“He lied to me. He told me he’d taken down the crime scene tape. He seemed really weird, like he was up to something. So when I talked to the sheriff’s detective right before you got here, I asked about it. He said his deputies had taken it down Tuesday afternoon.”
“Why’d he lie?”
“I don’t know, but when I went inside, I could tell he’d been looking for something.”
“I think he found it, Steph.”
“What?”
“Stephanie! For the love of God, girl, you taking a break? Or a vacation?”
“Sorry, Faye!” she called over her shoulder. “I’m coming!”
“Wait.” Bailey caught her hand. “Will you help me?”
“If I can. I’ll call you when I get home, after I’ve taken care of the horses. But we’ll have to pick the exact, right moment to do it.”
“We?”
Stephanie smiled. “You honestly think I’d let you go alone?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Thursday, April 24
11:50 A.M.
Billy Ray entered the sheriff’s office complex, juggling a coffee caddy and bag of pastries from Faye’s. He nodded at the woman manning the information desk; she waved him through. Just like he belonged.
He whistled under his breath. He felt good. Better than he had in years. Too bad about Perez, but you mess with shit like K, and sometimes you paid the ultimate price.
He climbed the stairs. Today was the day. They expected the judge to grant the search warrant for Abbott Farm: house, garage, barns and all ninety-plus acres.
And there they would find all the proof they needed to put Abbott away for life.
Billy Ray entered the Investigation Division. Rumsfeld and Carlson were huddled in front of the computer monitor.
“Morning,” Billy Ray said, setting the coffee and bag on Rumsfeld’s desk.
Rumsfeld looked up. “It’s almost noon, Williams.”
“Rough night last night. Figured you might be ready for another round.”
“Try round four. I’m caffeinated-out, man.”
Carlson agreed but reached for the pastry bag and peered inside. “But I can always eat.” He selected a cheese Danish. “Thanks, man.”
“Grab a chair,” Rumsfeld said. “There’ve been developments.”
Billy Ray did and waited, concentrating on playing it one hundred percent cool. Nothing could go wrong. Not now. Not when he was so close.
“We’ve got a ballistics match in the Rodriquez homicide.”
“The 700 from the Perez scene.”
“Yes.”
“That’s good news.” Billy Ray moved his gaze between the two detectives. Something was up, something they hadn’t shared yet. “Although I never would’ve figured fancy-pants Perez to own a rifle let alone be the shooter. But then shooting up Special-K didn’t much seem his style, either.”
“That’s just it, Williams. We’re not closing this one quite yet. We’d like another link between Perez and the gun.”
Louisiana sported some of the most tolerant gun laws in the country, requiring neither registration nor permit to buy or carry a rifle or shotgun. “The weapon was in his possession.”
“Say our witnesses. Mr. Perez wasn’t in the position to confirm or deny.”
“You don’t trust them.”
“Trust isn’t part of the equation. It’s my job to doubt everything.”
“You think one, or all, of them planted it?”
“Could have. But why?”
Billy Ray shook his head, growing frustrated. “What about prints? That’d tie him to it.”
“Interestingly, Perez’s aren’t on it.”
“Not one?”
“Not a single one.”
“Okay,” Billy Ray said, “he wiped it after he killed Rodriquez.”
“That’s one theory.”
“You have another?”
“He always does,” Carlson said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. “It’s all part of livin’ the dream.”
Rumsfeld sent him an annoyed glance. “Let’s take this at face value. Perez was in possession of the gun used to kill Rodriquez. Witness said she found it on his bed. Bed made, gun lying across it.”
“Right.”
“Why?”
“I don’t follow,” Billy Ray said.
“Why wipe your prints from a weapon and leave it lying across your bed?”
“He meant to shoot himself with it. Or he wants us to find the gun, figure it out.”
Rumsfeld cocked an eyebrow. “Again, why wipe it beforehand?”
He had a point, Billy Ray silently admitted. “So, maybe he plans to get rid of it, but decides to have himself a little party first and overdoses. Or he means to get himself good and relaxed and then shoot himself.”
“An experienced drug abuser knows he shoots up, the last thing he’s going to be able to do is pull the trigger. Which brings us back to the question of what really happened. Did Perez accidentally overdose? Or was it suicide?”
Billy Ray thought a moment. “I’m leaning toward accidental overdose.”
“Why?”
“From what I knew of Perez,” Billy Ray began, “he had a very favorable opinion of himself. Hard to see him ending it all. Plus, in my opinion, he wasn’t the attack-of-conscience type of guy, and taking his own life and leaving the weapon he used to kill Rodriquez for us to find smacks of that. Finally, no note.”
Carlson spoke up. “What about his call to Bailey Abbott? He’s gonna confess, but she doesn’t pick up. So he leaves a message apologizing and asking forgiveness. Even mentions Henry by name.”
“That travels into the attack-of-conscience category. Not buyin’ it.”
Carlson shook his head. “He does it the same day his victim is buried and his friend Abbott is arrested. It all crashed down on him at once.”
“But Abbott’s arrested for Jenkins, not Rodriquez.” Billy Ray’s phone went off. “Excuse me a moment.” He stepped out of the cubicle. “Williams.”
“Billy Ray—Chief, it’s Earl.”
“I’m in a meeting, Officer Stroup.”
“Travis Jenkins just called.”
“And?”
“I don’t … it’s good news. He—”
“Spit it out, Stroup.”
“He heard from Dixie. She’s fine.”
Billy Ray reached a hand out to steady himself. It felt as if his world was rocking. “No.”
“She ran off and got hitched.”
Billy Ray strode out to the hallway, away from prying eyes and ears. “Bullshit.”
“He said it was her. She’s in San Antonio.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Some guy she used to date. She—”
Billy Ray cut him off. “You tell Travis not to speak to anyone else about this.”