spent our wedding night, and I thought about this as I drove across the low cement bridge over the Pecan River. We were planning to be married in the Thyme and Seasons garden, but Hurricane Josephine breezed into town, disrupting all the arrangements and forcing us to move the ceremony and the reception to the Pack Saddle’s Garden Room. The wedding went off without a hitch, but the entire wedding party—including the bride and groom—was marooned when the Pecan River flooded and took out a couple of bridge abutments. (You can still see the pile of concrete rubble on the left side of the road just after you cross the bridge.) Of course, the event wasn’t a total washout. Our guests stayed up long after McQuaid and I had retired to the Honeymoon Suite, enjoying themselves to the hilt. There were enough sandwiches and cake to feed a village of hurricane refugees, not to mention gallons of bubbly and spiked punch, and since Josephine had knocked the power out, there was nothing to do but eat, drink, and be merry. Our wedding was the rowdiest in recent memory.

  Beside the road, a doe, brown eyes large and wondering, paused in the green shadow
of a juniper. On the seat next to me, Rambo woofed happily at a blue jay perched in the lacy foliage of a mesquite. And ahead, I could see the meter man’s blue Ford van, pulling into the Pack Saddle’s parking lot.

  “Hey, I guessed right!” I said to Sheila, feeling excited. “He’s just turned in to the Pack Saddle. Looks like he’s driving around back, where the guest parking is. I’ll give him a minute or two, and then I can tell you what unit he’s staying in.”

  “No, you won’t.” Sheila let her breath out and I wondered if she had been holding it. “Okay, China, you’ve done a great job, and I’m grateful. But this is the end of the line. You’re getting off.”

  I frowned. The end of the line? “But don’t you want me to stick around until your boys get here?” I slowed, letting my quarry finish making his turn around the main building and checking the rearview mirror again. There wasn’t a squad car in sight. “And where the heck are they, Sheila? They must know they lost him. They had to’ve seen him peel off down River Road. They should have been here five minutes ago.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” There was a note of finality in Sheila’s voice. “I’ll take it from here, China.”

  I turned into the Pack Saddle parking lot. “If you’re worrying about my safety, don’t. I can take care of myself. And somebody ought to keep an eye on this guy until you can get some backup here. For all we know, he’s just dropping in to pick up his stuff before he hits the road again.”