Beneath Forbidden Ground Read online

  The sitting room of Madeline Crew’s large home could not have been more different on the class scale from Arturo Juarez’s modest yet inviting cantina. A stately brick mansion, the house sat nestled in the fashionable neighborhood of River Oaks, the oldest of old money in Houston. The view Scallion enjoyed from his upholstered wingback chair as he peered through a bank of french doors was of well-manicured gardens, surrounding a rock-lined pool. The woman he had come to see seemed nice enough, but he couldn’t squelch the feeling of harboring lesser empathy toward her compared to the Panamanian left behind thirty minutes earlier.

  She was an attractive woman in her late sixties, silver hair covering a face pulled taut by obvious cosmetic procedures. Wearing a flower-patterned dress, she sat comfortably in a plush sofa across from the detective, a white puff of a dog, a breed unidentifiable to him, in her arms. He wondered why she even bothered with the surgery, since she appeared to be a natural beauty, even at her advanced age. She shared her missing daughter’s looks.

  In case there was any doubt that former President George Bush and his wife Barbara were neighbors, and friends—or at least acquaintances, a framed photograph of a smiling Mrs. Crews and her late husband with the Bushs’ hung on a far wall. He noticed it when entering, but chose not to give her the satisfaction of mentioning it.

  “I know you mean well, Detective Scallion,” she was saying, “but I’m surprised after all this time Otto Howorth would decide to bring up such a painful time for our family. Of course, I miss my Tamara dearly, but I’ve resigned myself to the fact I’ll never know what happened to her. And perhaps it’s just as well.”

  Scallion had the distinct impression she wanted to frown, but her face no longer allowed her to express such reactions. At the same time, he was struck by the difference in her attitude from that of Juarez. They were from two separate worlds, in more ways than one.

  “Yes ma’am, I’m aware this will open old wounds, but there are three other families involved too. As long as there’s any chance to shed light on what happened to your daughter, as well as the others, we think it’s worth taking another look.” He wanted to mention the decision to re-open had not been the sheriff’s, but Murtaugh’s—and now his. Instead, he allowed her to think he was impressed by her tossing out the name of his boss, when in fact, he wasn’t. Most people of any standing in Harris County were personally acquainted with Sheriff Otto Howorth.

  “Well, yes. I suppose I can understand that. Please forgive my rudeness. It’s just that so much has happened to our family since she disappeared. As I’m sure you know, my husband passed away soon after. And since then, my other three children have been squabbling over things he left them, or didn’t leave them, in his will. It’s been simply horrible. I never thought I’d see the day.” A tear did manage to force its way out, rolling down a taut cheek.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m very sorry to hear that,” Scallion said, not wanting to dwell on her soap opera. “I’ll try and be as brief as I can.” He glanced at the notes he had brought. “I see from your previous interviews you maintained contact with Tammy—or rather Tamara—following disagreements she had with Mr. Crews.”

  “That’s correct,” she said, pausing to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Unfortunately, Stanley wasn’t happy with choices she made with her life, beginning in high school. I’d have to say he was right, in some regard. She was influenced by friends who had nothing but partying on their minds. Introduced her to drugs and alcohol, stealing every scrap of motivation she had. We thought she had come out of it when she enrolled at the University of Texas after graduation. She really didn’t have the grades, or the S.A.T.’s needed to get in, but Stanley was able to pull a few strings.”

  Scallion distaste for the Crews family was growing by the minute.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “she lasted one year before dropping out. Came on home, then didn’t do much of anything, except hang out with some of those horrible friends.”

  “So, she never worked?” He knew the answer, but wanted to keep his thoughts in sequence.

  “No, not really. But you see, Tamara wanted to be an artist. It was the only thing that she maintained an interest in. And I do believe she could have been successful at it, if only...” She paused. Another tear appeared.

  “I see.” Scallion waited a second for the woman to compose herself. “I also see from my notes she was studying with someone who owned an art gallery.”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes. West End Studios, owned by a young man by the name of Brandon Newell. It’s located on Westheimer—but I’m sure that’s in your notes too.”

  “Yes it is. Mrs. Crews, I believe you also mentioned previously that Tamara developed a relationship with Mr. Newell. Can you tell me about that?”

  “I can tell you it was the straw that broke the camel’s back, as far as Stanley was concerned. He detested the man, thought he was leading her on to get to our money. Can’t say I cared much for him either. When my husband confronted her with his suspicions, they had a horrible fight. She accused him of having no faith in her talent. They never spoke again.”

  Scallion made a few pretend notes, digesting what he’d heard. Brandon Newell would be next on his list of people to see. “Mrs. Crews, have you been able to think of anyone else she may have been seeing? Either before or after Mr. Newell?”

  “No. And I’ve racked my brain trying to recall anyone since high school. Oh, there may have been a fling or two at U. T., but she left them behind when she came home.” She paused again, letting the puffy animal lick her fingers. “You have to understand, I didn’t see her often after the flare-up with her dad. I just made sure her rent got paid on time.”

  “Did you have any way of knowing if she was still using drugs?” he asked bluntly.

  She exhaled a deep sigh. “I wish I could answer that. I’d like to think not. At least, no drugs were found in her apartment. Stanley was sure she was, however. Up until the time she disappeared, he accused her of everything.”

  Taken on her own, as a single case, Scallion might’ve seen drugs as an angle to follow. But not when combined with the other three. He was aware he was finding it way too easy to dismiss motives in this puzzling mystery.

  He quickly decided asking more of the same questions she had answered ten years earlier would be plowing infertile ground. And even though he did feel an inkling of sympathy for Madeline Crews, his true feelings involved removing himself from this woman—this room—this house. Thanking her for her time, he left.

  Climbing into his county-issued car, he noticed the time—nearly 5:30. He judged it too late to visit the gallery; it could wait until Monday.

  Another plus of working cold cases was an absence of the pressures of time to solve a case. In his earlier career, as a real homicide detective, the proverbial first forty-eight hours after a murder were crucial in pursuing leads and witnesses. The rush to find the killer was always present. Evidence in a cold case wasn’t going anywhere. It had been lurking for years in most instances, and would continue lurking until information that had been hidden suddenly appeared, as if by magic.

  Weekends were never completely his before; interrogations and desperate searches for clues couldn’t wait. Now, Saturdays and Sundays belonged to Marti and him, with the realization cold cases couldn’t grow much colder before Monday morning.

  Leaning over the steering wheel to peer through the windshield, he attempted to gauge the skies. The massive oaks lining the Crews’ driveway hid the heavens from view. He knew the weather forecast for the following day was spotty, but as long as thunderstorms kept their distance, he planned to be on his in-board fishing boat with his wife somewhere on Galveston Bay. He wanted to give her a day to enjoy before the uncertainties of the coming week.

  8

  Skies that threatened all weekend without opening up finally erupted Monday morning, and the rains set in. Scallion eased his car into a parking slot on a side street intersecting with Westheimer Road. Pressing a button to fl
ip his fold-up umbrella open, he walked hurriedly around the corner, then into West End Studios to escape the onslaught.

  He carried with him the glow of the weekend spent with Marti. Deep-water fishing on the open waters of Galveston Bay Saturday seemed to have been a tonic for them both, leaving them with their usual pleasant exhaustion from the heat and breezy salt air. Later, at night, wanting to keep her close, he had invaded her space in bed, holding her snugly in his arms until she drifted off. He allowed himself only good thoughts about her future —their future, refusing any alternatives. They were selfish feelings, he knew, thinking only about the outcome of her looming surgery in terms of how it affected him. But there was no way to avoid it. She was his life.

  In spite of the lousy weather, it was easy to hold on to the memories of the last two days; his tender, reddened scalp was a constant reminder. It enabled him to keep his spirits high, giving him a determination to keep them elevated. But things wouldn’t work out that way, at least not at first.

  The art gallery was not large, made to look even smaller by the hap-hazard arrangement of small stands and easels displaying paintings of all sizes, all displaying ridiculous price tags. Some were landscapes, some still lifes, a few non-sensical abstracts, and a few portraits, all arranged in no logical order. He wondered if Otto Howorth had placed his work here. In addition to his many other interests, the man was an accomplished artist. On second thought, recalling that Howorth’s paintings were mostly western scenes, he didn’t see them as a good fit among these.

  Since it was barely past 9:00 a. m., the gallery’s opening time, there were only three people he could spot milling around; most likely employees.

  Getting the attention of the nearest, a rail-thin red-headed girl, wearing a large pair of glasses, the frames almost covering her face, he approached. “Pardon me, Miss. I’m looking for Brandon Newell.”

  She seemed to look right through him before answering. “Yes, just a minute,” she said without smiling, before gliding away toward the rear of the shop where the other two were, both of them men. She spoke in a whisper to the apparent older of the two, possessing a slick-bald head. He looked back in Scallion’s direction. Handing the painting in his hands to the younger man, he came forward, wearing a look indicating he was bothered by the early intrusion.

  “Yes, I’m Brandon Newell. May I help you?” Newell asked, with an air that indicated the early visitor was an unwelcome nuisance. He glanced at the floor around the visitor’s feet, horrified to see rain water dripping onto his carpeted floor.

  Scallion had an immediate dislike for the man. He was tall, perhaps six-four, with a long angular face, sporting ear-studs penetrating both lobes, not just one, as most men who chose such jewelry had. But it was the air of superiority that got to the detective, an attitude that told him this would not be a pleasant interview. Maybe it just went with the artsy-fartsy territory.

  “Hopefully. I’m Detective Pete Scallion, Harris County Cold Case unit.” He pulled back his coat to show the badge attached to his belt. “We’re taking a new look at the disappearance of Tammy Crews back in ninety-one. I understand she spent time studying painting with you around the time she went missing.”

  Newell exhaled a sigh. “Ah, so that’s it? I didn’t think you were here to appreciate my displays. Don’t see you as a customer, ” he said, with a slightly upturned lip.

  “Oh. And why is that?” Scallion knew exactly what the jerk meant, but wanted him to say it. His mellow mood from minutes earlier was now entirely shattered.

  “Well, I could just tell,” Newell said defensively, obviously flustered by the detective’s blunt reply. “I didn’t mean anything personal by it.”

  Scallion nodded slowly. For the life of him, he couldn’t see what in the hell the Crews girl had seen in him. “Right.” He decided to press on, get this over with quickly. “What can you tell me about the last time you saw her?”

  The art dealer sighed once more. “As I told the other officers back then, I hadn’t seen Tammy for about a week before she...well, whatever happened to her. I wasn’t happy with the progress she was making as an artist, and I told her so. She must have taken offense to my honest opinion, because I didn’t see her anymore after I told her the truth.”

  “Weren’t you two a little more than teacher and student? The notes from the first investigation mentioned you had a relationship.”

  Newell rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “If that’s what you want to call it. Sure, we dated for awhile. But that was another reason I wanted to discourage her. She was reading more into it than I. It was becoming a clingy kind of a situation.”

  Scallion pretended to read something on a note pad he had pulled from a coat pocket. “According to her parents, you were the one doing the chasing, egging her on to become a painter.”

  The lip curled up again. “Listen, detective, I have nothing against the Crews. Matter of fact, Mrs. Crews had shopped here before. I think she’s the one who mentioned my studio to Tammy in the first place. But Mr. Crews was wrong about what was going on between us. He actually came in here one day a few weeks before I ended things, made a scene in front of my customers. Accused me of being an opportunist...a gigolo! We had a few words, then he left. It caught me by surprise, since she had told me he didn’t have much to do with her.”

  “I see,” Scallion said, jotting notes on his pad. He was beginning to believe anyone connected to the Crews family was poison. But as much as he despised this guy, he did seem to be telling the truth. Taking a glance around the gallery, he saw that the other two employees seemed to be leaning a curious ear in their direction.

  “Just one more thing, Mr. Newell,” Scallion said. “Before you burst her bubble, did Tammy say anything about trouble she was having with drug dealers? Anything like that?”

  The question struck a nerve, one Newell tried to hide, but Scallion caught the twitch in the man’s eyes. The word “drugs” did that sometimes.

  “No. She never mentioned anything about that to me.” Newell avoided eye contact as he answered.

  “Huh huh,” Scallion nodded, staring directly at the other man. “How about outside jobs? Since she wasn’t going to make it as an artist, was she looking for work anywhere?”

  “Tammy? Tammy never worked a day in her life. I can’t imagine who would’ve hired her.” The man didn’t even try to hide a derisive sneer.

  Scallion took a long moment, gazing around the room at the paintings, his eyebrows furrowed, hoping his expression would indicate he didn’t exactly see this as work either.

  Evidently, the dealer caught it. “Are we done here, detective?” I’ve got a gallery to run. ”

  “Yes, we’re done,” Scallion said. Without shaking hands, he started for the door, every bit as anxious to end the interview as the other man. He fought the urge to accidentally tip over an easel or two on the way out, maybe creating a domino effect.

  Pausing beneath an overhanging awning outside, Scallion exhaled, trying to shake his distaste of Newell out of his system. Pushing the button again to engage the umbrella, he headed for his car. He had reached the corner of the street where his vehicle was parked, when a voice straining against the noise of the rain stopped him.

  “Detective?”

  He turned to see a young man approaching. He wore a baseball cap over long blond hair, beginning to matt in the downpour. Taking a closer look, he could identify the man as the other male employee in the gallery.

  “Yes,” Scallion answered guardedly.

  The young man, appearing to be in his late twenties, was within a few feet now. “I overheard you and Brandon talking in the store. Wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I may know something he doesn’t—something you asked him about.”

  “Oh?” Scallion sized up the man, then decided to hear him out. “Come on. Let’s get outta this rain. My car’s right up here.” He motioned for the other man to follow.

  Safely inside the Harris County vehicle, the employee removed his cap, ru
nning a hand through his damp hair. He stared at the impressive array of communication and mapping equipment on the dash panel, then at the detective. “Name’s Chip Luna,” he said.

  “Pete Scallion.” He shook hands with the young man, then craned his neck to look back at the corner. “Does Newell know you’re out here?”

  “No. But it wouldn’t matter if he did. I don’t think I’ll be working there much longer.”

  “I see. I think I understand.”

  Luna gave a puzzled look, then seemed to understand the comment. “Oh, Brandon’s not so bad. He’s just full of himself. It’s not because of him. It’s just that I’m going to be moving to Austin soon, open my own studio.”

  “Good for you.” After a short pause, Scallion asked. “So, what do you know, Mr. Luna?”

  “Please, it’s just Chip.”

  “Okay, Chip. What do you know that Newell doesn’t?”

  “Tammy was looking for a job right before she disappeared. I’m pretty sure I’m the only person she told about it.” Luna peered through the windshield, his mind seeming to float back in time for a moment.

  “Why did she chose to confide in you?” Scallion’s interest was now piqued.

  “Well, you see,” the young man said, shifting his body, his wet pants squishing against the leather seat, “she and I had become pretty close while she was dating Brandon. Nothing sexual—she just needed someone to talk to, especially when things weren’t going well between the two of them. She really did like him, and he liked her too, at first. I think he got tired of her, wanted to move on. And I heard what Brandon told you about her talent. I think that’s pretty accurate.” Luna paused for a second before adding, “But I have to admit I was hooked on her too, and I was glad she would share her feelings with me. I was only eighteen then, and she was twenty-two, and rich, so I knew I had no chance.”