Beneath Forbidden Ground Page 3

  “Oh, I’ll be happy to. But it wasn’t me.” Truluck took his seat again. “You see, my son happens to work for a demolition contractor. They do a lot of work all around the Houston area. About a month back, the owner of the bar where the crime occurred sold out, making way for a new strip mall, as if we needed more of those. You may not have heard, but there’d been a fire in the bar late last year, and I guess he decided he’d had enough. Never rebuilt. Yesterday, after the top level—or what was left of it—was removed, my son was working in the basement. He spotted it laying in the rubbish and took it home with him. Guess he thought the owner wouldn’t miss it.”

  Scallion was now interested. “And he gave it to you?”

  “Right. We were on the phone last night, and he mentioned it to me, not knowing what it probably meant. So I went right over and got it, and here it is,” Truluck said proudly.

  Scallion took a pen from his shirt pocket, twirling the instrument slowly around with the point. “Did he happen to mention exactly where in the basement he found it?” he asked without looking up.

  “Best he could remember, it was within a few feet of the basement wall, near an air vent. He also said there was no screen on the vent. Since it was on the side of the building where the murder occurred, my theory is he—the killer, I mean —tossed it under there, thinking it would never be found. Then he just took off.”

  Scallion hated it when citizens advanced their own theories, trying to play detective, although in this case, the man was probably dead-on. It could sometimes lead to fast-spreading rumors in the community, possibly even affecting the outcome of trials. But those same citizens are entitled to their opinions.

  He gave Truluck a questioning gaze. “Did either you or your son...?”

  “Play it? Course not,” Truluck said, interrupting the question. “Too nasty in the first place. Plus, I didn’t want to destroy any evidence you might collect from it.”

  That was good news. Forensics could do amazing things now, especially in the area of cold cases. DNA could be trapped and preserved for long periods of time, and extracting it was becoming a rapidly improving science.

  The other concerns he had placed on the back burner for most of the afternoon suddenly reappeared, brought on by the thoughts of scientific technology, which led him to those of medical technology. It was time to go. Thanking James Truluck for his diligence, and advising him to go easy on his pronouncements about the case, he re-wrapped the blackened harmonica, gave the man his card, then headed back into the city.

  Heading inward on I -10, he couldn’t help being struck by the continued growth west of Houston, like spreading ripples on a huge pond. Development after development seemed to be springing up overnight. A billboard caught his eye, standing in front of an enormous, freshly graded-off parcel of land, the sign proudly announcing: COMING SOON– CYPRESS BRIDGE SOUTH. A picture of the developer, a man by the name of Luther Kritz, stared proudly at the traffic on the busy expressway, beaming a satisfied grin at the on-rushing vehicles.

  3

  From the second he walked into the hospital room, the grimace on Wendell Ross’s face told Scallion he was the last person the injured detective wanted to see. The humiliation of the nature of his wound could only be deepened by having to lie still, helpless while his ex-partner grilled him. Ross was lying on his belly, a pillow elevating his rear end slightly, drawing even more attention to the location of the damage.

  “Figured you wouldn’t waste any time gettin’ here,” Ross said, spitting the words out of the corner of his mouth. His face was crushed sideways against another pillow, causing his lips to contort as if they were rubber.

  “Would’ve been here sooner, but some folks have to work,” Scallion replied, arching his eyebrows in the best fake show of sincerity he could muster. “My, but you do look a little uncomfortable, Wendell,” he added, taking a seat across form the head of the bed, so he could look directly into the patient’s pained face.

  Ross cleared his throat to respond, but before he could, another man, his current partner, entered the room, carrying a styrafoam cup of coffee and a plastic drink cup with a twisted straw.

  “I see your nurse is here,” Scallion smiled and nodded a greeting to Sam Ladner, a stout black man, about the same height as himself, with a neatly trimmed, receding hairline.

  “Hi, Pete,” Ladner said. He placed the drink cup on the small table next to Ross’s bed, then settled in the only other chair in the room. “Wendell’s been worried you might show up to pick at him.”

  Both Scallion and Ross had known and worked with Ladner on various cases over the past few years. He was a good detective, with a reputation of doing things by-the-book. When the decision had been made to name a new partner for Ross, Pete had seen it as a good match, if only he could put up with Wendell’s quirks.

  “Oh, I couldn’t let the day end without checking up on my ex. And I’m kinda glad you’re here, Sam. I’ve got to know how you were able to pull this off. I tried for over eight years to get a clear shot at him, but never got a chance.”

  While the two visiting officers shared a short laugh, the patient turned his head to face away from them, without speaking.

  Ladner took on a more serious tone. “It was just one of those things that happened too fast to avoid. We were out on a pick-up of a gang leader suspected in a double homicide down in Pasadena. We had a tip we could find him in a warehouse. He and a running mate fired on us, then bolted. Things got pretty hairy after that. Ross and I lost track of each other, which should never happen. Anyway, I had a bead on the main guy, and just before I fired, Ross jumped from between a row of crates, right in my line. Somehow I was able to tilt the barrel down, even as the gun fired.” He paused, looking at the bed. “Otherwise, it coulda been a lot worse.”

  The room was quiet for a moment, the three detectives wrestling with their own versions of the alternatives.

  “Well,” Scallion said, “it’s decent of you to come keep an eye on him.”

  “No way I couldn’t. I feel like I’m responsible for him now.”

  Scallion shook his head. “Believe me, you don’t want to take on that duty.”

  Ladner grinned. “Besides, I’m on administrative leave for a couple of weeks anyhow. You know the procedure. Any line-of-duty shooting requires it.”

  “Right.”

  More silence followed, until Scallion couldn’t resist. “Which one?”

  Ladner gave a blank look. “Which one what?”

  “Which cheek?” Scallion attempted to look serious. A grin along with his tone betrayed him.

  Sadler laughed and shook his head. “Right one.”

  “Maybe next time he’ll turn the other one.”

  As his smart-ass visitors broke into laughter, the helpless patient quickly turned back, lifting his head from the pillow. “Just go to hell, the both of you.” He spit the words out. “If you’re here to insult me, you’re welcome to leave.”

  “You’re right, Wendell, I apologize,” Scallion said, his chortling dying out into a cough.

  Ladner rubbed a hand across his broad face to remove the grin, then eased from his chair. “Me too. It’s almost six, so I guess I’d better get going. I’ll let you two have a little quality time together.” Reaching over to shake Scallion’s hand, he added, glancing toward the bed, “See you sometime tomorrow, partner.”

  “No need to break your neck gettin’ here.” Ross seemed to think twice about his response, softening his tone. “Thanks anyway, Sam,” he said, a little more subdued.

  When only the two of them were left, Ross rolled his eyes in his former partner’s direction. “I know what you’re thinking, Pete.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  Ross folded his arms under his head to get more elevation. “You’re thinking, if I was married, I’d have a wife to come take care of me, instead of the cop who tore me a new one.”

  Scallion smiled. “You always did have a way with words, Wendell. No, I wasn’t
thinking that, but it is true.” The subject was a source of constant irritation while the two men were partnered. The truth was, Scallion always felt a little guilty following their discussions about Ross’s inability to find a suitable mate. Law officers’ marriages were tricky, needing an extra degree of dedication and understanding. More often than not, they didn’t work.

  “It’s easy for you to talk, Pete. You found the perfect woman. Woman like Marti don’t fall off trees, you know.”

  Scallion was quiet, choosing to peer through the window at the darkening skies. Ross had struck a nerve, but it was impossible for him to have known. He finally nodded slowly. “You got that right, Wendell. I’m one lucky son-of-a-bitch.”

  Ross stared hard at the older detective, tilting his head at an angle to get a good read on his face. During their years together, Scallion had taught him a great deal about judging voice inflection and body language, abilities that were valuable when conducting interrogations; the man was a master at such techniques. It was plain something was lying beneath the surface, but anyone could’ve picked up on that. “Everything okay, Pete?” he asked.

  Scallion chewed on the question for a moment. Other than family, no one knew. Marti understood the relationship he and Ross had, so she would approve. He had called and told her he was going to stop by and see his old partner before coming home, so maybe she half-expected him to share the news anyway. He rubbed a hand back and forth across his mouth before answering.

  “A couple of weeks ago, Marti found a lump on one of her breasts. Didn’t tell me about it at first, to keep me from worrying. First time I suspected something was up was the night we went to the Rodeo. We missed Clay Walker’s concert a few years ago, and we weren’t going to miss it this time. I could see she wasn’t herself that night, kinda reserved, not at all like I expected her to be. Walker’s her favorite.”

  Ross didn’t respond. Scallion paused to look through the window once more. “When we got home, I made her sit down and level with me. She said she was a little worried.” He looked directly at Ross. “I don’t think I have to tell you, Wendell, I was more than a little worried.”

  “Christ, Pete. I don’t know what to say. Has she seen her doctor?”

  “Made her go see her as soon as she could get an appointment. Did a mammogram, then took a biopsy. The oncologist she was referred to says it’s small, but it’s there.” He felt no need to explain what “it” was.

  “Ah, hell!” Ross said with some force, raising his head. “What happens next?”

  “Something the oncologist calls breast-sparing surgery. It’s what it sounds like, a chance to save the breast intact. May have to remove a few lymph nodes too. He wants to evaluate the results before deciding if radiation or chemo are necessary.”

  “When?”

  “Next Wednesday morning, early.” Scallion stopped suddenly, a doubtful look on his face. “Hell, I don’t even know what today is, I’ve sorta lost track.”

  “I can see why,” Ross sighed. “I’ve been laying here for two days now, so this has to be Thursday.” He took a second to wipe away drool escaping from the corner of his mouth. He stared across at Scallion, unsure of what to say next. He knew probably better than anyone how much the couple meant to each other in every respect possible that existed between a husband and wife. “Please tell Marti I’ll be thinking about her. And you too, Pete.”

  “Will do, Wendell. Thanks.”

  Silence reigned for a few seconds. They then quickly moved on, hoping to relieve the awkwardness between them, spending a few minutes comparing notes on cases they were each involved in. A couple of homicides the former partners had been investigating before Scallion eased into Cold Case were still under way, so he was interested to get an update. He told Ross about the meeting with James Truluck earlier in the afternoon, and the discovery of the harmonica, which was still sitting in his car in the plastic bag.

  “I remember that case,” Ross said. “The icehouse slasher. Happened out near where I live. Hope forensics can find something.”

  Scallion nodded, considering the term, “icehouse slasher”. It was another attention-gathering name applied by the media back then, although it was actually redundant. Several killings had occurred at the casual, open-air bars that dotted the outlying Houston landscape. In a city that was basically conservative at its core, they were symbols of an anything goes attitude toward most forms of commerce, an apparent offshoot of the absence of zoning laws the city was known for. Biker gangs, and others who preferred to live on life’s edges gravitated to the icehouses, revving-up their disputes to sometimes violent conclusions.

  When the conversation began to lag, Scallion said his goodbyes, saying he would check back soon.

  “Hell, don’t sweat it, Pete. You got enough on your mind as it is. Besides, I oughtta be out of here in a day or so.”

  Scallion stopped to grin at the bed-ridden man. “We’ll see. May want to come back and get my licks in while I can.”

  “Just get the hell out,” Ross answered, turning his head away again.

  With the never-ending Houston traffic still ahead of him, and seeing his old partner was returning to form, Scallion knew he was still forty-five minutes from home. Marti would be there, and he needed to be there with her.

  4

  “So, how was Wendell?” Marti asked, taking a seat on the bar stool next to her husband. They sat at the counter looking into the kitchen. She picked at the Greek salad she had thrown together, watching him slice up a boiled egg to add to his.

  Pete put the knife down, gently folding the egg slices into the mix, then looked at Marti with a wry grin. “Well, he was still Wendell, full of piss and vinegar. But he was a little subdued, most likely from embarrassment. Sam Ladner was there too.”

  “Oh, how’d that go?”

  “Fine. Sam’s taking on the task of nursing him back to health, tryin’ to cover up his guilt.” Pete splashed the blend of olive oil, lemon juice and garlic she had prepared across the salad, then added before taking his first bite, “Course, I did my best to cheer him up.”

  She leveled her own sarcastic grin at Pete. “I’ll just bet you did.”

  “I guess you know better than that. I took my shots while I had a chance.”

  He watched while she stabbed at a chunk of feta cheese, noticing her eyes looked tired, probably due to worry. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her perfect olive skin was mostly covered by slacks and a long-sleeved blouse, and her black hair, streaked with silver, was cut shorter than normal. Even so, he would swear she hadn’t changed in the twenty years they had been together.

  The outfit she wore was due to a substitute teaching assignment begun a month earlier, caused by a local teacher’s maternity leave. Since she had retired from full-time teaching eight years earlier, it was the first time she’d considered getting back into the work force, even on a part-time basis. They had spent more than a few nights debating pros and cons of the decision; Pete insisting teaching wasn’t the same as when she’d left it behind. The area around Clear Lake, some fifteen miles south of Houston, was not insulated from the problems of the big city. Discipline among students, even as far down as the fifth-graders she now herded, was tougher than ever—dealing with belligerent parents perhaps worse. Marti’s boredom with homemaking, and a desire to try and make a difference had won out. Now, Pete was glad she had something to keep her mind occupied during the day.

  Between bites, he said, “I, uh...I told Wendell.” He watched closely for her reaction.

  She pursed her lips, then nodded. “Good. I’m glad you did. He’d probably be upset if he found out later on his own.”

  “No doubt. And he said to give you his best.” It had felt good telling Ross, like a relief valve on a pressurized container, letting someone he trusted share in his fears. The relationship with Murtaugh hadn’t progressed to that stage so far. “How were things in the classroom today?” he asked.

  Marti mulled the question fo
r a second. “Not bad, I suppose. Spring break coming up in a few weeks seems to have everyone in a good mood. My biggest concern now is knowing Mrs. Ramiriz has to find a substitute for the substitute, since the surgeon wants me to take it easy for awhile after next Wednesday. She’s been good about it, but I can tell she’s frustrated.”

  “Well, that’s her problem. Don’t let it bother you.” But he knew it would.

  It was clear she wanted to change the subject. “How’re you and Murtaugh getting along?”

  “Fine today, since he wasn’t with me for part of it.” He recounted the visit to the Forbidden Gardens, the interview with the tour guide, and the gift of the scavenged harmonica. “By the way, I think you’d enjoy the Gardens. It’s an impressive layout. Why don’t we make a run out when the dust settles?”

  “Oh? Does the dust ever settle?” She smiled wryly, then added, “Sounds good. Maybe some Saturday.”

  Pete went on to describe the Becker case, and how the instrument might tie-in.

  “Could be just the lucky break you need,” Marti said hopefully. “Are you still wrestling with that other case?”

  “The missing girls?”

  “Right.”

  “I am, but it’ll take a back seat while I have forensics check out the harmonica for DNA and prints.”

  “There could still be some after so long?”

  “Marla Evans has indicated so recently. I’ve heard her say they can be preserved for an indefinite period. Guess we’ll see.” Evans was the head of forensics in the Medical Examiner’s office serving the Harris County Sheriff’s Department, a tireless researcher who loved her work.

  “Well, just make sure Marla doesn’t try to extract any DNA from you when you see her.” Marti stopped chewing long enough to level a teasing, wicked smile.

  She didn’t possess a jealous bone, and Pete knew it, never giving her any reason. But the knowledge that he was one of the forensic chief’s favorites was no secret among his fellow detectives. Wendell Ross had made sure Marti was aware of that fact; one more reason Pete had enjoyed skewering his ex-partner earlier.