Get Busy Dying (Roy Ballard Mysteries) Page 10

  “Yes?”

  “Are you Lucian?”

  “I am.”

  “Sorry to bother you this morning, but my name is Roy Ballard. I’m Mia’s partner.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “And when I say ‘partner,’ I mean that she does most of the work and I watch.”

  Lucian grinned. “How is she?” He glanced past me, over my shoulder, toward Mia’s house, which was across the street and down one door. The house had been staked off with yellow crime-scene tape.

  “Doing fine, considering. She’s out shopping for a new door right now.” I hadn’t seen her at my apartment, but we’d exchanged a few texts. I’d told her to take as much time as she needed to get her life back in order.

  “So upsetting, what happened,” Lucian said. “Do they know any more about what caused it?”

  Mia had said the fire investigator’s conclusion of arson was off the record, for the time being, so I said, “They’re running some tests.”

  “But they’re thinking arson, right?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  The dog had been staring at me suspiciously—and silently—but now it let out a single yap.

  “Gwendolyn!” Lucian said, shushing the dog.

  Gwendolyn?

  “What kind of dog is that?” I asked.

  “Cavapoo. A cross between a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and a poodle.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “I think I’ve seen them in the wild.”

  “Ha. This little girl would last about two seconds on her own. She eats better food than I do. Don’t you, Gwendolyn?”

  She continued to scowl.

  “Listen, Lucian, I understand you saw a jogger shortly before the fire started.”

  “I did, yes. You want to come inside and have a cup of coffee?”

  “I don’t want to be any bother,” I said.

  “Nonsense. Come on in. We can talk.”

  “I didn’t really think much of it,” Lucian said, “because we have joggers in this area all the time. Joggers, walkers, bicyclists. But after the commotion, I realized I had seen this guy just moments before the fire started.”

  The inside of the home was as immaculate as the outside. Hardwood floors. Crown moulding. Vibrant abstract paintings on the walls. I was seated on a black leather couch. Lucian was seated on the matching chair. Gwendolyn was sleeping on a dog pillow that looked more comfortable, and more expensive, than my bed. She was snoring loud enough that we both had to speak up.

  “Which side of the street was he jogging on?” I asked. I had turned down the coffee.

  “The far side. Mia’s side.”

  “Going which direction?”

  “Uh, heading away from me.” He pointed. “Up the street.”

  “So west?” I said.

  “If you say so,” Lucian said. “Well, yeah, I guess it is west, because that’s where the sun sets.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Yes, but it’s going to sound very generic. Average height and weight. Just another jogger.”

  “Color of hair?”

  “I’d guess dark blond or light brown, but he was wearing a baseball cap, so I don’t really know for sure.”

  “Could it have been dark brown or black?” I said, to see how confident he was in what he’d seen.

  “It could have been, yeah,” Lucian said.

  Crud.

  “How old was he?”

  “Sorry, no idea,” Lucian said. “He was too far away. He moved like a fairly young man, but that doesn’t mean he was.”

  “Clothes?” I asked.

  “Blue shorts and a white T-shirt,” Lucian said. “Positive about that.”

  “Was there anything memorable about him at all? Was he juggling chainsaws or missing a leg?”

  Lucian appeared reasonably amused. “The only thing memorable—and I don’t know if it actually qualifies—is that he was carrying a water bottle, like one of those squirt bottles that bicyclists use. Do joggers usually carry water bottles when they run?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “You don’t jog?”

  “I don’t carry water bottles.”

  Lucian smiled and said something, but the dog snored with such force, I couldn’t make it out. Lucian said, “Gwendolyn,” rousing her enough that the snoring stopped. “She has a deviated septum. Can you believe I’m considering spending a thousand dollars to get it fixed?”

  “I have a Dremel you can use,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  I shook my head. “Never mind. Bad joke. So did this jogger appear interested in Mia’s house? Did he slow down as he went past?”

  “Honestly, I’m not even sure he did go past, as opposed to going into Mia’s backyard. I was outside, grabbing the newspaper, and I saw him, just for a moment. Then I turned and came back inside. It couldn’t have been more than three or four minutes later when I heard Regina yelling. She’s right next door. She was yelling for someone to call 9-1-1.”

  “And did you come outside then?” I was starting to sound like an attorney questioning a witness on the stand.

  “I did, and at first I didn’t see or hear anything, but then I saw the smoke rising up from behind Mia’s house. I went over there, and Regina was already hosing it down. There was only the one hose, so I ran back over here to grab a fire extinguisher. But by the time I got back, Regina had it under control.”

  “Any sign of the jogger when you came outside the second time, after Regina started yelling?”

  “Nope.”

  “Anyone else hanging around?” I asked.

  “At first, no, but eventually some other neighbors started coming out of their houses, especially after the fire trucks showed up. A crowd gathered in front of Regina’s house.”

  “You recognized everybody?” I asked.

  “I did, yes.”

  “Did any of your neighbors mention seeing the jogger, or any other stranger hanging around?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Gwendolyn started snoring again.

  I was running out of questions. The description Lucian had given me could have matched either Shane Moyer or Jens Buerger. Or maybe twenty thousand other youngish men in the city.

  I said, “Does everyone on the street get along okay? Any feuds or arguments?”

  Lucian didn’t react to the implications of those questions, but that was probably because the cops had already asked the same thing. “No problems at all, as far as I know. Everybody gets along great.”

  I sat for a moment, thinking. Lucian waited patiently. I said, “If I think of more questions later, can I call you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I was starting to feel guilty. I was investigating the arson when I should have been concentrating on locating Boz Gentry. Mia would be pissed, because she wouldn’t want her personal troubles to hinder our latest investigation, and I could understand that.

  On the other hand, screw it.

  If you drive west from Mia’s house—as I did now—after three blocks, her street dead-ends at Lake Austin Boulevard, which, as the name implies, runs along the edge of the lake. Now I was directly across from a small park with a boat ramp. I turned left, then turned left again, to enter a large parking area for the waterfront restaurants across the street. One was a popular place called the Hula Hut, always hopping with tourists, frat boys, hipsters, and enough young, attractive women that crass types sometimes called it “the Butt Hut.”

  I found a spot and parked. Here in this lot—this was my guess as to where the arsonist had left his vehicle. He’d be a lot less noticeable here than parking along a curb in the adjoining neighborhood itself. Easier to blend right in with the crowds. Even right now, well after lunch and hours before dinner, there were lots of customers making their way from the parking lot to the restaurants.

  I’d been here plenty of times myself, but now I was looking at the area from a different perspective, and with particular questi
ons in mind. If I were the arsonist, what would I do with the container that had carried the gasoline? Toss it or take it with me? On the one hand, I’d be tempted to carry it away from the scene, so that it wouldn’t be found later. But I’d also be paranoid. What if I got pulled over with the container in my vehicle?

  I strolled around the parking lot, searching for a discarded water bottle—like the squirt bottles that bicyclists use. Couldn’t find one. Then I even poked around in a few garbage cans, prompting one passing group of sorority girls to make various sounds of disgust. They thought I was an indigent, and it made me consider my clothing choices. I called out that I’d found half a burrito and I was willing to share. No takers.

  At one point, my phone rang, but caller I.D. didn’t reveal who it was, so I didn’t answer. The caller didn’t leave a voicemail. Probably a wrong number.

  I left the parking lot and began walking back toward Mia’s house, studying each home closely as I went. Most of the homes were fairly small and not ostentatious, but the location alone jacked up the appraised value. All in all, it was a nice, quiet neighborhood, with a different type of class than, say, Alex Albeck’s gated community.

  I was less than a block from Mia’s house when I finally spotted what I was looking for. A small limestone home on the south side had a security camera mounted on the garage, and it was aimed straight out the driveway toward the street. If it was a real camera, not a dummy, and if the homeowner actually had it turned on, then there was a chance the jogger had been recorded as he passed by. If he hadn’t turned at the intersection between here and Mia’s house. Okay, that was a lot of ifs, but it was worth checking.

  I knocked. Nobody answered. Knocked again. No luck. I left a brief note—one that might’ve accidentally given the recipient the impression that I was an investigator with the city—saying I would be grateful if they would give me a call.

  19

  I bought a six-pack of longnecks on the way back to my apartment. It still felt somewhat odd to walk into any establishment and purchase alcohol. After all, my probation had ended less than six weeks ago. My second term of probation, to be specific.

  I’d had some legal troubles a few years ago and I was lucky that I hadn’t served any time.

  It had started when I was still working as a news cameraman. My boss was a colossal dickhead, and I occasionally have a short fuse, and those two factors proved volatile one afternoon when he called a female reporter a cunt. I hate that word. Always have. So much misogyny and sexism crammed into four little letters. So I broke the weasel’s nose with a microphone stand. I’m not going to lie—it felt great. Getting arrested didn’t. Neither did getting fired. I received probation on a plea deal because the boss didn’t want his rich history as a minor-league sexual harasser to be brought up during a trial.

  Fine by me.

  It turned out for the best, because unemployment forced me to be creative in my career choices. I branched out in a new direction. Legal videography. Self-employed, of course. Who needs another boss?

  I cruised through that probation period with no problems, but not long afterward, I got pulled over for suspicion of drunken driving. Fortunately, the Breathalyzer showed that I was under the legal limit. But the cops found some pills in my van—pills that I had been taking on a few occasions to stay awake during late-night stakeouts.

  How dumb is that?

  Probation was longer this time, but once again, I sailed right through. Now I was free and clear. I could drink a cold beer or three when I was so inclined, and there were times when I did just that. But I was also pleased to find that I didn’t crave it as much as I used to. Drinking beer wasn’t as much of a habit or a routine as it had been before.

  I walked through the door of my apartment, and a few seconds later Mia stepped out from the spare bedroom. She was holding her cell phone, as if she’d just completed a call, and she had an expression on her face that I didn’t quite know how to interpret. Amusement? Bafflement? Confusion?

  I stopped in the doorway, key still in hand. I wasn’t ready for more bad news.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah...”

  “What’s going on?” I asked, closing the door behind me.

  “You’ll never guess who just called me.”

  “Uh, Mickey Thomas, my old friend from Cub Scouts? That would be weird, because I haven’t seen him in 25 years, and you don’t even know—”

  “It was Laura.”

  I frowned. “Laura?”

  “Your ex-wife?”

  “No, I know—but why did she call you?”

  “She wanted—I think she was trying to get a third-party opinion on whether it was a good idea to go through with Hannah’s visit. Like, reassurance that everything would be okay. Remember, it’s been a lot of years since she last saw you. She doesn’t know what you’re like now. I can understand her apprehension, to be honest.”

  I guess I could, too. I took this to be a good sign.

  I said, “So you told her... ?”

  “That you were a meth addict who frequented underage prostitutes. You big dork. What do you think I told her?”

  I pulled a bottle of beer out of the carton, twisted the cap, and handed it to her. “That I am perhaps the finest man you’ve ever known?”

  She took a drink, keeping her eyes on me the entire time. Was it my imagination, or was she a little flushed in the face? Was that because I’d guessed what she'd actually told Laura?

  She lowered the bottle and said, “Yeah, Roy, that’s exactly what I said. Then I pointed out that the only thing that eclipses your integrity is your rugged good looks.”

  “Which is odd,” I said, playing along, “because even though I am sort of a Tom Selleck, Matt Damon, and George Clooney all rolled into one, why would that even matter in this situation? Why would my stunningly handsome appearance factor in?”

  “Well, you know how women get when they’re around you.”

  “I do.”

  “We can’t think straight. We might start out talking about your rock-solid character and your finely tuned moral compass—”

  “And how humble I am,” I added.

  “Exactly. But pretty soon we’re giggling like pre-teens and raving about how dreamy you are. We can’t help it.”

  “It can be quite embarrassing,” I said.

  “No doubt,” Mia said.

  It was a nice moment, this teasing back and forth. When Laura and I were married, we never had moments like this.

  I opened a bottle of beer for myself, and Mia said, “Is your hand still bothering you?”

  “A little.”

  “You just winced when you opened that beer,” she said. “You need to ice it.”

  “The beer? Good idea.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Why do I bother?”

  “What did you really tell Laura?” I said.

  “Seriously? You want me to recount my glowing description of you word for word?”

  “No need for that,” I said. “A brief written synopsis will suffice. Or even a list of bullet points.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe I should call her back and revise my opinion.”

  Take one step forward, I was thinking. Put your arms around her. Kiss her. See how she responds.

  But I couldn’t do it. Amazing how gutless I can be. What’s the worst that could happen? That I would be wrong about how she felt?

  “Roy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You okay? This funny look suddenly came over your face.”

  “No, I’m fine, sorry. I was just thinking about Hannah. I really want to see her.”

  It was Mia who took the step forward. She placed her left hand on my right arm, patting it. A consoling gesture.

  “This is only a guess,” she said, “but I’m pretty sure Laura is planning to go ahead with it. Based on some things she said.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, I really appreciate you t
alking to her.”

  There was a moment of silence, with Mia standing so close I swear I could feel the heat coming off her body.

  Do it. Kiss her.

  My phone came alive with the opening bars of “Taking Care of Business” by Bachman-Turner Overdrive. My ring tone for Heidi. Maybe I was mistaken, but it appeared Mia was disappointed by the interruption. I know I was. But I had to answer. If Heidi was calling late on a Sunday afternoon, there was probably a good reason for it.

  “Hey, there,” I said.

  “I’m not one to resort to clichés, but are you sitting down right now?” Heidi asked.

  “No, I am currently in the downward dog position,” I said.

  “I just got a call from one of my bosses, who got a call from the Hays County sheriff.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Boz Gentry’s insurance agent, Tyler Lutz? He was found dead a few hours ago.”

  20

  Mia drove her Mustang while I sat in the passenger seat, surfing the web, trying to learn more. I also had my iPhone scanner app tuned to the Hays County Sheriff’s Office, but I doubted we’d get any new details there, because the cops were usually tight-lipped over the airways.

  Heidi had had very little information to share, beyond the fact that Tyler Lutz was dead.

  “How’d he die?” I’d asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  “An accident?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Where’d it happen?”

  “That I do know. His house.”

  So Mia and I were heading over there, with the hopes that we could hang around on the periphery and maybe ask a few pertinent questions of the investigators. Not Ruelas, because this wasn’t his county, but I knew a handful of Hays County cops, and with luck, one of them would have caught this case.

  “The Statesman is saying ‘Man found dead outside Dripping Springs home,’” I said. “He hasn’t been officially identified. ‘Police have not determined the cause of death, but homicide detectives are classifying it as suspicious.’”