Beneath Forbidden Ground (11 page)

Julie, on the other hand, was a younger version of her mother; the same perfect olive skin, jet-black hair, worn just above shoulder-length, and green eyes, compared to Marti’s brown. Where her mother was forth-right but tactful, Julie was only forth-right—to the point of being blunt. There were times when Pete could actually sympathize with her ex, even though he was definitely a jerk. She had surely made his life miserable while the marriage teetered on the brink. She had kept Matthews as her last name to make life simpler for her daughters.

“You sure you’ll have time to do any fishing?” Pete asked. “ I mean, what with the wedding and all. You’re going to be pretty busy.”

“That’s still almost three months away. There’s plenty of time.”

Pete sighed, shaking his head. “For such a bright young man, you’ve sure got a lot to learn.”

“What?” Chris seemed mystified. He simply shrugged. “You just better bone up on being best man,
old man
.”

They continued exchanging barbs for awhile, until the women finished their talk and joined them. They spent an hour or so discussing the surgery, until it had been covered to the point the other three were afraid Marti might be becoming squeamish. She showed no signs, but she was always one to laugh her own problems away. So the conversation drifted to the girls, the wedding, and jobs. Eventually, they got around to the visit to Cypress Bridge Acres earlier in the day, and the reason behind it.

“You know,” Julie said, pointing a finger at nothing in particular, “I was a junior at U of H when those girls vanished. I remember it. I didn’t know any of them, but a guy in one of my classes did. The one from Bellaire...what was her name?”

“Laura French,” Pete said.

“Right. He went to high school with her. Said she was a class favorite. That was really a sad story.”

“Well, don’t worry,” Marti said, patting her husband on the knee, “Pete’s going to solve it.”

“You must know something I don’t,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“No. But I do know you. You won’t quit til you do.” She rose from the sofa. “And on that note, I’m going to bed, folks. Pete and I have to be up at five a. m. to get to the hospital.” She looked at Chris and Julie. “Why don’t you two sleep in? No need for you to be up so early.”

“Absolutely not,” Julie said. We’re all going.”

“Right,” Chris chimed in. “Julie and I’ll follow in my car, in case we have to run errands.”

“Suit yourself. But it’s not necessary.” She hugged them both, then left the room.

Minutes later, Chris excused himself to find privacy for a cell phone call to Lori. “Told her I’d call sometime tonight.”

With Pete and Julie left alone, a moment of awkward silence ensued. He started to speak, but his voice tightened-up, only a croak came out. He cleared his throat to try again, but Julie beat him to the punch.

“So, what is it you want to know?” She grinned that confident grin he had seen so many times, evidently anticipating what was coming.

“What do you mean?”

“I know you too well, Pete. I can tell when something’s on your mind. And since Mom didn’t bring it up, I assumed you’d been assigned the good cop role. Or maybe it’s bad cop. ”

He could do nothing except laugh; there was no fooling her. “Both, I guess.” He shifted in his seat, trying to gain some level of comfort. “Well, okay then, seeing you’ve got it all figured out, how about giving me the dirt on your new man friend. Your mom seems to think it’s more serious than you let on. And she’s concerned, like any mother should be.”

“And why exactly is she concerned?” The interrogation tables were being turned.

“Because of how things ended up with you and Bo, and the fact it’s only been a year since things were final. She’s afraid...well, we’re both afraid if you get involved with someone too soon, it could be rough for you, and maybe confusing for the girls.”

Julie nodded slowly. “To begin with, it’s really not
that serious
yet. But it could be—you never know. And I’ve thought about all that. You’ll both just have to trust me if things do go that far. And Ted’s nothing like Bo, that I can guarantee you. I won’t make
that
mistake again.”

“So it’s Ted, is it?”

She stared, then grinned slyly, leveling her gaze directly at him. “What if I said his name was Ted Bundy?”

The confused look on his face caused her to throw her head back in laughter. He instantly joined her, catching the tease.

“Actually,” she said, adopting a more serious tone, “Ted Sandifer. He’s an attorney with a small firm in San Antonio. They specialize in assisting military personnel with disability claims, retirement issues, or anything related to disagreements with the government. With all of the bases in the area, he stays busy.”

“A lawyer, huh?”

“Not a defense attorney. I know how you feel about them.”

He needed no reminder of his distaste for what he saw as low-lifes, the types who would stoop to anything to manipulate evidence and testimony to put dangerous people back on the streets. He knew it was all part of the system of justice he worked for, but it still rankled him. The thought suddenly struck him that, with Lori’s looming law degree, there was a chance there might be
two
lawyers in the family soon.

She continued. “He’s thirty-six, grew up in Kerrville, went to Southwestern, then got his law degree at Saint Mary’s. He’s divorced too, has one son, Luke, who’s in my class—that’s how we met. And, as far as I know, unlike Bo, he has no other girl friends.”

Pete couldn’t resist a grin at that last attribute. He digested it all, not responding right away. Seeing the delay, she jumped in again. “Pete, I know y’all are concerned. I understand that, and appreciate it. Chris even brought it up. But look at you and Mom. It
can
work out sometimes.”

“I can’t argue with that, although you’ll have to admit, we’re one of the exceptions that prove the rule.”

She leaned in suddenly. Her eyes bored right into him. “You’re not going to have him investigated, are you?”

“Of course, not, honey.” He laughed, but none-the-less thought it might be a good idea. He remembered the other point Marti had brought up. “You doing okay? I mean, financially?”

Julie feigned an exasperated look. “As a matter of fact, I am. Bo’s finally kept to the schedule my attorney laid out, so I’m gettin’ by.” She stood to leave, stretching. Evidently, the matter was settled. Leaning to kiss his bald expanse, she said, “Love ya, Pete. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Let’s just worry about Mom for the time being, okay. Good night.”

“Okay, good night, honey.” he watched her leave, unable to keep down a certain pride in her self-confidence. He was proud of both of them—Julie and Chris. Having had nothing to do with bringing them into this world, he at least had helped shape what they had grown into, and he felt satisfaction in that as well. Rising and flipping off the lights, he went to join Marti, hoping she would be satisfied with what he had, or had not, learned.

11

Loud voices, either bragging, or complaining over misfortunes certainly no fault of their own, filled the carpeted dining room, drowning out the sounds emanating from two TV’s hanging from the ceiling at opposite corners of the room. The short-order grill and bar was the refuge of over-heated golfers finishing up their rounds at Laurelwood Country Club. Primarily a golf club, Laurelwood was nestled on the edge of an old, abandoned pecan tree orchard. Located halfway between I-10 and U.S. 290, it was ideally positioned for membership growth due to the ever-expanding population along the two corridors, especially for the upwardly mobile set.

Placing their orders for burgers or chili-dogs, along with something cold to wash them down, they joined in the ritual of talking-up their scores into something better than they actually were. They acted as if they all knew each other, whether they did or not. The club was growing so rapidly, there were always new faces to learn. The testosterone-laced conversation didn’t allow any slack for the few women who chose to brave the atmosphere. If they were offended, they simply left; very few actually complained to club management.

One face they all
did
know, and did their best to steer clear of, while hoping not to be too obvious about it, sat at a corner table. He sat alone, as he usually did, which seemed to be perfectly fine with him. Among the many opinions and beliefs the others had of the man was the whispered story he was three months behind on his club dues. Most wished he would do the honorable thing and drop his membership, but no one wanted to be the one to tell him to do so.

Oblivious to the glances that came his way, before quickly turning away, Luther Kritz sat with his long legs stretched under the table, an unlit cigar in his mouth, a glass of Jack Daniel’s and water and a cell phone placed in front of him. His golf cap was tilted back, showing a face redder than usual from the sting of the natural sauna produced by the blistering March sun. It looked painful. His playing partners had melted away soon after the round was complete, all offering lame excuses for not joining him for a drink. Anyone with thinner skin would’ve been insulted—but not Kritz; he preferred his own company. Being alone gave him a chance to think through his problems. And there were plenty—most having to do with money.

Luther Kritz was a big man. He moved like a big man; he sweated like a big man. Now in his early fifties, his girth was expanding in the middle, causing him to appear even larger. His attitude toward those he came in contact with was to bully his way right through them if they stood in his way, using his size and forceful personality. He took great pride in the fact that whatever he had created, he had done it on his own. Driven to succeed by a father long since departed to places unknown, who hounded him into the ground, both physically and mentally, about his perceived shortcomings, he had absorbed the forced lessons well. The mental scabs only made him stronger.

Staring intently past the other golfers, who chattered away like idiots, looking at nothing in particular, he focused on the things that bothered him, things that were gnawing away at the edges of his hard-earned empire.

From every standpoint, Cypress Bridge Acres, his initial development, had been an enormous success. Four-hundred and sixty homes had been constructed, sold, and occupied over the last ten years. Some were spec jobs, others were custom-built to match the lot owner’s desires. They were all spectacular, surrounded by lush common grounds, sodded with Bermuda grass now matured to a thick, lush carpet; carefully maintained walkways between beds of azaleas, pampas grass and other plants snaked through the homes. The money had begun rolling in after a couple of years, as families with enough for a down payment, and a desire to put distance between themselves and the city started flocking to Cypress Bridge Acres and similar neighborhoods. He had thrown most of the money back into the development, trying to entice more new home-owners.

And that was part of his problem; he had over-extended himself, not putting enough aside. Now interest rates were spiking, choking-off the hopes of buyers. Having re-financed his construction loans a year earlier while rates were still low, there remained very little equity to draw from, and banks were reluctant to go any deeper into Kritz Properties, LLC. They were getting nervous about their existing paper; new loans were out of the question.

Part of the loans already in place covered his purchase the previous year of 150 acres off I-10 near the community of Katy, the site of the future Cypress Bridge South. The land had been cleared and graded, but no other preparation work had been done; things had come to a screeching halt.

His nagging thoughts were interrupted by the chirping of his cell phone. “Kritz,” he answered.

“Mr. Kritz?” It was the gravelly tobacco-voice of Trudy, his one remaining employee, filling the role of receptionist and secretary. The others had been let go or had left, tired of dealing with his threatening moods and late paychecks.

“Yes, Trudy. What is it?”

“It’s the Katy city building inspector. He’s been calling all day, asking when you’ll meet him to go over your plans. He says the city council wants him to give a report at their next meeting.”

Another headache to add to the list. Kritz couldn’t go over plans with the inspector, since they didn’t exist. He had given the bank a preliminary site plan in order to get the loan, but there was no money to hire a professional planner. “Christ! Just tell him I’ll call him tomorrow. And if he asks any questions, tell him I’m having the plans revised.” Lies might buy a little time.

“And, one more thing, Mr. Kritz.”

“What?”

Trudy hacked out a cough before answering. “The president of the Cypress Bridge Acres homeowners association called. She wants to know if you’ll be attending their meeting next week.”

“When is it again?”

“Wednesday, a week from now, at 7:00 p. m.”

He despised those gatherings. Usually a wasted two hours of belly-aching, most aimed at him, and pointless discussion, evolving into heated arguments. But he had no choice. If he wanted to unload the few remaining lots, he had to give a show of interest and cooperation. “Yeah. Tell her I’ll be there.”

Ending the call, muting the ring-tone to avoid more annoyances, he was reaching for his drink when a form appeared at his table, hovering like a vulture.

“Hi there, Luther,” the man said, taking a seat without being asked. Kevin Brand, who would run a close second to Kritz’s unpopularity at the club, crossed his legs, leaning back in his chair. “Have a good round today?”

Kritz glared across at the uninvited guest. His dislike of the man was partly due to the fact he didn’t defer to him like most. Money had a way of giving a person confidence they wouldn’t otherwise have. In his mid-thirties, slender, with black hair gelled into place, he was the son of the owner of a furniture store chain in the Houston area, who had provided his offspring with more than he deserved. The last name had allowed his father to use the clever name of Brand-Named Furniture for his outlets, helping the chain amass a small fortune over three decades. The younger Brand was a spoiled brat, tolerated by the club because of his family name. And
his
dues
were
paid-up.