Sandra Brown - Low Pressure

He hated having to cover it. Like some people felt about wearing a cross on a chain around their neck, or carrying a rabbit’s foot for good luck, Ray believed that his snake tattoo gave him special powers. He felt stronger and smarter every time he looked at it or touched it.

Afraid to stay in his apartment in case the police came looking for him there, he’d driven around all day, no destination in mind, never stopping for long, just keeping on the move. All the same, he felt trapped, like things were closing in on him.

But by damn, he couldn’t get caught until Bellamy Price was dead. So anything he did now had to count, and it had to count big. He must be bold.

“Take the bull by the horns.” That was what Allen would advise.

With his brother’s words of wisdom echoing inside his head, he took the next exit off I-35 and made a U-turn beneath the overpass, reentering the freeway in the northbound lanes.

He knew what he had to do, and it didn’t have to be fancy.

Feeling much more confident now, he rolled up his shirtsleeve and placed his exposed left arm in the open window of his truck, practically daring anyone to mess with him.

Right off, Gall sensed the tension between Dent and Bellamy.

No sooner had her toe touched the tarmac than she excused herself to call her stepmother. Gall watched her enter the hangar, then turned to Dent, who was coming down the steps of the airplane.

“How was your flight?”

“Fine.”

Gall patted the side of the airplane. “This puppy practically flies herself, doesn’t she?”

“No airplane flies itself.”

“Just saying.”

“You’ve said it. I’d be crazy not to hire on with this guy.”

“As I said, I’m just saying.” Gall motioned toward the hangar. “What’s with her?”

“Bellamy?”

“No, the Queen of Sheba. Who do you think?”

Dent glanced in her direction. “The news from Houston isn’t good.”

“That explains it.” After a beat, he asked, “What’s with you ?”

“With me? Nothing.”

“Something.”

Dent took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m tired, is all.”

“Pull my other leg.”

“All right.” He folded down the stems of his glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. “I’m tired of your questions.” He started for the hangar. “Got any coffee?”

“Don’t I always?”

“Yeah, and it always sucks.”

“You’ve never complained before.”

“I’m too nice.”

Gall harrumphed. “Nice you ain’t.”

Dent muttered, “So I’ve recently been told.”

“She’s not making it with you, is she?”

Dent stopped and came around, his eyes throwing daggers.

Gall took his cigar from his mouth and shook his head with bafflement. “This ain’t like you, Ace.”

“Don’t go thinking I’ve lost my touch. She says no, it’s her problem.”

“Not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“A woman says no, it ain’t like you to give a flip.”

Dent opened his mouth, but closed it before saying anything. Then he started toward the hangar again.

Gall said, “I’ll brew you a fresh pot.”

Dent called back, “I’ll brew it myself.”

By the time Gall had secured the senator’s airplane and rejoined them, Dent was foisting a mug of steaming coffee onto Bellamy. Using both hands, she took the oversized mug, looked into it, but didn’t drink from it.

“How’s your daddy?” Gall asked.

“No change. Still not good.”

“Sorry.”

She gave him a bleak smile. “I appreciate your asking.”

Dent, sipping his coffee, motioned toward his airplane. “Where’d you lay out the dummy?”

“Behind the left wheel. But the real dummy was that idiot.”

“You don’t have to be smart to be dangerous,” Dent said. “The man who attacked me has a lot of rage inside him. I felt it. Heard back from the sheriff’s deputy?”

“He left a voice mail on the hangar phone. It was Ray Strickland, all right. They ran the plates on the pickup. But when a state trooper stopped a small pickup with those plates, it wasn’t Strickland driving. It was a young black woman, college student, dean’s list, works part time at Walmart. No police record, nary a blemish on her good name, and she’d never heard of Strickland.”

“Ray switched the plates.”

“Seems like. So they’re looking for a truck with this college kid’s plates now.”

“Is Ray employed?”

“At a glass works of some kind out on the east side. According to the deputy, they checked there, and Ray’s foreman said he hasn’t reported to work for several days. Not answering his cell phone. He’s not at his house, either.”

“Whereabouts unknown,” Dent said.

“You got it.”

“No sign of… the other?”

Gall, realizing that Dent was referring to Bellamy’s fan Jerry, cast a look in her direction, but she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts. They must’ve been troubling. Her brow was furrowed, her eyes staring vacantly.

“Naw,” Gall said to Dent. “All the same, you two gotta be careful.”

“Planning on it.”

“What else are you planning?”

“Moody was pretty straightforward with us, but he fell short of making a full confession. He didn’t tell us the thing that might have made a difference in the outcome of the case. We need to talk to Rupe Collier.”

Gall spat a chunk of cigar to the floor. “It might not mean doodle-dee-squat, but Rupe was on TV today. Caught his show while I was still at my lady’s place.”

“His show?”

“He wasn’t hawking cars, but conducting a press conference.”

“What?” Dent exclaimed.

Bellamy suddenly came to life. “Talking about what?”

“About how his face got fucked up. Not in those words, of course. But Ace here can’t hold a candle to how bad Rupe looked.” He gave them a description. “He claimed not to have got a good look at his attacker and was vague about where the assault had taken place, but he played the victim angle up big. You ask me, the timing of this is fishy.”

“It stinks to high heaven.” Dent turned to Bellamy. “We need to have a heart-to-heart with the former ADA. Do you know where his office is?”

“His flagship dealership. That’s where I met with him.”

“He whipped the media into a frenzy during that press conference,” Gall told them. “That car lot is surrounded by reporters hoping to grab another sound bite or two, which Rupe is good at. You couldn’t get anywhere close without them swamping you, too.”

“That leaves his house,” Bellamy said quietly. When he and Dent turned to her, she added, “I know where he lives.”

“No wonder you know his address,” Dent said as he turned onto the street. “You hail from the same ritzy neighborhood.”

The Lystons’ estate where she’d grown up was several streets over. “Don’t hold that against me.”

“You ever been inside Rupe’s place?”

She shook her head. “After Strickland’s conviction, my parents were invited to his Christmas open house three years in a row. They declined each time, and I guess he and his wife finally got the message, because the invitations stopped coming.”

Rupert Collier’s limestone house sat on a rise of sprawling lawn with well-tended grass, centuries-old live oak trees, and lush flower beds. Parked at the curb in front of it was an Austin PD squad car.

Dent asked, “What do you think?”

“They’re probably here to discourage the media from storming the castle.” She gave it a moment’s thought, then said, “I have an idea. Pull up and get out like we’re expected.”