Strawman's Hammock (28 page)

“Got your Red Man,” Barrett countered. “You spit it all over my shirt, Linton. Remember? That gave me the sample I needed to match your DNA to semen recovered from Juanita Quiroga.”

Linton chewed reflectively.

Barrett reached down to collect the rifle.

“One way or the other you had sex with that girl. And then you got the drips. No big deal. A little clap. But when you went to get that little problem taken care of they took some blood, and next thing you know you've got your very private doctor calling to tell you you're postive for HIV.”

“Medical records are sealed.” Linton frownd.

“Your medicine cabinet isn't,” Barrett countered. “We've already been out to the house, Linton. We found the prescriptions. Quite a cocktail. It must have been a kick in the nuts; first you're taking some simple antibiotics for the clap, then you find out she's made you HIV positive, and
then
you find it's gone to AIDS. It wasn't too long after that, was it, Linton, that you killed her?”

Loyd spit carefully into the spitoon offered by the pickle bucket. A stream of Red Man contaminated the deer's innocent leavings.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Linton Loyd, you are definitely under arrest…” Barrett pulled out the cuffs. “… for the murders of Juanita Quiroga, Hezikiah Jackson, and your son.”

“I didn't kill Gary. I didn't kill anybody.”

Bear stood him up. “Be careful what you say, you son of a bitch. It will be used in court.”

*   *   *

Thurman Shaw moved to have the evidence of Linton Loyd's DNA thrown out, even though he knew the motion was doomed. Judge Blackmond informed Thurman Shaw and his client that the sample from the saliva in the Red Man that Linton Loyd voluntarily spit on Bear's shirt was thoroughly allowable as evidence, as was the evidence gained from the warranted search of Linton's art deco home. A computer in Linton's study was loaded with the same PhotoLab software as that found on his son's hard drive. The files on the father's Gateway had been deleted, but anyone who could use Norton Utilities could have pulled them up, and the folks at FDLE were considerably more sophisticated than that.

Experts confirmed that Linton had been producing pornographic material on his personal computer for more than three years. Juanita Quiroga modeled for dozens of those scenarios. She was bound with leather and chains in a variety of locations—motels, deer camps, once even in Linton's own bedroom.

Barrett and Cricket Bonet interrogated Linton Loyd in the presence of his feisty attorney. With Thurman Shaw editing his remarks, Linton admitted that he created the BruteMaster site, and admitted sexual relations with Juanita. But that was all.

“You're not doing yourself any good, Linton.” Barrett straddled a chair.

“Aren't I?”

“Jury's not going to sympathize with a man killed his own son.”

“Thought we were talking about the whore here.”

“But Gary found out about the whore, didn't he, Linton? From his foreman, I'd guess. Or maybe he checked it out for himself, drove the Humvee out to that shack. Watched one of your bondage sessions, you and your buddies and Hezikiah having it all over each other. Letting that girl have it over you. The Brute Master.

“Maybe that's when Gary knew for sure that his own overbearing, macho daddy—pillar of the community, model citizen, Rotary Club president—was a pervert and a pornographer. And that's when he made you sign over the straw-baling business, wasn't it, Linton?”

“Don't know what you mean by ‘sign it over.' It was his business.”

“Come on, Linton, Gary had no more idea how to make money out of straw than Rapunzel. It was
you
started that business. It was
you
made it profitable. But then Gary took a peek at your nightlife and he had you by the balls, didn't he? 'Cause Gary knew that if your perversions became public, you'd be ruined. Your wife, your political connections, your customers—they'd cut you off in a minute.

“So he blackmailed you. Your own son. The only way you could shut your little boy's mouth was to pay him off. That's how Gary really got into the straw-baling business, isn't it, Linton? He made you
give
it to him.”

“If that's true why the hell would I have to kill him?”

“Because at some point pictures weren't good enough for you, Linton. Each fantasy, no matter how elaborately staged, left you a little disappointed, didn't it? Maybe even angry. And then that little bitch gave you AIDS, didn't she, Linton? You made her die slow and hard and you were more than willing to let El Toro take the blame. But Gary knew better. ‘What did he do? What did he do?' Gary wasn't talking about the Bull at all that day at the trailer, was he Linton? He was talking about you.

“And once he knew, you couldn't trust him to shut up, could you? Not for all the straw in the world. So you met him out on the boat. Little father-to-son talk. You got him drunk. You got him distracted. And then you killed him.”

“That's conjecture, Barrett,” Thurman Shaw attempted to intervene. “Be nice to see some kind of proof.”

“All right.” Barrett turned again to Linton. “Where do you get your balers welded and repaired, Linton?”

“What's that got to do with the price of eggs?”

“Rolly Slade does your work, doesn't he? Probably only a handful of folks go in there can get past Rolly's dog, but you could, couldn't you, Linton? That dog'd come to you just like a puppy.”

“I like rottweilers.” Linton cracked a grin. “And whores. No crime in that.”

“No crime giving a dog a bone. But now you start chaining up little girls for him to gnaw, the court gets entirely unsympathetic.”

“Last time I cuffed that girl on anything she was giving her uncle a blow job through a rubber. Son of a bitch was eat up with clap, she blowed him anyway. Hell, you got the pictures.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Not a law in the world against taking pictures.”

“That the way Elizabeth sees it, Linton?” Cricket chimed in. “Your wife? The woman who made you, saved you, backed you … bailed you out! How's she feel about your small perversions? One more reason for you to kill your son; maybe Gary was set to tell Lizzy what Daddy did nights. Or maybe he just saw what you were doing with Rolly's dog.”

“Kiss my ass.”

Barrett threw a photo onto the table. Not a digital photo, but a fast-filmed glossy displaying Hezikiah Jackson, naked from the waist down and hanging from her back porch.

“Easy enough to get Gary on the water, wasn't it, Linton? Get him drunk and put a bullet through his head. Fit the gun into your son's hand, discharge another round so there'd be grains of powder consistent with suicide. But Gary wasn't the only one knew what you did to that girl. Hezikiah Jackson knew, too.

“Hezikiah was treating El Toro for his disease, we know that. We found strands of Juanita's hair in her kitchen. And I saw Hezikiah's potion pot planted in one of your scenarios. Did she participate, Linton? Or on the day you turned Rolly's dog on your little whore, while you were busy with your pictures, did you look up to see her standing at the window?”

For the first time Linton squirmed in his chair.

“I didn't kill her.”

“No? You mean you killed a whore, killed your son, but an old beat-up nigger woman, she just wasn't enough sport? Give me a break, Linton, we
know
you were out there!”

“I believe this little talk's about over.” Thurman Shaw muzzled his client. “You got a lot of smoke, Barrett. But it's all circumstantial.”

“A jury will see those pictures, Thurman,” Barrett promised. “If you want to take a chance on what they will conclude from
that
—! Then have at it.”

“He cain't prove a thing. Can he?”

Barrett leaned into Linton's handsomely lined face.

“Three counts of first-degree murder, Linton. Then they give you a choice. Needle. Or chair.”

“That's enough, Agent Raines,” Thurman barked.

“Just keep listening to your attorney, Linton. Go ahead and roll the dice.” Barrett buttoned his blazer as he rose from his metal chair. “Plead innocent. I'd love to see it.”

“I bet you would,” the surviving Loyd replied. “But Hell ain't half-full yet.”

*   *   *

Stacy Kline had a field day with the newest twist in what was being called the voodoo murders. State's Advocate Roland Reed was faced with the problem of appearing as confident of his third suspect's guilt as he was of the first's. Barrett declined comment altogether. He had done his job.

*   *   *

Barrett drove over the speed limit to reach his shaded home. He only had an hour within which to change and meet Laura Anne with her out-of-town investors. Not much time to waste. There was no puppy bounding in greeting from the back door as Bear pulled beneath his carport, which reminded the investigator that he needed to be looking for a new dog for the boys.

“Afternoon, Thelma.”

Barrett greeted Auntie in the kitchen.

“Laura Anne got you a tie and shirt all picked out.”

“Thank you.”

“Says wear the gray slacks. You jacket she got hung up here by the door.”

“I believe I can dress myself, Thelma.”

“You believe is right. Thass why Laura Anne took kere of it.”

*   *   *

He met a ravishing woman at Ramona's. She was tall and athletic. A strapless gown bared a back that rippled like sand on a copper desert. Her hair was pinned with a turquoise clasp. Broad shoulders narrowed to a waist that Barrett could still hold in his hands.

She was still Barrett's homecoming queen.

“You all right?”

He could tell she was nervous.

“I don't know. I thought about dressing like a dyke. But then I don't really have a suit. And then the girls said I should play something on the piano—

“How do I look, Bear?”

“Make a train take a dirt road.”

She laughed. He took her hand.

“They'll be eating out of your hand.”

“I'm bringing Thurman Shaw along, anyway. Just so they stay out of my pocket.”

*   *   *

The gathered investors and banker were eating from Laura Anne's hand. You'd think that a banker from Atlanta and venture capitalists from Boulder would be jaded to local experience, but they couldn't keep their eyes off Laura Anne.

“We see your business as the hub for a much larger project,” a corpulent investor mumbled over hush puppies. “We've already got options for land along the beach. The county's bringing in another road—”

“They
are
?”

“They will.” A banker smiled with that correction. “They will, believe me.”

The chatter went on. Barrett was so proud of his wife he could burst. She had created this opportunity. It was from her sacrifice, from dire necessity, that this triumph had come.

Everything was going great until they started talking about the money.

“Four hundred fifteen thousand I believe is what we were looking at?” A banker pulled out his laptop.

“Yes,” Laura Anne answered. “Plus some participation.”

“Points, yes. Have to be careful with those. Give away the farm if you're not careful.”

“Or a restaurant.” Thurman smiled benignly.

The banker sipped his tea.

“Fair enough. All right. Four hundred fifteen, five points of net … over twenty-five years.”

“Excuse me?” Laura Anne interrupted firmly. “Twenty-five years? There has been no discussion of twenty-five years.”

“In my deal notes.” The banker displayed his laptop as if it were God.

“Mr. Sorenson, the discussions have always been geared around a flat buyout.” Thurman turned to the table's kingpin. “In
my
deal notes with you, sir, the offer is very specific. Four hundred fifteen to own with a participation of five points net. With independent right to audit, of course.”

Mr. Sorenson hailed from Atlanta. He kept a pleasant smile from across the table.

“Well, Freddy, why don't we see what we can do fuh these people?”

Barrett could see the first signs of a coming volcano in his wife.

“I believe you have the situation characterized awkwardly, Mr. Sorenson.”

The businessman turned to Barrett.

“Sir?”

“The terms are clear. Laura Anne is not confused. Nor is her lawyer. Is there some reason you can't meet the payment, sir?”

He flushed beet red. The banker, “Freddy,” spoke up.

“It's very common to have these details when a deal comes to closing…”

Laura Anne cut him off.

“Do you really suppose, Fred, that I came to this meeting to renegotiate an offer that was represented to me as
firm
months ago?”

An embarassed silence fell across the table.

“Our investors want to be certain we are not overextended, that's all.”

“Then tell your investors what your situation is,” Laura Anne replied smoothly. “I am willing to listen to a buyout of four hundred fifteen thousand dollars. If you can't afford that, I'm certain you can't afford the lots and condos and the ‘encouragement' necessary to get the county to build a new road in here.”

More silence with Laura Anne's response. Freddy turned to his Atlanta fat cat.

Mr. Sorenson waved a soft hand. “We'll have to run this by our people.”

Laura Anne's smile was never more radiant as she rose from the table.

“Please take your time. There's more snapper. I'll be at my piano. Thurman?”

“Be glad to remain with our guests.” Thurman Shaw's sarcasm was never clearer.

Barrett rose to escort his wife from the table. She was shaking with anger.