Chill Factor (27 page)

“Long way from home, and too damn close to a case you need to butt out of.” He signaled the waitress to bring him a coffee.

“Marty didn’t kill those officers, Rash. If I butt out, who’s going to prove it?”

“Always the smartass. Always think you know more than a team of good police officers.”

“Your boys jumped on the first convenient suspect.”

“Not my boys. Goddamn task force.”

“What could they have on Marty? That he was in town when he claimed to be in Dallas? That he once owned a rifle?”

“Whole gun case full of rifles.”

“Only took one to do the job. Since I know it wasn’t Marty’s, your ballistics report isn’t all you’d like it to be, is it?”

“Stop baiting me, Flannigan.”

“You know it’s strictly political. Make an arrest, even if it’s wrong.”

He glared at her. “Did you know your friend has a record?”

Dixie struggled to keep the surprise off her face. “For spitting on the sidewalk?”

“Cocaine. He and his Dallas buddy.”

“Next civilian party you attend, Rash, frisk all the guests. Bet you’ll find a few carrying nose candy.” When she got her hands on Marty, she’d wring his scrawny neck. “Why not tell me what you have? You know Belle Richards will get disclosure on every piece of evidence the DA’s planning to use.”

The waitress arrived with his coffee. “Put it on my friend’s tab,” Rashly told her.

When Dixie nodded, the woman turned to another customer.

“The way I see it,” Dixie said, “the big question is: How would Marty know which officers were involved in the shootings? Unless you think he’s psychic.”

“I’m warning you, Flannigan, butt out of this one. Don’t expect anybody to cut you any slack.” He took one sip of his coffee, shoved it aside, and walked out of the restaurant.

Watching him go, Dixie wondered what had brought the Homicide sergeant here at this hour—only to bark at her and leave. Until now, she’d maintained a mutually beneficial relationship with HPD and other law enforcement departments across the country. If that relationship soured, she could forget bounty hunting. If it soured enough, officers she’d once counted as friends could make her life damned miserable without overstepping the legal line to harassment. All the goodwill she’d racked up over the years would be as worthless as pigeon poop.

Before leaving the café parking lot to pick up Marty, Dixie phoned the only couple she knew who could get information on police officers fast and without alerting the other five thousand cops in Houston. An elderly male voice answered. In its rusty squeak Dixie heard enthusiasm and instantly pictured Smokin’s trim white beard, half-size reading glasses, and orange suspenders.

“Yep, yep. It’s Dixie Flannigan, Pearly,” he called away from the phone. Then he came back. “Felt in my bones we were due some fun today. Told the old woman so. Long before sunup, coffee still dripping, I said, ‘Today we’re due some fun.’ Didn’t I, Pearly?”

“He says that every morning, Dixie,” came a throaty female voice. Pearly White had picked up on an extension.

Snowy-haired and even smaller than her five-foot-one-inch husband, Pearly would be perched at a desk made from a wooden door slung across a pair of sawhorses. Smokin’s identical desk sat nearby, on the other side of a thick black tape line that divided their home office precisely down the middle.

“Let’s have it.” Smokin coughed, and Dixie could almost smell the Marlboro burning steadily in his butt-crammed ashtray.

“Can you get me some general information, then follow wherever that leads?”

“Yep, yep. Lay it on us.”

Dixie’d met the remarkable pair through a mutual friend. The couple’s expertise with computers rivaled any teenager’s, and they loved tapping into the most secure databases. But asking them to snoop in the HPD personnel files didn’t sit well with Dixie—and it might feel as offensive to them.

“I suppose you’ve heard about the officers who were murdered,” she began awkwardly.

“Sweetie, you’ve seen our big-screen television,” came Pearly’s throaty answer. “What do you imagine we do when we’re not on-line?”

Right.
“And we’ve discussed the fact that investigation starts with the victim.” Despite appearances, Art Harris’ and Ted Tally’s deaths might have nothing to do with their involvement in the robbery shootings. The killer might’ve piggy-backed on the shootings to throw investigators off. In that case, the slain officers’ backgrounds might provide a clue to the killer’s identity. In fact, one cop might’ve been the true target and the other killed to make their deaths
appear
connected to the Granny Bandit shootings. “Which means looking into the officers’ backgrounds.”

“We understand, sweetie. Now what, exactly, do you want to know?”

Good question. “I’m not at all certain what we’re looking for, Pearly. By examining everything we can find, I’m hoping to recognize a pattern.”

Pearly delicately cleared her throat. “And you’ll use this information to find out who killed those officers?”

“Absolutely.” Dixie could already hear the click of computer keys. “A few more names I need you to look up—” She ran through the list: Lucy Ames, Terrence Jackson, Jessica Love, Vernice Urich, Lonnie Gray. Marty’s focus might’ve changed since his arrest, but Dixie still intended to find out why an otherwise ordinary pair of senior women ended their lives in such a bizarre manner. After an instant’s hesitation, she added Marty Pine, Essence Gallery, and the two churches—Uptown Interdenominational and Church of The Light—to the list.

“And Edna Pine?” Pearly added.

“Yes, but leave Edna till last. I want you to be as thorough as possible on the others.”

“Sweetie, you know we like to help you any way we can, but peeking into other folks’ lives is … well, we can’t be arbitrary about it. If you see what I mean. Are all these individuals suspects?”

“They could be.”

“Even the two dead women?”

“Pearly, what’s going on? You’ve never had a problem with this before.”

“No, no … when a person’s life is at risk, that’s good reason, but to invade a stranger’s privacy, without suspicion of criminal activities … Dixie, we’re not comfortable with that. Are we, Smokin?”

“Speak for yourself, old woman. I love it. This here Terrence Jackson fellow makes a hunk of money for himself. Stock market investments. Spends a bundle, too.”

“Stock market?” Rebuke sharpened Pearly’s voice. “That’s
my
bailiwick, Smokin. Get your fingers out of there.”

Smokin chuckled. “Gotcha, old woman. I wasn’t even—”

“Wait,” Dixie cut in. “What I need first are the two officers’ home addresses. Can you get those?”

“Right here,” Smokin said.

Dixie jotted down the street numbers he rattled off, then left the pair feuding over who would acquire the information she sought. But Pearly White’s remarks burrowed into her thoughts as she drove to Amy’s. Her own bank account had been plundered by a person who knew how to “wash” checks—and it infuriated her. How would
she
feel about computer-savvy snoops tapping into her personal records in search of anything that looked wrong? Did her records contain information that could be misinterpreted?

The questions soured her stomach. Maybe she needed a new line of work. Maybe she needed a new life.

After picking up Marty, Dixie drove to Arthur Harris’ southeast neighborhood, parked at the curb across from his trim front
yard, and felt the sourness in her stomach rise into her throat. Harris’ bereaved young widow had a right to be alone with her grief—and no reason to answer Dixie’s questions.

Marty, however, had seemed damned eager when she’d told him their destination. He hadn’t been nearly so eager to answer her question about the cocaine charge in Dallas.

“The charges were dropped,” he told her. “And it has nothing to do with what’s happening now. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You need to tell Belle. It could influence—”

“It wasn’t even my coke. One of Ashton’s friends brought it. Then he picked a fight with Ashton, and the cops showed up. Are you satisfied?”

“You’ll talk to Belle?”

“Yeah, okay—”

Dixie’s cell phone warbled.

“You’re out early,” Parker said.

“Early if you’re a beach bum.”

“This particular bum picked up a sizable lead last night.”

“At Fortyniners? We were trolling for clues, not sales.”

Marty climbed out of the car.

“Your colorful friend Judge Garston’s in the market for a twenty-five-foot motorcraft.”

“He’s not my friend, Parker, in case you called me for a character reference.”

“You’ll never believe who called
me
this morning.”

“Nope.” Parker knew she despised guessing names.

“Vernice Urich.” Dramatic pause. “She heard you’d asked about her last night, and since I gave her my card …”

“Someone must’ve noticed us leaving together.”

“Dixie, everyone noticed us. You were extremely noticeable.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you’d heard she’s a psychotherapist, and you’d considered therapy in the past but wanted someone discreet.”

“Not bad. I can run with that.”

“Great, because I made a provisional appointment for you.”

“Provisional?”

“If you don’t like the time, I call back and reschedule.”

“Why don’t
I
call back and reschedule?”

“Vernice likes my voice.”

So do I.
“I’ll keep the appointment, if I can find a place to stash Marty for an hour or so.” She told him about HPD’s suspicions.

“My afternoon’s open. I could take over Marty-watch for a while.”

“You don’t like him, Parker.”
Without even meeting him.

“Sure don’t,” he said cheerily. “Do I have to?”

Dixie’s own feelings about Marty couldn’t be called favorable these days. She agreed, and they made arrangements to meet for lunch.

As she powered off the phone and studied the Harris house, one of Barney’s directives popped into her mind:
Tackle the tough jobs first, lass.
Today it failed to galvanize her. She simply wasn’t up to speaking to Art Harris’ widow, especially with Marty along. She’d tackle the neighbors first.

The Clary home, pale yellow with white shutters, sat away from the street, flower beds bursting with color, sidewalks swept spotless, oak-and-brass placard proclaiming the family name, a mint-condition twelve-year-old Volvo parked under a vine-covered portico. The Clarys lived immediately west of the Harrises. Dixie rang the doorbell.

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Clary,” she told the man who answered.

He stood about five-nine, in clean, pressed Dockers and a T-shirt boasting his participation as a blood donor. Thin, thirtyish, and suspicious as hell, he scrutinized Marty from hair to sneakers, then turned his piercing gaze at Dixie. As a pair, she and Marty might’ve been from different planets, the man’s frown suggested.

“You’re not from the church,” he stated.

“No.” Dixie handed him a card.

“I was expecting a couple from the church to pick up the white elephants my wife donated. Carol! It’s a lawyer!” He glanced at Marty.

A plump, thirtyish woman joined him on the threshold.

“Whose lawyer?” She took the card from her husband.

“I’m looking into the death of your neighbor, Arthur Harris.”
Dixie’s vague explanation had worked once that morning. “Sometimes friends, neighbors, know more than they realize.”

“Don’t see how we can help, but come in and have a seat.” The man pushed the door wide.

A narrow entry opened into a pale yellow living area. The carpet appeared freshly vacuumed. Dixie examined her boot soles before walking in. A pair of matched love seats, pristine white, sat on either side of a glass coffee table. She spied a club chair with a yellow slipcover and motioned Marty toward a love seat. Instead, he perched on a straight-back chair pulled away from the dining table.

“How well did you know Arthur?” Dixie asked, when they were all seated.

“Not well at all.” Carol looked at her husband. “We invited them over—remember, Joe? Before the baby came, but they didn’t stay long. Ann was close to term and obviously miserable.”

“Ms. Flannigan didn’t ask about Ann. She asked about Art.” Joe plucked a tiny leaf off his pants. “Art and I talked quite often. He’d be out with the stroller, me working in the yard.”

“Not all that often,” Carol argued. “We didn’t know the Harrises at all, really, not at all.”

“I knew Art well enough. What did you want to know?” Joe glanced at Marty again, then back to Dixie.

“Just a sense of what he was like away from the job. Did he ever talk about work?”

“Not as much as he talked about that baby,” Carol replied. “You know, ‘Peggy turned over.’ ‘Peggy smiled.’ ‘Peggy spat up her dinner.’”

Joe aimed his careful scrutiny at his wife. “I never realized you and Art—”

“Now, you stop with the jealousy, Joe Clary.” Carol turned to Dixie. “On his days off, Art sometimes brought Peggy over and we’d have a glass of tea. I always told him, ‘Bring Ann along.’ But she’d be in the shower or whatever.”

“Did the Harrises have many visitors? Other officers, perhaps?”

Marty stood and strolled to a media unit—TV, VCR, CD
player—and appeared to study the titles of their music collection.

“No.” Carol shook her head. “Never saw anybody over there.”

“I did.” Joe lowered his voice. “Last Saturday, a blue-and-white parked in Art’s driveway. Art came out, leaned in the window, and talked for, I’d say, twenty-five minutes. Didn’t have Peggy with him.”

“Did you see who was in the car?” Dixie asked.

“A man. Blond.” He reached behind him and grabbed a folded newspaper off the sofa table. Opening it to the frontpage story on the sniper murders, he pointed to Ted Tally. “Could’ve been that man.”

“It would help if you could be more certain.”

“Sorry, no.”

Carol picked up the paper. “Joe, that man is dead, too.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Well, I don’t believe you saw him at Art’s house.”

“I saw someone, and it could have been him.”