Chill Factor (26 page)

Dixie had no desire to analyze that one.

The image she awoke with was of Marty on a golf course, chasing balls for Derry Hager. Derry, four years older, could get kids to do things. His family had money, but that wasn’t it—Derry never
paid
for favors. He simply expected and received. Dixie hadn’t liked him and had steered clear when he visited. Marty seemed to prefer that, anyway, almost picking a fight at times so Dixie wouldn’t horn in on his fun with Derry Hager.

And twenty years later, it had been Derry who set Marty up with a friend in Dallas wanting to open a gallery.

Already winded from the unaccustomed pace, Dixie slowed past a weathered shack, windows long gone, shingles curling, and wondered briefly who’d lived there and if their lives had wasted away like the house. Dewberry vines covered the fence in mounds, dark ripe fruit thick among the paler leaves. Mud stopped to snuffle around the roots, but Dixie ran on.

Another image from her restless night had been sparked by a late-night newscast featuring the two slain HPD officers. Dixie recognized the photo of Theodore Tally from the circle of blue uniforms gathered around Edna’s body after the shooting. Ted and a female officer had been standing nearby when Dixie yelled at Arthur Harris.

If she could see head shots of the other seven officers at the scene, Dixie thought she might recognize all of them—the terrible event had etched their faces in her memory—but how could the sniper know that both Art Harris and Ted Tally had taken part in Edna’s death?

Unless the assassin was among the rubberneckers who stopped to watch. At least one camera lens had winked in the morning sunlight. With pictures and perseverance, all the officers could be identified.

On the other hand, reporters—anyone working with news media—would have access to press photos, including shots never released to the public. Who else could have snapped a shot of Dixie yelling at Art Harris? A shut-in from a neighboring house?

Reporters also had sources within the police department. Anyone in the Mayor’s office or on City Council might weasel the names from an HPD employee. And at HPD? Internal Affairs, of course. Homicide. Everyone on the task force. The HPD psychiatrist, Emile Arceneaux, could poke around just about anywhere. Any of the other law enforcement agencies involved might learn the names by merely asking enough officers who knew. The list seemed endless, now that she thought about it, especially since she hadn’t the time to interview them all.

As Dixie’s lungs began to ache, she sorted this information into a mental file cabinet. No way would the police let her near any evidence. But after watching the late-night report on the assassinations, she’d read everything she could find in her week-old stack of newspapers, highlighting specific details …

Three hundred fifty units. People coming and going at all hours … a wide ethnic mix … nobody would’ve noticed the sniper slinking in the shadows.

From there he could’ve taken the open staircase like any resident. Police had canvassed the area for witnesses. By now, investigators would be flashing Marty’s photograph around.

The sky had lightened to pale gray, a wisp of coral peeking above the skyline. Soon she’d have to pick up Marty. But Dixie needed to finish filling her mental file cabinet before the frail ideas and images vaporized with the dawning light.

Like Art Harris, he’d died instantly, but Ted had lain beside his patrol car until a woman noticed him as she parked—blood still fresh—probably no more than a minute, according to the medics. Plenty of time for the shooter to disappear.

The two robberies that resulted in “shoot-outs” occurred in the towns of Webster and Richmond. HPD responded when the robbers crossed into Houston jurisdiction, which in Edna’s case didn’t occur until she’d passed through two other jurisdictions, picking up a patrol car in both.

Dixie had consulted a map that showed all three cities. Webster lay just southeast of Houston, Richmond southwest. The distance between the robberies spanned fifty-two miles, the distance between the shootings roughly thirty miles. Apparently, both women had been driving into Houston when police stopped them.
Where
in Houston?

The Pine robbery was the only squeal those two men ever caught together
, Rashly’d told her.

Most Houston patrol officers rode solo, not in pairs, and Art Harris worked out of the Clear Lake police station. When he responded to the Richmond robbery pursuit, he was way off his beat. Off duty, maybe? If so, the newspaper hadn’t mentioned it. On the other hand, he’d have been in exactly the right neighborhood to respond to the Webster robbery. Had he felt cheated, not getting in on that action, and later defied departmental policy to respond to the Edna Pine chase? Maybe he lived near the spot where Edna was forced off the road.

Feeling her second wind now, Dixie made a mental note to get Art Harris’ home address—not an easy task, with most officers’ phone numbers unlisted. She knew a couple who could do it, if anyone could.

Now that she had an objective, Dixie itched to take action, but it was far too early to knock on doors. The sun’s orb had not yet joined the ribbon of color above the horizon. Also too early to pick up Marty. He’d slept at Amy’s house, with instructions to stay put until Dixie’s arrival, and the Royal household didn’t rise with the sun.

Dixie regretted now that she’d agreed to tether Marty to her side—poking around in a cop killing would be tedious enough. Yet he’d need that airtight alibi should the sniper strike again.

As the gravel road came to a dead end, where brush had grown across it from lack of use, Dixie’s busy thoughts locked on a blur of faces: the remaining six officers who’d shot Edna, all young and proud in their blue uniforms—but shocked and stunned. In all probability, none of them had ever before shot a weapon in the line of duty. Turning toward home, Dixie saw those faces in obituaries, one by one, victims of a sniper’s bullet.

A sense of urgency quickened her pace.

On her way to Amy’s house, she could stop by the restaurant where Ted Tally was killed. Investigators had already examined every inch of it, but Dixie wouldn’t be looking for physical evidence.

The restaurant faced the Southwest Freeway and shared a parking lot with a three-story motel. All the rooms featured outside access, either directly from the parking area or, on floors two and three, from partially enclosed stairs and an outdoor walkway.

In line with an eight-foot square of the parking lot roped off with yellow crime-scene tape, Dixie spied a police seal on the door of a second-story room. The task force must’ve calculated the sniper waited in that motel room to drop Tally. Quite a shot: about four hundred yards from that angle. Other rooms offered better positioning, but perhaps they’d been occupied.

She climbed the stairs and examined the door. The cardaccess lock appeared to be intact. The killer either possessed the skill to disarm it or had rented the room under a false name. Or one other possibility: According to the newspaper,
Ted Tally’s murder occurred at approximately two-thirty in the afternoon. With checkout time at one, the rooms would be cleaned between noon and three, and wouldn’t start filling up again until five o’clock, ground-floor units going first. The killer might’ve scoped out rooms with the best angles, then slipped in during housekeeping.

Dixie scanned the distance to the crime scene below.
Sit in the darkened room, door open a crack, rifle ready. Wait for Ted to arrive for his usual afternoon coffee stop. But no—when he arrives, you don’t see a clear shot. He walks too fast, or a car blocks your target. You wait … take aim as he returns to his car … and
pop!
Freeway traffic disguises the shot. Afterward, slide the rifle under your shirt, down your pants leg, skip downstairs, melt into the landscape.
The killer either knew Officer Tally’s habits or had followed him until the right moment presented itself.

Dixie retraced her steps down the stairs and approached the taped-off area. A brown stain marred the asphalt beside the parking space Ted’s car had occupied. She sighted back toward the motel room, then along the bullet’s exit path. In the restaurant’s rear wall, near the ground, she found the spot where Forensics had extracted a slug of lead from the wood siding.

Inside the restaurant, Dixie took a seat at the counter. A middle-aged couple occupied a table in the smoking section, and a single male sat in a booth near the front. A waitress was filling a shelf with pies—fresh-baked, judging by the aroma. Thirty-something, with stout arms and a pinched face, the woman glanced at Dixie unenthusiastically, wiped her hands, and laid her cleaning towel aside. Another waitress moved among the tables with a tray of salt and pepper shakers.

A menu dropped onto the counter in front of Dixie.

“Coffee?” The pinched face split into a forced smile.

“Yes, thanks. Black.”

When the coffee arrived, Dixie ordered an omelet in her friendliest voice.

“Quiet in here this morning,” she commented.

“Finally!” The woman rolled her eyes heavenward. “Lord Almighty, you should’ve been here a couple hours ago.
Thought the late-nighters would never leave, everybody talking about that cop got killed here yesterday.”

“That was here?” Dixie looked around, feigning surprise. Damned good job of it, too, she thought. The newspaper article hadn’t given an exact location, but anyone who knew the area could read between the lines. “Didn’t happen on your shift, though. Unless you work longer hours than I do.”

“I come on at eleven. Night shift. But Sarah was here.” She nodded at the second waitress. “That poor cop was a regular.”

“I guess a lot of cops eat in here.”

“A few. Ted lived nearby. Stopped in almost every day, sometimes twice.” She gave Dixie’s order to the fry cook and went back to filling the pie shelf.

Dixie sipped her coffee, then slid off her stool, strolled casually to the ladies’ room, and washed her hands. On her return, she veered toward a table where Sarah had just deposited her last pair of salt and pepper shakers. Her freshly pressed uniform suggested she’d recently come on duty. Dixie handed the woman a business card.

“I’m looking into the death of Officer Ted Tally. I understand you talked with him yesterday.”

“I told the cops everything I know.”

“Yes, and I’m sorry to ask you to repeat it, but we’d like to take the psycho who killed him off the street.”

“I hope you just shoot him down, the way he shot Ted.”

Dixie allowed her serious mouth to lift a trifle at the corners. “Believe me, that’s
exactly
what I’d like to do. Did you know Ted well?”

“I’ve only worked here a few weeks, but I liked him.”

“Did he usually come in alone?”

“Sometimes he came with another cop, like yesterday.”

Tom Dietz, the news story had said. “Always the same two?”

The waitress nodded. “And that other officer who was killed. I think they were all pretty good friends.”

“Arthur Harris?”

“Yeah. I feel so sorry for Art’s wife, them with a new baby and all.”

Officers on duty weren’t allowed to eat outside their beat, so Harris must’ve placed a premium importance on meeting Ted.
“Do you remember if Art stopped in with Ted on Tuesday morning?”

“Tuesday …?” Sarah frowned. “Sorry, I don’t—”

“You might recall a number of police cars going by—”

“Oh! Yes! That poor woman was shot. But Ted didn’t … he wasn’t one of
those
cops … was he?”

“Sarah, I’m merely following up all the loose ends, trying to find out who shot those officers. Were they in here together that morning?”

“Yeah. About nine-thirty—”

While Edna was waving her .38 at Len Bacon.

“—Ted didn’t usually come in that early.”

Two anomalies, then. Art off his beat, maybe—Dixie needed to check his work schedule—and Ted stopping early for coffee.

“Did you notice any customers who struck you as unusual that morning? Perhaps someone who asked about the two cops? Or watched them?”

Sarah shook her head slowly. “You think the killer could’ve been here?”

“Just a routine question,” Dixie assured her. The killer could’ve seen the officers leave the restaurant and join the police pursuit. “I’d appreciate your thoughts. Did anyone follow them out?”

Sarah continued frowning and shaking her head.

“What about yesterday?” Dixie prompted. “Did you notice anything different when Ted was here?”

“You mean, did Ted look like he planned to walk out and get his head blown off? Did he say, ‘Sorry I can’t keep our date, Sarah. I’m wanted for target practice’? No! It was a day like any other day. He had coffee and pie. His friend had coffee and pie—”

“You dated Ted?”

“No, not—” Her voice broke. “Not yet.”

“But you intended to.”

“He said we’d take his wave runner out after I finished work.”

“Did Ted ever talk about his job?”

“We never talked about anything, really. Just him asking me out and me saying no.”

A couple entered the café and waited at the door to be seated.

“Until yesterday?”

“Yeah.” She said it softly. “Listen, I have work to do, and I really don’t know anything, but I hope you find the sonofa-bitch, ’cause Ted was a damn nice guy. And so was his friend.”

Dixie’s omelet awaited her at the counter. She poked at it and finished her coffee. As she fished money from her pocket to cover the tab, a familiar shape dropped down on the stool beside her.

“What the hell’re you doing here, Flannigan?”

“A sharp detective like you, Rash, ought to pick up on the clues. Plate of half-eaten eggs, utensils, empty coffee cup …”