Now You See Him (Roy Ballard Book 4) Page 21

  “It can’t be theories, though,” he said. “You’ve got to have evidence. And right now, you’ve got nothing.”

  “I’m going to take that as a challenge,” I said.

  Bold talk.

  Empty talk, as it turned out.

  Another four days passed and I was beginning to accept that there was going to be no further resolution of the case. I couldn’t prove that Starlyn was driving the boat. I couldn’t prove that I’d been abducted and had been on the verge of drowning at the bottom of Lake Travis.

  So be it.

  Then a client sent us a fresh case, and I had no choice but to move on.

  The case was fairly simple and straightforward. A middle-aged couple had one son who’d received his driver’s license about a year earlier, but they’d never added him to their coverage. Who could blame them? Covering a teenager could be outrageously expensive. Problem was, the insurance company suspected that the teen was regularly driving at least one of the covered vehicles. Why? Because the family’s $90,000 Mercedes had been wrecked at 2:46 in the morning—late on a Saturday night or early Sunday morning, depending on how you looked at it. Estimated damage was $34,516.29.

  Here’s how it went. A woman living on a fairly busy but residential street was woken by the sound of a vehicle slamming into a light post. She went outside and found a damaged Mercedes, but no driver or any passengers. She called 911. A deputy arrived in seven minutes and searched the surrounding area for any injured persons. Came up empty. They found no blood in or around the vehicle.

  The obvious conclusion was that the driver had been intoxicated or otherwise impaired and had fled the scene. Happened frequently. A quick license plate check provided the owner’s name and an address less than a mile away. There, the deputy found two parents who had plainly been asleep, were not intoxicated, and did not appear injured in any way. The deputy explained the situation, and when he asked who had been driving the car, the parents—cooperative until that point—began to waffle.

  “Are you sure it’s our car?” the father asked.

  “Absolutely. VIN number matches. You have children?” the deputy asked.

  “A son,” the father answered.

  “He lives here with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where is he right now?”

  “He spent the night with a friend.”

  “How did he get there?”

  “The friend picked him up.”

  “So he was not driving your Mercedes?”

  “That’s exactly right,” the father said.

  “You understand that if your son was driving, he could be injured right now. On top of that, providing false information is a crime.”

  “I was driving the car,” the father said.

  “Sir,” the deputy said, preparing to warn the father further.

  “No, I was. I was disoriented after the crash, so I walked home. I was alone.”

  “You seem fine now.”

  “I know, right? I was more mentally shocked than anything. I wasn’t actually hurt.”

  “You were mentally shocked, and that made you disoriented?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did you suffer any memory loss?”

  “Uh, well, not that I know of.”

  The wife was lingering in the background, looking like she’d just smelled raw sewage. Not happy that the husband had chosen this route.

  “Where did the crash occur?” the deputy asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “If you were driving, you can tell me where the crash occurred. Can’t you?”

  “But I was disoriented.”

  “You just said you had no memory loss.”

  “Obviously I was wrong. Have I committed a crime?”

  “Leaving the scene is a class B misdemeanor,” the deputy said.

  “What, uh, is the penalty for—”

  “Six months in jail and a fine up to two thousand dollars. Sure you want to stick with that story?”

  “What I want to do,” the father said, “is talk to my lawyer.”

  Our job, obviously, was to capture video of the son driving the mother’s car, a Jaguar F-type convertible, or the dad’s Chevrolet rental, and we’d get brownie points if we could document evidence of any injury the son might have received, which was unlikely now, because the crash had taken place nearly two weeks earlier.

  In the meantime, the deputy had gone ahead with charges against the father for leaving the scene of the crash, but that probably wouldn’t stick, because the father’s lawyer would repeat the claim of disorientation, which would probably work. In other words, the father’s dishonesty had paid off. So far.

  Mia and I took turns keeping the kid under watch as discreetly as possible. On the first few days—weekdays—he rode to school with a friend who lived in the neighborhood, and after that, there was no need for us to watch him until school had gotten out.

  Complicating matters was the fact that the family lived in a gated community in the suburbs west of Austin. Gated communities sucked for us. There were tricks we could use to get in and out for short visits, but setting up surveillance on a house for a full evening was out of the question. That meant we had to set up as close to the gate as possible and keep an eye out for the Jaguar or the rental. The road out of the neighborhood fed onto Loop 360, one of the main north-south thoroughfares in Austin. Fortunately, there was a strip center near that intersection that provided a good place to park and watch.

  On Saturday, I was waiting in my van when the Jaguar passed with the top down. Mom driving, son in passenger seat. I followed as they went to the Domain, an upscale shopping center in the north part of town. They parked outside a shop called Aldo and the mother went inside. The kid stayed in the car and started messing with his phone. I found a spot across the street and down about twenty yards. Close, but these people were oblivious to anyone who wasn’t standing directly in front of them.

  I checked my phone and saw that Mia had sent a text. Heidi called. Roscoe has been arrested. He admitted everything.

  Perfect. He probably wouldn’t serve much time, but it would get him away from Dennis. In the meantime, Lorene could take the proper steps to evict him as a tenant, if that’s what she wanted to do. She could also get a protective order if he hassled her or Dennis at all. I sent Mia a thumbs-up emoji.

  The mother came out of Aldo and walked across the street to a store called Anthropologie. The kid was still looking at his phone.

  I got out my Zeiss binoculars and took a closer look. Both Mia and I had studied him at every opportunity, but we’d seen no evidence of injury. Same thing now. If the kid had been driving the crashed Mercedes—and I think he was—he’d been damned lucky.

  Eight minutes later, the mom came out of Anthropologie and continued walking north, out of sight from my vantage point.

  Thirty minutes passed and the kid began to fidget. He got out of the car, crossed the road, and walked south, passing directly in front of my van. I looked down at my lap, but he didn’t look in my direction.

  Seven minutes later, the mom, carrying two shopping bags, returned to the car. She put the bags in the backseat, then took out her phone and did some typing. Sending a text. Asking the kid where he was. She got a reply, then got into the car, backed out, and drove south.

  I gave it twenty seconds, then followed. She picked the kid up near Yogurt Planet. He had a cup in his hand. The mom said something as he climbed in. Don’t spill that sticky crap in my car.

  They went south on MoPac, then south on Loop 360.

  My phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, so I let it go to voicemail.

  The mother turned the Jaguar onto the street that fed into her neighborhood.

  Disappointing. Another wasted stakeout.

  Then the mom surprised me. Before they reached the gate into her neighborhood, she pulled to the curb in front of a small, modest home. While the kid waited in the car, the mom got out, retrieved the shopping bags from the bac
kseat, and walked to the front door of the house.

  A woman with gray hair answered. The mom said something, and then she held the bags out toward the woman. There was a moment of hesitation, which indicated that the woman hadn’t expected it. Her face was in shadows, so I couldn’t make out her expression. She took the bags, though, and after about a minute of conversation, the mom turned, walked back to her car, and drove away.

  I stayed where I was, confused about what I had seen.

  Directly across the street was a wooden utility pole that appeared to be brand new. So this was the site of the accident. The pole had been replaced afterward, and the woman in the house was the one who had called 911.

  Why was the mom giving gifts to this woman? I had one pretty good guess.

  I walked to the front door and knocked.

  When the woman answered, I said, “Hi, there. My name is Roy Ballard, and you must be Sue.”

  I had her name from the case files.

  “That’s right.”

  “Sue, I investigate insurance fraud for a living, and we’re about to have a conversation that could screw your life up pretty bad for the next few years. Lawyers, legal fees, and all that.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I smiled at her. “Let’s not play around, okay? I’m on your side. If you’re truthful, I promise I’ll do everything I can to help you out of this mess. You probably won’t even have to go to jail. The cops will probably overlook the false report. How does that sound?”

  35

  She went for it. Told me exactly what happened that night.

  She heard the wreck. Grabbed a robe and went outside. There was the Mercedes, still smoking against the utility pole, and there was the kid, staggering around. Injured? No, drunk. Disappointing, but this was a good kid, in general. He mowed her lawns during the summer for ten bucks, which was surprising for a kid who plainly didn’t need the money. He was smart and respectful. Polite. Hardworking. A kid with potential, unlike some of the brats you see nowadays. Made decent grades. Wanted to be a wildlife biologist.

  Okay, yes, he made a mistake, but did he deserve to have it ruin his future? Could he get into the colleges he wanted if this crime was on his record?

  The kid pleaded with her not to do anything. She was torn. And then she agreed.

  The kid ran off into the night, in the opposite direction from his house.

  Just seconds later, her next-door neighbor arrived on the scene. He ran straight to the Mercedes, saw that nobody was inside, then looked around, puzzled.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I don’t really know. I came outside and, well, this is what I saw.”

  “The driver left?”

  “I guess so.”

  He spotted the cell phone in her hand. “Have you called it in?”

  “I was just about to do that.”

  “Well done,” Mia said later. “Bravo.”

  “Thanks. I advised her to get a lawyer and let him steer her through it. The cops might still charge her for making a false statement, but I kind of doubt it.”

  “So where did the kid go after the wreck?”

  It was Saturday evening and we were grabbing dinner at Trudy’s Four Star between Oak Hill and Dripping Springs. We were each having a drink—a margarita for Mia, whiskey rocks for me—to celebrate the quick resolution of this case.

  “That we still don’t know,” I said. “I’m guessing he went back to his friend’s house—the one he’d left just a few minutes before the crash. He was probably too freaked out to face his parents, or he was worried about the cops showing up, or a combination of both. Sounds like he was pretty drunk—or maybe on something else—so he bailed on the situation entirely. Of course, he had to deal with it the next day. His parents made him apologize to the woman for putting her in such a difficult position.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Mia said. “If they were any sort of parents, they would’ve taken the kid down to APD headquarters and made him ’fess up.”

  “Yeah, they aren’t going to win the Parents of the Year Award anytime soon, but at that point, after Sue had already lied to the police, they had to worry about getting her in trouble, too.”

  “Convenient excuse for protecting their son. They were so deeply concerned about Sue, they had to keep quiet. Otherwise, I’m sure they would’ve stepped right up and done the right thing.”

  “The fact that the father lied to the cops right off the bat does make you wonder about his integrity, doesn’t it?” I said.

  Mia shook her head, stymied that anyone would behave that way.

  “What about the shopping bags?” she asked.

  “The mother took it upon herself to buy Sue some nice thank-you gifts. Just a small token of appreciation for engaging in criminal conduct. It was a couple of blouses that probably cost two hundred dollars apiece.”

  “Crazy.”

  Our waiter arrived with our food. We’d both ordered the chicken flautas.

  After he was gone, I said, “Hey, listen to this.”

  I took my phone out and played the voicemail I’d received while I was parked outside Sue’s house.

  The caller said, “Hey, there. Thought you might like to know I found your phone at the bottom of Lake Travis. Obviously, it’s pretty much a useless piece of junk now, because, you know, it doesn’t even power on, but if you want it back give me a call. This is Todd, by the way.”

  “Whoa, really?” Mia said as she dipped a flauta into some queso.

  “And this is why we engrave our phone numbers on our phones,” I said. “This guy owns one of the scuba outfits on the lake, and apparently there’s this whole subculture of people who dive solely to look for lost stuff, like treasure hunters. Todd keeps a running total on his website of all the stuff his divers find. He said they’ve recovered something like sixty thousand dollars’ worth of sunglasses alone. That’s the leading category—sunglasses.”

  Mia suddenly had a grim look on her face.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Just makes me sad that they are able to find those things, but a body can completely disappear forever.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. It was an unfortunate irony.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes.

  “What do they do with it all?” Mia asked.

  “Some of it, like my phone, gets returned to the owner. But things like sunglasses or jewelry— usually, there’s no way to identify the owner, so it’s finder’s keepers. According to Todd, some divers go just for the treasure hunting aspect of it. They spend all their time on the bottom.”

  “That’s gotta be creepy,” Mia said.

  “I would guess so. Scuba and skydiving—two hobbies I have no interest in at all. I’ll stick with full-contact shuffleboard.”

  Mia smiled, but I could tell that the thought of bodies in the lake had dampened her mood. Or was something else bothering her? We’d made up after the latest Garlen episode—after I’d acted like an ass—and things had been fine since then. Except something was slightly off. I think. Maybe I was seeing something that wasn’t there.

  I should’ve left well enough alone, but instead I said, “You okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re a little quiet tonight.”

  God help me, but I couldn’t help wondering if Garlen had made contact again. Would she tell me if he had? I wouldn’t blame her if the answer was no. Or maybe she was still upset by my behavior, even though she’d accepted my apology. Or, worse case, maybe she’d reached the conclusion that we never should’ve started sleeping together.

  “Just tired,” she said.

  More like she had something on her mind, but I let it go. It took a lot of self-discipline, but I didn’t push it any further. She could tell from my expression that I was worried.

  She reached across the table and held my hand. “Just tired,” she said. “Promise.”

  As I lay awake later in my apartment, instead of thinking about Sue and
her poor choice to lie for the neighbor kid, or ruminating about the unfinished feel of the Jeremy Sawyer case, or wondering whether Mia was having doubts about our relationship, I found myself thinking about my phone.

  If you’d asked me what the odds were that my phone would ever turn up, I would’ve said a million to one. Even if I’d known exactly where Holloway and his punks had tossed my phone overboard, complete with GPS coordinates, I wouldn’t have thought it possible that a scuba diver could go under and find it. You’ve got strong currents to consider, and poor visibility, and all kinds of debris and muck on the lake floor.

  Despite all that, my phone had been found. Serendipitously, yes, but it had been found.

  And that made me wonder about Harvey Selberg’s phone. If it hadn’t been crushed or burned or smashed with a hammer, was it possible that I might be able to find it? Where would I even start to look?

  I tried to think like the burglar who’d entered Harvey’s home and eventually assaulted him. Chances were good that the burglar was Anson Byrd or Adam “Meatball” Dudley or even Gilbert Holloway. Whoever it had been—one of the three—the person inside Harvey’s home would’ve been nervous. Scared. Heart pounding. Palms sweating. Hands trembling. Praying for everything to go smoothly. Just get in and get out.

  He got lucky and managed to find Harvey’s phone in the dark. Decided to grab the wallet, too, as a red herring. Make it look like an authentic burglary. Smart.

  He turned to leave, and the worst possible thing happened. The phone in his hand suddenly began blaring with AC/DC music.

  He tried to hurry, but it was dark and he smashed into something, and now Harvey was waking up and coming after him. That’s when panic set in. Which way was the back door? Why hadn’t he brought a flashlight?

  And now here came Harvey, yelling, probably telling him to get the fuck out, and the intruder had no choice but to hit Harvey with... something. Didn’t matter what it was. Harvey didn’t go down, so the intruder hit him again, harder, and now Harvey dropped to the floor. The intruder finally found his bearings and hustled out the door.

  He ran down the street, back to his car, and took off, breathing so hard now that he thought he might be having some sort of medical crisis.