by Carolina Mac
“You got that right.”
Jesse and I always worked together and talked out every aspect of every case. I’m missing that.
Blaine parked down the block from Kingsley Veterinarian and waited until Mary Polito arrived. He and Jesse strode over to her vehicle and jumped into the back seat.
“This is what’s happening, Mary,” said Blaine. “I presume you’ve heard about the fourth murder by now. I was surprised not to see you at the road block on Riverside.”
“My boss sent someone higher up the ladder than me,” said Mary, “even though he gave me high praise for my last story on the crime beat.”
“Well your competition at the scene won’t get anything. This is going to be a better story for you. I hope. Ranger Quantrall is going into the office and he’ll arrest Doctor Kingsley on suspicion of murder. He’ll bring him out the front door with his hands cuffed in front of him and you get as many pictures as you can, as we escort him to the truck. Then we’ll head downtown.”
“Can we follow y’all downtown and get shots of him going into Austin PD?” asked the photographer. He reached over the seat and shook hands with Blaine and Jesse. “By the way, my name is Raj Singh.”
“If you wish to do that, Mr. Singh,” said Blaine, “it’s okay with me.”
Blaine fetched his truck from down the block, turned on the strobe and pulled up to the curb in front of the building. He and Jesse went inside. The waiting room was crammed with people and pets and the noise level was off the charts.
“Where’s Doctor Kingsley at this moment?” asked Jesse.
Looking a little alarmed as she eyeballed Jesse’s credentials, Rebecca said, “Exam room three.”
“Show me,” said Jesse.
They followed her down the hall. She tapped twice and opened the door. Kingsley stood next to a stainless-steel examination table inserting a needle into a small white dog.
“Doctor Kingsley,” said Jesse, “You’re under arrest on suspicion of murder. Hold your hands out in front of your body.”
Kinsgley sized up Jesse in his Cody James jeans, his snap-front shirt and his Stetson. “Who the hell are you, cowboy? I have a right to know who is arresting me.”
“Ranger Jesse Quantrall, at your service.” Jesse flashed his creds, stuffed the pack back into his pocket and snapped one cuff on Kingsley’s right wrist.
Kingsley jerked away, waving the needle at Jesse.
Blaine pulled out his Beretta and held it steady on Kingsley. “Put the needle down, sir.” To the woman: “Take your dog and leave the room, please ma’am.”
The woman picked up her Shih Tzu and booked it.
Kingsley laid the needle on the table and laughed. “What kind of crap is this? You have nothing to arrest me for. I’m suing Austin PD, and while I’m at it, I’ll sue you, Blackmore, and Powell Corp and the whole fuckin state.”
Jesse snapped the cuff closed on Kingsley’s other large wrist and the cuffs were a tight fit. Very tight.
He winced. “These are too small,” he growled. “I want my lawyer.”
“You’ll get a phone call when you get downtown, sir,” said Jesse.
They marched Kingsley through the waiting room in front of all his clients, and out the front door.
“Stop here,” said Blaine. He stepped to the side and let Raj Singh take pictures.
“You bastards set me up,” he hollered. “I’ll sue every last one of you fuckers.”
“You do that,” said Blaine. “You can file from Huntsville. Give you something to do when you aren’t taking it up the ass.”
FARRELL AND TRAVIS waited until the body of Julie Westover had been removed by the medical examiner, then they started Red and Bluebelle at the scene of the crime.
“Don’t know what we’ll find, partner, that will be any good, but I guess it doesn’t hurt to be thorough,” said Travis.
“He hasn’t left a trace behind before,” said Farrell, “latex gloves and condoms—everything a doctor would do—but we’ve got the best dogs. Have faith.”
Bluebelle sniffed the scene for ten minutes, caught the scent and took off in the direction of one of the parking areas in the north end of the park. Red and Farrell ran behind trying to keep up. The park had been closed so both dogs were off leash.
When they reached the parking lot, Bluebelle lay down beside one of the parked police vehicles and tried to scooch underneath, but she was too big. She lifted her big head and bayed.
“What is it girl? What’s under there?”
Travis pulled out his flashlight and flopped down on his belly beside the dog. “Yep, I see it, but I can’t reach it.”
“I’ll get you a stick, partner,” said Farrell. He hoofed it to the closest tree, broke off a skinny branch and ran back to Travis. “Try this.”
Travis shoved the long stick under the car, and pulled the small item towards him. He held his hand up without looking behind him and Farrell gave him an evidence bag, while he recorded the proceeding on his phone.
Travis snapped on the latex gloves Farrell handed him, picked up the item and dropped it into the bag. “Fitbit wristband,” he said. “It will have DNA on it and place him in the park.”
Farrell stroked Bluebelle’s head and gave her a biscuit.
“Let’s run this to the boss at headquarters.”
Travis grinned. “Yeah, lets.”
JESSE AND BLAINE escorted Kingsley across the street and through the front door of the precinct house while the photographer for the Austin paper took pictures and Mary Polito jotted down accompanying notes.
They stopped at the front door and Mary thanked Blaine. “I’ll try to get the boss to run a special addition,” said Mary, “but I might have missed the deadline.”
“Whatever you can do, Mary,” said Blaine. “I appreciate your patience and your participation.”
Raj Singh reached out and shook his hand as Jesse escorted Kingsley through the door. “Appreciate the opportunity, Mr. Blackmore.”
“I’ll take him to booking,” said Blaine. “You go find Lopez if he’s around.”
Kingsley protested every step of the way. “You can’t do this, you, gangland punk. I’ll make you regret this. As soon as my attorney gets here, I’m starting my lawsuit.”
Blaine didn’t respond and that seemed to make Kingsley angrier. His big moon face was crimson as he was booked, fingerprinted and photographed for his mug shot.
“When am I going to get my phone call? You have to give me my phone call. It’s the law.”
“You’ll get your phone call, Doctor Kingsley,” said Blaine.
“Lopez caught up and pulled Blaine aside. Why did you bring him in again?”
Blaine ignored the question and said, “Lock him up in a holding cell overnight.”
“No, I won’t,” whispered Lopez, “I can’t. My lieutenant will go ballistic. We have nothing on him.”
“Four murders,” said Blaine, “isn’t that enough for you?”
“The MO is different on this one—no bandana—for starters. I think it might be a copy-cat.”
“Bullshit,” said Blaine.
Jesse caught up to the group in the hall. “I’ll take him downstairs and lock him up.”
Blaine nodded and continued his argument with Lopez. “He’s trying to make you think it’s a copy-cat by changing a couple of little things, but he’s so set in the way he has to do things, he couldn’t deviate enough to make it convincing.”
“Julie Westover had no fucking dog, Blacky. No dog means no fucking veterinarian. How did he know her?”
“That’s for us to find out, ain’t it. Why don’t you put some uniforms on that right this fuckin minute?” Blaine swiveled on the heel of his Harley boot and saw Travis and Farrell striding through the squad room.
“Good news, boss,” said Travis. “Bluebelle found this. His Fitbit was in the parking lot under a car.”
“There’ll be DNA on it,” said Farrell. “Places him in the park.”
“F
antastic,” said Blaine. “Lopez, can you get the lab to put that at the top of their list?”
Lopez calmed down a notch. “Yeah, okay, I can do that. At least it’s something that has potential.”
“We’ll hold him overnight and hit him with this evidence in the interview in the morning,” said Blaine. “In the meantime, we need warrants for the clinic and for his residence.”
“With the sketchy evidence we’ve got against him?” Lopez shook his head. “Good luck with that. I’ll be taking enough flak from the Loot as it is.”
THE PATROL CAR went by the trailer real slow and Race could feel the piggy eyes boring through the front window. He stood in the dark behind the shabby drapes and let out the breath he was holding. “Stupid fuckers. They’re all the same.”
The tail lights disappeared into the darkness before he left the window. He went out the back way, stuck close to the side of the trailer and inched along next to the woods. Every step he took on his wounded leg sent a bolt of pain into his brain.
Take the pain or fuckin starve.
As he passed behind a row of trailers, he could see through lighted windows what was going on inside some of them. The smell of food cooking hit him hard in his empty gut as he moved on past the one with the kitchen window open.
Four units around the bend from his trailer, he hit pay dirt. Three Harleys in the side yard—one chained to the cottonwood. He knocked on the door wearing his best fake smile. One thing he was good at was bullshitting bikers and getting what he wanted. He’d been doing it all his fuckin life.
The door opened slowly, and a big son of a bitch stood on the step. Red hair hanging down long and scraggly with a dirty green bandana wrapped around his forehead, a messy looking beard and mean-looking beady eyes. Reminded him of his old VP, Zack Hogan. Hate reared its ugly head so fast Race could barely keep from reaching out and grabbing the fucker standing in front of him by the neck, and choking the life out of him. Instead, he called on the deadly calm that he kept right beneath the surface. “Hey, brother, I could use a beer.”
“Yeah, well we don’t hand out free brewskis to everybody who knocks on our fuckin door.” He pushed the door closed and Race jammed his body into the opening.
“If you knew who I was, you wouldn’t be shutting the goddam door in my face.” Race used his size to push past the guy into trailer.
Two other dudes looked up from their card game and glared at the intruder.
Race limped over to the table and held out his hand. “Race Ogilvie, president of The Rule in Vegas.”
The dark-haired guy on the other side of the table, set his cards down and shook Race’s hand. “Always wanted to meet you, man. You’re a fuckin legend.”
“Heard you were doing time in Huntsville,” said the guy who’d let him in. “That’s a nasty place.”
“You been there?” asked Race.
“No, and I ain’t goin to.” He strode over to the fridge. “I’ll get you that beer you wanted. Have a seat.”
“Thanks,” said Race, “been on the run for a couple of days and haven’t had time to eat. Got any food?”
“Not much. Cold pizza. That’s about it.” The dark-haired biker shoved the box his way.
“Better than nothing,” he said as he helped himself to a piece with curled, dried out pepperoni on top.
“Cops been patrolling the park heavy,” said the younger kid. “They looking for you, boss?”
“Yeah, I guess. They won’t take me alive,” said Race between bites. “I ain’t going back.”
“Don’t blame you,” said the red-haired guy. He pointed to the dark-complexioned dude, “He’s Craig, that there is Mike with the scar healing on his face, and they just call me Fat Boy, cause that’s what I ride.”
Race chugged half his beer. “Appreciate your hospitality, boys. Anything I can do to pay you back?”
“Happy to help a brother in need,” said Mike. “You play Hold-em?”
“Could do,” said Race, “How much is the buy-in?”
“Twenty bucks. Freeze out. Winner take all.”
Race pulled out his wallet and threw money on the table.
HOODOO WHINED, licked Misty’s face, then lay down on the wooden floor beside her. She tried to talk to him, but the gag was so tight in her mouth, she couldn’t make a sound. It was dark wherever she was. Dark and cold. She was shivering and wished she had a warmer jacket.
Where am I? Was I drugged? I can’t remember anything after I took Hoodoo to Kingsley’s office.
All she could smell was wood. Wet wood and pine trees. The worst part was—she had to pee, and it had to be soon.
She struggled with the ties on her wrists. Her fingers were numb and felt like wood—short broken pencils. But her hands were small, and she’d practiced for hours in the past—a student of Houdini and the level of mind control he’d achieved. She’d read every book ever written about the great magician.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she pictured how furious Blaine would be, when he found out she’d gone to the clinic. Her Latino boy sure had a temper.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Friday, December 15th.
ANOTHER SLEEPLESS NIGHT. Blaine was up before dawn wondering what in hell he should do about Misty. He started the coffee, stuck his feet in his Harley Boots and walked next door. The whole street was silent as a tomb at that hour. He jogged past her porch, strode down her empty driveway, reached over and released the latch on the gate. The big back yard was neatly mowed and bordered with flower beds—not in bloom in mid-December—but not trampled and ruined like the ones on his side of the fence.
The outside light was on beside the back door. Had it been on all the time? He didn’t know because he hadn’t checked the back. Some investigator.
Holy fuck, what was wrong with his head? Too much going on at once.
He mounted the four steps to the back porch, opened the screen door and tried the knob. Locked—just like the front. Only one thing to do. He ran around both houses to his truck, parked in the side drive, grabbed his lock wizard and returned.
In thirty seconds, he was inside. The house had that empty feel to it—like when people haven’t been inside for a while. Creepy, that’s what it was.
He walked through the whole main floor and nothing was disturbed. No upended furniture. No signs of a struggle. No home invasion or anything like that. As he neared the kitchen, he noticed a cooking aroma and tried to place it. He checked the stove and it was turned off, but a big pot sat on the back burner. A wooden spoon rested in the spoon holder. He lifted the lid—pasta sauce—and it smelled meaty and spicy.
She was making me dinner when what happened? An emergency?
“What made her take off in the middle of cooking dinner?” he asked himself out loud. He tried to put himself in Misty’s place. She’s standing at the stove stirring the sauce… then what? The phone rings? Who or what would make her run off in the middle of cooking dinner.
It would help if you knew anything about her at all, you dumb ass. But you don’t.
He sat at the table in the middle of Misty’s roomy kitchen and wondered if he should report her missing. The urge to smoke came over him as it always did when he sat still. He pushed that thought out of his head and scanned the room one more time.
That’s when he saw it. A yellow Post-it pad had fallen off the table onto the chair next to him. He picked it up and tried to read what Misty had written on the top sheet. Almost illegible, but it looked like vet.
“Jesus, no.” Blaine was on his feet and running for the back door. He locked up and tore back home.
Never had he showered and dressed so fast. He brought Lexi in, set the alarm and was gone in ten minutes flat.
NOT MANY COPS occupied the desks in the squad room at six in the morning. Blaine paused long enough to round someone up who could get him into the holding cells in the basement.
“Appreciate it, Sarge. Got to talk to Kingsley for a minute.”
“You getting an
extra-early start, Mr. B?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Blaine stood in the narrow walkway between the cells and hollered, “Wake up Kingsley and tell me what you did with her.”
Kingsley’s big bulk never moved on the narrow cot.
“Need him awake, Mr. B?”
“Can you help him wake up, Sarge?”
The sergeant grinned and opened the cell door. “Believe I can. He strode across the small cell and jerked the mattress out from under Kingsley. The surprised doctor flailed around, then sat up looking groggy.
Blaine entered the cell and stood beside the duty sergeant. “What did you do with Misty, you fucking pervert? I know you have her.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Blackmore? You’re a fucking psycho. Give me my phone call, and do it now.”
Blaine grabbed Kingsley’s shirt and twisted it tightly up under his fleshy chin. “Where is she?”
“Who?” A wide grin spread across his face and Blaine tore out of the cell hollering over his shoulder, “Fuck yourself up the ass, Kingsley. You’re a dead man.”
AT THE COFFEE SHOP down the block from police headquarters, Blaine ordered a large Panama blend and sought out a table near the back, away from the noise of other customers. He called Governor Richardson and woke him up.
“When you call this early son, I get nervous.”
“Sorry, sir, but I’ve got to have warrants on both Kingsley’s vet clinic and his residence. Misty is missing, and I’m convinced he has her.”
“What? The girl that did the sketch is missing?”
“Yes, sir, and I’m convinced the last place she went was the clinic.”
“I’ll call Judge Waverley right away.”
“Thanks, sir. Tell him I’m on my way.”
On his way to the judge’s residence in the north end of the city, Blaine called Lopez on his cell.
“Damn you, Blacky, I just stepped out of the shower. Give me time to drink my coffee.”
“No time this morning, Detective. Kingsley has Misty stashed somewhere, if he hasn’t killed her already. I’m fuckin sure of it.”
