“I said I’ll take it from here.” Her tone was flat and hard. “You’re gone, Bayles. This is an order. Got it?”
Got it?
And then, in a flash, I got it, as you might get it when somebody smacks you, hard, with the flat side of a two-by-four. The oddly inept way the squad car seemed to lose the Ford van and the fact that it hadn’t yet attempted to pick up the target. Sheila’s earlier effort to get me to drop out and now, her flat-out order to leave. There was something strange going on here, some sort of business I wasn’t supposed to be involved with.
And now that I had gotten myself involved—inadvertently so, I could honestly say in my own defense—I was under orders to get uninvolved, in a hurry. Whatever the nature of this particular party, I wasn’t a welcome guest. The hostess had just sent me home.
Well, okay. At least I knew where I stood, even if I wasn’t especially happy about it. The trouble is, of course, that I’ve never been very good at taking orders. There’s something about being told to leave that raises my hackles, makes me want to dig in my heels and hang in there. But in the face of an order from my friend Sheila Dawson, who is also the chief of police, what was I going to say?
“Got it,” I replied, with cheerful ambiguity. “Have a good afternoon. I’ll talk to you later, Smart Cookie.”
I clicked off the phone and pulled into a parking space in the shade of a large pecan tree. “Hey, Rambo,” I said, reaching for his leash. “You need to go pee?”
As Rambo was watering one of the Pack Saddle’s shrubs, I looked over my shoulder in the direction of the road. A black-and-white was driving slowly by. The two officers were scanning the parking lot. My first impulse was to jump up and down and get their attention, then signal them that their quarry had driven around back.
But for some reason, I didn’t do that.
Chapter Thirteen
Agarito (Berberis trifoliolata) is a species of barberry shrub native to Texas, New Mexico, and northern Mexico. Its yellow blossoms appear in the spring and red berries in the summer. Indians used the fruit, stems, and roots for a variety of medicinal purposes, primarily to treat liver and kidney ailments. Early settlers made a yellow dye from the woody stems. The berries have been used to make juice, syrup, and jelly.
The Pack Saddle Inn was built back in the forties and expanded in the fifties, at a time when families from the suburbs of Houston and Dallas couldn’t wait to get away to the Hill Country for a cool, quiet summer vacation. The kids spent their days tubing down the rippling rapids of the Pecan River or hunting for arrowheads and spear points left behind by nomadic Indians. The dads fished for bass and crappies in the river’s still, deep pools, and the moms fried fish, doctored sunburns and chigger bites, and caught up on their summertime reading.
The world has changed since those halcyon leave-it-to-Beaver days. Vacationing families are looking for thrills and spills instead of peace and quiet, and the kids would rather go to Sea World in San Antonio or Six Flags in Fort Worth. Nowadays, the Pack Saddle’s chief clientele are retired snowbirds who migrate South during the winter, academic types who are attending conferences at CTSU, and guys who come for serious fishing in nearby Canyon Lake. But the snowbird migration is reliably steady, the university hosts a conference or two every month, and the fishing is good. The inn stays pretty full.
The main building, sided with dark brown shingles and roofed with red tile, is built like a large ranch house, with one-and two-story wings angling off in different directions. Individual cedar-shingled cabins, left over from the days of leisurely family-style vacations, are scattered among the trees in a haphazard arrangement designed for the maximum amount of privacy.
Rambo had other business besides peeing. He sniffed around for a bit, then turned his back with a don’t-interrupt-me-until-I’m-finished look, and began to fertilize the flower bed. When he had finished that urgent chore, we took a walk around the main building and into the back lot. Since it was afternoon, most of the guests were out doing other things and only a few cars were parked in front of their owners’ units. Because of the odd, meandering way the buildings are laid out, it took me several minutes to spot the meter man’s blue Ford van. It was at the very back of the complex, down a narrow lane that led to a cluster of two or three cabins along the bank of the Pecan River. The Ford was half-hidden behind a group of spreading green junipers and a large clump of pampas grass, beside Cabin Number 37.
Rambo finished his job and we went back to Mama. I gave him the bacon treats to keep him busy, but he disposed of them in one gulp and thanked me by enthusiastically washing my cheek and ear with his rough tongue. Howard Cosell occasionally expresses his affection by licking my ankle, but I had never been laundered by a Rottweiler before.
As Rambo turned around a couple of times in the passenger seat and began to settle down for a nap, I sat staring out the window. My suspicious nature has been enhanced by my legal training. It was impossible for me not to suspect that something was going on and that Sheila was smack dab in the middle of whatever it was. I didn’t know enough to make informed guesses about the man in Cabin Number 37—who he was, what he was doing here, and how, or whether, he was involved in Colin’s or Lucita’s death. But I don’t like feeling left out of the loop, and I’m not a happy camper when I’m asked to play go-along-and-get-along. Now that I had trailed the guy this far, I was inclined to invest a little more time in the project, if only to scratch the itch of my curiosity. If Sheila didn’t like my sticking around, well, that was just too dadgum bad. She wasn’t my boss, just my friend.
I frowned. Not my boss, just my friend. From that perspective, I had an obligation to stick around, didn’t I?
I picked up the phone, tapped the speed-dial button for Thyme and Seasons, and told Missy that I had hit an unexpected snag. It might be another hour or two before I could deliver the dog and get back to the shop.
“Take your time,” she said cheerfully. “We’ve been busy, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Oh, yes—there’ve been a couple of cancellations for tomorrow’s papermaking workshop. I went ahead and called the first two people on the waiting list.” She paused. “One of them was Betty Conrad. I was a little surprised when she said yes, she’d come. I thought, under the circumstances, she might not want to…” Her voice trailed off.
“People have to get on with their lives,” I said. “I’m glad Betty isn’t letting it get her down.”
“She said she wanted to talk to you,” Missy added. “She left a number.”
I wrote it down, then said, “Would you please check with Carole to make sure she’s got everything she needs? Tell her I’ll be there about eight in the morning to give her a hand. She’ll need help, and Ruby will still be in Fredericksburg.”
“I’ll tell her,” Missy said. “Oh, Ruby called here a little bit ago, looking for you. I told her you went to pick up the Rottweiler. How’s he doing?” Her soft voice became anxious. “The dog isn’t giving you any trouble, is he? I’ve been worried that he might be…well, a little aggressive. Hard to handle.”
I glanced at Rambo, who was curled up on the seat with one paw over his eyes. “Aggressive?” I chuckled. “Not at the moment, anyway.”
“That’s good,” she said. “One thing more. Has Wanda Rathbottom reached you? She’s called the shop several times. She said she wanted to talk about what happened this morning at Sonora.”
“No, she hasn’t reached me. Not yet anyway.” Wanda is nothing if not persistent. She is one of those people who will pester you to death when she has something on her mind. And there wasn’t anything I could—or would—tell her about the Sanchez murder. “Don’t give her my cell number, please,” I added.
“I won’t.” Missy lowered her voice. “Have the police found out anything more? About who killed that bookkeeper, I mean.”
“If they have,” I said dryly, “they haven’t confided in me.” We said good-bye and I clicked off the phone. Then, remembering about Betty, I turned it on again and
punched in the number Missy had given me. It must have been her home number, because there was no answering machine on the line. As the ringing went on, I had time to wonder why she needed to talk to me and wondered whether it had anything to do with Lucita Sanchez’s murder. It must not be a very good day at Sonora.
No answer. I gave up after seven rings and dropped the phone into one of the pockets of my vest. It was time, as McQuaid says, to fish or cut bait. I had already decided to fish, but I had to find the right spot, so I started Mama and drove around the side of the main building, where I had spotted a trio of large metal Dumpsters, lined up like railroad boxcars, end to end. I backed between the Dumpsters and a fence—no mean feat, if I do say so myself. Mama isn’t very agile, and she’s not crazy about squeezing her bulk into snug-fitting places.
This one was a perfect hidey-hole. Mama was out of sight, but angled, so I had a clear view of the blue Ford van and Cabin 37, which had a wooden porch across the front, complete with a cozy couple of rust-colored metal lawn chairs, circa 1950. The green-painted front door was closed and green curtains were drawn across the front window. I took note of the fact that there was another, smaller window on the side I could see, about six feet above the ground, and closed.
The cabin was one of the older models. Likely, it had a kitchenette in the rear, where those fifties’ moms could fry up the fish caught by the dads and serve them to the kids, who were so healthily tired from their outdoor exercise that they’d eat their suppers and trundle off to bed in one of the two tiny bedrooms. There was no way to tell from where I sat, but there were probably a couple of windows on the other side, and a back door facing the river. The cabin was surrounded by some sort of shrubbery—I couldn’t tell what it was from this distance—and trees, mostly junipers, with spreading lower branches that offered plenty of handy cover. If I were inclined to do a little reconnoitering in the vicinity, it would be easy and relatively safe.
Rambo sighed and settled deeper into the seat. I settled back to wait, chewing on my cuticle. I wasn’t sure why I was doing this. One of those hunches Ruby is always talking about, maybe. Or maybe I just didn’t like the way Sheila had instructed me to butt out.
I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for, either. A personal invitation to get out and have a look around? The sound of sirens? The sudden appearance of a team of stealthy sharpshooters with rifles at the ready who would silently surround the cabin and flush out their quarry with teargas? These thoughts filled me with nervous energy, and I chewed harder.
It was a good thing I didn’t have to wait long, or I wouldn’t have had any cuticles left. Interesting things began to happen in fairly short order. Sheila’s red Blazer—ah, the unmarked car, at last—with Smart Cookie herself at the wheel, sped smartly around the main building. I sat up straight, expecting the Blazer to be at the head of a parade of cop cars.
But it wasn’t.
And it didn’t stop or even slow down, as you might expect, if the driver was trying to get her bearings in what is basically a confusing and haphazard arrangement of buildings. Instead, she drove purposefully across the lot and up the little lane that led to Cabin 37, as if she knew exactly where she was going. This seemed strange, since as far as I was aware, Smart Cookie had no notion that the meter man was staying at the Pack Saddle until I tailed him here and reported back to her. But I hadn’t told her that he was in Cabin 37. How did she know that?
Sheila pulled in beside the Ford van and got out. She had changed her clothes since that morning. Now, she was dressed in civvies, and very nicely dressed, too, in chic beige slacks and a lemon yellow pullover with the sleeves pushed up and a chunky gold bracelet on her arm. She didn’t look anything like a cop, but if past experience was any guide, I knew that her sidearm was concealed in the handsome Gucci bag slung over her shoulder.
What was wrong with this picture? Well, for starters, while Sheila is certainly a woman who knows how to take care of herself, she was out here all alone. If there was an officer crouching in the Blazer to cover her pretty rear, he didn’t show himself—and a fat lot of good he’d do her, anyway, hidden away in the vehicle. And where the hell was the rest of her backup? If there was a squad car anywhere in the vicinity, I hadn’t spotted it. No army of stealthy sharpshooters deployed among the bushes, either.
As I watched, wondering nervously whether I should leap from the van and rush like Supergirl to Smart Cookie’s defense, she rapped at the cabin door. Then she cocked her head, listening, and rapped again. The door opened a crack, on the chain. She leaned forward, saying something. I couldn’t hear her, of course, but I could read her body language. She was watchful and wary but not especially tense, and she wasn’t looking for trouble. What’s more, she wasn’t afraid of this man, and she wanted him to know it. The door opened, and she stepped inside. The door closed.
Whatever I had expected, this wasn’t it. I sat very still for a moment, staring at that closed green door, processing what I had seen and putting it together with the other things that had happened that afternoon. It looked to me like Sheila had deliberately pulled her officers off the tail. She had tried to pull me off, too. She either knew the man or she knew who he was, why he was there, and what his connection was with the case.
All of which added up to one thing: the meter man, whoever he was, was not a killer—or at least, Smart Cookie didn’t think so. Heck, he might even be a cop. But what kind of cop enters a house—Ruby’s house—without a warrant and walks out with a box that might be crucial evidence? He’d attempted to enter Colin’s house, too, even though it was marked as a crime scene. And what if Smart Cookie, for once in her life, was wrong? What if the meter man was a killer?
My frown turned into a scowl and I grunted and shifted in my seat, which was enough to wake Rambo. He lifted his head, sensing my quandary. So what was I going to do? Follow Sheila’s instructions, like a good little girl, and leave her here, alone with whoever-he-was?
Heck, no. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and stuck them into my jeans pocket.
Rambo hoisted himself upright, cocked his head, and looked at me expectantly. Time for another walk?
“Stay,” I said.
He grinned and leaned toward me.
“Sorry,” I said, and showed him my empty hands. “All out of bacon treats. But you have to stay, anyway.”
Do I have a choice? his resigned look said, as he settled himself back into the seat. I rolled down the windows a couple of inches before I climbed out and locked the door. It was only April and the sun wasn’t quite hot enough to turn Mama into a toaster oven, but I didn’t want to come back and find Rambo baked to a crisp.
Now that I was out of the van, I wasn’t sure what I intended to do. But there was only one way to find out what was going on in that cabin, and that was to get as close as I could to the scene of the action. I walked quickly across the lot to the main building. Using one of the building’s wings as cover, I strode jauntily along, as if I were a guest on her way back to her unit, or one of the hired hands taking a ten-minute break in the spring sunshine. Hands in pockets, whistling tunelessly with an air of casual nonchalance, I made my way through a patch of shrubbery, down a meandering path along the river bank, and hence to the rear of Cabin 37.
My heart lightened when I saw it. Like a lot of old-fashioned cottages, this one had a screen door, which was sheltered by a trellis covered with early roses. The shrubbery around the cottage proved to be agarito, a gray-green shrub with sharp-pointed, hollylike leaves, an effective barrier to an eavesdropper who might want to listen beneath a window. But I didn’t have to. While the screen was shut, the back door itself stood open. I stopped whistling, abandoned the pretext of a stroll, and went up to the door as noiselessly as I could, on the alert for any sound.
Whatever was going on inside, it was going on quietly. If Sheila was in trouble, there was no audible sign of it, no cries for help. I could hear the murmur of voices, a man’s voice, a woman’s voice, low, urgent, intense. Hoping to
get a better fix on what they were saying, I pressed my ear against the screen and held my breath.
“—don’t care what you think you’re doing,” Sheila was saying disgustedly. “You jump-out boys are all alike. No supervision, no chain of command, too damn much discretion.”
Jump-out boys? I sucked in my breath. So that was it! Well, it figured.
A jump-out boy is an undercover narcotics agent, named for the sudden habit of jumping out of an unmarked car and arresting the street seller and his small-fry customer. It’s a tactic much used by the narcotics task forces that began national operation in the early 1990s under the Byrne grant, named for a New York police officer who was killed by drug dealers in 1988. In Texas, these task forces are notorious for their carelessness with evidence, their cavalier attitude toward the truth, and their eagerness to rack up arrests, especially after the Texas legislature, in its infinite wisdom, rewrote the state’s asset forfeiture laws to allow the task forces to pocket money and other assets seized during drug arrests. The legislation—heralded as a way to make criminals pay through the nose for their crimes—turned the drug-bust business into a cash cow and corrupted a great many cops and politicians.
Corruption. I felt suddenly cold, remembering what Hark had said that morning. What if this man was—
“Hey,” the meter man drawled lazily, “don’t be so hard on a guy, huh? I’m only doing a job here.”
“I should have been notified about your ‘job,’” Sheila said, her voice flat and angry. “Why didn’t somebody from your task force let me know that you were coming? Why didn’t I hear from your DPS supervisor? Damn it, Tyson, you’ve stepped into the middle of two murder investigations. How was I to—”
“You might’ve been notified if you hadn’t slept with the guy,” Tyson said brutally.
Sheila’s reply was so low and harsh that I couldn’t quite make it out.
“Well, hell,” Tyson said, soft and slick. “Can’t say I blame him, now that I get a good look at you. Wouldn’t mind having a little of that myself. Say, what’d’ya think? Maybe we could—”
Spanish Dagger Page 19
