Chapter 4
Gunner was in shock as he hung up the phone. He’d known Garrett and Helen Dillon all his life, and Holly had been the little kid in the background of his high school years, following him around like a shadow. Seeing her in the supermarket all grown up had been great, interesting, even mind-blowing.
But this tragedy just put a whole new light on Holly Dillon.
She was hurting, and in a way he understood.
He glanced at the time and then went to shower.
As soon as he made the call to his family, he was going to bed.
He was way past needing sleep and had to get the call over with before he fell asleep standing up.
By the time he had shaved and showered, it was time to make the group call. He called Asher first, then connected Dylan, then last but not least, their dad, Jacob.
“Okay, we’re all here,” Asher said. “What the hell have you done?”
“Are the ladies on the call?” Gunner asked.
All three of the men said yes, then Jacob added, “We can ask them to leave if you need to—”
Gunner interrupted. “No. We’re all family, but I am asking every one of you to please keep this to yourselves. It’s all going to come out eventually, but I need the time to get some stuff in place before it happens.”
“Gunner, we’re here for you, bud,” Dylan said. “Just spit it out. Whatever is wrong, we’ve got your back.”
“A couple of days ago, I bought a Mega Millions lottery ticket, and it turned out to be the winning ticket. I won. All of it.”
There was a brief moment of shocked silence, and then Asher said, “Is this a joke?”
“Nope.”
“The seven-hundred-and-eighty-million-dollar jackpot?” Dylan said.
Gunner sighed. “Yes.”
There was a communal response of “good lord” from all three men, plus the background chatter from the women in their lives, and then silence again as Gunner kept talking.
“My lawyer and I have already been to the Dallas Claims Center and done the paperwork. I opted to take a cash settlement, which will amount to something around four hundred million plus. I’m also telling you this now, and you don’t have the option to refuse.
Asher and Nora, Dylan and Angie, Dad and Pearl, you’re each going to get a million dollars apiece outright, so just know that’s going to happen.
I’m still going to be a cop. Just a rich one.
I was told it will take several weeks for the payout to show up in my account at the bank.
My lawyer is recommending a financial advisor, and no, I’m not going to buy anything stupid or do anything stupid. ”
Dylan cleared his throat and then took a deep breath. “Oh man… Gunner… I don’t know what to say other than thank you, brother. This is college money for CJ and any other children we might have when they grow up.”
“Same for Nora and me for little Jake. We won’t waste such a gift,” Asher said.
Jacob chuckled. “This is a blessing, son, and I might waste a little and remodel the kitchen in this old house for my sweet Pearl.”
The laughter made Gunner smile. It was going to feel good to be able to make life easier for all of them.
“Okay, guys, I love you, but I need to get to bed. I haven’t had enough sleep in the last two days to make sense right now. I’m almost at the point of walking into walls.”
“Sleep well, son, and take care of yourself. We love you, too,” Jacob said.
Gunner hung up, leaving the others on the line talking excitedly among themselves.
* * *
Melvin Ashworth, the owner of the black truck that Whistler used for the hit and run, had just checked out of the convention center after a five-day conference and was way past ready to get home to Denton.
He made the long walk across the parking lot to get his truck, but when he arrived at the numbered space where he’d left it, it wasn’t there.
He knew he was at the right place because he’d parked beneath a security light on purpose, and he was at the point of panic when he saw it just a few spaces down.
He cursed, guessing it had been someone’s joy ride, but at least they’d brought it back.
And then he saw the damage to the front end and dropped to his knees to look beneath, checking to see if there had been damage to the frame.
To his horror, he saw a man’s shoe wedged between the frame and the chassis.
He fell backward in shock, and while sitting at that angle, also saw a scrap of cloth caught in the grill.
His first thought was a hit and run. Somebody used his truck and committed a crime!
Within seconds, he was calling 911. He gave the dispatcher explicit instructions as to the location of the parking space and sat down on one of his suitcases to wait, eyeing his truck as if it had become a monster.
It didn’t take long for a half-dozen police cars to arrive, including an officer from the traffic unit, who caught the call.
They could tell from the start that the owner was beyond horrified as he showed them what he’d discovered and then pointed to a paint gun in the truck bed that did not belong to him.
A couple of officers headed into the convention center to check out his alibi, and it didn’t take long for them to find out where Melvin had been for the last five days, with video evidence of him all over the conference.
The truck was taken into evidence, and the shoe and cloth scrap sent for testing for DNA. When the results came back, they matched the DNA of a man named Dan Helford, aka Yankee Dan.
They had a time of death for Dan, and security footage of Melvin Ashworth on stage giving a speech at his convention.
Melvin was released, but without a truck. He took an Uber to rent a car and drove himself home, with a message from the Dallas PD that they’d be in touch as to when he could pick up his truck when it was no longer evidence in a crime.
Unknown to Beau Whistler, the scene he’d left behind had a flaw. The man he’d marked to be the fall guy had an unbreakable alibi.
The hit-and-run case against Dan Helford was no longer considered “just an accident.” They were looking for a killer, and that’s when it fell to the homicide division on that side of the city.
* * *
Mason Walters, the super in charge of Letourneau and Garza’s apartment building, was making his second round of door knocks for the week, collecting from residents who had yet to pay up their month’s rent.
As he approached 12, he frowned at the odor in the hall but couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t unusual to smell weed, but this was more like garbage that needed to be taken out.
It was Thomas Garza’s apartment, so none of those odors were surprising, given the man who lived there.
He knocked. When he didn’t get an answer, he knocked again.
As he was about to slide a notice under the door, he saw what appeared to be dried blood drops on the floor in front of him and frowned.
He knocked again, called out, then reached for the master key, but when he grabbed the knob to insert the key, the door swung open.
He took one look at the fly-covered bodies of two men and the money plastered to the floor in the dried blood and gagged.
If that was the rent money, it had just become evidence.
Although it was too late to hide the scent, he backed out and shut the door, called 911, and went downstairs to wait.
* * *
Cops, detectives, and a crime scene crew were all over the apartment before the medical examiner arrived.
The detectives had already bought into the story Beau Whistler left for them to read.
They weren’t looking for anyone else to blame it on, and from the rap sheets of both victims, they made their own assumptions based on the scattered money.
In their minds, if anyone had come in to rob them, they wouldn’t have left the money behind.
This was going down as a fight between two men gone wrong, and unless the medical examiner found evidence to refute that, the case would be closed.
* * *
Burgess Dixon was at the breakfast table when he got a call that Garza and Letourneau’s bodies were in the morgue, and the detectives were ruling it a fight gone wrong.
The gunshot residue on Garza’s arm and hand, and Letourneau’s fingerprints on the hasp of the knife, plus the money all over their bodies and the floor, was all the proof the cops needed to prove they’d killed each other. Case closed.
As soon as the call ended, Dixon reached for his fork to finish his waffle and bacon.
The federal witness against him was gone and the men guarding him—collateral damage.
The homeless man who found him was gone.
And the two losers who’d screwed up the body dump had been dealt with without a single finger pointing at him.
That’s why he kept Whistler on the payroll.
It wasn’t the first time Beau Whistler had gotten away with murder.
He finished eating, gathered up his briefcase, and buzzed Whistler to bring the car around.
It was business as usual at the office downtown, and while he made good money running a commercial cleaning business called Dixon Down and Dirty, it was basically a front for his side businesses, the ones that had made him rich.
But that much money coming into a cleaning service was also what had alerted the Feds.
Whistler was outside in the limo, waiting when Dixon emerged. He nodded a good morning as Whistler opened the door to the back seat. He was inside and buckling up as Whistler drove away from the estate on their way downtown.
It was going to be a busy day today with the grand opening of his eleventh Dixon Down and Dirty cleaning services in a new location.
He had his iPad in his lap, going through the checklist for the opening, when his phone rang.
He set the iPad aside to answer, glanced at the number, and then answered in quiet disapproval. “Why are you calling me on this phone?”
“Because you still have a loose end.”