Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  “Hi, honey,” he said, closing the sliding glass door behind him. “Where are you?”

  “We just finished lunch at our hotel. Over-priced, if you ask me.”

  His eyes widened as he saw a workman aim the jackhammer at a new portion of the slab. He hurried into their bedroom. “So what have you done so far?”

  “Pearl wanted to start the day by getting our nails done in the hotel’s salon.”

  “Is it a nice hotel?” he asked.

  Elsbeth sniffed. “A little too modern for my tastes. I guess they call it ‘chic’, whatever that is.”

  “What’s on the schedule for today?”

  “Pearl got the con-see-jair to find us some half-priced theater tickets for tonight.”

  “No shopping yet?” He gritted his teeth as the jackhammer roared into action.

  “Pearl’s got us an appointment at some fancy place in an hour. She says it will be fun.” She paused for a moment. “What’s that noise?”

  “I’m working a construction detour,” he lied. “Making sure the traffic flow is safe.”

  “Where you at, honey?”

  “What?” he pretended that he hadn’t heard her. “There’s a bulldozer headed this way. I better hang up.”

  “Well, all right then,” she said. “Be safe.”

  “You too, honey. Have a great time.”

  He clicked off the call, then sat on the edge of the bed. Lord help him if Elsbeth found out what he was doing. His ox would be gored for sure.

  ***

  The logistics aren’t easy, but I’m able to keep an eye on Ballard and Kodak from my perch in the coin laundry across the street from Ballard’s motel. I’m parked behind the laundromat, and I’m now inside half-concealed, behind one of the loud, bumping dryers. The big front window, lettered with wash load prices and specials, allows me a wide vista of the street. Kodak’s Ford is parked over at the Dairy Queen.

  I’ve called work and told ‘em I’m still not feeling well. I haven’t missed many days since starting there, and the secretary took the news with a sympathetic ear. Sucker.

  After the three hours I’ve spent in this loud, humid laundry, I’m finding it difficult to keep my focus. I spare a glance for the TV blaring a soap opera overhead then turn back to the window in time to see Ballard run out of his motel and into his car.

  Do I wait to see which way the mole pulls onto the street, or get in my car now and trust my luck to catch a glimpse of Kodak’s taillights as he follows Ballard? As I watch, Ballard is squealing out of the parking lot, leaving me no choice. I’ll be lucky if I catch which way Kodak is headed. There’s no way I’ll get eyes on Ballard in time.

  I run out the back door, beep my car unlocked and pile into the front seat. I pull around the edge of the laundromat just in time to see Kodak’s car streak through a yellow light, heading south. I have no choice. I floor the accelerator and run the red light. Only one car had to swerve to miss me.

  So far, so good.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Shots Fired!

  Will this chase ever end? Ballard turns off Highway 71 and heads east into the town’s graffiti-decorated Main Street. My only solace in this hellacious day is that Kodak is in the dark as much as I am. Still, I feel like the blind following the blind. I have no idea where we’re going to end up, and no clue what Ballard is doing.

  I’ve allowed two cars to get between me and Kodak, and am grateful when they also take the left turn onto Main Street. I watch Ballard take a right under a sign for a dilapidated strip motel. Sure enough, Kodak pulls over and parks on the street.

  I study the sign above the motel entrance, then realize the place is actually an apartment complex, converted from one of those old one-story, one-room drive-in motels common in the 1950s. I picture poorly kept rooms with squeaky beds, leaky bathtubs and loud air conditioners mounted in the windows. Frankly, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a dive like this.

  I park in the shade of a nearby 7-Eleven where I have a great view of Ballard getting out of his car and heading toward one of the rooms. He knocks. The door opens, and a man with an egg-shaped face and thin red hair answers. He looks surprised after Ballard pulls his ID. from his breast pocket. Frank waves it in the man’s face, then pushes his way into the room.

  Kodak waits until the door closes behind Ballard, then gets out of his car and walks toward the apartment. He does a look-see around the front of the building. He listens at the door Ballard has just entered, then heads for the back of the building.

  An old model Toyota truck in desperate need of a paint job turns into the motel’s parking lot. I immediately recognize the kid that jumps out of the driver’s seat. It’s Tom Gibbons. He heads for the same room Ballard entered. He stops for a moment to listen at the door.

  I shake my head. What in the world does Tom Gibbons have to do with Frank Ballard?

  ***

  Peter Pendergast felt like he was in the catbird seat, though he was actually sitting on the edge of Tom Gibbons’ bed. Federal Deputy Ballard had shown up unexpectedly at the motel door, but Pendergast soon learned that was a very good thing. Ballard seemed as suspicious of Hogan and Sheriff Novak as he was. That put the law on Peter’s side, he reckoned.

  And Tom Gibbons was on the way back to this dingy apartment to spill the beans on where the sheriff was hiding the preacher.

  “So how’d you track me here?” Peter asked, his voice loud to be heard over the window-mounted air conditioner.

  “We traced a call you made to this number.” Ballard pointed to the phone on the water-stained bed stand.

  “Guess you really wanted to find me,” Peter said.

  “You’re in dangerous territory, Pendergast. Sheriff Novak will go to any means possible to protect Hogan from getting caught. That includes killing you to keep your mouth shut.” Ballard rested his elbows on his knees. “I’m here to protect you and the kid.” He checked his watch. “When’s Gibbons supposed to get here, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure—” The sound of a key in the motel room door brought Pendergast to his feet. “Here he is now.”

  Tom entered the room, his eyes wary, his fists balled. He took one look at Ballard, then back at Peter. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  Peter took Tom by the shoulder and guided him into the room. “A sign from heaven,” Peter said. “Tom Gibbons, meet Deputy Federal Marshal Frank Ballard. He’s on our side.”

  “No cop is ever on my side.” Tom glared at Ballard.

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m not a cop,” Ballard said. “Mr. Pendergast here has it right. I understand that the two of you know of Sheriff Novak’s corruption and you’re willing to help us put him away for a very long time.”

  Tom allowed a hint of interest to show on his face. “How long?”

  Ballard patted him on the back, and Peter and Tom sat down on the edge of the bed. Ballard resumed his seat on the only chair in the room. “Peter tells me you’ve found where Novak is hiding the preacher.”

  “He’s no preacher,” Tom muttered.

  “True enough.” Ballard smiled, but Peter noted a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

  Damnit, Tom. Don’t piss off the Fed. He makes our entire argument legit.

  A popping sound came from behind, and Peter jumped.

  “Don’t lose your cool,” Tom said. “It’s only the air conditioner. It goes out all the time.”

  Sure enough, Peter realized. The rattling hum coming from the window unit had gone still.

  The kid looked at Ballard. “Maybe you can fix me up in some better digs.”

  “Maybe,” Ballard allowed. “Tell me what you got.”

  “So I worked at Angie’s Fire and Ice House,” Tom began.

  “What do you mean, ‘worked’?” Peter interrupted.

  “That lesbo girl that worked there got popped over the head with a frying pan. You know they’re gonna try to pin that on me just like they always blamed my dad for everything.”

  “So yo
u worked at the Ice House,” Ballard prompted.

  “Ain’t nothin’ goes on in town without news of it passing through Angie’s place,” he said. “That’s how I know that Bo—he’s the bartender—is diddlin’ the sheriff’s sister-in-law.” Tom’s grin turned lewd. “Pearl Masterson. Upstanding church lady screwin’ an ex-con. You gotta love Wilks.”

  Ballard didn’t share Tom’s grin. “What does that have to do with the preacher?”

  “Bo’s stupid. He’s got a good thing going. Room. Board. And a woman to screw. She ain’t much to look at and she’s older than spit, but I guess he turns out the lights when it comes to that.”

  “So what makes Bo stupid?” Ballard asked.

  Peter could see the Fed was growing impatient. C’mon, Tom. Give us the goods!

  “He’s going to marry her.” Tom laughed. “What up with that? ‘Course her sister just died. Maybe she’s gonna inherit some dough.”

  Ballard’s jaw firmed. “Again, what does this have to do with the preacher?”

  “Pearl’s taking her best friend up to New York to tell her about Bo. And guess who that friend is? Elsbeth Novak, the sheriff’s wife.” The scrawny teen-ager’s eyes gleamed with delight. “She’s gonna blow sky high.”

  “I’m giving you one more chance to tell me why I should care about this.”

  Peter flinched when he saw Ballard loosen his jacket. What the hell? Is he packing?

  “I am telling you,” Tom said in that tone the sounded like he was talking to a child. “Pearl’s in New York. The sheriff is hiding the preacher out at her house.”

  Ballard’s eyes narrowed. “That’s your guess.”

  “Nope. That’s the fact. I just tried to drive out to Pearl’s place. Sure enough, there was some cop—not from here, I didn’t recognize the uniform—on the dirt road that heads out to her farmhouse. He said there was a grass fire up ahead and his job was to keep the road clear for the fire trucks to get through.” Tom sat back, his smile victorious. “There weren’t no smoke anywhere to be seen. And the only place that road leads to is Pearl’s.”

  Ballard relaxed, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief. The kid had come through once again.

  This story was getting better by the minute.

  Then the apartment door slammed open. A short, skinny man, holding a very large gun took a stance in the doorway. He aimed that gun straight at Ballard.

  Peter’s jaw dropped. Now what?

  ***

  Frank Ballard jumped to his feet as Kodak came through the door. “What the hell are you doing here?” He looked incredulously at the Glock that was pointed directly at his chest. “And what the hell is that all about?”

  Kodak ignored him. Instead he focused on Pendergast and Gibbons. “Are you men all right?”

  Peter and Tom looked at each other. “Yeah,” Peter answered for them. “Who are you?”

  Kodak kept his weapon focused on Ballard, and sidled over to Tom. “I’m with the feds,” he declared.

  Ballard held up his hands. “What?”

  “You’ve been taken in by one of Rutledge’s gang,” Kodak continued. “His job was to get the info out of you about the preacher’s whereabouts and then kill you.”

  Ballard realized he was about to die. He reached for his gun. Kodak lowered his Glock and shot Ballard in the knee. The searing pain rendered the leg unstable and he fell to the ground. Still, he was able to wrestle his Beretta out of its holster.

  “He’s going for his gun!” Kodak took a stance in front of Peter, then shot Ballard in the shoulder. The Beretta fell to the floor. “Pick it up!” He yelled at Tom. “Now!”

  Tom, ashen and shaking, did as he was told. He stumbled back against the wall, looking sick at the blood shooting from Ballard’s knee.

  Ballard saw the victorious smile cross Kodak’s face. Helpless, he watched as Kodak forced his gun into Peter’s hands. “Cover me.” He looked at the kid. “Stay where you are.” Kodak sprinted across the room, grabbed Tom’s hand still holding the Beretta and pointed it at Pendergast.

  Pendergast never knew what hit him. But Frank was gonna know. Ballard watched as Kodak forced Tom’s hand to point the gun at him. “You sonuvabitch,” Ballard choked.

  The last thing Ballard ever heard was the blast of a gun going off.

  ***

  Holy crap! Holy crap! I can’t believe my ears. Less than a minute from the time Kodak crashed into the motel room, I’ve heard four shots go off.

  Pop!

  Oh, my God! A fifth one!

  Who was shot and who is still alive? My heart pounds in my chest as I wait to see who comes out of that room alive.

  It’s another minute before I get my answer.

  Kodak strolls out of the room. I catch a glimpse of a body covered in blood on the floor. Kodak pulls the door shut, then locks it with a key. He casually walks towards his car parked on the street.

  I keep my eye on the door. No one else comes out of that room. My God, he killed them all.

  I fumble in my glove compartment for my sat phone and speed dial the Chief. He answers on the first ring.

  “Get out of there,” I say. My voice is shaking, then I realize my whole body is shaking.

  “What?” he demands.

  “Get out of there!” I watch as Kodak pulls away from the curb. “Kodak’s gone rogue. I think he shot Ballard.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Look.” My hands are twitching so bad I can hardly get my car started. “You’re my father. I’m trying to protect you. Get the hell out of my apartment now. Kodak’s gone crazy, and you might be next. For God’s sakes get out of there until we can sort things out.”

  The Chief is silent for a moment. This is the moment of truth. Either he understands the blood tie we have, or I’m dead.

  “Where should I go?” He finally asks.

  I exhale in relief. I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath.

  “I’ve got a friend in Bastrop. Her name is Eleanor. Go to the corner gas station and I’ll have her pick you up there. Get everything out of the apartment. Wipe it down.”

  “But—”

  “Do it,” I say. I check my watch. “Kodak’s about forty minutes away from you, but after what I’ve just seen he could be there in twenty. The man’s gone crazy.” I shove the gearshift into drive, but my foot is still on the brake. “Look, I’ve got to call Eleanor. Get off the phone and do what I say!”

  “What the hell did Kodak do?” The Chief demands.

  “He killed them. Pendergast, Ballard and the Gibbons kid. They’re all dead.” I click off the satellite phone and grab up my regular cell. I dial Eleanor’s number and breathe a quick sigh of relief when she picks up. “Eleanor, I need a favor,” I say. I take my foot off the brake, floor the accelerator, and speed out of the parking lot.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The Crime Board

  James W. trudged up the steps to Pearl’s front door. With the forensic anthropology team taking a break during the hottest part of the day, he’d been busy catching up on all the chores of being a sheriff. Topping his list was to check in on Matt and Angie.

  He knocked and called through the door, “It’s me. James W.”

  Angie opened the door and a blast of cool air hit him in the face. “We knew you were coming up,” she said. “One of the Benedict County men called ahead.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” James W. kissed his sister on the cheek, then stepped into the room. “Where’s Matt?”

  “In here.” She led the way through the archway that connected front room and kitchen. “I’ll leave you boys to it. I have to put some sheets on the beds.”

  Matt stood by the small breakfast table, studying the notecards taped to the wall. James W. grinned. “Didn’t take you long to get back in the saddle.”

  Matt extended his hand. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

  James W. appreciated Matt’s firm handshake. His friend was inde
ed getting better. “You look fine as a frog hair split four ways.”

  For a moment Matt looked confused, then laughed. “I like the way you talk, James W.”

  Not sure what that meant, James W. tossed his sheriff’s hat on the table and turned his attention to the wall. “So what you got here?”

  Matt pointed to the different columns and explained each.

  James W. studied the index cards. “How did you come up with your list of suspects?” James W. asked

  “Those folks arrived in Wilks after I got here.”

  “Well you’re missing two.” James W. said. “I’d add Frank Ballard and Peter Pendergast to your list.”

  “Ballard’s my federal deputy babysitter. Good call on that one. Who’s Pendergast?”

  James W. chuckled. “He’s the newspaper reporter you got kicked off my son’s campaign press bus.”

  “Me?” Matt tried to remember, then shook his head. “I don’t recall.”

  “That’s all right. It’s a night I’ll never forget. You shoulda seen the look on Elsbeth’s face.”

  “If you say so.” Matt wrote up an index card for each of the men and taped them to the column headed “suspects.”

  James W. continued to study the crime board. “You’ve got my secretary in your suspects column.”

  “Motive and opportunity. Sarah’s on the trivia team and was in my room last Sunday.”

  “Motive?” James W. pressed.

  “She had every reason to hate Zach. He’d divorced her, slandered her reputation and stolen her son from her.”

  James W. glared. “That sounds more like a motive to kill Zach, not you.”

  “Plus she works in your office, has access to all the stuff Rutledge would need to keep up with me. She could’ve flipped if it meant Zach would be out of her life for good.”

  James W. shook his head. “I don’t like that one bit, but—”

  “But what?” Matt pressed.

  “I got the weirdest call from Sarah yesterday.” James W. sat down at the table. “It might be important.”

  “What did she want?”