Authors: Ben Rehder
Gone The Next (28 page)
“Stop!” I said.
Yeah, like that would work. He kept whacking away, grunting with the effort, but his punching skills were poor. Of course, since one of his arms was free, that meant one of mine was, too. My left. Luckily, I’ve always been a bit ambidextrous. Not a lot of room to draw back and throw an effective punch, so I used my open palm to give him a quick, firm smack on the underside of his jaw. His teeth slammed together with an audible crack. You might be surprised how quickly this can take the fight out of someone.
Then I raised my arm high, fist straight up, and brought my elbow down directly on the bridge of his nose. I could feel the cartilage give, and he squealed in pain. While he was dazed, I quickly grabbed his right arm and held it tight, then straddled his chest. I had him pinned. Right then, the porch light went on at the apartment directly across the breezeway from mine, which allowed me to get a good look at him.
And I recognized the son of a bitch.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
He’d grown a goatee and put on a few pounds, but there was no mistaking his identity.
Ernie Crenshaw. Ernie fucking Crenshaw. My old boss. The one who’d pressed charges when I’d broken his nose. I hadn’t seen him since.
“Ernie, you idiot.” I was short of breath. Amazing how thirty seconds of close combat can wear you out.
I looked to my left to see what he’d been holding in his hand. A can of spray paint. I twisted around to see my apartment door. He’d painted the word “ASS” in bright orange letters. He’d been in the process of writing “HOLE” beneath that, but he’d only gotten as far as the H and the O.
I heard the neighbor’s door open. She was peeking out from behind a security chain.
“Rita?”
“Are you okay, Roy?”
“Yeah. Have you called the cops?”
“Not yet.”
“Please don’t, okay? Everything’s fine. I’m sorry for the disturbance.”
“You sure?”
“We were just goofing around and it got a little rough. Sorry to wake you.”
She lingered in the doorway for a few more seconds, then closed the door.
Ernie still had not said a word.
“You flattened my tires on Sunday, didn’t you? And on Thursday of last week.”
He turned his head and spat out a fairly generous amount of blood. But his breathing seemed to be okay.
“It’s always been you, right? All those times my tires got flattened. The broken antennas and smashed windshields. I thought I had a lot of enemies, but it was just you.”
He said, “You broke my goddamn nose. Again.”
“Jesus, Ernie, it’s been three years. Isn’t it time to move on?”
My thighs were starting to burn from sitting on top of him. I let go of his wrists. He wouldn’t have the guts to try anything.
“I could call the cops,” I said. “Tell them what you did tonight. But I’d say we’re even now. You need to leave my van alone. And leave me alone. Otherwise, I’m coming at you hard, without the cops.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You understand, Ernie?”
After a few seconds. He nodded.
“I have to go somewhere,” I said. “And while I’m gone, you’d better figure out a way to clean that paint off my door.”
I started with the address in Great Hills.
Cruised past slowly and immediately saw signs of inhabitants. The lawn had been mowed recently. I could tell that much from the sweep of my headlights. Even more obvious, there was a car in the driveway.
And the clincher? There was light coming from a couple of different windows. Not a lot of light, with people still awake inside, but the faint light from a small lamp or even a computer’s screen saver. There was always some amount of light in a home, even when everyone was sleeping.
Sean Hanrahan and Tracy Turner were not in there. If they’d decided to hide in one of the homes, that meant the home wasn’t leased, which in turn meant that the electricity would not be turned on. The juice got turned off and back on between residents. That was standard. A new renter had to arrange for the electricity to be turned on and put down a deposit. And if Patrick was hiding Tracy at one of these houses, he wouldn’t be dumb enough to turn the electricity on. Big red flag.
I wasn’t discouraged. Still had three houses to go.
At the second one, on Hatley Drive in Rollingwood, it was the same thing. Car in the driveway, light in the house. They weren’t here either.
So I moved on to the third home, a few blocks away on Pickwick Lane. On first pass, it seemed to have possibilities. No cars. No lights. The lawn was a bit scruffy. It appeared to be empty. I drove past in both directions, slowly, looking for the slightest hint of light from any window that I could see. Nothing.
So I parked down the street, along the curb in front of an empty lot. Walked back toward the home. Turned onto the sidewalk near the mailbox and walked straight up the steps to the front door, as if I belonged there.
Yeah, it’s the middle of the night, but don’t mind me. I’m supposed to be here.
Like most front doors nowadays — especially doors in nicer homes — this one had leaded glass inset in the top half. So I could see inside the house. No light anywhere. I knew it was a long shot that any of the neighbors were watching me right now — hell, it was a longshot that any neighbors could even
see
me right now — but I pretended to ring the doorbell anyway. I couldn’t actually see the doorbell, so I just poked my finger out in the dark. Then I waited. Nothing happened, of course.
I retreated down the steps and walked over to the garage on the east side of the house. No windows in the garage door. I was hoping that a motion-activated security light might snap on, answering the question for me, but no such luck.
I stood quietly in front of the garage door for a few seconds, just listening. There could be a car or two inside the garage, which would explain why there were no cars in the driveway. Or the garage might be completely empty.
The only windows I hadn’t been able to see so far were in the rear of the house. Had to go through a gate in a six-foot picket fence to get into the backyard. There was no lock on the hasp. I lifted the latch and slowly swung the gate open. Nice and quiet. Left it open and stepped into the backyard.
Stood there for a minute and let my eyes adjust. There was a wooden deck, but there was no outdoor furniture of any kind on it. Growing along the rear property line was a wall of bamboo, which provided plenty of privacy.
I moved forward, but after just five or six steps, I stopped cold. I saw a very faint glow in a window beside the back door. Light. Not much, but enough. The electricity was on. The house was occupied.
I retreated as slowly as I’d come in. Closed and latched the gate behind me. Proceeded down the driveway and back to the Mustang. Fired it up and eased away from the curb and down the street, feeling conspicuous as hell because of the growl of the big engine.
Now I was down to one. One house. If they weren’t there, well, I didn’t know what I’d do next. I had no ideas left. I still had the will to keep looking — tomorrow, the next day, the day after that — but I didn’t know
where
to look. Not unlike nine years ago. Driving the streets aimlessly. Wracked with frustration because I didn’t know what to do with myself.
One house.
I couldn’t get my hopes up. Wouldn’t allow it. Didn’t want the disappointment. Instead, I just drove. Back onto Bee Cave Road, then west. Took a right on Buckeye Trail and began the steep climb to the top of the hill. Then I followed the twists and turns past homes tucked in among the cedar and oak trees. Similar to Hanrahan’s current neighborhood on Toro Canyon, except maybe a tad less expensive.
I watched the addresses as I got closer and closer. This home would be on the right-hand side. I came around one more curve and saw the right numbers painted on a mailbox. The fourth house on my list.
The porch light was on. SUV in the driveway.
Damn.
I drove past.
It had been a great idea. Creative. But it hadn’t panned out. I continued on Buckeye Trail, down the hill on the other side, to Westlake Drive. Took a left, then a right on Redbud Trail. Crossed the low-water bridge and turned right on Lake Austin Boulevard. Back into Austin.
I was waiting at a red light, so close to heading back to my apartment, when I finally realized my mistake.
Daniel Wayne Bertram was not an easy man to track down.
First call went to his probation officer, who had last seen Bertram at a regular monthly meeting three weeks earlier. She gave the detective all of Bertram’s info, including an address, which turned out to be a rental. Convenient. Texas law allows a landlord to inspect a property just about any time he or she wants. The detective called the landlord to see if he’d cooperate, maybe take a peek inside, but the landlord said, “Yeah, he was in there until a few months ago, but he skipped out. Owed me about four grand in back rent.”
“Any idea where he went?”
“Not a clue.”
“Any references listed on his application?”
“Nope. I keep it pretty simple. If they pass the credit check and can cough up a deposit, hey, that’s good enough for me. This is the first time I seriously got screwed.”
“You got a phone number for him?”
“Yeah, but it was dead the last time I tried it.”
“Let me have it anyway.”
It was the same number that the probation officer had provided, which the detective had already checked himself.
So the detective called the work number that the probation officer had given him. Manager said Bertram had quit two weeks ago.
This was bad, but it might also be very good.
Why was Bertram suddenly breaking all the rules of his probation? You change your address or quit a job, you’re supposed to report that immediately.
The detective figured it wasn’t a coincidence.
So he dug deeper. Bertram had no siblings, and his parents were long dead in a car wreck. He didn’t own any real estate in the county, or in any of the surrounding counties.
He had an uncle, though. Sid Bertram. Sid was nearly eighty years old and lived in a house he and his wife had bought forty-seven years earlier up in Barton Hills. A widower now.
The detective started to dial a number, then decided it was worth a drive. And once he got there, he was smart enough to knock on a couple of neighbors’ doors first, just in case. Neighbor on the left didn’t answer, but the neighbor on the right did. He was holding an acoustic guitar when he opened the door. Shirtless. Young guy with scruffy hair. Austin was crawling with wannabe musicians.
“Yeah?”
Despite what they say in books and movies, people can’t peg a cop from looks alone, especially when you’re wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a golf shirt. So the detective quickly identified himself and showed his shield.
“You know Sid next door?”
“Sure. What’s up? He okay?”
“I haven’t talked to him yet. You seen anyone else around there lately?”
“Actually, yeah. Young guy. Sid told me he had a grandson, so I figure that’s who it is. Wait, I mean a nephew, not a grandson.”
“Have you talked to him?”