by Bill Crider
“Nobody’s notified me of an ex-convict living in the county,” Rhodes said.
“Her name’s Linda Fenton. Here’s her picture.”
Jennifer reached into the folder and brought out a picture printed on plain white paper.
“I printed it from the Web site,” Jennifer said. “What do you think?”
Rhodes looked at the picture. He couldn’t tell much about it. The woman looked a little young for Beaman, who was in his fifties. She had a round face, big eyes, and blond hair. She was wearing tight blue jeans and a belt with a big round western buckle. She had on a T-shirt that was even tighter than the jeans.
“She looks a little young,” Rhodes said.
“It’s an old picture, one that was taken when she was living in the free world.”
“She’s a little flashy looking, too,” Rhodes said. “I can’t understand why a man like Jay Beaman would be dating a convict. Ex-convict, I mean.”
“Mr. Bilson said that there’s no accounting for taste.”
“I didn’t know Grat had such a way with words,” Rhodes said.
“He also told me that Mr. Beaman liked to take chances. That’s one of the reasons he dated Mrs. Bilson, for the thrill of doing something a little illicit. He also liked to go down to La Marque and gamble at the dog track. La Marque’s close to Texas City, down by Galveston.”
Rhodes told her that he knew where Texas City was, and La Marque, too, and handed her the picture.
“As for why you haven’t been notified about her being in the county,” Jennifer said, putting the picture back in the folder, “she might be living in another county. Or she might have given a false address.”
It wouldn’t be the first time, Rhodes thought. He said, “Even at that, there’s no law against a man dating an ex-convict.”
“It wouldn’t look good at election time, though,” Jennifer said.
“And Mr. Bilson told me he was going to get the word out, even if I didn’t print the story. Besides, there’s more to it than that.”
“And you found out about it.”
“That’s right.”
“So are you going to help me out some more?”
“I suppose. But for a sheriff, you don’t always ask the right questions. You should have asked me what Linda was in the pen for.”
“You said that wasn’t on the Web site,” Rhodes said.
“Sure. But anybody can find out what someone’s in prison for. It’s a public record.”
“And you’re a reporter.”
“Is that a nice way of saying I’m a snoop?” Jennifer asked.
“No, it’s a compliment. Not everyone would take the trouble to look it up.”
“Well, I did.”
“You’re going to save me the trouble, I hope.
“I suppose so.”
“Good. Tell me what she was in for.”
“Arson,” Jennifer said.
12
ACCORDING TO JENNIFER LOAM, LINDA FENTON HAD BEEN MARRIED, and she and her husband had owned a restaurant in Houston. It hadn’t been doing well. In fact, it had been losing money, and her husband was getting ready to declare bankruptcy.
But then a miracle happened: the restaurant burned to the ground. Mr. Fenton had told people that it was probably an electrical fire, or maybe a grease fire, but the arson investigators found out that the fire had been deliberately set.
At first their suspicions settled on Mr. Fenton, which Jennifer told Rhodes was typically sexist.
“Not really,” Rhodes said. “Most arsonists are men. I’d say more than 95 percent.”
“Are you making that up?” Jennifer asked.
“No. I might not have exactly the right figure, but it’s close enough.”
“Oh,” Jennifer said. “I suppose it wasn’t sexist at all, then.”
“It wasn’t. Fenton was the natural suspect.”
“Maybe.” Jennifer didn’t sound entirely convinced, but she went on to say that after the investigators had pretty much decided that Mr. Fenton wasn’t guilty, they went looking for disgruntled employees. There hadn’t been any of those, however, and Linda Fenton had made a mistake. The newspapers weren’t clear on precisely what it was, but it seemed to Rhodes from the way Jennifer told the story that Linda had probably talked to a friend and said a little too much.
Or maybe it was her husband she’d talked to. At any rate, someone told the police, and Linda Fenton was arrested, tried, and convicted.
There were other troubles in her past, including a couple of DWIs, during the course of which she’d assaulted an officer and resisted arrest. She’d had the bad luck of drawing a stern judge in the arson case, so she got a stiff penalty.
“And now she’s out,” Rhodes said when Jennifer had finished. “You did some good research.”
“You don’t have to butter me up.”
“Just telling the truth,” Rhodes said, thinking that sometimes when you were being charming, you just couldn’t turn it off.
“Well, anyway, there’s lots more,” Jennifer said. “Mr. Beaman’s been a pretty naughty commissioner.”
“Let’s have the rest of it, then,” Rhodes said.
“This is where we get to the touchy part,” Jennifer said. “The part that’s hard to prove. It’s also the criminal part.”
“The good stuff,” Rhodes said.
“Absolutely. I’m still developing it.”
“But you’re going to tell me about it anyway, right?”
“Yes. Maybe you can help me. There might not be a law against dating ex-convicts, but there’s certainly one against bribery.”
“Now we’re getting to it,” Rhodes said. “Who’s bribed Beaman?”
Jennifer couldn’t prove that anyone had. But there was a big road project coming up, the complete renovation and repair of one of the county roads. The road passed through Beaman’s precinct.
“I know all about that,” Rhodes said. “People have been complaining about that road for years. It’s about time something was done. I don’t see what that has to do with a bribe, though.”
“Do you know who got the contract for the road?”
“I believe it was Ralph Oliver.”
“That’s right. And do you know how contractors for road projects are selected?”
Rhodes knew, all right. It was a bit of a sore point with some people. The way it worked was simple. There was no bidding system. The commissioners got to choose the contractor. They could pick anyone they wanted, and then the county engineer had to negotiate the price.
“Ralph made a huge campaign contribution to Beaman last year,” Jennifer said.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Rhodes told her.
“No. The commissioners always argue that their friends give them campaign contributions and that it’s only logical that they would choose their friends for county projects. After all, they know them and trust them, so why not reward them?”
“It makes sense if you look at it like that,” Rhodes said.
“Only if you trust the commissioners. What if they award contracts only to the people who give them the most money? Isn’t that a bribe?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Maybe not. But how much money do you think Beaman spent on his last campaign?”
“Probably not much. He didn’t even have an opponent.”
“That’s right,” Jennifer said. “He printed up a few signs, nailed them to fence posts, and that was it.”
“All right. I believe you. So what?”
“So nothing. If that was all there was to it, then there’d be no harm done, except that Beaman would have a big campaign chest that wasn’t being used. As it is, though, I think he used it. That’s what I’m trying to prove.”
“It’s his. He can use it.”
“Not to build his own road,” Jennifer said. “Not to have a stock tank dug on his property.”
“No,” Rhodes said. “He can’t do that.”
“He’s not suppose
d to use county equipment, either, but he did,” Jennifer said. “At least I think he did. I’m still working on that, too.”
Rhodes thought that she must be going after the Pulitzer.
“That’s going to ruin him if it’s true,” he said. “Get him indicted, too.”
“That’s right. Someone might kill to keep from going to prison.”
“Maybe he killed the wrong person,” Rhodes said.
Jennifer frowned. Then her lips slowly curled into a smile, and she laughed.
“You had me going for just a second there. I’m no threat to him if I don’t have the evidence, and my informant seems to be dead.”
“I’m still not a hundred percent sure of that,” Rhodes said.
“I think he is, but I’m not going to stop digging. Now that I’m on the trial, I’ll find out if what I’ve been told is true.”
“Beaman isn’t stupid,” Rhodes said. “He might act like a hick, call you ‘little lady,’ and pat you on the head, but he’s been in office a long time. He’s shrewd.”
“He’s dating an ex-convict that he met on the Internet. How shrewd is that?”
“Not very,” Rhodes said. “But you’re going to need some help with this.”
“Are you offering?”
“No,” Rhodes said. “Not yet. I have a body to deal with. Maybe you can find another informant. And besides, you’re not even sure Bilson was telling you the truth. Remember, he told you that I was cheating the county, too. It was easy to prove I wasn’t.”
“You’re right,” Jennifer said. “It was easy. I checked.”
“I thought you might. Have you checked all these other stories?”
“I told you that I was working on it.”
“But you haven’t proved anything yet.”
“Not yet, but I will. It won’t be as easy without Mr. Bilson’s help, though. I have a feeling everything’s pretty well hidden.”
“You can bet on it,” Rhodes said. “If there’s anything to be hidden, that is.”
“I know there is. He couldn’t have made all that stuff up.”
“He might not have made it up, but he could have been wrong.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Which means you’re putting all your faith in what Grat Bilson told you. Is that right?”
Jennifer got a stubborn look. “He knows what he’s talking about. Or knew.”
“He didn’t know about me. He was dead wrong about that.”
“I’ll admit that bothers me. That’s why I’m going to be absolutely sure before I publish anything.”
“Your editor will make sure you’re more than sure,” Rhodes said, and Jennifer grimaced.
Then the phone on the desk rang twice in quick succession. A double ring meant that Hack was calling from the jail.
“I’ll have to answer that,” Rhodes said.
Jennifer shrugged as if to say she didn’t mind, and Rhodes picked up the phone.
“You know that fireworks stand out toward Milsby?” Hack asked when Rhodes answered.
“I was by there yesterday.”
“Well, you better get by there again. Someone called in on a cell phone, said he’d been there tryin’ to buy some fireworks when a crazy woman came up with a gun and threatened to blow the place all to hell and gone.”
“I’m leaving right now,” Rhodes said.
“If you hear a real loud noise,” Hack said, “you’ll know you’re too late.”
13
THE COUNTY CAR RUMBLED DOWN THE GRAVEL-TOPPED ROAD, RAISING a rooster tail of dust that drifted out over the dry fields as Rhodes passed them. The dust was also coating the two-door Saturn that followed along behind him, the one being driven by Jennifer Loam.
Rhodes had tried to tell her not to come, but while he knew she hadn’t heard what Hack had said, she could tell from Rhodes’s response that something was going on. Nothing Rhodes said had persuaded her to stay behind, not that he’d been able to say much. He’d been in too much of a hurry to get to his car.
He pulled into the bare-dirt parking lot of the fireworks stand, and as he stepped out of the car, all the dust that had been following him caught up and swirled around him. Then Jennifer drove up beside him, and even more dust surged over him. He could feel grit under his eyelids, and he tried to blink it away.
He blinked again, and his watering eyes could see two people inside the stand. They were a couple of feet apart, and he could hear them yelling at each other. The dust rolled on over the fireworks stand, but it didn’t seem to bother the people inside it. Rhodes didn’t think they even noticed.
“What’s happening?” Jennifer asked, coming to stand beside him.
“That’s what I’m here to find out,” he said. “And you’d better stay in your car. You don’t want to interfere with an officer in the performance of his duties. You don’t want to get shot, either, I’ll bet.”
“Who are they?” she asked. “Who has the gun?”
“I don’t know,” Rhodes said. He was tired of being charming. “I can’t see well enough to be sure. Now get in your car.”
He half expected an argument, but Jennifer didn’t say a word. She turned and walked back to her little car and got inside.
Rhodes turned back to the fireworks stand. His vision had cleared, and he understood at once why Jennifer hadn’t given him any argument.
One of the women was Yvonne Bilson, and she had a pistol in her right hand. She was waving it around and screaming.
“You dirty bitch! I don’t care if it kills me along with you. I’m going to blow you to kingdom come.”
Rhodes didn’t take the threat very seriously. He figured that if Yvonne had really intended to blow anything or anybody up, she’d have done it by now. She’d had plenty of time. It had taken him at least ten minutes to get there.
On the other hand, it might not matter what she intended. She could always accomplish her threat by accident.
“I never took anybody away from you,” the fireworks salesperson said. “He wasn’t yours in the first place. You were living in adultery.”
It finally dawned on Rhodes that the salesperson was a woman. He hadn’t been able to see her clearly when he’d passed by the stand on the way to and from the place where Bilson had died, but now that he could, he thought she looked familiar.
“Don’t tell me about adultery, you whore,” Yvonne said. She pointed the pistol at a display of Roman candles. “We’ll see how you like having fire up your ass.”
Rhodes thought it was about time for him to do something, so he walked forward and said, “Put down the gun, Yvonne.”
Yvonne didn’t turn to see who was talking to her, but she knew who he was. She said, “Don’t tell me what to do, you son of a bitch. If you’d just done your job, none of this would ever have happened.”
“What job is that?” Rhodes asked.
“Arresting people,” Yvonne said, still not taking her eyes off the other woman.
“It’s not against the law to sell fireworks,” Rhodes said. “I know Grat was working on that, but—”
“I’m not talking about selling fireworks, you dumb son of a bitch. I’m talking about letting convicts roam around the county as free as the air.”
Rhodes recognized the other woman then. Linda Fenton. She was older than she’d been in the picture he’d seen, but her face hadn’t changed much. She was still blond, and she still liked to wear tight jeans.
“She’s not a convict,” Rhodes said. “She’s been released.”
“I don’t see what difference that makes.”
“You’ve never been behind bars, have you, honey,” Linda said.
She had a deep, husky voice that sounded to Rhodes like the voice of someone who’d smoked a lot of cigarettes, though he knew that smoking had been prohibited in Texas prisons for years.
“No,” Yvonne said. “I’ve never been in the pen. I’m not a convict like you.”
“If you don’t put down that gun, you’re gonn
a be,” Linda said.
Yvonne said that she didn’t care. “You took my boyfriend and my husband. So whatever happens to me now doesn’t matter.”
“It’ll matter once you get behind them bars,” Linda told her. “It’s not as nice there as you think it is.”
Sweat was running down Rhodes’s face and mixing with all the dust that had settled there. He wondered what the temperature was. Probably over a hundred. He looked at the ground around the fireworks stand. Where he was standing was completely bare of grass, as was most of the area in front of the stand, and what grass there was nearby was so short and close to the ground that it couldn’t possibly catch on fire no matter what happened.
But about ten feet behind the stand there was a barbed-wire fence, and behind the fence was a thick growth of johnsongrass, most of it already burned brown by the sun. Just a little spark would set it afire, and the blaze would spread quickly all over the field and maybe beyond.
“It’s not just what happens to you, Yvonne,” Rhodes said. “If you set that field on fire, you’re likely to cause some real trouble. This place is so dry that the fire could spread all the way to Milsby.”
“Wouldn’t be any great loss if the whole damn place went up in smoke,” Yvonne said. “Nothing left of it anyway. Besides, it wouldn’t matter to me, not if I was down in Huntsville in the big house.”
“We don’t call it the big house, honey,” Linda said.
Rhodes thought she was taking the whole thing very calmly, especially since Yvonne still had the pistol pointed at the Roman candles.
That was probably better than having the pistol pointed at the firecrackers, Rhodes thought.
In his misspent childhood, in the days when fireworks were legal everywhere and when even little kids played with them all the time, Rhodes had more than once pulled the fuse out of a firecracker, set the remaining little tube down on the sidewalk, and clobbered it with a hammer just to see what would happen. More often than not, the resulting explosions had been more than satisfactory. A bullet would have a lot more impact than a hammer, and the chain reaction it might start was something Rhodes preferred not to think about.
If the impact of the bullet didn’t set things off, there was always the muzzle flash. The end of the pistol barrel wasn’t more than a few inches from the firecrackers, easily within range of the flash if she pulled the trigger.
