Shake and Bake Read online

  © 2019 by Ben Rehder.

  Cover art and digital design © 2019 by Bijou Graphics & Design.

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  NEW RELEASE ALERTS

  BUCK FEVER | CHAPTER 1

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER NOVELS BY BEN REHDER

  This one's for you, Kent Flodin.

  Thanks for reminding me what's important.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to these amazingly helpful and generous people: Tommy Blackwell, Donny Gray, John Strauss, Roger Huth, Martin Grantham, Becky Rehder, Helen Haught Fanick, Mary Summerall, Marsha Moyer, Jo Virgil, Stacia Miller, Linda Biel, Leo Bricker, Kathy Carrasco, Naomi West, and Richie West. Any errors are my own.

  1

  He knew the house well, of course. Every room. Every closet. Every piece of furniture. He’d been here dozens of times, going back to when he was a kid.

  He knew where the spare key was hidden. Knew there was no alarm system. Knew that if he entered through the back door, he could avoid the security cameras inside the house. And, most important, he knew that nobody was home right now, at nine in the evening.

  He put on latex gloves before he picked up the fake rock in the flowerbed to the left of the front door. Carried it with him as he went around the side of the house, through the gate, past the swimming pool, and to the back door. Removed the key and unlocked the deadbolt. Retraced his steps to the front of the house and put the rock back in its spot, with the key inside. Better to do it now rather than later, when he’d be in a hurry. He was glad the house sat on three wooded acres, far from the street. Lots of privacy.

  He returned to the back door, eased it open, and stepped into the living room. Closed the door behind him. The warm air enveloped him and he realized how cold he was, despite the hoodie he was wearing. Cold not just from the temperature outside, but also from nerves. His hands trembled slightly. He focused on breathing more slowly and deeply. Be cool. Don’t panic. This would be a cakewalk. He took a full minute to gather himself.

  Okay, good.

  He remembered to lock the deadbolt behind him. Chances were slim that Malcolm would come home and notice whether the door was or wasn’t locked—he would have several strong drinks in him at that point and his attention to details like that would be shot to hell—but why risk it?

  None of the overhead lights were on, but a small lamp on a credenza burned brightly enough to illuminate the room. The first security camera was on top of the entertainment center, to the right of the back door. It was aimed toward the front of the house, at the arched entrance most people would use to come into this room. The camera wasn’t hidden. It was easily recognizable if an intruder spotted it before walking in front of it.

  He eased up to the side of the entertainment center and pulled the power cord loose from the back of the camera. No power, no streaming video to the cloud. Exactly what a burglar would do. After a certain amount of time, Mal would receive an alert that the camera was offline, but that happened often enough with these kinds of cameras that he wouldn’t think much of it. Mal would probably open the app and check the camera, but he wouldn’t see anyone inside his house on the earlier video, so he’d think it was just a glitch. Or that the electricity had gone out for a minute or two and the camera hadn’t reconnected.

  The only other camera was in the den, where the safe was located, so it wasn’t a problem. He wouldn’t be going in there. Instead, he went down the hallway, into the master bedroom. Another lamp on a nightstand in here provided plenty of light. He went straight to the nightstand and opened the top drawer.

  Relief.

  The gun was there. A Ruger .357 magnum.

  Still wearing gloves, he lifted the revolver and checked the chambers. Fully loaded. Good to go. He’d brought his own gun—a nine-millimeter semi-automatic in the right-hand pocket of his hoodie—but he’d rather use the .357. Would look less premeditated that way. More like an interrupted burglary. The burglar found the Ruger and then was startled by Mal. Perfect. The shot would be loud, but the nearest neighbors were at least one hundred yards away, tucked inside their houses, with windows closed, heaters running, maybe already in bed. They wouldn’t hear a thing. Still, though, he’d limit it to one shot, if he could. And get rid of the gun later.

  He tucked the Ruger into the left-hand pocket of his hoodie. Heavy. It barely fit. Then he grabbed a pillow and pulled the pillowcase loose. He’d seen a burglar do that in a movie. Smart. Why bring a bag when there was already one waiting in the house?

  He began rooting around inside the nightstand drawer. Found a wristwatch. Decent brand, worth maybe a grand. Into the pillowcase. Took a box of bullets for the Ruger, several gold necklaces, some gold bracelets, and four men’s rings, two with diamonds in them. Had to be worth a shitload if the diamonds were any good. Mal liked jewelry and he bought quality stuff. All of it went into the pillowcase. Next he found a Fitbit, but he was pretty sure those devices had GPS built in, so he left it.

  He crossed to the dresser and began going through the drawers, starting from the bottom. Another trick he saw in a movie. If you started with the top drawers, you’d have to shove all of them back in before going to the next drawer down. But if you started at the bottom, you could leave the drawers out. Would make the cops think he’d done this before. He didn’t find anything good in any of these drawers. Just clothes. Didn’t matter. He’d done enough to create the appearance he wanted.

  Now he went into the kitchen. The sink and the fridge and the stove and the walk-in pantry were to the right. To the left was a breakfast nook, with a square table and four chairs, plus a door that led into the garage. Malcolm would enter through that door and probably go straight to the refrigerator for a cold beer. Perfect.

  He went to the pantry, which had an accordion-fold door with horizontal slats. He opened it and stepped inside. Plenty of room in here, sure, but it wasn’t realistic that he could wait in here, standing, for an hour or two.

  He stepped into the kitchen again. Went to the table. Pulled out a chair. He’d just sit right here until he heard the garage door opening. He put the pillowcase on top of the table, along with the Ruger. He kept his own pistol in his right-hand hoodie pocket.

  He tried not to think about the task ahead of him. He’d just do it, quickly and efficiently, without a word. Even better if Mal never saw it coming. Fucker deserve
d it. That was the thing to remember.

  Ten minutes passed.

  His mouth was parched. He kept shifting in his chair. Couldn’t sit still.

  Twenty more minutes passed.

  He couldn’t help it—he was having second thoughts. What were the odds that he could actually get away with this? Slim, for sure. At a minimum, he’d be on the list of suspects. But would they be able to prove he’d done it? Would they think he’d—

  The phone on the counter rang and he nearly jumped out of the chair.

  Jesus frigging Christ, the landline. Who still had a landline nowadays? Mal, that’s who. He was old enough that he wasn’t ready to go completely cellular. Still wanted the sense of security from having a “home phone.”

  The phone rang six times, then stopped.

  Another ten minutes passed, and now he’d made up his mind. This was a horrible plan. Better to just gun him down on the street or while he was driving. Make the cops think it was road rage. That kind of killing was common nowadays.

  He rose from the chair, and of course that’s when he heard the groaning of the garage door rising in its tracks.

  Oh, shit.

  He hustled into the walk-in pantry and closed the door, and then he realized he’d left the pillowcase and the Ruger on the kitchen table. He hurried back to get them, then returned to the pantry and eased the door closed. He set the pillowcase on the floor and he’d leave it here when he was done. That’s what an interrupted burglar would probably do. He held the Ruger in his right hand. The insides of the latex gloves were filled with sweat.

  Now he heard the garage door rumbling as it closed.

  Then he heard the closing of a car door.

  The horizontal slats in the pantry door were angled downward, so he could see the tiled floor and the lower half of the fridge and some of the counters, but he could not see the door to the garage. That was too far to his left.

  His heart was thundering so loudly, he was afraid it would give him away. He had to remind himself to breathe slowly and evenly.

  Then the door from the garage into the kitchen opened and he heard boot heels on the tiled floor. The door closed. And just as predicted, Mal made his way straight to the fridge, the lower half of his body visible through the slats.

  The Ruger felt like it weighed fifty pounds.

  He heard the opening of the fridge, and the rattle of glass jars and bottles in the shelves in the door, and he knew he had to do it right now.

  In one quick move, he raised the Ruger and swung the pantry door open, and there was Mal, in profile, raising a bottle of Lone Star to his lips, and the first shot hit him in the right forearm, causing him to drop the bottle. It smashed on the floor just as the second shot shattered the window over the sink.

  Now Malcolm was hunching over, trying to protect his head with his left arm, flinching with the third shot, and the fourth, and when the fifth shot caught him dead center, he fell to the floor and a pool of blood began to spread.

  47 DAYS LATER

  2

  WE HAD TWO inches of snow on the ground—and I had three inches of bourbon in a glass—when one of my favorite clients called. It was a dreary and restless late afternoon in early January. Vehicles passing on our quiet west-Austin street had their headlights on, despite the fact that the sun wouldn’t set for another thirty minutes.

  I answered the call, saying, “I came this close to letting it go to voicemail.”

  Heidi let out an indignant huff. “What? Don’t you love me anymore?”

  “Absolutely, but less so on a Friday at 5:15. You call this late, it’s almost like you don’t really want me to answer.”

  Heidi worked in the fraud department of one of the world’s largest insurance conglomerates. She’d been one of my most important clients since I’d opened my doors as a legal videographer. Most legal videographers record depositions, court proceedings, and scenes of accidents. But my partner and I specialize in catching insurance cheats. In fact, it’s all we do, and we’ve earned a reputation for being the best.

  Heidi said, “Tell you the truth, I was prepared to leave a message and ask you to call me on Monday. We can do that if you’d rather.”

  I thought about sitting alone in the house, with nothing but the TV to keep me company.

  “No, let’s talk. I want to hear what kind of shenanigans you have in store for me.”

  “I love that you’re always up for some shenanigans.”

  “But I draw the line at antics or tomfoolery.”

  “Fortunately, this case only goes as far as hijinks.”

  “Oh, those are my favorite. Let’s hear.”

  “I’ll email the file in a bit, but I can cover the basics in about five minutes. You familiar with Motorcycle Mania, west of Oak Hill?”

  “Sure. They sell motorcycles in a somewhat manic fashion. I’ve seen the ads on TV. Yamahas, if I remember correctly.”

  “That’s right. Some quick background...two men opened the business nearly thirty years ago—Frankie Dimmick and Malcolm Shaw. High school classmates, best friends, all that stuff. Frankie is still a managing partner on paper, but he basically retired about a year ago and moved to Montana to fly fish. One of our companies carries health coverage for their staff, which includes Dimmick’s son, Caleb, who also works at the dealership.”

  “Okay, I’ve heard that name—Caleb Dimmick.”

  “Where’d you hear it?”

  “I can’t remember right now, but it’s familiar.”

  “Hope it’s something useful, because he’s why I’m calling. The thing is, we’ve always suspected that Caleb doesn’t actually work at the dealership, but he rides the payroll anyway, which is the IRS’s problem, and he gets health insurance, too, which is our problem.”

  It wasn’t uncommon for the owner of a successful company to place his family members on the payroll. It was a great way to lower tax liability, considering that the family employee would almost certainly be in a lower tax bracket than the owner. But sham employment didn’t count. Paying someone—and providing insurance coverage—was both tax fraud and insurance fraud if the person didn’t actually work.

  “How long has he supposedly been working there?” I asked.

  “Nearly four years.”

  “And you’ve basically let it slide?”

  “Come on, now. You know my department basically does triage. The serious cases get our attention. This thing with Caleb Dimmick is small potatoes, and the one time we called the dealership and asked for him, he was there.”

  “That’s, uh, not actually an extensive investigation,” I said.

  “If we wanted to do that ourselves, would we need you?”

  “Ouch. Good point. Please continue.”

  “Thank you. As you can probably guess, something changed recently. Care to guess?”

  “Don’t play coy, you little minx.”

  “Just testing your skills.”

  “Okay, I’d say he recently had a large claim—an illness or disease or injury—and that moved him higher on the list of priorities. You don’t want to pay it if he isn’t really due any benefits.”

  “You are so darn sharp.”

  “So what’s the poor guy’s problem?”

  “He was recently diagnosed with a kidney disease called glomerulonephritis.”

  “Gesundheit.”

  “I’m not even sure I pronounced that right. Anyway, it could eventually lead to dialysis and maybe transplant.”

  “All very expensive.”

  “Well, yeah.” I heard her take a breath. “I have to admit, I hate this part of the job. Even if he isn’t due any benefits, I hate to take his health care away.”

  I started to say something glib, then decided against it. “How is it affecting him right now? What are his symptoms?”

  “He’s in the early stages, so he basically feels fine. If he hadn’t gone in for an annual physical, he wouldn’t even know. It got flagged on a test.”

  Which meant he could wo
rk, obviously. That would be critical in proving whether his employment was a charade or not.

  “What’s his job title?” I asked.

  “Assistant manager.”

  “Not the kind of job where he could work from home, I guess.”

  “Absolutely not. If he’s not going in, he isn’t working. He oversees the sales department, and he can’t do that without being on site basically every day.”

  “Makes a nice salary, too, I bet.”

  “I would assume so, but I don’t know the exact figure. Plus they covered him with a million bucks in life insurance, which is what they’d do if they considered him an important part of the business.”

  “Or if they wanted it to appear that way, so some smart cookie like you wouldn’t wonder if he was a legit employee. Who else was covered?”

  “The two partners and Caleb,” Heidi said. “That’s all.”

  “Are there any other managers or assistant managers?” I asked. “Vice presidents? Grand poobahs? Exalted wizards?”

  “A woman named Shauna Goodwin runs the parts department, but it’s basically Malcolm and Caleb who run the place now, since Frankie retired and moved away. Malcolm had a pretty large claim himself last November. Got shot when he surprised a burglar. Unrelated, but I know you like to have all the background information you can get.”

  “Is he back at work?”

  “He is, after some physical rehab.”

  I was staring out the window, wondering if it was going to snow again tonight. Austin didn’t get snow often—maybe once every three or four years—and most of the residents freaked out when it happened. School closings and such. Fender benders. Countless social media photos of kids playing in the snow for the first time.

  “Caleb, Malcolm, and Shauna,” I said. “How many other employees do they have?”

  “Four right now.”

  So seven people worked at the dealership. Math is my strong suit.

  “Any other questions?” Heidi asked.

  “Who was the greatest English goalkeeper of all time?”