Beneath Forbidden Ground (8 page)

Climbing into his county-issued car, he noticed the time—nearly 5:30. He judged it too late to visit the gallery; it could wait until Monday.

Another plus of working cold cases was an absence of the pressures of time to solve a case. In his earlier career, as a
real
homicide detective, the proverbial first forty-eight hours after a murder were crucial in pursuing leads and witnesses. The rush to find the killer was always present. Evidence in a cold case wasn’t going anywhere. It had been lurking for years in most instances, and would continue lurking until information that had been hidden suddenly appeared, as if by magic.

Weekends were never completely his before; interrogations and desperate searches for clues couldn’t wait. Now, Saturdays and Sundays belonged to Marti and him, with the realization cold cases couldn’t grow much colder before Monday morning.

Leaning over the steering wheel to peer through the windshield, he attempted to gauge the skies. The massive oaks lining the Crews’ driveway hid the heavens from view. He knew the weather forecast for the following day was spotty, but as long as thunderstorms kept their distance, he planned to be on his in-board fishing boat with his wife somewhere on Galveston Bay. He wanted to give her a day to enjoy before the uncertainties of the coming week.

8

Skies that threatened all weekend without opening up finally erupted Monday morning, and the rains set in. Scallion eased his car into a parking slot on a side street intersecting with Westheimer Road. Pressing a button to flip his fold-up umbrella open, he walked hurriedly around the corner, then into West End Studios to escape the onslaught.

He carried with him the glow of the weekend spent with Marti. Deep-water fishing on the open waters of Galveston Bay Saturday seemed to have been a tonic for them both, leaving them with their usual pleasant exhaustion from the heat and breezy salt air. Later, at night, wanting to keep her close, he had invaded her space in bed, holding her snugly in his arms until she drifted off. He allowed himself only good thoughts about her future —their future, refusing any alternatives. They were selfish feelings, he knew, thinking only about the outcome of her looming surgery in terms of how it affected him. But there was no way to avoid it. She
was
his life.

In spite of the lousy weather, it was easy to hold on to the memories of the last two days; his tender, reddened scalp was a constant reminder. It enabled him to keep his spirits high, giving him a determination to keep them elevated. But things wouldn’t work out that way, at least not at first.

The art gallery was not large, made to look even smaller by the hap-hazard arrangement of small stands and easels displaying paintings of all sizes, all displaying ridiculous price tags. Some were landscapes, some still lifes, a few non-sensical abstracts, and a few portraits, all arranged in no logical order. He wondered if Otto Howorth had placed his work here. In addition to his many other interests, the man was an accomplished artist. On second thought, recalling that Howorth’s paintings were mostly western scenes, he didn’t see them as a good fit among these.

Since it was barely past 9:00 a. m., the gallery’s opening time, there were only three people he could spot milling around; most likely employees.

Getting the attention of the nearest, a rail-thin red-headed girl, wearing a large pair of glasses, the frames almost covering her face, he approached. “Pardon me, Miss. I’m looking for Brandon Newell.”

She seemed to look right through him before answering. “Yes, just a minute,” she said without smiling, before gliding away toward the rear of the shop where the other two were, both of them men. She spoke in a whisper to the apparent older of the two, possessing a slick-bald head. He looked back in Scallion’s direction. Handing the painting in his hands to the younger man, he came forward, wearing a look indicating he was bothered by the early intrusion.

“Yes, I’m Brandon Newell. May I help you?” Newell asked, with an air that indicated the early visitor was an unwelcome nuisance. He glanced at the floor around the visitor’s feet, horrified to see rain water dripping onto his carpeted floor.

Scallion had an immediate dislike for the man. He was tall, perhaps six-four, with a long angular face, sporting ear-studs penetrating both lobes, not just one, as most men who chose such jewelry had. But it was the air of superiority that got to the detective, an attitude that told him this would not be a pleasant interview. Maybe it just went with the artsy-fartsy territory.

“Hopefully. I’m Detective Pete Scallion, Harris County Cold Case unit.” He pulled back his coat to show the badge attached to his belt. “We’re taking a new look at the disappearance of Tammy Crews back in ninety-one. I understand she spent time studying painting with you around the time she went missing.”

Newell exhaled a sigh. “Ah, so that’s it? I didn’t think you were here to appreciate my displays. Don’t see you as a customer, ” he said, with a slightly upturned lip.

“Oh. And why is that?” Scallion knew exactly what the jerk meant, but wanted him to say it. His mellow mood from minutes earlier was now entirely shattered.

“Well, I could just tell,” Newell said defensively, obviously flustered by the detective’s blunt reply. “I didn’t mean anything personal by it.”

Scallion nodded slowly. For the life of him, he couldn’t see what in the hell the Crews girl had seen in him. “Right.” He decided to press on, get this over with quickly. “What can you tell me about the last time you saw her?”

The art dealer sighed once more. “As I told the other officers back then, I hadn’t seen Tammy for about a week before she...well, whatever happened to her. I wasn’t happy with the progress she was making as an artist, and I told her so. She must have taken offense to my honest opinion, because I didn’t see her anymore after I told her the truth.”

“Weren’t you two a little more than teacher and student? The notes from the first investigation mentioned you had a relationship.”

Newell rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “If that’s what you want to call it. Sure, we dated for awhile. But that was another reason I wanted to discourage her. She was reading more into it than I. It was becoming a clingy kind of a situation.”

Scallion pretended to read something on a note pad he had pulled from a coat pocket. “According to her parents, you were the one doing the chasing, egging her on to become a painter.”

The lip curled up again. “Listen, detective, I have nothing against the Crews. Matter of fact, Mrs. Crews had shopped here before. I think she’s the one who mentioned my studio to Tammy in the first place. But Mr. Crews was wrong about what was going on between us. He actually came in here one day a few weeks before I ended things, made a scene in front of my customers. Accused me of being an opportunist...a gigolo! We had a few words, then he left. It caught me by surprise, since she had told me he didn’t have much to do with her.”

“I see,” Scallion said, jotting notes on his pad. He was beginning to believe anyone connected to the Crews family was poison. But as much as he despised this guy, he did seem to be telling the truth. Taking a glance around the gallery, he saw that the other two employees seemed to be leaning a curious ear in their direction.

“Just one more thing, Mr. Newell,” Scallion said. “Before you burst her bubble, did Tammy say anything about trouble she was having with drug dealers? Anything like that?”

The question struck a nerve, one Newell tried to hide, but Scallion caught the twitch in the man’s eyes. The word “drugs” did that sometimes.

“No. She never mentioned anything about that to me.” Newell avoided eye contact as he answered.

“Huh huh,” Scallion nodded, staring directly at the other man. “How about outside jobs? Since she wasn’t going to make it as an artist, was she looking for work anywhere?”

“Tammy? Tammy never worked a day in her life. I can’t imagine who would’ve hired her.” The man didn’t even try to hide a derisive sneer.

Scallion took a long moment, gazing around the room at the paintings, his eyebrows furrowed, hoping his expression would indicate he didn’t exactly see this as work either.

Evidently, the dealer caught it. “Are we done here, detective?” I’ve got a gallery to run. ”

“Yes, we’re done,” Scallion said. Without shaking hands, he started for the door, every bit as anxious to end the interview as the other man. He fought the urge to accidentally tip over an easel or two on the way out, maybe creating a domino effect.

Pausing beneath an overhanging awning outside, Scallion exhaled, trying to shake his distaste of Newell out of his system. Pushing the button again to engage the umbrella, he headed for his car. He had reached the corner of the street where his vehicle was parked, when a voice straining against the noise of the rain stopped him.

“Detective?”

He turned to see a young man approaching. He wore a baseball cap over long blond hair, beginning to matt in the downpour. Taking a closer look, he could identify the man as the other male employee in the gallery.

“Yes,” Scallion answered guardedly.

The young man, appearing to be in his late twenties, was within a few feet now. “I overheard you and Brandon talking in the store. Wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I may know something he doesn’t—something you asked him about.”

“Oh?” Scallion sized up the man, then decided to hear him out. “Come on. Let’s get outta this rain. My car’s right up here.” He motioned for the other man to follow.

Safely inside the Harris County vehicle, the employee removed his cap, running a hand through his damp hair. He stared at the impressive array of communication and mapping equipment on the dash panel, then at the detective. “Name’s Chip Luna,” he said.

“Pete Scallion.” He shook hands with the young man, then craned his neck to look back at the corner. “Does Newell know you’re out here?”

“No. But it wouldn’t matter if he did. I don’t think I’ll be working there much longer.”

“I see. I think I understand.”

Luna gave a puzzled look, then seemed to understand the comment. “Oh, Brandon’s not so bad. He’s just full of himself. It’s not because of him. It’s just that I’m going to be moving to Austin soon, open my own studio.”

“Good for you.” After a short pause, Scallion asked. “So, what do you know, Mr. Luna?”

“Please, it’s just Chip.”

“Okay, Chip. What do you know that Newell doesn’t?”

“Tammy
was
looking for a job right before she disappeared. I’m pretty sure I’m the only person she told about it.” Luna peered through the windshield, his mind seeming to float back in time for a moment.

“Why did she chose to confide in you?” Scallion’s interest was now piqued.

“Well, you see,” the young man said, shifting his body, his wet pants squishing against the leather seat, “she and I had become pretty close while she was dating Brandon. Nothing sexual—she just needed someone to talk to, especially when things weren’t going well between the two of them. She really did like him, and he liked her too, at first. I think he got tired of her, wanted to move on. And I heard what Brandon told you about her talent. I think that’s pretty accurate.” Luna paused for a second before adding, “But I have to admit I was hooked on her too, and I was glad she would share her feelings with me. I was only eighteen then, and she was twenty-two, and rich, so I knew I had no chance.”

“So, what did she say about a job?”

“It was a few days after she and Brandon broke up. I called her on her cell phone, just to see how she was doing. That’s when she said she was going to see about a job. She had an appointment set up with an employment agency.”

Scallion pulled out his note pad. “Did she say which agency?”

“I’m pretty sure she said Staff Finders, the one out on 290.”

“Chip, can you possibly narrow down which day she said she was going to talk to them?”

“I can’t say for sure, but it was no more than a couple of days before she was reported missing.”

“And that was the last time you talked to her?”

“Yes sir.”

Scallion jotted down the name of the agency, then drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He looked hard at Luna. “Is there any reason you haven’t come forward before?”

Luna looked down at his hands, his shoulders slumped. “When it first happened, I didn’t know what to do. I was only eighteen, and I guess I wasn’t aware what she told me was important. And I was kinda scared too, afraid Brandon, and maybe her parents, wouldn’t understand my relationship with her. Then as time went on, it became easier and easier to not bring it up. I’m sorry, detective. I realize now I should’ve told somebody about this. I don’t have any other excuse.”

Scallion digested Luna’s story, trying to put it in perspective. It was hard to recall now, but he thought back to when he was eighteen, and naive. Maybe he would’ve dummied-up too—maybe not. At that age, it was tough figuring out how things fit together, or if they fit at all. “Okay, well, at least you’ve done the right thing now. And you never know, this could be critical information.”

Thanking Luna, the detective took down his phone number for possible follow-up calls, and the relieved young man exited, sloshing his way through the rain back to the gallery.

Scallion mulled the information for a moment, then flipped open his cell phone. Punching-in his partner’s number, he waited.

“Murtaugh, “ the gruff voice answered.

“Denny? Pete. Got a minute?”

“Sure, Pete. I was about to hit the road up to Huntsville. The Thomas girl’s parents are divorced, and her dad lives up there. This shitty weather’ll make it an all morning trip by the time I’m there and back.”

“Any luck so far?”

“Nah. I felt bad for the Frenchs’ when I met with them Friday. When I explained what I was doing there they got their hopes up a little too high. But they had nothing new to add to our file. Same with Mrs. Thomas later in the day. I really feel for those folks. How ‘bout you?”

“I just got a lead that’ll be worth checking out. A friend of the Crews girl said she was going on a job interview around the day she vanished. Her meeting was to be at the Staff Finders office on 290. I’m going to drop by and see how good their records are. A definite longshot, but what else do we have?”