Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) Page 19

  Red figured he could get used to this vice president stuff real quick. Here it was ten o’clock—a time when he’d normally be working his ass off in the brush—but instead, he was back at the Dairy Queen enjoying a couple of breakfast tacos.

  He’d already spoken to most of the men on the work crews and told them what’s what: that Slaton was gone and Red was ramrodding this operation now. Most of them hadn’t even batted an eye. Of course, the majority of them were illegals and couldn’t speak good English, so Red wasn’t sure they had understood. But the important thing was, they were off doing the work while Red and Billy Don were sitting in air-conditioned comfort.

  Last night, Red had told Billy Don everything the Austin lawyer had said. But he hadn’t sprung the Big Idea on Billy Don yet—the major brainstorm that Red had had while lying in bed. With Billy Don, you had to take things kind of slow or the big man would flip out. He wasn’t a big-picture kind of guy like Red was. You had to work up to important stuff one step at a time. Hell, half the battle was just getting the man’s attention, getting him to focus for even just a few minutes. It was like he had that attention-defecate disorder or something.

  “I used to work here, ya know,” Red said. “Back when I was a kid.”

  Billy Don nodded, unhearing, as he peeled back the foil from his fourth taco. The man could demolish a taco in two bites.

  “I was the cook,” Red continued. “Man, I only earned a couple bucks an hour, but I bet I ate twenty bucks’ worth of food during every shift.”

  That caught Billy Don’s attention, pulling his eyes from his taco for a second. “What, you just grabbed whatever you wanted?”

  “Hell, yeah. A burger or two, a big order of onion rings, maybe a couple of corny dogs. And that was just the appetizer.”

  Billy Don searched Red’s face for a lie. “Shee-yit.”

  “The God’s truth. Hell, the owner was never around. He always left his twin daughters in charge.” Red let out a whistle. “Good-lookin’, too. I wonder whatever happened to those two. I used to call one Beltbuster and the other Hungerbuster.” Red chuckled. Yep, those were the times.

  Billy Don didn’t respond.

  “Don’t you get it?” Red said. “That’s what the hamburgers are called.”

  Billy Don glanced at the menu above the serving counter. “What’d they call you? DQ Dude?” Billy Don grinned, chunks of sausage caught between his teeth.

  “Har-de-har-har,” Red said. He watched an elderly couple trudge out the door to a waiting RV. Snowbirds, probably—Yankees carrying their tired asses down to the warm Rio Grande Valley for the winter.

  Red waited until Billy Don had a mouthful of taco before he said, “Listen, we need to talk a little more ’bout that lawyer what called last night. See, there’s somethin’ that’s gotta happen before the company is all mine.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well,” Red looked around the room, checking for eavesdroppers, “they gotta find the body,” he whispered.

  A confused expression crossed Billy Don’s face and he set his taco down on a napkin.

  “Relax, it’s no big deal,” Red said. “They just need to make sure Mr. Slaton ain’t still alive. That lawyer would look like a reg’lar moron if he signed the company over to me and then Slaton showed up again, wouldn’t he? On the other hand, it’s a real pisser if you think about it. For instance, what if they don’t never find the body? That’s entirely possible, you know. Then where would we be? This thing could drag out for years—buncha lawsuits and torts and expositions. Now, that’s something we’d all love to avoid, wouldn’t we?”

  Billy Don belched, loosing a torrent of noxious air in Red’s direction. “What do you mean, ‘we’? You got a mouse in your pocket? I don’t see how this affects me none.”

  Red could tell from Billy Don’s tone that the giant man was pouting a little. Hell, Red couldn’t blame him. If the positions were reversed—with Billy Don owning the company—Red would fully expect Billy Don to share a little of his good fortune. More important, Red knew he would need Billy Don at his side in the days to come.

  “Aw, now, you don’t think I’m forgettin’ about my best buddy, do ya?”

  Billy Don stuck his bottom lip out a little but didn’t reply.

  “Well, hell, Billy Don, I was gettin’ to that.” Red stood up beside the booth and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentleman, may I have your attention, please?”

  There were only three other occupied tables in the restaurant: two sets of gray hairs and a trio of young punks who were likely skipping school. Red waved his arms with an elaborate flourish. “I’m pleased to present to you the new office management supervisor of Slaton Brush Removal, Incorporated.” The retirees were happy to provide an arthritic round of applause. One of the schoolkids simply muttered, “Dorks.”

  Red could see that Billy Don was trying to stifle a grin, but it broke through anyway. “Come on, Red, sit down. You’re ’barrasin’ me.”

  Red sat back down and patted Billy Don on the shoulder. “Congratulations, big man. You deserve it. Now, for your first official act as office management supervisor...”

  Billy Don had already gone back to his food.

  “... you’re gonna help me look for Mr. Slaton’s body.”

  Billy Don stopped assaulting his taco.

  “And,” Red said, “I got a pretty good idea how we’re gonna go about it.”

  Sitting in his sedan near the sheriff’s office, far enough away to be discreet, Smedley Poindexter munched a king-sized bag of potato chips and pondered recent events in Blanco County. The hostage situation had made the Austin newscast last night. Smedley had done a little checking into it, and had then stumbled upon a new missing-persons case: a rancher named Emmett Slaton. That was enough to put him back into his car early this morning, heading for Blanco County.

  On the surface, there was no indication that Salvatore Mameli had had anything to do with the standoff or the disappearance of Slaton. But Smedley had to wonder. Too often, things seemed to “just happen” in the vicinity of guys like Mameli.

  Smedley was proud to be a federal deputy marshal, but there were times when he felt somewhat guilty being involved with the witness protection program. Of course, some participants in the program were simply that: witnesses. Good people who were willing to stand up and do what’s right, even though it meant placing themselves at risk.

  But plenty of people in the program were criminals—evil, brutal, coldhearted men like Mameli—who had turned on their own kind and had no choice but to go underground.

  And what does the federal government decide to do with men like that? Give them total immunity for their crimes, then relocate them to peaceful, suburban neighborhoods. So all of a sudden, the Joneses—a nice hard-working family with cute kids, a Labrador retriever, and a barbecue grill in the backyard—have a murderer or drug dealer living next door. Worse yet, they have no idea who they’re dealing with, and Smedley can’t even warn them.

  This wouldn’t be so bad if the program worked the way it was supposed to. But too often, the recently relocated scumbag continues living the way he always has. He sets up shop, earning a living the only way he knows how. Smedley often wondered: Was the attorney general’s office putting a dent into organized crime, or were they really just helping the mob set up branch offices around the country instead?

  He’d discussed this with a couple of fellow marshals on one occasion. One of them was that asshole Todd. Todd listened to what Smedley had to say, then said, “God, quit your worrying. Go eat a Twinkie or something.” He threw his arm in the air and made that familiar elephant-trumpeting sound. Everybody laughed, and Smedley even tried to join in.

  But inside, Smedley was upset. So upset that he didn’t go eat a Twinkie as Todd had suggested. He might have had a Ding Dong or two, but no, not a Twinkie.

  “We clear on what I need you to do?” Sal asked, his speech slurred by the painkillers. He was home now, in his own bed, fading in and o
ut of sleep.

  Vinnie nodded, almost too excited to speak. He was seeing way more action than he ever had back in Jersey. This was fucking awesome. With his dad laid up, Vinnie was now more in charge of things than ever before. It was a rush.

  “Yeah, yeah, Pop. Trust me, I won’t let you down.”

  “I know you won’t, Vinnie. You’re a good kid.” He patted Vinnie’s hand, and Vinnie felt like he had just been blessed by the Pope.

  As Sal nodded off, Vinnie’s mind was racing. Oh man, the possibilities were just too goddamn cool.

  The Blanco County Public Works Department consisted of eleven employees, but only two were project managers. One was Bert Gammel, the other was Maynard Clements. When Marlin entered the PWD offices in the courthouse, he found Clements—a gangly, bald man in his forties—sitting at his desk in a corner office, on the phone. Clements waved toward a chair, and Marlin took a seat. Clements appeared to be speaking to someone about road construction somewhere in the county. After a few minutes, he wrapped up the conversation and turned to Marlin. “John, good to see you. You doing all right?”

  “Just fine, Maynard. How’s the family?” Marlin remembered that Clements’s wife had recently given birth to their third child.

  “Oh, doing great,” Clements said. “Have you seen the newest one yet?” He turned a framed photo on his desk in Marlin’s direction. “Henry Stanton Clements.”

  “Good-lookin’ boy,” Marlin said.

  Clements made a little more small talk, mostly about the lack of sleep in his household. “But I wouldn’t change a thing,” Clements said. “He’s my first boy, and he’s worth the four A.M. feedings. There’s nothing quite like being a daddy, John. You oughta give it a try.”

  Marlin forced a smile, wondering if Clements was fishing for information about Becky. Clements had tried to set Marlin up with one of his sisters a few years back, a date that hadn’t worked out too well. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it, Maynard,” Marlin said, deflecting the comment.

  “Well, anyway.” Clements took the hint and changed the subject. “What can I do for you? You still lobbying for more boat ramps out at the reservoir? I tell ya, I wish we had the budget for it.”

  Marlin leaned in a little closer, keeping his voice down. “No, actually I wanted to talk to you about Bert Gammel.”

  Clements looked confused. “Uh, no offense, but isn’t that being handled by the Sheriff’s Department? And I figured, with Jack Corey and this thing down at the courthouse...”

  “Garza asked me to give him a hand. I’m just looking into a few things.”

  Clements nodded. “Hmm. That’s interesting. Well, I’ll help if I can, but I’m not promising much.” He opened one of his desk drawers and came out with a pack of cigarettes. “You mind if we talk outside so I can grab a smoke? I’m trying to quit, but I haven’t had much luck yet.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Yeah, we’re both project managers,” Clements said, “but we really don’t work together—uh, didn’t work together—that often. See, most of the projects that come through our office can be handled by just one of us. I take care of most of the roadwork, and Bert handled structures. Like when they expanded the sheriff’s office last year, that was all Bert.”

  Marlin wiped his brow. It was humid as hell today, the temperature in the low eighties. Not a cloud in the sky. “But I’m sure you had a lot more interaction with Bert than the rest of the staff.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did.”

  “Then let me ask you: Did you notice anything unusual about Bert’s behavior in the last few months? Any changes in his lifestyle?”

  Clements’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “How do you mean?”

  “Ever see Gammel with any large amounts of cash? Maybe whipping out a roll of bills to pay for lunch?”

  Clements took a long drag on his cigarette and stared at the horizon. He finally exhaled and said, “You know, he did seem to have a little more money lately. Not that he was rolling in it or anything, from what I saw, but I know he wasn’t griping about bills as much as he used to. And he bought that Explorer a while back.”

  “Any idea where he would have gotten the money?”

  Clements rubbed a hand over his scalp. “No idea. Sorry.”

  Marlin felt as if he were groping in the dark. It was obvious that something strange had been going on with Gammel, but the facts remained elusive. Marlin was used to questioning poachers, who were relatively easy to figure out. Their motives were clear and their methods of operation rarely changed. This murder investigation, on the other hand, was like trying to grab a wisp of smoke.

  Marlin tried a new tack. “Did he ever mention any run-ins with anybody? Maybe some bad blood with somebody else in town?”

  “All that comes to mind about that is his feud with Jack Corey. He mentioned it a few times to a bunch of us in the coffee room.” Clements sucked on his cigarette again. “I know Corey seems all easygoing and everything, but if you ask me, Corey’s got a temper. At least from the things Bert told us. He said Corey pulled a knife on him once, out at the deer lease.”

  Marlin remembered what Lester Higgs had said about that incident: that Corey hadn’t actually pulled a knife, but had been using it to field-dress a deer.

  “And now with this thing at the Sheriff’s Department...” Clements continued. “This whole mess is a damn shame. Bert Gammel was a good man.”

  There was a bright yellow sticker on Bert Gammel’s front door:

  STOP!

  CRIME SCENE SEARCH AREA

  ENTRY PROHIBITED

  Premises sealed by Blanco County Sheriff’s Department

  Violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law

  It was a run-down two-bedroom house, maybe forty years old, with cedar siding and a sagging roof. Marlin used the key Garza had given him and stepped inside. The front door opened into the living room, a small area with nothing but a ratty couch, a worn end table, and an old console TV—the big wooden kind they used to make. Nearly as old as the house, Marlin guessed.

  Marlin stood for a moment, just looking and listening. He could hear water dripping somewhere, the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. The place smelled kind of funny.

  He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find, so he began with a casual tour through the house. He discovered something right off the bat: Bert Gammel was a world-class slob. Crusty dishes were piled in the kitchen sink, the bathtub was pocked with mildew, and the sheets on his bed looked like they might just crawl away. Beer cans and fast-food wrappers were strewn on stained carpets throughout the house. The tiny spare bedroom looked to be a makeshift office, with a rusty metal desk against the wall, but clutter had taken over. Two old bicycles. A disassembled lawn-mower that was leaking oil. A dozen boxes filled with old clothes. Six boxes of Playboy magazines, some from as far back as the 1970s. Everything had been opened and rooted through by the deputies. Marlin figured there were probably fewer Playboys now than before the search.

  Marlin was no neat freak, but he had no idea how a man could live like this. Coming home to a hovel like this would be depressing. And what about bringing a woman over? Either Gammel never did, or the kind of woman he brought home didn’t care.

  Marlin checked his watch—ten-fifteen—then began a slow, methodical search of the contents of the house. He knew he was covering ground the deputies had already covered. But maybe they had missed something. By the time they searched, their minds already had been on Jack Corey. They had their man, and they had plenty of evidence to back it up. So they might have gotten a little sloppy.

  As two hours passed, Marlin’s optimism faded. He had found some financial records in the metal desk, including a few months’ worth of bank statements, but nothing that shed any light on Gammel’s windfall. Marlin had spotted a pull-down ladder that led to the attic. Nothing up there but spiderwebs and rat droppings.

  This just wasn’t adding up. Gammel, according to witnesses, had always lived from payc
heck to paycheck. Then, suddenly, he was rolling in dough. Surely there would be some kind of records—if the money was legitimate. And if the money wasn’t legitimate, Gammel must have been dealing drugs or burglarizing houses or something.

  Or bribes. Maybe he was taking bribes.

  The thought struck Marlin out of nowhere. Gammel supervised large building projects for the county. Plenty of private contractors would want that kind of business, enough to pony up some cash to secure the contract. It was nothing new: People in Gammel’s position were bribed all the time. But Marlin had never heard of it happening in Blanco County. That was the kind of thing that happened on the East Coast, where mob bosses ruled the building industries with an iron fist. Try to bribe someone in Blanco County and they’d look at you like you were naked in church.