Beneath Forbidden Ground (13 page)

“Okay, let’s see. William Lamb—no middle name—better known as Billy, born July 10, 1946. Reported missing February 25, 1991, the same day his pickup was found parked behind a bar in Sealy.”

“Any prints? Any clues at all?”

“Nope. I was a newly appointed deputy at the time. I do recall the case, although I didn’t do any of the investigating. Since we have limited capabilities, Sheriff Weems called in the Texas Rangers. They checked for prints and what-not, but came up empty.” Amos squinted at the file. “There’s a note here left by Weems, says a bar employee actually noticed the truck all weekend out behind the bar, but didn’t think anything about it. Folks have been known to leave their vehicles at that place for days at a time for various reasons.”

“I think I can understand that,” Scallion grinned. “What finally made the bar employee report it?”

“He didn’t. Says here a couple of his employees came looking for him when he didn’t show up for work the twenty-fifth, which was a Monday. They canvassed the area, spotted the truck, then came in to our office to file a report.” Amos squinted at the pages. “Goes on to say Lamb’s girl friend at the time reported him missing on the same day.”

“So his employees actually filed the report?” Scallion said, more rhetorically than anything else. “Exactly what kind of contractor was he?”

Amos read the notes. “An excavation contractor. He lived in Sealy, but worked jobs all over.”

Scallion’s interest rose. He was getting that feeling again. “Did they say where they were working the week before?”

“Right. They were over in west Harris County, not really that far from here. Place called Cypress Bridge Acres.”

Scallion’s body stiffened; he sat rigidly, as if molded into his chair. He couldn’t speak for a few seconds, as his mind tried to connect things. The sheriff picked up on the reaction.

“You said you were investigating four girls who went missing back then. You think this ties in?”

“I think there’s an excellent chance. The last place they were known to be was the same development, most likely on that Friday. Their cars were scattered from Waller to Brookshire, left clean, just like Mr. Lamb’s truck.”

Amos’ eyes widened. “I’ll be damned! Looks like your folks and our folks should’ve been talking to each other.”

“You might say that.” Scallion decided to hold his tongue. He knew from memory as well as from reading the file that Harris County
had
contacted neighboring jurisdictions, as well as all state jurisdictions about the missing girls. But that wasn’t on Amos; he hadn’t been the man at the time. Instead, he had another thought. “Did anyone interview the owner of Cypress Bridge? Ask him when he saw Lamb last?”

The sheriff scanned the notes. “Yeah. Here it is. A Luther Kritz. Kritz said that he had given Lamb the pay for the week late that Friday. He gave him cash, since that’s how he wanted to be paid. Lamb was going to see his men over the weekend and settle-up with them. He went on to say that he knew Lamb liked to drink, so he hoped the men would actually get their share. But that was the last he saw of him.”

Scallion considered the story. It sounded too neat—too convenient. If you were going to paint someone as a drunk, what better proof than to park his truck at a bar. But it
was
a plausible explanation. Ordinarily, he might see Lamb as a candidate for the girls’ fates. But that wouldn’t explain his own vanishing act.

“And no one, not family, friends, or anybody else has seen him or heard from him?” he asked.

“Don’t think there was any family. But no.”

A few minutes later, after requesting and receiving a copy of the file, Scallion thanked the sheriff for his time and information, cranked up his Harris County vehicle, then set his sights on what was beginning to take on the appearance of a scene of past horror, possibly multiple deaths.

He again parked at the sales office near the entrance of Cypress Bridge Acres. Before exiting the car, he used his cell phone to check on Marti.

“She had another bout of nausea this morning,” Chris said. “But not as bad as yesterday. Seems to be doing fine now.”

“That’s good. I’ll be home early, soon as I finish up out here. You can take off after I get there, if you want.”

“I’ll stay the night. Get a fresh start in the morning.”

Scallion also wanted to call Murtaugh, let him know about Billy Lamb. But the poor guy probably had his hands full already. He decided it could wait.

Entering the sales office, Scallion was greeted by the same pushy saleswoman he and Marti had escaped from earlier in the week. Her eyes lingered on his face for a moment, evidently trying to place it. He didn’t give her time to figure it out, pointing at his badge.

“Detective Pete Scallion, Harris County Sheriff’s office,” he introduced himself. “Wondering if you might be able to answer a few questions, Miss...?”

“Lyons. Brenda Lyons.” She stared at the badge, then at his face. She no longer seemed interested in recalling him, since he obviously wasn’t a prospect. “Questions about what?” Her smiles turned to a suspicious frown.

“I’m looking into the disappearance of four young women who may have been employed here several years back—1991 to be exact. Anything like that ring any bells with you?”

“Why, no. But I’ve only been showing out here for nine months. I’ve never heard anything about that.” A furrowed brow showed concern.

“Were you placed by an agency?”

She appeared confused. “An agency? If you mean real estate agency, then yes. I’m an agent with Froelich and Byrnes. We have an exclusive arrangement with Kritz Properties to show lots and homes here.” Walking over to a side table in the foyer, she grabbed a business card, which she gave to the detective.

He studied the card, then asked, “How long has your agency had this arrangement  with Kritz?” 

“I’m really not sure. I’ve only been with Froelich and Byrnes about a year and a half. I’m sure they had it a couple of years before that.”

Scallion thought for a second he may have hit a roadblock. “Has Kritz always used realtors to sell their properties?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure about that either. You may want to talk to them about that.” She was studying his face again; a light went on. “I remember you now. You were here with a woman this week. Cute woman – beautiful hair.”

He felt a tinge of embarrassment, knowing he had been caught in what amounted to a lie. “Guilty as charged. I’ve driven by Cypress Bridge before, and was impressed by what I could see from the road. Thought I’d bring my wife by on a day off, see what she thought of it.”

The agent was quickly back in realtor mode. “Did she see anything she liked?”

“Of course. What’s not to like,” he shrugged. “A little out of our price range, I’m afraid.”

She nodded slowly, as if not fully believing his story. “Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any help.” Pausing, she gazed through a front window. “You may want to talk to Carlos—Carlos Valvez. He’s responsible for maintenance of Cypress Bridge Acres. He’s the only person I know of who’s been here from day one, so he might know something. I think I saw him out by the lake earlier.”

Thanking her for her time, Scallion headed outside, noticing once more the notice about the property owners’ meeting posted on the bulletin board. It still grabbed his attention for reasons unknown. The heat was starting to bear down, blasting him in the face as he exited the air-conditioned office. Stopping by the car long enough to remove his coat, loosen his tie and roll-up his sleeves, he crossed the street to the lake he and Marti had viewed earlier in the week. Had it only been three days ago? It seemed like weeks.

Cupping his eyes, he was able to make out a figure at the far end of the lake, standing near a small, motorized utility vehicle. The man appeared to be trimming weeds from the edge of the water. The few minutes it took to draw near the man had his shirt clinging to his skin, his thin tufts of hair over his ears soaked with sweat.

Five-plus decades in southeast Texas had done nothing to acclimate him to the drenching humidity.

Carlos Valvez was a small dark-skinned man, with a thick head of salt and pepper. He wore an olive jump suit, the pant legs tucked in to brown work boots. In contrast to the man approaching, he showed no signs of perspiration, though he’d most likely been in the sun all day. He glanced in Scallion’s direction briefly, then stared suspiciously when it was clear the man was aiming in his direction.

“Good afternoon, Sènor,” Scallion said loudly over the noise of the weed-eater. “Are you Carlos Valvez?”

The man silenced the trimmer, then straightened up. “Sì, Sènor.”

Scallion grinned, hoping to appear non-threatening. As with Arturo Juarez, experience had taught him there was usually a degree of unease on the part of certain minorities when questioned by authorities. Putting himself in their position, he understood it, and made efforts to factor it in to encounters such as this.

“Hot day,” he said, taking a minute to wipe his brow. “And it’s not near summer yet.”

Valvez managed a thin smile. “Sì. It is getting warm.” The dark eyes on his friendly face searched the other man’s.

“Carlos, my name is Pete Scallion. I’m a detective with the Harris County Sheriff’s Department.” Once again, he pointed at his badge. “I was wondering if you might be able to answer a few questions?”

Valvez’s hands immediately tightened around the trimmer. “About what, Sènor?”

“Well, actually about this place.” The detective waved a hand through the air. “I understand you’ve been here since the development was begun?”

“Si. I have worked for Sènor Kritz for twelve years. I have been responsible for upkeep at Cypress Bridge Acres.”

Scallion nodded, scanning the property. “I’d say you’ve done a good job. Everything seems perfect.”

A glimmer of pride appeared; his grip loosened slightly. “Gracias, Sènor. I take
care in my work.”

“Do you like working for Mr. Kritz? Is he a decent boss?”

“Ah, sì. He has been very good to me. He helped me become a citizen of this great country. And to bring my family from Mexico.”

“He no doubt has a great deal of faith in you too, so I’d say it’s worked out well for you both.” Enough foreplay, it was time to get down to it. “Carlos, do you recall a man by the name of Lamb, a William Lamb?”

There was a perceptible breath sucked in before answering.
“
Sì. I believe he was a man who dug the soil.” Valvez made a scraping motion with his hand, pointing at the lake.
“
He took up the earth for the lake.”

Scallion locked his eyes on the man, judging his body language and inflection. 

“Yes, an excavation contractor. Were you aware he disappeared while working here?”

“
Sì, I remember he left one Friday after receiving payment, only never to return.”
 

“So you were here when he left that day?”

The caretaker was now wringing the trimmer handle with his hands. “Oh, no, Sènor. I had left for the day. Sènor Kritz told me the man took the money to pay his workers with, and never returned.”

Scallion already had enough from his mannerisms to know the man either knew something, or suspected something. But he needed to press on. “There were also four young women, one from Panama, who had appointments to do some work out here, probably selling property. They disappeared in the same manner, most likely on the same day. Did you see them?”

Valvez’s eyes flicked out onto the lake, then back, so quickly it was barely noticeable. But the detective saw it. He almost turned around to peer into the water, but kept his eyes trained.
“
No, Sènor, but Sènor Kritz told me about them. He said they met with him to discuss their jobs—and you were correct, Sènor, they were to be sales people. After the meeting, they left together. Sènor Kritz told me they were going to go to a restaurant, but he did not know which one.”

“Did Mr. Kritz contact anyone when it was announced the girls were missing?”

The downtrodden landscaper seemed to be sinking further into the ground by the second.
“
I do not know the answer to that, Sènor. Perhaps he can say.”

Scallion decided he had done enough damage to the poor man. He asked one final question. “Who did Mr. Kritz get to sell his properties when those first girls didn’t return?”

Valvez shrugged.
“
Other women came a week or so later. They stayed for a long time, until Sènor Kritz decided to start using professional real estate people.”

“I see.” Scallion nodded slowly. He made a mental note to check with Luci Hughes once more to see if Staff Finders’s records might reveal more women sent to the development. He thanked Valvez, and gave him a business card, advising him to call if he recalled anything else.

“Sì, Sènor.” The bronze-skinned little man stared at the card.

The Cold Case detective strolled along the edge of the lake, taking his time returning to his car. His body was wringing wet, underwear soaked, but the conditions didn’t seem to bother him as before. His brain was racing with macabre possibilities. Reaching the approximate spot where Marti’s ominous reaction had occurred Tuesday, he stopped. Looking out over the water at nothing in particular, he thought for a second his mind was playing tricks. A chill wormed its way up his spine, similar to the one when he and Marti had visited the development; a sick feeling stuck in his stomach as he made sense of the flick of Valvez’s eye. Taking a sideways glance back down the lake, he saw the man pretending not to watch, but watching none-the-less.

Thoughts of his wife told him he needed to hurry home and check on her. Shuddering, trying to shake the grisly thoughts from his mind, he walked quickly to his car.

13

Luther Kritz sat with his elbows on his massive desk, rubbing his temples with his meaty hands, hoping to relieve the stress of the two phone calls he had received. The first, a little less than an hour earlier, had worried him, but not to the point of panicking. His primary thoughts were ones of puzzlement;
why the interest now? After all this time?
He had expected these types of questions ten years earlier, following that messy but unavoidable night on the still scraggly terrain of his first construction site. But when no one came looking, or asking, over the next few days and weeks, he finally reached the conclusion everyone else had; the women hadn’t told anyone where they were going. Why? He didn’t have a clue, nor did he care. He was willing to accept it as a stroke of good fortune.