Get Busy Dying (Roy Ballard Mysteries) Page 8

  My destination? Blanco County.

  15

  It turned out Alex Albeck did own a ranch, exactly as Mia had suggested, which I had quickly learned from some of the photos on Boz Gentry’s timeline from the previous fall.

  They were hunting photos—Boz, Albeck, and some of their other friends, dressed in camouflage. In some of the shots, they were showing off dead trophy deer, in others they were hanging around a campfire, drinking beer, and in others they were posing with rifles or bows, or smiling down from towering deer blinds. The album was labeled “Opening Day at Albie’s place,” so I was quick to figure out where it had all happened.

  Well, I figured out where—meaning I knew it was on a ranch that Albeck owned—but where exactly was that ranch located? I could tell from the rolling hills and the cedar in the photos that it was likely someplace in central Texas—north, south, or west of Austin, but not east, because in that direction lay mostly flat farmland. So I visited the tax rolls of various nearby counties until I hit pay dirt. Took me just a few minutes, because I’ve done that same type of research hundreds of times.

  Albeck’s ranch was in the southeastern portion of Blanco County, off Farm Road 165, which runs from Henly to Blanco. The drive was no more than 45 minutes, but I continued on 165, only slowing to identify the gate to Albeck’s place, before proceeding toward Blanco, simply because I had no plan whatsoever and needed time to think.

  I’d run into this same type of situation in the Tracy Turner case the previous year. The isolation of a possible subject on a large piece of land always made things difficult. In fact, it presented the same hurdle as Albeck’s gated neighborhood. How do you approach without being obvious? In this case, the challenge was amplified, because Albeck’s ranch was nearly 800 acres, meaning I couldn’t even attempt to conduct surveillance from the road.

  But there were other strategies. There always were.

  In Blanco, I followed Fourth Street to the Blanco Bowling Club, home of half a dozen nine-pin bowling alleys and a pretty decent café. I went inside, found a table, and ordered a cup of coffee and a slice of pecan pie. It was just after eleven o’clock, not yet lunchtime, so the place wasn’t very crowded. While I waited, I pulled out my iPhone—more discreet than hauling my laptop inside—and began to check a few things online.

  Many of the people who think you can’t have a Facebook account and maintain your privacy are the same folks who don’t seem concerned by other sites that provide access to your personal information. Take Google Maps, for instance. It doesn’t matter if you have a ten-foot privacy fence around your property; anyone can still use the satellite view to get a good look at your backyard and see, for example, whether or not you own a swimming pool. They can get a feel for how many head of cattle a rancher owns. A burglar might use it to determine the best way to approach your house. And so on. Nobody raises much of a ruckus about that—which was fortunate for me, because Google Maps was one of my most powerful tools.

  Looking at it right now, I could see that there was only one visible cluster of buildings on Albeck’s place, almost dead center in the middle of the ranch. I already knew from the tax rolls what those buildings were: the three-thousand-square-foot house, a detached garage, two utility sheds, and a large pole barn. I saw no indications that Albeck owned any horses, cattle, or any other type of livestock. Excellent. That meant he was less likely to have a ranch foreman or manager who lived on-site.

  There was a long, winding caliche road leading from FM 165 to the house. Had to be two miles long. There were other, less worn roads all over the ranch. I figured those led to hunting blinds in various strategic locations around the property. I zoomed in tighter. And tighter still.

  A plan was brewing.

  I traced one of those lesser caliche roads as it progressed along a fence line, past a water tank, and finally came to a stop. This was where a hunter would park. I studied the area closely. Just clumps of trees scattered among wide-open pastureland. I scrolled to the right, away from the fence. Nothing but more trees. I went farther still, away from the truck. And there it was. The metal roof of a deer blind, tucked in the shadows between two trees, most likely cedars.

  Okay, good. If I could find—

  “And here you go,” the waitress said suddenly, setting a plate down in front of me. I had been so focused on my phone, I’d almost been in a trance.

  “Hey, thanks,” I said.

  “Want me to freshen that up?” she asked, nodding toward my coffee mug.

  “Thanks, but I’m good.”

  She went away, and I went right back to my phone. If I could spot one deer blind on the map, I could find the others. I started near the house, because nothing would be more ideal than a blind that gave me a good view of the house. But no such luck. The closest blind was at least five hundred yards away.

  The next-best location would be a blind that provided a view of the main road from the highway to the house. I’d decided that I would stake out the ranch house—maybe even overnight—and I figured I’d be more comfortable in a deer blind than hunkered behind some bushes.

  And I caught a break.

  There was indeed a blind that appeared to have a great view of the main road—maybe seventy yards away. I wasn’t much of a hunter myself, but I knew enough that I could be fairly sure nobody would be using the blind this time of year. Deer season was in the fall. Yes, someone could be out hunting wild hogs, because it was open season all year on those beasts, but I hadn’t seen any photos of dead pigs on Gentry’s timeline. Plus, I was pretty sure I could ascertain whether or not the blind was occupied before I attempted to climb inside. If the windows were closed, nobody was inside. If the windows were open, I’d be able to see someone moving. Pretty simple.

  But my plan still had holes. How would I get to the deer blind? Where would I park the van in the meantime?

  While I was pondering those questions, I took a bite of the pecan pie. Wow. Great stuff. Brain food, if I was lucky.

  I could leave the van right here in town, parked outside the restaurant. Or move it to the square around the courthouse. That was probably the way to go. It would be fine overnight. That would leave me with a hike of about six or seven miles out to Albeck’s ranch, plus another mile onto the ranch, all the while carrying necessary equipment, plus food and drink. I wasn’t crazy about making a hike that far, but it wasn’t out of the question. At least the temperature was agreeable—in the mid-seventies. In July or August, that sort of trek would be absolutely miserable.

  I finished my pie while I tried to come up with a better plan. Hitchhike? Nope. If I got picked up by some local, he or she might wonder what business I had at Albeck’s ranch. Call a cab? Yeah, right. No cabs in Blanco. Steal a horse? Around here, that was a hanging offense. Good thing I was wearing comfortable shoes. At three miles an hour, I’d make it to the ranch in about two hours. Not so bad.

  A gallon of water weighs a little more than eight pounds. It was tempting to take just one gallon, but I knew I’d regret it, so when I made a stop at a nearby convenience store, I grabbed two gallons of purified drinking water for ninety-nine cents each. Then I grabbed some overpriced beef jerky, a bag of peanuts, and a big can of stew that I could eat tonight at room temperature. No fresh fruit was available, so I picked a can of sliced peaches.

  By the time I added those items to the backpack that contained the equipment I’d need to take with me, I figured I’d be toting more than thirty pounds. For two hours. No problem for a Marine, but not as easy for a guy who was somewhat less fit, especially when said guy had an injured hand.

  I was starting to question the wisdom of my plan. Then I stumbled into some good luck. When I exited the convenience store, I saw a teenage boy riding around the parking lot on a bike. Not going anywhere, just turning lazy circles. It wasn’t a fancy mountain bike or a ten-speed; more like the type of bike you see leaning against a used refrigerator at a garage sale. Rusty. Paint chipping away. Single speed.

  I walke
d toward the kid, carrying my two bulging plastic sacks of provisions.

  “Nice bike,” I said.

  He gave me a look. You crazy? “Not really,” he said, still circling.

  “Want to sell it?” I asked.

  He dropped one shoe to the ground and skidded to a stop. Apparently the brakes didn’t work.

  “How much?” he asked.

  Within the first few hundred yards, I knew why the kid had sold so easily for twenty bucks. The bike had a bent pedal crank arm that knocked against the frame with every revolution, and for reasons I couldn’t determine, the chain kept popping off the front gear. I had to stop about every quarter-mile on the grassy shoulder to slip the chain back into place. Now my hands were slick with grease, and my injured hand was starting to throb. I had managed to fit one gallon of water into the backpack, but I was having to carry the remaining gallon in the plastic sack, swinging from the handlebar grip.

  Despite the balmy temperature, sweat was running down my neck and torso. It was a little unnerving every time a vehicle would zoom past, because the road had no shoulder to speak of. But I was making progress, and it was still better than walking. I figured that if a county deputy should happen to drive past, he or she would be less likely to get curious about a bicyclist than a man walking with a backpack.

  I was about halfway to the ranch when I heard the Commodores singing “Brick House”—my alert tone for Mia. I coasted the bike to a stop, lowered the plastic bag to the ground, and pulled my phone from my pocket.

  “Lance Armstrong,” I said, planning to explain my super-hilarious joke in the moments to follow. But I don’t think Mia even heard what I said, or she didn’t care.

  “Roy? Oh, my God.” The connection was poor, but something was plainly wrong. Her voice was frantic.

  “Mia?”

  I could hear background noise, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Mia? What’s going on?”

  “I can’t believe this.” She was crying, and she also seemed distracted, as if she were driving, or maybe walking.

  “Tell me what’s happening, Mia! Are you okay?”

  “One of my neighbors just called. My house is on fire.”

  16

  She said something after that I couldn’t make out. Jesus. Was she inside the burning house?

  I hopped off the bike and moved away from the road, so I wouldn’t have to pay any attention to any passing traffic.

  “Mia!”

  I heard a scrambled, unintelligible reply.

  “Are you in the house right now?” I asked.

  I walked upward on a small rise between the road and a barbed-wire fence, and suddenly, like flipping a switch, reception improved.

  “— not in the house, Roy,” Mia was saying. “I’m on my way over there right now.” Thank God. “Regina called and told me what was happening. She saw smoke coming from my backyard, so she went over there, and the sunroom was on fire. So she called 9-1-1.”

  I could picture that cute little attached sunroom, and the rest of the small house, quickly going up in flames. Mia would obviously be heartbroken. She had inherited the house just eight or nine months ago, from a divorced, childless uncle. Prior to that, the house had been owned by Mia’s grandparents, and by her grandfather’s parents before that. It was in an older part of the city called Tarrytown, and it had been in the family since the 1920s. I had been meaning to ask Mia if the electrical system had ever been updated.

  “How bad is it?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is the fire department there yet?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Obviously, I’d need to turn around and go back to the van, then return to Austin.

  “I guess maybe I won’t have to worry about the taxes now,” Mia said, making a sad joke.

  Her house was small and modest, like a lot of the old homes in that neighborhood, but the location—with the lake to the west and downtown to the east—made the land itself worth a small fortune. I could remember sitting on her back deck late last summer, after helping her move in, and toasting her new place with a glass of champagne. She’d been giddy about this new chapter in her life, but she’d also been worried about keeping up with the property taxes.

  “I’m heading your way,” I said, “but it’s going to take me about an hour and a half to get there.”

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  I told her in as few words as possible.

  She said, “Roy, there’s no point in you coming back.”

  “I should be there.”

  “What’re you gonna do, put the fire out? No, you keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll call or text as soon as I know more.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure, but thanks. I do have one piece of good news. About five minutes before Regina called, I managed to put a tracker on Albeck’s SUV. I staked out the entrance to his neighborhood, and he left about ten minutes after I set up.”

  “That’s lucky.” I tried not to sound too excited, considering the circumstances.

  “It was. He met one of his partners for brunch in Westlake, then went back home.”

  A car went past, so I waited for the noise to subside, then I said, “I’m really sorry about your house, Mia. I hope everything’s okay.”

  There was a long pause, then she said, “I can’t help wondering what caused it. You think it was arson?”

  It was a reasonable question. Shane Moyer and his group of lowlifes immediately sprang to mind. Would Moyer have been so upset about the incident yesterday that he’d do something so drastic? One of his buddies could’ve gotten Mia’s license plate number, and after that, it wouldn’t have been difficult to obtain her address. The thought of that possibility made me feel guilty about being so aggressive with Moyer. Maybe if I hadn’t punched him in the face...

  “Roy, I gotta go,” Mia said, before I could answer her question. “Regina’s on the other line.”

  “Keep me posted, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “If you need me for anything at all, call me.”

  But she had hung up.

  I kept riding on FM 165, making slow but steady progress. Ten minutes after Mia called, an old rancher in a truck slowed and asked if I wanted a ride. It was tempting, but I couldn’t ask him to drop me at Albeck’s gate, could I? So I said thanks, but I needed the exercise. I hit a few hills that were steep enough that I dismounted and walked. The worst part was the damn backpack. My shoulders were beginning to ache. And the plastic bag with the lone gallon of water in it would swing to and fro from the handlebar and occasionally throw the bike off balance. Still, I reached the gate to Alex Albeck’s ranch in about an hour.

  As I’d been riding, I’d been pondering what I’d do next, and it wasn’t that complicated to figure out. Lift the bike over the gate, climb over after it, then ride the remaining mile to the deer blind I’d selected. So that’s what I did, and before I could get back on the bike, I heard “Brick House.” I quickly checked my phone.

  Damage limited to sunroom and adjoining wall leading into house. Very good news. Will call later.

  I exhaled with relief. I quickly walked the bike about fifty yards, so I was no longer visible from the road. Then I sent a text:

  Do they know the cause?

  I waited right where I was until she replied.

  Not yet. Will let you know.

  The windows of the deer blind were closed. It was obvious nobody was inside. Sixty or seventy yards away was a feeder—a fifty-gallon barrel mounted on three legs—and there were plenty of native grasses and weeds growing directly underneath it. That meant the feeder hadn’t been throwing corn for quite some time—probably since the end of the deer season in January.

  Perfect.

  I shrugged the backpack off my shoulders, and boy did that feel nice. Then I rolled the bike into a cluster of cedar trees and laid it on its side.

  I returned to the dee
r blind and, before I wasted time hauling all my stuff up the ladder, I wanted to make sure the view would be as good as I was hoping it would be. So I climbed up the ladder and, while I was still standing on the second-to-highest rung, I swung the blind door open cautiously. I wasn’t worried about people. I was concerned about wasps or rats or raccoons or anything else that might’ve decided the blind was a nice little place to live.

  No signs of life.

  I stepped to the highest rung, then ducked inside the blind. It was in good shape, with fairly new indoor/outdoor carpeting that would likely serve as my bed later tonight. There was a lone plastic patio chair shoved into a corner. I unlatched a window and eased it open. Nice. I could see over the tops of all the scrubby cedar trees in the area. If anyone drove in or out of the ranch, I’d be able to see the vehicle easily.

  So I went back down the ladder and grabbed my stuff, then climbed up to the blind again and got comfortable in the chair. I unpacked the three key pieces of gear: binoculars, a Canon superzoom camera, and my night-vision goggles. I opened one of the gallons of water and guzzled at least a quart of it. Then I opened the bag of peanuts and had a snack.

  It was twenty minutes until two. I was fully aware that I might sit here until tomorrow morning and see nothing at all. That wouldn’t be unlike the hundreds of other times I’d conducted stakeouts that were a total waste of time. You had to keep a positive attitude. Instead of thinking of it as a waste of time, you had to think of it as one less place where your subject might be hiding.

  Another text arrived from Mia. She’d sent a photo of the rear of her house. Half of the sunroom was a charred skeleton, and the door from the sunroom into the house appeared to be scorched, but other than that, it didn’t look too bad. The house itself was undamaged. There were a couple of firefighters milling around, but it appeared that their work was done.

  She’d added a message.

  After Regina called 9-1-1, she went after the fire with a hose. She saved my house.