“I might just sit here until Mia comes home.”

  How does he know she’s out? I wondered. How does he know where we live?

  “You got a problem, take it up with me,” I said.

  “Maybe it’s time for you to stop following people around,” he said. “That’s the easy solution.”

  “Who have I followed?” I asked

  “You showed up at the dealership three times.”

  “Why does that concern you?” I asked.

  “You’re sticking your nose into other people’s business.”

  “Which people? What business?”

  “All these questions. It’s like you’re trying to make things worse for yourself.”

  I was slowly regaining my cool, and as I did, I realized that antagonizing him might feel good, but it was unwise. I needed to do the opposite. Placate him. Make myself appear to be less of a threat.

  “Here’s another question. Do you know what I do for a living?”

  “Got no idea. Don’t really care, as long as you quit being a pain in the ass.”

  “When I tell you, you’ll probably laugh.”

  “I doubt it.”

  I said, “Okay, try this. I’m a legal videographer.”

  I could tell he didn’t know what that was, but he didn’t want to ask.

  So I said, “I follow people around with a video camera and try to prove they’re committing insurance fraud. I was hired to determine whether Caleb Dimmick really works at the dealership, instead of simply collecting a paycheck. That’s why I’ve been hanging around—to shoot video of him at the dealership. I even went inside and posed as a potential customer. Ask Caleb and he’ll tell you. The good news is, earlier today my client told me they had all the evidence they need, so the case is closed. I collect my fee and move on. You won’t see me again.”

  Daughdril kept his tough-guy glare on me for a moment. Then he said, “You’d better hope that’s true.”

  I held my tongue while he started his truck and drove away.

  28

  I WENT INSIDE, cracked open a Lone Star, then took it to the patio in our backyard. I sat quietly and tried to bring my heart rate down. I was filled with a bone-deep sense of uneasiness. I didn’t like Daughdril mentioning Mia, even though I figured he’d done it just to get a rise out of me.

  I told myself a guy like Weldon Daughdril wouldn’t approach me first if he really planned to take action. He’d just do it, so I’d never see it coming.

  But my apprehension prompted me to text Mia. How’s it going?

  I watched my phone for a few seconds, but she didn’t reply. Probably driving. Or in the middle of her therapy session with Beth. Or a dozen other mundane possibilities.

  I realized, deep down, that it was time to face the facts head on, without any further rationalizing. My line of work could be dangerous—no question about it. In fact, there was no “could be” about it. My profession, the way I practiced it, was dangerous. Even simple surveillance cases held the potential to go sideways if a subject caught me watching him. And getting caught occasionally was just par for the course. If you had to put someone under surveillance for more than an hour or two, the odds they might notice you skyrocketed.

  Was it fair for me to expect Mia to live with this risk and uncertainty? After what she’d been through?

  On the other hand, I had to be honest with myself and admit that I loved the work. I loved the challenge. I loved nailing bad guys. In fact, the badder, the better. It made me feel like I was accomplishing something. Taking a guy like Weldon Daughdril off the street—if I could—was so much more meaningful than catching a guy faking a back injury or a doctor bending worker’s comp laws.

  My phone chimed. Mia replying.

  Having a little retail therapy after regular therapy. Need anything?

  I told her I was all set and I hoped she would be home soon. I wasn’t looking forward to telling her about the visit from Weldon Daughdril, but I knew I couldn’t avoid it. I would deal with that later.

  I drained the rest of my beer and watched a blue jay hopping around on a nearby oak limb. He was squawking at me—upset that I was in his space.

  I was equally agitated by Daughdril’s visit. Daughdril had to have followed me from the house when I’d had dinner with Mark last week, and he’d been brazen enough to park right out front just now. Despite the best efforts on my part, it was almost impossible to prevent someone like Caleb or JD from eventually identifying me and gathering basic information, including my address.

  Many subjects of surveillance are blissfully unaware they’re being watched, but some, like JD, are on high alert all the time. Maybe he’d run my plate after my “shopping” excursion at the dealership. Or maybe he’d simply followed me until I’d gone home. Then he told Daughdril about me, and Daughdril followed me the next night. The timeline worked, but it also meant I’d failed to spot the tail in the heavy traffic on the way to dinner. Sloppy.

  And the question was, why tail me? By now I was convinced it had to be drugs. If so, I’d seen no evidence it had anything to do with the murder of Malcolm Shaw, so I needed to stop letting it distract me.

  Time to refocus.

  Come at it from a different angle. Re-examine the fundamentals of the case.

  Heidi and I had both been operating under the assumption that Malcolm Shaw had been killed for the key-person insurance.

  What if that was wrong? Why else might he have been killed?

  I let my mind wander.

  I replayed some conversations in my head.

  Then I remembered a comment I’d made to Tasha. She’d been wondering who’d tailed me in the gray truck, and she assumed it had something to do with Caleb Dimmick. I agreed, but I’d added, “It could also be somebody I pissed off last week, or last month, or last year. Some people can hold a grudge for a damn long time.”

  My spirits rose a bit. Was I on to something?

  I went inside, sat in front of my Mac, and tried to look deeper into Malcolm Shaw’s assault charge from two years ago. What was that all about? Worth checking, for sure.

  The details I could find—the same records Mia had accessed two days ago—were bare bones. No description of the actual assault, which meant there were many possibilities, because “assault” covered a broad range of offenses.

  Had Malcolm Shaw punched someone? Slapped them? Shoved them? Had he brandished a knife or a gun at the victim in a threatening manner? Had he simply made a threat? A person can be charged for assault for no more than promising to kick another person’s ass. You don’t have to inflict physical harm; causing the victim to think you are about to cause harm is enough for you to be charged. Doesn’t often happen that way, but it can.

  To learn more, including the name of the victim, I’d have to make a trip down to the courthouse. Was it worth it? Or I could email a request for a search by a clerk and hope they get back to me in a timely manner. Wouldn’t cost much. I decided to go that route.

  I quickly wrote an email explaining that I wanted the probable cause affidavit and the other records for this particular case, which should give me all the details I wanted, including a specific description of the assault and the victim’s name. I included Malcolm’s full name and hit the send button just as I heard Mia pulling into the driveway.

  I grilled some hamburgers for dinner, then dished up some Blue Bell vanilla ice cream, and as we ate it on the back patio, I told her about the visit from Weldon Daughdril. Her reaction was somewhat flat.

  “You think he believed you’re done with the case?” she asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Think we need to worry about him?”

  “Honestly, no.”

  “Then let’s not. It’s too much.”

  I waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. She was busy spooning the last few dollops of ice cream from her bowl.

  “But we should keep our eyes open, just to be safe,” I said.

  “That’s nothing new,” she said. “That was true before this case and it will be true after this case. If it’s not the Tates or Weldon Daughdril or Landon Coyt, it will be somebody just like them.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s just how it is.”

  I could hear the high-pitched whine of a speedboat on the lake, even from a thousand yards away—somebody who couldn’t wait for springtime.

  A few minutes later, Mia said, “Remember when I talked about painting my office?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think I’m going to start tomorrow. I’ll try to keep the noise down.”

  Mia’s ex-boyfriend, Garlen Gieger, came back overnight, in my head, and he had her fooled again. Told her he’d been sober for three years, as required by the court, which was odd, because three years had not passed since then. It was a lie, but she didn’t seem to notice. I was on the periphery, watching, unable to intervene.

  “So you’re getting married, is that it?” he said, quite obviously to steer the subject away from his drinking. “That’s the rumor I heard.”

  “That’s right.”

  “When?”

  “December.”

  That wasn’t correct. We’d picked a date in November.

  “Do you love him?”

  Garlen was still tall and handsome. Tanned, even in winter.

  “Of course.”

  “You know as well as I do that you don’t. You need to have the courage to admit that to yourself. On my journey, I’ve discovered that you have to be honest with yourself about everything. It’s part of living a balanced life.”

  Mia said nothing.

  I was thinking I should’ve killed Garlen when I had the chance—when he tried to run me off the road in his BMW. How had he avoided jail time for that? I could’ve shot him. Nobody would’ve blamed me.

  “I just bought a new house,” he said. “Right on Lake Austin. You should come out for a visit.”

  He named a popular actress who lived next door. He’d gone to one of her parties.

  “Maybe when it gets warmer,” Mia said.

  “He’s going to get you killed. He almost did. That won’t be the last time.”

  “I already picked out the dress.”

  “I bet you look amazing in it. Save it for later. For someone else.”

  “He’s a good man,” Mia said.

  “That’s not enough.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of people like Weldon Daughdril.”

  I was confused. How did Garlen even know that name? Had he and Mia been staying in touch? Finally I managed to break through some intangible barrier and approach Garlen, and Mia saw me coming.

  “Roy, please don’t. Please.”

  I had my right fist cocked, ready to knock his capped teeth down his throat.

  “You know I’m right,” Garlen said to me, just as smug as ever.

  I wanted to tear him apart with my hands. Mia had her palms pressed against my chest, holding me back.

  “Time for you to go,” I said.

  “Maybe I’ll stop at Best Buy and shop for TVs,” he said.

  Mia looked at me, and the pain in her eyes stabbed me in the heart.

  I began to pull out of it, and when I woke fully, I was clenching my teeth, my heart was thundering, and the sheets around me were damp. Mia was sleeping soundly. The digital clock read 5:11.

  I took slow, deep breaths and tried to get back to sleep, but I couldn’t.

  29

  RANDY WOLFE CALLED me at nine o’clock to let me know that Landon Coyt was alert, facing a long recovery, and refusing to answer any questions. Well, that was only partially true. He was refusing to talk about the night Malcolm Shaw was killed other than to say he didn’t do it, but he was happy to give his account of the shooting at Zilker Park.

  “Why don’t you drop by my office today and we’ll talk about it?” Wolfe said.

  This meant Coyt had concocted some sort of nonsense. He’d had plenty of time in a hospital bed to come up with a story.

  “I wish I could, but I’ve just washed my hair and I can’t do a thing with it.”

  “You don’t want to clear up any confusion about what happened out there?”

  “Confusion? You kidding me? Confusion about what?”

  “His account doesn’t quite square with yours, so I need to ask some follow-up questions. You know how it works.”

  “Quite honestly—and I mean this with no offense—I have better things to do.”

  “Don’t we all? I’d rather be fishing—and I don’t fish.”

  “Let’s do it over the phone.”

  “In person is so much better.”

  “In front of a camera,” I said.

  “That’s how it works, yeah.”

  “If you’re confused, just watch my interview from Tuesday night.”

  “The video won’t answer my questions. That’s why they’re called follow-up questions.”

  “Seems like it would be a better use of your time to get together with Ruelas at the sheriff’s office and compare notes about Coyt and Caleb Dimmick and JD and especially Weldon Daughdril.”

  “We’re already talking.”

  “Then surely two of our state’s top investigative minds can piece this together. That’s not sarcasm, by the way. Just my usual annoying tone.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Daughdril came by my house yesterday, by the way. Made some veiled threats. Why do you think he did that?”

  “You should have called it in.”

  “See, I think they didn’t like me poking around the dealership for some reason, and that’s why JD and Weldon tried to run me off from the medical complex, and that’s why Landon Coyt came after me in the park, and that’s why Weldon dropped by. Selling drugs seems like a plausible theory. Caleb Dimmick is probably involved, too. They don’t want me to mess that up.”

  “Got any evidence?”

  Music was playing softly in Mia’s office as she did prep work for painting. Every half minute or so, I could hear the familiar sound of long stretches of masking tape being pulled off a roll.

  “Do I have evidence?” I asked. “You’re the cop, not me. Do you have evidence?”

  “I do not.”

  “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “That you need to get out there and collect evidence. Give it a try! It’ll be fun!”

  “Now I understand why Ruelas speaks so highly of you.”

  “That man is a delight.”

  “It’s fun going in circles with you, but we still need to talk about Coyt’s statement.”

  “I have a full day planned,” I said.

  Wolfe let out an audible sigh. “Any idea where Erielle Van Camp might be? She’s not returning calls.”

  “No idea,” I said. “She’s probably rattled after Zilker. Have you tried calling her sister?”

  “Yes, and she doesn’t know where she is either.”

  I didn’t like hearing that, although Tasha could be lying for her sister. I wasn’t about to call or text her to find out, though. I was going to honor her wishes.

  “Then I can’t help you,” I said. “I will, however, happily answer your questions over the phone. Is Coyt claiming my gun wasn’t in the van? He was in the porta-potty and wouldn’t have seen me get it.”

  Wolfe finally gave in.

  “He’s saying he recognized Erielle, walked over to say hello, and you flipped out and shot him.”

  “That’s a load of crap, because Erielle didn’t know him. I asked her right after she called 911.”

  “Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t recognize her.”

  “From where?”

  “He says he was over at Caleb’s house several months ago and JD and Erielle stopped by. They only talked for a minute, but Landon remembered her because she’s good looking. That’s what he said.”

  “God, that is so weak,” I said. “A man on an orange motorcycle was seen near Malcolm Shaw’s place on the evening he was killed. Is it just a coincidence that Caleb Dimmick’s best friend, riding an orange motorcycle, happened to stop at the volleyball courts in Zilker Park while I was interviewing JD’s girlfriend? What’re the chances of that?”

  “I’m not a statistician,” Wolfe said.

  “But you’re a smart guy. Surely you agree it seems unlikely.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. But I’ve been wrong before.”

  “We’re talking lottery-winning odds,” I said.

  Wolfe remained quiet.

  I said, “I warned him several times to keep his distance, but he kept approaching. Then he pulled his gun from his helmet, so I raised mine and fired. Just like I said Tuesday night.”

  “He says he didn’t pull his piece until you shot him.”

  “Why was his gun inside his helmet?”

  “He says he put it in there for a minute when he went to the bathroom. Didn’t want to leave it in one of the cargo pouches on his bike. He has a permit to carry, by the way.”

  “Fantastic. Have you seen his record?”

  “I’m not going to comment on that.”

  “Terroristic threat, burglary, agg assault—but he gets to walk around with a gun. Make sense of that for me.”

  “I’m not even going to try.”

  “So he’s saying he was out there minding his own business, came over to say hello, and I shot him?”

  “The idea is that you saw the orange motorcycle and panicked.”

  “Fortunately, Erielle backed up my account. Right?”

  “To some degree.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She didn’t see Coyt pull his gun.”

  “Meaning she said he didn’t pull it, or she wasn’t looking at him when he did?”

  “She couldn’t remember.”

  “But she backed up everything else I said?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “Problem is, she’s not the greatest witness. She forgets stuff, contradicts herself, and sometimes just sort of babbles. It can be hard to follow.”

  “Is this your way of saying you aren’t going to charge Coyt?”

 

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