Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  “Open the door,” James W. ordered, and Richard did as he was told. James W. stepped into the doorway. The pastor was eating a late lunch, while Angie was on the phone. He nodded toward Ballard, allowed the man a five second look, then shut the door in his face. “You’ve seen what you came to see. Now get out.” James W. said.

  “Not until you agree to keep me in the loop about Hayden’s whereabouts.”

  James W. nodded to Richard Dube. “Escort this man from the property, Deputy,” he said.

  Richard drew himself up to his full five-eleven and placed his hand on the weapon fastened in his utility belt. James W. felt a swell of pride. The kid almost looked like a deputy.

  “No escort needed.” Ballard turned tail and hurried down the hall.

  James W. smiled at his deputy. “Good job.” The two of them watched Ballard disappear around the corner.

  “You want me to follow him? To make sure he leaves the hospital?” Richard asked.

  “He’ll leave.” James W. said. “He got what he came for.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Plan Takes Shape

  James W. headed down I-35, driving the newly rented blue-velvet-colored Chevy Tahoe. He’d figured it was best to stick with a Chevy product since that was what Ben Yeck, Warren’s older brother, drove. He’d found a model made before the days of LCD screens and keyless entries. The gear shift was on the steering wheel, and the Tahoe drove like a truck, so he figured the oldest Yeck brother could manage it. Most importantly, the windows in the back compartment were all lined with dark solar blockers.

  He didn’t want anyone to see who Ben’s passengers were once he left Brackenridge Hospital.

  His cell phone rang with Elsbeth’s tone, and he pulled it from his pocket.

  “It’s one o’clock,” Elsbeth said. “You’re sure you can pick us up at the farm by 4:30?”

  It would be tight, he knew. Drop the preacher and Angie at the Novak ranch, then pick up Pearl and Elsbeth and get them back to Austin for their 6:30 flight. “No problem,” he said. James W. swerved around a slow-moving Ford Escape. “You’ll be at Pearl’s by four in case I’m running early, right?”

  “I still have packing to do,” she protested.

  “Then get to it,” he said. “You’re the ones who made those reservations for tonight. Not me.”

  “It’s a direct flight. We’ll be at our hotel by nine. We might even go out for a late dinner. That’s what they do in New York, you know.”

  James W. rolled his eyes. “Make sure you’re at the ranch by four.”

  “I will be. This is one flight I don’t want to miss.”

  He heard the excitement in her voice and thanked the Good Lord in heaven for providing this distraction to get her out of town. “And you all are coming back when?”

  “Saturday,” she said. “We didn’t want to fight the Friday traffic out to the airport.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you no later than 4:30 at Pearl’s, honey. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  He clicked off the call, then headed for the hospital supply store to pick up the rental equipment Dr. Ryan had ordered for Matt. Elsbeth would be long gone by the time he got Matt and Angie to his house at 4:00. Having them there overnight under his watchful eye would give him a little more time to come up with a permanent solution to their safe house. This was all going to work out just fine.

  ***

  Peter Pendergast was grateful that he’d done most of the work on the Hogan matter from home. He’d barely gotten out of the Dallas Daily News building with more than a pencil and his dirty coffee cup. It didn’t matter, really. All the good stuff was on his home computer. He’d stopped by the house, grabbed his laptop, threw some clothes into a backpack and started the three hour drive down I-35 to Austin.

  And no. He hadn’t left a note for his wife. She probably wouldn’t even notice he was gone. The woman drank way too much for her own good.

  Lombardi thought he’d stopped Peter from pursuing this story? He’d better think again. This scoop was way too important for Peter to let go of. The people of Wilks were in danger because this Hayden/Hogan guy was in their midst. Peter would bet dimes to dollars that Sheriff Novak knew all about it, and was covering up for the guy. And Peter had done his homework. Wilks County had suffered only one—one!—murder in the fifteen years prior to Hayden’s arrival in town. Since he’d moved to the small town, the sheriff had investigated four murders and there had not been one arrest for any of them. Peter was beginning to think that Hayden himself might be the killer. And yes, Peter had a personal vendetta against the sheriff’s son. Jimmy Jr. was a pompous, entitled ass. Peter refused to believe the sheriff’s son wasn’t aware of the murders in Wilks, or that his father was covering for the murderer. A man like that should not become Governor. Even the bombastic, “best-state-in-the-

  union” Texans didn’t deserve that.

  He’d been on the road now for two hours, and he had at least another hour on I-35 before getting to Austin. Peter had decided that his first move was to personally assess Pastor Hayden’s situation at Brackenridge Hospital. His second would be to find Tom Gibbons. For two days solid the SOB hadn’t answered any of Peter’s messages. Six months’ rent? He sure as hell expected more for that price.

  Third, he had to track down the info he’d gotten about the federal marshals offices in Austin. First off, the term “Witness Protection” was no longer used to describe what the marshal’s did to keep witnesses safe. The correct term was the Witness Security Program. Take that, Lombardi. I check my facts.

  ***

  Frank Ballard sat in his Honda Civic in the parking lot directly across from the main entrance of Brackenridge. To his right sat the mounted laptop displaying views of four exits around the building. His deputy status came in handy when it came to speedy delivery of surveillance cameras. He’d only had to make one call, and within an hour the federal marshal techs had the stakeout in place.

  His cell phone rang and, never taking his eyes off the screen, he answered. “Yeah?”

  “Thought I’d give you a heads up.” The voice belonged to Clive Engels, Frank’s perfectly dressed boss.

  “What?”

  “There’s a newspaperman snooping around, asking questions about Pastor Hayden.”

  “Really.” Ballard’s brows raised in surprise. “What paper?”

  “Dallas Daily News,” Engels said. “His name is Pendergast. Peter Pendergast. Ring any bells?”

  “Never heard of him.” Ballard shook his head. “What did he want?”

  “Your name.”

  Ballard cocked his head. “What for?”

  “Apparently he’s gotten wind of Hayden and the case against Rutledge.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Ballard wanted to spit. The last thing Howard Rutledge would want was a connection between him and Hogan in Texas. The Chief would not tolerate his name being brought to light, especially when Hogan was so close to meeting his maker. “Who got the call?”

  “It got routed to public relations. They gave the standard line about not discussing ongoing federal matters.” Engels huffed. “That only lit the fire on more questions.”

  Ballard considered. “The attempt on Hogan’s life, and now this? Doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me.”

  “I’m glad you’re moving Hogan out of Brackenridge. Especially now.”

  Ballard’s smile was sly. He’d let Engels believe that Ballard himself was the one who was moving Hogan out, and that the surveillance equipment was in place to protect Hogan’s relocation from being compromised. Of course it was really there for Ballard’s benefit. There was no way Sheriff Novak was going to tell him where he was stashing Hogan. Ballard’s only chance was to follow Hogan when he left the hospital.

  “As soon as Hogan is secured, I’ll start working on this reporter issue. Spell his name for me.” Ballard pulled a notepad from his pocket and began scribbling.

  ***

  At precisely
2:45 p.m., James W. met Ben Yeck at the McDonald’s down the street from Brackenridge. He waved the older Yeck brother to park his beat-up, red Silverado next to the truck James W. had rented.

  For as long as James W. could remember, Ben had been his trusted friend. Dressed in his usual attire of plaid shirt and overalls, the hardware store owner climbed down from his truck and headed toward the sheriff.

  “I appreciate your helping me out,” James W. said.

  “My pleasure.” The seventy-seven-year-old stretched his back, then nodded toward the Chevy Tahoe. “Hope that thing doesn’t have too many gadgets. This here’s a 2004,” he pointed at his truck. “I’m not used to anything fancy.”

  “I checked it out myself,” James W. said. “You’ll be fine.”

  Ben nodded toward the McDonald’s. “Mind if I make a stop before we get started?”

  “Course not. Grab yourself a burger while you’re at it.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Make that two. And maybe some cokes?”

  “Will do.” Ben took the cash James W. shoved his way, then headed for the front entrance.

  James W. reached back into the Tahoe and retrieved his cell phone. He punched in Angie’s number.

  “Ben’s here,” he said. “Are you ready?”

  “Almost.” Angie sounded excited and a little scared. “Matt’s not too happy about the wig. Or the pillows.”

  “Tell him to deal with it. I have no doubt our bad guys are on the lookout for him to leave Brackenridge today. We’ll get you and him settled at my house, and he can worry about his looks then.”

  “James W., the bad guys know you’re protecting him.” She lowered her voice, and he assumed she didn’t want Matt to hear what she had to say next. “Isn’t it kind of obvious that you’d put him at your house?”

  “I’m hiding him in plain sight. For tonight, that’ll have to do.” James W. said. “Besides, he’ll be gone from my place before the bad guys even know he’s been moved.”

  Angie’s sigh sounded her resignation to his plan. “Richard Dube’s ready to stand his post until you tell him different. And Joanne Frugoni’s on board for talking to an empty bed a couple of times through the night.”

  James W. nodded. “Bless her heart. We needed someone like her on the inside we could trust.”

  He saw Ben walk out of the McDonald’s holding two white sacks and a drink tray, and James W. hurried to finish his instructions. “Stay in that room until I call you,” he said to Angie. “I’ll pick you up at the employee parking lot as soon as I’m sure no one’s following Ben and Matt. And one more time. Trust no one. Understand?”

  “Got it,” she said.

  “Good. We’re on our way.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The Escape

  Monday had turned into one of the slowest days Bo could remember at the Fire and Ice House. Which was fine with him. Tom Gibbons was nowhere to be found, and Angie had told Dorothy Jo to take the day off. Once Bo got word that James W. was done with the crime scene, he’d called in Warren to help with the rush.

  No need, he conceded. It was almost four o’clock and the Ice House had only served three customers.

  After the cops had finished scoping out the place, James W. had arranged for a professional cleaning service to come in to erase all evidence of the bloody murder. Though Bo had never been permitted to go into the kitchen when it was still a violent mess, even he got the heebie-jeebies when he had to go put pizzas in the oven. What if the cleaners had missed a blood drop? Or, God forbid, a scrap of brain?

  He pulled his cell phone from his back pocket. He hoped Elsbeth hadn’t arrived at Pearl’s place yet. He’d like to hear her voice one more time before she took off for New York. To say that he was worried sick about Elsbeth’s reaction to the news of their engagement was the understatement of the year. He did not want to see Pearl get hurt, especially because of him. But Pearl was adamant.

  Pearl picked up on the first ring. “Hi, Bo,” she said, and he could tell she was smiling.

  “Hi, honey.” When he talked with her, it seemed all was right with the world. “You all packed?”

  “I am. And I’m ready to tell Elsbeth about us.”

  Bo shook his head. He still felt this was a bad idea. “If you decide you don’t want to go through with this—”

  “Oh, be quiet. I’m fine.” He imagined her small chin was set firm. “It’s going to be my way or the highway on this.”

  He suppressed a chuckle. “Have you figured out when you’re gonna tell her?”

  “I’ve got it all planned.” She sounded excited. “I’ve made a reservation at a special store in New York. The kind of hoity-toity place that Elsbeth wouldn’t dare throw a fit in.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “It is, but it’ll be worth it. I’ve got a quite a list. Shoes, jewelry, the whole package.”

  This time Bo couldn’t hold back his laugh. “Good heavens, Pearl. What you gonna buy?”

  “My wedding dress,” she said, then lowered her voice. “Elsbeth’s coming up the porch. Gotta go. I love you.”

  Bo was almost too stunned to reply. “I love you, too,” he said before the line went dead. He stared at his phone. “Oh, my God.”

  ***

  Frank Ballard pulled the tab on his diet Coke, and gulped down half the can. The relentless sun beat down on his car, and his Honda’s air conditioning was not winning the battle.

  He was still holed up in the parking lot directly across from Brackenridge Hospital’s main entrance. He scanned the front of the hospital to make sure no patients were coming out, then turned his attention to his computer screen. Four cameras tracked the hospital exits. They showed no activity.

  His cell phone rang, and he checked the number. It belonged to Clive Engels, micro-managing again. “Hello,” Frank said.

  “Just got a call from Jerry Lombardi, the owner of The Dallas Daily News. You know that Pendergast fellow I told you about earlier?” Clive asked.

  “The reporter. Yes.”

  “Lombardi called to warn me that he’s already caught wind that Pendergast is trying to peddle his story around to whoever will pay the most.”

  “I thought you said Lombardi would squash that.”

  “Lombardi has no power over rags like The National Enquirer.” Clive’s voice deepened. “I’m worried. Pendergast knows, and is willing to tell, everything about the Rutledge case, including Hogan’s true identity. Somehow the guy is tying Hogan to several murders that have taken place in Wilks since we put him there.”

  As Clive spoke, Frank watched a blue Chevy Tahoe pull up to the front doors of Brackenridge. An old man wearing overalls got out of the driver’s side and went into the hospital.

  “I told you,” Frank huffed. “Hogan chose the wrong cover. Talk about a public profile.”

  “Water under the bridge, now. What this means is that you’ve got to find this Pendergast and either talk some sense into him, or arrest him for interfering in a federal criminal investigation.”

  Frank couldn’t agree more. The last thing Chief Rutledge would want was a spotlight on Hogan right before Rutledge eliminated him. “You are absolutely right.”

  Clive paused before answering, and Frank chalked that up to his boss digesting the fact that Frank had so readily agreed with him. “I’m assigning you a couple of agents to do the surveillance on the hospital,” Clive said. “I want you going after this Pendergast ASAP.”

  As his boss spoke, Frank watched the old man, now joined by a nurse pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair, come out of the hospital. The old man was holding the old lady’s hand. How sweet, he sniffed. “When can you get the agents here?” he asked into the phone.

  “They’re on their way now. ETA fifteen minutes.”

  The nurse helped the old lady out of the wheelchair, while the husband opened the door to the back seat. The old broad must have a leg injury, Frank surmised. Apparently they needed to keep her leg up. Probably a circulation t
hing.

  “All right,” Frank said. “Let’s start with finding this idiot. Does he have his own cell phone, or was his issued by the paper?”

  “It’s his personal cell,” Clive replied. “I’ve already talked to the federal prosecutor.”

  “Great,” Frank said. “Next we need to trace his credit cards, ATM, all that shit.” He glanced at his computer screen to look at the other hospital exits. So far so good.

  “Prosecutor said she should have the search warrants within the hour.”

  Frank checked back to the front entrance. The old geezer’s wife was in the Tahoe now. The husband gently patted her leg and shut the door.

  “Can we get someone over to his house?” Frank asked. “I assume he lives in Dallas.”

  “Already done.” Clive answered. “He’s not there. The wife said his backpack and computer are gone.”

  The old man hugged the nurse, and went around the car to the driver’s side. He started the engine, then turned to say something to the woman in the back. Frank watched him smile, then hoist a McDonald’s bag over the seat to her.

  Again Frank checked the screens on his laptop. No activity there yet either. “Sounds like Pendergast is on the run. Let me know as soon as you get any ticks on those search warrants.”

  “Meanwhile, where are you going to start looking for him?” Clive asked.

  “He must have a source in Wilks. Where else would he have gotten his info?” Frank looked back to the hospital entrance and saw that the Chevy had pulled away. “I’ll swing by the house and pick up some clothes, then head for Wilks.”

  “Call me as soon as you’re on the road.”

  “Will do,” Ballard said and clicked off the call. He didn’t put the cell down, however. The Chief needed to know about this pronto.