Which led to the second problem—the cops never found the body of the original victim. So now they had no witness, no murder weapon, and no convincing evidence that a homicide had even taken place. The prosecutor had no choice but to drop the charges, saying the sheriff’s office would do their best to obtain new evidence and re-file the charges. That was six years ago and the case remained open.

  “What’re you looking at?” Mia was standing in the doorway to my office, putting an earring into her right ear. Her hair was still slightly damp. She could see my computer screen from there.

  “Research on our biker pal,” I said. “His name is Weldon Daughdril.”

  She moved closer and began to read the article over my shoulder. I remained silent.

  After a minute, she said, “You sure this is the guy who was with JD?”

  “Yep. His beard is fuller now, but the same guy.”

  She leaned past me to grab the mouse and scroll down. A couple of minutes later, she was done.

  “Anything new on that case since then?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately, no. And this is just the tip of the iceberg. Daughdril is a career criminal. Drugs, violence, mayhem, pillaging, et cetera. He’s a fun guy.”

  She took a seat on the small leather couch near a window that overlooked our shaded backyard.

  “How does a guy like that get out of prison?” she asked.

  But it was a rhetorical question. She knew all about the inadequacies in our judicial system that allowed repeat offenders to return to the street again and again. Meanwhile, nonviolent pot smokers serve time. Make sense of that.

  “Have you checked JD’s record?” she asked.

  “Possession of a controlled substance, burglary, violation of a protective order. Those last two were when he rented the garage apartment from Tasha, then broke in after she kicked him out.”

  “Interesting that Daughdril and JD both have drug charges. Maybe they’re dealing together.”

  “Maybe so. That would explain why JD was suspicious of me from the start.”

  She gazed out the window. A bright-red cardinal had landed on a branch no more than five feet from the glass. A brisk breeze was shaking the trees ahead of another cold front due to hit in the next few hours and drop the temperature to the thirties yet again. I was getting tired of this weather-related rollercoaster. The cardinal put up with the swaying branch for a few seconds, then took off for a better perch.

  “Any chance he was the person in the gray truck?” Mia asked quietly.

  “Daughdril?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess we need to figure that out.”

  The implications of a man like Daughdril following me were ominous. Unfortunately, we wouldn’t be able to determine whether he owned a Ford truck via online records. Sure, you could take the plate number off a vehicle and find the owner with a simple search, but you couldn’t take a person’s name and conduct a simple search to learn what vehicles they own. That left a limited number of ways to go about it.

  We started with the easiest, most obvious method—we spent the next twenty minutes scouring social media, looking for any trace of Weldon Daughdril, on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and a few others. Nothing. Not like we expected to find him, though. Guys like Daughdril don’t typically post selfies or share kitten videos.

  That meant it would take a little more effort.

  We started with a search of the tax rolls, hoping he was a homeowner—and there he was. Decent start.

  19

  WELDON DAUGHDRIL OWNED a mobile home in Village West, a small neighborhood off Cuernavaca, which was off Bee Caves Road, west of town. When I was a kid, Village West was known for sporadic drug activity, but I had no idea if that reputation was deserved nowadays.

  Daughdril had owned the place for seventeen years, and it had been deeded to him by a man with the same last name, presumably his father, who’d owned it for twenty-six years before that. So this was probably the home where Weldon Daughdril had grown up.

  We tried the easy route first and plugged his address into Google Maps. Wouldn’t it be fantastic if the satellite shot or street view showed a gray Ford truck parked out front? Well, yeah, but no such luck. That meant we were probably looking at a stakeout.

  The neighborhood itself would present a challenge. There would be no inconspicuous place for us to park and watch Daughdril’s trailer. Best we could do was drive past it and see what was parked out front. We could also set up in the parking lot of a large convenience store at the corner of Village West Drive and Cuernavaca. Daughdril had to drive past that store every time he came and went.

  We drove west on Bee Caves Road in Mia’s Chevy Tahoe. I sat in the passenger seat, quiet, wishing a guy like Daughdril was not involved in this case.

  A few minutes later, we came over a slight rise and could see the traffic light at the right turn for Cuernavaca. I could feel the force of the wind buffeting the Tahoe. The temperature had already dropped into the low fifties.

  Mia turned right and said, “Start with a drive-by?”

  “Might as well. It’s Sunday. Maybe he’ll be home.”

  “Unless he’s at church,” Mia said.

  We had a good laugh about that.

  We passed Commons Ford Road, and a minute later, she took a left on Village West Drive. This neighborhood was much like I remembered it—small lots, plenty of trees, some houses only partially visible from the street. Several of the trailers were in need of maintenance, but most were in decent shape. The streets had no curbs or storm drains.

  A few of the trailers had been replaced by frame homes on foundations, and I figured that trend would continue. Nowadays, each lot was worth more than the trailer that sat on it, and that would tempt more and more owners to sell, not just to realize a profit, but to avoid the ever-climbing property taxes in this school district.

  “Daughdril’s place is right up here,” I said.

  Mia nodded and kept her speed low.

  We eased along a wooden privacy fence on our right, and as soon as we passed it, we could see Daughdril’s place. Just a basic double-wide trailer with a carport on one side. The Harley was parked on one side of the carport and a green GMC truck was parked on the other. There were no other vehicles in the driveway or anywhere on the lot.

  “I’m not sure whether I should be disappointed or relieved,” I said.

  “Check it out,” Mia said, pointing with one finger over the steering wheel as we approached the next home over. It was a cute little cottage that looked out of place in this neighborhood, to be honest. It was well maintained and appeared to have been painted recently. The landscaping was immaculate.

  But what had caught Mia’s eye was the gray Ford truck parked out front. I checked the rear bumper and sure enough, I saw a red sticker on the passenger side.

  As we coasted past, I wrote the license plate number on a pad. Chances were good the truck belonged to the person who owned the cottage, but what if the resident was a renter? I wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Same truck?” Mia asked.

  “Has to be,” I said.

  Mia took a left on Presa Arriba, then a right on Cuernavaca, and a few minutes later, we were approaching Bee Caves Road, where we would take a left.

  But Mia gestured toward the right and said, “Want to swing over to Best Buy?”

  She was grinning, but there was a little sting to it, too.

  “We need a new stereo or something?” I asked.

  “Are you tired of the old one?” Mia asked.

  “Oh, hell no,” I said. “Planning to keep it forever.”

  She took a left and said nothing more about it.

  The registered owner of the gray Ford truck was named Simon Yeager and the tax rolls revealed that he’d owned the cottage next door to Weldon Daughdril for nine years.

  Back home, I checked Yeager’s criminal history and saw two speeding tickets in the past seven years. That’s all.

  His Facebook profile was wide open.

  He appeared to be in his late thirties, unmarried, but dating a woman who taught school in Westlake.

  He worked as a waiter at an upscale restaurant in downtown Austin.

  He was a voracious reader, mostly of nonfiction.

  He loved pro baseball, especially the Astros.

  He didn’t own a motorcycle.

  As far as I could tell, he was Daughdril’s neighbor, and that was about it. He didn’t run in the same world as Daughdril or Caleb Dimmick or JD Magnuson.

  I was willing to bet a thousand dollars he hadn’t tailed me that night, and that he knew nothing about it—but I wanted to confirm it.

  I made a phone call, then sent Mia a text in her office.

  Want to grab a steak tonight at Perry’s?

  She replied: Ooh, nice. Sure. What’s the occasion?

  Just why not? I said.

  Perry’s Steakhouse & Grille opened its doors in 1993 and had quickly built a reputation for fine dining. The ambience was about as stuffy as it got in Austin, which is to say it was sort of informally elegant. You could get by without a sport coat, although I chose to wear one, over nicely pressed jeans and black lizard-skin boots.

  Mia, on the other hand, had chosen a sleeveless plum-colored sheath dress I’d never seen before. It had a generous slit in the back and a plunging V neckline that made the maître d’ sneak a glance as he looked down at the list of reservations. Her black high heels put her just over six feet tall.

  “Ballard?” he said.

  “That’s the one.”

  The call I’d placed earlier was to make sure Simon was working tonight, and then to make a reservation at one of his tables.

  “Yes, sir, we have a booth for you with Simon. Right this way, please.”

  He led us through the dimly lit interior to a booth near a massive wall of wine bottles, and then tried not to watch as Mia scooted gracefully to the center of the half-ring bench seat. Then he handed us each a menu and said Simon would be right with us. He was right, too. Simon came along no more than thirty seconds later.

  “Glad you could join us again,” he said, and then, “Oh. I think this might be my first time serving you.”

  “Your memory is that good?” Mia said.

  “I think I’d remember the two of you,” he said.

  “Mostly her,” I said.

  “Well, I was trying to be tactful,” Simon said with a laugh. To Mia, he said, “I hope you don’t mind me saying that dress is stunning on you.”

  Simon had the type of demeanor that allowed him to give that sort of compliment without sounding the least bit flirty or out of line.

  “That’s very kind,” Mia said.

  “I got this coat at a yard sale,” I said.

  “Roy,” Mia said.

  “I think you’re going to be my favorite customers this evening,” Simon said. “May I start you off with a beverage?”

  “I would love a cocktail,” Mia said. “What would you recommend?”

  I couldn’t help thinking about the prescription bottle I’d seen on her side of the vanity last night. Was it okay for her to drink while taking that medicine?

  “We offer an excellent Sobieski martini,” Simon said.

  “Wasn’t he a Polish composer?” I asked.

  Mia put her hand on my forearm to silence me. “I’m not big on martinis,” she said. “I’m more of a bourbon girl.”

  “In that case, may I recommend a Bulleit Manhattan?” Simon said. “It’s one of our specialties.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “And for you, sir?”

  “I’ll take the same.”

  Simon nodded. “I’ll be back shortly to take your dinner order.”

  The moment he left, Mia said, “Why did he think he might’ve served us before?”

  “I asked for a table with him. That’s Weldon Daughdril’s next-door neighbor.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, if he recognized you, he’s covering it up well.”

  “Agreed. He’d have to be a pretty good actor.”

  “When I was tending bar, I worked with waitresses who could put on this big show for customers—all sweet and girl-next-door—and then they’d go out back to snort coke and talk about who they’d slept with that weekend.”

  “So you’re saying we may not be seeing the real Simon,” I said.

  “Maybe not. Who knows? He might be in the kitchen right now telling the cook I look like an enormous slut.”

  “The nerve of that bastard,” I said. “You look like a tart sometimes, or perhaps a harlot, but never a slut.”

  “I’m swooning,” Mia said.

  Simon returned with a basket of warm bread and our drinks. Mia took a sip of her Manhattan and said, “Very nice.”

  “So glad to hear that.”

  “She used to be a bartender,” I said. “People were known to drive hundreds of miles to watch her shake a martini.”

  “I bet you were one of them,” Simon said.

  “It was the highlight of my week.”

  “Any questions about the menu?”

  “No, but I do have a larger question about life,” I said.

  He laughed. “I’ll answer it if I can.”

  “Can you really ever know a person?”

  “Wow,” Simon said. “That is a big question.”

  “Any thoughts?”

  “Well, I’d say if that person is willing to let you know them, then yes, absolutely. Honesty is key, though. And that person has to accept themselves as they are, too, so they aren’t pretending to be someone they aren’t.”

  “That’s a really good take on it,” Mia said. “If the person isn’t being authentic with themselves, how can they be authentic with anyone else?”

  “Exactly,” Simon said.

  “Here’s another question for you,” I said.

  “This is fun,” Simon said.

  “What sort of relationship do you have with Weldon Daughdril?”

  The smile on his face disappeared.

  20

  “HE’S MY NEIGHBOR,” Simon said. “How do you know him?” His expression was now a combination of confusion and unsuccessfully masked distaste.

  “Why don’t we order first?” Mia suggested. “And then you can tell him what’s on your mind.”

  “Fine by me,” I said, and when I saw the grimace lingering on Simon’s face, I added, “Everything’s okay. Nothing to worry about. We’re not friends of his. I’ll go with the famous pork chop.”

  Despite this being a steakhouse, the pork chop was their signature dish. Rotisserie-roasted, five inches thick, and absolutely incredible.

  “Same here,” Mia said. “Thank you.”

  We offered our menus to him. He seemed to be regaining his composure, or perhaps he was even becoming somewhat intrigued. He’d surmised by now that we weren’t here to cause him any trouble.

  “I’ll get that order in right away,” he said, and he left with an amused expression that seemed to ask, What are you up to?

  Mia said, “You sort of shot from the hip there, didn’t you?”

  “That’s my jam. Shootin’ from the hip.”

  “Okay, tough guy, but what are you planning to do next?”

  “I’m going to drink most of this Manhattan and see if it gives me any inspiration.”

  We bumped our raised glasses and took a drink.

  “That really is good,” I said.

  “Bread?” Mia asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  She buttered a slice for herself, took a bite, and moaned with appreciation.

  Simon arrived at our table again, and it was clear that curiosity was getting the better of him.

  “How is everything?”

  “This bread is amazing,” Mia said.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” Simon said, and he lingered.

  So I said, “Wondering why I asked about Weldon?”

  “I am, because I don’t understand how you would know I’m his neighbor if you aren’t one of his friends, and since you asked to be seated at one of my tables...”

  “Honestly, it’s nothing very interesting or mysterious. We investigate insurance fraud and his name came up in a case we’re working on right now. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  It was an interesting dynamic, because he was our server, and in this environment, he was conditioned to please the customer.

  “I guess that depends on the questions, but I can’t imagine what would stop me from answering. So go right ahead.”

  “Did you lend anything to Weldon recently?”

  “Yes, my truck.”

  And part of the mystery was solved.

  Then Simon added, “Oh, my God, did he hit something with it?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Mia said quickly to reassure him. “And you’re not in any kind of trouble.”

  “When did he borrow the truck?” I asked.

  Simon thought for a moment. “It was last Tuesday. I remember because I had the day off. Then Weldon showed up at my door and asked if he could borrow my truck, which was a little weird, because we aren’t friends at all. He’s just a neighbor, and we never talk, and quite frankly, he scares me. So do most of his friends.”

  “What is it that scares you?”

  “Maybe it’s not fair, but just look at him. Look at the way he lives. I mean, I saw a fistfight on his front lawn last year during a party. It was two in the morning on a weeknight and these guys were whaling on each other, and the rest of them were cheering and laughing. Who does that sort of thing? I’ve considered moving somewhere else, but I’ve put a lot of work into my home. The neighborhood is changing—slowly.”

  “Does Weldon get a lot of biker friends over there?”

  “All the time.”

  “Mostly on Harleys?”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23