Debra Webb - Colby Law

Lyle emerged from his truck and locked the doors manually to avoid the click . He surveyed the quiet neighborhood until he was satisfied the residents were tucked in for the night. Moonlight and streetlamps washed the eight houses lining this end of the street with a grayish glow. There was only one way in or out, since the street dead-ended here, abutting a copse of trees that flanked the rear parking lot and playground of a school. He hoped his investigation wasn’t headed for a dead end, as well. All the homes were owner occupied. The police had questioned the neighbors. No one had seen or heard anything. Most of the residents were older folks. Chances were every last one had been sound asleep between two and four this morning. By tomorrow the detectives on the case should be able to determine if Tolliver had received any phone calls that might have preceded the late-night visitor.

Since Tolliver was the only person who could have confirmed Rafe Barker’s story, her murder had changed Lyle’s strategy completely. There were a number of alternative steps he could take. Search the house, and that was called breaking and entering. Not to mention tampering with a crime scene. He could check out any items she might have stored in bank security-deposit boxes or with an attorney in hopes a journal or notes of some sort related to her dealings with Rafe Barker existed. If Lyle played his cards right he might get an interview with the great-niece, who could facilitate the other steps on his agenda. A list of Tolliver’s friends, the church she attended and any enemies she might have had would be useful. The downside to collecting that kind of information was the time required, and time was the enemy, on several levels.

He strolled along the sidewalk, studying the modest architecture with the aid of the streetlamps. Felt strange to be this close to home without having seen his family already. The ranch where he’d grown up wasn’t far from Copperas Cove proper. His folks would be disappointed if he didn’t stop by and at least say hello. But stopping by the old home place meant risking running into her . And that was a risk he had no intention of taking. The longer he was in the Cove, the more that risk increased.

This was not the time to get distracted with ancient history.

Lyle slipped into the darkness at the corner of the last house on the right and moved across the well-manicured back lawns until he reached the home belonging to the victim. Both the front and rear entrances were secured with official crime-scene warnings. A cat crouched on the rear stoop yowled for entrance. Lyle supposed the great-niece would see after any pets now orphaned. Or maybe one of the neighbors would step up to the plate. He’d been lucky so far that no dogs had spotted him or sensed a stranger’s presence.

The houses were only a few feet apart, boundaries marked with neatly clipped shrubs. Moving silently, Lyle eased toward the front of the Tolliver house once more, scanning the dark windows as he passed and mentally measuring the distance between the crime scene and the neighbor on this side. Most of the houses were one-story bungalow-style homes. Few had garages or fences, just decades-old shrubs setting the perimeters agreed upon nearly a century ago. Other than the different makes and models of the vehicles in the driveways, one house looked much like the other.

The distinct thwack of a shotgun being racked stopped Lyle dead in his tracks. The threat came from behind him, beyond the row of shrubs.

“I’ve already called the police.”

The voice was female. Older. Steady. No fear. Gave new meaning to the concept of neighborhood watch.

“I don’t want any trouble, ma’am.” He raised his hands. “I’m going to turn around now.”

“You do anything I don’t like and I’m shooting,” she warned.

Lyle didn’t doubt it for a second. “I can guarantee I won’t do that, ma’am,” he offered. “I grew up in the Cove. Worked as a sheriff’s deputy for two years right out of high school.”

The elderly woman’s gray hair hung over her shoulders. A patchwork robe swaddled her slight body. The shotgun was as big as she was. The streetlamp five or so yards away provided sufficient light for him to see that the lady meant business. Folks in Texas didn’t play with guns. If they owned one, they were well versed in how to use it.

“My neighbor was murdered this morning.” Her gaze narrowed as she blatantly sized him up. “You got no business prowling around out here in the dark unless you’re an officer of the law.” She looked him up and down, concluding what she would about his well-worn jeans and tee sporting the Texas Longhorns logo. “You don’t look like no cop to me.”

“You a friend of Ms. Tolliver’s?” He decided not to refer to the victim in the past tense.

“Maybe. What’s it to you?”

Well, there was a question he hadn’t anticipated.

“I came all the way from Houston to talk to her.” He jerked his head toward the crime scene. “I wasn’t expecting this. You mind telling me what happened?”

She kept a perfect bead on the center of his chest. “You got a name?”

“Lyle McCaleb.”

She considered his name a moment, then shook her head. “I know all Janet’s friends, and I’ve met her niece and her husband. And you ain’t none of the above.” The lady adjusted her steady hold on the small-gauge shotgun. “Now, what’re you really doing here, and who sent you?”

There was nothing to be gained by hedging the question. She’d called the police. No point avoiding the inevitable. For now there was no confirmed connection between the Barkers and Tolliver, no reason to provide a cover to protect his agenda for now. “I was sent by the Colby Agency, a private investigations firm in Houston.”

Something like recognition kicked aside the suspicion in the neighbor’s expression and in her posture. She relaxed just a fraction. “Let’s see some ID.”

Her reaction was something else he hadn’t anticipated. There had been a lot of that on this case, and he’d barely scratched the surface of step one. He reached for his wallet.

“My finger’s on the trigger, Mr. McCaleb,” she warned, “don’t make me shoot you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He removed his wallet from his back pocket and held it up for her inspection, then opened it and displayed his Colby Agency identification.

She studied the picture ID a moment then lowered the weapon. “Well, all right then. Come on in. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Lyle mentally wrestled back the astonishment that wanted to make an appearance on his face and gave the lady a nod. “Yes, ma’am. After you.”

It looked as if surprises were the theme for the night. He parted the shrubs and followed the lady to her front steps and across the porch. At the front door he hesitated. This was beyond strange. She had been waiting for him?

“Come on,” she urged, obviously waiting to close the door behind him.

Lyle played along. Why not? A lit lamp on an end table and the discarded newspaper on the sofa suggested she had been up watching television or watching for someone. Seemed a reasonable conclusion that she would be, since after seeing his ID she announced she had been expecting him. Though he couldn’t fathom how that was possible.

“Have a seat, Mr. McCaleb.” She gestured to the well-used sofa. “I have something for you.” And just like that, she disappeared into the darkness around the corner from the dining room.

Not about to put the lady off by ignoring her hospitality, Lyle settled on the sofa. A couple of retirement magazines lay on the coffee table. He picked up one and read the address label. Rhoda Strong. Since this was her address, he assumed his hostess and the subscription recipient were one and the same. Her demeanor certainly matched the surname. To say it was a little out of the ordinary to invite a complete stranger into one’s home in the middle of the night after the murder of a neighbor would be a monumental understatement. But then, Ms. Rhoda Strong appeared fully capable of protecting herself.