by Rehder, Ben
Pritchard took a sip of coffee, then began his tale. “Like I mentioned, I’m president of the Rotary Club in Blanco. Every year, we raffle off a vehicle—usually something high-end, like a Hummer, a BMW, something like that. This year, it’s a Corvette. Anyway, it’s all for charity. What happens is, every member of our chapter sells tickets, and there’s even a prize for the person who sells the most. Just a trophy, though. Nothing extravagant. It’s a friendly competition, you know, to show who has the most spirit. That kind of thing. Is this too much detail?”
Garza said, “No, that’s fine.”
“Okay, see, Vance is the treasurer, and that means he took care of buying the car from the dealership in Austin. They’re really good to us as far as a discount and everything. Actually, Vance hadn’t bought the car just yet. He had an arrangement where we’d pay the dealer later from the proceeds. That’s the way it always works, so we don’t have to shell out a big chunk of cash before we sell the tickets. They let us sign some papers and get the car early so we can show it around and get people excited about the whole thing.”
Marlin remembered an article about the raffle in the Blanco County Record a few weeks ago. “When’s the giveaway?” he asked.
“Two weeks from Saturday.”
“When did tickets go on sale?”
“About two months ago. They’re a hundred dollars apiece. It takes awhile to sell tickets that expensive.”
Marlin nodded for Pritchard to proceed.
“So the situation is, we’ve got all these members out there selling tickets, and about once a week or so, most of them meet up with Vance and give him all the money they have on hand. Either they swing by his house or do it at our weekly meeting. Most of them don’t want to hold on to a bunch of cash. Makes ‘em nervous.”
“The ticket sales are all in cash?” Garza asked.
“No, it’s mostly checks, but some people pay with cash. Maybe a third.”
“Hundred bucks a pop?” Marlin asked.
“Yep.”
“How many tickets do you sell?” Garza asked.
“It varies from raffle to raffle, but obviously we like to sell enough to make it worthwhile. We have to cover the cost of the car, and then everything after that goes straight to one of the charities we support. This year, it’s the food bank. Minus our expenses, of course. Anyway, for the Corvette, we figured we had to sell somewhere around seven hundred tickets to cover the cost of the car and come away with a decent donation.”
Marlin was surprised. “You manage to sell that many tickets right here in Blanco County?”
Pritchard smiled. “No, not just here. We have members from around Dripping Springs, too, and even a few in south Austin. So we sell the tickets all over central Texas. Last year we sold about eight hundred.”
Marlin whistled. That was a cool eighty grand.
Garza said, “So what you’re saying is, in addition to the Corvette, Vance Scofield had a fairly large sum of cash in his possession.”
“That’s pretty much it.”
“Why doesn’t he put it in a bank account?” Marlin asked.
“He told me there was no sense in putting it in the bank for just ten weeks. He said he had a safe.”
“Any way of knowing exactly how much cash he had on hand?”
“Vance kept all the records, but I’d guess somewhere between twenty and thirty thousand.”
Marlin glanced at the clock on the wall out of nervous habit. He had called Phil Colby the night before and told him about the call from Pritchard. Colby had said he would join the deputies out at the river this morning and help with the search for Scofield. Apparently, there had been no progress yet or Marlin would have heard. At first light this morning, Marlin had driven out to Scofield’s place to have a look around for himself.
“Tell us about last night, when you went over there,” Marlin said. “You’re saying the Corvette was inside that metal pole barn on the east side of Mr. Scofield’s house?”
Pritchard nodded. “Exactly. When I heard the news about Vance, well, I just figured I’d better check on the car. Make sure everything was okay. But it was gone, and that had me worried. So I called.”
“How long had the car been there?”
“About eight weeks. Like I said, we’d take it out and drive it around on occasion, especially when we were selling tickets at large events. We drove it to the rodeo in Austin last month and sold tickets in the parking lot.” Pritchard removed a photograph from his jacket pocket and slid it to the center of the table for both men to see. “You asked me to bring a picture,” he said. “This is the only one I had.”
Marlin bent closer to study the photo, which showed a young brunette woman leaning against the front fender of a red Corvette. She was dressed in boots and tight jeans, with a halter top and a cowboy hat. It could have been a shot from a cheesy auto-parts calendar. The woman was well endowed up top. “Who’s the girl?”
Pritchard had a boys-will-be-boys grin on his face. “Her name’s Jenny. See, a car like that draws people like flies—but especially when you have a good-looking girl selling the tickets. Like at an auto show. Hot car, hot babe.” He shrugged. “Sex sells. What can I say? I think she does a little modeling.”
“Friend of yours?” Garza asked.
“No, Vance rounded her up somewhere. He and I drove the car to the rodeo in March, and she met us there. I think she works part-time for some kind of company that specializes in that sort of thing. If you can believe it, there’s actually a pretty big market for ticket sellers like her. If you’ve ever been to a hunting show or a wild-game dinner, any kind of event where they have an auction or raffle, you’ll see a bunch of girls just like her. When a beautiful girl walks up to a guy, suddenly he’s willing to spend a little more cash.”
“Can we keep this?” Garza asked, tapping the photograph.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Do you know Jenny’s last name?” Marlin asked.
“I think it was something like Gilmer or Geller. You need to talk to her?”
“We might,” Garza said. “At this point, we need to talk to anybody who might have seen Mr. Scofield recently. This Jenny—did she and Scofield know each other pretty well?”
“I think they went out a few times. Vance dated a lot of girls. I say ‘girls’ because most of them were a lot younger than he was.”
“Anyone he saw regularly?”
Pritchard smiled. “Vance never really limited himself to one woman. He was, pardon my language, but what a lot of guys would call a ‘pussy hound.’ Didn’t matter if they were young, old, beautiful, or not pretty at all. If there was a woman he thought he could score with, well, Vance would be all over her. Especially if he’d had a few drinks.”
Garza stood to refill his coffee cup. “So you said Scofield was the only one with keys to the Vette?”
“That’s right.”
“And you can’t think of anyplace else where the car might be? Maybe he parked it in another location.”
“No, that’s the only place we kept it. It wouldn’t be anywhere else without me knowing.”
“Are you thinking it might’ve been stolen?” Garza asked.
Pritchard looked down at the table. “Uh, well…no. I don’t know.”
Garza sat down and leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Pritchard, I get the feeling there’s something you want to tell us about Vance Scofield. Something you’re reluctant to say.”
Pritchard hesitated and spread his hands. “There is, but it’s all just conjecture on my part. I want to make that clear.”
“And?”
“Vance is a friend of mine, and I feel bad saying this, but I think he might’ve been using drugs.”
Senator Dylan Herzog had just returned from his weekly manicure, and now he was looking down on the parking lot two stories below. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing out there on occasion, watching as people parked their cars and made their way inside. Of course, most of the visitors weren’t coming
to see him—there were several other professionals who officed in the small building in central Austin—but one person was coming to see him, and that person was to arrive at nine-thirty, according to Chuck Hamm. A man named Buford Rhodes. This guy Rhodes, Hamm said, would be able to fix this horrible mess.
Herzog noticed a shiny new Suburban pulling up outside. A man stepped out wearing an expensive suit, carrying a briefcase. The man certainly didn’t appear to be the type who could “kick ass and take names,” to use Hamm’s crass expression. Couldn’t possibly be Rhodes.
Herzog’s chin lowered to his chest, and his eyes began to droop. He’d hardly slept at all the previous two nights, the worry keeping him up till all hours. Even his wife was concerned about him. If only she knew.
Another vehicle pulled into the lot, parking in the handicapped spot just below Herzog’s window. A vintage Cadillac convertible, canary yellow, with the top down and two men inside. The driver was wearing a Stetson. He stepped out, lean and tall, with a braid of long hair hanging down his back. His suit was a god-awful baby blue, covered with silver studs, like something straight from the Grand Ol’ Opry. Porter Waggoner stuff. The passenger was shorter, dressed in dirty jeans, sneakers, and what appeared to be a bowling shirt.
The driver dropped a cigar stub on the pavement and ground it out with his heel.
Please, Lord, Herzog thought, don’t let these be the guys. Don’t let my future depend on these two clowns.
Two minutes later, Susan buzzed.
“What makes you say that?” Bobby Garza asked.
David Pritchard pondered the question. “Just, I don’t know…there were times when he seemed like he was gonna bounce off the walls. Just all this energy, like he couldn’t sit still.” Pritchard paused for a moment. “See, back in the eighties, my sister used a lot of speed—about one step away from being addicted, I think. I recognize the signs.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, I know he partied hard. We were on the same softball team, and we’d always have a few beers after the game. But Vance, well, he was always drinking way too much. Sometimes on the weekends, if I called too early—and I’m talking ten A.M.—you could just hear it in his voice. Sounded like hell. Still half wasted from the night before. He’d tell me stories about clubbing in Austin. Acted like a college kid. Sounded like a college kid.”
“But you never saw him use drugs.”
“No.”
“Never saw any drugs in his house.”
“No.”
“You and him are good friends?”
“Well, friends, anyway. We’re not real close. But I know him fairly well.”
Garza took a deep breath. “Mr. Pritchard, let me make sure we’re clear on what you’re saying. Scofield leads kind of a wild life, he chases a lot of women, maybe uses speed. So you’re wondering if Scofield might’ve taken off in the car, maybe he’s off partying somewhere?”
Pritchard frowned. “I hate to say it, but yeah, that’s the first thing I thought of—Vance doing something wild like that. But I guess you’re also thinking in terms of robbery. Either way, I sure would like to know if the money from the raffle is still in his house. I don’t mean to be cold about Vance’s situation, whatever trouble he might’ve gotten into, but all that cash…”
“We’re gonna check on it,” Garza said, but Marlin knew they were both thinking the same thing. If there was a robbery that turned into a murder, where is Scofield’s body?
Garza looked at Marlin, seeing if he had any more questions. Marlin shook his head.
“One other thing I think I should share,” Pritchard said. “I’ve gotta be kind of vague about this because of attorney-client privilege, so forgive me—but Vance had…well…he wasn’t very responsible when it came to his finances.”
“Money problems?”
Pritchard nodded slightly.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough.”
“To the point of filing bankruptcy, something like that?”
Pritchard hesitated. “I really don’t feel comfortable going into that much detail.”
“All right, then, Mr. Pritchard. Anything else?”
“That’s about it.”
“Thanks for coming in. You’ve been a big help.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me updated. It won’t be much of a raffle without a car.”
After Pritchard left, Garza and Marlin sat back down. The sheriff blew out a long sigh. “I’m gonna be pissed off if we’re wasting our time while Scofield’s out chasing skirts.”
Marlin had to grin. He and Garza had worked together and been friends long enough that they could be blunt with each other. Garza, after eight years as a deputy, had been the sheriff of Blanco County for nearly three years now—arguably the best man ever to hold the job. He had earned the respect of every law-enforcement officer in the county, Marlin included. The sheriff commonly involved Marlin in all types of investigations, from homicides to burglaries to drug-related crimes. It was funny: When working those types of cases, Marlin found that people were often surprised to learn that game wardens were in fact real police officers, commissioned with the power to enforce any state law, not just hunting and fishing regulations.
“What do you think?” Garza continued. “Maybe he’s off on a bender?”
Marlin had to figure it was a possibility, because he’d run into similar situations—emergency calls that didn’t turn out to be emergencies at all. The previous summer, a drowning had been reported on the Blanco River. A boy, fourteen years old. The search began, with divers and the whole bit, and it turned out the kid had decided to swim across the river and walk home. He had been angry at his friends and wanted to put a scare into them. But this case had something different.
“Still doesn’t explain the vehicle in the river,” Marlin said. “Unless he wants us to think something happened to him.” He had seen that scenario, too—a man faking his own death. It happened with alarming frequency around the country. Some desperado, usually facing felony charges, would decide it was the best option and try to stage the most convincing scene he could. But they were nearly always sloppy, and you could spot the fix from halfway across the county.
“Guy’d be a real dumb-ass, wouldn’t he? Taking off in the Corvette? And wanting us to think he’d drowned?”
“Maybe he thought we’d think the car was stolen.”
Garza drummed his fingers on the table. “I guess Scofield could be off somewhere in the Vette, and somebody else borrowed or stole his SUV. Maybe they ended up in the river but climbed out and made it home okay.”
“Or whoever was driving it might not even know the SUV’s in the water. Remember the high water last fall? Rodney Bauer drove his wife’s car partway into the water, then decided not to chance it?”
“Yeah, what was the deal on that?”
“Plugs got wet and the car died. He just left it there, figuring he’d come back for it later. But the water rose even higher and the car ended up downstream about forty yards.”
Garza shook his head. “I don’t know. You think that happened here?”
“No, my money’s on door number one. Scofield drowned.”
“And the Corvette?”
“Sitting somewhere else, maybe at a friend’s house. And Pritchard just doesn’t know it.”
Garza rose from his chair. “I’ve already got an APB on Scofield and a BOLO on the Corvette. I’m gonna get a warrant for his house, but that means I’ll have to pull my deputies off the river.”
“We don’t have a lot of choices.”
“We’re already stretched thin as it is, between this case and the Lucas thing.”
“Anything new there?”
“Get this. Nicole found out that Lucas didn’t have a phone. He’d disconnected it. So no recent phone records. Also, we talked to his landlord—this old guy up in Waco. He didn’t say much, but he told us that Lucas had been paying his rent for the last few months in money orders. He’s always used
checks before that.”
Marlin could decipher what that meant. Lucas paid with money orders because he didn’t want to deposit quantities of cash into his checking account. Money that he had made by selling drugs.
“The state fire marshal sent a team down, and they’re overhauling the place today,” Garza said. “Then we’ll know for sure.” Garza rapped his knuckles on the desk, hoping, Marlin knew, for some good luck. Nobody wanted Lucas’s body to be found in the rubble. “What’s your plan?” Garza asked.
“Back to the river, I guess.”
“Gonna keep looking, huh?”
“For now.”
“Sounds like you got yourself in a shitpot of trouble,” Buford said, seated, looking around the room. Damn nice office. Mahogany desk. Matching bookshelves. Oil paintings on the wall. The hot secretary from outside was fetching coffee. Hell of a deal, this public service gig.
The senator—Herzog—didn’t appear to like Buford’s way of phrasing things. Kind of got this prissy look on his face. “That’s one way of putting it,” he said. “And you’re supposed to help me out of it…somehow?”
The guy was looking Buford and Little Joe over, like a man who had just discovered a cockroach in his chili. Buford had seen that look before, people thinking he was a rube. He could handle it, though, as long as Herzog didn’t maintain an attitude. Hell, Buford had been known to play it up a little, Columbo-style. Let people think he was a yokel. Nobody keeps an eye on a yokel.
Uncle Chuck—or “Mr. Hamm,” as Buford had called him in front of the senator—had given Buford the lowdown, but he wanted to run it by Herzog, make sure he had the story straight. Make sure Herzog wasn’t candy-coating some of the details. “What I hear is, you got a nasty phone call. Guy mailed you some pitchers, and now he wants something in exchange. I got it right so far?”
The senator started to say something, but apparently thought better of it and simply nodded instead. He came across as fidgety, like he had better things to do.
