Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  “How do you know the shooter committed suicide?” Engels pressed.

  “I have my sources.” Frank Ballard did not trust small-town law enforcement. Talk about corruption and the Southern “good ol’ boy” mentality!

  “Take some aspirin and head for Brackenridge. I want eyes-on surveillance of that Intensive Care Unit, and I hold you personally responsible to see that it’s done right. Got it?”

  “Yessir,” Frank said.

  As his boss disappeared around the cubicle wall, Frank sneered and snapped the mirror shut.

  “Screw you,” he mumbled. “I’m getting my tooth fixed first.”

  ***

  “I’m headin’ back up to Austin,” Angie announced as James W. came around the bar.

  Bo stopped screwing the tap heads onto the beer spigots. “What?”

  “Matt’s awake, and—” She hung the pass-through phone back in its cradle. “—I’ve got to get up there.”

  “Not ’til I finish asking you my questions.” James W. glared.

  She glared back at him. “We both know there’s no time for that. Matt needs me.”

  James W.’s hands fisted on his utility belt. “This is police business. And we’re gonna finish it.”

  Angie blew out an angry sigh. “Come upstairs while I pack.” She stomped past him and out the back door to the steps that led to her second-floor apartment.

  Frustrated, James W. followed in close pursuit. “Now wait a minute, little sister.” He barreled through the kitchen to her bedroom. “I’ve got a cold trail staring me in the face here. For four days I’ve thought we already had our shooter. I was wrong, and that makes me madder than a mama cow with a sore teat. I gotta find out who shot the preacher, and I’m beginning my investigation with you. You’re my key witness.”

  “Every minute we stand here and talk, Matt’s lying up there unprotected.” She shoved by him to pull an overnight bag from her closet. “I gotta get to Austin.”

  “Hell’s bells, you think I’ve got a single digit I.Q.?” He followed her into her bedroom. “As soon as I knew you were leaving him alone, I put a security guard on Matt. You can spare me a few minutes.”

  “Security guard? What? From Acme Patrol and Paintbrush Company?”

  “That’s it.” James W. slapped his hat down on the bed. “I won’t take your insults. I’ve been in this business about as long as you’ve been alive. Now sit down on this here bed and answer my questions.”

  Refusing to sit, she went to her dresser and began pulling out underwear. “So ask, already.”

  “Besides Zach Gibbons, is there anyone you know of who would want to get rid of the preacher?”

  “Your wife.” Angie threw the lingerie into the overnight bag and headed for the bathroom.

  “Dadgummit, Angie.” James W. flushed at the truth of the statement. Elsbeth and the preacher didn’t see eye-to-eye on much. “Cash Novak was my daddy too, so don’t pull that smart-ass mouth on me.”

  Angie grabbed her toothbrush from the stand and pointed it at him like a knife. “Back off, Sheriff.”

  As James W. went to swipe the toothbrush away, a voice from the kitchen doorway stopped them in their tracks.

  “You two look ridiculous.”

  Angie and James W. turned to see Bo, his eyes black with anger, purse his lips in a flat line.

  “When the two of you settle your differences,” Bo continued, “you and me gotta talk, Angie. Things can’t go on like this.”

  “Like what?” she demanded.

  The only answer she received was the sight of Bo’s backside as he headed toward the kitchen door. When it slammed shut, Angie recoiled as if it had hit her in the face. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “I don’t know,” James W. said, feeling as surprised as she looked. Bo Peveto was not a man who got angry very often, and when he did...well, he hadn’t spent twenty years in Huntsville prison for keeping his temper. Realizing Bo’s tone had taken the wind out of Angie’s sails, the sheriff returned his attention to his half-sister. “But the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you’ll find out.”

  Still stunned, she nodded her agreement. “I gotta make some coffee for the road, anyways.”

  ***

  I hate talking on the sat phone with Kodak, the Chief’s second-in-command. He’s a weasel of a man—small but dangerous. “I still don’t see why I can’t simply walk into the hospital and shoot Hogan,” I say. I can picture Kodak’s beady little eyes in that ferret-shaped head glaring daggers at his phone.

  “Are you challenging the Chief?”

  Of course, the SOB would spin it that direction. He’s constantly snooping around for dirt on people working for the Chief. And heaven help you if he has something on you. The reason he’s called Kodak is because he has a photographic memory, and can repeat a conversation word for word, ten years after the fact.

  “The Chief’s trying to save your skin,” Kodak says in his smarmy voice. I grit my teeth at his condescending tone. “After all, he considers you the future of the organization.” If that tone wasn’t laced with sarcasm, I don’t know what is. All right. I get it. Since I’ve come along I’ve replaced Kodak as the heir apparent to the crime syndicate which retired Chief Howard Rutledge has created. “Our plan allows you to slip Hogan a bad infection, and be miles away before any harm can be detected,” he continued.

  “Are you talking poison?” Sounds like pretty close quarters to me. How about a gunshot through the window once Hogan’s in a nice, sunny room?

  “We’re still deciding on exactly what to give him. The Chief wants to use the serum we extracted yesterday from one of the Nicaraguans. I think tuberculosis is too iffy. It might not take.” Kodak says.

  “I don’t want to have to do this more than once,” I say.

  “Of course. We want to give you as few chances as possible to mess this job up.”

  Trying not to grind my teeth, I barrel on. “I’ve got some ideas on how to get Hogan on a general floor. I’ll check in with the Chief tomorrow night.”

  “You needn’t bother him with the details, you know. I’ll be happy to facilitate whatever you need.”

  What a pompous ass, I think, but I keep my temper. After all, I have a great comeback. “I appreciate your offer, but the Chief was explicit in this matter. I’m to report directly to him. I’m sure he’ll keep you posted as he sees fit.” I hitch in my breath as if I’ve just looked at my watch. “Hey, it’s two o’clock. I’ve got a meeting. Bye.”

  I click off the phone and grin smugly. It’s about time Kodak realized blood trumps loyalty every time.

  ***

  James W. tossed Angie’s overnight bag in the backseat of her truck. “I’ll be up there later this afternoon,” he said. “You got your phone, right?”

  “In my purse.” She put her thermos on the truck’s front console. “Thanks for helping with the bags.”

  James W. nodded towards the Ice House. “Good luck with Bo.”

  Angie walked back into the cool of the newly air-conditioned Ice House interior—still a novel experience for her. After her mother passed, Angie spent several months in Ireland, thanks to James W.’s generous gift upon learning they were half-brother and sister. While she was abroad, finally able to meet her mother’s kin, she’d paid to have the Ice House undergo a much-needed remodel. The noisy fans that had blown cool, rising air from the ice-filled horse troughs were gone, replaced by an efficient new air conditioner. Forty-inch LCD screens were mounted where old tube TVs had hung. The booths had been reupholstered, the pool tables recovered with fresh green felt. She’d even added a few video games in the back room.

  She stepped up to the bar—the original, ornately carved oak one that her mother, Maeve, had been so proud of when she’d opened the bar thirty-odd years ago. Angie ran her hand over the smooth, varnished wood counter and stared at her reflection in the mirror mounted on the back wall behind all the liquor bottles. She reached over and turned on the Christmas lights tha
t hung from the glass rack above, then smiled. Progress was great, but some things would never be changed.

  Time to talk with her fuming bartender. “Bo, you in the back?” she called.

  The tall, lanky man pushed through the swinging doors, carrying a five-pound bag of limes. He hefted the bundle onto the stainless steel counter.

  “What’s on your mind?” she asked.

  Bo ripped open the plastic netting and removed a half dozen limes. “This thing with Dorothy Jo has been coming on a long time.”

  Angie was instantly alarmed. “Has she been ill?”

  “She’s been working herself to death,” he answered flatly. “We all have. This can’t go on.”

  “What do—”

  “No one’s blamin’ you for takin’ some time off after your mamma passed.” He singled out the first lime and sliced it in half. “And we totally understood that you needed to be with the preacher after he got shot. But your running off today without anything bein’ fixed—” He shook his head. “I don’t know how much longer I can put in these hours, and Chelsea threatens to quit at least three times every shift.”

  Angie felt like she’d been sucker punched. “I didn’t realize—”

  “Of course, you didn’t. You’re exhausted and not paying attention. But we need to hire some help around here. Now.”

  “Bo, I’ve got to get back to Brackenridge.” Though James W. had hired an ex-cop to watch over Matt, she wouldn’t be happy until she was by his side. “There’s some things you don’t know. Things I can’t tell you—”

  “I’ll take care of it. I already have some folks in mind.” He blew out a sigh. “And you might as well know. Two months ago, I hired somebody to take care of all the business office stuff. Dorothy Jo and me don’t know a damned thing about accounting.”

  Angie jerked back like she’d been slapped. “You did what?”

  “Don’t give me any grief on this.” He shook the knife in her direction. “I had to do somethin’. And the woman was recommended by that church lady, Mandy Culver.”

  “When were you gonna tell me all this?” Angie fisted her hands on her hips.

  “Tonight. She’s a member of the church’s trivia team. I figured once you met Eleanor—that’s the accountant—you’d realize she was a nice person and you wouldn’t be so upset. She only comes in two mornings a week.”

  Angie looked him over and saw the exhaustion in his eyes. She blew out a breath. “Well, we’re still in business so I guess she’s okay.”

  “With all the new stuff you put in, we’re busier than ever.”

  She ran an impatient hand across her forehead. “Yeah. Go ahead. Hire who you need.” She looked back into the kitchen, guilt crawling up her throat that she was the reason Dorothy Jo had passed out last night. “And get yourself somebody to bus the tables and wash dishes. I don’t want anybody else faintin’ on me.”

  Bo nodded. “That’ll work.”

  She raised on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “You and Dorothy Jo are my family. It’s high time I stop taking my family for granted.”

  He smiled. “Then you’d best get back up to Austin and take care of that preacher man. My guess is he’s gonna be part of this family pretty soon.”

  If he lives long enough, Angie thought, and sprinted toward the door.

  ***

  James W. was searching out patches of shade as he crossed through the town square, when he heard a man’s voice calling to him from behind.

  “Hey, Sheriff!” James W. turned to find Aaron Rodriguez hurrying towards him. “You got a minute?” the hefty man asked.

  “Sure.” James W. noticed the concerned look on Aaron’s ruddy, round face. “What’s up?”

  “Sheriff, have you seen the Dallas Daily News today?”

  James W. shook his head. “We take the Austin Statesman.”

  Aaron’s thick eyebrows furrowed in concern. “I was afraid of that. I thought I’d better warn you before you talk to Ms. Elsbeth.”

  Elsbeth? James W. shook his head. Amazing how his domineering wife’s reputation could send even a man the size of Aaron into a sweat. He had a football lineman’s physique and hands so large James W. wondered how he could work in the tiny crevices of a car’s engine.

  Aaron handed over the paper. “Front page.”

  James W. read the headline out loud. “Body of Missing Girl Found on Sheriff’s Ranch.” A blush of disbelief, then anger, crawled up his neck as he realized the article was about him. He looked at the reporter’s by-line. “Peter Pendergast. That sonuvabitch!”

  Aaron swallowed hard. “It gets worse.”

  James W. read on. “The remains of seventeen-year-old Melissa Platt, missing for ten years, were found on the property of Wilks County Sheriff James W. Novak, father to gubernatorial candidate James Wilks Novak Jr.” He looked up at Aaron. “How the hell did that slicker-than-a-slop-jar Pendergast get a hold of this?”

  Aaron, who had been present at the discovery of the Platt girl’s body, shook his head violently. “I didn’t tell anyone. I swear.”

  “’Course you didn’t,” James W. said quickly. Though Aaron had only been in town three months, James W. trusted the man to keep his mouth shut. No sane person wanted to incur the wrath of Elsbeth, and she would be looking for blood when she heard about this article.

  God help him if his wife found out Zach’s other victim, Diane Turpin, was buried beneath the spa in their back-porch slab. As it was, he was still working on how to exhume the body without Elsbeth getting wind of it. She’d never step foot in that hot tub again.

  He went back to reading. “The victim, Melinda Platt, high school classmate of candidate Wilks, was a local rodeo star. It is rumored that she and the gubernatorial candidate were involved in a relationship before her disappearance. Jimmy Novak Jr. couldn’t be reached for comment.” James W.’s face flushed with anger. “The devil and Tom Walker!”

  “Sheriff, let’s get inside.” Aaron nodded toward the station’s garage. “It won’t do any good to make a scene out here.”

  Realizing his face was redder than a ripe cranberry, and that his outbreak had drawn the attention of some passers-by, he followed Aaron into the first bay. To his chagrin, he noted that the washed-out carcass of the Ford Fusion that had started all this mess was still in the other bay. “I thought we sent that to the impound.”

  The Ford, buried in the river for years, had finally been exposed two weeks ago by the Texas drought that had dried out the Colorado River behind James W.’s house. Aaron and his tow truck had dragged the car’s shell from the river only to discover the skeletal remains of the missing girl, Melinda Platt, mired in cement beneath.

  Her murderer had been Zach Gibbons, and the fact that Matt Hayden had figured that out was the main reason James W. figured Zach had shot the preacher.

  “Got it back yesterday. I was gonna ask you what you wanted me to do with it.”

  James W. snorted. “Burn it for all I care.” Angry, he slapped the paper against his thigh. “How much for the paper?”

  “It’s yours.”

  “Thanks. Hell’s bells, this is a lousy morning.” Not only did he need to get a handle on Matt’s care, now this article would have Elsbeth mad as a fire ant.

  His cell rang, and he grimaced towards Aaron when he recognized his wife’s ring tone. “It’s her,” he said flatly and let it go to messaging. There was a whole lotta things he had to find out before he could deal with his wife. “I gotta talk to Jimmy Jr. first.” He slapped Aaron on the back. “Thanks for the heads up. I better get to work.”

  The two men headed back into the hot July sun. “Can’t imagine who would’ve told that newspaper fellow about this,” Aaron said. “If Zach was still alive, this is exactly the kind of thing he would’ve pulled.”

  James W. considered that. The miserable-excuse-for-breathing was meaner than a skillet full of rattlesnakes. “He did enjoy his blackmail. Thanks again.”

  As the sheriff walked away, he consider
ed. Yes, Zach was an easy target for blame. But James W. had already made the mistake of jumping to the conclusion that Zach had shot the preacher. Was it possible that the same person who shot Zach and the preacher wanted to ruin Jimmy Jr.’s gubernatorial chances as well?

  Then he remembered. He had an attempted murder to investigate. He turned back to the garage. “Hey, Aaron,” he called. “One more thing.”

  Aaron met him at the street corner. “What do you need?”

  James W. made sure his expression was casual. Aaron didn’t need to know that Zach hadn’t shot the preacher. Not yet, anyway. “I’m putting the report together for the Rangers about the night Matt was shot. Angie said you came running from the gas station when you heard the shots?”

  “Yep.” Aaron’s tone was casual, but the cop in James W. sensed a tensing in the man’s shoulders.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Aaron shrugged. “I heard a shot coming from the church parking lot. I ran to see what was going on. Angie came running from the back of the Ice House. We met on the bridge.” He shook his head. “The pastor lost a lot of blood, even before we got to him.”

  “How many shots did you hear?” James W. pulled the notepad from his pocket and made a show of writing down Aaron’s answer with a routine air.

  Aaron thought for a moment. “Something’s not right there,” he said finally. “Looked like only one bullet hit the preacher, but now that you mention it, I think I heard two shots.”

  James W. nodded and scribbled in his book. “One last question.” He looked straight into Aaron’s face. “Why were you outside your garage after one in the morning when you open for business at five a.m.?”

  Aaron’s smile was weak, and he avoided meeting James W. stare. “Couldn’t sleep, I guess.”

  James W. studied the man. Aaron was holding back something. He was sure of it. “What else do you have to tell me?”

  Aaron grinned. “I know it sounds corny, but I’ve asked myself the same question. Why was I awake that late, in that place, at the moment the preacher was shot?”