Get Busy Dying (Roy Ballard Mysteries) Read online

  Ruelas said, “Yeah, well, one of our units responded to a possible assault in a parking lot about an hour ago. Turns out the victim was your partner. Thought you might want to know, asshole.”

  11

  Despite appearances, my Dodge Caravan can really move when it needs to. Two minutes after hanging up with Ruelas, I was flying west on Highway 290 toward Oak Hill.

  Mia was not injured; that was the important thing. I didn’t know many details, but I knew she had not been hurt.

  Ruelas had said a resident in an apartment complex had seen a long-haired man shouting at a woman—Mia—in the parking lot. He had her trapped between two cars and a brick wall. The resident called 9-1-1, but the long-haired man left before the cops arrived. Mia told the deputy she didn’t want to file a report and she had not been assaulted. The deputy kept pushing, and Mia eventually revealed that she was tailing the long-haired man because of a fraud investigation and he had gotten angry about it. End of story. No big deal. But she did ask the deputy to call me. She needed a ride. Ruelas got wind of it and made the call.

  So I’d asked Ruelas for the address of the apartment complex, then I’d immediately hit the road. Now I was wondering: Why hadn’t Mia called me? And why did she need a ride? Why hadn’t she simply driven away from the scene?

  Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the complex and immediately spotted Mia sitting on a curb on the far side of the lot, near the cleverly named Building B. She was dressed in loose khaki shorts and a white T-shirt—the kind of outfit she wears for surveillance, not for enticing some dumb fraud suspect into lifting an eighty-pound bag of cement. She had her hair tucked under a baseball cap and she was wearing very little makeup. There weren’t many vehicles in the lot—everyone was still at work—and I didn’t see her Chevy Tahoe anywhere.

  I pulled into a parking spot two spaces over from a white Honda and Mia immediately opened the passenger door and climbed inside the minivan.

  “Sorry for the hassle,” she said. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Fine. He didn’t hurt me.”

  “Did he try to?”

  “No, not really.”

  “What happened?” I asked. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  She was shaking her head. “I don’t have my phone. Or my car keys.”

  “Start at the beginning,” I said.

  “Okay, well, Shane Moyer was the only one of the group who hadn’t spotted us yet, so I decided to focus on him. I figure his buddies told him I drove a Tahoe, so I borrowed a friend’s car.”

  She gestured toward the white Honda Civic parked nearby. It wasn’t too bad as a surveillance vehicle. A common car, and it had tinted windows.

  She continued, saying, “This morning, after we talked, I came over here and scoped the complex out. See that little freestanding building over there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s the laundry room. I went inside and saw a clipboard where residents sign up to use one of the washers and dryers at a specific time. Moyer always uses them on Friday afternoons at around three, so I figured that was perfect. Catch him carrying a loaded basket of laundry when he’s supposed to have a shoulder injury. He’s in Building A, and I can see the steps to his apartment from way over here.”

  “Pretty good set-up,” I said.

  “So I came back at two o’clock,” Mia said. “He must’ve been watching the lot, because he made me big time. Plus, I screwed up. I was in the process of sending you a text—just wondering how your case was going—when Moyer suddenly opens the passenger door and climbs in. I never saw him coming.”

  “Mia,” I said, about to give her a rare lecture. I try to avoid this, but she’s still a rookie in this profession, and how is she going to learn if I don’t point out her mistakes? I make plenty of mistakes of my own, and I encourage her to point them out when I do.

  “Yeah, Roy, I know,” she said. “I should’ve had the doors locked. The doors should always be locked during surveillance. I screwed up.”

  “Fair enough. Remember that scumbags like Moyer and Evans are more likely to confront a woman than a man. It’s just a sad truth. They’ll pull shit with you that they wouldn’t pull with me. You have to always remember that.”

  “I know. You’re right. Anyway, he immediately starts saying all the same stuff that Evans and Buerger said: ‘Why are you following me?’ Calling me a bitch. So I put up with that for about three seconds.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I got out of the car. Left him sitting there by himself.”

  “Smart.” I was proud that Mia had kept her wits about her. She hadn’t gotten rattled. Then again, she’d once been a bartender. A beautiful bartender. So she’d had plenty of experience dealing with obnoxious jerks.

  She said, “Only problem is, I grabbed my purse when I got out, because my gun is in there, but I dropped my phone. He grabbed it, and apparently he took the keys from the ignition. Then he came chasing after me and trapped me between a couple of cars. He started yelling at me, and then he started coming toward me...”

  For the first time since I’d arrived, she was starting to seem shaken up by the incident. My own palms were sweating. I was getting angry.

  “And?” I asked.

  She took a deep breath. “I pulled my gun, Roy. I did. I pulled it, and I was going to shoot him. I felt threatened. This was the first time I was truly scared on this job. He backed off and ran away as soon as he saw it come out of my purse.”

  I placed a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t blame you for a second. Nobody would. He’s lucky you didn’t pop him.” I was holding my own emotions back—chiefly a desire to seek quick vengeance. But now was the time to be calm and rational.

  She smiled at me, staying brave and strong. “Thanks.”

  “What happened next?”

  “A woman came over and said she’d called the cops. I could hear a siren about a minute later. They were fast.”

  “Did this woman see you pull the gun?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell the deputy you pulled the gun?”

  “No.”

  I pondered the situation for a second. “Why didn’t you tell him Moyer stole your stuff?”

  “Who, the deputy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The deputy was a woman.”

  “Okay, but same question.”

  Mia spread her hands. “It was a snap judgment. I was thinking: Can I catch this guy if he’s locked up? Will he claim that I was hassling him on behalf of the insurance company? Plus, frankly, I don’t want the sheriff’s department to fight my battles. I want to take care of this myself.” She looked at me. “What would you have done?”

  I grinned. “Same damn thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you have pulled a gun on Moyer?” she asked.

  I hesitated for a moment. “That’s not a fair question,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Goes back to what I said earlier. He wouldn’t have the same physical advantage over me that he’d have over you, so he probably wouldn’t approach me to begin with. I know that sounds sexist, but in this case, I think it’s true.”

  She grinned again and said, “Sexist pig.”

  “Sexy pig, yes. Very sexy.”

  “But you’re right,” she said. “I have a gun and I have pepper spray, but there are times when it would be good to have a physical advantage. To be able to take care of myself without scrambling for my purse. So, while I was sitting there waiting for you, I made a decision.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m going to take a self-defense class,” she said.

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “I am going to become an ass-kicking machine. Or I guess an ass-defending machine.”

  “You have a great ass to defend.”

  “Why, thank you. And then I am going to stop carrying a gun.”

  I didn
’t answer right away. I wasn’t sure I liked that decision. “How about one step at a time?” I said. “Take some classes, and then decide about carrying.”

  She nodded. “I love this job, Roy. And working with you. I can’t tell you how great these past ten months have been. I look forward to getting out here every day. But I don’t want to shoot anybody.”

  “Nobody does,” I said. “And you didn’t have to. Next time, you have to remember—”

  “Lock the doors, I know. Don’t be a nag.”

  I started to come back with something extraordinarily witty, but then something occurred to me that must have changed my expression so suddenly that Mia said, “What?”

  “Oh, good Lord,” I said. “I should have thought of this ten minutes ago.”

  “What?”

  “Remember when we bought those new iPhones? Remember how much fun we had playing around with them the first few days?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Remember that feature that allows you to find a lost or stolen phone? We can use my phone to find your phone.”

  Mia suddenly appeared positively mirthful. “We can track that jackass down.”

  12

  He wasn’t far away, or at least Mia’s phone wasn’t.

  We used the Find My iPhone app on my phone, plugged in her password, and the little map quickly told us that her phone was currently located in a little rundown bar in a little rundown strip center off South Lamar. Place was called The Joint. I’d never heard of it, but the name alone sounded like it catered to ex-cons, so I had a pretty good idea what sort of clientele to expect. When we pulled up, it was almost five o’clock, but there were only a couple of cars parked out front. Her phone hadn’t budged.

  We’d brainstormed on the drive over, and we’d realized this forthcoming encounter represented more than an opportunity to get the phone and car keys back. Maybe we could use it to close this troublesome case. As an added benefit, Mia would then be able to help me with the Boz Gentry case.

  So we sat outside in the parking lot for a few more minutes, plotting, until we had a plan that was as finely honed as it was going to get. Maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, at a minimum, we weren’t leaving without Mia’s phone and car keys.

  I went inside first, as a spotter. The place was dark and cool—they definitely didn’t skimp on the air conditioning. I was wearing sunglasses, which I removed, and a ball cap, which I left on. To my left was a long bar, with an unsmiling and unshaven bartender behind it and three customers spaced evenly at the stools. They looked at me for five seconds, then went back to their drinks. To my right were a dozen tables sparsely occupied by men. There wasn’t a woman in the place.

  I didn’t bother pretending to be an actual customer by ordering a drink, but instead glanced down at my phone, looking like every other jerk who constantly checks his email in public. In reality, I was still using the phone-locating app. Amazing how accurate it is. It told me that Mia’s phone was directly in front of me, toward the tables. I took a few steps forward.

  And there he was, sitting in the darkness at the farthest table to the rear. Shane Moyer. I recognized him from photos in the case files. A twenty-four-year-old punk. A fairly large punk, admittedly. But you know what? Size doesn’t matter nearly as much as everyone thinks.

  The trick is to get the first punch in—and don’t hold back. Bring your shoulder around, put your entire torso into it, and drive your fist directly into the center of a man’s face. Big or small, most men don’t want any more after that. If you’re desperate, as in worried-about-getting-killed desperate, or if you’re outnumbered, punch to the throat. Hard. Now that will take the wind out of anybody’s sails, when they suddenly can’t breathe. The only drawback is you might actually kill a guy.

  As angry as I was with Moyer—as much as I wanted to walk right up, cold-cock him, and then give him a thorough and lasting beating—I had to restrain myself. For now. We had a job to do.

  It was nice that we had the element of surprise. He was completely oblivious to the world around him, because he was busy exploring Mia’s iPhone. I watched him for a few seconds. He appeared downright giddy. Why not? After all, he had a very expensive gadget to play with. There was a full mug and a half-empty pitcher of beer on the table in front of him.

  I waited, still pretending to look down at my phone. Nobody was paying any attention to me. I didn’t have to wait long, because we’d agreed that Mia would follow me inside exactly one minute later. I would have preferred to take care of this situation myself, but Mia wanted to take part and I wasn’t going to stop her. Hell, I probably couldn’t stop her.

  Right on cue, the door to the bar opened, and here she came. The bartender and the men on the stools looked up, and of course their eyes lingered, but Mia walked right past them.

  She joined me, and without a word, we walked to Shane Moyer’s table, her on one side, me on the other. He was so transfixed by his new toy that he didn’t even notice us until Mia leaned over and yanked the phone from his hand.

  “Hey!” Moyer protested, but when he saw who had grabbed the phone, his expression turned to stunned, wide-eyed surprise.

  I immediately said, “Wanna go to prison, Shane? You committed felony theft, you worthless turd. This would be your third strike.”

  Moyer remained seated. We had him boxed into a corner.

  “With a record like yours,” Mia said, “you’re looking at ten years.”

  Moyer said, “But you—”

  “You’re a stupid fuck,” I said, leaning forward and pointing a finger at him, acting as street as I’m capable of acting. “Your future’s in her hands, so you should shut your damn mouth and listen.”

  “You stole my phone, Shane,” Mia said. “That was incredibly stupid. I came this close to shooting you.”

  “You got brain damage?” I asked.

  “Or no brains at all?” Mia asked.

  “Ever been to the Walls Unit in Huntsville?” I asked.

  “You’re not big enough to fight off the gangs,” Mia said.

  I could see it in his eyes already, darting back and forth from me to Mia. Shane Moyer was no tough guy. Just a punk.

  “They’ll turn you inside out just for fun,” I said. What did that even mean?

  “They’ll love your long hair, but they’ll knock your teeth out so you’ll give better blowjobs,” Mia said, and I had to struggle to keep a straight face.

  “Hey, you gave that phone to me,” Moyer managed to say, trying to show some attitude.

  “Oh, shit, really?” I said, laughing. “She gave it to you? That’s how you’re gonna play it? We are two respected professionals in our field. We have sterling reputations. The cops know us. Judges know us. We will testify against your sorry ass. Plus we have a solid witness at your apartment complex. You, on the other hand, are a known scumbag.”

  Mia said, “The only break you got is that I didn’t tell the deputy you stole my stuff. I have a brother like you. Total loser when he was your age, but he managed to get his life together. Maybe you can do the same.”

  “She’s giving you a break, Shane,” I said. “Even though I was in favor of kicking your ass.”

  “You,” Moyer said. “You were gonna kick my ass? That’s funny.”

  “I’m losing my patience,” I said. “We need the car keys back. Right now.” I stuck my palm out.

  “Go to hell.”

  Shane Moyer might have been intimidated by our threats of prison, but he obviously wasn’t too worried about losing a bar fight to a guy twenty pounds lighter than he was. Guys like him rarely are. Plus, I guess he figured he might keep some of his macho façade if he didn’t give the car keys back. Which was perfect.

  “You want me to take them from you?” I asked.

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  “You’re a tough guy, huh?”

  “Tough enough.”

  “Then you wouldn’t have any trouble, say, beating me at arm wrestling. Righ
t?”

  I held my breath. Would he fall for it? Was he that stupid?

  “Not even if you used both hands,” Moyer said.

  “Seriously?” Mia said, looking at me like I was being as big a jerk as Moyer was—a couple of men in a pissing match. She pulled it off perfectly.

  We both ignored her.

  I said, “Tell you what. You win, she doesn’t press charges. I win, she does press charges. Either way we get the car keys back.”

  He was looking at me with suspicion.

  “Best offer you’re ever gonna get,” Mia said. “You’ve been such an asshole today, I should call the cops right now. But if you two studs want to prove how big and bad you are, go for it.”

  Moyer was still looking skeptical. “After I win, what’s to stop you from pressing charges anyway?”

  I said, “See, there’s this thing called integrity. Most people have it, but the space where your integrity was supposed to go is filled with rat droppings. Either that or you’re a scared little pussy.”

  “Fuck that,” he said, as he pushed the pitcher out of the way and brought his right arm up onto the table.

  I grabbed a chair and sat down. Then we clasped hands. I’m not sure whose palm was clammier.

  “Gotta keep your elbow on the table at all times,” I said.

  “I’ve done this before.”

  I was going to lose. He was a big guy. But the outcome didn’t matter—except to my ego, because Mia was watching.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  He nodded, and our arms immediately went rigid. In less than five seconds, he had my arm halfway to the tabletop. But I held on. And held some more. Thirty seconds passed. His face was contorted with concentration and effort. I guess mine was, too. I could feel sweat breaking out on my forehead.

  Then I managed to regain some ground. Our arms were vertical again. He was grunting. My elbow was beginning to ache a little, but overall, I felt pretty good. I was glad I regularly lifted weights three times a week.

  We held it like that for another solid minute.

  Then he began to let out short little bursts of air. No breath control.