Blanco County 03 - Flat Crazy (10 page)

“How are things in Texas?” Drew asked.

These calls always followed a pattern. Drew would make small talk, pretend he was listening to Marty’s answers, and then get down to what he really wanted to know: how the production was going. Everything revolved around the production.
Are we on schedule? Are we on budget? Are you getting some good footage? How are the dwarves? Tell ’em I said hi.

After two minutes of forced banter, Drew finally asked about
Fortune Nookie.

“Well, I’m afraid we’ve hit a bit of a snag,” Marty said, fiddling nervously with his ponytail.

Silence. Then: “Snags are no good, Mart. What sort of snag?”

Marty’s inclination was to lie, to conjure up some fake problem, like Wanda Ho having a cold or Mike Hung eating some bad sushi. But Marty owed a lot to Drew Tillman, so he told the truth. He described the fight between Mike and Willie Wang that morning, and the resulting trip to the hospital.

Again, he was met with silence.

Finally: “So now Willie has a broken arm,” Drew said. “What are we going to do about that?”

“I guess we’ll film around it.”

“You
guess?”

“No, I mean we
will.
We
will
film around it. I’ll even write it into the script. I’ll write a fight scene or a car crash.”

“Car crashes are expensive, Marty.”

“It doesn’t have to happen on-camera. We’ll show Willie speeding toward an overpass or something, maybe getting a hummer. He’ll get distracted, lose control of the car, and then we’ll cut to him in a hospital bed. No big deal.”

Silence for the third time.

Marty spoke again. “Trust me, Drew. I’ll make it work. This won’t be a problem.”

“I seriously hope not.”

“It won’t.”

“What were they fighting about anyway?”

Marty sighed. “Mike thinks something’s going on between Willie and Wanda. He’s jealous.”

“Jesus, what does the guy have to be jealous about? He’s got a damn python between his legs.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“Didn’t help?”

“No, in fact…”

“What?”

Marty hesitated. He hadn’t told Drew the full story yet. The last part was a bombshell. “Well, at the hospital, Mike told me he’s kind of lost his confidence.”

“And?”

“And he didn’t think he could shoot the threesome scene without losing his erection.” Of course, Mike had pronounced it
election.

“Oh my God,” Drew gasped.

Now the cat was out of the bag. It wasn’t a mere delay in production. They were in danger of losing their marquee performer on a permanent basis. Everybody knew that performance anxiety could wreck a man’s career.

Drew said, “What the hell are we gonna do, Marty? This is some serious shit.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan. I'll shoot the rest of the scenes first—all the ones with just Mike and Wanda or one of the other actresses. I’ll get his confidence back. I’ll tell all the ladies to flirt with him on the set, tell him what a stud he is. You know—build him up, get his ego strong again.”

“That’s not much of a plan.”

“Well then … you think I should ditch Willie?”

“Hell no! He’s almost as big a draw as Mike and Wanda. We can’t cut him.”

Marty asked for other suggestions. Drew didn’t have any.

“Let me mull it over,” Drew said. “I’ll call you back if I think of anything brilliant.”

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again.

“I’ve thought of something brilliant,” Drew said. “Actually, I talked to Lorraine, this sex therapist I know. Sex therapy is huge out here now.”

“Yeah?”

“Anyway, Lorraine had a great idea.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Aphrodisiacs. Asians love them. Some pretty freaky shit, too.”

“Like what?” Marty could hear Drew flipping pages in a notepad, going through his notes.

“Ever hear of pickled tiger penis?”

“Uh, fortunately, no.”

“Powdered rhinoceros horn?”

“Nope.”

“Shark-fin soup?”

“Yummy.”

“I’m telling you, Marty, the Asians are serious about this. Get your hands on some of this stuff and our problems will be over. That’s what Lorraine says. Says it’s all a mind-over-matter thing, but who cares as long as it works, right?”

“Okay, great. But where am I supposed to get it? I don’t suppose they carry any of that stuff at Seven-Eleven.”

Drew paused. “Good point,” he said. Marty could hear paper rustling. Then Drew said, “Let me ask you this: They got deer in Texas?”

“God yes,” Marty replied. “All over the place. Why?”

13

“TATUM’S GONNA TALK to the other guides again, and we’ll see if anything shakes loose from that,” Garza said. “Meanwhile, I’m really hoping we can get something useful today.”

They were in Garza’s county car, heading east on Highway 290, about an hour past Austin. Marlin was getting drowsy from the warm winter sun, which was low in the sky, angling in through the window on the passenger’s side.

“What do we know about Searcy?” Marlin asked.

“Married, no kids. Born and raised in Houston. Never lived anywhere else. Even went to medical school there.”

“What kind of doctor was he?”

“A pretty good one, I guess.”

Marlin shook his head at the lame joke.

“Radiologist,” Garza said.

Marlin pondered that. “Have you talked to anyone at his office yet?”

“Yeah, Tatum did. I know what you’re thinking: He’s a doctor; maybe he misdiagnosed somebody, or beat somebody in a lawsuit. Nothing we could find. Plus, it would be kind of strange, wouldn’t it? Someone following him from Houston so they could kill him in Blanco County?”

“Unless he had a patient from Blanco County.”

“We checked, but he didn’t.”

A few miles passed in silence.

“Then there’s the
way
Searcy was killed,” Garza said. “Let’s say Lem was right and it was a screwdriver. Doesn’t seem like the weapon of choice if you were planning ahead, does it?”

“Something spontaneous, then?”

“Makes the most sense. Otherwise, why not a gun?”

“Maybe the perp wanted to keep it quiet.”

“Then how about just a regular damn knife? Why a screwdriver? Who chooses a screwdriver when they have time to plan?”

Marlin agreed the theory made sense. A heat-of-the-moment homicide, no planning. Most of them were. One reason why so many perps got caught. Plus, with the enormous advancements in forensics over the past few decades, it was virtually impossible for a criminal—whether he was a killer or a poacher—to escape a crime scene without leaving physical evidence. The Texas Parks and Wildlife Department even had its own forensics laboratory attached to a state fish hatchery in San Marcos. The lab’s capabilities were far greater than the average poacher assumed, including DNA testing, protein identification, and fatty-acid analysis. That meant, for example, that if a hunter claimed the blood or hair in the back of his pickup was from a feral hog rather than from a deer, the lab could quickly determine if he was telling the truth. Just the knowledge that samples were being sent to the lab was frequently enough to convince a poacher to confess.

The drive to Houston crept by, small town after small town, Duke keeping it well below the speed limit. He damn sure didn’t need to get a speeding ticket. He didn’t want any kind of record of his trip. He’d even topped off the tank of Kyle’s Lotus before he left, so he wouldn’t have to use a credit card along the way. Duke felt stupid being so cautious about these little things—it was like using a teaspoon to bail out a sinking boat—but there was no sense in losing his head now.

He’d sat by the damn hot tub with Kyle’s body for half an hour, expecting to hear sirens at any second. He never did. With each moment that passed, he became more hopeful. After twenty minutes, Duke’s spirits had begun to rise. It was only a ten-minute drive from the sheriff’s office. Could it be that they weren’t coming? Maybe—who the hell knows why—Cheri hadn’t called it in. Duke could go insane trying to figure that woman out.

Ten minutes later, Duke couldn’t stand it anymore. He carried Kyle to his truck and drove to a particular spot in the northeast pasture. There, when Duke and Kyle were kids, they had discovered a cave. Well, not so much a cave as a small underground hole, maybe the size of a Volkswagen. The entrance wasn’t much wider than a basketball hoop. They used to slide down in there with flashlights and pretend they were Confederate soldiers hiding from the Yanks. Now Kyle was playing soldier again, the entrance sealed with the largest limestone rock Duke could find. Maybe it wasn’t the best solution, but he hadn’t known what else to do under the circumstances. He knew it looked bad: Kyle points the cops toward Duke, and then Kyle ends up dead just hours later. In the cops’ eyes, Duke would be the only suspect.

Duke had something else brewing in his brain, though. A way to throw them off his tracks. After he’d hidden Kyle—and the cops
still
hadn’t shown up—Duke had thought of a way to explain Kyle’s absence. That’s why he’d taken Kyle’s car. Duke needed to go to Houston anyway, so why not kill two birds, so to speak, with one stone?

Duke reached the sprawling city limits at about four o’clock. He drove for twenty more minutes before 290 hit Loop 610. He went south for a few miles, wanting to get into the heart of town before he stopped and made the call. Finally, he exited the freeway and pulled into a gas station. He found a working pay phone—he wasn’t stupid enough to use his cell phone—and dialed Information. He asked for the address of Oliver Searcy.

The operator said, “No Oliver Searcy, sir, but I do have an O. Searcy, M.D.”

That had to be it. She gave the phone number, which Duke already had, and an address in the eight hundred block of North Third Street in Bellaire.

“No, lady, the guy lives in
Houston
,” Duke said.

“Bellaire
is
in Houston, sir.”

Duke hung up. He slid two more quarters into the slot and dialed Searcy’s number. Four rings, then an answering machine.

Duke stepped into the store and bought a roll of duct tape—$4.99, plus tax.

Walking back toward the Lotus, Duke noticed a young guy filling his low-riding Honda, rap music thumping from the stereo. Smoking a cigarette, too, right there at the pumps. Even Duke wasn’t
that
dumb.

“Any idea where Bellaire is?” Duke asked.

The punk had a smirk on his face. “Dude, you’re standing in it.”

Bellaire was actually a small city that had been swallowed by Houston many years ago. It was a decent little place, straddling both sides of Loop 610 on the west side of town. It appeared to Duke that the town used to consist chiefly of small frame homes, but most of them had been torn down, replaced by much larger brick homes. Small mansions, really, on prime real estate. Lots of money floating around the area. New construction on every block—including the house right next door to Oliver Searcy’s place.
How damn lucky can a guy get?
Duke grinned. Plenty of construction workers coming and going. Now he didn’t have to worry so much about being noticed. Except for the Lotus—and it was okay if somebody remembered that later.

Duke took two right-hand turns and parked at the curb one street over. He climbed out of the car, grabbing the roll of duct tape and Searcy’s handgun, which he tucked into his waistband. He pulled his baseball cap down low and adjusted his sunglasses. Then he started walking around to the Searcy house.

He had absolutely no plan for what he was about to do, beyond knocking on the front door. If someone answered, he’d probably just say, “Oops, wrong address. Sorry about that.”

If there was no answer, he’d scout the place out, check for an alarm system, then find a way in. That’s what the tape was for. There was a clever little burglar’s trick he had always wanted to try.

Duke peeked through the windows in the garage door. Three-car garage, two slots empty. A Lexus sitting in the middle bay. Searcy’s SUV would still be with the cops. The question was, did the Searcys own three cars or two? If they owned three, that meant the wife was probably gone.

There was only one way to find out.

Duke walked right up to the front door—the construction workers next door were too busy sawing and hammering to even give him a second look.

He held his breath and knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again, more firmly this time. Nothing.

He casually strolled around the side of the house and found an iron gate leading into the backyard. No lock, just a latch. He popped it, stepped through, and closed it behind him. Thank God, he didn’t see any sign of a dog.

The backyard was surrounded by an eight-foot rock wall, providing plenty of privacy. Huge oak trees towered overhead, completely shading the lawn. It was like a goddamn jungle back here, all kinds of big bushes and one huge shrub in the center of the yard. Some kind of fish pond, too, with a fountain bubbling away. There was a large gazebo in one corner. He couldn’t even see the house that shared the rear property line.

He stepped onto a large redwood deck and walked to the French doors that led into the house. Locked. Hell no, it wouldn’t be
that
easy.

He studied the door, then the windows along the back of the house. No sign of an alarm.

No time to fuck around. He pulled some gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. Then he picked the window closest to the construction site next door and covered it completely with duct tape. First he laid strips horizontally, then vertically.

He walked to the fish pond, pulled a large ornamental stone out of the water, and went back to the window.

Then he waited.

The sun was getting pretty low. Hopefully, the wetbacks next door weren’t done for the day.

Then he heard it: the ear-piercing screech of the table saw. The neighbors had to be good and sick of all the racket by now.

He launched the rock through the window.

Susan Searcy thought she heard something odd, but it was hard to hear
anything
above the sound of the headboard slamming against the wall.

“What was that?”

“Uh! Uh! Uh!”

“Damn, Peter, would you ease up for a minute?” She whacked him on the head. Jesus, the man was like a rabbit. You’d think he just discovered sex yesterday.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“I heard something.”

“Like what?”

He had stopped for the moment, and all was quiet.

“I don’t know … it kind of sounded like breaking glass.”

“Probably next door.”

They heard hammering, then a power saw.

“See?” Peter said.

“This sounded closer—like in the house.”

“You’re imagining things.” He started going at it again, slow strokes now, while Susan continued to listen for more sounds.

Okay, maybe it could have been the construction workers.
From all the noise those guys made every day, you’d think they were tearing the house
down
rather than building it. The workers usually knocked off around 5:30, and now it was only—she glanced at her wristwatch—ten till five.

Ten till five!

“Jesus, Peter, get offa me! The cops are supposed to be here in ten minutes.”

She squirmed out from under him and started collecting her clothes off the floor. She had no idea it had gotten this late.

“Get dressed!” she said. “You’ve gotta get out of here!”

Peter was moving slowly. “You drove me over here, remember?”

But she was already headed down the hallway.

It had worked perfectly. The window had shattered and fallen inward in one large sheet, only a handful of loose shards sprinkled on the windowsill.

Even better, when Duke had parted the curtain, he realized he had hit the jackpot. The room he had chosen was Oliver Searcy’s office, with trophy deer heads mounted on all the walls.

Duke climbed through the window and quickly spotted the mount he had passed off as Searcy’s deer.
Yeah, the guy knew it was a fake, but that didn’t keep him from hanging it on the wall. Probably showed it off to friends, too, bragging about what a great shot he’d made. What a prick.

Duke reached up, lifted the mount off the wall and—shit! He heard voices in the house! Not in the next room or anything, but close enough that he could make out what they were saying.

A woman: “Wait in the backyard until they leave. They’ll be here any minute.”

A man: “You’re getting too freaked out about it. I’m an old friend of Oliver’s, remember?”

Then the guy laughed, like it was some kind of inside joke.

Sounded like somebody was coming to see Searcy’s widow, and for some reason, she was nervous about it. Duke made his way to the window. Time for a quick exit.

The woman: “That makes it even worse. You were his best friend, Peter, and you’ve been fucking me.”

Duke stopped in his tracks.
That
was interesting.

The man: “So?”

“God, you’re so dense sometimes. That makes you a
suspect.
Both of us.”

Were the cops coming?

The man: “But we didn’t do it. At least
I
didn’t. I don’t know about
you.
” Another laugh.

“Very funny asshole.”

“Besides, they’ve already questioned both of us.”

“Damn it, just wait in the backyard, okay?”

“All right, all right. Take it easy.”

Damn!
Duke hustled to the window, parted the curtains, and began to climb outside. But he heard a noise—the French doors opening—so he ducked back inside.

Shit, now he was trapped!

The doorbell rang.