Vasquez joined her in the garage and said, “Find anything?” in a tone that said he thought being at the crime scene two months after the murder was a waste of time.
Megan walked over to where the garage floor looked bleached. “Is this where the paint can spilled during the scuffle? Where Johnson was hamstrung?”
“Yes, and I know what you’re thinking.”
“You do?”
“That the killer stepped in the paint and left nice footprints to identify. The killer may have done just that, but they scrubbed the floor before leaving.”
“Scrubbed?”
“There may have been footprints, but someone came in and used Johnson’s shirt to rub the paint over any possible prints.”
Megan frowned. “I didn’t see that in the report.”
“If it wasn’t there, I forgot. But it didn’t give us anything, except that the killers tried to clean up.”
She stared at the door. “The house was cleaned.”
“Of course.”
“There still might be—” She opened the garage door and called out for Hans.
He came from the back of the house. “Find something?”
“I don’t know. But the killer stepped in the paint. It could have been tracked all over the house, maybe invisible to the naked eye.”
“The house has since been cleaned by a biological clean-up company,” Vasquez said.
Megan sighed. Good biohazard companies wouldn’t have let anything slip by. “It was worth a try.”
“I’ll call the crime scene supervisor. Tell him what you’re thinking and see if he has any ideas.”
“We appreciate it,” Megan said. She was grasping at straws. She wanted a break, something that pointed to a suspect. She’d worked hundreds of murder investigations over her fifteen-year FBI career, so many that her boss in D.C. had suggested she get a job with local law enforcement. “Violent crime isn’t our priority,” he’d said in 2002. “You may be happier in a different agency.”
But she loved working in the FBI, and she thrived in the Violent Crimes Squad. She didn’t want to do anything else. It had taken her three more years before she was transferred into a supervisory role and moved to Sacramento.
“Agent Davis said something about friends of Johnson who were in the military with him. Veterans?” Hans asked.
Vasquez nodded. “They had a weekly poker game over at the VFW Hall. I’ll take you there. They didn’t have anything to add to the investigation.” He glanced at his watch. “Happy hour is just ending. I don’t know if you’ll get anything useful from them, but honestly, I don’t think they know anything.”
* * *
It took Jack until the dinner hour to find Enrique Roscoe. Seemed he’d “just missed him” at his four regular hangouts. Padre had to go to church for Mass. Jack knew his friend was worried, but he couldn’t think about that right now. Jack wasn’t going to do anything stupid, and he was relieved when Padre was no longer riding shotgun.
Jack returned to El Gato at seven that night, circling back to the first place he looked for Enrique. There he sat, a beer belly at twenty-five. Jack slid onto the bar stool next to him.
“Tell me about the pretty gringo you talked to yesterday,” Jack said, voice low. He ignored Pablo whose gesture asked if Jack wanted his usual.
“Fuck off.”
Jack grabbed Enrique by the collar. The kid smelled of beer and marijuana. His red eyes blinked rapidly, and he worked his mouth without speaking.
“Carlos told me you had a nice chat with her. I want to know what you said, what she said.”
“Let him go,” Pablo said. “I don’t want trouble. Please, Señor Jack, just talk.”
Jack let go of Enrique’s shirt. “Spill it.”
Enrique shrugged, rolled his shoulders, picked up his beer. “She bummed a cigarette off me.”
“I want the pack.”
Enrique barked out a laugh. “That was two packs ago. Check the landfill.”
“Did she use your lighter?”
“She had her own. She lit mine.” Enrique reached under his waistband and did an elaborate show of adjusting his dick.
“Name?”
“Didn’t say.”
“Carlos says you chatted her up.”
Enrique shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Did Scout talk to her?”
“Dunno.”
Jack’s fists clenched. He resisted the urge to deck the bastard. “Did she talk about Scout? Friends or family in town?”
“Why? You think she killed him?”
Jack didn’t answer. He stared at Enrique.
Enrique shrugged again, drained the rest of his beer, and motioned for another.
“She didn’t ask anything. Just talked about how much she liked traveling and sitting in local bars. I asked her to dance, she said no, that was it.”
Jack didn’t know what to make of the information, and he knew there was more to it than small talk. “Carlos said you talked to her for quite some time.”
“Fuck Carlos, he’s a liar. He came up when I was just about to get a peek down at her tits. She had these nice”—he cupped his hands—”C cups. Smaller than I like, but her shirt was cut to here”—he touched his chest—”and there was this nice tan line.”
“What color shirt?”
“White. She was too skinny for me; I like some meat on my women.” He made a motion like he was grabbing ass. Jack bit back a comment, and asked, “Hair? Eyes?”
“Dunno. Two?” He laughed at his own pathetic joke.
This was going nowhere. “Carlos talked to her?”
“He came over and hit on her. Told me to scram. I told him to fuck off, then went to take a piss. Came back and Carlos was gone. She was there, paying. I went over, she said she had to go. Early appointment or some such garbage. I thought she might be meeting up to screw Carlos, but ten minutes after she left, Carlos comes back in with his boys.” Enrique leaned over and said in a stage whisper, “I think he was just feeling her out to see if she was a cop.”
“Cop?” Jack raised his eyebrow. “You thought she was a cop?”
“Hell no, but you know how paranoid Carlos is.”
“Shut the fuck up, you drunk fool.”
Jack pivoted on his barstool. Carlos stood behind them with two of his punks—both bigger than the youngest Hernandez.
“You told me you didn’t talk to the woman.” Jack slowly rose from the seat.
“I don’t have to tell you anything, you fucking half-breed.”
Jack stood his ground. “How long was this woman around here?”
“She left. Early. Long before your drunk gringo comrade.”
Jack stepped forward, wanting too much to slam his fist in Carlos Hernandez’s nose. “If I find out you’re lying to me, Hernandez …”
“You going to tell the priest on me?” he mimicked. “He your boyfriend?”
The three laughed. Jack started to walk out. He was too close to letting loose. Too close to letting the demons out. And Carlos wouldn’t survive.
Art Perez walked into the bar, a deputy at his side. Could the chief of police not go anywhere alone? Jack stopped when Perez blocked his path.
“I hear you’ve been sticking your nose into my investigation,” Perez said.
“I’m not interfering with your investigation.”
“You dragged Pablo Hernandez out of bed, then beat up his little brother in the middle of the street.”
“Damn straight,” Carlos said from the bar. “Arrest him, Officer!” He laughed and everyone around him joined in.
Jack said, “Scout was one of my men. I will find out what happened.”
“Maybe you brought trouble back with you from Guatemala.” Perez glared. “Yeah, I know all about you and the other soldiers of fortune here. I also know a bit about your good friend Frank Cardenas. You might want to think about that, Kincaid. Frank’s history may not go over well with some of the people here, and if enough of them flood the dio
cese with complaints— well, let’s just say he may find a nice post in the cold Alaska diocese after I’m done.”
Jack had always known that Perez was a bastard, but this was low even for him. The police chief was baiting him, waiting for Jack to throw a punch so he could arrest him. Waiting for him to react. Jack froze. He would do Scout no good in jail.
“Stay out of police business. I know how to do my job.” Perez stepped forward, toe to toe. Jack didn’t budge. He barely breathed. “And leave Carlos Hernandez alone, or it’s war. Ten years living here is nothing, Kincaid. You’re still the outsider, and I’m still the hometown boy made good.”
Perez left. Carlos and his two cronies followed. Jack turned back, glared at Enrique, and slapped his hand on the bar, rattling every glass underneath.
Pablo slid a Tecate over to him. “On me. Sorry about Scout, Señor Jack. Really.” He ambled off down the bar.
Jack breathed out slowly. He took a long swallow of the beer, tasting nothing. He glanced up at the television. There was no sound, but the tag on a photo of some capitol building read “THREE DEAD SOLDIERS.”
“Pablo!” he shouted. “Turn up the TV!”
Pablo obliged, and the ancient Zenith TV behind the bar blasted into life. The fuzzy channel at least had clear sound.
The reporter was saying, “So far, three men in three different states, all U.S. Army veterans, have been found dead—execution style.” Pictures of three soldiers in uniform flashed on the screen, but the images weren’t clear enough for Jack to make them out. He could tell, however, that Scout wasn’t one of them.
“According to the Austin Police Department, the Federal Bureau of Investigation has taken an active role in the case, sending two agents from Washington, D.C., to assist local authorities in tracking who may be the first serial killer targeting our armed forces….”
Serial killer? Scout? Jack didn’t want to believe it, but he couldn’t deny that Scout was killed execution style. Except the report said nothing about hamstringing. Jack knew the police routinely didn’t share all details of a crime with the public.
The reporter continued. “If anyone has information about these crimes, please contact Detective José Vasquez with the Austin Police Department at …”
Jack left. Austin P.D. be damned. He was going straight to the top.
He sat in his truck and called Washington, D.C. His brother Dillon was living with a fed. And dammit, Jack would pull every string and make any promise if it led to justice for Scout.
For the first time since he’d seen Scout’s body, Jack believed he had a decent shot at finding his friend’s killer.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
The VFW Hall that Duane Johnson had frequented every Monday night for a poker game was located on the dilapidated side of the Austin business district. As José Vasquez drove Meg and Hans across town, the scent of thunderstorms hung in the air even though the colorful, sunset-hued sky was clear. Megan was exhausted. This was their last stop before checking into a hotel Agent Davis had secured for them.
The hall was more than half full, with the majority of patrons in their late fifties and sixties. Vietnam era, Megan thought. Still, a decent number of men were in their thirties. And while women had a larger role in today’s armed forces, there were only a handful in the establishment.
Taking the lead, Vasquez led Megan and Hans over to two men sitting at a table on the far side of the back room. Two of three pool tables were in use.
“Reggie, Norris, meet Special Agent Elliott and Dr. Vigo from the FBI. They’re here to help find Duane’s killer.”
Reggie was as white as Norris was black. He was tall, skinny, around forty years of age; Norris was tall, linebacker-wide, and at least sixty, if not older. He also had only one eye, but it didn’t miss anything. Both were drinking draft beer.
“Hmm,” Norris said.
“Skeptical?” Hans asked.
Norris shrugged. “Been a couple months.”
Megan sat down next to the men. “Sometimes it takes awhile, but neither Hans nor I are backing down.”
“Yep.”
Megan tried a different tack. “Where were you stationed?” she asked.
“Fort Meade,” Reggie said. “Spent three years in Iraq.”
Norris stared. “Ord.” He sipped his beer.
Meg nodded. “California. I know it.”
Norris raised an eyebrow. “It’s closed.”
“Right. In 1994. I lived there when I was ten. My father moved around a lot.”
“Army brat.”
“One of the brattiest.”
Reggie chuckled. “Somehow, I don’t see that.”
“Just ask my brother. He was so fed up with army brats that he joined the navy.” She rolled her eyes.
The men laughed, and Megan breathed easier.
“You really think you can catch Duane’s killer?” Norris asked doubtfully.
“Yes,” Megan said. “I don’t give up.”
“Easily?”
“I don’t give up.” She had a few cold cases on her desk that she still worked. She hated to lose; she hated more to have a killer walking free while his victims were six feet under.
“We told the detective everything we know.”
“My partner, Hans Vigo, and I have some questions. They might sound strange.”
“Did Vasquez say you’re a doctor?”
Hans shrugged. “Depends how you define ‘doctor.’ I have a Ph.D.” Hans had three, but Megan didn’t elaborate. “I might be able to save you if you start choking on peanuts, but if you need emergency brain surgery, you’re dead meat.”
The men laughed again, and Hans sat next to Megan.
“What do you want to know?” Reggie asked. “We told Vasquez everything about Duane. He plays poker with us on Monday nights—that’s when his restaurant is closed. He’s known for his ribs, but it’s the hamburgers that bring me out on payday.”
“We’re a tight bunch here. We’d notice strangers hanging around,” Norris said. “Nothing bizarre or out of the ordinary for as long as I can remember. Duane was a good guy. Paid his taxes. Loved his kids. Hell, he even loved his ex-wife. Dawn was a good woman, they just couldn’t live together, you know?”
“They were still getting it on,” Reggie said.
“Shut up, kid,” Norris said.
Reggie waved his hand in the air. “Duane wouldn’t care. What do you think, that Dawn had something to do with his murder? Not a chance.”
Megan said, “What I’m really interested in is Duane’s military background.”
Both men grew serious. “Why?” Norris asked.
“Have you seen the news? Two other veterans have been murdered in a similar manner.”
“You mean that homeless vet in Sacramento?” Norris said. “Just saw that tonight, before you walked in. There wasn’t much to the story. Just that police thought it might be connected with Duane’s case, but they didn’t give us shit in the report. Same as we been hearing for the last two months. No offense, José.”
“None taken.”
“So you remember the news story?” Hans asked, one eyebrow raised.
“ ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I,’ “ Norris quoted.
“I was at the crime scene,” Megan said. “George Price is my case.”
“And that’s connected to Duane?” Reggie asked. “How?”
“There are three victims, all were army, all with multiple tours, and thus far there are about ten years of overlapping enlistment. We’re trying to find any common posts or assignments.”
“It wasn’t just a random act of violence?”
“No,” Megan and Hans said simultaneously.
Hans added, “Someone is targeting specific veterans. He will kill again if we can’t figure out the connection and stop him.”
Reggie and Norris drank their drafts simultaneously. “What do you want to know?” Norris finally said. “We don’t just sit here and talk about our lives like th
is is Oprah’s studio.”
Megan nodded. “You probably know where Duane served.”
Reggie nodded. “He did basic at Fort Bragg.”
Megan made the note. “1982.”
“About right. If that’s what his records say, that’s probably right,” Reggie said. “He did a tour in Desert Storm.”
“Do you remember when?”
“First year—ninety. I enlisted that year, but didn’t get over there until ninety-one. He was gone by then.”
“He was in Afghanistan for a spell,” Norris said. “Went back voluntarily.”
“A lot of the guys do,” Reggie said.
“Somalia,” Norris said. “He was Delta.”
That was a revelation. Special Operations. Were Price and Perry Special Ops as well? Megan made a note to find out.
“Fort Bragg?” Hans asked.
“That’s what I said.” Norris said it in such a way that Megan was certain Norris knew for sure. There were only two or three bases the army’s elite Delta Force operated from.
“Did Duane mention either Dennis Perry or George Price to either of you?”
Reggie shook his head. “If he did, I don’t remember. But if you’re in the same unit, most guys don’t use the name your mama gave you. I was Apollo from day one.”
“Apollo?” Megan asked. “I don’t think I’ve heard a Greek god used as a nickname before.”
“Not everyone gets shot in the foot first day in basic,” Reggie said. “Fucking big-city prick never held a gun before in his life—bang—takes out my big toe.” He slipped off his shoe and showed everyone his four-toed left foot.
Norris shook his head. “He gets a kick out of that story. I still think you shot yourself in the foot.”
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