Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  She rubbed the muscles at her neck. “Let me think on it.” She shook out a kink. “Get everything wrapped up with the Rangers?”

  No, but he didn’t want to tell her that. Angie believed an aggrieved church member had shot Matt before turning the gun on himself. Lingering questions about forensic evidence would only worry her. “Still have to dot all the i’s.”

  Angie stood, and stretched. “I could use a cup of coffee. You game?”

  “Sure.”

  She slung her purse over her shoulder, and they walked out of ICU. “What i’s need to be dotted?”

  “Ballistics.” James W. shrugged, trying to pass off the issue as routine. “Blood work. You know the drill.”

  “Okay,” she said, and he was relieved she didn’t press. “Vending’s this way.”

  “I’m buying.” James W. fished coins out of his pocket. “How’s Matt?”

  “In stable condition, which I guess is good. They don’t expect him to wake up for a couple of days. Too much trauma to the brain.”

  James W. fed his coins into the machine. “Black?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  He handed her the cup then tossed in more coins. His fingers paused over the add-ins selection. Yeah, his shirts were fitting a bit snug around his barreled chest, and his gun harness was on its last hole, but after the day he’d had, he needed the comfort. As he punched the button for double extra sugar, Angie’s phone buzzed.

  “It’s the Ice House,” she said, looking at the number. “Hey, Bo. What’s up?” Her brow furrowed. “When?” She shot James W. a look, and he could tell the news was bad. “Where is she now?” She mouthed the words, Dorothy Jo passed out, and he nodded. Dorothy Jo, Bo and Angie were a family unto themselves.

  “No, I appreciate the call. Yeah, close the kitchen down. Folks’ll understand. Yeah. I can hear you’re busy. Thanks for telling me.” She hung up the phone and turned to her brother. “Dorothy Jo’s in Wilks Medical Clinic. They think it’s heat exhaustion, but they’re keeping her there overnight to make sure.”

  James W. swallowed hard. “You want me to take you home?”

  She nodded. “I’ll go tell the nurse.”

  “Damn,” James W. muttered when she was out of earshot. The last thing he wanted right now was to leave Matt Hayden unprotected. The Texas Rangers had been firm today. The forensic evidence coming back from the lab showed it was highly unlikely the disgruntled church member had been the preacher’s shooter.

  Matt was still alive, and so was his assassin.

  Chapter Three

  The Investigation Begins. Finally.

  A piercing squeak drilled through Mike Hogan’s oblivion, the insistent noise pulling him from the safe cocoon of blackness. As he focused, he recognized the sound of a wheel that needed oiling on some sort of cart. Suddenly he realized he was on the cart and moving through a tunnel of voices and machines. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and, without warning, he gagged.

  “Stop,” came the order from a stern male voice.

  At the sudden halt, the contents of his head did a somersault, and this time spittle launched from his mouth.

  “Pastor Hayden,” the man said. “It’s all right. We’re almost there.”

  There? Where? Speech was impossible, but Mike managed a groan in response. He tried to open his eyes, then realized they were swollen shut. What the hell?

  Where was the woman? He couldn’t remember her name. Couldn’t remember what she looked like. But he remembered her presence and that he felt safe with her. Where had she gone?

  There was more noise now. He felt the forward motion of the cart start up again, and his head spun, seemingly caught in a tornado. Panic rose from somewhere deep inside him. What the hell had happened to him? The cart he was on made a sudden turn, and he vomited.

  “Pastor Hayden, I’m nurse Joanne Frugoni.” A female voice this time, but still the wrong one. He jerked away when something touched his cheek, but calmed a little when he realized it was a towel, wiping the puke off his face.

  “You’ve been moved to Neuro PCU,” the nurse continued. “We take care of head traumas here. I understand you’re dizzy. It’s all right. We’re giving you some anti-nausea medicine in your IV.”

  There were others in the room, he realized. He heard footsteps and bumps and wheels squeaking. The woman who had spoken to him was giving orders as to where to put various items in the room. He willed himself to breath evenly despite the cacophony of sounds around him.

  After what seemed like forever, the dizziness and nausea began to subside. Finally he felt strong enough to attempt speech. “Where is she?” he gutted out.

  The nurse understood his question. “She had to go back home. One of her employees became ill. I got her phone number from the ICU staff. I’ll let her know we’ve moved you, Pastor Hayden.”

  There it was again. Pastor Hayden. He was Mike Hogan, undercover cop on the drug-infested docks of Miami. No, wait a minute. Not anymore.

  A flurry of memories—some barely formed, others too real—flashed through his mind. He’d been on the docks, a drug bust. His father, the detective in charge of the bust, lying on the pier, blood pouring from his chest. His father’s funeral. Police Chief Rutledge leading the honor guard. A conversation Mike hadn’t been meant to hear. Rutledge’s brag about taking out the traitor, Mike’s father.

  “Pastor, you need to calm down,” said the nurse. “Take deep breaths. When the doctor gets here, I’ll call Angie, all right?”

  Angie, Mike thought. He didn’t remember her exactly, but he remembered the effect of her presence. Security. Tranquility. And something deeper. Affection? Was she in the Witness Protection Program with him?

  “That’s right, Pastor. Slow and easy,” the nurse said softly. “Here’s Dr. Ryan now.”

  ***

  Frustrated, Sheriff James W. Novak put down the phone receiver and carried his morning coffee to his second story office window. The call from the Rangers had confirmed his worst fears. The question was, how was he going to find the perp with the investigation four days cold?

  James W. watched the people of Wilks go about their Monday routines. The day was another scorcher, only one of many in this record-breaking inferno of a Texas summer. Folks stuck to the shaded side of the town square to run their errands. Birds flocked to the WWII Memorial’s fountain under the cooling branches of the huge oak Muster Tree for respite. Shadow, Angie’s dog, was sprawled on the cement sidewalk fronting her Fire and Ice House across the square. Drivers in line for gas at the Sinclair station across the street waited for a shaded slot under the aluminum awning before getting out to fill their tanks.

  Was one them the assassin? He shook his head. Standing here at a window wasn’t going to get him any answers. He grabbed up his hat from its hook next to his weapons strap and opened the door to the pit—the scattering of desks, file cabinets and computers where his deputies filed their reports and worked their cases

  His secretary, Sarah Fullenweider, a still-attractive, forty-year-old blonde, looked up from her desk outside his office. “You don’t look happy,” she observed.

  James W. twirled his hat in his hands. “Wilks is a good town. Good people.”

  “Absolutely.” She quirked her head. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m about as confused as a goat on Astro Turf.” He slapped his khaki hat on his large head. “I’m goin’ over to Angie’s.”

  “She’s back from the hospital?”

  “Dorothy Jo got sick last night.” He’d already checked on the elderly cook’s condition this morning, and she was doing fine. They’d released her to go home and rest. “Angie came back with me to help Bo out.”

  “All right. I’ll know where to find you.”

  James W. headed down the stairs and out into the staggering heat. He’d lived all his sixty years in this town and should be used to the hot summers, but even he had to agree this year’s heat was off the charts. Making sure he stayed beneath the shade of the squar
e’s Muster Tree, he waved at Aaron, the new owner of the Sinclair Station, then crossed Mason Street to Angie’s Fire and Ice House.

  He walked in and took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the cool, dark interior. “Angie?” She wasn’t behind the bar on his left or working the booths and tables to the right. He looked past the eating area to the room filled with pool tables and video games. “Angie?”

  “In the kitchen!” came her holler from behind the swinging bar doors.

  He found her chopping onions. “You’re looking better,” he said. His half-sister was also half his age. Their father, Cash Novak, had been a scoundrel for sure, but James W. wasn’t a bit upset to learn the town’s Ice House owner and he had been sired by the same man. He’d always liked Angie.

  She didn’t look up. “What’re you doin’ here on this fine, hotter than hell morning?”

  “Jes’ stopping by.”

  “I’m glad you did. I wanted to thank you for bringing me home last night.”

  “I heard they released Dorothy Jo this morning.”

  “Yep. But she’s under doctor’s orders to stay in bed for a couple of days. The heat got to her.”

  “Any word on Matt?”

  She smiled. “I called first thing this morning and told them I’d come up as soon as Dorothy Jo was back on her feet.” Her expression darkened. “Unless he gets worse, of course.”

  “Matt’s a strong man, Angie. He’s gonna make it through just fine.”

  She sighed as she went back to chopping the onions. “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

  Well, he’d stalled long enough. Time to get to work. “You gotta minute?” he asked.

  She dumped the onions into a plastic container and covered it in Saran Wrap. “Sure. What’s up?”

  He nodded toward the back porch. “Let’s go outside. I know it’s hot, but I need you to point some things out to me.”

  They walked through the bar, past the booths that delineated the lounge from the sports area and out the double French doors that led to the new porch. The Colorado River, or what was left of it after the summer’s drought, bordered the Ice House property. Across the river was Grace Lutheran Church, a steepled, limestone building that had stood on the site for over seventy years. The parsonage where Matt lived was at the back of the property, separated from the church proper by a row of hedges.

  James W. pulled a notebook and pen from his uniform pocket.

  “Is this an official visit of some kind?” she asked.

  “Well, I never did get a statement on the record from you about what happened Wednesday night.” He removed his sheriff’s hat, slung it over a railing post and nodded toward the table and chairs that were in full shade.

  Angie sat down and studied him. “You don’t look happy.”

  By the time he was done talking with her, she wasn’t going to look happy either, he thought. “Tell me everything you remember about the shooting.” James W. lowered himself into the chair, hoping it would hold his heft.

  Her eyes wary, Angie started in. “That was the night of the grass fire north of town. While you were out on that call, Matt came over here. It was a slow night. I was able to close up before one a.m.”

  James W. nodded. “I had to make sure the fire was under control. In this drought and this heat, we could’ve had another Bastrop wild fire on our hands.”

  “Then you called, and Matt left to join up with you to go arrest Zach Gibbons for the murder of those two girls. Matt walked across the bridge toward the parsonage, and me and Shadow headed upstairs.” She nodded to the outdoor stairway that led from the Ice House porch to the landing of her second-floor apartment. “It was a full moon, so I could see across the river pretty good. Matt had already passed the church and was on his way back to the parsonage. He turned around and waved at me.”

  James W. scribbled notes on the small pad.

  “Then Shadow got all excited about something. He started barking something fierce. He actually nipped me. I was trying to get him under control when I heard two shots.”

  “Two shots? You sure?” James W. asked. When she nodded, he went back to writing. “Go on.”

  “I looked across the river to where Matt had waved to me only a second before. He was sprawled on the sidewalk. Even from across the river I could tell there was a puddle of something black starting to spread beneath him.”

  “Did you see anybody? Hear anybody?”

  She thought for a moment. “I didn’t see anyone.”

  “But you heard someone?” he pressed.

  She nodded slowly. “When I was running across the bridge to get to Matt I heard footsteps, and then Aaron came running from the Sinclair Station.”

  “So, you heard Aaron running across the street.”

  At that, Angie stopped. “No, actually.” She stood and went to the railing for a closer look at the bridge and parking lot. “Aaron was behind me. The footsteps I heard were up ahead of me—running away from me.”

  Angie and James W. looked at each other, acknowledging that didn’t make sense. She pointed across the river. “The footsteps came from the parking lot in front of the church.”

  “But Matt’s shooting took place behind the church on the sidewalk leading to the parsonage.” James W. stood to get a better look. “That must be at least thirty yards away. The shooter was a fast runner.”

  “What difference does that make? Zach’s dead.”

  James W. turned and looked her straight in the eye. “I’m sorry, honey. Ballistics say the gun powder residue on Zach’s hand was all wrong. They were partial at best. Zach’s palm didn’t have the pattern that he ever fired one full shot, much less three. The Rangers don’t think Zach even shot himself—but someone sure tried to make it look like he did.”

  “That’s impossible,” she whispered, but James W. could see the doubt written in her wide, frightened gaze.

  “To boot, we got the blood tests back on Zach this morning. He had a blood alcohol reading of .268. A man with that much liquor in him ain’t going to run away from a crime scene, much less shoot a target thirty feet away in the head.”

  “But who—?” She teetered where she stood, and James W. shot out a hand to steady her.

  He lowered his voice. “Honey, we both knew the preacher was running from something. I’m afraid whatever he’s running from might’ve found him.”

  The battle taking place across Angie’s face told James W. she had something more to say. Finally, she looked up at him. “He’s in the Fed’s Witness Protection Program, James W. If Zach didn’t shoot him—” A tear spilled down her cheek. “You might be right about the bad guys.”

  James W. heard the back-porch door open, and Bo stuck his head through the opening. “Hey, Angie? Brackenridge Hospital’s on the phone. They want to talk to you.”

  Angie sent a panicked look James W.’s way and hurried inside.

  Chapter Four

  Bo Puts His Foot Down

  Federal Deputy Marshal Frank Ballard sat in his tiny Austin office cubicle, stared at his calendar and said, “Damn.” It was only Monday, and the week was already in the shits. First, he’d learned that his charge in the Witness Protection Program, the so-called preacher, was still alive in Brackenridge Hospital’s ICU. Then the Chief had called, wanting to know how Frank was going to handle the problem. The last straw occurred yesterday, when he popped a Bit ’O Honey candy in his mouth and pulled out a crown. This morning the dentist had taken one look at Frank’s lower left molars and informed him that the crown had given way because the gums beneath were rotting.

  Well, hell. So Frank didn’t always get the chance to brush his teeth. With his wiry, thinning hair heading toward gray, and his youthful freckles turning into nasty-looking age spots, he wasn’t much to look at anyway.

  He was sitting at his desk, his mouth open, studying his inflamed gums in a mirror he’d swiped from his wife’s makeup drawer. He pushed gingerly at the gum.

  “Checking your lipstick, Ballard?”
Clive Engels, Frank’s big, black, broad-shouldered boss stood at the cubicle opening behind Frank.

  “I lost a crown,” Frank said around his finger.

  “I know about your tooth. It’s your charge sittin’ in ICU that I want to hear about.”

  Unlike Frank’s slovenly appearance, Clive Engels was sharply dressed in a pressed gray silk suit and freshly polished shoes. Frank cared neither for the man’s dress nor his attitude. Engels’ whipper-snapper ways had snatched the promotion that Frank had planned for himself.

  Frank wiped his finger on his pants. “Medical staff says he’s gonna pull through, the lucky sonuvabitch. He should be back to full health before the Rutledge trial in December. Assuming it doesn’t get continued again.”

  “Does it strike you as more than a coincidence that the one man still alive to testify against Howard Rutledge was shot in the head and left for dead?”

  Frank suppressed a growl. He did not like Engels’ interference—even if the man was his boss. “I told you, the whole thing’s covered. Mike Hogan was shot by a local, who in turn went home and committed suicide. This didn’t have anything to do with Rutledge. If Hogan hadn’t interfered in a local matter, the guy never would’ve shot him. Hogan’s not a cop anymore, for God’s sake. He’s a preacher.” And a stupid one at that, he added mentally. What sane person chose a vocation of public speaking when they were trying not to get killed?

  “You’ve got security set up, right?” Engels pressed.

  “He’s not in any danger. The man who shot him is dead.”

  Engels folded muscular arms across his chest. “You’ve personally been to the ICU to make sure he’s safe.”

  Frank’s face reddened. “This didn’t have anything to do with Howard Rutledge.”

  Engels glared. “Get your ass out of your chair and walk the ten blocks over to Brackenridge. Now.”

  “I have an appointment with my dentist.”

  “That’s your priority. Not mine.”

  Inwardly Frank seethed. This whistle-clean Texan had no idea that Rutledge, Miami’s former chief of police, was an upstanding legend in the law enforcement community.