Allison Brennan - Sudden Death

“Thanks. Let me know if you need anything. I contacted my brother, who’s affiliated with the FBI. I’m waiting to hear how they’re involved.”

“If it’s the Hamstring Killer, the feds are all over it. I heard two agents were in Austin today.”

Jack thanked Scott for his help and hung up. He watched Deputy Ripa leave the bar. As usual, he’d drunk too much and was ripe for conversation. Jack had gotten some of his best information from Ripa after a night out. He needed to find out what evidence, if any, had been collected at Scout’s house. This mysterious brunette had captured Jack’s interest, especially if it was the same woman who’d approached Padre. Had she been sent to make sure Scout was alone? To keep Padre occupied? The priest often went to El Gato near closing to take care of Scout and any others who had drunk too much. Or were they not connected at all? Was Jack reading too much into the situation?

Right now, he needed to gather intelligence so he could create a plan. Intelligence, plan, execution.

He opened his truck door quietly and said, “Ripa.”

“Go away, Kincaid. You’re going to get me in trouble with Perez.” The deputy still wore his sidearm. Guns and alcohol were a dangerous combination. Jack kept his guard up.

“Perez is doing nothing about Scout’s murder. Where’s the evidence?”

“The station. And he is working it. He traced Scout’s last week. He says you brought the trouble to Hidalgo, it’s not on his head.”

“Do you watch TV?”

“What?” Ripa swayed a bit, squared his feet. “I gotta go. If Perez hears I even told you to fuck off, he’ll be in my face. I don’t need that shit. I got an ex-wife and kid to support.”

“What happened to Scout had nothing to do with Guatemala.”

“I don’t care. I just don’t want trouble.” He burped loudly.

“Where’d he send Scout’s body?”

Ripa blinked. He hadn’t expected the question, and it was obvious to Jack he wasn’t lying when he said, “I don’t know. I guess Edinburg, or McAllen. Why?”

Jack didn’t trust Perez with the investigation into Scout’s murder, but he’d follow proper procedures with Scout’s body. There was no morgue or coroner in Hidalgo; they generally sent autopsies to the county seat. Jack would go up there first thing in the morning and talk to the coroner. He hoped the feds didn’t screw it up. Jack usually got the information he wanted, but he knew that the FBI and other government bureaucrats went in with attitudes that sometimes didn’t go over so good down here in south Texas.

Jack told Ripa, “I’ve been all over town and back and talked to everyone at the bar last night. Where has Perez been? Who’s he talking to?”

“I told you.” The bar door opened and Ripa said loudly, “Get out of my face, Kincaid, or I’ll arrest you.”

“On what charge?”

Two of Perez’s cronies came out. Abbott and Costello, Jack thought.

“Arrest him, Ripa,” the tall jerk said. The squat one laughed.

Jack’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it and said, “Thanks for nothing, Ripa.” Though he confirmed what he suspected: Art Perez was doing next to nothing to find out who killed Scout; worse, he was mucking up any legitimate investigation by not sending the evidence to the Ranger’s state-of-the-art lab. Jack knew why: Hidalgo City would be charged for the services, and Perez ran the police department on a tight budget. The chief of police would wait until the Rangers came on their own. Suddenly, it was clear to Jack: it was all about the money. If the Rangers came in and took over the case, Perez wouldn’t have to pay for it. If he asked for help, half came out of the city coffers.

Jack mentally berated himself for not figuring it out earlier. But now he had a card to play.

He got in his truck, ignoring the stares of Ripa and the Abbott and Costello lookalikes, and drove off. He missed his call, so he retrieved his phone and hit Send. It was Dillon.

“What do you have?”

“The two agents in charge of the Hamstring Killer investigation are currently in Austin, Texas. I talked to my friend Hans Vigo. He and Agent Megan Elliott are flying to McAllen as soon as they get to the airport. He figures two hours.”

“I’ll be there.”

“I gave Hans your cell phone number.”

“Fine.”

“He’s good. He was part of the FBI effort to identify Lucy’s kidnapper. Just-” Dillon didn’t say anything else.

“I won’t be pushed aside.”

“That’s what I told Hans. He’s fine with it, Jack. He said they need an in. You can trust him.”

“Hmm.”

“You can trust him like you can trust me.”

“And this Elliott?”

“Don’t know her, but Hans says she’s good.”

“Thanks, Dillon.”

“I can come down.”

“Not necessary.”

“If you need another set of legs or just to run a theory past, call me.”

Jack would normally deflect any offers of help. He had his team, men he’d trained or retrained to suit him, and he didn’t want or need anyone else. But already he had two feds on the way, and Dillon did have an expertise that Jack didn’t. More than that, Dillon was his brother. Jack had to remember family helped each other, both ways.

“I will,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Jack hung up and made a U-turn. It was less than thirty minutes to McAllen, so Jack had time to stop by Scout’s. Jack had been a soldier long enough that he could read a scene as well or better than any cop. Perez wasn’t sharing information with him, so Jack had to find out what happened on his own.

It was ten at night with thunderheads obscuring the moon, minimizing the chances of anyone seeing him. If a neighbor spotted him, Jack was fine. If Perez had a patrol out on Scout’s street, Jack might have some trouble.

He parked around the corner from Scout’s house and walked casually along the street. Crime scene tape had been woven around the porch railing. There was a seal on the front door. No patrol car in sight. Jack walked around back while slipping on gloves.

There was a police seal on the back door, but Jack knew that Scout didn’t lock any of the sunroom windows. The police hadn’t even checked. Jack was inside in less than ten seconds.

The smell of Scout’s violent death hung in the stifling house, retaining the heat of the day. Jack looked around the sunroom, didn’t see anything out of place, and walked the house with a flashlight.

Scout was a patriot through and through, and did whatever Uncle Sam had asked him to. It was that blind loyalty, however, that Jack was certain had led to some actions that Scout couldn’t deal with, and that had led to his drinking. Yet when Jack told him to sober up, they had a job, Scout did just that. Maybe it was Jack’s fault. He’d let Scout do what he wanted when they didn’t have an assignment-maybe he should have ordered him to stop drinking or he was off the team. Maybe he should have showed him some tough love.

Shit. Nineteen years and Scout was gone. If it had been in the field, Jack could have handled it better. Scout always expected to die doing what he loved. Maybe took too many risks because of it. But to die with a bullet in the back of the head? Naked and hamstrung? Jack wanted to snap the neck of the bastard who did it. Who took away Scout’s dignity before he killed him.

Still, something about the scene had bothered Jack from the minute he walked in earlier that day, and now he hoped to figure out what it was.

He went to the front door. The blood spatter told Jack that Scout had been hamstrung just inside his living room. Enough time to walk in, close the door … There was no sign of a struggle, save for a broken lamp near the door that could have fallen if Scout tried to grab on to something when he fell. Jack followed the trail of blood to the kitchen, where Scout had been duct-taped to a chair for an unknown length of time, before the tape had been cut. Scout had been pushed or fell to the floor. Shot in the back of the head. The sight was burned into Jack’s head.