Wednesday, June 27, 7:30 p.m.
A quick search on her phone told Faith the Second Chances bar was on Third Street. It took only minutes to cross town and park near the small place that looked like the typical dive bar. Small windows and a plain front door led to a dimly lit interior that, combined with a collection of round tables made of reclaimed barnwood, fell short of cozy.
All the tables were full, and piped-in country western music added a buoyancy to a room that might not have fared so well in daylight. The woman behind the bar was young, with a shock of red hair pulled back in a ponytail that could not calm the curls. She was smiling as she pulled a draft and then poured a shot of whiskey, all in one fluid motion.
Faith found a spot at the end of the bar. If there was anyone who didn’t look the part of a Second Chances customer, it was her. She settled her purse between her legs and tried to pretend she belonged.
The woman came up to her, wiped the wet bar, and set down a paper napkin. “What can I get you?”
“Bourbon, neat.”
“Ah, the lady knows the wisdom of not ruining a good bourbon with water or soda.”
“I’m a purist,” she said, smiling.
“Be right back. And sorry for the delay. We’re shorthanded tonight.”
“No worries.”
The waitress took her order to the bartender, who filled a shot glass. “We also have menus if you’re hungry. Nothing fancy, but tasty.”
“Thanks. Just a bourbon for now.”
“You look familiar,” the woman said.
“I’ve never been in here before.”
“I could have sworn I’ve seen you. But then I’m new at all this and don’t remember the faces as well as the boss.”
Had she seen Macy? Or had she caught Faith on television a few weeks ago? “Maybe I’ve got that kind of face.”
“The boss would know. He’s good with faces. Never forgets one.”
Then he would remember Macy. And he would notice her. She sipped her bourbon, certain if she asked about Macy or started showing pictures, she’d only raise suspicions.
The waitress was summoned by a customer at the other end of the bar, leaving Faith to stare into the mirror behind the bar and watch the crowd behind her. No one seemed to toss her a second look. She was just another woman at the bar.
Saloon doors that separated the front end of the house from the kitchen swung open, and a man in his late fifties pushed through. He was fit for his age and had a full head of hair. If not for the crow’s-feet around his eyes and the deep laugh lines running the length of his face, he could have passed for a decade younger.
He crossed behind the bar, grinning. “I can take over, Jill. Why don’t you check in on your tables?”
Garnet looked at Faith’s drink and then her face and froze. That split second told her he’d seen Macy before. But he quickly covered up his shock with a very charming grin. “Can I freshen that up for you?”
“Still working on this one. Thanks.”
“What brings you in here?”
“Heard friends talking about it and thought I’d stop in for a drink. Long day.”
“Really. And what do you do?”
“I’m a medical examiner.”
“Wow. That’s an intense job.” He held out his hand. “Danny Garnet.”
“Faith McIntyre.”
“I’ve seen you before, Dr. McIntyre.”
“Not in here.” She raised her bourbon to her lips and took a small sip.
“Maybe on television. I bet you get interviewed a lot.”
“Occasionally.”
He was studying her closely. Was he recalling Macy or simply flirting? “You don’t look like a medical examiner.”
“What do they look like?” she deadpanned. Any comment that could be made about her profession, she’d heard it.
He laughed, smelling the trap. “You’re a beautiful woman, Faith McIntyre.”
A woman in a red dress several spots down summoned Garnet. Promising to return, he moved to the woman and freshened her drink. The woman in red leaned forward, giving him a full view of her ample cleavage. He wasn’t saint enough not to look, although whatever she was offering didn’t seem to appeal at the moment. But he was charming in the way he shook his head and kept his eyes on her before he patted the bar in front of her and moved down the row to a cowboy ready to cash out his tab.
She could read the dead well, but with the living she was out of her depth. She pulled a twenty from her purse, set it on the table, and rose.
Garnet noticed her standing but was on the other end of the bar. That gave her time to leave before he could stop her.
She’d taken a big risk coming here. It was important to her to help Macy in any way she could. And if that meant flushing out whoever had hurt Macy, then so be it.
After Hayden left the Owens’ home, he placed another call to Detective Lana Franklin. He checked on the status of the missing persons files.
“I’m pulling files now,” Franklin said.
“Can you have this for me by morning?” he asked. “I know I’m pressing, but we’re running out of time.”
“It will be done.”
“Appreciate it.”
His next call was to Brogan, who had located Sam Delany at the Huntsville Prison, three hours northeast of Austin. If they hurried, they could be there before midnight and back in Austin before daybreak. Hayden picked up Brogan fifteen minutes later. They grabbed burgers at a drive-through and soon were on TX-290 toward Huntsville, Texas.
“Delany is a lifer,” Brogan said as he settled back in his seat.
“So who’s paying his property taxes?”
“He’s clearly fronting for someone,” Brogan replied.
“And our job will be to convince a lifer to give this guy up.” The lights of Austin faded in his rearview mirror. Hayden pressed on the accelerator as he ate fries and sipped from a soda. “Any word on Dirk Crow’s BOLO?”
“There’s been no sighting of the man. The guy has lived in the middle of nowhere for years and knows every rock to crawl under. Hell, the guy could be in Mexico by now.”
Hayden finished his burger, balled up his trash, and tucked it in the bag. “Think Melissa Savage is working this late?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s a real night owl.”
Hayden dialed her number, and she picked up on the second ring, sounding alert.
“I’m in the car with Brogan, and we’re headed to Huntsville. You’re on speaker.”
“Understood,” she said.
“Tell me you’ve found something on that surveillance footage.”
“My eyes are crossing. I’ve reviewed ten days’ worth of footage from a dozen different establishments near the Crow property and Second Chances.”
“And?”
“Dirk Crow comes and goes from the salvage yard daily until two weeks ago, and then he goes AWOL.”
“That fits with his story of being in San Jose.”
“Maybe. Satellite imagery of the salvage yard property shows that it’s not fully enclosed with fencing. There are patches that are large enough for a car to pass through. Your killer could have come in that way.”
Hayden tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “Continue.”
“Early Sunday morning a green sedan pulls onto the salvage yard lot. The driver is wearing a hat and sunglasses, and his face is turned. He knows there are cameras.”
“The driver is male?”
“If I had to bet, yes.”
“I came by the lot Sunday afternoon and found Crow dead,” Hayden said. “We know from the autopsy that he’d not been dead long. So whoever this driver was, his arrival coincided with Crow’s murder only a few hours before I arrived. Is the car seen exiting the yard?”
“It is at one p.m. I was able to enhance the footage and caught a partial plate. I’ve notified patrol, and as expected it was listed in the database as stolen.”
“Whoever killed Crow and hit Macy is sounding more like a professional. The playing card with Crow suggests a type of signature. None was found with Macy because he didn’t have time. Perhaps that attack wasn’t planned.”
“Maybe he didn’t know Crow had kids,” Brogan offered.
“Melissa, what about the cameras around Second Chances?”
“Based on Macy Crow’s ATM receipt, I did locate her three blocks from Second Chances five minutes before she was hit. The dark truck that was identified as stolen passes behind her. I’ve taken a freeze-frame of the driver. It’s only a partial and it’s fuzzy, but I’m trying to enhance it as much as I can. That’s going to take some time.”
“Anything else?” Hayden asked.
“Still piecing it all together,” she said.
“Keep me posted.”
“Count on it.”
Hayden hung up. “Brogan, see what you can pull up on Josie Jones.”
“Will do.” As Hayden drove, Brogan accessed the database for arrest records. “Not much in her file. She was arrested a day after her eighteenth birthday, and there is a note from the arresting officer, who noted that the judge of record was Ryder Templeton.”
“I know Templeton. He was a buddy of my father’s.” At eighty-five, Judge Templeton was still active in Austin politics, never missed a UT football game, and met his buddies at his favorite bar every Thursday for a beer.
Hayden checked the time and, taking a chance, dialed Judge Templeton’s number. The phone rang twice, and then he heard his father’s friend say, “Well, as I live and breathe, Mitchell Hayden. How are you doing?”
“Doing very well.”
“Glad to hear it. Let me say again how sorry Leticia and I were to hear about Sierra.”
He didn’t remember the judge and his wife of forty years at the funeral, but he didn’t remember much of that day. “I appreciate that.”
“So, boy, seeing as you’re not one to call and just chat, what can I do for you?”
“I’m working on a case and came across the name of a Josie Jones. She was arrested for stealing in 1987, and her arrest records tell me she appeared in your court.”
“I have a good memory, but you’re going back thirty-plus years. I presided over thousands of cases.”
“I remember you used to keep a personal log on your cases and sometimes made notes. I thought you might have a note or two about this woman.”
“Leticia has been after me for years to throw out all those logbooks. They’re taking up too much attic space, she says. Though what the hell else she wants to put in the attic is beyond me.”
“Tell me you saved them.”
“Of course I did. I can’t throw out my logs.”
Dogs barked in the background, and Hayden pictured two basset hounds, which had always been the judge’s preferred breed. No doubt the judge was sitting on his back porch overlooking Lake Travis and sipping a whiskey. “Let me poke around. Might take me a day or two. And it would be nice to prove to Leticia that those old logbooks still have a use.”
“Any help you can offer would be much appreciated,” Hayden said.
“Mind telling me why you care about a case from the eighties?”
“We came across several graves on a Hill Country ranch. I think Josie Jones might be one of the bodies. Her name could very well be a dead end, but I’ve got to at least try.”
“Understood.” His chair squeaked as if he had leaned forward. “I hear you and Dr. McIntyre were friendly at the fundraiser the other night.”
Austin was a big small town. “She and I are on the board of the shelter together.”
“You two make a handsome couple.”
A quick glance to his right caught Brogan now looking toward him with a renewed interest. He could have backed away from the comment and denied it, but he didn’t. “I guess we shall see.”
“Well, you’re a fool not to chase that gal. Smart as a whip. If I were forty years younger, you’d have some real competition.”
The comment wasn’t lost on him. Faith might be his shot at a new life. “I’ll keep all that in mind, sir.”
“Okay. Now I’ll get back to minding my own business and will call with an update soon.”
“Appreciate it, Judge. I’ll owe you one.”
Two hours later, Hayden and Brogan arrived at the Texas State Penitentiary in Huntsville. Built in 1849, it was the oldest Texas state prison. It held the State of Texas execution chamber—the most active chamber in the United States.
“The warden knows we’re coming and will have Delany up and ready to talk,” Brogan said.
As Hayden stopped at the guard station and stated their purpose, each Ranger showed his identification badge before they were waved through the gates. Moonlight bathed the prison’s red brick walls. They removed their hats and made their way through security, where they checked their weapons, and into the building.
The warden, Buddy Westchester, a short man with a round belly and dark-brown hair, met them just inside. They all shook hands. “Well, I can tell you Mr. Delany was not happy having his beauty sleep interrupted.”
“That’s a shame,” Hayden said. “I know he’s got to be worried about fine lines and wrinkles at his age.”
Westchester laughed. “We’ll make it up to him somehow.” The humor quickly faded from his expression. “Brogan tells me Delany has Hill Country land and there are bodies on it?”
“That’s right. We think we have three sets of remains.”
“I read up on Delany’s file while I was waiting on you two. As you would guess, Delany’s a mean son of a bitch. Was in and out of prison, but a murder conviction landed him here.”
“He killed his girlfriend, correct?” Hayden asked.
“That he did.” They made their way down a tiled hallway toward the interview room at the end. “Beat the hell out of her. She’d just given birth five days before to their son.”
“What happened to the boy?” Hayden asked.
“Social services scooped him up,” Westchester said. “I suppose he was adopted.”
“Did Delany ever say why he killed his girlfriend?” Brogan asked.
“Said he was hungry and she didn’t have his supper made.” Westchester shook his head. “Don’t underestimate this convict, gentlemen. He’s smart, and he’s mean.”
The warden opened the door to the interview room, which was divided by a thick pane of glass. Law enforcement sat on one side and the inmate on the other.
“I’ll be standing right back here if you need anything,” Westchester said.
“Thank you,” Hayden said.
The two sat and had less than a minute to wait before the door on the other side of the glass opened and Delany was escorted into the room. His hands and feet were chained, and he wore a short-sleeve orange jumpsuit that showed off a collection of tattoos stretching from his hands to up under the sleeves. He had buzzed gray hair, a bushy white mustache, and a leery gaze that didn’t hide his curiosity.
Delany straddled his chair and stared at the two Rangers. “Surprise, surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Hayden introduced himself and Brogan. “Your property tax on your ranch in Hill Country. It’s been paid regularly for the last thirty years.”
Delany glanced at his hands, inked with symbols and letters, and then slowly looked up at Hayden, a slight grin on his lips. “I forgot all about that place. Been years since I been out there.”
“And yet someone has been looking out for your place,” he said. “Also looks like someone has been using the place pretty regularly.”
“How could I know that?” Delany said. “I’m here.”
Hayden leaned forward. “I’m on a tight clock, so I’m going to cut to the chase. You help me, and life as you know it won’t change. Whatever you have coming or going into this place will remain the same.” He paused, rubbing his thumb against a callous on his palm. “But if you don’t help me, you will spend the rest of your life in a stripped-down cell and will find yourself in solitary as much as the law will allow.”
“Coming at me with both barrels, aren’t you, Ranger?”
Hayden and Brogan let the comment lie there.
Delany sat back, studying the Rangers, and if he thought in any way this was going to be a negotiation, he was wrong. “And all I get is the same old, same old as my reward?”
Hayden checked his watch. “The deal is off the table in thirty seconds.”
Delany sized up Hayden, seeming to realize Hayden would obliterate whatever comfort he had in this prison. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about a guy by the name of Jack Crow.”
“Who’s that?”
“Are we going to play games?” He was bluffing, acting as if he had all the puzzle pieces.
Delany was silent for a moment. “Oh, Jack Crow? Yeah, I know him. Shit, I haven’t seen him in years. Tell me the son of a bitch is rotting in hell somewhere.”
“Why do you say that?” Hayden asked.
“I’m pretty sure he’s the one that tipped the cops off to my hiding spot when I went on the run after he patched me up.”
He stroked his mustache and sat back. “He took exception to what I did to Susie.”
“Susie Gallagher, your girlfriend,” Brogan said.
“That’s right. Sweet Susie,” Delany said. “Crow could be a real high-and-mighty kind of guy. Always said he’d never hurt a woman, but his hands weren’t clean either.”
“What dirtied his hands?” Hayden said.
“You’ve been to the ranch, Ranger?” Delany said.
“Spell it out for me,” Hayden said.
“I don’t have firsthand knowledge, but I heard there might have been a grave or two out there.”
“Who’s in the graves?” Hayden asked.
“I don’t know exactly,” he said. “But I know for a fact that Crow dug at least one of them.”
“Which one?” Hayden said.
“From what I heard, the first.”
“Did Crow kill her?”
Delany’s cuffs clinked as he rubbed his nose. “That I don’t know. All I heard was that he dug the grave for a woman and a child.”
“Who told you about the graves? Why did they end up on your land?”
Delany looked over Hayden’s shoulder to the warden. Hayden caught Westchester’s reflection in the glass as the warden shifted his stance.
“The Ranger asked you a question politely,” Westchester said. “You can help or not.”
“Are the cameras recording?” Delany asked.
“I’ll switch them off.” The warden made a call from a phone mounted on the wall and after a few seconds turned and said, “They’re off.”
“Who told you about the graves?” Hayden asked.
Delany stared at the warden. Hayden guessed the prisoner was as good at reading the warden as the warden was him. “My stepsister, Heather.”
Heather. For a moment the name didn’t trigger any memories and then, he asked, “Heather Sullivan? She works for Garnet.”
“Is she still with him?” Delany asked. “Imagine that after all this time. That girl had nothing but blind loyalty for Garnet. She’d do anything for him.”