Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip

by Rehder, Ben

  Sergeant Watley scratched his head. “You’re a cop?”

  “Uh, well, no.”

  “You said you were in law enforcement.”

  “Well, in a way,” said Rob. “I’m the president of our Neighborhood Watch program.”

  “And he does a really good job!” Fiona proclaimed.

  “I do have an eye for it,” Rob confessed.

  “It’s like an intuition.”

  “More of a sixth sense.”

  “Our neighbors love him!”

  “I can just look at a guy—”

  “And tell if he’s up to no good!”

  “Like this guy here,” Rob said, tapping the camera.

  “He was so sweet,” said Fiona.

  “But I saw right through it.”

  “Rob says he’s on the run.”

  Rob nodded solemnly. “No doubt about it.”

  “Kind of sad, really.”

  “Unless he’s, like, a murderer.”

  “Or a rapist!” Fiona shuddered.

  “You should contact Texas.”

  “See if they’ve got—”

  “Okay! Okay!” Sergeant Watley said loudly “We’ll look into it.” Just to shut both of you up.

  “You just shot my stove,” Colby said. “That was an antique. It was my great-grandmother’s.”

  The man had hardly even flinched, and Buford had to give him credit for that. This was the second bullet he’d sent sailing past Colby’s skull, and Colby hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  “Next one goes in your head,” Buford said, but he knew he was losing credibility. That was the problem—he kept saying he was going to shoot Colby, but he couldn’t actually do it. Not if he wanted to find the negatives. There were other things he could do, though. Plenty of them. “Mister,” he said, “you want my advice, you’ll just give me the negatives and be done with it.”

  Colby remained silent.

  “Ain’t worth the trouble,” Buford said.

  Nothing.

  “You think this high-fence shit is worth dying for?”

  Buford must’ve said the right thing, because the look on Colby’s face changed. Now he was shaking his head, like he’d figured something out. “You know something? You’re absolutely right. This whole thing has gotten out of hand.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere, Buford thought.

  “So I’ll do it,” Colby continued. “I’ll give you the negatives. But we got one small problem.”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “They’re in a safe-deposit box down at the bank. It closes early on Fridays. We can’t get in it till Monday.”

  It was bad news, meaning this was going to take a lot longer than he had hoped. But Buford was prepared for it. He had a backup plan. He pulled the roll of duct tape out from his jacket pocket. “On your stomach. Arms behind your back. We’re going for a little ride.”

  Marlin had just sent a fax when Darrell put a call through.

  “Uh, John Marlin?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Yeah, I think you called me earlier this week. My name’s Jenny Geiger.”

  For a moment the name didn’t register. Then it clicked. “Oh, right, thanks for calling me back. I left half a message on your machine. Sorry about that.”

  “That’s okay, I tracked you down. I was out of town. Just walked in the door.”

  “Miss Geiger, you’re a friend of Vance Scofield’s, right?”

  A pause. “Well, sort of. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Probably two months or so.”

  “From what I understand, you and Vance dated?”

  “Uh, yeah. Briefly.”

  Jenny Geiger did not sound comfortable.

  “Have you seen the news lately?”

  “Yeah, about Vance. I already heard. I figured that’s why you were calling.”

  “Are you aware that it was a homicide?” Marlin knew Bobby Garza’s news conference had ended thirty minutes ago.

  “Yeah, I heard it on the radio coming home from the airport. Some of my friends called me earlier this week when it first happened, but they were saying he drowned. What happened?”

  “That’s what we’re working on,” Marlin said. “Let me ask you something, Miss Geiger. Do you know of any reason somebody would want to harm Vance? Anyone angry with him—that sort of thing?”

  “Not that I know of. Like I said, we only went out a few times.”

  Marlin tried the same questions, but in different words. Sometimes that technique elicited different responses. “Did he ever mention any arguments with anybody, or talk about anybody that didn’t like him?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Not really?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Did you ever meet any of his friends?”

  “He was in the Rotary Club. I met a couple of those guys when I was selling tickets for the raffle.”

  “That’s how you met Vance? Selling the tickets?”

  “Right.”

  “Did he ever mention anyplace else where he might’ve parked the Corvette?”

  “He kept it in his barn. That’s all I know.”

  Marlin switched gears. “Where did you and Vance usually go when you went out?”

  “Just clubs in Austin.”

  “The Warehouse District?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Did y’all ever meet up with anybody down there?”

  “Nope.”

  “He ever get into any trouble at any of the clubs?”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Maybe exchange words with somebody. Get into a confrontation.”

  “Not that I ever saw.”

  “Did he seem to know many people at the clubs?”

  “Well, maybe a couple, but he’d just say hi and that was it.”

  “You catch any names?”

  “None that I remember.”

  “How about phone calls? Did you ever hear him get angry with anybody?”

  “No, I—” The line clicked. “Can you hold on just a second?”

  Before Marlin could answer, she switched to the incoming call. Just as well. So far, she wasn’t offering much. In fact, she seemed reluctant to speak, and Marlin thought he knew why. After a good minute and a half, she finally came back on the line.

  “I’m sorry about that. It was my mother, long distance. Checking up on me.”

  “No problem. I won’t keep you much longer. The thing is, Miss Geiger, we’re having a really tough time finding out much about Vance—his friends, who he hung out with, that sort of thing. But one thing we do know is that he was into drugs, at least to some degree. I just want to make it clear that whatever you tell me as far as the drugs are concerned, it won’t get you into trouble. We’re working a homicide, and that’s our main focus right now.”

  When she spoke again, there was genuine irritation in her voice. “You think I use drugs?”

  It had certainly occurred to him. Birds of a feather. “No, ma’am, I didn’t say that. But some people are hesitant to mention that kind of thing when they’re talking about their friends. What I’m asking is that you be straight up with me and tell me anything you think might be useful. It would be a big help.”

  Marlin could feel the tension over the phone line, and he wondered if she would answer. Then she said, “I am not a drug user. I want to make that clear.”

  “I understand.”

  “The truth is, it was the drugs that made me quit seeing Vance. I mean, he was an okay guy and everything. He liked to have a lot of fun, and we always went to nice places. But after a couple of dates, I could see that he was a pretty heavy user.”

  “What did he use?”

  “Speed, mostly. He talked about Ecstasy a couple of times, but speed is all I ever saw.”

  “Did he offer it to you?”

  “Yes, but I never did any.”

  “Where did he get it, do you
know?”

  Then she threw him for a loop. She finally gave him something he could use. Something huge.

  “No idea,” she said quietly. “I think he might’ve been dealing it.”

  Marlin wanted to shout at her, to tell her that that little bit of news was extremely important. Why hadn’t she told him earlier? But he didn’t want to scare her off, so he kept his voice low-key “Why do you think that?”

  “One time, he was on his cell phone, and I thought I heard him saying something about twenty grams. When he hung up, I asked who he’d been talking to. He said it was his partner. So I said, ‘Your partner in what?’ He just laughed and said, ‘You don’t want to know.’ All mysterious, like it was real cool or something.”

  Marlin’s heart was thrumming. This could be the lead they’d been needing for the past five days. The only problem was, he didn’t like where it pointed. One name leapt to mind as a potential partner of Vance’s. “Did Vance ever mention a man named Lucas Burnette?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer right away. “You know, that does sound kind of familiar. Maybe.”

  Maybe. Not good enough.

  “Do you remember when that was?” Marlin asked. “The phone call to his partner?”

  “It would’ve been the last time I went out with him. The idea that he was dealing… that was enough for me.”

  “Do you remember the exact date?” Marlin could check the phone records that had already been pulled. Find out who Scofield had been talking to.

  “I don’t know. Sometime in March.”

  Again, not good enough. “Miss Geiger, do you keep a diary or a date book or something like that? I really need to know the date.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  A dead end. There was no way—yet—to identify the “partner.” So he said, “If you think of a way to figure out that date, please give me a call. It’s very important.”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  The line was quiet for a moment. She was lingering, not as eager to hang up as he thought she would be.

  “Is there something else I need to know?” Marlin asked.

  He heard her take a big breath. “This is really gross, but I guess I better tell you. When Vance and I quit seeing each other, it wasn’t a big deal, really. He was a little upset, but nothing major. I told him flat out that the drugs bothered me, and he bitched about it, then let it go. But then, the next day, I came out of my apartment and…well…I think he masturbated onto my front door.”

  Marlin found himself at a loss for words. He knew Scofield was a drug user and a womanizer, but he hadn’t expected this. “He…uh…”

  “Yep.”

  “You found—”

  “There was…a mess. And I sure couldn’t think of anyone else who would’ve done it.”

  21

  EVEN BEFORE THE news conference, Chuck Hamm had heard the rumors: Phil Colby was the number-one suspect in the murder of Vance Scofield. It was almost too good to be true.

  Hamm knew firsthand that Vance was a lowlife scum who had had all the ethics of a rutting pig. He’d been a womanizer, a thief, and a liar—so the cops should have had a suspect list a mile long. Jealous husbands. Jilted girlfriends. Maybe even fellow drug users, if Hamm’s suspicions in that area were correct. But the cops were focusing on Colby. It was enough to make Hamm giggle like a tipsy sorority girl. Finally things would be set right. Colby—the man who had filed a nuisance lawsuit against high fences, and who was now blackmailing Senator Herzog—would get what was coming to him for being such a major pain in the ass.

  But it also made Hamm nervous. The cops were sniffing around Colby…and what would happen if they found the negatives before Buford did? Buford had said he had searched Colby’s place, but how well?

  Apparently, Hamm wasn’t the only one rattled by these recent events, because his phone rang late in the morning. It was Senator Dylan Herzog, with traffic in the background, calling from a pay phone. “I understand your friend Vance Scofield was murdered,” Herzog said with urgency. “This is a horrifying development.” Hamm was disgusted at the fear he heard in the man’s voice.

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard,” Hamm said impatiently. “But why does that have your panties in a knot?”

  No answer for a moment, and then: “You know, Chuck, there are times when I wish you would speak to me with a little more respect. After all, I am a Texas state senator.”

  “Yeah, well, some people would say that’s not something to brag about. Now what can I do for you?”

  After another moment of icy silence, Herzog said, “I have concerns that these two things—the recent phone call I received and the death of Scofield—are somehow related.”

  Hamm’s first instinct was to calm the senator down, to tell him that Vance Scofield probably had all sorts of enemies. Then it occurred to him that the more people who suspected Phil Colby, the better. “Now why in the hell would you think that?” Hamm asked, leading the senator along. Herzog always responded better if he thought he was doing his own thinking.

  His reply was snippy. “Well, if you insist on being obtuse, I’ll spell it out for you. Colby is obviously a bit…unstable. I realize you didn’t hear him on the phone, but believe me, he came across as vindictive and hateful. I find it entirely plausible that his animosity could manifest itself this way.”

  “Wanna talk English?”

  “Okay, how’s this? I think he might’ve killed Vance Scofield, and he did it because he hates high fences. He did it because he wants to send a message—to me, to you, and to all of your buddies. Blackmail isn’t enough.”

  Hamm was impressed. Herzog had come up with that theory without even knowing that Colby was already a suspect. “I think you nailed it on the nose,” he said.

  “You do?”

  “Damn right. Word is, the cops have already talked to him.”

  “Oh my God. Are they holding him?”

  “Nope.”

  “You think I’m in danger?”

  “I’d say anything’s a possibility.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “Senator, let me bring you up to speed on Colby. Per your instructions, we’ve been telling you things strictly on a need-to-know basis. And now, there are a few things you truly need to know.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “When my nephew first mentioned Colby’s name, did you recognize it?”

  “It seemed somewhat familiar.”

  “That’s because Colby filed a lawsuit against one of his neighbors, trying to block the construction of a high fence.”

  “Okay, now I remember it. Happened last fall.”

  “Exactly. But do you remember who Colby’s neighbor was?”

  “No, I do not.”

  Hamm paused for drama. “Vance Scofield.”

  “Jesus,” Herzog whispered.

  “Damn right.”

  “He’s a lunatic.”

  “Possibly.”

  “He might come after us all.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him. You have a bodyguard?”

  Herzog sounded haughty “I’ve never felt as if I needed one. Besides, I’m thinking it might be wise if I asked for police protection.”

  Oops. Maybe Hamm had pushed this a little too far. “I wouldn’t do that, Dylan.”

  “And why not?”

  “You pull the cops in, ain’t they gonna ask why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re gonna ask why you’re feeling threatened. You’ll have to tell them the whole story—that you’re being blackmailed by Colby, and now, considering what happened to Scofield, you’re worried about your own safety.” And, Hamm thought, you’ll tell them all about our little arrangement. Hamm had no doubt he and Buford would wind up in the same jail cell, considering his nephew’s bumbling tactics recently.

  “But the very fact that Colby is blackmailing me shows how venomous he is,” Herzog said. “It shows a pattern of aggression in his campaign against high fences.”


  “But wouldn’t they ask what he’s got on you?”

  “I could remain vague.”

  “And what happens if a deputy finds those photos?”

  “I…I tell him that they were created on a computer, and I could keep his mouth shut by offering certain…rewards.”

  Yeah, Hamm thought. A cushy law-enforcement position at the state level. There was only one catch. “But this isn’t just about blackmail, it’s about murder. They’ll want to use those photos as evidence in Colby’s trial. Can’t you just picture those shots plastered all over Court TV? You sure you want to go that route?”

  “But…it’s my duty to come forward.” Herzog sounded a lot less sure of himself.

  “Relax. They’ll nail him without even knowing about your little problem.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah, I do. No, the best thing for us to do is to find the negatives first. Then you can tell the cops whatever you’d like. Paint the story any way you want it.”

  Herzog was silent. Then: “I could say yes, he was blackmailing me, but the photos were doctored. As long as they don’t have the negatives, they’d never know.”

  “There you go. Sounds like a plan.” Hamm was amazed at how rapidly the senator was willing to abandon the truth.

  “But we have to find those negatives.”

  “We will.”

  Neither man spoke for a moment. “You think he did it?” Herzog finally asked. “Colby killed Scofield?”

  “Sure looks that way,” Hamm replied.

  The man calling himself George Jones had stashed his Cadillac inside of Phil’s barn, and Phil cussed himself for failing to notice earlier that the door was closed. He usually left it open.

  “Where’s your partner?” Phil asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Bill. The little guy with the bad stomach.”

  A look of pure malice crossed George’s face. “Shut your damn mouth and get in.”

  George opened the door, and Phil slid into the passenger seat, his arms bound tightly behind his back. “This is a nice ride,” Phil said. “Buy the right clothes and you could be a hell of a pimp.”

  George climbed into the driver’s seat without answering.

  Up at Miller Creek Loop, Colby expected him to take a right, toward Highway 281, but George turned left. Could be that George was taking the back roads to Johnson City, or maybe he wanted to hook up with Highway 290 and go west.