Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip (28 page)

THE NEXT MORNING, Red woke to the sound of cartoons again. Shit, with cable TV, cartoons were on the air every day of the week. Billy Don’s favorite channel was Nickelodeon, and it nearly drove Red up the wall. The good thing was, hearing those moronic high-pitched voices meant his hearing was almost back to normal.

He opened one eye and saw that Billy Don had taken root in the recliner again and was eating another bowl of Froot Loops.

Lucy, apparently, was still asleep in the bedroom. She hadn’t even given him the option of sleeping with her last night, and—Lord help him, maybe he was turning sissy or something—he hadn’t wanted to. That woman could go from zero to bitch in six seconds flat.

Red swung his feet to the floor and sat up straight. He stood up, still feeling a little wobbly from the explosion, and scratched a few important places. He tiptoed toward the bedroom to check on the Dragon Lady.

The door was open just enough for Red to peek inside.

Lucy was gone.

Marlin intended to remain quiet during the questioning of Chuck Hamm, chiefly because he was afraid he would be tempted to reach across the table and rip the man’s throat out. He wasn’t altogether certain Bobby Garza and Bill Tatum would be able to refrain from such behavior themselves. Time would tell.

Sunday afternoon. They were in the interview room at the sheriff’s department, the four of them around one small table.

Hamm did not appear at ease. But he also appeared cocky. He didn’t know what was waiting for him.

“Mr. Hamm,” Garza said, “we asked you here to talk about…well, hell, I’m not even sure where to begin.” Garza opened a manila folder and placed a photograph on the table. “Let me start by asking if you know this man.”

Hamm picked up the photo, studied it, and placed it back on the table. “Sorry. Never seen him before.”

“Sure about that? His name is Joseph Taggart. Goes by the name of Little Joe?”

“No, sir. Don’t know the man.”

“He was found dead in his motel room this morning. He’d been shot.”

Hamm shrugged. “Wish I could help y’all out, but I don’t know anything about it.”

“The thing is, when we checked Taggart’s sheet, we saw that he spent some time in jail—just one night, actually—with a man named Buford Rhodes.” Garza cocked his eyebrows. “I believe you know Mr. Rhodes.”

Hamm wanted to deny it—it was plain from the look on his face—but to do so would have been an obvious lie. “My ex-wife’s nephew. Her sister’s boy.”

“You keep in touch with him?”

“Now and again.”

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

“Actually, it was just last week. Talked to him a couple of times.”

“What about?”

“Nothing much. I asked him if he wanted to come out and do some turkey hunting.”

Garza nodded, as if that were a perfectly acceptable answer. “Did he take you up on it? Was he in the area lately?”

Hamm was starting to squirm, and Marlin loved every minute of it. “What’s this all about? You mind telling me that?”

Garza had managed to keep the events of the day before away from the media so far. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your nephew was killed yesterday in a hunting cabin on Miller Creek Loop.”

Perhaps the surprise on Hamm’s face was real—or maybe he was an excellent actor. “Jesus Christ. That’s terrible. What happened?”

Garza let that question hang in the air for a long time. Then he said, “Mr. Hamm, I suggest that you think long and hard about how you want to play this. Now’s the time to be straight with us and minimize the damage you do to yourself.”

Again, Hamm did his best to appear perplexed. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. You tell me that Buford’s dead, and then you—”

Now Tatum stepped in. “We’ve already talked to Lance Longley, Barry Yates, Tyler Hobbs, all of them. They gave us a pretty good idea of how it all went down.”

Hamm opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking. His eyes were feral and angry, like a trapped animal’s.

Tatum placed three photographs on the table. “We found these in the hotel room with Joseph Taggart. They pretty much tell the story.”

Marlin hadn’t been to the crime scene at the motel, but he had seen the bizarre photographs earlier, and he had heard the details that had been shared by the members of the Wallhangers Club. Those men had scrambled to avoid the oncoming legal massacre, and when Tatum had warned each of them not to speak to Chuck Hamm, they had readily agreed.

Hamm crossed his arms and stared at Tatum with defiance. He glanced at the photos but made no attempt at shock or surprise. “Man’s a damn pervert, that’s all I’ve got to say.”

Tatum tapped the photograph in the center—a senator named Dylan Herzog. Wearing a diaper. A woman identified as his executive assistant was preparing to spank him with a riding crop. “You want to tell us exactly what happened when you saw these? Or should we rely on what Senator Herzog told us?”

Hamm’s eyes darted from the photographs to Tatum’s face.

“That’s right,” Tatum said, “Herzog was more than willing to talk to us. First thing he said was the photographs were fakes. After that, though, he told us how upset you were about it all. You said, fakes or not, those photos could really hurt the senator in the election this fall. Next thing he knows, he gets a visit from Rhodes and Taggart. According to Herzog, you hired them to find out who the blackmailer was. He said he thought they were merely private investigators, and he had no idea that they’d resort to violence. Longley and the rest of them said the same thing.”

Garza chimed in. “If they’re stretching the truth a little bit, maybe you’d better tell us your side of the story. I’d hate to see this whole thing land on your shoulders.”

Marlin hoped Hamm would talk. After all, there was a question that none of them had been able to puzzle out: Why Phil Colby? What had led Rhodes and Taggart to believe that Colby was the blackmailer? Last night, Colby had described in detail how Rhodes had abducted him at gunpoint, then taken him to Wade Morgan’s hunting cabin. But when Garza asked Colby why Rhodes had thought he was the blackmailer, Colby had no explanation for it. Garza didn’t ask him again. He believed him the first time.

Perhaps Hamm had the answer. Maybe he’d break down and explain the entire fiasco. But Hamm wasn’t ready to go down so easily. He let out a sigh, drummed his fingers on the table, and said, “I want to talk to my attorney.”

That was it, then. Maybe they’d never know what really happened. Marlin could live with that, because he was looking forward to the next few minutes.

Garza said, “John, you want to do the honors?”

Marlin smiled. “Love to.” He rose from the table and addressed Hamm for the first time. “Stand up, you dumb son of a bitch. You’re under arrest.”

After Marlin booked Chuck Hamm, he drove to David Pritchard’s house. Yellow tape blocked the driveway, so he parked in the street, behind Ernie’s and Nicole’s cruisers.

Homer Griggs, the reserve deputy, was posted at the front door, looking official. He held a clipboard. “Gonna have to sign you in, John. You know how this works.”

“Tell you what, Homer—I’ll wait outside. Will you let Nicole know I’m here?”

Homer nodded, as if it were the most important task of the day.

A minute later, Marlin was leaning against a tree in the yard when Nicole emerged from the house. Marlin had never kissed this woman, never even held her hand, and yet his heart danced in his chest when he saw her coming. She was smiling, and it was enough to make his knees weak.

“Hey,” she said, slipping her hands into her back pockets, looking as carefree and happy as a college coed.

“Hey back,” he said.

They both stood in silence for a moment, and it was as comfortable as a favorite sweater.

“How’d it go with Hamm?” she asked.

“About like we figured.” He nodded toward the house. “How’s it going in there?”

“Let’s see—where do I start? Found a baseball bat in a closet. Looked clean, but it tested positive for blood.”

Marlin remembered what Pritchard had said: He and Scofield had played on a softball team together. “Nice job.”

“That and a box of panties on the upper shelf. Twenty-three pairs.”

Marlin grinned at her. “Man’s gotta have a hobby.”

She pointed at Pritchard’s SUV in the driveway. “His tires? Same brand as the ones on Phil Colby’s truck. Plus, there’s a credit-card receipt from the Exxon. The idiot bought a gallon of gas two hours before Lucas’s house went up.”

All Marlin could think was
Thank God.
Lucas was in the clear on the arson. He’d still have to deal with the charges on the stolen Corvette, but Marlin figured—under the circumstances—the prosecutor would be inclined toward leniency. When they finally tracked Lucas down.

Meanwhile, Rita Sue had admitted that her confession was a fake. She had been willing to take the fall in Lucas’s place, and Marlin thought that was noble. Stupid, but noble. She also revealed a second lie: Stephanie had never phoned to report that she was in Colorado. That was just Rita Sue’s way of throwing Marlin and the deputies off the runaway couple’s trail. Marlin hoped the prosecutor would go easy on Rita Sue, too, because she was a neat old gal. Marlin couldn’t find it in himself to blame her for what she had done.

Nicole continued, “We also found some stubs from the money orders Lucas’s landlord received for rent. According to Stephanie, Scofield promised to talk to the landlord and get Lucas out of his lease. But instead, Scofield paid the rent himself.”

“So he could run the meth lab there instead of his own house,” Marlin said. “Pritchard burned the house down after he killed Scofield because his fingerprints would’ve been all over the place.”

“Sure looks that way. Of course, we’ll see what he has to say about it. For all we know, he’ll recant everything he told me. That is, when he can talk sensibly again.”

“What’s his status?”

“I think the puncture wound I gave him was the least of his worries.”

Marlin laughed. “You kidding me? You collapsed his lung.”

“Yeah, but you gave him a concussion. Hell, you knocked him unconscious. By the way, did I say thank you?”

“Yeah, you did. But I think you had it all under control.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t respond.

“How’s your neck?”

She rubbed it self-consciously. “A little sore, but not too bad. Didn’t bruise as bad as I thought it would.”

There were light purple streaks in the shapes of fingers around her throat. Some women might have worn a higher collar, or perhaps a turtleneck, to conceal them. Nicole did not.

“How’s Phil Colby?” she asked.

“Well, considering that he killed two men, I guess he’s taking it all right.”

“I’m glad.” She smiled again, and Marlin wondered what it would be like to see that smile every morning. A man should be so lucky.

“Have we heard anything from Henry this morning?” she asked. “Did he get anything from the safe?”

That was another odd detail that nobody had been able to figure out—the ruptured safe that had been found in some high weeds on Wade Morgan’s property. It had to be Vance Scofield’s, but how it ended up at Morgan’s place, nobody had a clue.

“No prints,” Marlin said. No money, either, which jibed with what Stephanie had told the deputies. She said that Scofield had burned through the cash from the raffle as quickly as it had come in.

“Okay, then, I’ll let you get back to it,” Marlin said. “I just wanted to see if y’all were making progress.”

“Yeah, we’re almost done. I guess I’ll see you back at the station.”

“Sounds good.”

Marlin paused briefly, reluctant to let the moment end, then began walking toward his truck.

Nicole called out, “Hey, John.” He turned to face her, and she had a mischievous grin on her face. She said, “Yesterday, at my place?”

“Yeah?”

“We never got a chance to finish those beers.”

TWO DAYS LATER, Dylan Herzog held a press conference to tackle the bad press head-on. After a brief prepared statement, he fielded the first question.

“So you’re saying the photographs are fake?”

It came from the third row—a smart-ass female reporter who worked for the
Austin American-Statesman.
Dylan Herzog had dealt with her before on other issues, and he gave her the same patient smile he always did.

“Absolutely. You know how advanced some of these software programs are nowadays. Somebody constructed them from his own sick imagination, it’s that simple. Whoever it is, the poor man needs professional help. Either that, or he needs a job in Hollywood.”

A few laughs here and there.

Then a reporter from the
San Antonio Express-News
: “Senator, the photos are now part of the public record, and they’re already appearing on the Internet. Any comment?”

Herzog spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. “Why let the Democrats get all the bad press? As long as people remember that the photographs are purely fabrications. Frankly, I’m flattered that all of you would think I have, uh, such a creative libido.”

More chuckles, just as Herzog had hoped. This was going fairly well. With any luck at all, he could emerge from this ordeal unscathed. So far, he hadn’t received any more anonymous calls about the photographs.

Another hand went up. “How has your wife reacted to all of this?”

Herzog grinned and lied through his teeth. “Oh, come on, she wasn’t fooled by those silly pictures for a minute. She’s been right beside me, getting a good laugh out of the whole thing.”

“Any reason why she’s not here today?”

What should he say? The truth? That she fled the country in embarrassment? “We agreed that it wasn’t even worth her time. This whole thing is just so preposterous.”

“And there is no improper relationship between you and Susan Hammond?” That damn
Statesman
reporter again, using some of the same language that had been used on Clinton. Intentionally, no doubt.

“There isn’t now and there never was. Period.”

“Any comment on Chuck Hamm? He was one of your biggest supporters, and now he’s facing charges for attempted murder.”

This was touchy ground. Herzog’s lawyers had advised him not to comment, but he couldn’t help it. “The man acted completely of his own accord and without my knowledge. He was a dear friend of mine, but I am appalled at his behavior. I can only hope that the court system will deal with his transgressions appropriately.”

Herzog continued for ten more minutes, handling each question with practiced eloquence, deflecting insinuations and pooh-poohing anything that came remotely close to the truth. The reporters finally seemed to accept that the blood in the water was nothing but an illusion, and the questioning came to an end.

Herzog was in his office an hour later when the phone rang.

It was one of his fellow committee members. “We’re behind you, Dylan,” he said. “You need anything, just give me a call.”

That was a fabulous sign. His brethren were rallying behind him!

Herzog thanked him graciously and hung up.

The phone rang again. A senator from East Texas—and a Democrat at that! “You handled that perfectly. Don’t let ‘em get you down.”

Herzog was beside himself. He was touched that a man would actually cross party lines to offer words of support. It was unheard of!

The phone warbled yet again. It was the governor himself! “I hate that kind of smear campaign,” he said. “You just stand tough and hold your ground, pardner.”

This was incredible! It appeared as if the scandal might actually
increase
his popularity!

Herzog was indeed in a buoyant mood. Why, he might even have to call Susan and line up a little celebration.

Red wasn’t going to lie to himself. He was a big boy. He could handle the truth. Lucy wasn’t coming back.

Billy Don was in the recliner, thumbing through the TV channels. Red was lying on the couch.

She’d been using him and Billy Don to get into that damn safe, that’s all there was to it. She scammed him just like she scammed everybody else.

Billy Don stopped on a Faith Hill video, and Red felt a pang in his heart. “I don’t wanna watch that shit,” he said.

Billy Don kept surfing. Some corny movie with that chick from
The Bionic Woman.
An infomercial about a food dehydrator.

Red felt kind of stupid about it all. Falling for a woman like that. Jesus. He should’ve seen it coming.

Billy Don paused for a moment on ESPN. A rerun of a NASCAR race.

Red was going to be damn careful next time. Not get suckered in by a pretty face.

Billy Don cruised through the news channels—CNN, MSNBC, Fox News—not even stopping to hear what the stories were about.

Red decided it might even be best if he didn’t date at all. Just go cold turkey on the women altogether. That way, he’d—

Wait just a minute.

What the hell had he just seen?

“Billy Don, flip it back to that other channel.”

“Which ‘un?”

Red sat up. “Just go back. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

Billy Don put it in reverse.

Fox News.

MSNBC.

CNN.

“Stop!”

There it was, just over the anchorman’s shoulder. A photo of a man in a diaper. Some big scandal about a senator in Texas. The senator, according to the guy talking, was claiming that the photos were fakes.

Red smiled at first.

Then he started laughing—so damn hard that he couldn’t hardly breathe.

Billy Don was looking at him, then looking at the screen, not putting it together at all.

Red could hardly get the words out, but what he said was, “Billy Don, go dig those negatives outta the trash.”

In John Marlin’s empty kitchen, the phone rang four times and the answering machine picked up.

This is Marlin. Leave a message.

After the beep, a man spoke:

Hey, John, this is Max Thayer calling you back again. Seems like we’re playing a lot of phone tag these days. Anyway, I got your message this morning and I wanted to get back to you. I think you’d do real good down here in Bexar County, but, well, I understand your decision completely. Blanco County’s lucky to have you. Let’s catch another Spurs game this summer, you hear? I’ll talk to you later.