Sandra Brown - Low Pressure

“Oh no,” Bellamy said mournfully.

Haymaker patted the air. “He didn’t have to do anything. Postlewhite had died of a heart attack three days after the tornado.”

“Lucky for them,” Dent said drolly.

“Rupe certainly thought so. Dale knew that the boy had at least a chance of beating that rap.”

“But he never disclosed what Postlewhite had told him.”

Haymaker paused and scratched his cheek thoughtfully. “Dale had been a good cop. Hard, maybe,” he said, glancing at Dent. “But withholding exculpatory facts was stepping way over the line. There was also the so-called accident that prevented Strickland’s brother from testifying. But by then, Dale was in so deep with Rupe he didn’t see a way out.”

“What happens to Brady cops when they’re found out?” Bellamy asked.

“They’re disgraced, exposed as liars. They’re usually terminated. Some are put on a Brady list, which is basically a blacklist shared with other law enforcement agencies.”

“Moody won’t lose sleep over those consequences,” Dent said.

“You’re right,” Haymaker said. “Poor ol’ Dale hasn’t got much to lose. But if it comes out that Rupe violated due process while serving as a state prosecutor, and knowingly sent an innocent man to prison, he might face charges. Especially since Strickland died there. At the very least, his reputation will be shot to hell. He won’t be able to sell a secondhand tricycle.”

Bellamy said, “Does Moody expect us to blow the whistle?”

Haymaker refolded the signed confession and handed it to her. “I made myself a copy, but I would never use it against my friend. Dale left it up to you what you do with the original. Turn it over to the Austin PD. To the DA’s office. Attorney general. To the media.”

“Why didn’t he give it to me yesterday?”

Without compunction, Haymaker said, “He needed time to get himself out of Dodge. He won’t be going back to where he was before, either. We’ve seen the last of him we’re ever gonna see.”

“He’s a damn coward,” Dent said.

“He told me you’d called him that to his face. He also said you weren’t far off the mark.”

Bellamy frowned thoughtfully. “Even if I do share this with the authorities, Rupe will claim it’s all lies.”

“No doubt. Dale’s word against his. But Dale’s notes in the file back up the part about Postlewhite. Every cop knows how important one’s notes can turn out to be. And if that case file wasn’t dangerous to someone, why’d it mysteriously go missing from the PD? Everything added together, it looks bad for Rupe. The King of Cars will be dethroned.”

Then he leaned toward her and, speaking earnestly, said, “One last thing. Dale wanted me to emphasize to you that neither he, nor anyone, ever turned up a shred of evidence that implicated you.”

“He told me that. He also knew that Allen Strickland hadn’t killed Susan. Which leaves us still not knowing who did.”

From deep inside Bellamy’s shoulder bag, her cell phone dinged. She fished it out. “I’ve got a text.” When she accessed it, she murmured, “It’s a photo.” She touched the arrow on her screen and then covered her mouth in horror when the enlarged picture appeared.

It was of Dale Moody. His throat had been sliced open from ear to ear.

Ray smiled with satisfaction when he thought of Bellamy receiving that text message. Her number had been stored in Gall’s cell phone, which Ray had found in the pocket of his overalls. How lucky was it that he’d taken the “dummy” with him when he ran from the hangar?

See? There was a reason why things happened the way they did. Allen had always said so. He should’ve listened better and believed.

Bellamy and Dent would see that picture of Moody and understand what was in store for them. Thinking how scared they must be made him chuckle. He just had to figure out how to close in on them. Rupe would help. He was good at planning.

Ray’s first problem, however, was to dispose of the body and clean up the mess. He hadn’t known a body could hold that much blood. Dale Moody had bled like a stuck hog, making one hell of a mess in Ray’s duplex.

The last thing he’d expected was to find the detective lying in wait for him when he returned home around dawn. Ray had been trying to hunt down the son of a bitch all night, when Moody had been here all along, waiting to jump him when he came through the front door.

As planned, Rupe had called Ray from the reception following the funeral. Ray had wanted to go, but Rupe had said he would stand out in the ritzy crowd, and that that would be a disaster. Rupe had also suspected that Moody might show up at some point during the observances for Lyston, and he’d been right. Rupe was smart like that.

He’d spotted Moody skulking around the country club. “He had a brief chat with Bellamy. Your enemies are as thick as thieves with each other, Ray.”

Rupe had given Ray a description of Moody’s car and the license number, and had instructed him to be parked within sight of the country club gate, so that when Moody left, Ray could follow. He’d pulled out behind Moody in the car Rupe had loaned him from the glass company where he worked.

Rupe had told him to stay on Moody’s tail and find out where he went, who he talked to, and what he did. But Moody’s cop instinct must’ve kicked in, because they hadn’t gone two miles before Ray lost him.

Rupe had called him repeatedly throughout the night, but Ray didn’t answer. He knew Rupe was calling for an update, but, as far as Ray was concerned, Rupe could go screw himself. He was on a mission of his own. He wanted to find and kill the man who’d sent his brother to prison.

He’d spent the remainder of the night driving to all the places Rupe had called “Moody’s old haunts,” but with no luck. Moody wasn’t to be found. It had shocked the hell out of him when he’d let himself into his duplex and was immediately caught in a headlock by the man himself. With his other hand, he’d pressed the barrel of a pistol against Ray’s temple.

“Why were you trying to follow me, Ray? Huh? I hear you’ve been up to some mischief lately. Slicing up Dent Carter, trying to kill an old man. Was I supposed to be next? Hmm? What’s got into you?”

Ray rammed his elbow into Moody’s soft gut and broke his hold. Ray spun around, and as he did so, he whipped his knife out of its scabbard and lunged. Moody saw it coming, but he was winded, and clutching his chest with his gun hand, and—Ray didn’t think he was imagining this—he kinda smiled.

Ray’s knife made a clean arc. The blade went through Moody’s neck like it was warm butter. Blood spurted everywhere, on the walls, the furniture, on Ray, who leaped back but not far enough to escape the fountain.

Moody dropped his pistol but otherwise didn’t move. He just stood there with that strange smile on his face, looking at Ray. Then finally his eyes rolled up into his head, his knees buckled, and he dropped like a sack of cement.

Ray, cursing the blood spatters on his favorite leather vest, stepped over Moody’s body, went into his kitchen, rinsed the blood off his knife, dried it with a dish towel, and returned it to the scabbard. He then washed his hands and bent over the sink to scoop several handfuls of cold water into his mouth.

Killing was harder than it looked like in the movies.

He figured he ought to call Rupe, report this, get the man off his back. But Rupe didn’t answer. The asshole was probably getting his beauty sleep while Ray was doing all the work.

Ray left him a blunt message. “Moody’s dead. He made a mess of my place, so I may have to move.”