Chapter 22
W ith dismay, Beth said, “Billy couldn’t read and write?”
“Enough to get by,” Carla said, “but he would freeze up when he was stressed. Whenever his frustration reached a boiling point, he’d act out.”
John was so angry with the woman, he was on the brink of acting out.
“Why wasn’t Billy placed in special classes?” Beth asked.
“They didn’t figure out the problem until he was around ten. By then Gracie had been homeschooling him for several years. She read up on dyslexia and learned ways of helping him.”
“She dealt with it on her own?”
“Tutors cost money she didn’t have, and she didn’t want to put Billy back in school and have him made fun of.”
Turning to John, she said, “Under the pressure you police were applying, he sure as hell couldn’t have written anything like that confession. His letters would’ve been all jumbled up.”
John unclenched his jaw. “This confounds me. Absolutely confounds me. Why in God’s name weren’t we told?”
“Gracie did tell.”
“She didn’t tell Mitch Haskell and me. We thought hearing about the suicide was enough for one night, so we didn’t mention the note to her.”
“Well, Barker came along behind you and told her. She insisted that Billy didn’t write it, couldn’t have. You know what Barker did? He laughed at her and said, ‘Nice try, lady.’
“He accused her of making up the dyslexia only to clear Billy’s name. She had no way of proving he was dyslexic because he’d never been officially diagnosed, and it wasn’t in his school records.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, someone, anyone , Carla?”
“Gracie begged me not to. After being humiliated by Barker, she caved in. She was grieving. Besides, a woman of her generation ‘knew her place.’ It wasn’t in her nature to fight back. Not like me. I fight back, and I fight dirty.”
“Real dirty, Carla. Real dirty.”
“Damn right, Detective. You’re stuck with an unsolved crime that you’re trying to pin on a villain that’s into moon worship.”
She snorted with contempt, then turned to Beth. “Your true crime TV show is about to air a program that’s pure fiction. That presents you with a problem, too, doesn’t it? For the next few days, you two are gonna be awful busy. Now, get out of my house.”
She left the room, went to the front door and pulled it open, then slammed it behind them as they crossed the threshold.
Without a word being spoken between them, they got into the car. John drove to a municipal recreational complex where he parked facing a sodden soccer field dotted with puddles of rainwater.
Staring out across it, he said, “When we were talking to Carla about Billy’s difficulties in school, why didn’t she tell us then? Why did she let us go on about the moon, etcetera, then smugly play the dyslexia like a winning ace?”
“She wanted to hit us hard with it.”
“Which is probably the only reason she allowed us inside.”
“Maybe,” Beth said, “but I think she wanted us to know about Billy so we would keep looking for the real culprit.”
“Then why didn’t she just come right out and say so?”
“Not her way.”
“You’ve got that right.” His desolation obvious, he stared through the rain-streaked windshield. “Doesn’t matter how she told us. What am I going to do with this new information? Somebody wrote that confession and made certain it would be found on Billy.”
“Tom Barker.”
“He wouldn’t have done it himself.”
“If he orchestrated it, he’s as good as guilty of doing it.”
“Absolutely, but if I go barging into headquarters hurling accusations, he’ll have me arrested on the spot for reconfiguring his nose.”
“Skip him, then. Go to the top of the food chain.”
“The superintendent?” He grimaced. “That would be dicey. He was pissed over my bad-mouthing during that investigation, and Barker has further soured him on me.”
“What about someone in the DA’s office?”
“First thing they’d ask is, ‘Where’s your evidence?’ I don’t have any. All I have is a picture of the confession. The real one, if it hasn’t mysteriously disappeared, might have some forensic evidence on it, but it’s locked up in the evidence room, and I can’t even get into the building.
“The dyslexia is hearsay, told to me by a woman whose bitterness against the PD is well documented. Nothing Carla told us can be corroborated. To a prosecutor it would look like my allegations are payback for Barker’s firing me.”
“Then what do you intend to do?”
“Keep going at it but stay off Barker’s radar for as long as I can. Even now he’ll have hounds like the ogre trying to sniff me out.” He paused, then added, “I’m afraid Carla could catch some blowback.”
“From Barker?”
“Up till now, he’s considered her an outspoken pest, but if he finds out she knows about Billy’s dyslexia and the fraudulent confession, she’ll be elevated to a threat.”
“What could he do to her?”
“When he’s backed against a wall, and his position is at stake? I hazard to think what he’d do. She’s a scorpion with a nasty sting, but who could blame her? Her daughter disappeared without a trace.
“I know what it feels like to have a child missing for just a few days. Even a few hours is more torture than any parent should have to endure. Carla is far from my favorite person, but I don’t want to cause her any more hardship.”
This coming from the man Beth had accused of having no feelings for anyone or anything. She wished she could take back those harsh words. She wished she could advise him, but she didn’t see a way out of his conundrum, either.
Besides, as Carla had cited, she had a problem of her own. “I can’t sit on this and let that program be aired next week. I need to consult with Max on how we should approach Winston Brady with the bad news that the episode will have to be revised or scrapped altogether. Either way, Brady isn’t going to be happy. He’ll probably want to shoot the messenger. Moi .”
“Make your call. I’m going to get some air.” He opened his car door.
“It’s raining.”
“I won’t melt. Honk if you need me.” He got out, flipped up his hood, and started walking across the soccer field unmindful of the puddles.
She got Max’s voice mail and left a message, telling him that she was all right but that there’d been a rather startling development. “It’s a game changer, so call me back as soon as you can.” She also sent him a text to that effect.
On the far side of the field, John was walking along the sideline, a phone to his ear. Raising the hood on her rain jacket, she got out and jogged across the field. He saw her coming and ended his call. When she got close, he asked, “What did Longren say?”
“I couldn’t reach him and tried not to sound too frantic on his voice mail. I considered calling Richard, but I don’t trust him not to raise a hue and cry throughout the production office.” She gestured at his phone. “Who were you talking to?”
“Nobody’s answering. I left messages for Roberts and Cougar, telling them about Billy.”
“What do you think they will take from that?”
“If they’re smart, the same thing I take from it. If Billy is ruled out as the perp here—and I think that’s safe to say—it’s an even greater likelihood that we’re all looking for the same unidentified suspect. For the hell of it, I also called Gayle Morris in Galveston and left her the same message.”
Beth fell into step with him as he resumed pacing. “What are you thinking?”
“I’ve been running through the list of people Barker could have either bribed or coerced to write that confession and plant it on Billy to be easily found.”
“What were you doing in the jail that night?”
“Barker and the ogre were coming down so hard on Billy I’d asked his court-appointed attorney if I could interview him again in the jail and out of their hearing. He didn’t object so long as he was present. He and I had just arrived at the jail when all hell broke loose.”
“When Isabel Sanchez discovered Billy. Could she have been bribed to plant the confession?”
John frowned. “I’d hate to think it of her. I figured it was the trauma of finding Billy that had caused her anxiety and led to her resignation from the SO, but maybe it was guilt.
“Whatever the cause, her meltdown was genuine. I didn’t plan on bothering her, but this has gotten too big. Barker and crew need to be made to account. With all that’s at stake, I can’t continue being Mr. Nice Guy. I have to get her to talk about what went down in the jail that night.”
Now motivated, they started back across the field toward the car.
Beth looked up at him from beneath her hood. “Remind me of when you were Mr. Nice Guy?”
“Every time I’ve entertained dirty thoughts about you but didn’t act on them.” He slanted a look down at her. “I’m practically a saint.”
They got into the car. He started the engine but didn’t engage the gears. “The thing about sainthood,” he said, “is that it’s not at all what it’s cracked up to be.” He reached across the console and curved his hand around her nape. Before she had time to even anticipate what was coming, his mouth was on hers. It was more than a kiss; it was a fusion. For half a minute, they greedily indulged themselves.
He ended it by sweeping his tongue across her damp lower lip, then pressed his forehead against hers. His breath fell hot and fast on her face. “I had to have a taste.” Then he released her, settled back into his seat, and put the car in reverse.
John had former deputy Sanchez in his contacts, although he didn’t know if the phone number was still good. He feared she wouldn’t answer from an unidentified caller, but after the fifth ring, a wavering woman’s voice said hello.
“Isabel? It’s John Bowie.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“It’s been a while.” She didn’t respond to that, either. “How are you getting along?”
“I’m all right.”
Her shaky tone said otherwise. He had second thoughts about continuing, but he reminded himself of his purpose. “I know you’ve had it rough, and I don’t want to impose, but I wondered if I could come see you.”
That goosed her. “Come see me? No! Absolutely not.”
“Please. If it wasn’t important, I wouldn’t ask. I promise I won’t take up much of your time. I just want to—”
“I can’t… I can’t talk to you.” Her voice cracked; he heard her sniff. “Please understand. My husband, my kids. I’ve got them to think about. Sorry, John, I have to go now.”
“Wait!” What about her husband and kids? Then he got it. “Were you cautioned not to talk to me? Have you been threatened?”
She didn’t reply, but her unsteady breathing was answer enough.
He looked across at Beth, whose expression told him she shared his concern. “Isabel, the last thing I want to do is put you and your family at risk. You and I don’t have to meet face-to-face, but—”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“—can you please just answer a few questions?”
“Please don’t call me again.”
“I’ll make them yes or no questions.”
“I have nothing to say about Billy Oliver.” Before he could plead further, she clicked off. “Damn!”
“What in the world, John?” Beth said. “She sounded scared to death.”
“She was.”
“Of you?”
“Of talking to me. Somebody issued her a warning against it.”
“You really think so?”
“Had to be.” He palmed his phone and accessed another number. “I didn’t even mention Billy Oliver. She did.”
Beth digested that, then asked who he was calling now.
“Molly. The ogre and his men aren’t screwing around. They’re threatening family members now. I told Molly to be on alert. I need to underscore that.”
From behind his desk, Tom Barker asked, “Was Sanchez at home alone?”
“Best I could tell,” the ogre replied.
“How’d she react to seeing you at her door?”
“She started crying.”
Tom laughed before remembering that it made his nose hurt like hell. “The first time your mother saw you, she must’ve cried, too.”
Rather than take offense, Frank grinned. “It scared that Sanchez woman out of her wits when I asked how old her kids were now. Believe me, she’s not gonna talk to Bowie.”
“Bowie may contact Billy Oliver’s lawyer. The old coot was there when it happened.”
“I thought of that,” Frank said. “We’re in luck. The old coot has since died.”
“What about Mitch Haskell?”
“He finally called me back. Said he hadn’t seen Bowie for months. So long ago he couldn’t remember exactly when it was. They had a falling-out over Bowie’s binge drinking.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I wouldn’t, except that he said his wife had laid down the law for him to stay away from Bowie, or else no pussy. Between Bowie and the wife, the wife won.”
Tom was still doubtful of Haskell, but he moved on. “Learn anything more about how they got out of the hotel?”
The ogre shook his head. “The security camera videos are only good for twelve hours before they’re recorded over. We don’t even have him entering the lobby.”
“Fabulous.” Tom picked up a pen on his desk and began fiddling with it. “Who else would Bowie try to contact?”
“That Mellin harpy. I sent one of my men to the trailer park where she’d lived. She’s no longer there. He’s trying to track her down.”
“She can’t be far. She gave Crisis Point an interview.”
“They could have recorded the interview in Key West or freakin’ Anchorage. Besides, she wouldn’t give Bowie the time of day. She despises him for not finding her daughter.”
“I guess.” Making Tom more miserable than his throbbing nose was the thought of John Bowie getting the better of him. “You know what would help?”
“Bowie getting hit by a Mack truck?”
“If the Mellin girl’s body was discovered.”
Pensively the ogre asked, “Do you ever wonder who took her and what happened to her?”
“Not really, no. But I wish that one of these days somebody would step into a shallow grave, or get their fishing line tangled up on an arm or a leg and pull her out of a bayou. Once she’d been identified, we could point to her remains and say, ‘So that’s where Billy Oliver dumped her.’ His granny is no longer with us to dispute his guilt.”
“Everyone would shake their heads in sorrow,” he went on wistfully. “Then that would be the last they ever thought of it. We could close the case for good, and the disillusioned former detective John Bowie, along with his worthless allegations against me, would be ridiculed.”
Frank chuckled. “That’s some daydream, Tom.”
“It’s my wet dream.”