Another Man's Ground--A Mystery, page 22
Maytag stopped. Hank figured he was refusing to say which direction they’d gone because they likely were still holed up in that area. Then he heard it, too. The crunch of car tires on gravel.
He spun around just as a spotlight lit up the turnout, searing his eyes. He could hear the workers scatter behind him, but he could see nothing. Behind the light, a door slammed and someone started shouting orders.
Father Tony moved toward Hank until they stood side by side, each of them with an arm up to shield his eyes. Hank squinted and was barely able to see a small man walk in front of the vehicle, his porcupine hair outlined by the enormous wattage behind him.
“Goddamn it, Fizzel,” Hank roared, “turn off the damn light.”
Next to him, Father Tony swore under his breath. Hank yelled again. The Porcupine ignored him and kept shouting at the now-long-gone workers. Hank strode to the right of the light, toward the driver’s-side door of what turned out to be a jacked-up Ford F-250 truck. He pointed up at the young man behind the wheel. Who immediately jerked into action and cut the light.
The fall back into darkness also extinguished the Porcupine’s tirade. Hank stomped back around to the front of the truck, grabbed Edrick Fizzel by the front of his shirt, and lifted him up on his toes. Fizzel yelped.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The Branson County commissioner squirmed, trying to get his heels back on the ground and failing. “You’re harboring fugitives. Illegals. You’re breaking the law. I’ll have your badge.”
Hank gave him a hard shake. He was so furious he could barely see straight, even with the spotlight off.
“Let’s talk about my badge,” he snarled. “I was using it to investigate a shooting. The attempted murder of a police officer. You remember that? A real crime? Yeah. And you just interfered—massively—with that investigation.”
Fizzel wiggled enough to get his feet back on the ground, but he couldn’t loosen Hank’s grip on his shirt. So he leaned in, his red nose just inches from Hank’s chin.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The feds will find him. But you—you hypocritical bastard—you’re going down. You won’t win the election, and you’ll go to jail. I’m going to tell everyone that you let a bunch of illegals loose in our county. See how many votes that gets you.”
Hank lifted him up again. “You little—”
“And Sheriff Worth was just about to arrest them.”
They both spun toward the priest. He stepped forward and nodded.
“Yes. The sheriff was about to arrest those men.”
Hank was so surprised he let go of the commissioner, who quickly stepped out of his reach.
“I was the one who provided them aid,” Tony said. “Only me. The sheriff was here to apprehend them.”
Fizzel clearly looked like he suspected that Tony was lying. Hank tried not to look like he knew that Tony was lying.
“I don’t believe you,” Fizzel snapped.
Father Tony shrugged. Hank started to speak, but Tony held up a hand and turned to Fizzel.
“I am done with the Lord’s work, and I am going home now.”
He turned around and walked gingerly to the van, carefully placing his stocking feet on the gravel as he went. He climbed in, navigated around the huge pickup, and drove off alone. Javier had flown with the rest.
Hank watched him go and tried not to think about punching Fizzel.
“I don’t believe him,” the commissioner said to Hank’s back. “You were harboring fugitives. I’m going to tell everybody. You won’t win the election.”
Hank didn’t turn around. “What’d you do, follow him out from the church?”
He sensed Fizzel nodding. “I knew he was up to something. He’d been very evasive in our previous dealings. Plus, he’s Mexican.”
Hank sighed. Antonio Morales Alarcon was from Chicago. And his parents had immigrated—legally—from Guatemala. Any breath he used to correct Fizzel would be wasted, though. The little twit didn’t give a damn.
Fizzel could never prove Hank had intended to let the workers go. But he certainly could allege it, and in a campaign, that was good enough. Hank almost didn’t care. He just wanted to find Boone Taylor. And solve two murders. He turned toward the south and started walking back to his car.
Fizzel started yelling after him. He’d make sure Hank never worked in this county again. He’d see to it that good American values returned to the sheriff’s department. He’d have immigration police out here first thing to hunt down this dangerous gang of illegals.
Hank stopped. And very slowly turned around. Fizzel took a step back.
“I … I mean it. I’m going to have them all rounded up. And that priest arrested.”
Hank rolled his eyes. Father Tony had merely handed out food, which was not a crime.
“He can’t get away with that,” Fizzel ranted on, arms flapping angrily. Hank bit back a retort and strode toward him. Fizzel flinched and scooted back until he bumped into the massive chrome grille of the truck.
“It’s mighty pretty,” Hank said, reaching over Fizzel’s head to touch the hood. “Whose is it?”
“I don’t have to tell you.” It came out as a snarl.
Hank smiled. “Well, then I’ll just have to take a look at the registration. And run the license of the nice young man behind the wheel.”
He ordered the kid to climb down, with Fizzel protesting the whole time. Hank knew exactly who he was, but made him dig out his wallet anyway.
“Eddie Fizzel. Well, I’ve heard a lot about you. This is an awfully nice ride. Mind if I take a look?”
Eddie glanced over at his father, but Hank was already lifting himself into the driver’s seat. He searched the glove box, which sadly contained all the proper registration paperwork, and then the rest of the cab, which was the opposite of the gleaming exterior. Mud and leaves and flower petals, some crushed to a fine powder, littered the floor. A half-eaten Sonic burger of indeterminate vintage was stuffed in the ashtray. Candy-bar wrappers were scattered everywhere.
The more he dug around, the more nervous Fizzel got. The kid didn’t look worried, though. Interesting. Did Dad think the Prodigal Son had something illegal in the truck? Hank redoubled his efforts, but still couldn’t find anything, except an empty sandwich bag and several wads of gum stuck under the seat. And what looked like a dead lizard. The kid was a total slob.
And he was barely a high school graduate and still lived at home, yet he had managed to land a four-thousand-dollar-a-month job with Gallagher Enterprises. Hank knew the kid paid his dad several grand a month in rent, which was a nice way to funnel money from a prominent businessman to a decidedly pro-businessman county commissioner.
Hank climbed out of the cab. Face-to-face, Eddie got a little more nervous. He shifted from foot to foot, but answered Hank’s questions readily enough. Yes, he was the one who bought the truck. Three months ago. From a dealership up in Springfield. He’d put a lot down, but he hadn’t paid in full. He’d used his paycheck. Dad had cut him a break on the rent for a couple of months, cuz, well, it was his dream car. You know?
Hank glanced over at Fizzel, who was trying to look like an indulgent parent. Time to wipe that off his face. He motioned Eddie over to the side of the truck and told him to stay there. Then he slung his arm around Fizzel’s shoulder and steered him away.
“That was nice of you,” Hank said, gesturing toward the truck, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re getting a monthly kickback from Henry Gallagher.”
Fizzel started to protest that Eddie was worth that kind of money, but the words died on his lips as they both turned back to see the Prodigal Son staring up at the sky and picking his nose.
“You can’t prove anything,” Fizzel said. “It’s all aboveboard.”
Hank leaned in. “That doesn’t matter when you’re running for election, does it?”
Fizzel started laughing. He slipped away from Hank’s grasp and pointed at him.
“So the choirboy wants to play ball. Trade your election for my election? How very politician of you.”
What? Wait. That wasn’t where he was going with this. He was threatening Fizzel’s re-election, sure. But in exchange for his laying off the immigrants and Father Tony. He wasn’t trying to make some kind of deal for himself. Fizzel couldn’t do anything for his election, anyway. He’d just endorsed Tucker yesterday. As Gallagher had weeks ago. And the corrupt little hedgehog would never do anything that went against his patron. So there wasn’t really a point to—
Dear God. All of this made his head want to explode. He stepped forward, startling Fizzel silent.
“I … I … you. You are not going to go after those men.” He pointed to the woods. “They are not your business. And neither is Father Tony Morales. You will leave all of them alone. Do you understand?”
Fizzel’s beady eyes narrowed, and behind them, his political calculator started working. His gaze swept the forest. Then he spun on his heel and ordered his son to start the truck. They backed out in a roar of exhaust and crunched gravel and rumbled off. Leaving Hank standing in the dark.
CHAPTER
31
“I’m happy to be here, Dick.”
Nothing could be further from the truth. Hank forced a smile at the man across the table, who looked as ridiculous as he felt. They were both crowned with giant radio headphones. Big microphones dangled in front of their faces. The station staff stood in the hallway, looking through the window like he was an exhibit in a zoo. He should have worn a tie.
“So now, Hank, let’s talk about this election. You were appointed sheriff last year after our own Darrell Gibbons got himself elected to the state legislature. Now you have to run to keep the job. How do you feel about that?”
It was so hard to keep the smile going. “Well, Dick, I’m happy to do it. Sheriff is a very important position that is quite properly an elected office. I’m glad to take it to the voters.”
“What makes you the one we should vote for?”
“I’m the only candidate with leadership experience, Dick. My opponent has never held a command position, he’s never been in charge of a budget, he’s never led complex investigations. I’m currently serving as your sheriff, and I think I’m the voters’ best choice to continue in the job.”
He’d rehearsed that one. Darcy had told him to use every opportunity to stress that he was the current sheriff. She’d also emphasized a whole lot of other things, most of which he didn’t remember, and all of which stressed him out.
“Let’s talk about that for a minute,” Dick said. “You led the investigation into the Mandy Bryson murder a few months back. Why didn’t that murderous killer go to trial?”
Hank was beginning to understand why politicians started every sentence with “Well, interviewer name…” It gave them that extra split second to gather their thoughts.
“Well, Dick…” he said, “that killer confessed—to me—and then he pleaded guilty in a court of law. He got the same prison sentence he would have if the case had gone to trial. And it actually saved county taxpayers a lot of money.”
“But what about justice for Mandy? And her parents? They did not get their day in court.”
This idiot had no idea how it worked. “Actually,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “they did. Mandy’s parents got to stand in front of the judge, and in front of the killer, and talk about how the crime had destroyed their lives. They were given their day in court. And they agreed with the decision not to take the case to trial.”
Radio Dick deflated a little at that. Unfortunately, he rallied.
“Let’s turn to current events now,” he said. “One of your deputies was shot in the line of duty and lies near death at the hospital. Why was he in such a dangerous situation? You say you’re a leader—he was gravely wounded under your command.”
Darcy had known this one was coming, too.
“We are all praying for Deputy Pimental’s full recovery. He’s making remarkable progress.” Hank continued in that vein for a minute and finished with a solemn nod at his interviewer. It didn’t work.
“Why didn’t you take enough deputies to secure the area? Why didn’t you ensure the safety of your men?”
Hank was becoming more and more thankful that Darcy had made him rehearse beforehand.
“Unfortunately, Dick, with the current levels of staffing in my department, we don’t have enough deputies to send a full contingent to serve every search warrant we need to. I sure wish we did.”
They went back and forth about the Taylor brothers’ criminal records, how dangerous they should have been considered, and whether pig theft was a violent crime for the purposes of evaluating whether neighborhood hoodlums might turn homicidal.
They couldn’t come to agreement, and Radio Dick went to commercial. Hank leaned back in his chair and relaxed his hands, which had somehow balled into fists. He took a deep breath and glanced over at Darcy, who apparently thought he was doing okay—there was only a slight frown on her face as she watched through the window.
“And we’re back, on Branson’s own talk radio station. If you’re just joining us, we’re talking with Hank Worth, candidate for sheriff. Let’s get back into it, shall we?
“Now, Hank, the county commission appointed you sheriff last fall. Yet now, none of them have endorsed your candidacy. What do you have to say about that?”
That the commissioners were spineless weasels who … Hank stopped himself and pasted on another smile.
“Actually, Dick,” he said with a forced chuckle he hoped didn’t sound too fake, “two of our honorable commissioners have said they’re remaining neutral in this race. They aren’t endorsing anybody.”
Dick frowned and agreed that was true. Then he brought up the Porcupine.
“Edrick Fizzel has endorsed your opponent. So has Henry Gallagher, one of the county’s major employers and philanthropists. What do you have to say about that?”
A lot, and none of it would pass FCC regulations. Hank’s smile was starting to hurt.
“I don’t want to be beholden to any business interest. So I’m perfectly okay with not getting Henry Gallagher’s endorsement. I prefer to serve individuals, not corporations.”
Dick smiled back. That wasn’t good. “You don’t think it’s because you accused him of blowing up the Branson Beauty showboat for the insurance money? In this part of the country, them’s fightin’ words, especially when you had no proof.”
“Well, Dick…”He drew it out as long as he could. On the other side of the soundproof glass, Darcy was throwing signs at him like she was the third-base coach for the Cardinals. He had no idea what she wanted him to say, but he knew what she wanted him to do. Keep his temper. He took a breath.
“In my business, accusing somebody means charging them with something. And Henry Gallagher hasn’t been charged with anything.” He put his hands in his lap so no one would see they were clenched into fists again.
Dick blinked. And frowned. Hank had left him with no follow-up. He hit the show’s theme music and shuffled through his notes. Hank sighed in relief. Darcy actually smiled. And Dick pounced.
“Back again with sheriff candidate Hank Worth. Let’s get to know you as a person. You’re from Mexico?”
Hank’s jaw dropped. Dick leaned back in his chair with the smug look of someone who thought he’d just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.
“No. I’m from California. Where I was born and raised.”
“So you’re an American citizen?”
Hank’s fist was aching to connect with something. He answered in the affirmative. In the corner of his vision, Darcy flashed a hand signal that had to mean “keep going.”
“My parents are also U.S. citizens,” he said. “I spent my childhood in the Central Valley and came to Missouri for college.” He tried to find words through the anger fogging his brain. “And, uh, I love it here.”
“But your mother is Mexican,” Dick said in a tone that clearly implied he’d caught Hank in a lie.
“My mother was born in Mexico. My grandparents immigrated—legally—when she was four years old. They are now all U.S. citizens.”
“But have they assimilated?” Dick leaned closer to his microphone and consulted his notes. “When someone called, the phone was answered in Spanish. That’s not really embracing the American way, is it?”
The only one who answered the phone in Spanish was—
“You called mi abuela? At her assisted-living facility? You’re harassing a ninety-one-year-old woman? How dare you, you—”
The pounding he thought was in his temples finally penetrated fully into his consciousness, and he saw it was Darcy banging on the studio window. At the same time, he realized he was on his feet and leaning over the table toward an astonished Dick Battenberg. He slowly sank back into his seat, choking back the torrent of outrage that desperately wanted to take voice.
He calmly explained that his grandmother was quite elderly and frail and it was pretty darn unethical for someone to hound her with phone calls when she had nothing to do with the election. Battenberg then made some idiotic comment about how everybody loves their grandmothers and threw it to commercial.
Darcy burst into the room, followed by the producer, who was loudly insisting that yes, they do treat all candidates for local office this way. Darcy pushed the microphone away from Hank’s face, motioned for him to take off the headphones, and turned toward Battenberg.
“We’re done here. Nice that you use oppo research on my candidate, but not the other guy.”
The producer tried on a look of exaggerated affront. “We asked him about his family, too.”
Darcy glared. “Yeah, his four-generations-in-the-Ozarks family. But did you ask him why his wife divorced him? Or why he didn’t want custody of his kid? Hmmm?”
