Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip (19 page)

“I’m sorry about that. It was my mother, long distance. Checking up on me.”

“No problem. I won’t keep you much longer. The thing is, Miss Geiger, we’re having a really tough time finding out much about Vance—his friends, who he hung out with, that sort of thing. But one thing we do know is that he was into drugs, at least to some degree. I just want to make it clear that whatever you tell me as far as the drugs are concerned, it won’t get you into trouble. We’re working a homicide, and that’s our main focus right now.”

When she spoke again, there was genuine irritation in her voice. “You think I use drugs?”

It had certainly occurred to him. Birds of a feather. “No, ma’am, I didn’t say that. But some people are hesitant to mention that kind of thing when they’re talking about their friends. What I’m asking is that you be straight up with me and tell me anything you think might be useful. It would be a big help.”

Marlin could feel the tension over the phone line, and he wondered if she would answer. Then she said, “I am not a drug user. I want to make that clear.”

“I understand.”

“The truth is, it was the drugs that made me quit seeing Vance. I mean, he was an okay guy and everything. He liked to have a lot of fun, and we always went to nice places. But after a couple of dates, I could see that he was a pretty heavy user.”

“What did he use?”

“Speed, mostly. He talked about Ecstasy a couple of times, but speed is all I ever saw.”

“Did he offer it to you?”

“Yes, but I never did any.”

“Where did he get it, do you know?”

Then she threw him for a loop. She finally gave him something he could use. Something huge.

“No idea,” she said quietly. “I think he might’ve been dealing it.”

Marlin wanted to shout at her, to tell her that that little bit of news was extremely important. Why hadn’t she told him earlier? But he didn’t want to scare her off, so he kept his voice low-key “Why do you think that?”

“One time, he was on his cell phone, and I thought I heard him saying something about twenty grams. When he hung up, I asked who he’d been talking to. He said it was his partner. So I said, ‘Your partner in what?’ He just laughed and said, ‘You don’t want to know.’ All mysterious, like it was real cool or something.”

Marlin’s heart was thrumming. This could be the lead they’d been needing for the past five days. The only problem was, he didn’t like where it pointed. One name leapt to mind as a potential partner of Vance’s. “Did Vance ever mention a man named Lucas Burnette?” he asked.

She didn’t answer right away. “You know, that does sound kind of familiar. Maybe.”

Maybe. Not good enough.

“Do you remember when that was?” Marlin asked. “The phone call to his partner?”

“It would’ve been the last time I went out with him. The idea that he was dealing… that was enough for me.”

“Do you remember the exact date?” Marlin could check the phone records that had already been pulled. Find out who Scofield had been talking to.

“I don’t know. Sometime in March.”

Again, not good enough. “Miss Geiger, do you keep a diary or a date book or something like that? I really need to know the date.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

A dead end. There was no way—yet—to identify the “partner.” So he said, “If you think of a way to figure out that date, please give me a call. It’s very important.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

The line was quiet for a moment. She was lingering, not as eager to hang up as he thought she would be.

“Is there something else I need to know?” Marlin asked.

He heard her take a big breath. “This is really gross, but I guess I better tell you. When Vance and I quit seeing each other, it wasn’t a big deal, really. He was a little upset, but nothing major. I told him flat out that the drugs bothered me, and he bitched about it, then let it go. But then, the next day, I came out of my apartment and…well…I think he masturbated onto my front door.”

Marlin found himself at a loss for words. He knew Scofield was a drug user and a womanizer, but he hadn’t expected this. “He…uh…”

“Yep.”

“You found—”

“There was…a mess. And I sure couldn’t think of anyone else who would’ve done it.”

EVEN BEFORE THE news conference, Chuck Hamm had heard the rumors: Phil Colby was the number-one suspect in the murder of Vance Scofield. It was almost too good to be true.

Hamm knew firsthand that Vance was a lowlife scum who had had all the ethics of a rutting pig. He’d been a womanizer, a thief, and a liar—so the cops should have had a suspect list a mile long. Jealous husbands. Jilted girlfriends. Maybe even fellow drug users, if Hamm’s suspicions in that area were correct. But the cops were focusing on Colby. It was enough to make Hamm giggle like a tipsy sorority girl. Finally things would be set right. Colby—the man who had filed a nuisance lawsuit against high fences, and who was now blackmailing Senator Herzog—would get what was coming to him for being such a major pain in the ass.

But it also made Hamm nervous. The cops were sniffing around Colby…and what would happen if they found the negatives before Buford did? Buford had said he had searched Colby’s place, but how well?

Apparently, Hamm wasn’t the only one rattled by these recent events, because his phone rang late in the morning. It was Senator Dylan Herzog, with traffic in the background, calling from a pay phone. “I understand your friend Vance Scofield was murdered,” Herzog said with urgency. “This is a horrifying development.” Hamm was disgusted at the fear he heard in the man’s voice.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard,” Hamm said impatiently. “But why does that have your panties in a knot?”

No answer for a moment, and then: “You know, Chuck, there are times when I wish you would speak to me with a little more respect. After all, I
am
a Texas state senator.”

“Yeah, well, some people would say that’s not something to brag about. Now what can I do for you?”

After another moment of icy silence, Herzog said, “I have concerns that these two things—the recent phone call I received and the death of Scofield—are somehow related.”

Hamm’s first instinct was to calm the senator down, to tell him that Vance Scofield probably had all sorts of enemies. Then it occurred to him that the more people who suspected Phil Colby, the better. “Now why in the hell would you think that?” Hamm asked, leading the senator along. Herzog always responded better if he thought he was doing his own thinking.

His reply was snippy. “Well, if you insist on being obtuse, I’ll spell it out for you. Colby is obviously a bit…unstable. I realize you didn’t hear him on the phone, but believe me, he came across as vindictive and hateful. I find it entirely plausible that his animosity could manifest itself this way.”

“Wanna talk English?”

“Okay, how’s this? I think he might’ve killed Vance Scofield, and he did it because he hates high fences. He did it because he wants to send a message—to me, to you, and to all of your buddies. Blackmail isn’t enough.”

Hamm was impressed. Herzog had come up with that theory without even knowing that Colby was already a suspect. “I think you nailed it on the nose,” he said.

“You do?”

“Damn right. Word is, the cops have already talked to him.”

“Oh my God. Are they holding him?”

“Nope.”

“You think I’m in danger?”

“I’d say anything’s a possibility.”

“Good Lord.”

“Senator, let me bring you up to speed on Colby. Per your instructions, we’ve been telling you things strictly on a need-to-know basis. And now, there are a few things you truly need to know.”

“I’m listening.”

“When my nephew first mentioned Colby’s name, did you recognize it?”

“It seemed somewhat familiar.”

“That’s because Colby filed a lawsuit against one of his neighbors, trying to block the construction of a high fence.”

“Okay, now I remember it. Happened last fall.”

“Exactly. But do you remember who Colby’s neighbor was?”

“No, I do not.”

Hamm paused for drama. “Vance Scofield.”

“Jesus,” Herzog whispered.

“Damn right.”

“He’s a lunatic.”

“Possibly.”

“He might come after us all.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. You have a bodyguard?”

Herzog sounded haughty “I’ve never felt as if I needed one. Besides, I’m thinking it might be wise if I asked for police protection.”

Oops. Maybe Hamm had pushed this a little too far. “I wouldn’t do that, Dylan.”

“And why not?”

“You pull the cops in, ain’t they gonna ask why?”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re gonna ask why you’re feeling threatened. You’ll have to tell them the whole story—that you’re being blackmailed by Colby, and now, considering what happened to Scofield, you’re worried about your own safety.”
And,
Hamm thought,
you’ll tell them all about our little arrangement.
Hamm had no doubt he and Buford would wind up in the same jail cell, considering his nephew’s bumbling tactics recently.

“But the very fact that Colby is blackmailing me shows how venomous he is,” Herzog said. “It shows a pattern of aggression in his campaign against high fences.”

“But wouldn’t they ask what he’s got on you?”

“I could remain vague.”

“And what happens if a deputy finds those photos?”

“I…I tell him that they were created on a computer, and I could keep his mouth shut by offering certain…rewards.”

Yeah,
Hamm thought.
A cushy law-enforcement position at the state level.
There was only one catch. “But this isn’t just about blackmail, it’s about murder. They’ll want to use those photos as evidence in Colby’s trial. Can’t you just picture those shots plastered all over Court TV? You sure you want to go that route?”

“But…it’s my duty to come forward.” Herzog sounded a lot less sure of himself.

“Relax. They’ll nail him without even knowing about your little problem.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I do. No, the best thing for us to do is to find the negatives first. Then you can tell the cops whatever you’d like. Paint the story any way you want it.”

Herzog was silent. Then: “I could say yes, he was blackmailing me, but the photos were doctored. As long as they don’t have the negatives, they’d never know.”

“There you go. Sounds like a plan.” Hamm was amazed at how rapidly the senator was willing to abandon the truth.

“But we
have
to find those negatives.”

“We will.”

Neither man spoke for a moment. “You think he did it?” Herzog finally asked. “Colby killed Scofield?”

“Sure looks that way,” Hamm replied.

The man calling himself George Jones had stashed his Cadillac inside of Phil’s barn, and Phil cussed himself for failing to notice earlier that the door was closed. He usually left it open.

“Where’s your partner?” Phil asked.

“Huh?”

“Bill. The little guy with the bad stomach.”

A look of pure malice crossed George’s face. “Shut your damn mouth and get in.”

George opened the door, and Phil slid into the passenger seat, his arms bound tightly behind his back. “This is a nice ride,” Phil said. “Buy the right clothes and you could be a hell of a pimp.”

George climbed into the driver’s seat without answering.

Up at Miller Creek Loop, Colby expected him to take a right, toward Highway 281, but George turned left. Could be that George was taking the back roads to Johnson City, or maybe he wanted to hook up with Highway 290 and go west.

But they had only gone three hundred yards when George slowed the car and pulled into an overgrown driveway. Wade Morgan’s ninety acres. The old man hadn’t set foot in his hunting cabin for more than three seasons. Colby rousted partying teenagers off the land every now and then, occasionally a few poachers, but other than that, the property was virtually abandoned.

“I wanna make something clear right from the start,” Phil said as they bounced along the rutted road. “I never put out on the first date.”

When Marlin got to Vance Scofield’s ranch house, half a dozen vehicles were parked outside. One was a livestock trailer, owned by one of the night deputies, and it was already half filled with cardboard boxes.

There are two types of search warrants in Texas. One allows officers to enter a dwelling and search for a specific item or items alleged to be evidence related to a particular crime. The other, known as an “evidentiary search warrant,” allows the police to load up virtually anything they might want to sift through later—bank statements and other financial records, personal letters, computers, firearms, even furniture, if necessary. Apparently, that was the type of warrant Garza had secured on Scofield’s house.

There was a subtle nuance involved here that lifted Marlin’s spirits about Phil Colby’s situation. Because it was the second time the deputies had entered the premises—and they had relinquished control of the house in the meantime—the evidentiary search warrant had required the approval of a district judge, not a local justice of the peace. Getting a district judge to sign off takes more time and effort. What it meant was, Garza was serious about digging deeper. He wasn’t pointing his finger at Phil and letting it go at that.

As Marlin neared the front door, Ernie Turpin was coming out, wheeling a dolly piled high with more boxes.

Marlin held the door for him. “Garza around?”

Turpin’s forehead was beaded with sweat. “He had to run back to the office for something.”

“How about Tatum?”

“In the back.”

When Marlin found Bill Tatum—in a small, stuffy office, cleaning out a desk—he had a tough time deciphering the expression on the senior deputy’s face. Was he angry at Marlin’s presence? The two of them had always gotten along well, but they hadn’t spoken since Phil’s interview that morning. “Just couldn’t stay away, could you?” Tatum said, but with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Before Marlin could reply, Tatum held up his hands in a just-kidding gesture.

“I talked to Jenny Geiger,” Marlin said. “The girl from the photograph.”

Tatum stopped what he was doing. “Yeah? When?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

“And?”

Marlin ran through the entire conversation, hoping Tatum would appear as excited about the possibilities as Marlin was. But his expression didn’t change until Marlin got to the end. “Somebody jacked off on her door?”

“That’s what she said.” Marlin switched to the part of the phone call that interested him the most. “If Scofield was dealing, that opens up a whole new angle. Maybe a drug deal gone bad. Who knows what kind of scum he was dealing with.”

Tatum drank from a liter-sized plastic bottle of water on the desk. “I got more of these in my cruiser.”

Marlin shook his head.

Tatum chugged down the remainder of the bottle, then wiped his mouth. “If drugs were involved, we’ll find names, numbers…something. Nothing like that has leapt out at us yet.”

Marlin didn’t want to be the one to say it, but he did anyway. “Maybe he was hooked up with Lucas.”

Tatum let that sink in. They’d all considered it before, based on the fact that the two men had disappeared at the same time, but Tatum appeared doubtful. “We have absolutely nothing that says they even knew each other.” He screwed the cap back onto his empty water bottle. “Come on outside with me.”

They walked outside to Tatum’s cruiser. The trunk was open, with an ice chest inside, and Tatum grabbed another liter of water. He held it toward Marlin. “You sure?”

“No thanks.”

Tatum opened the bottle and drained half of it. “Hot in there.”

Marlin studied the surrounding countryside—rolling hills thick with cedars, live oaks, persimmon, and mountain laurel, with waist-high native grasses filling the gaps in between. Beautiful, but the scorching summer to come would turn the bluestem as brittle as uncooked spaghetti.

Tatum cleared his throat. “Listen, I want to be clear about something. I do
not
think Phil Colby has it in him to kill Vance Scofield. Not deliberately, anyway.”

Marlin waited. He didn’t like that last sentence.

“On the other hand,” Tatum continued, “the lab in Austin is going over Phil’s truck right now. They’re not done, but so far, they’re saying the tires look like a match.”

Marlin didn’t like that sentence, either, but he wasn’t discouraged. Matching tires to a particular set of tracks—like linking hairs to a specific person—was still an imprecise science. There was plenty of room for error. “So what this Geiger woman said…you think I’m grasping at straws?” he asked, unable to keep a small amount of challenge out of his voice.

“I didn’t say that.”

“All I’m doing is checking other angles.”

“I can appreciate that, John, but I just want to know why Phil was over there. If something happened, he needs to be up front with us. Whatever the case, I really think you should prepare yourself for…well, for anything. And I’m saying that as a friend of yours—which I’ve always considered myself to be—and not a cop.”

Anger had been building in Marlin’s gut, but he didn’t want to take it out on Tatum. He turned to lean against Tatum’s vehicle, and he saw Nicole Brooks approaching, carrying a large brown box, much like the ones Ernie Turpin had carted out earlier. But as she neared, Marlin spotted commercial printing on the side, along with a logo that had been drilled into his brain through countless magazine ads and television commercials. A surge ran through him as unexpected as touching a live wire.

Marlin said, “Scofield must’ve had a hell of a sinus condition.”

Tatum looked at him, puzzled. Then he, too, spotted Brooks. The box in her hands was a wholesale lot of over-the-counter allergy medicine. She reached inside and came out with one of the individual retail packages.

“Pseudoephedrine,” she said. “The same brand we found at Lucas’s house. We got four more boxes just like this in the garage.”

“I’ll be damned,” Tatum said.

Marlin could hear a vehicle coming up Scofield’s long caliche driveway. “Thank you, Nicole.”

She gave him a wink.

Whoever was driving the vehicle was going heavy on the gas. The car came through an opening in the trees, and Marlin saw that it was Bobby Garza’s cruiser.