Trinity Trio (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 14)

by George Wier

  TRINITY TRIO

  A Bill Travis Mystery

  GEORGE WIER

  Copyright © 2016 by George Wier

  Published by

  Flagstone Books

  Austin, Texas

  Trinity Trio—A Bill Travis Mystery

  First Ebook Edition

  March 2017

  Cover design by Elizabeth Mackey

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes written in connection with reviews written specifically for a magazine or newspaper.

  The Bill Travis Mysteries

  (in chronological order):

  The Last Call

  Capitol Offense

  Longnecks and Twisted Hearts

  The Devil to Pay

  Death On the Pedernales

  Slow Falling

  Caddo Cold

  Arrowmoon

  After the Fire

  Ghost of the Karankawa

  Desperate Crimes

  Mexico Fever

  The Lone Star Express

  Trinity Trio

  Buffalo Bayou Blues (forthcoming)

  DEDICATION

  For my Sallie, who daily teaches me how best to live.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I was sitting at my breakfast table when I got the call from my business partner, Penny, demanding that I throw in and help out her aunt—one of the “Trinity Trio.” I had no idea what that meant at the time and couldn’t have cared less, but for the fact that my wife was practically glaring at me. That designation—Trinity Trio—would hang up in my mind like a big slab of meat aging in a smokehouse until such time that I found out what it related to. When I think of Trinity, I think first of the Trinity River in East Texas. Second, what comes to mind is Trinity University in San Antonio. Last, but certainly not least, is of course, the Big Three—or, as Don McLean described them: “...the three men I admire most. The Father, Son and Holy Ghost.” The next line of that song talks about trains, and I’d had enough of trains to last a lifetime.

  Breakfast half finished, kids staring at me, I got up to go bail somebody out of jail. I hadn’t a clue what she’d done—or for that matter, what she was alleged to have done. We do that. We make the flash mental judgment and jump all the way to the fine or the jail sentence and assume guilt. Can’t help it.

  I stopped by the office, unlocked it, went inside, opened up my safe and withdrew fifty thousand dollars in cash, hoping all the while that I could find a good bail bondsman who wouldn’t require all of it. Fifty thou is a good chunk of change, for me. The economy had drifted along miserably for the last year and a half, far more bear than bull, and it had taken awhile to build it all back up. Also, I have a number of kids to put through college someday.

  As I counted out the stacks of bills, I realized that the way things were going, there was an even chance I might never see it again. I counted out the fifty, put ten back, thought about it, then put back another five, rethought it again and placed the fifty thousand into a stack on my desk.

  I put the cash in my leather shoulder bag—the brown Frye’s—and stepped out of the office into the coming day.

  Coming up the walkway toward me was Hank Sterling, looking particularly old, weathered and forlorn.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” I asked him.

  “Who says anything’s the matter? I tell ya, a fellow stops by to see a friend, and all he catches is unholy hell.”

  I nodded. “You’re lying, Hank. But that’s okay. I like it that I can tell when you’re lying. It’s those you don’t know when they’re lying that you have to worry about. Look, I’m just heading out the door to...to handle something.”

  “You’ve got the Frye’s bag,” he said. “That means it’s either a court case—which, this is a Saturday and the courts ain’t open on Saturday—or it’s some kind of money deal. I’m going with the money deal theory. So what’s up?”

  “Penny’s aunt is in trouble over in East Texas. I’ve got to go bail her out of jail.”

  “What did she do?” Hank asked.

  “People are innocent until proven guilty,” I said. “You should know that.”

  “No,” he said. “They ain’t. Don’t get me wrong, it may be good policy to do it that way, but I just assume they’re guilty as sin.”

  I laughed. “That’s because you’re pretty guilty yourself.”

  Hank nodded, and grinned. And that’s when it hit me.

  “Julie called you,” I said. “Didn’t she?”

  “Why, nooo. Not even.”

  “You’re lying again. It’s okay. She wants you to ride along with me, doesn’t she? She should have just told me.”

  “You would’ve said no. You think I’m getting too old to go along for a ride these days.”

  “That’s right. Look, there won’t be any gunplay on this one, nothing to blow up. No reason to go all ninja or any of that crap. Just a car ride to East Texas, bail somebody out of jail, then come back home. It’ll be boring as all hell. And I no longer permit Hank Williams, Gentleman Jim Reeves, Moe Bandy or David Allan Coe to exit my speakers.”

  “It’s just me,” he said. “We don’t have to listen to any music. Shoot, we don’t even have to talk. But, Bill, I am going with you, so you might as well get over it.”

  “Well hell,” I said and nodded slowly. “Come on, old timer.”

  *****

  On the outskirts of Austin, with the rolling hills of Central Texas spread out before us, Hank was pensive, almost silent.

  “All right,” I said. “Out with it. What’s eating you?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Lies. All lies.”

  He didn’t take the bait, but looked out on the bright day and rubbed one of his bony knees.

  I was due for a birthday in a few weeks, at which point I would be fifty-two, and I knew that Hank had me beat by about twenty-two or -three years, which put him about seventy-five. But he was a spry seventy-five. I’d seen him once or twice in the hospital, minus his shirt, and his body was cris-crossed with so many scars that the world’s best plastic surgeon or tattoo artist couldn’t have hidden them. He had seen more action, both in actual warfare and back stateside in real life, than I would ever witness, except maybe in the movies or on the nightly news. All by way of saying that at seventy-five the body normally begins to slow down, and a man or a woman begins to at least act as though they’re starting to conserve the life force they have remaining. People stop acting immortal, even though their faith, in many cases, might tell them otherwise. But not Hank. While he looked older and more tired, there was a vitality, a dynamic life force about him that he kept bridled for the moment it was needed most. I had been hoping for a nice, boring trip, but with Hank along, there was no telling what could happen.

  Still, I was right about it: something was eating him alive, and he felt he couldn’t tell me about it. So what else was new?

  We drove southeast through Manor, Elgin and McDade, then jumped onto Highway 21 headed due east. The landscape became pastoral, with gently-rolling but great hills where horses and cattle grazed and country folk lived out their insular lives away from the big cities. I’d thought from time to time of retiring and relocating Julie and the kids out into the countryside where they would be able to experience the country life: going for a horseback ride, fishing in a pond or creek, hauling hay or traipsing over the hills and dales, just as I had done in years long gone. It would probably be such a culture shock for them that they’d rebel and run away from home. I probably would have, if my fol
ks had uprooted me. But still, the potential to do so remained. Maybe it was getting close to time to start throwing it out there over the evening meal, or maybe taking the kids for a visit to a ranch or something. Anything to expose them to what I had experienced in my formative years. I’d have to run it all by Julie first.

  We passed through Lincoln, Dime Box and Caldwell, and were soon on the outskirts of Bryan and College Station. It had been while I was on a trip back to the old home town that Julie had delivered Jennifer. I wondered, absently, what had happened to a few of my old friends from that time: Sandy Jones, Sheriff Larrabeth Williams, and Mike Fields. There was no time, however, for a drop-by to say howdy. We passed Bryan by, and I noted that at least Shannon’s, my favorite soul food place, was still open. I u-turned in the middle of the highway and went back to it.

  Hank and I ate lunch. Normally, he would have commented on the fare—how good it was, how it reminded him of home, how the meat from the pork chops melted in his mouth, how the sweet tea was perfect. Instead, he sat quietly and ate, picking at his food.

  Something was definitely not right.

  After paying up and getting back on the road, I decided that I would change my tack, and started talking about my own problems—not that I actually had any problems, but anything to get Hank to flow something back in my direction—and told him about possibly relocating Julie and the kids to the countryside, about when I should retire, about how the economy was affecting business and how I could see a big slowdown on the horizon. Hank listened, but didn’t offer up any solutions for me. When the moment came for me to shut up and see if anything was coming back to me, I waited in silence as the miles passed by and as Kurten and North Zulch gave way to Madisonville, all for nothing.

  I saw the Dairy Queen where I’d eaten my first ice cream cone when I was a kid, and pulled over, a block from the town square in Madisonville.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay, what?”

  “We’re not going another mile until you tell me what the hell is going on with you.”

  “Oh. That.”

  “Yeah. That. Whatever it is, it’s making me depressed. And I don’t get depressed.”

  “Dammit. I don’t like talking about myself. Okay, here goes. I just turned seventy-four.”

  “When was your birthday?”

  “Today.”

  “Oh crap. I forgot all about it. Julie was supposed to remind me.”

  “I made her promise not to,” he said. “I didn’t want to make a big deal about it.”

  “Okay, is that all that’s eating you? You’re not dying or something, are you? No cancer, no wasting disease or rickets or beri-beri?”

  “Oh, nothing like that. It’s just that I have very little family left, other than nieces and nephews. I never married, you know.”

  I nodded. “How’s the private eye thing going? I figured you were in semi-retirement.”

  “What’s that mean: semi-retirement?”

  “I don’t know. What does it mean to you?”

  “It means preparing for the inevitable. Slowing down to a crawl, becoming...pitiful.”

  I laughed. “I don’t think I’ll ever feel actual pity for you, pardner. No. I think you shouldn’t slow down a damned bit. I think that if you’re planning on going out, you’d prefer to do it with a big bang. But in the meantime, keep running. Don’t slow for anything.”

  “You mean run the train flat out? Even though the tracks ahead may be booby-trapped?”

  A recent train wreck I had been a part of flashed before me.

  “Especially if they’re booby-trapped,” I said.

  “Okay. Then I’ll need to shed a few million bucks. You’ll help me, right? We can spread it around, maybe? Find somebody who could use it? Because right now, I’ve got no real reason to work or do anything.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Piece of cake.”

  Hank breathed out a long, deep sigh. After a moment one corner of his lips turned up half a notch. The beginnings of a smile.

  “Let’s get back on the road,” I said. “Miles to go.”

  Hank nodded.

  *****

  We scooted into Carter a little over an hour later; a southern Texas town in Atchison County with a population of about 45,000 folks complete with wisteria bushes along long driveways, stately old oaks and a town center with low buildings and heavy traffic in a confused tangle of crossroads and highways. I loved the place for its southern charm and it’s bustle of people headed earnestly from nowhere to nowhere else.

  My android phone showed the county jail to be to the east of town along Highway 325, and I knew we’d be headed that way shortly, but instead I turned off along East Carter Avenue and made a circuit around the Atchison County House of Courts, looking for a bail bonds office. I found one soon enough, parked and asked Hank to wait in the car.

  “You mean, stay here with the money, don’t you?”

  “That’s what I do mean,” I said.

  “Fine.”

  I left the engine running and the air conditioner going—even though it was not an overly-warm day out—and walked into the bail bonds office.

  Inside it was dim, smelled of stale cigarette smoke, and about as exciting as an antique shop on a Monday afternoon.

  “Help you?” a late middle-aged woman asked. She had dyed sandy-blonde hair badly in need of fresh color, seemingly permanent, lurid pink lipstick, and a smoldering cigarette six inches away from her hand.

  “I need to bail somebody out of jail.”

  “Do tell,” she said. “And who might that be?”

  “A lady. Her name is Tanya Holdridge.”

  “No! And you want me to bail her out? I seriously doubt bail’s even been set.”

  “It has. Half a million dollars. I’m not even sure what the charge is. I’m doing this for my partner.”

  “You one of them gay fellows that got a partner?” she asked.

  “Um, no. My business partner is a—although it shouldn’t matter—a woman. Tanya Holdridge is her aunt.”

  “Didn’t know Tanya had a niece,” the woman said.

  “Oh good. So you both know her and you know what she’s been charged with. Do you—” I held up a finger—“one, mind telling me what she’s charged with, and two—” up with another finger—“mind helping me get her sprung from jail?”

  “I do mind bailing her out,” she said. “She’s a Tasker by marriage, even though her husband is dead.”

  “I’m not sure what that means.”

  “I’m not a history teacher,” the lady said. I noticed that she had a small placard on her desk, half covered with papers, that read SADIE THOMASON.

  “Are you Miss Thomason?” I asked her.

  “I’m Mrs. Thomason.”

  “Please give your husband my condolences. Mrs. Thomason, it’s apparent that I’ve stumbled across some kind of small town political clique with dubious provenance and likely little more than of backwoods canebrake importance in the great scheme of the wide universe. Thank you for your time.” I turned and started out the office, but when I got to the door, I found I was unable to restrain myself.

  “I’d just let the gray grow out. Blonde doesn’t become you. And pink lipstick?” I shook my head in the negative, opened the door and went out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  W hat happened?” Hank asked as I climbed back in the Mercedes.

  “Nothing. They just didn’t want to do business. Personal reasons.”

  “They know the lady you’re bailing out, huh?”

  “Something like that,” I said. “I think this town’s going to be difficult. Let’s find another bail bonds. Maybe there’s one out closer to the jail. Like a lot of these places, they’ve got one of those big new criminal justice centers out on the edge of town. I’m willing to bet we’ll strike pay dirt there.”

  “Yep.”

  I drove us farther east, checking out the town as I went. After about ten minutes, the Atchison County Criminal Justice Com
plex sprang up on our left, an overly large one-story campus complete with enough parking space for a major league ball game. Fortunately, a couple of bail bonds companies loomed into view to the right, just where I expected them.

  I found myself climbing out once more into the bright sunshine of the mid-afternoon and tromping up a long wooden ramp—a nod to the Americans with Disabilities Act—and up to the front door of a small, freshly painted yellow shotgun house that read Bait & Bail Bonds.

  “Perfect,” I whispered to myself as I opened the screen door and went inside.

  The place was overly air conditioned and didn’t smell of cigarettes. The carpet was clean and new, and the place smelled of potpourri. I wondered, absently, where they kept the bait, then decided that the bait sales portion of the organization may have gone south. A small sign at eye level read ‘Jesus Loves You’ along the right hand wall.

  “Hello!” a cheerful voice called, and a woman appeared. She was heavyset and rather frumpy, with a nest of short brown curly hair framing a wide, innocent face. I figured her for no more than a day over forty. “And I hope you’re having a blessed day!”

  “Blessed?” I said. “Well, it’s my friend’s birthday, and all seems right with the world, so I supposed it is blessed. I need to bail a woman out of jail. Her name is Tanya Holdridge.”

  “Oh. Okay. Do you know what that charge is?”

  “I was going to ask you. I’m the business partner of her niece, and I’ve just come in from Austin.”

  “Oh. Well, give me a minute.” She took a seat in an ergonomically correct chair that strained under her weight but didn’t break into pieces. That would’ve been embarrassing for both of us—another blessing to the day. She moved a mouse and tapped at a keyboard.

  “Ahh. Here it is. Tanya Tasker Holdridge. Hmm. Attempted murder. Hmmm.”

  “Did you say—?”