Holy Moly Page 4

  "The water project. Keep him focused, will you?" "You want me to go to the meeting?"

  "I think it wouldn't hurt. Be supportive. Like a good wife should." He loved gigging her with lines like that.

  She glared again. "You're such an asshole."

  He smiled at her. She wasn't going to ruin his mood. The Rangers had beaten the Twins last night, and he'd made a killing. More than most people earn in a year. Finally, some luck. It had been awhile.

  "I've never seen him this angry," she said.

  "He'll forgive you. Eventually Anyway, I'll be gone for three or four days. Maybe a week."

  "Have a good trip," she said, staring straight ahead. Being coy Fickle bitch.

  He couldn't resist one last plea. "How about sending me off with a smile on my face?"

  Whoosh. Whoosh.

  She finally looked over, eyeing him up and down. "You know, it wouldn't hurt if you got some exercise yourself now and then. Builds endurance. Might make you a better lay."

  Chief Deputy Bill Tatum took a seat at Jerry Strand's kitchen dinette. It was an older home, built in the fifties. Lots of yellows and avocado greens. Nothing fancy, but it was tidy and clean, smelling of pine trees and ammonia. The motif for the kitchen, obviously, was bears. A bear-shaped cookie jar over on the counter. Bears printed on the hand towels hanging beside the sink. Above the stove, a framed print of a bear riding a tricycle. Bears on every shelf and every surface.

  "It's a damn shame, is what it is," Strand said for the second time, shaking his head to reinforce that notion. He was perhaps fifty years old, with a graying crew cut and ruddy skin. His torso was burly and powerful, his hands stubby and thick; he was, in fact, quite bearlike. Go figure. His wife, Nadine, was busy brewing a pot of coffee. "Hollis Farley was a good man," Strand was saying. "Knew how to run a backhoe."

  Tatum wasn't sure what distinguished a good backhoe operator from a bad one. "You two were friends?"

  "Well, not friends, with the age difference and all. But I liked him. Good kid. Reliable as the sunrise. Lot of guys, they don't show up regular. One gray cloud in the sky and they're taking a weather day. 'Course, with all the rain we've been getting, even Hollis couldn't work every day But if it was just a drizzle, he'd be out there moving earth. Even on the weekends."

  Nadine Strand was rooting around in the refrigerator, probably looking for creamer, but Tatum had the sense she was hanging on every word. She proved it by saying, "He sure was popular with the girls around town, I can tell you that much."

  "That so?"

  "Well, sure. Good-looking boy like that."

  Jerry Strand was rolling his eyes, but Tatum said, "Was he seeing anyone in particular?"

  "I'm sure I wouldn't know that. I think he liked to, you know, play the field."

  Tatum turned back to Jerry Strand. "Why was he working by himself out there?"

  "Had to clear a road for us. See, we couldn't get the heavy equipment in there yet. Hollis was knocking down cedar trees, filling in some culverts. We couldn't do nothing else till he opened up a path. He was on schedule to be done by Friday, meaning yesterday, which is still behind schedule, but now . . . well, it don't even matter. Screw the schedule. Breaks my goddamn heart, what happened."

  "Jerry, language," Nadine said quietly She smiled apologetically at Tatum.

  "Well, it does, Nadine." Then, to Tatum, "I've never lost a man before. Boy had a lot of good years ahead of him."

  They sat in silence for a few moments, until Nadine Strand, cheerful, said, "Here we go," and came over with a full tray She placed three mugs on the table—more bears—and filled them with coffee. "Cream and sugar?"

  "Black's fine," Tatum said.

  "You sure?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She was disappointed, no doubt, that Tatum wouldn't be availing himself of the Yogi Bear sugar bowl. She turned and placed the coffeepot on the warmer, then came back toward the table, preparing to sit down.

  "Mrs. Strand," Tatum said, "do you suppose I could have a few words with Jerry alone?"

  "Oh. Well I-"

  "Nadine, honey, let us talk."

  She gave her husband a stern look, but he didn't see it or had learned to ignore it. "Okay. I have laundry to fold, anyway. There's more coffee right over there if y'all want it." She stood in place for a couple of seconds, maybe hoping Tatum would give her a reprieve, then exited through the swinging door.

  The room was silent, except for the ticking of the circus-bear clock above the pantry. Strand was staring at the tabletop, both hands wrapped around his mug. "Least he didn't have a wife and kids," he said. "Let me tell you, this thing is eating me up, but if he'd had family . . ."

  Tatum didn't know if the news he was about to share would make Strand feel better or worse. "What I came here to tell you," he said, "is that it wasn't an accident. Farley was murdered."

  Strand's head snapped up immediately "He was what?" Pure puzzlement in his eyes.

  "It was a homicide, Mr. Strand."

  "But I... I thought he was crushed by the backhoe. Yesterday, y'all said—"

  "That was speculation. The autopsy proved us wrong." "Jesus H. Christ. That can't be right." "Trust me. There's no question."

  Back to the head-shaking. Like he couldn't quite comprehend what was happening. "But why? How was he killed?"

  "I can't share that with you right now." Tatum gave it a moment to sink in. Then he said, "What I'd like to ask you is, can you think of anyone who might've wanted to harm Hollis? He ever mention anyone being angry with him?"

  "No, I . . ." Then Strand slapped a palm lightly on the table-top, as if something had just occurred to him. "Jesus, those goddamn conservationists!"

  "The environmentalists?"

  "Yeah, those people."

  "Why do you think it was them?"

  "You saw how they are. The dyke that punched you in the eye. Have you talked to her?"

  Rhonda Himmelblau, Tatum thought. Woman with a mean right hook. "Did they come back to the site?"

  "Hell, no. Not since you come out and arrested them. Hollis woulda called you. I told him to."

  "So you don't have any special reason to think it was one of them?"

  "Shit, she got violent with you. What else do you need? Those sonsabitches! It had to be them, don't you think?"

  "We'll be talking to that group, but we need to check out all the possibilities. That's some prime hunting land out there. You have any trouble with poachers at the job site?"

  Strand shook his head. "Hollis never said nothing. Doesn't mean it never happened. They coulda come at night."

  "If Hollis had seen something like that, would he have called the game warden, or would he have tried to handle it himself?"

  "Hell, I don't know. He probably woulda just run 'em off."

  Tatum sat for a moment, drinking coffee.

  "Those tree-huggers," Strand muttered. "Buncha nutballs."

  Tatum thought it was somewhat strange. Almost like Strand wanted it to be the environmentalists.

  6

  DURING FOUR HOURS of thorough searching, the only thing Sheriff Bobby Garza learned of interest was that Hollis Farley had once appeared on an episode of the Judge Judy show. Three years earlier, he'd sued his cousin for ownership of a rebuilt Chevy small-block engine. Farley had saved the debacle on videotape, and the critical exchange went as follows:

  JUDGE JUDY: I don't see a valid claim here, Mr. Farley. It was your cousin's engine to begin with, and it appears he paid for all of the new parts.

  FARLEY: Yeah, but I provided most of the labor. I worked my butt off on that thing.

  COUSIN: I reimbursed him for his butt, Your Honor.

  (Audience laughter.)

  JJ: Is that just a joke, or did you actually pay him?

  COUSIN: Oh, I paid him.

  JJ: How much?

  COUSIN: Over the course of a month, maybe three cases.

  JJ: Cases of what?

  COUSIN: Old Milwaukee.

  (
Audience laughter.)

  JJ: You paid him with beer?

  COUSIN: Bought him a bunch of breakfast tacos, too.

  FARLEY: That chorizo gave me the runs, Your Honor.

  In the end, the ruling went in the cousin's favor.

  Other than that, Garza and Deputy Ernie Turpin had found nothing out of the ordinary The trailer contained the types of things Garza expected of a young, single construction worker: soiled clothes on the floor; trash from fast-food joints; a few overdue bills; a pair of skimpy red panties under the bed.

  The only inch of the trailer left unexamined was the gun safe. They'd discovered it in the closet of the spare bedroom but hadn't as yet located a key Just as Garza was considering taking a crowbar to it, Turpin walked into the living room holding something shiny "Found it hanging on a nail under the bathroom sink."

  Inside the safe they found six American-made hunting rifles in varying calibers, roughly three hundred rounds of ammunition, and a gun-cleaning kit. Nothing unexpected.

  Except for six thousand dollars in cash.

  The American pop-culture landscape is littered with the desiccated carcasses of televangelists who disgraced themselves in spectacular headline-grabbing fashion. Sometimes the scandals involved money. Sometimes they involved sex. All too frequently, they involved both.

  Jim Bakker, cohost of the seminal show The PTL Club, made the mistake of marrying a woman who had the cosmetic sensibilities of a rodeo clown, then hiring a secretary who could've stepped from the pages of a topless auto-parts calendar. Alas, Bakker's flesh was weak, and he eventually engaged Jessica Hahn in a rousing game of bury-the-bishop. Meanwhile, Bakker's bookkeeping practices—including a tendency to divert money from his ministry to finance his own extravagant lifestyle—ultimately landed him in hot water. He and his wife drove matching Rolls-Royces. They owned a ten-thousand-square-foot condo in Florida, with sixty thousand dollars in gold fixtures. They'd once ordered a hundred dollars' worth of cinnamon rolls simply to imbue their hotel suite with the aroma. When these facts came to light, Bakker was convicted on twenty-four counts of fraud and conspiracy, and spent nearly five years in a federal prison.

  Jimmy Swaggart—cousin to Jerry Lee Lewis and Mickey Gilley, two fine showmen in their own right—built his television empire into a $150-million-a-year cash cow before a private detective photographed him exiting a seedy Louisiana motel room with a known prostitute. Swaggart reluctantly admitted to church elders that he'd struggled with a lifelong addiction to pornography. He then made a tearful on-air confession, and later claimed that fellow evangelist Oral Roberts had, via a phone call, cast out Swaggart's demons, rendering him free of moral defect. Great news! He was right with God and back on the straight and narrow! A few years later, however, Swaggart was stopped by police for driving on the wrong side of the road. In the car with him? Another hooker. Seems the poor man had had a relapse. Swaggart's most recent controversy involved a heated rant against homosexuals, in which he said, "If one ever looks at me like that, I'm gonna kill him and tell God he died." Apparently, in Swaggart's view, a man should love his neighbors, but not in a way that was icky

  The list was virtually endless. Peter Popoff was condemned for performing faith healings that were, in reality, elaborate stage shows. Robert Tilton was accused of trashing viewers' prayer requests unread—after removing the enclosed donations, of course. More recently, Paul Crouch—founder of the world's largest religious media outlet, the Trinity Broadcasting Network—was alleged to have sexually assaulted a male employee at a remote mountain cabin, and later paid the man $425,000 to keep quiet.

  Yet, despite the scandal, the hypocrisy, and the sordid history of televangelism in general, if the attack dogs from Dateline or 60 Minutes had, in fact, taken it upon themselves to discredit Pastor Peter Boothe, they would have had no more luck than Barry Grubbman. Recent events notwithstanding. Prior to this week's catastrophe, they would have learned that Pastor Pete was exactly what he appeared to be: a religious phenomenon; a charismatic, media-savvy clergyman with a trophy wife and more material possessions than a Saudi prince. None of which represented a real problem.

  Perversely, Boothe's "prosperity gospel" predecessors had instilled in many viewers' minds the idea that a minister should be an icon of financial success. Wealth was proof—was it not?— that God rewards those who spread His word. By that logic, who should be more blessed than the ubiquitous Boothe, who was only slightly less recognizable than the pope?

  So, no, the fact that the Boothes lived in luxury while some of their contributors squeaked by on Social Security was not an issue. Nor was Boothe's million-dollar salary, or the fact that Boothe Ministries was sitting on a $100 million cash reserve and didn't need to beat the fund-raising drums quite as relentlessly as they did. Viewers simply didn't care. There was nothing illegal about any of it. No hookers or gay affairs were involved, praise Jesus, so go ahead and pass the collection plate!

  Yes, if journalists had dug into Boothe's personal life, they would've been baffled. Confused. Maybe even pleasantly surprised. Here was a man who, despite being surrounded by a bevy of plump-breasted parishioners and long-legged assistants, had remained doggedly faithful to his wife. Boothe had not only refrained from extramarital dalliances, he had never so much as caressed a nipple or fondled a buttock, though many were adoringly proffered.

  None of this, though, was of particular comfort to Boothe as he reread, for the final time, the handwritten note that had brought his world crashing down. Oh, the disgrace! The treason! And because of it, so many things had gone wrong so quickly. The Devil had reared his ugly head, and Boothe hadn't had the strength to resist. Now, the truth could ruin him. He was profoundly disappointed in himself. He wasn't proud of Alex Pringle, either. And he was especially ashamed of Vanessa.

  Harlot! Jezebel!

  All of his problems stemmed from Vanessa, and he was uncertain if he could forgive her. He had to wonder: What happened to our storybook marriage? How did we drift so far apart? How did we allow temptation to gain the upper hand? It was troubling, indeed.

  And he was about to make it worse.

  He took the note—a simple declaration of love—and set fire to it before he could change his mind. It blackened, curled with flame, and was quickly rendered to ashes.

  Obfuscating the truth. Another sacrilege against the Lord. Boothe chuckled bitterly and thought, What's one more?

  He studied the gold-plated lighter in his palm. A fine piece of craftsmanship, delicately engraved with the Lord's Prayer. Purchased in France for two thousand dollars. Yet Boothe would joyfully give it all up—everything from his Gucci slippers to the twice-yearly trips to St. Lucia—for a woman who would remain faithful. If he and Vanessa were to heal their union, she would have to repent, starting with a vow to keep her knees together.

  "I got a domestic violence call south of Marble Falls about two hours ago," said former Blanco County deputy Nicole Brooks.

  She was leaning against John Marlin's kitchen counter, sipping beer from a frosted mug, as he piled spaghetti and meat sauce onto two plates. He'd had dinner ready at six thirty, but she hadn't arrived until eight. He'd have to reheat it.

  "When I get to the house," she said, "I see Rick and Danny standing on the front porch."

  "Rick and Danny?"

  "Burnet County deputies. I've mentioned them before."

  Marlin nodded, but he was still thinking about Bobby Garza's call an hour earlier, during which the sheriff had dropped two bombshells. First, Hollis Farley had nearly six thousand dollars squirreled away in his gun safe. Second, Henry Jameson—the forensic technician who served a five-county area west of Austin—had found something in Farley's truck: a receipt for a package of broadhead hunting points. That put a new spin on things. It meant Farley owned a bow—and since it hadn't been found, perhaps it had been in his truck at the job site. Maybe the killer had used Farley's own bow and arrow on him, then carried it from the scene. Which meant the murder might not have been
planned.

  Nicole said, "So I walk up and ask what's happening. Danny grins and Rick shakes his head, so I know something weird is going on. Meanwhile, I can hear these sounds coming from the other side of the door, like someone moaning in pain. Finally, Rick whispers, 'The complainant and her boyfriend are sharing a personal moment.' Danny's laughing, and he says, 'They were tight on the other side of the screen door. I closed the front door to give them a little privacy They didn't even miss a beat.' "

  “A personal moment? That's an interesting phrase for it," Marlin said, sliding one of the plates into the microwave. Geist, the pit bull, was lying on the linoleum, watching intently, hoping a loose noodle might drop to the floor.

  "Rick is older and kind of conservative," Nicole explained. 'Anyway, long story short, the woman and her boyfriend had been drinking, and they got into an argument. The boyfriend slapped her, so she called it in, and before Rick and Danny even got there, they'd made up and were doing it on the living room floor. Didn't seem to care who watched, either."

  "They sound like a lovely couple. We must have them over for dinner sometime."

  Nicole gave him a small smile, then went on with her story. "So then, a few minutes later, the woman comes out, still pulling her pants on, and—"

  "She doesn't want to press charges."

  "Of course not. See, it was all a big misunderstanding, and besides, the boyfriend was awfully sorry for what he did." 'And he promised not to do it again."

  "Well, sure. So Rick tells her the law requires them to make an arrest and that they don't have any choice. So she goes nuts and starts throwing stuff. Tries to keep them from cuffing her boyfriend, so they end up arresting her, too. The woman needs counseling, all right, but not the kind I had in mind."

  Counseling. Marlin was still having trouble thinking of Nicole as a counselor, not a deputy. Four months earlier, the victim services coordinator for Blanco County had retired, and Nicole had surprised Marlin by applying for the position. Granted, Nicole had the right mindset for the job; she'd been a victim herself several years back. But Nicole had quickly discovered that working in victim services could be as stressful—and maybe more so—as being a deputy. She was on call 24/7. Funding was practically nonexistent. She also ran into the occasional victim, like the woman tonight, who made Nicole wonder if her job was relevant at all.