The Last Chance Olive Ranch Page 10

  “Offer I can’t refuse,” Blackie replied. “Hey, what’s this I hear about some escaped con killing people all over the place—and looking for you, especially?”

  McQuaid narrowed his eyes. Some days it was good to have a partner who was married to the chief of police. Some days it wasn’t.

  “I’ll tell you over chicken-fried steak and a beer,” he said, and clicked off.

  Lunch arrangements settled, McQuaid made one more call—to China’s cell phone. She’d said she probably wouldn’t be within range of a cell tower, and she was right. He got her voice mail, said a quick hello, then got to work on something he’d been supposed to do a couple of days before: fill out an invoice for the job he’d completed the previous week. A San Antonio corporation had called him in when the company’s outside auditor detected a hefty outflow of funds from the corporate bank account into several employees’ private pockets. After the arrests, McQuaid had conducted a full financial check on the errant employees to determine where the money had gone and whether it was recoverable.

  It wasn’t his favorite kind of work—he preferred a job that had more action. But it paid the bills.

  • • •

  BY the time McQuaid walked into Beans’ Bar and Grill, the place was already crowded with Friday lunch-hour regulars. The usual pool game was going on in the back, and the steady buzz of voices was occasionally punctuated by the sharp crack! of a cue ball. The Missouri Pacific tracks were on the other side of the parking lot, not fifty yards away, and every now and then, the sound of the TV high on the wall was drowned out by the rumble of a passing freight train, which shook the windows and rattled the glassware behind the bar. There was nothing trendy or upscale about Beans’. It was just a down-home Texas place that served good food and drink and lots of it. Nobody expected anything else.

  Blackie Blackwell had already claimed their usual table by the window. Thick-shouldered and stocky, with sandy hair and a square jaw, Blackie had the look of a guy who could be counted on to do his part in any situation, no matter how difficult or dangerous. There was a sturdy, solid, rocklike dependability about him, McQuaid had always thought. He always felt better when they were on a case together—especially when it was really dicey, like the recent oil-field thefts that had taken them into cartel territory across the border. He knew he could rely on Blackie.

  As McQuaid pulled up a chair and sat down, Bob Godwin sauntered up with a basket of warm tortilla chips, a crockery cup of fiery salsa, and two frosty Lone Star longnecks. An ardent Second Amendment champion, Bob wore a red T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of a pistol and the words Keep Calm and Carry On. His golden retriever, wearing his usual red bandana and leather saddlebags, followed him to the table to say a friendly hello. McQuaid gave his ears a good rub. Budweiser, Bud for short, was a long-time Beans’ favorite. The dog toted beer bottles and wrapped snacks from the bar to the tables, and money and credit card chits from the tables to the cash register. People liked to tip him with stuff from their plates, so Bob had lately taken to hanging a hand-lettered sign around his neck: Do not feed me. Bob will bite you!

  “Hey, guys, how ya doin’?” Bob took his order pad out of the canvas apron he wore around his waist. “Got cabrito fajitas on the menu today.” He gestured toward the chalkboard behind the bar, under a fly-spotted sign that said 7-Course Texas Dinner: A 6-Pack & a Possum. “Or there’s meatloaf, ribs, chicken-fried, and catfish. Chili, too. What’s your pleasure?”

  “Chicken-fried,” McQuaid said, and Blackie nodded.

  “Same here.” Bob’s signature chicken-fried steak—a sizeable chunk of round steak pounded thin, breaded in Bob’s secret blend of herbs and spices, and deep-fried—came smothered in cream gravy, with mashed potatoes, a vegetable, and a coleslaw side. It was too much for lunch, but McQuaid reminded himself that since China was out of town, he wouldn’t be having a regular dinner. This would be his main meal for the day.

  “Two chicken-frieds, comin’ up,” Bob said. He pocketed his order form and left, Bud at his heels.

  Blackie picked up his longneck and took a slug. “Sheila tells me you’re cooking up a little sting at the barbecue tomorrow night.” His tone was neutral. If he didn’t like the idea, McQuaid knew, he wouldn’t show it—until he heard all the details. Then he’d tell you what he thought.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” McQuaid dipped a tortilla chip in salsa and popped it into his mouth. He and Blackie had teamed up as private investigators after Blackie left his position as the sheriff of Adams County, a much-loved third-generation job that his father and grandfather had held before him. Blackie liked to joke that his son—the baby Sheila was carrying—was going to grow up and become the Adams County sheriff, just to bring the job back into the family. Meanwhile, he and McQuaid were doing the investigative work they both liked to do. They were good together.

  To bring down the salsa’s temperature, McQuaid swigged a slug of beer. “I got a phone call from Houston Homicide early this morning,” he said.

  “I know,” Blackie said. “Sheila told me. But maybe you’d better fill me in. She was in a hurry. She might have left a detail or two out.”

  McQuaid told Blackie the story. But not from the beginning, not from the arrest and his consequential choice not to shoot. The choice against which he had to measure four deaths. Four. He left that out and started the story with Mantel’s escape from Huntsville, then went on to the morning’s telephone conversations with Sheila, Royce, Abbott, and Hark. Blackie listened with his eyes half closed, without questions or comment, but McQuaid knew he was processing the whole thing.

  “Hark says he’ll do his best to get the story out there,” McQuaid said. “And if I know Mantel, he’ll be watching the media, hoping to get a look at his own ugly mug. Now all we have to do is wait and see if he shows up at the park tomorrow.”

  Blackie was thoughtful, very quiet, absently turning the beer bottle in his fingers. “Could work,” he said after a moment. “Only thing is the crowd—unpredictable. Still, Sheila was saying she can put a dozen people there. Royce told her he could send one or two, as well.” His voice became ironic. “You know Royce. He’d like to be in on the takedown. The Rangers always get their guy.”

  McQuaid chuckled. There might be competition on this one. Sheila would like to get credit for the arrest. “You’ll be there?” He thought he knew the answer, but he needed to be sure.

  “You bet,” Blackie said without hesitation. “Right beside you.” He tipped his bottle up and drank, then put it down again and glanced at McQuaid, calculating. “Sheila told me you hustled China and Caitie out of town. You thinking Mantel might show up at your house tonight, ahead of the thing tomorrow?”

  “It’s possible,” McQuaid said slowly. That scenario had occurred to him but he’d been so focused on getting all the pieces in place for the barbecue plan that he hadn’t given it much thought. “You got something in mind?”

  “Not exactly,” Blackie replied. “Wondering, though, whether Mantel has any relatives or friends in the area. Would you happen to know?”

  “No,” McQuaid replied slowly. “But Harry Royce might. I’ll give him a call. It could be worth checking them out. If Mantel heads over this way, he’ll be looking for someplace to hang out.”

  Blackie nodded. “Do that. And as I say, I don’t like crowd scenes. Too unpredictable—dangerous, too, especially with this new open carry situation. People who carry guns don’t always know how to use them.” He picked up a tortilla chip. “If we could think of a way to lure this guy into coming after you at your place, it might be better to—”

  He was about to say more, but Bob came up to the table at that moment, carrying their food. “Hey, McQuaid,” he said, with a nod over his shoulder. “Ain’t that you, up there on the TV?”

  Startled, McQuaid looked up. The television set was tuned to the noon news on KXAN, channel 36, the Austin NBC af
filiate. And that was his photo, all right, the one Hark had shot when he was talking to the Pecan Springs senior class about careers in law enforcement, back when he’d been acting chief of police. Next to his photo on the screen was Mantel’s mug shot. Both of them were big as life and clearly recognizable. He couldn’t quite hear the audio, but he supposed that NBC had picked up Hark’s story, including the information about the barbecue tomorrow.

  It was good, no, better than good. Hark had done what McQuaid asked, faster than he had any right to expect. He could only hope that Mantel couldn’t resist taking this exactly as it was meant: a personal, hand-engraved invitation to Pecan Springs, issued by the cop who had refused to shoot him when he asked for it. Who had instead handed him a death sentence that he had to wait for, in prison. It was a come-and-get-me double dare. A taunt. A thumb of the nose.

  Bob put their plates on the table. “That’s one mean-looking SOB,” he said, shaking his head. “Escaped out of Huntsville, is what they’re saying. Killed the DA over in Harris County. Killed an ex-cop, too, buddy of yours.” He eyed McQuaid. “That true?”

  “All true,” McQuaid said, and wondered what Abbott would say when he saw it—if the Houston TV channels were carrying it. It was exactly what the DA’s office didn’t want. He was picking up his fork when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked it, then pushed back his chair. “Excuse me,” he said. “It’s my son.” He left the table and went outside, where he could hear better.

  “Dad?” Brian asked excitedly. “Dad, is that really you I’m looking at on the TV? It looks like you and they say it’s you, but—”

  McQuaid interrupted: “What channel are you watching, son?”

  “Channel 24. KVUE. They’re saying that some really bad guy escaped from Death Row, and that you’re out to get even with him for shooting one of your cop friends. Is that right?”

  “More or less.” Get even? That must be the story Hark had peddled to the wire service—not quite what McQuaid had had in mind, but whatever worked. KVUE was ABC. “Are you where you can switch over to KEYE or FOX? See if they’re carrying the same story?”

  “Hang on.” Brian was off the line for a moment or two, then back. “They are, both of them. They’ve got your photo, and they’re saying the same thing, that you’re looking for this guy because he killed your friend. They make it sound like you’re a lone wolf. On your own, I mean. A rogue ex-cop.” He sounded anxious. “What’s happening? What’s going on, Dad?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” McQuaid said. “And I’m not on my own. The Rangers are in on this, and so is the PSPD. We’re all working together to get this guy.” KEYE was CBS. All four affiliates had the story now, which raised the chances that it had already been picked up in Houston and maybe on cable, too. “Was that why you called?”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Actually, no,” Brian said, and cleared his throat. “I got a call from Sally a little bit ago, just before I saw you on TV.” Several years ago, Brian had decided to call China Mom. At the same time, he began calling his mother by her given name. Sally had objected, but when she spoke to McQuaid about it, he’d told her to take it up with Brian. She had, but obviously without success.

  “I see,” McQuaid said, remembering his ex-wife’s call on the answering machine. I’m in trouble, and I’ve exhausted every other option. You’re my last chance, Mike. My absolutely, positively last chance. He’d returned the call to her voice mail and hadn’t heard back from her yet.

  “What did she want?” he asked, swallowing down the irritation. This was so like Sally, imposing herself on her son when she hadn’t done anything to help the boy. She hadn’t picked up her share of his school expenses, the way she’d promised. She hadn’t even bothered to send a card on his birthday. Brian had his own life, his friends, school, even a job. It wasn’t fair for her to call him up and unload her problems on him.

  “She was . . . well, she was pretty incoherent,” Brian said. “She kept saying something about a ‘last chance.’ After I got her calmed down, I figured out that she was looking for a place to hide out. She’s afraid of something—she won’t say what. She wants to come up to Austin for a few days.” There was a quaver in his voice, and he paused to get it under control. “Come here, I mean. My place.”

  Brian had lived at one of the off-campus co-op houses during his first year at UT. But when the spring term ended and he got a part-time job at The Natural Gardener, he had found a small house to share in South Austin. Brian had emailed his parents a photo—a cute little yellow bungalow with green shutters and a large live oak in the front yard.

  Now, listening to Brian, McQuaid felt the anger tighten his belly. “Damn it,” he muttered. “That woman needs to grow up.” Immediately sorry, he bit off the words. He’d always been careful to keep his feelings about Sally out of his conversations with their son. But he couldn’t help wondering which woman had called Brian with this “last chance” plea, the same one she’d used on him. Had it been Sally? Or Juanita? Or some third personality who hadn’t yet made a name for herself?

  Brian cleared his throat. “The thing is that . . . well, it doesn’t work for Sally to come here right now.” He sounded uneasy, uncomfortable, not like himself. “I told her that this place is pretty small and there’s not a lot of room. Just two bedrooms, I mean. I kind of thought maybe she could . . . well, stay with you and China. She could have my room while she’s there. She said it was just for a few days. She wouldn’t be any bother.”

  Where had he heard that before? McQuaid thought. Anyway, it was out of the question. “She’ll have to find someplace else,” he said. “China’s out of town.” He hesitated. “And there’s a thing.”

  “Huh,” Brian said. “A thing. Like with this guy on TV? The guy who shot your buddy?”

  “Yeah. That thing.” He’d gotten Caitie and China safely out of the way. It would make him crazy if Sally started hanging around Pecan Springs when he was trying to deal with the Mantel business. “Is your mother calling you back?”

  “I don’t think so. I pretty much told her she couldn’t come here, so I guess she’ll try calling you.” He took a breath. “Listen, Dad, I’m sorry if I put my foot in it. I didn’t know China was away. I told her she could probably—”

  “Don’t worry about it, son. We’ll work it out.” McQuaid thought fast. Maybe Ruby would give Sally a place to stay for a while, until her current storm blew over. Ruby knew her and seemed to be able to connect with her, maybe because they were both pretty flakey. But then he remembered that Ruby was with China, so that was out. Maybe Amy, Ruby’s wild child?

  “Any idea what her problem is?” he asked.

  “I got the impression that she was afraid of somebody. Really afraid, I mean. Like maybe some guy was after her and she needed to stay out of sight for a while.” Brian sighed heavily. “But you know Sally. It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s . . . well, made up. She can be pretty dramatic.”

  She sure could. “Well, if she phones you again,” McQuaid said, “tell her to stay where she is—wherever the hell that is—until she talks to me.”

  “Thanks,” Brian said. “But about this thing. I mean, I hope you’re not . . . you know, putting yourself in any danger.” His voice thinned, and he sounded like a very young boy, half-scared, half-excited. “You’re not, are you, Dad?”

  “Nah,” McQuaid said dismissively. “Sometimes stuff just . . . you know, happens.” He put a smile in his voice. “You going anywhere this weekend?”

  “Nope. I’m off today, but I’m working tomorrow and Sunday. Tell China I like the job, and the hours are working out.”

  “She’ll be glad to hear that.” John Dromgoole, the owner of The Natural Gardener, was a friend of China’s. “Have a good weekend, you hear? And don’t worry about your mother.”

  “I’ll try,” Brian said. “I’ll try not to worry about both of
you.” He paused to let the subtle snarkiness sink in. “You’ll take good care of yourself, won’t you, Dad?”

  McQuaid said he would and clicked off. He stood for a moment, looking at his phone and wishing that he could talk things over with his wife, could tell China about Carl, and what he and Hark had cooked up, and the plan for tomorrow. And about Sally. Yes, Sally, definitely. He considered calling the ranch landline number that China had given him and decided against it. Maybe she hadn’t arrived yet. Or if she’d arrived, she was with a gang having lunch or out somewhere. And anyway, it wasn’t a good idea to talk to her. She’d be upset about Carl, and he couldn’t tell her about tomorrow. If he did, she’d turn around and come straight back home.

  But he wanted to hear her voice. So, even though he knew he wouldn’t get through, he called her cell again and got her voice mail prompt. Listening, he closed his eyes, thinking how weird it was that a few recorded words could make him want her so damn much.

  Thanks for calling, whoever you are. Sorry I missed you, but I’ll return your call as soon as I can. Leave a message—and have a wonderful day.

  He was tempted to redial, just to listen to it again, but the beep came and he said, “Hey, babe, just thinking of you. Hope you and Ruby are having a great time—and staying out of trouble. Nothing doing here that’s very important. Talk to you later. Love you.” He took a breath and added, “Really love you.”

  When he got back to the table, his chicken-fried steak was cold. He ate it anyway.

  Chapter Seven

  Every time we go to the grocery store to buy olive oil, we come face-to-face with a conundrum. The oil on the shelves—the oil we would like to purchase for its health benefits and its Mediterranean appeal—may not be what we think it is. That is, while the label may say that the bottle contains “pure olive oil,” it may also contain less expensive oils, such as canola and sunflower-seed oil, and colorants. It may also have been treated with heat or chemicals to alter the taste or preserve the oil.