Now You See Him (Roy Ballard Book 4) Read online

  “I’ve never been very good at saying it,” she said.

  I just held her.

  “You had a right to be mad,” she said.

  In the past, with some of the other women I’d dated, I might’ve been inclined to feel vindication in a moment like this. I might not have voiced it, but I would’ve felt that I’d won a small victory by being “right.” Not now, though. Not with Mia. All I felt was relief that we were putting the tension and the anger behind us. I didn’t give a damn which one of us had “won” the argument.

  “So did you,” I said. “I was a jerk about it.”

  “Y’all get a room,” a voice called.

  It was Regina, who had noticed us while walking out to get her mail.

  Mia giggled. I gave Regina a wave.

  “That sounds like a good idea to me,” Mia said in my ear, and she led me inside.

  I was sleeping so soundly that when my phone issued an alert at 2:16 that morning, I didn’t wake up. But Mia did. She grabbed my phone off the nightstand and looked at it. And she knew exactly what the alert meant, because she had used that same GPS tracking app many times.

  When I did wake up, she said, “So you’ve got a tracker on his car?”

  I was groggy. Still not understanding the situation. “What? Whose car?”

  “Garlen’s,” she said, and my eyes popped open with sudden dread. She was propped on one elbow, still holding my phone. It was too dark in the room for me to make out the expression on her face.

  My first inclination was to make a joke, but I resisted. Instead I said, “I do, yeah.”

  Then I waited. How would she respond? I figured she might be even angrier than she’d been two days ago. Surely disaster was forthcoming. I had crossed a line.

  She said, “When?”

  “Thursday afternoon.”

  “So right after we talked about him?” Her voice was neutral.

  “A few hours later.”

  She didn’t say anything for a long while. I think she was processing it—trying to decide just how large my transgression was.

  “Is this the first alert you’ve received?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  She punched the home button on my phone and brought up the screen again. Then she opened the tracking app and checked Garlen’s recent movements.

  “He drove west all the way to the end of Enfield, then took a left on Lake Austin Boulevard,” she said.

  Enfield Road, south of Mia’s house, would’ve been just inside the three-hundred-yard range I’d set up for alerts.

  There was one big question in my mind. Why was a newly sober man out and about in the middle of the night, specifically right after the bars had closed? I didn’t need to say it out loud. Perhaps Garlen had fallen off the wagon. Mia was certainly wondering the same thing, and she was probably checking his earlier movements right now.

  “Until twenty minutes ago,” Mia said, “he was downtown—on Fifth Street. At one of those condo highrises. He’d been there since about seven this evening. Right now he’s on MoPac, going north.”

  I knew that Garlen lived in Northwest Hills, so he was likely headed home. But why had he driven west on Enfield first? Had he been planning to drive past Mia’s house, and then he changed his mind? Had he gotten distracted and missed a turn?

  Mia set my phone down on the bedspread.

  I reached out and clasped her hand, and she clasped back. Good sign.

  “I want to forget about him for good,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about him. Don’t want to think about him. Let’s just pretend he doesn’t exist, okay? And if he contacts me again, I will report the violation. Sound like a reasonable plan?”

  Sounded perfect to me, so I nodded.

  “You need to remove the tracker,” she said.

  “I will.”

  She put her head back on her pillow and cradled my hand under her chin. In less than three minutes, she was asleep again. It took me considerably longer.

  When I woke up the next morning, Mia was in the shower, so I grabbed my phone and checked on Garlen. He had continued home last night and hadn’t moved since. Not surprising, considering it was Saturday. I would keep tabs on him more closely now, so I could figure out a good time to remove the tracker. I changed the settings to alert me the next time his car went anywhere. I also clicked a switch that would allow Mia to see the tracker from the app on her phone, in case Garlen came near her house again.

  Then I lay quietly and thought about the Jeremy Sawyer case. I was at another standstill, with no idea how to proceed. I had followed every possible investigative trail I could think of, with very little to show for it.

  I decided I would spend one more day working on the case. If I couldn’t make additional progress, I would live with the fact that something bad happened on the boat that night, and I’d never know what it was. Neither would Heidi or her family.

  Problem was, I had no idea what to do next. I couldn’t force anyone involved to tell me what they were covering up. I couldn’t badger Harvey or any of the other customers into remembering what had happened.

  The shower shut off. Now I was picturing Mia in there toweling off. It was much more fun than thinking about the case. The more I thought about her, the more I realized that the case could wait for another hour or so.

  “Need some help in there?” I called.

  I called Starlyn Kurtis again, got voicemail again, and left a message again. This one was much longer than the first.

  “Hi, Starlyn. It’s Roy Ballard. I left you a message two days ago about Jeremy Sawyer. What I’m about to say might make no sense to you at all, and if that’s the case, you can completely ignore it. But I’m guessing you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about. So here’s the situation. I know that something happened on the party barge that nobody wants to talk about. I still don’t know exactly what it was, but I will find out eventually. I always do, because I am very good at my job. At that point—if the truth has to come out against the will of the people who know what happened—well, that will not be a good thing. Much better if someone steps forward voluntarily and tells the story. I’m thinking that person should be you. I realize that various people are probably putting pressure on you to keep quiet, but you have to ask yourself if that’s the best idea. What will happen if you don’t come forward and I find out what happened? How will that affect your future? I’ve done a little research about you, and my understanding is that you are an intelligent woman. My advice is to use your brains and get a handle on this now, before it gets any worse. That could minimize the impact this situation has on your life, and on Anson’s, too, if he was somehow involved. Give me a call and let’s talk. I will do my best to help you.”

  I hung up. Eric Moss had promised to get me charged with harassment if I called her again, and now I’d done just that. Not that Moss could actually have me charged, because my calling Starlyn wasn’t a crime. But it would be interesting to see how Moss might respond, assuming Starlyn told him about the call.

  I remained seated on Mia’s couch and enjoyed the peace and quiet. She had gone to see her hair stylist, for a trim and to get her roots “highlighted.”

  “Oh, you mean bleached?” I’d asked.

  “No, no,” she said. “We don’t use that word. We say ‘highlighted.’”

  “Is there any bleach involved?” I asked. “Or any product that has a bleaching effect?”

  “Don’t make me smack you,” she’d said.

  I’d been tempted to ask for her help on this case, but she deserved a few days off after closing the Dennis Babcock case. She had already informed the client that the Babcock family would be contacting the media at noon today to reverse their opinion about tetanus shots. It would be interesting to see how much play that got on the news. I was guessing it would be very little. It was big news when a man claimed that a shot had basically crippled him, but recanting that claim wasn’t nearly as interesting, was it?

  I let my thoughts wand
er and created a mental list.

  Adam “Meatball” Dudley.

  Gilbert Holloway.

  Eric Moss.

  Dirk “Creek Guy” Crider.

  Starlyn Kurtis.

  Anson Byrd.

  At least one, and probably more, of these people knew what happened on the boat. Harvey Selberg might know, too, but his memory had been obliterated by alcohol and he might never remember clearly. Anybody sober enough to have a memory of that night had already been questioned by deputies and investigators.

  Whatever had happened, it hadn’t been murder. Jeremy Sawyer had drowned. There was no dispute about that. So what did that leave? Had a crime been committed on the barge? If so, what kind of crime? If something had happened that wasn’t a crime, what was it? Why cover it up? Jeremy Sawyer had flipped backwards over the railing of his own accord, so it appeared to me that nobody else was culpable in his death.

  But if someone else had been partially culpable, who?

  Anson Byrd immediately sprang to mind.

  Of the six people on my mental list, he was, in my opinion, the one most likely to have done something that the rest of them were hiding. He was also the only one I hadn’t talked to or tried to contact. Was it time to change that? Just like Starlyn Kurtis, he probably wouldn’t accept or return my calls. Hell, it was often difficult to get perfectly innocent people to return calls.

  But I placed a call anyway. Not to Anson Byrd, because I didn’t have his number. I called Dirk Crider.

  “Hey,” he said with almost no enthusiasm, obviously recognizing my number.

  “Isn’t it a fantastic morning in Austin, Texas?” I said cheerfully.

  “I guess.”

  “Need a little favor,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Anson Byrd’s number.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “I think you’re mistaken,” I said.

  “I really don’t. Me and Anson don’t hang.”

  “Dirk, you’re forgetting something.”

  “Huh?”

  “You agreed to tell me the truth. And to answer all my questions. Plus, if push comes to shove, I can check your phone records and see if you’re being straight with me. It’s just that asking you for the number is a lot easier, and I always prefer the easy route. I’m basically lazy. It’s one of my many shortcomings.”

  Accessing his phone records would be difficult if not impossible, but he wouldn’t know that.

  After a pause, he said, “I can probably get it.”

  He didn’t want to admit he had lied.

  “That would be dandy,” I said. “And please tell your imaginary source I said thank you.”

  “Whatever.”

  Seven minutes later, he texted it to me.

  24

  I called the number and got voicemail, as expected. Yo, it’s Anson. I probably won’t listen to your message, but you can leave one if you want.

  “Anson, my name is Roy Ballard. I’ve been calling Starlyn, but I’m guessing you know that. Time is running out. You really need to give me a call, and the sooner the better. That’s all I have to say. You know what this is about.”

  I disconnected.

  Empty threats. I had nothing.

  I fixed myself some scrambled eggs and bacon, then made one more desperate phone call. This one went to Detective Ruelas. He surprised me by answering, but then I quickly understood why.

  “Been getting yourself into all kinds of shit lately, from what I’ve heard,” he said.

  “Try not to sound so giddy about it,” I said.

  “Can’t help myself. The thought of you in jail makes me smile.”

  “So does kicking puppies,” I said. “But it ain’t gonna happen.”

  “I don’t know. Two against one.”

  He was referring to Gilbert Holloway and Meatball claiming I’d committed assault.

  “Any idea where that stands?” I asked. “Has Holloway met with a detective yet?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

  “Did you catch the case yourself?”

  “That I can tell you, and the answer is no. Unfortunately. Woulda been the highlight of my career locking you up.”

  “Except that I’m innocent.”

  “I’ve never heard that before.”

  “Why would I punch the guy?” I asked.

  “I can’t think of any good reason, except, of course, the fact that you’re an asshole.”

  “He’s lying, and if you’d just figure out what happened on that boat, then we’d all know why.”

  “I already told your much smarter partner that it was a drowning. End of story.”

  “I’m not necessarily talking about the death of Jeremy Sawyer—at least not directly,” I said. “I think something else happened out there, and they’re trying to stop me from looking into it.”

  “Who is?”

  “Gilbert Holloway and Eric Moss.”

  “Maybe you’re just annoying the shit out of them.”

  “So as far as you’re concerned, the case is closed?”

  “Not closed, but inactive.”

  “What about Harvey Selberg? Why was he burglarized and assaulted?”

  “Okay, smart guy. Are you saying you have evidence that ties the Selberg case to something that happened on the barge?”

  “Seems like it would be.”

  “Brilliant. Seems like. It’s real easy to come up with theories without any proof, isn’t it? Hey, maybe Selberg knows where Amelia Earhart crashed, but somebody wants it covered up.”

  “Then give me a good reason why Holloway is trying to stop my investigation,” I said.

  “I love it when you use that word. Investigation. Like you know what you’re doing.”

  “Don’t duck the question. Why is Holloway trying to stop me?”

  “You keep saying that, but you’ve got shit to back it up.”

  I thought about Dirk Crider and his confession. If I shared that with Ruelas, he’d know that my claims about Holloway were accurate. But I wasn’t ready to give Dirk up just yet.

  “The fact that Holloway fabricated a charge against me is evidence in itself,” I said.

  “Look,” Ruelas said, plainly reaching the end of his rope. “If some other crime was committed out there, nobody saw it and there wasn’t a victim. We talked to everyone on that boat, and we looked at hundreds of photos, and it was exactly what it appears to be—a drowning.”

  A text from Mia popped onto my screen. Just saw an article about Dennis Babcock’s retraction. Client is thrilled.

  I sent her a thumbs-up.

  “Can you send me some of those other photos?” I asked.

  “Because you’ll find something we missed, right? You are a fucking piece of work.”

  “Obviously, my skills could never match those of the infamous Detective Ruelas,” I said, “but what would it hurt to let me have a look?”

  “Because—and try to keep up with me here—you are not an employee of the Travis County Sheriff’s Office. Nor could you ever hope to be.”

  “That last part was just rude,” I said. Then I said, “What if there was another crime, but the people who saw it didn’t know it was a crime?”

  “What the fuck’re you talking about?”

  Truth was, I didn’t know. I was just brainstorming, as Mia and I did sometimes, but Ruelas wasn’t the type to play along.

  “Use your imagination,” I said. “That’s the thing wedged between your obstinacy and your preconceived notions.”

  He let out a long sigh. “I’m gonna share one more detail with you, because you’re gonna find out eventually from Heidi, and because maybe, just maybe, it will shut you up about this case.”

  I said nothing, because I didn’t want to risk him changing his mind about whatever was forthcoming.

  He said, “This is all according to Starlyn Kurtis’s attorney. What happened was, her boyfriend went to the bathroom, and while he was
gone, Jeremy Sawyer started flirting with her again. He asked for a kiss on the cheek, and she thought, Okay, what the hell—this guy is sweet and harmless. So she goes to kiss him, but Jeremy got clever and turned his head at the last second, so she kissed him on the lips instead. She said it was funny because he tricked her. Not a big deal at all. Only problem was, Anson Byrd came back just in time to see it. He obviously wasn’t happy about it, and when he came to talk to Jeremy about it, Jeremy flipped backward over the railing to get away. They didn’t realize at the time that he never came out of the water, but fifteen or twenty minutes later, people started noticing he wasn’t on the boat.”

  Finally we had the missing piece of the puzzle—and it was anything but satisfying. Like when a firecracker fizzles, but doesn’t explode. Nobody had done anything illegal that night, and the crew on the boat certainly wasn’t liable for what had happened.

  Okay, but why would Gilbert Holloway claim I’d assaulted him? Why send a goon after me? Maybe it was a misguided attempt to protect Starlyn’s reputation. Suppose, for instance, she wanted to run for office herself someday. Even years from now, her opponents could dig up media reports of the barge incident and use them against her. They’d paint it as something worse than it had been, twisting facts in an attempt to make Starlyn appear responsible for Jeremy’s death. That was the way things went in politics today. So Holloway tried to cover it up. Maybe Eric Moss had paid him to do it. Maybe we’d never know all the details.

  “When did you learn about this?” I asked.

  “About thirty minutes ago. Starlyn’s attorney called and said she wanted to revise her statement about what happened that night. The part about the kiss—she’d suddenly remembered that part.”

  “Right,” I said. “Suddenly remembered.”

  “Funny how that works.”

  It wasn’t lost on me that the attorney had called Ruelas not long after I’d left those voicemails for Starlyn and Anson—meaning my pressure on them appeared to have worked—but I was too dispirited to even gloat about it.

  “Still doesn’t mean she’s telling us everything,” I said. “Maybe Anson threatened Jeremy.”

  “Maybe, but the bottom line is, he didn’t touch Jeremy Sawyer. Shitty situation, but that’s what it is.”