Still River

by Harry Hunsicker

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Too many people in too many hospitals lately. Ernie. Me. Now Nolan. I slipped into the antiseptic-smelling room on the fifth floor of Parkland Hospital, carefully shutting the door so as not to make any noise.

  Nolan’s bed was upright, the white sheets accentuating her dark hair. Except for the bruising on one side, her normally olive face was now pale and drawn. But alive. She opened her eyes when I entered. An IV tube ran from the back of one hand to a plastic container suspended on a stainless steel rack. I moved to the foot of her bed. We stared at each other for a few moments, neither saying a word. I heard a siren scream outside. The only movement was the steady drip of her IV.

  When the siren quieted she spoke. “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  “You look like shit.” She smiled and fiddled with the plastic tubing connected to her body.

  “Everything’s relative.” I did indeed look bad. The contusion and split flesh on my cheekbone from connecting with Carl Albach’s head had started to heal but it was still a nasty shade of yellow and purple. Plus I hadn’t slept much lately. But I hadn’t been through what she had either.

  Silence for a minute or so. Then she said, “I don’t blame you.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “You first,” I said.

  “A round penetrated the door and hit me in the thigh.” She brushed her free hand through her hair. “There was a lot of shooting and yelling and somewhere in there I knocked my head. I think I tried to walk and my leg buckled.”

  “Then what?”

  “I woke up in a rat-hole apartment somewhere.” She looked out the window. “A woman brought me some water and then left me alone again.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Older. Mid-sixties. Russian.” Nolan turned her head from the window. “She tried to be nice to me. My leg, it got infected.”

  “When did Washington show up?” I sat in an armchair by her bed.

  “When he called you.” She rubbed her eyes. “Guy needs his lights turned out. Permanently.”

  “What did he do to you?” I kept my voice low.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” she said. “He slapped me around a few times after I talked to you. I’ve had worse.”

  A nurse came into the room. She ignored me and handed a paper cup containing several pills to Nolan. She tapped on the IV bag a couple of times and asked if the patient needed anything else. Nolan shook her head.

  When the door shut I said, “He’s dead.”

  “You do it?”

  I nodded.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  I stood up and walked to the window. The sun looked like a faded tennis ball behind the smog and haze. A mass of dark clouds had gathered in the distance; the thunderstorm promised to break the triple-digit temperatures teasing the city once again. I placed one hand on the glass and felt the heat of the day on my palm. Then I turned around and explained what had occurred, starting with the connection between Fagen Strathmore, Aaron Young, and Coleman Dupree. Next, I told her about the activities at the river and the explosion of thirty pounds of white powder. She raised her eyebrows and smiled at the mention of destroying all that cocaine. I smiled back and let her in on the secret: it hadn’t been drugs that we blew up, but rather thirty pounds of something else.

  Cornstarch.

  I talked faster so she wouldn’t interrupt, continuing with the story about Fagen and a Cadillac full of hookers easing down the driveway of a mansion on Strait Lane.

  From the glove compartment of the car with the pest control signs on the side, I removed a battered Glock nine-millimeter last fired the month before in a liquor store robbery in Fort Worth. Delmar had provided it, and I didn’t ask questions. I could have used the pistol I took from Carl Albach at the warehouse on Gano Street but I had planted that one underneath the driver’s seat of the Cadillac.

  I got out of the car. The truck headed toward me slowly. I could see Strathmore in the driver’s seat, one of the girls next to him. The silhouettes of the other three were barely visible in the backseat.

  When the SUV was twenty yards out, I dumped five rounds into the radiator, as fast as I could pull the trigger. All hit their mark.

  I dropped the pistol on the pavement and hopped in the car, jamming it into gear and heading north, past the Cadillac with Fagen Strathmore staring at me, his eyes wide and his face white as cotton. As I drove I removed the mask and earplugs. After two blocks I pulled into an alley and removed the two magnetic signs on the side of the car.

  Sirens sounded in the direction of where I’d left Fagen Strathmore in a shot-up truck with four prostitutes and thirty pounds of uncut cocaine, nestled in the back cargo area next to a set of golf clubs. What with the drugs, and the two dirty pistols, he’d have a challenging time explaining it all to the police. I bet that the chief and the mayor wouldn’t be very helpful, given the circumstances.

  I drove the speed limit for a couple of miles, to an empty school parking lot on the other side of Preston Road. I pulled off my dark T-shirt and put on a button-down and a tie. The car was clean, no number to trace anywhere but to a recently deceased widower in Tyler. I wiped down every surface for the third time and shut the door. A few blocks away was a small strip center. I wandered into the Starbucks and got a cup of decaf. From the pay phone in the back I called Olson’s cell. Delmar had a state legislator who owed him big, as in life-or-death, for reasons I was afraid to ask. The good senator had graciously volunteered to be my alibi if need be. Hopefully, his services would never be required.

  “Olson picked me up,” I said. “We took a drive down Strait Lane. They had Fagen handcuffed and facedown on the hood of the Cadillac. After that he dropped me off here.”

  Nolan closed her eyes for a few moments, like she was tired. Then she said, “Ernie died.”

  “Uh-huh.” I turned back to the window. The bottom of the sun kissed the horizon. The thunderclouds had increased, moving across the city from the east. A jagged flash of lightning ripped somewhere over the suburbs.

  “Coleman Dupree’s MIA,” she said. “Aaron Young gets the brass ring. And Charlie Wesson is still dead.”

  “Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  I stared out the window at the clouds moving toward us, the edge of the rainstorm plainly visible now. “Very much alive.”

  ELECTRIFYING PRAISE FOR HARRY HUNSICKER’S STILL RIVER

  “Hunsicker does everything right—no-nonsense prose, a tough but sympathetic hero, and a case that pulls at the heartstrings. Still River proves that the modern private-eye model is alive and well. I can’t wait for the next in this series.”

  —Rick Riordan,

  Edgar and Shamus Award–winning author of

  Southtown and The Devil Went Down to Austin

  “Still River is a marvelously written debut with vivid characters, a terrific plot, and a richly portrayed Dallas, from its glories to its gutters. Private eye Lee ‘Hank’ Oswald is everything a reader wants in a hero: tough but good-hearted, fearless but flawed. Harry Hunsicker puts Dallas squarely on the modern mystery map with this outstanding novel.”

  —Jeff Abbott,

  three-time Edgar nominee and author of Panic

  “Take a wild ride down the dark, dusty, and often dangerous streets of Dallas with Lee Oswald, PI. Still River is a terrific debut.”

  —Chuck Hogan, author of The Standoff

  “This is fast-paced action, with plenty of laughs along the way. Harry Hunsicker creates characters as big and bold as Dallas.”

  —Ben Rehder, author of Bone Dry and Buck Fever

  “Lee Oswald is the kind of man you want on your side—hard as titanium but with a heart as big as Texas. Hunsicker really delivers the goods in this impressive debut.”

  —Steve Hamilton,

  Edgar and Shamus Award–winning author of Ice Run

  “Great new noir … If this
doesn’t light you up, seek immediate medical attention.”

  —Lee Child, bestselling author of One Shot

  “Hunsicker’s clever writing and intriguing plot keep the pages of Still River turning quickly right up to the slam-bang ending, which leaves us eager for the next Lee Henry Oswald adventure.”

  —Dallas Morning News

  “Deft prose, wry observation, and a cleverly manipulated plot bode well for this new series.”

  —Library Journal

  “Hunsicker has written a smart, adventurous read, crafted in the Raymond Chandler vein. This is the first in the series, and we’re already looking forward to the next installment.”

  —D-Magazine

  “Cheers to Dallasite Harry Hunsicker for giving us Hank (né Lee Henry) Oswald, a most welcome and worthy heir to the legacy of wisecracking private eyes like Robert Parker’s Spenser and Robert Crais’s Elvis Cole.”

  —Texas Monthly

  “A startling first novel that will leave readers waiting for more.”

  —Tulsa World

  “A solid debut.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Dave Robicheaux fans should check this one out.”

  —Booklist

  “I have seen the future of PI novels, and Harry Hunsicker is going to be a driving force in what is to come. If his debut novel, Still River is any indication, Hunsicker will be a name that will be seen on many bestseller lists.”

  —Crime Spree Magazine

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  NEXT LEE HENRY OSWALD MYSTERY

  THE NEXT TIME YOU DIE

  AVAILABLE IN HARDCOVER FROM ST. MARTIN’S MINOTAUR

  My workload came from one of several distinct groups, a pattern I figured was typical for any moderately successful private investigator in a major metropolitan area.

  Most PIs thought of the first group as their best clients. The business was steady and they paid well and on time. They were lawyers in all their various shades and flavors. What could be more recession-proof than litigation and the ancillary investigations required?

  Next came the people missing something of value. An inheritance. A loved one. A spouses’s sexual attention. The company’s checkbook. Et cetera. This was a diverse group and paid in a diverse manner. Still, work was work.

  Finally, there was the miscellaneous category. These were the people who walked on the dark side of the street. The half-bent cops. The occasional call girl with a dead politician stinking up a hotel room somewhere.

  And my personal favorites: the dimwit wise guys who had screwed, stolen or ingested something that didn’t exactly belong to them and needed help, off-the-books and pronto. If they didn’t try to kill you, this group always paid, no questions asked.

  The tires of my Chevy Tahoe crunched on the gravel parking lot as I came to a stop in front of a stone-and-brick building nestled under two old hackberry trees. I slid the gear shift into PARK, turned off the ignition and listened to the motor tick. Two guys who looked like out-of-work musicians or maybe the creative team at a small ad agency sat at a picnic table and watched me as they drank from long-neck bottles of beer. I watched back for a moment and then opened the door of my truck, steeling myself against the wave of heat and humidity typical of mid-September in Texas.

  My concern was that the person who had requested this meeting didn’t fall into any of the usual categories, or so it seemed based on our initial, cryptic phone conversation. He’d said his name was Lucas Linville and he was: (a) a preacher; (b) of the Baptist persuasion; and (c) wanting to meet in a drinking establishment. If that wasn’t enough to give a body pause, I didn’t know what was.

  I walked across the gravel and dirt yard in front of Lee Harvey’s, a bar located a few blocks south of the new Dallas police headquarters in a part of town a friend of mine refers to as the corner of Gun and Knife Streets. I pushed open the front door and welcomed the dim light as a relief from the afternoon sun. The air-conditioning was set somewhere between the Arctic Circle and Iceland. The place smelled like beer and burgers and stale smoke.

  Originally a house a century or so back, the bar occupied what had once been the living/dining area. It split the room in two, running parallel to the front wall, and had seating on either side. The bedrooms were to the left and had been converted into one big area which now contained a pool table. The kitchen was to the right.

  I picked a stool on the opposite side, facing the front door. Nothing behind me except empty room. No other access points. The guy next to me had a portable oxygen tank slung over his shoulder, a cigarette in one hand and draft beer in the other. He was dressed in a rumpled tuxedo, no tie. He looked to be somewhere between fifty and ninety years old, give or take.

  I nodded hello to the bartender, a guy I sort of knew from previous visits, and ordered a Shiner Bock. Across the room the front door opened, and I squinted against the sunlight as the man I took to be Lucas Linville entered.

  Five-eight or -nine. Skinny. Late fifties. The pink bow tie was the giveaway, the article of clothing he had mentioned he would be wearing. It was tied tightly around the neck of a beige dress shirt underneath a brown suit. Even from across the room, I could see the outfit was worn at the edges.

  He blinked a couple of times against the gloom of the place and then walked to the bar, leaned in and whispered something to the guy who had just served me a beer. The bartender cut a glance my way without breaking his conversation with Linville.

  I nodded.

  He pointed to me with an ashtray he’d been polishing.

  Linville took a moment to examine his surroundings and then walked around the bar past Mr. Emphysema and took the empty stool next to me. He stuck out a hand and introduced himself. His breath smelled like Wrigley Doublemint chewing gum, and I caught the faint aroma of drugstore aftershave on my hand where it had pressed against his palm.

  Before I could say much of anything other than my name, Linville ordered a shot of Jim Beam with a Budweiser chaser and said, “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

  I didn’t reply for a moment as I watched the bartender serve up my newest favorite concoction: a Baptist Boilermaker. Might have to start going to church.

  “I know my way around town pretty well,” I said. A few blocks away a bullet had punched a hole through the side of my new Hugo Boss leather jacket a couple of winters ago. I was still pissed about it.

  “I have a small ministry not far from here.” He downed the glass of whiskey in one gulp, followed it up with a swig of beer. “This is a troubled part of town, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No offense.” I looked at my watch. “But I didn’t come here to talk about urban blight.”

  Linville leaned back and stared at me, a blank expression on his face. “You find stuff for people, right?”

  “Sometimes.” Category Two. People missing something. I felt a little better. “Depends on what it is.”

  “A file was stolen from my office yesterday.”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “My ministry helps the people on the fringes.” He steepled his fingers underneath his scrawny chin. “Drug addicts. Prostitutes. What society thinks of as the gutter.”

  He paused for a drink of beer. “Sometimes the people who find themselves on the bottom started out on top.”

  “Debutantes turned street walkers, next on Jerry Springer.” I’d been hired once to find the daughter of a social bigwig. It turned out a busboy at the country club had introduced the flaxen-haired lass to the joys of injectable m
ethamphetamines. The situation turned out poorly for all concerned.

  Linville nodded. “Yeah. More or less.”

  “What was in the file?”

  “Records on a former employee of mine, a young man named Reese.” Linville tugged on an earlobe as he talked. “Came from a prominent family. Dad was a lawyer. Mother was involved with all those charity balls. He could have done anything, been anything he wanted.”

  “What was Reese’s problem?”

  “He had trouble with opiates, and cocaine too. Ended up on the streets in a bad way until I gave him a job.” Linville clinked the empty shot glass against his beer bottle and asked the bartender for another Jim Beam. “His family has been more than generous to my ministry.”

  “When did he quit working for you?”

  The older man frowned and ran his index finger around the rim of his beer can. “Four or five months ago.”

  “It’s an employment file,” I said. “So that means it has his last name.”

  “Yes.” He lowered his voice and looked around the room. “Reese Cunningham.”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar. It conjured up an image of yacht clubs and cotillion dances. I said, “And Mumsy and Daddy won’t be too eager to fund your operation if it gets out that their precious angel was a homeless addict.”

  “Certain segments of society care about appearances at all costs.” He downed his second shot.

  “When did you notice it missing?”

  “Yesterday, right after lunch.”

  “Anything else gone?”

  He shook his head.