Gone The Next (7 page)

Unfortunately, Brian Pierce had not been invited to any houseboat parties, at least not recently. While Mia napped, I hung out on her patio with my laptop and explored Pierce’s Facebook profile.

He appeared frustratingly normal. Boring, even.

Music he liked: Foo Fighters, Rolling Stones, Green Day, George Strait, Katy Perry.

Television shows: Tosh.0, Modern Family, NCIS, Breaking Bad.

Books he liked: Well, like a lot of people on Facebook, he hadn’t listed any.

I could go on, but you get the idea. No help at all. His most recent status update, from just yesterday afternoon, said, “We sure could use some rain.” I kid you not. Weather talk. We were in a drought, but come on. Three people had given him a thumbs up, but nobody had commented.

I scrolled downward, and thus backward in time. The day after his alleged accident at the restaurant, Pierce had written, “tore some ligaments in my wrist, typing with one hand is no fun.”

Some guy had responded, “Wait till you have to go to the bathroom.”

Another guy had said, “at least it won’t affect your relationship with rosie palm.”

Witty bastards with their high-brow banter.

A young girl had said, “Ouch. What happened?”

Pierce: “slipped on a wet floor at work and landed wrong”

The girl had responded with a sad face icon. The empathy was palpable.

I scrolled back further and saw that Pierce didn’t post often, but when he did, it was about as banal as it gets. Lines from movies. Quotes from famous people. Comments about sports. Lots of re-postings of other people’s posts. Very little substance. In other words, Pierce’s page was about like everyone else’s.

Most of his photos weren’t original; they were things he’d lifted from around the web. No help there, either.

I closed my laptop and went inside Mia’s apartment. Her bedroom door was closed. I scribbled a quick note:
Sorry. Sometimes I am a horse’s ass.

Then I changed my mind and crossed through the word “sometimes.”

As I approached my van, I noticed that I had a flat tire. Then I came to a full stop. It wasn’t just one tire. All four were flat.

Son of a bitch.
That was my first thought.

Wade Gruley.
That was my second thought, remembering the voicemail Spence had left me yesterday. Spence works in the Travis County jail system and he warns me when certain inmates are going to be released. He does it out of the goodness of his heart, and because I give him a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue for each heads-up.

See, one small problem with my line of work is that, on occasion, one of the scumbags who commits fraud gets upset with me. And they know exactly who I am, because my work isn’t always complete after I get the cheater on video. Sometimes I have to show up in court to testify. I’m not wild about it — I’d much rather remain anonymous — but some of my clients insist. That’s because video is great, but
nothing beats a real, live person, as far as evidence goes. And I’ll admit,
I’m persuasive, charismatic, and, let’s face it, ruggedly handsome up on the witness stand. I’m good with the jurors and the judge. Together, my eyewitness testimony and the video evidence can deliver a one-two punch: The cheater not only loses a monthly income, he might end up going to jail for six months or a year. Most of the cheaters spend that time coming to the realization that crime doesn’t pay, but a few of them spend the time daydreaming about ways to seek revenge.

Wade Gruley was one of those people. During the first few weeks of his government-sponsored vacation, he’d called me up a couple of times and made veiled threats. How dumb is that, calling from jail? Those calls were recorded. He said things like, “When I get out of here, I’m going to look you up and let you know how much I appreciate what you did for me.” Very stupid to make the calls, but not quite stupid enough to say anything that would result in additional charges.

The good thing is, these people are insurance cheats, not murderers or gangbangers, so none of them have ever come after me directly. Instead, they go after my vehicle. Flat tires are always popular. Sugar in the gas tank. Acid on the paint job. A hammer to the windshield. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. The van has a high-dollar alarm and security system, which prevents anyone from stealing it or its contents, but it doesn’t prevent this sort of petty vandalism.

Most of the time, I suspect who the culprit is, but I never know for sure. That’s because they usually strike once and that’s it. For most of these losers, that’s enough. Sure, in jail, they might’ve vowed to themselves that they would hound me to my dying day, but after they’re released, their keen sense of focus wanes. They key my car door or snap my antenna and that seems to fulfill their need for payback. Their anger fades, then they get distracted and move on to other things, like, you know, day-to-day life.

Doesn’t mean I’m not careful.

I looked all around the parking lot, making sure Wade Gruley — who was a pretty big guy, if memory serves — wasn’t lurking behind a vehicle, and then I approached the van for a closer inspection. The left front tire had an inch-long slit in the sidewall. Someone had plunged a knife into it. Same with the other three. That kind of damage can’t be repaired, so I’d need four new tires.

Know who pays for it? My insurance company, of course. So, assuming the vandalism had indeed been committed by Gruley or one of my other past targets, once again an insurance company would be coughing up cash to pay for his illegal transgressions.

I called the non-emergency number for the Austin Police Department and asked them to send a unit. My insurance company would want a police report. Then I called to arrange a tow truck. I’d be good to go in a couple of hours. Which was just as well, because I was going to need my van quite a bit in the coming days.