Hog Heaven (9 page)

When the photo was taken, the woman hadn’t quite gotten the bra over her breasts yet, so there was plenty to see. It was a snapshot, not a professional photograph. Totally candid, not posed, but surprisingly erotic. A pro might’ve taken a hundred shots and failed to get a photo as provocative.

Marlin got the sense that the woman hadn’t known the photo was being taken. Sammy, or somebody, had snapped the photo quickly, sneakily, taking advantage of a split-second opportunity, while the woman was unaware. If Sammy had been able to shoot video while riding a motorcycle, sneaking a photo of this woman would’ve been a piece of cake.

The background of the photo was too dark and out of focus to learn anything about the location. Indoors, not outdoors—that was as much as you could ascertain.

“I assume you’re studying that so closely purely for investigational purposes,” Garza said.

Marlin pretended not to hear.

“Hey, John?”

“Oh, right.” Marlin handed the phone back.

“She does have that effect, doesn’t she?”

“No doubt. Any idea who she is?”

“Nope. And there weren’t any other racy pics on the phone. No centerfolds, no bikini models, nothing.”

“Did Sammy have a girlfriend?” Marlin asked.

“Yes, and this ain’t her.”

“Something he downloaded from the ’Net?”

“You’d think, but no. It was taken with the camera on his phone the day before he died. I’d say it’s almost a given that Sammy took the picture himself, but the woman doesn’t appear in any other photos, and nobody knows who she is. I didn’t recognize her, and you didn’t, and none of the deputies did, either. So I’m assuming she isn’t from this area. I sorted through all Sammy’s Facebook friends and didn’t see her there. So, for now, she’s a mystery woman. Next step is to show a copy—strategically cropped—to Grady and Leigh Anne. See if they know her. It’s probably a dead end even if we can figure out who she is, but...”

“Gotta check it out,” Marlin said.

“Right. Let’s say Sammy
did
have something going with this woman, but she also has a boyfriend or husband...”

“And he finds out and gets pissed off, understandably.”

“And so he decides to put a scare into Sammy by firing a few shots,” Garza said. “Does it sound like I’m grasping at straws?”

“Not at all. Sounds like a pretty good theory. It even makes me wonder about Sammy’s girlfriend. Wouldn’t she have the same motive as this woman’s husband or boyfriend?”

“Absolutely, but she was in Dallas with her family on the night Sammy died.”

“Okay, then.”

“Can you talk to Grady and Leigh Anne?” Garza asked.

“Sure. You’ll need to email that picture to me.”

“Don’t let Nicole see it or you might be the one who’ll wind up on the rack.”

“You don’t know me,” Dexter said before Vera Spillar could even ask a question. “And I don’t know you. Best if you just listen. Deal?”

She nodded, but now, outside, she wasn’t looking quite as friendly. More like suspicious. They were tucked into an alcove near a stack of gaudy pink-and-purple kiddie pools. Too late in the season for those to sell, despite the greatly reduced price.

Dexter kept his voice low. “Your son made a verbal commitment to play football for the University of Middle Texas, but two days ago, he changed his mind. Now he says he’s going to OTU.”

“Well, I let him make his own decisions about football.”

He noticed now that she had a thick hick accent. Sounded like a woman who should be washing sheets in a small-town motel. Or washing sheets in a hospital. Or a rest home. Washing sheets somewhere.

“Can’t blame you,” he said. “Best to let a young man like him steer his own ship. But there’s also something to be said for keeping your word.”

“’Scuse me?”

“I wish your son had kept his word.”

“Mister, who the hell are you to judge my son about—”

“Ten thousand bucks. You get him to switch back to UMT—
and stick with it this time
—and I’ll give you ten thousand bucks.”

That shut her up. Momentarily. Looking at him now like he was crazy. “Bullshit,” she said.

“No bullshit. Cash.”

She looked left and right, wondering if this could be for real.

“Who are you?”

“Doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“I guess not.” Now she was studying him more closely. “You on something?”

“Pardon?”

“You taking speed or something?”

“What? No. Why would you ask that?”

“Your eyes are all fucked up. Look at how you can’t stand still.”

Dexter did his best to stand still. It wasn’t easy.

“I have an electrolyte imbalance. It screws up my metabolism. What about my offer?”

“Need to think about it.”

“Sure. No problem. You have one minute. Then I go make the offer to another player. I
want
Colton, but I don’t
need
him.”

“When would I get the money?”

He raised a plastic bag in his hand. “Got it right here. You get half now, half when he switches back to UMT.”

She started to speak again, but Crabtree cut her off.

“But you can’t tell anyone. Ever. Not your son. Not your best friend. Not your sister. Not your mama. Not the guy you bang on Saturday night. You tell anyone and it could ruin your boy’s eligibility. His career would be over before it even got started. On the other hand, if you keep it quiet—and you know damn well
I’m
gonna keep it quiet—nobody will ever know. How would they?”

She pretended to think about it, but Crabtree knew she was hooked. Ten grand in cash was hard for a world-weary Wal-Mart cashier to resist. Finally, she said, “Mister, you got a deal.”

“One other condition,” Crabtree said.

“What?”

“He’s gotta make the announcement by noon tomorrow.”

“Not a problem. He’ll do it if I tell him to.”

Crabtree opened the plastic bag and removed a stack of hundred-dollar bills. But rather than handing them over, he began methodically tearing each bill in half.

“What in the world are you doing?” Vera Spillar asked.

“Like I said. Half now, half later.”

“So... what is this ‘touchy subject’ we need to talk about?” Sharon Greene asked.

For the past few hours, Armando had been rationalizing his behavior. Telling himself that he
did
have a delicate matter that he wanted to discuss with Sharon. It was true, wasn’t it? Sort of? A little bit? So she had met him at the Pearl Tea Room in Johnson City, one of their regular haunts. Beautiful place with crisp tablecloths and hardwood floors. They were waiting on an order of scones, which were always delish.

“Okay. Brace yourself. Brad called a few days ago.”

“No!”

“He did.”

“That dog. What did he want?”

Armando always enjoyed his time with Sharon, and who would’ve guessed? On paper, as friends go, they should be a total mismatch. She was in her fifties and had been born and raised in Blanco County. Conservative roots. A church-goer. A ranch woman. Strong and opinionated. But equally warm and kind to everybody she met.

“He said he was just thinking about me and wondered how I was doing. Like he was just checking in, saying hi, but it was
so
transparent.”

“And?”

“And then, right at the end of the call, he suggested we should get together for lunch. Or dinner.”

Sharon unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap. “Well...”

“Go ahead. Don’t hold back.”

“You already know what I think.”

“Indeed I do. You’ve made it clear in colorful language many times. But I probably need to hear it again.”

“If you do it, you’ll regret it, and that’s all I’m saying.”

“I know. I know.”

“Honey, you deserve so much better.”

“That is so sweet. Thank you.” He put one hand flat against his chest. “But I have weaknesses like everyone else.”

“Send him to talk to me. I’ll set that cheating bastard straight.”

“No pun intended?”

Sharon let out a loud, deep laugh. “I always walk right into that one.”

“Okay. I’m resolved. I will stay strong and not repeat the same old pattern.”

“Attaboy.”

“Thank you for listening,” Armando said.

“Hey, who was it that listened when I caught Emmitt watching that smut on cable? Those girls couldn’t have been twenty years old.”

The waitress arrived with their scones and offered more tea. After she left, Armando said, “So... what’s the story with this pig hunting thing? The bounty or whatever it is?” Trying to sound as casual as possible, and simultaneously wondering why he was even here, having this conversation. Why was he doing a favor for Red O’Brien? The man was an ignorant, backwoods bigot. Even Billy Don, with his somewhat narrow view of the world, was an enlightened, tolerant, open-minded sweetheart of a guy when you compared him to Red O’Brien.

So why was Armando doing this? He didn’t know the answer to that question.

Sharon said, “Poor old Grady. He’s still so brokenhearted about Sammy, although he tries not to show it. I guess he thinks this will make a difference somehow, but I suspect it won’t. A bunch of wild pigs will die—and don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a problem with that—but it won’t bring Sammy back. Grady has a strong will, and he’s always been able to make things happen the way he wants them to happen. I think this is his way of exerting some sort of control over the situation. He’s
doing
something about Sammy’s death.”

Armando nibbled on a scone and felt even worse about the situation. Grady Beech was dealing with his grief—this pig hunt was his way of working through it—and Armando was trying to help a cheater get the bounty. That was pretty low. Was that what Armando stood for? It certainly wasn’t, so he decided that Mr. Red O’Brien could take a flying leap. Armando wouldn’t help him at all. Okay, good. Now he was feeling better.

But...

Armando was still curious. After all, he had recognized a possible flaw in the contest. Had Grady and Emmitt realized that possibility themselves?

So Armando said, “You know, one thing occurred to me: What if the hunters start to suspect there isn’t a bounty pig? What if they think Grady made it all up? Wouldn’t some of them get pretty mad?”

Sharon chuckled. “Fortunately, that occurred to all of us before we turned the pig loose.”

“We?”

“Yeah, I was there. I’m the one who darted the dadgum pig. I’m a better shot than Emmitt, especially now that his vision ain’t so great. And Grady isn’t much of a hunter himself anymore. Anyway, after we tranquilized it and marked its ear, Emmitt brought up the idea that someone might try to collect with a different pig. Of course, they’d have no way of knowing the number tattooed in its ear, so it’d be easy to spot any fakes. But that made us realize that we’d better have some proof of what our pig looked like, in case anyone did try to cheat. So we shot some video with my phone before we turned it loose. Here, take a look.”

As he had three days earlier, Marlin parked in front of the vineyard’s visitors center and tasting pavilion. He saw Grady’s truck, Leigh Anne’s BMW, and a Chrysler Sebring convertible that screamed rental.

Just as Marlin reached the front door, it opened and a middle-aged couple emerged. Tourists. The man was carrying a case of bottled wine. They smiled and said hello and headed toward the Sebring.

Inside, Grady was behind the bar again, and Leigh Anne was seated at an out-of-the-way table, attention focused downward at the cell phone in her hand. Grady came around and shook Marlin’s hand, and then Leigh Anne rose to give him a quick hug. Both of them seemed more subdued than they had on Saturday. Understandable, considering what they had recently learned about Sammy’s death. For Grady, that had to be like a blow to the gut, just when he was catching his breath again.

They all sat at the table Leigh Anne had been occupying and Marlin said, “Thanks for meeting with me. This won’t take long.”

“Take as long as you need,” Grady said. “Ask us anything.”

“Absolutely,” Leigh Anne said. “We want to help however we can.” She was dressed more conservatively today. Khaki shorts and a mint-green button-down shirt with a white camisole underneath.

“Really just one thing I need to ask right now.” He had brought a manila folder with him, and now he removed the photograph inside and placed it on the table. The topless woman from the photo on Sammy’s phone—just her face. “Do either of you recognize her?”

Both Sammy and Leigh Anne leaned forward for a better look. Several seconds passed.

“She’s very beautiful,” Leigh Anne said. “But I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before. Who is she?”

Marlin didn’t answer, but instead waited for a response from Grady, who reached out and picked the photo up. “I... maybe. She looks kind of familiar. But I can’t place her.”

“I’d kill for those cheekbones,” Leigh Anne said. “She looks like a fashion model.”

Marlin said, “We found this picture on Sammy’s phone. Actually, there was more to the picture than this. I cropped it. Truth is, she was topless.”

Grady looked up from the photo. “Maybe Sammy downloaded it off the Internet.”

“No, it was taken with his phone.”

“How do you know?”

“With a digital camera, every time you take a photo, it creates a little information record of that photo—what kind of device took the photo, the focal length, exposure, that sort of thing. It also records the date and time. Very convenient.”

“I didn’t know that. Were there other photos?”

“Not of that woman.”

“Any other women?”

“None that we couldn’t identify.”

“But any other topless shots?”

“No.”

“When was it taken?”

“The day before Sammy died.”

Grady nodded and looked at the photo again. “This girl—this woman—looks a few years older than Sammy. She doesn’t look like a high-school girl. Maybe college.”

“I’d say she’s mid-twenties at most,” Leigh Anne said. “Definitely not any older than that.”

Grady continued looking at the picture. “You know, I can’t be sure, but I feel like I
have
seen her before. Somewhere. But I just don’t know.”

The door to the pavilion opened and four people came in. Two couples. More middle-aged tourists. Almost interchangeable with the couple who had just left.

“We’ll be right with you folks,” Grady called out.

One of the men waved an acknowledgment and the foursome gravitated toward the bar to wait.

Grady continued to stare intently at the photo, so Marlin remained quiet, letting the man think. But after a moment, Grady shook his head in frustration. “Maybe I’m wrong.”

Marlin said, “The important thing is, now we know she isn’t some regular friend of Sammy’s or anything like that.”

“No, she isn’t,” Grady said.

“I need to ask a fairly personal question,” Marlin said.

“Ask anything.”

“As far as you know, was Sammy sleeping around with a lot of girls?”

“You’re thinking a one-night stand, huh? Maybe he got lucky with an older woman and wanted to have a little something to remember it by?”

“Well...”

“Sammy was a popular, good-looking kid. He had a lot of girls after him, but he had been seeing Tracie for four or five months. I don’t know if he was exclusive with her or not. But I can tell you he wasn’t a love-’em-and-leave-’em type—as far as I know, anyway. Kids surprise you sometimes.”

“I’ll be right back,” Leigh Anne said, and rose from the table.

Grady had a pained grin on his face. “I second-guess myself a lot these days. It’s somewhat of a hobby—to beat myself up and think about how I could’ve done things differently. Like with the drugs. Some people would say I was too lenient with Sammy, and I wasn’t hands-on enough. Maybe that’s true. I knew he had experimented with drugs on occasion—pot, mostly. If I’d had to guess whether he’d tried some harder stuff, yeah, I guess I would’ve said yes. Then I learned from the autopsy that he had. The Ecstasy. And he’d definitely been abusing booze. Not just that night, but in general. Sorry, my mind is rambling.”

“That’s okay.”

“Obviously there was a part of Sammy’s life that he kept hidden from me.”

“That’s true of almost all teenagers.”

“I don’t know where he got the drugs. Was there a whole other group he ran with? Maybe this woman was from that part of his life.”

Marlin knew Garza and the deputies had looked hard into the drug angle. They’d come to the conclusion that Sammy, like a lot of teenagers, had done some experimenting, but it wasn’t a major part of his life. He had probably gotten the Ecstasy from a classmate.

Marlin said, “Your son was a good kid, Grady. We saw no indication that he was into anything more than what we already know.”

“Where did he get the money for the motorcycle? That bothers me.”

“Isn’t it possible he saved up for it?”

Grady didn’t have an answer.

“Your son was a pretty average teenager,” Marlin said. “Maybe he wasn’t perfect, but none of us were at that age. Or any age. You shouldn’t beat yourself up too much.”

“I appreciate that.”

Marlin glanced past Grady’s shoulder and watched Leigh Anne at the bar, chatting with the two couples, and pouring samples of a white wine into glasses.

“Do me a favor, Grady. Keep that copy of the photo, but don’t even think about it for a couple of hours, or until tomorrow. Then look at it again, with a fresh set of eyes. Maybe that’ll help you remember if you’ve really seen her.”

Just before two in the afternoon, after turning off A. Robinson Road and heading north on Highway 281, Bobby Garza spotted a blue diesel-powered dual-cab GMC truck in the parking lot of the Kountry Kitchen. It wasn’t the only diesel truck he’d seen that day, but it was the first one with dog boxes mounted in the bed.

Earlier that morning, in Garza’s office, Marlin hadn’t seemed willing to conclude that it was a very good possibility that dog runners had been involved in the shooting yesterday evening. But Garza figured they deserved to be checked out just as closely as anyone else. Maybe closer.

He pulled into the parking lot and cruised slowly past the truck. Nobody in the cab. First thing he noticed was a faded bumper sticker that read: WHERE IS THE BIRTH CERTIFICATE? Another one said: GOT AMMO?

Garza stopped for a moment and jotted the license plate number down. Then he continued north into the lot next door, which served a liquor store and a dry cleaners. He whipped his cruiser around and parked parallel to the highway, facing south, giving him a clear view of the big truck.

He grabbed his microphone handset. “One oh one to Blanco County.”

“Go ahead, one oh one.” It was Darrell, the county dispatcher, replying.

“Need a ten twenty-eight and twenty-nine when you’re ready.”

“Ten four.”

Garza recited the license plate number.

“Received, one oh one. Stand by.”

While Garza was waiting, two men exited the Kountry Kitchen and walked in the direction of the truck. Dog runners for sure, from the black felt hats with a feather in the band, down to the scuffed Justin Ropers. They were both about six feet tall. Maybe thirty years old. Similar build. One had a goatee, one was clean-shaven.

“One oh one, that comes back to a GMC quad-cab truck. Registered owner is Dustin Bryant out of Jasper. Insurance is confirmed. Negative twenty-nine.”

No wants or warrants.

“Ten four.”

The men reached the truck, but instead of getting in, they stopped by the tailgate. One of them took out his cell phone and appeared to be checking messages, while the other one slipped a can of snuff from his back pocket and stuck a dip into his mouth.

Garza waited. Watched. A steady stream of traffic moved past the cruiser. A group of four elderly people exited the restaurant and got into a Buick.

The guy with the Copenhagen glanced northward and spotted Garza’s cruiser. Now he was staring. No matter. Garza hadn’t been trying to hide. The snuff user said something, and now the guy fiddling with his phone looked in the direction of the cruiser.

Garza could see a physical change in the demeanor of both men. Most people who suddenly realize they are being watched by a cop show it in their body language. Typically they become self-conscious. Or they go the other way, like these two men. They become cocky. A rookie might not be able to spot the difference, but Garza could, after all these years on the job. Even the way the men were standing by the truck now had a swagger to it. Arrogance. Similar to the way a drugstore cowboy leans backward against the bar on a Saturday night, scoping the place out, letting the ladies know he’s the coolest guy in the room. Other signs weren’t so subtle, like the man with the dip leaning forward slightly and spitting on the ground, all the while keeping his eye on the cruiser. Pure attitude. Letting Garza know what he thought of him.

Garza had become immune to that sort of provocation. These guys were just punks. Dime a dozen.
Spit all you want, dude.
It was almost comical that they thought Garza cared how they behaved. So predictable. And then the guy with the phone looked to his right, at someone else leaving the restaurant.

A very tall man. Probably six-five or more. Not slender. Not fat. With red hair. Or that’s what most people would call it—“red.” But like a lot of redheads, this man’s hair color was actually closer to orange.

When the tall guy reached the other two men, they exchanged a few words and—just as Garza knew he would—the redhead turned and looked toward the cruiser. He smiled.

Then he gave Garza a big, slow, exaggerated wave.