Hog Heaven (21 page)

They’d done more driving—hours of driving, covering almost every square inch of pavement in Blanco County—but Red wasn’t as impatient about it as he’d been before. In fact, now he was fully on board with it. He’d drive as far and as long as it would take to find the redheaded man again and shut his damn mouth.

Rump ranger?

Red sure as hell wasn’t no damn rump ranger, and he wasn’t going to let some inbred, banjo-strumming dog runner imply that he was. Red had every intention of giving that jerk a good old-fashioned beatdown, or at least watching with enjoyment as Billy Don did it.

“Maybe we should just park somewhere and wait for them to drive by,” Billy Don said, as Red maneuvered the curves of Cypress Mill Road. They’d been cruising the northern end of the county, since that was the direction the redhead and his pals had headed from the stoplight in town. “If we keep moving and they keep moving, we might not ever see ’em. But if we stay in one spot and they keep moving, eventually we’re gonna see ’em. Don’t ya think?”

Normally, Red would’ve argued, simply based on the fact that—historically speaking—most of the things that came out of Billy Don’s mouth were incorrect. But what he’d just said actually made some sense, and it would save a lot of money on gas, too.

“I was just gonna suggest that,” Red said.

“Where ya think we oughta park?”

“Since we saw ’em in Johnson City, I’m betting they’re staying there. So we should park somewhere in the center, like the Super S.”

Billy Don agreed, so Red returned to the highway and went south, back to town. Just as he turned into the Super S parking lot, Billy Don said, “There’s Grady Beech.”

And he was right. Grady was just getting into his truck as a beige Dodge Caravan drove away. Red pulled up beside him and said, “Hey, there, Grady.”

“Oh, hey.” Grady started his truck.

“Listen, I’m glad we saw you. Nobody got the pig yet, right? There was a rumor going around, but I didn’t believe it.”

“The pig?” Grady seemed distracted. Even puzzled. How could he not know which pig Red was talking about?

Red laughed. “The
bounty
pig, Grady. Remember?”

“Yeah, it’s still out there. Guys, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to go.”

And Grady drove away without another word.

“That was weird,” Billy Don said.

Armando woke again, in the late afternoon, and he felt even more clear-headed than he had that morning. Sure, there was still some pain, but his strength was returning, and he wasn’t nearly as groggy or confused as he had been the day before. Almost back to normal.

And the image of the redheaded man had gelled even further.

Now Armando could see him sharply—the high forehead, prominent cheekbones, thin lips—and he knew that it wasn’t just an apparition from a dream. This was a real memory. This was the man who had assaulted him.

It made him nervous. Palms sweaty. Heartbeat accelerating. Was he ready to do this? Wouldn’t it be easier to let it go? Why create more trouble for himself? More drama?

But how would Armando feel if it happened to someone else? Or worse—what if the redheaded man killed someone because Armando had failed to stand up and do what was right?

He flipped slowly onto his left side and reached toward the small rolling nightstand beside his bed. His cell phone was resting there, along with a slip of paper with various phone numbers printed on it. He found the one he wanted, took a deep breath, and dialed.

After two rings, a woman answered, and Armando said, “Nicole, this is Armando. I’m sorry to bother you this late in the day, but can you help me with something? Can you let the sheriff know that I’m ready to look at a line-up?”

“I am investigating the circumstances revolving around the death of a high school boy—a young man—in Blanco County,” Marlin said. “Great football player. All the big colleges wanted him.”

They were seated on a couch in Aleksandra Babikova’s loft apartment. It was a very large, open space, and everything in it spoke of money. The leather furniture. The contemporary art on the walls. Even the light fixtures. Where did all her money come from?

Marlin continued, saying, “His name was Sammy Beech. Did you know him?”

“Sammy Beech? I do not recall him.”

“Do you recognize the name?”

“It is possibility. From news reports about his tragic death. You are confident you would not enjoy coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“It is no trouble.”

“I had some on the drive up here. Let me ask you this: What is it that you do for a living?”

“I am consultant.”

“That covers a lot of ground. What kind of consultant?”

There was a slight pause. “Sports consultant.”

Marlin felt a faint buzz in his chest—his body responding to the first sign that he might be on the right track. He said, “Okay, what exactly does that involve?”

She made a gesture with her hands—like
Where to start?
—and said, “Is very complicated. I provide services to an ample range of clients.”

That was meaningless fluff. She seemed to be dodging his question. The buzz in his chest grew more pronounced. “Who are your clients?”

“My clients?”

“Yeah, just name a couple, if you don’t mind. It’s not a large secret, is it?”

She smiled. “You repeat back to me what I say earlier. You are clever man.”

“Thanks.”

She crossed her legs and leaned backward, spreading her arms in either direction to rest them along the top of the couch. As a result, the front of her blouse, which was unbuttoned to mid-chest, opened wide. She was trying to distract him. So obvious. He refused to look down.

“Have you at all times been this clever?” she said.

“No, only on rare occasions. Can you name a couple of your clients?”

Another pause, this one longer than the earlier one. Then she folded her arms, abandoning her distraction attempt, and said, “I’m afraid that subject must continue with confidentiality.”

And Marlin immediately knew that the photo on Sammy Beech’s phone was not a dead end. What kind of sports consultant needs to protect her list of clients?

“You won’t tell me?” he said.

“American law gives me that alternative, yes?”

“It does.”

“My clients value their seclusion.”

“You mean their privacy?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Marlin decided to push harder. He pulled his phone from the holster on his hip and tapped the screen, bringing up the photo from Sammy’s phone. He showed it to her, watching her face closely. “Ever seen this photo before?”

Practice had ended an hour ago. Kurt Milstead was in his office, which was in the same building as the gymnasium, detached from the rest of the high school. He was meeting with one of his assistant coaches, discussing some defensive adjustments for the game the following night, when Grady Beech opened the office door and stepped inside, without a greeting of any sort. He left the door open behind him. The hall outside was quiet, because all the players had already showered and gone home.

“Well, come on in, Grady,” Milstead said sarcastically but jovially. “Don’t mind us.”

Grady didn’t respond to Milstead’s remark, but instead turned to the assistant coach and said, “Cliff, can you give us a few minutes alone?”

“Everything okay?” Cliff said. “You look like someone pissed in your corn flakes.”

“Just need a few minutes with Kurt.”

Cliff looked at Milstead, who nodded that it was okay. When the assistant coach had stood and left the office, Grady closed the door behind him. And he locked it. Then Grady swung back toward Milstead, and now he had a revolver in his hand, which he aimed directly at the coach’s face.

“Jesus, take it easy, Grady,” Milstead said, holding his hands in front of him.

“I caught you,” Beech said.

“Caught me?”

Grady pulled back the hammer. “You are about the lowest of the low, you know that?”

“What—”

“Don’t lie, Kurt. Whatever you do, don’t lie.”

“I won’t, Grady.”

“Good.”

“Just tell me—what did I do?”

Beech aimed just inches above Milstead’s head and pulled the trigger.

Aleksandra Babikova was definitely surprised, maybe even shocked, by the photo on Sammy Beech’s phone. She tried to cover it with a joke. “I have never seen her, but she is very beautiful woman.”

“Hey, no argument there,” Marlin said. “This photo was found on Sammy Beech’s phone. Not just on the phone, but
taken
with the camera built into the phone. That means Sammy, or someone carrying his phone, was with you at some point and took this picture. Seems weird, especially since you said you never met him.”

Now she wasn’t just shocked, she was shaken. He waited for her to respond. She didn’t.

“Miss Babikova, have you heard anything about this case in the past few days?”

She shook her head.

Marlin said, “When Sammy died back in September, we thought it was a motorcycle accident. But we recently learned that someone was chasing him, shooting at him. Whoever it was, they caused Sammy’s death.”

Her eyes grew wider. “I did not know. That is horrible.”

“I need you to tell me about your interaction with Sammy—especially since the photo of you on his phone was taken the day before he died.”

Now her arms were wrapped tightly around her torso, as if she were suddenly cold. “Perhaps I need attorney?”

“You have a right to an attorney, but that doesn’t mean you need one. Were you involved in the death of Sammy Beech?”

He saw a sudden fire in her eyes. “Certainly not.”

“Do you have any knowledge about it at all?”

She said something quickly in Russian, then caught herself and switched to English. “I know nothing of this! You insult me with these declarations!”

He sensed that he was on the verge of losing her. That she would stop talking and ask him to leave. At the same time, he believed her. Her outburst was genuine. It appeared she had known that Sammy had died, but she hadn’t learned about the circumstances. But still, she was one of the last people to see Sammy alive. She might know something useful. He needed to know all about her dealings with Sammy. He remained silent for a few moments to allow her to regain her composure.

Then he said, “I apologize. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

He waited again, and eventually she nodded her acceptance.

“However,” he said, proceeding slowly and carefully, “I still need to ask you some questions. You might be able to help me—and I need all the help I can get. So does Sammy Beech’s family. They deserve to know the truth about what really happened that night.”

He gave her a chance to speak, but she wasn’t ready yet. So he continued. “I don’t know why Sammy had that photo of you on his phone, or what your relationship with him was, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and try to fill in some blanks myself. I’ll take a guess that your main job as a sports consultant is to steer a player like Sammy toward a particular school. I imagine a woman like you could be awfully persuasive.”

She didn’t raise any objections or deny what he was suggesting. She didn’t say a word.

Milstead flinched at the gunshot, but he remained seated, with his hands in the air.

“Christ, Grady!”

“Be a man, Kurt. I won’t shoot you—as long as you tell the truth. It’s so simple. Just tell the truth.”

There was a firm rap on the door.

“Go away!” Grady shouted.

“What’s going on in there?” It was Cliff.

Grady said loudly, “Everything will be fine unless you try to come into this office. You understand? You try to open that door and Kurt’s in big trouble.”

“Kurt?” Cliff said.

Grady nodded at Kurt, who said, “I’m okay, Cliff.”

“Now go away,” Grady said.

No response. Fine. Grady knew Cliff would call the police, or maybe he already had. Nothing he could do about that.

Grady returned his attention to Milstead.

“Let’s hear it. The truth. Everything.”

Milstead didn’t look like the confident, charismatic football coach that viewers often saw on TV interviews. His lip was quivering. He looked like a small child who had just been scolded by a stranger in public. Afraid and ashamed, but trying to hold it in.

Marlin said, “If I’m right, I don’t really care. Let me rephrase that, and please don’t get angry. If I’m right—and you weren’t having sex with underage players...”

Her eyes flashed again. “Never. Of any age.”

He didn’t ask why the photo on Sammy’s phone showed her in her bra only. Maybe that was the deal—she let them get a good look, but no contact. He wouldn’t be surprised if an offer like that was effective. Besides, Sammy had reached the age of consent at the time, and she wasn’t that much older. There was nothing illegal about the photo.

“Okay,” he said. “Then all I care about is finding out who was chasing Sammy. Maybe it had nothing to do with football. But if it did, there might be something you know that will help. Regardless, whatever you tell me, as long as you weren’t involved in Sammy’s death yourself—and I believe that you weren’t—I can virtually guarantee that you won’t get into any trouble yourself.”

Technically, he hadn’t said she would receive immunity if she had taken part in any crimes, but it was highly likely, especially if she hired a decent attorney. If she had helpful information in this case, any NCAA recruiting violations would be almost meaningless in comparison.

Aleksandra Babikova didn’t move or speak for half a minute. It was obvious she was deciding what to do. She didn’t have a lot to gain, and depending on what she said, she might have quite a bit to lose. Finally, she let out a deep breath and said, “I had meeting with Sammy Beech. He was nice young man.” She bit her bottom lip. Marlin waited. “I stimulated him to play football at OTU.”

Despite the circumstances, Marlin almost laughed. He assumed she meant
encouraged
or
motivated
, but she’d gotten her synonyms mixed up. He kept a straight face and forced himself to remain quiet. Let her keep talking.

“No more stalling,” Grady Beech said. He raised the gun again. Milstead had no alternatives. None. “Talk, Kurt. Now.”

“You’ll kill me,” the coach said. He was sniveling—snot running from his nose.

“I won’t,” Grady said. “I give you my word. As long as you tell the truth. I need to hear it from you. Tell the truth and you get to walk out of this room.”

“You promise?”

Grady was starting to lose his temper, but he reined it in. He kept control. “I promise.”

Milstead began to shake his head. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen. How could I have known something like that would happen?”

What?
Grady Beech was confused. You don’t sleep with someone’s wife and then ask,
How could I have known something like that would happen?
It just didn’t make sense.

After another pause, Aleksandra Babikova said, “Sammy agreed that OTU was better program for him. He was enthusiastic. But he said his coach would be angry that he change his mind.”

His coach. Kurt Milstead.

Marlin said, “Why would his coach be angry?”

And now there was the longest pause yet.

“Spit it out, Kurt,” Grady Beech said. “How could you have known what would happen?”

Milstead wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“How could I have known that Sammy would run into a pig?”

Aleksandra Babikova had to be wondering how wrapped up in this mess she wanted to be. Even if she wasn’t prosecuted for anything herself, her own involvement in the case—every titillating detail about her career as a “sports consultant”—would be discussed and dissected in the tabloid press. It had to be a tough decision for her.

“Why would his coach be angry?” Marlin repeated.

And that was enough.

“Because he paid Sammy large money to select UMT.”