Threes, Sixes & Thieves

by Cosgrove, Julie B;

  Then again, Janie had talked Blake into going undercover with her, which is why he ended up on admin. The woman had smarts, and she could be very persuasive. He decided to talk to her friends off the clock. He poured himself a cup of coffee and headed back to his desk.

  Edwards came over. “Something you should know, sir.”

  Connor took a long sip and grimaced. “Ugh. Who made this liquid tar?”

  Edwards chuckled. “Everett’s new brew. Sumatra something. Lots of sugar helps.” He leaned in, his hands on the desk, arms locked. “That man and his son, the Wrights from Houston?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The dad swears he’s seen that guy before. The one from the river? Can’t place him, but if he does, he’ll call us.”

  “Houston, you say? Check their police database and see if we can obtain a facial recognition. I know, the fish had their meal, but perhaps...”

  Edwards returned to his own desk adjacent to Connor’s. “I’m on it.”

  “Also check on the progress of that DNA report through the database from Austin. That might help us narrow it down a bit.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Oh, I forgot. Forensics called, but not about the DNA. Bullet definitely came from a Glock. Plus, they said the vic had a scar on his right forearm. Their guess is a tattoo recently removed.”

  “Did you get the dimensions?”

  “Yeah. Got ’em somewhere.” He thumbed through his notes.

  “Keep that in mind in doing your search.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  “I’ll go over the recovery team’s findings and check on your mysterious tan string. Be back later on today.”

  “OK.”

  Connor grabbed his jacket and shook his head as Edwards wheeled his chair closer to his computer monitor with a serious, wide-eyed expression. “Rookies.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Ethel’s excitement blasted through the phone. Blake held it out from his ear. “Calm, down. Now slowly, explain what you heard.” He stopped in the hallway, halfway to the chief of police’s office and leaned against the wall.

  “Well, my cousin, Evelyn Thornton, was the one who told me. She lives outside of Grayson on a small ranch. I don’t know why. She can barely run the thing now that her husband’s gone. I keep telling her to sell up and move to Sunset Acres.”

  “Ethel? Stay on track, please.”

  “Oh, my. Yes. Sorry. I’m sounding like Betsy Ann. Anyway...” She gulped into the phone. “Evelyn wandered through the stock room of the new mega-mart looking for the restroom when she heard two men whispering. She peered around the pallets of cereal to find two Grayson cops chatting about something. They said someone would pay them to do the killing and just dump it in the river for the catfish to find.”

  The hairs on the back of Blake’s neck stood at attention. “When did she hear this?”

  “A few days ago. Tuesday sounds right.”

  “They dredged up a body out of the San Gabriel this morning. Shot, execution style within the last forty-eight hours according to Chief Gates. Not my case, but that makes two shootings by a Glock.”

  “The kind of revolver the police are usually issued for their service weapon?”

  “Yes. Though civilians can order them. Forensics is trying to match the bullets now.”

  “So, you think...?”

  “Do you have your cousin’s number, Ethel? I’d like to get a description of the two policemen from her.”

  “Of course. I’ll text it to you in a few.”

  “Thanks, Ethel. Do you have any other questions? If not, I could use a few more hours on this before we meet. How about I come by about eight this evening?”

  “I’ll be here. My show starts at nine, though.”

  “Mystery theater?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Right. Later.” He clicked off and covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. He glanced at his watch and bopped himself on the head. The florist closed ten minutes ago. His wife would recognize supermarket bouquets from a mile away. Better buy her favorite perfume. The upscale department store in the mall carried it. They didn’t close until nine. He headed for his cruiser, buckled in, and started the engine.

  As he drove, he mulled over Ethel’s information. Though the man in the drink wasn’t his case, if the two cops tied in with his investigation he reserved the right to pursue it. The fact both his case and this testimony involved Grayson cops sounded an alarm in his head. He pulled into the parking garage of the mall, checked his texts, and dialed Ethel’s cousin. “Hello, Mrs. Thornton. I’m Chief Detective Blake Johnson of the Alamoville Police Department.”

  “Oh, why yes. Ethel told me you’d be calling.”

  “She did?” That was fast. He shook his head.

  “You want to know what those two policemen I overheard talking looked like?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well one had sandy blond hair, fairly short. I just saw the back of him, but he seemed middle-aged to me. Slim. In good shape. The other had a pot belly and I noticed a mustard stain on his shirt. Balding, black hair. He stood at least an inch or two shorter than the other guy.”

  “They both had on Grayson police uniforms. You’re sure?”

  “Oh, of course. I’ve seen them both in the diner. Think the blond is named Andy. The older one is Mason something. He moved down here to be near his daughter at Baylor in Waco. She met a student there and got married. Had to, I think. Though I guess nowadays many of them don’t. His wife sings in the choir at my church. Now what’s their last name? I just had it.” She paused. “Oh, yes. James something.”

  Like Jamison perhaps? He thought back to the roll call and recalled a cop saying he was Mason. Blake assumed it to be his last name and the chief didn’t correct him. Why would the Grayson chief lie? “Thank you for your time, Evelyn. You were correct to tell someone.”

  He filled in his report with the air conditioning still running. Then he texted Hemphill to find out if the bullets from Wellington and the man in the river matched. Hemphill texted back. You on the case now?

  No, and maybe. Just do both, OK?

  Blake then called and left a message for the Grayson chief to contact him. Normally, Gates would be the one to contact the Grayson chief again. But as I.A., Blake carried more clout. If he didn’t hear back, he’d be on the chief’s stoop at sunrise tomorrow to hand him his morning paper. Hopefully, he would have heard from the outlying towns’ police departments by then.

  His cell phone tone sounded. Hemphill told him the coroner verified the bullets from Wellington and the man in the river didn’t match, though they were fired from the same caliber Glock, the standard police weapon. So, whoever shot Wellington in the leg was not the one who executed the man found in the San Gabriel River. “Guess it’s a dead end, sir. Though I admit your mother-in-law had me going for a while. She was convinced their IDs matched.”

  “Yeah, she can set you spinning.” Blake clicked off and shot a picture of the report on Evelyn Thornton’s testimony in a text to Hemphill. Come tomorrow at noon it would be his and Hornsby’s baby. The heck with taking this investigation on vacay.

  In fact, Hornsby insisted Blake should not be contacted after he headed for the coast. Wonderful partner. He’d missed him a lot. Smart as they came, too. Yeah, the department would be just fine.

  Images of glistening waves crashing toward the sand dunes bombarded his brain, giving him an almost giddy feeling. A true vacation. He could hardly wait.

  He entered the mall and took a whiff of the perfume counter. Perhaps tonight his wife would wear the fragrance he’d bought and not much else.

  ~*~

  Connor pulled up the report and took it into Hornsby who had just put on his jacket. “Before you leave, sir, here, Blake sent this. You might want to have a look.”

  Hornsby snatched the photocopy. “His scrawl is getting worse all the time. What did he do? Write this up while going seventy down the highway?” He sat with one hip on the edge o
f the desk, his eyes scanning the paper. He raised his gaze to Connor. “This reliable?”

  “Believe so, sir.”

  “Follow it. I’ll inform Gates in the morning. He’s at that mayor’s dinner now.”

  “So, we have your permission to interrogate the Grayson clerk and find out who these bozos are?”

  Hornsby raised a finger. “Careful, man. Those bozos came to our aid. We’re all blue brothers. You can make a phone inquiry. Tread lightly, though. Body was lifted in our jurisdiction, but if it had floated a half mile upstream, it would have been theirs.”

  “Yes, sir. Got it.”

  “Right. Good night.”

  Connor walked down the hallway, but stopped when his ears picked up something unusual. He turned back and chuckled to himself. Hornsby strolled to the back door whistling the tune to “Ol’ Man River” from the musical Show Boat. Connor recalled it because his sister had played Magnolia Hawks years ago in high school, much to his prudish mother’s chagrin.

  He snickered. Hornsby a lover of Rogers and Hammerstein? Who knew?

  ~*~

  Melody stared at the fancy Italian restaurant bag and parked her hands on her hips. “Blake Edison Johnson. What is the meaning of this? If this is to placate me before you tell me our vacation is off, you’re a dead man.”

  Ellie and Jamie, their offspring, slid out of their dining chairs and tiptoed from the room with their portions of breadsticks and lasagna from Pierre’s on paper plates.

  “Hon, we’ll go on vacation Thursday. Promise.”

  She squinted one eye. “You sure?”

  He held his hands out. “Absolutely. After I see that shrink Thursday morning, we’re out of here. Gates handed this I.A. over to Hornsby. He’s just as qualified as I am. He was coming off medical leave when the manhunt went down, so he can be considered unbiased as well.”

  “If you say so.” She slid into her chair and spooned some lasagna onto her plate. “You got the one without the Italian sausage, right?”

  “And extra ricotta. Yep.” He eased a small package toward her placemat.

  “What is this?” She peeked inside the upscale department store’s bag. Her eyes grew twice their size as she unwrapped the bottle and took a sniff. She leaped from her chair with a dazzling gleam in her eyes. “Blake?”

  “Thought we might start out the vacation right.” He skirted behind her and draped his arms around her neck.

  She clutched his forearms and snuggled into them. “You want me to wear it tonight when we go to bed?”

  “Uh, huh. Anything else is up to you.”

  “I see.”

  “I should be back by eleven.”

  She dropped her hands and swiveled out of his embrace. “Eleven?”

  “I’m meeting Ethel at eight. Then I need to get back to the office. I still have to interview Mike Martin when he comes off patrol. Before that, I want to swing by the hospital and talk to Aaron. He’s out of the medical coma.”

  She pushed her noodles and sauce around with her fork. “At eleven fifteen I’m locking the bedroom door.”

  “I’m a cop. I have tools to jimmy it open,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Figures.”

  He kissed her on the neck, grabbed a breadstick, and called to the kids that the coast was clear. They could return to the dinner table now.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The quick search program which matched the deceased’s photo with perps in their database didn’t reveal much. Then again, when Phil Edwards scanned it in, there wasn’t much considered recognizable between the water bloat, toothless mouth, and the fish nibbles. So he tried the old-fashioned way. Keyed in the basic description. The computer awarded him with 1,892 hits. Number 754 glared back at him. Nope.

  Phil rubbed his eyes. The mug shots on the monitor blurred as he yawned. Who knew Houston had so many perps on file? He glanced at the clock on the lower right-hand side: 7:08 PM. He downed the rest of his now cold coffee and stretched his arms behind his head.

  Hornsby came up behind him. “Any luck?”

  Phil’s spine shot into a straight line. “Um, no sir. Just giving my eyes a rest.”

  Hornsby peered into the monitor. “Well, it’s a long shot. Perhaps when the DNA comes back...” He squeezed the rookie’s shoulder. “Go home. Tackle it in the morning with a fresh mind.”

  Phil clicked off his monitor. “Yes, sir. Thanks.”

  Hornsby walked with him to the door. “You’ll do fine, Phil. First few weeks are always rough, and you are coming on at a harrowing time.”

  He shrugged. “So are you, sir. Everyone is glad to have you back.”

  “Blake the most, I suspect.” He stopped. “Dag-nab-it. I forgot my car keys. You go on without me.”

  The rookie pushed open the back entrance and waved good night as his superior headed back down the hallway to his office.

  ~*~

  The TV in the homeless shelter blasted the latest news. “A body was discovered in the San Gabriel River yesterday evening by a father and son on a fishing excursion. The body was unidentifiable, but police sources say they believe this was a drug deal gone awry. DNA results are pending.”

  The one hundred plus temperatures drove the street people inside early today. Every inch of the place filled with bodies, some playing cards, others chatting. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to the local news anchor. Who cared? It didn’t affect their world at all—that is until the weather forecast aired.

  Arnie reached under his cot and crammed the change of clothes he’d gotten at the charity shop into his duffel bag. He pushed open the door to the mission center’s bathroom and turned the handles on the sink. They screeched in protest before sputtering and spewing slightly rust-colored liquid. He splashed the tepid faucet water on his face and glanced in the cracked mirror. He barely recognized himself. Two days ago, he shaved off his moustache and his sandy locks. The recently acquired tattoo sprawled across the back of his neck added to his new appearance. He’d fit in with the homeless just fine over the past few days.

  “So, they found Joe. You need to cover your tracks, man.” But how? He stared at his reflection, but it didn’t provide him any firm answers. Then, as he exited, an idea seeped into his skull. His mouth curved into a wry smile. He’d never unloaded Joe’s things, thinking he’d wait until he got back to Houston then anonymously mail them to Joe’s wife from the downtown post office. A serendipity for sure. Hmmm. Once a new plan formulated in his mind, his mood lifted.

  After dinner, when the temperatures cooled back into the low nineties, the beggars filtered out to earn a few bucks, most likely to buy a bag of crack or a few cans of beer. Arnie followed the group of nameless, faceless men the world had long forgotten. The group began to disperse, each headed to his favorite begging corner to catch the party people in downtown Austin.

  He stalked an invisible who appeared similar in stature, hair color and eyes to Joe. A quick side whack to the jugular brought the guy to the ground. Arnie twisted his neck until he heard the crunching pop, and felt the man go limp. He dragged him into an alley littered with discarded cardboard boxes behind the new age shops off South Congress. Arnie dug into his own backpack and pulled out clothes similar to the ones Joe wore the day he died, dressing the bum in them. Next, Arnie planted Joe’s watch, wedding ring, and wallet on him. Then he bundled the dead man into a fetal position and covered him with the stack of boxes.

  Phase one complete. He whistled as he walked to the parking garage where he’d stashed Joe’s car on the night of his death. A flash of panic coursed over his chest. What if it had been towed or stolen? It had been several days since he left it there.

  No, the car sat in the same place. Good. He climbed in and inserted the key in the ignition. The engine came to life. Yes. He backed out and drove to the alley.

  His burner phone beeped with a text. Call home. He dialed the number.

  The caller answered on the third ring. “Guess you heard the news report?”

 
“Yeah. Don’t worry. Got it handled. If they suspect a drug deal, they’ll be looking at perps’ records for a match, not a cop’s.”

  “Hmm. I’ll see what I can do to persuade the Alamoville crime force to continue in that direction. Still...”

  “I told you. It’s handled. They’ll find Joe’s body at the bottom of a cliff tomorrow morning, west of Austin, burned to a crisp in his car.”

  “Who’d ya find to play the part?”

  “The less you know the better. I won’t call you again. Been nice knowing you, friend. Good luck.”

  “You as well. Never be able to thank you enough. The rest of your pay will be waiting for you.”

  His voice cracked. “My pleasure. Blue forever.”

  After loading the dead hobo into the passenger seat, Arnie drove the winding, hilly roads toward the lakes. Just before a quiet curve, he pulled over and shoved the man into the driver’s seat. He planted Joe’s dark hoodie on the passenger seat. More evidence the body would be identified as his, assuming it survived the inferno. He took the gas can Joe always kept in the trunk and poured it over the body. He lit a paper match and placed it under the seat. A small whooshing sound and a glow of orange appeared.

  He put the car in gear and, stretching his foot from the passenger side, Arnie revved the engine. Holding his breath to fight off the fumes, he drove the car to the edge of the cliff at the s-curve. He opened the door and and with a shove the car went over the edge.

  The car continued its journey to eternity and crashed through the guardrail with the recently deceased loser strapped inside Joe’s car. Arnie watched it sail out over the cliff, and then plummet. It did a tumble end over end into the gully below.

  Va-room. The car went up in flames. The fireball reminded him of sitting around the campfire with Joe’s son and his own kid at Boy Scout outings. He watched the crackling flames for a few minutes as it consumed the automobile and thought of the s’mores they’d shared. Oh, well. Joe’s wife and kids would be better off in the long run thinking he’d ended his life. Arnie’s family would be better off after he disappeared.