by DiAnn Mills
“She keeps it for me. I’ll ask her when she returns from her airport ride.” But Miss Stacy had told him not to give the parents money.
“What’s wrong that you can’t keep track of your own cash?”
“I’m saving for college.”
“College? I didn’t waste my time there, and I turned out just fine.”
Whitt wanted to tell him that a pot-smoking drunk wasn’t the career he wanted, but Miss Stacy had warned him about being disrespectful.
Dad slammed the hood shut, cursing as he stomped to the door leading into the kitchen.
“Want me to get you a Coke or root beer?”
Dad snorted. “There are two six-packs calling my name as long as your mother hasn’t drank them up.”
Whitt cringed. “When Miss Stacy gets to the clinic, I’ll get the money. We could walk to Walmart together.”
“Too late. I’ve had enough.”
He’d head to the clinic before Dad unleashed his temper.
At the stables, Stacy unsaddled and brushed down Ginger before driving back to pick up the injured dog. She dreaded the next encounter with Agent LeBlanc. Each time she remembered how he used his Louisiana roots to soften her first impression of him, she wanted to shake her fist at him. Too handsome for his own good. One minute he seemed to care about what she’d encountered, and in the next he rattled off questions like she was a suspect.
At the trailhead, she saw the police officer and dog, but no FBI agents. No surprise Agent LeBlanc had abandoned the wounded animal. The man had frustrated her from the moment he opened his mouth. Her job often meant dealing with pet owners across a wide spectrum, from those who were over-the-top anxious about their animals to those who were almost noncaring about their welfare. Both could be challenging, and she often stuffed her feelings into a closet.
“Miss, the agents were called to the crime site. They offered their regrets,” the police officer said. He gently placed the sweet female Lab onto the front seat of the truck, as though the animal were an infant. After thanking him, Stacy drove cautiously with her precious cargo to the clinic. On the way, she called Whitt and learned he’d been there since midmorning. She told him about finding an injured dog. But not the particulars of the circumstances. The boy would have a bazillion questions, and she wasn’t sure how much to tell. He’d sold pet food and vitamins, scheduled appointments, and checked on the cat who’d undergone surgery for a tumor on his heart.
Whitt’s dedication to the clinic filled her with gratitude. Too bad he didn’t receive the same loving care at home. Both parents were AWOL from the nurturing scene, taking turns on HPD’s blotter. She couldn’t save every human and animal, only the ones placed in her path, and she was committed to Whitt and the animals.
She pulled into the parking section at the rear of the clinic, located in a strip center at the front of the subdivision. When she moved there ten years ago, her small ranch-type home was all she could afford. Her neighborhood, nestled between I-45 and the Hardy Toll Road, had been established in the sixties and was poorly maintained. Some of the people living there were dear friends. Others not so much. Although she could easily walk to work, early morning and late hours alone made it unsafe. The crime rate escalated at an alarming pace, and thoughts of moving nipped at her heels.
Whitt opened the passenger door of her truck. His wild, light honey–colored hair hung below his ears, and his serious gray eyes veiled with thick lashes would one day drive the girls nuts, if not already. He grinned, a lopsided appeal that would always melt her heart. Small for his age, but his intellect made up for his size. Every Cajun knew family was what really mattered in life, and he was the closest she had to one of her own.
“The queen and princess have arrived,” he said. “I have the surgery room ready.”
“That makes you our hero,” she said, exiting the truck. “If you can manage our princess patient, I’ll get the door.”
He helped Stacy lift the Lab from the seat with the gentleness she’d instructed. “I have an eye on her paw. Poor thing,” he whispered. “Don’t see a tag on her collar. But she’s remarkably clean.”
“No ID unless I find a chip.” Stacy struggled to open the clinic’s door while balancing the Lab. “She looks to be about two years old.”
They carried the dog inside and laid her on an examination table. “You need a name, pretty girl. Looks like you’ve been through a battle.” His soft voice showed his love for animals, a veterinarian in the making.
“I like Warrior Princess,” she said.
“Consider Xena. It’s Greek, and it means ‘hospitable.’”
“Perfect.” She turned on the warm water to wash her hands.
“Did you find her on the airport trail?”
She nodded while scrubbing up. “She might have an owner.” Better Whitt hear the circumstances from her than the news. “She was lying beside a dead man.”
“Whoa, Miss Stacy. Seriously?”
“Yeah. I’m late because of the investigation, HPD and the FBI.” She noted her trembling hands, not really aware until this moment how badly the discovery had upset her. “Let’s fix up Miss Xena. I don’t want to discuss how I found her.”
“Sure. I can see by the way you’re shaking that it was execrable.”
His vocabulary wavered between kid and sending her to the dictionary. She dried her hands and joined the dog to allow Whitt to scrub up. “I’m calming down. My hands need to be steady.”
“Take deep breaths.”
She smiled and thanked him.
“Who was the dead guy?” he said.
“I don’t know.” She sprayed lidocaine on the wounded paw and gingerly cleaned it of debris and blood.
“But this is his dog, right?”
“I think so. The man had her leash in his hand.” She clipped the hair away and cleaned the wound again. The cut was straight. Perfectly straight. As though deliberate. Who would do such a thing to an animal? “She has a gentle nature. Hasn’t snapped or growled at me.”
“Makes me wonder if this is the work of an animal abuser.”
“Maybe the dog stepped on a piece of glass.”
“Really?” Whitt stared at the wound. “How did the man die?”
He’d find out on the news, but she preferred to answer his question. “Shot in the chest. We may never know what happened this morning to him or the dog.”
“Lots of missing pieces here. I’ll need time to analyze it.”
Whitt, and his way of dealing with life. “That’s why I’m the doc and the investigators have their expertise.”
“Did they ask enough questions to fill Fort Knox?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to go there.” The morning dropped back into her mind. “Don’t be surprised if the FBI shows up at the clinic in the next few days. A drone was found in the bushes, and the FBI seems to think it could have had deadly implications so close to the airport.”
He sighed. “I should have gone with you. Protected my favorite vet.”
Best twelve-year-old in the country. “Not sure what you could have done.”
He sank his teeth into his lip, and for a moment she feared he’d shed tears.
“Are you okay?” she said. “Because I am.”
“Sure.” He tossed a fake smile her way.
Her heart ached for him. “Looks like subs for lunch today. Thanks for directing emergencies to Doc Kent’s clinic and handling things this morning.”
“No problem.” He laid a hand on the Lab’s back while Stacy reached for suturing materials. He turned his head away when she produced the needle. “I need a distraction. Tell me everything that happened this morning.”
“Focus on what we’re doing. I’ll tell you what I can when we’re finished.” And she would.
“Oh, could I have seventy-five dollars?”
“Sure. It’s your money.”
“Dad needs a battery for his car.”
The man needed to work. “Once we’re finished, I’ll give y
ou the cash.” No questions. No comments. Whitt knew how she felt about the matter.
After she loosely sutured the wound and Xena was resting, she gave him his request plus a little more to go after sandwiches down the street. She responded to phone and e-mail messages, but curiosity soon got the best of her, and she switched on her computer for the latest news.
A quick read revealed more had been reported than what she’d experienced, including the victim’s identity—Todd Howe. The family must have already been notified of his death. Howe was the owner of a series of Green-to-Go restaurants in the Houston area. The laser connected to the quadcopter had been damaged when it was brought down by three bullets and crashed into the brush.
Her pic and name hit the bottom of the screen as the only witness.
But she hadn’t witnessed the crime. Agent LeBlanc said he’d ensure an accurate press release. Looked like the media beat him to it. Her cell phone rang, and she responded.
“Dr. Broussard, this is the Houston Chronicle. We’d like a statement from you regarding the crime you witnessed at IAH this morning.”
“I didn’t see any crime. I reported one, so you’re wasting your time.” She pressed End. Before she had time to recover, her phone rang again. Concerned it could be important, she took a deep breath and answered.
“Glad we caught you, Dr. Broussard. This is Channel 5 news, and we’d—”
“Not interested.” She turned her phone off.
Did being labeled a witness to the crime mean she was in danger?
MIDAFTERNOON, Alex and Ric left the airport trail crime scene. They’d rewalked the area with HPD officers and FBI agents in search of other drones or evidence pertaining to the murder. The gun that had killed Howe would have been a bonus. The positive to the whole crime was someone had taken down the quadcopter before it inflicted serious damage. They requested HPD’s lab expedite the fingerprint sweep. The media had obtained the information from someone about the crimes, and domestic terrorism with a murder had hit the public’s attention.
Shortly after three, Alex drove to the Howe residence for an interview with the victim’s widow, Bekah Howe. The quadcopter was on the backseat of his Jeep.
“Do we have an update on Todd Howe?” Alex said.
Ric scrolled through his phone. “No military background. No priors. His restaurants specialize in vegetarian fast food. Kosher too. Todd received an MA in business from Purdue, and Bekah graduated from Texas A&M with a degree in communications. Both were born and raised in Houston. From the date of their marriage, they were wed after college graduation. Two sons, ages six and eight.”
“Probably in the wrong place at the wrong time and got himself killed. Would you request the FIG for a full background including his financials?”
“Already sent it.”
Alex wished his brain fired on half of Ric’s cylinders. “You’re always one step ahead of me.”
“Depends on the time of day.”
Alex knew better. “What else?”
“Kosher menu follows Jewish dietary laws. Also serves no meat. Smart marketing in reaching out to the Jewish and vegetarians.”
“The one thing I despise about our investigations is the info comes in snippets. But this guy looks clean. We just have to figure out the quadcopter piece.” Alex stared at the road, not seeing but remembering his actions earlier. Guilt smacked him hard. “I blew it with Stacy Broussard. Rude. I was so focused on trying to connect the murder with some scum operating a drone, intent on bringing down a plane.”
“I agree. When it comes to women, you need counseling.”
“Other than the woman who nearly wrecked my career, I’m confused.”
“The woman you fixed me up with last weekend.”
“Thanks. For the record, I never claimed your date was a beauty.”
“Or had a dynamic personality. In fact, I took your word on, ‘I think you’ll like her.’”
“Okay, I owe you. Her name came through as a friend of a friend. Two strikes against me today.”
“Used to be, you’d charm the socks off a woman.”
Alex responded with a humph. “At least I have one redeeming quality with Stacy Broussard. We’re both Cajun.”
“You left the dog with the officer.” Ric lifted a brow. “Considering she’s a vet and loves animals? Here I thought you were playing hard to get since she’s gorgeous and not wearing a ring on her left hand.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Right.” Ric pointed to a street in an upper middle-class neighborhood inside the loop. “See if you can do a better job sympathizing with Bekah Howe.”
“She just lost her husband and her kids’ father.” Alex pulled onto the residential street. An HPD vehicle was parked at the curb of a sprawling white brick ranch. “This is one part of our job I don’t enjoy.”
Inside the home, it was quiet. Too quiet. Alex and Ric met with an officer who escorted them to a living area where a frail woman sat on a sofa with her face buried in her hands. Faint sobs met his ears. An older couple sat on either side of her on the long sofa. A photograph of a Marine was on the coffee table in front of them, not her husband.
Alex introduced himself and Ric to Bekah Howe and placed their cards on the coffee table. “We are very sorry for your loss. If you don’t mind, we have a few questions for you. The answers may help us find who ended your husband’s life.”
She gestured to a pair of chairs. “Please, sit down.”
“Thank you.” Alex and Ric seated themselves on adjacent chairs.
Watery, caramel-colored eyes met his. “I have no idea who would want Todd dead.”
“Had he been in any arguments, or had he received any threats that you recall?”
“No, sir. Neither has there been problems with the restaurants or neighbors or anyone.”
“Does he own a firearm?”
“Yes, he has a CHL for a .22, and he keeps it in the glove box of his car. I already checked, and it’s there.” She reached for a tissue.
They’d verify his registration and concealed handgun license later. “Do you own a yellow Lab?”
“No pets.”
“How about your neighbors?”
“None that I know of have a Lab.”
“Mrs. Howe, your husband had the dog’s leash in his hand.”
She sat straighter. “Although my boys would like a pet, I repeat, we don’t have a dog.”
He’d ask the agents who interviewed the neighbors to inquire about the Lab.
“I haven’t told our sons yet about their father. The words muddle in my mind. How does a mother relay such heartbreaking news? The rabbi promised to help me. He took the boys for ice cream.”
“Did Todd tell you where he was going this morning?”
“No, sir. He loved to ride his motorcycle. Said it was the urban cowboy in him, a way to relieve work pressures.”
The older woman, who had the same caramel-colored eyes, grasped Bekah’s hand. “These are my parents. I’m sorry.”
The woman lifted her chin. “Why is the FBI involved in this?”
“We work the domestic terrorism division, and a drone was found near his body.”
Bekah touched her mouth. “Is my husband being investigated?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Alex gave her a moment to gain control. “Was your husband interested in drones?”
“He didn’t have time for hobbies.” She stiffened. “Neither was he a terrorist. Talk to our rabbi. Everyone who knew Todd will vouch for him. What a horrible Shabbat.”
Alex had forgotten today was the Jewish Sabbath. “Why ride his motorcycle today?”
She shrugged. “He said he needed to get away.”
“I see.” He picked up the photograph of the Marine.
“That’s my brother,” she said. “He died in Afghanistan.”
“I’m sorry. What about your husband’s parents?”
“They’re both deceased.”
Sympathy poured through him for her
losses. “No other family?”
“Todd has a sister in Dallas, but we haven’t seen her for years.”
Alex requested the sister’s name and jotted it down. “Who is your rabbi?”
“Myron Feldman. We attend the downtown temple.” She gripped her fist. “When Todd wasn’t working, he spent his time with us, in the community doing volunteer work, or at the temple. His only excursions were the brief motorcycle rides and business matters.”
“Did his business keep him away from home a lot of hours?”
“Every day but Saturday. He believed in hands-on management. Wanted to be on-site at a different restaurant every day to ensure quality.”
How did his personnel feel about someone looking over their shoulders? Unless he helped them, easing workloads. Alex understood her emotions were spent, but he had more questions. “In the past year, have there been any incidents in your and Todd’s lives that would have made someone angry enough to kill him?”
“Nothing.” She swallowed hard. “I believe my husband was in the wrong place this morning. He must have seen something that caused his death. The media claims drugs were suspected because of the remote area, but that’s ridiculous. So I’m agreeing to an autopsy conducted within our faith’s guidelines. I don’t believe it will desecrate his body. The results won’t disprove speculation of him selling drugs, but at least it will show his body clean of them. It may take as long as six weeks to get the complete toxicology report, but I want the truth. As far as the drone, I’ve never heard him mention one.”
“Did your husband express antigovernment sentiments?” Alex watched for her response. Only shock and grief.
“No, sir. Never. Not even when my brother was killed serving his country.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Howe. The FBI will be in contact today to image all of your husband’s electronic equipment, including computers, cell phones, iPads, etc.”
“I understand, and I want to cooperate fully.”
“If you think of anything that might be helpful, please let one of us know immediately. You have our cards.” He stood and Ric joined him. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Howe. Again, we’re sorry for your loss.”
