Pretty Shameless, page 8
part #2 of Deputy Laney Briggs Series
“I was getting to that,” he replied with a smirk. “It turns out that all five of these murders occurred last weekend at one of Danny Redbud’s annual Lubbock parties, which seems to be the exact same party Wyatt attended. The clerk fingerprinting your cousin said he wouldn’t stop babbling about his friend Redbud.” He stroked his jaw. “Now I haven’t gotten to personally chitchat with him, but…”
I immediately saw where he was going with this line of bullshit. I bolted out of my chair, intending on putting an abrupt stop to it.
“Hold the fuck on,” I began, my voice rising. “Don’t you even start to think I’m some small-town deputy stupid enough to let you pin murder charges on my cousin based on the most bullshit circumstantial evidence I’ve ever heard. Now either you come up with some real evidence to pin Wyatt with your murder case, or I am walking out of here with my cousin.”
Brock’s smirk continued. He was still holding something back from me.
“About that. Wyatt’s bail hasn’t been set as of yet, and he won’t be going before a judge until Friday, so you’re just going have to wait on taking your cousin home with you.”
“Then I’ll take him home Friday, which gives you two days to stick your head back up your ass to look around for more bullshit ways to pin this crap on my cousin.”
Brock placed both hands on his desk as he stood. Then, with his hands in his pockets, he spoke. “Actually, I do have one more piece of evidence that ties Wyatt to the murders.”
“I’m dying to know what it is.”
“Take another look at this picture with the two dark-haired men. Tell me what you notice.” He pulled out a new photo and tossed it in front of me.
I picked it up and took a closer look. Oh, fuck a nun.
“The guy on the left is”—I didn’t want to say it—“kissing Wyatt.” My asshole cousin was lip-locking Smith Jenner, homegrown quarterback hero and all-around ass. Damn it all to hell, Mr. Jenner was gonna blow a gasket when he discovered Smith enjoyed the boys over the girls. My gaze slid up and down Brock. Then I pinned my cold glare on his nasty smiling face. “How did you get this photo?” I lifted the pic of Wyatt’s male-bonding moment off the table and shoved it in front of him. The good detective squared his shoulders. “We found the pic of Wyatt necking the dude on one of the dead guys,” he confirmed, popping his knuckles. Cocking his head at the other pic he simply stated, “The county coroner believes the murder weapon in all of these shots was a Case pocketknife due to the lacerations.” He lifted a brow at me. “You got any thoughts on that?”
I blew out a breath. “This is Texas we’re talking about. These guys were born with pocketknives instead of silver spoons.”
Brock stayed silent.
“Wyatt will be in lockup all night, and when I go to the judge and show him what I’ve got, I’m sure he’ll decide to hold him while I investigate the case further.”
“Go ahead,” I said, “but you know as much as I do your case is bullshit. After I ring the judge, I’m bailing my cousin out and taking him back to Pistol Rock. Good-bye and kiss my ass.”
I turned to walk out the door, then decided to see if I could have a meet and greet with Wyatt, primarily to tell him to shut his damn mouth unless his lawyer was sitting right next to him. I had a damn reputation to uphold, and cows would shit milkshakes and my legs would shave themselves before I dialed in my 911—that brown-eyed bastard Texas Ranger.
Chapter Six
Through the thick, soundproof glass of the visitation booth, I sat eye to eye with my scoundrel of a cousin. Both bloodshot eyes I’d grown accustomed to over the years were as clear as a cloudless sky. As nice as it was to see him clear-eyed for a change, I couldn’t help but get hung up on the fact that he simply could not wear orange to save his life. The color brought out the blotchiness of his pasty skin, and that rattail of his that he’d been growing over the past year, coupled with the orange jumpsuit, just didn’t work in his favor. I mouthed for him to pick up the phone on his side of the glass.
He proceeded to stare at me openmouthed.
I’d never been much into family-bonding time. I yanked the phone down and gestured for Wyatt to do the same. A mere second passed before he blinked and continued to gape at me. His brain was scrambled beyond repair. I knuckle-thumped the glass and cocked my head at the phone…again. The light dawned, and he reached out and picked up the phone.
“Hey, Laney.” His voice shook over the receiver.
Be nice. Keep calm.
“Hey yourself, you damn idiot.” I tried. Really I did. “Do you have any idea what kind of shit you’ve gotten yourself into this time?”
He stuck his index finger up his nose and scratched around before giving me an “aw, shucks” type of smile.
“Mellow out, Laney. It was just a little weed,” he said, leaning toward the glass.
I scowled at him. “Just a little weed, you say?”
“Yeah, that’s all it was,” he said up close to the glass, as if I could hear him better that way. “So, when are you getting me out of here?”
“I’m not.”
“What’s that?” he asked, his face going a little drawn.
“You aren’t getting out of here,” I said. “At least not for a day or so.”
He bolted upright in his chair.
“What the hell, Laney?” he whined. “Did you tell them you’re a deputy?”
I could only shake my head. It was my turn to lean in to the glass.
“Wyatt, I need you to listen close, and when I ask you a question, you damn sure better tell me the truth. Do you understand me?”
“Y-yeah, all right,” he uttered back. I was getting through to him.
“Detective Cavanaugh is trying to charge you with murder.” I paused. From the shocked look on his face, I might as well have swung a sledgehammer upside his head.
He had his hand behind his neck, stroking his rattail with his fingers. It was a nervous habit he picked up that had only gotten worse the longer that rattail grew. His mouth moved, but nothing came out. I pushed the brim of my cowboy hat up and shifted the receiver to my other ear.
“Wyatt?” I broke the silence.
He gulped, then started to cry.
Well, shit. Squeezing the receiver in my hand, I lowered my voice and spoke soft and clear. “Wyatt, you have to stop crying,” I ordered. It didn’t help. The dumbass’s blubbering just grew louder. I thumped the glass. “If you want me to help, you have to stop!”
He wiped the snot from his nose and sniffled. “You gotta believe me here, Laney. I didn’t kill anyone.”
“I know you didn’t, but that doesn’t matter right now,” I said. “Look, we don’t have much time here, so we gotta make this quick. I need you to tell me what the hell happened from the moment you skipped bail to how you got here.”
He had those fingers stroking at that rattail faster than a tweaked-out hooker giving a hand job.
“Okay. While Ruth was busy cursing at the ATM over at United Way Bank after bailing me out in Midland, I needed to piss a good one. So I went over to the gas station across the street. After shaking the snake, I was in the parking lot eating the burrito I’d just bought when Smith Jenner pulled up in his car and told me to hop in. Not knowing what else to do, I did. Once we were on the road, I asked him where we were going, and he told me we were headed to Lubbock, where he had some business to attend to. He said he had people there that could protect me. Next thing I knew, Smith was handing me off to Danny Redbud at a 7-Eleven in Plainview right outside of Lubbock.”
He stopped talking and looked at me as if he was done.
“Okay,” I said. “Tell me what happened after you got to Lubbock.”
“Once we were in Lubbock, we pretty much stayed in this sublet apartment that Redbud owned. A couple times, Redbud took me out at night. It wasn’t that bad staying there with him. I got to suck on a bong like all day long, and he was fun to talk to. As far as I could tell, I was safe.”
“Then why’d you leave?” I asked.
“I started getting tired of him not letting me go outside unless it was dark out. And when we did leave, he’d rush me to his car. It got to the point where I couldn’t take it anymore. So late last night, after we got home from another party, I decided to leave, and that’s what I told him, too. I said to him, ‘Danny, thanks for your help, but I’m outta here.’ And you know what he did? He pulled pepper spray on me and told me to get in the house. I’d done decided I wasn’t going back in that house with him, and the next thing I knew we were rolling around on the driveway. I eventually got him into a choke hold that I’d learned on YouTube, and once I had him out it seemed the best thing to do was to take off.”
“From there, where’d you go?” I pushed him on. “I need to know everywhere you went, everything you did.”
“Down the street I found a bike in someone’s front yard, so I hopped on and started pedaling. I didn’t know where I was going, but I pedaled that bike until I eventually reached downtown. I knew I was there because of all the tall buildings. I was freaking out, and there’s always been one thing that calms me, and I’d heard that Lubbock has some really good weed, so I decided to try my luck at finding a little. Well, it didn’t take me long to find somebody willing to hook me up, and I reckon you know the story from there, don’t you?”
“Yep, you dumbass, I think I’ve got it from there,” I snapped back. I looked him square in the eyes. “Now it’s your turn to listen, and the first thing I want to tell you is that I am so pissed at you. You’ve had me running my tail all over this damn city— hell, all over west Texas—and the way I finally catch up to you is because you got busted trying to buy pot, again. And what really gets me boiling over…is when I think if you hadn’t run off back at the bank, none of this would’ve happened.”
I paused to watch Wyatt’s head drop and his chin sink into the pit of his slinky neck.
“I know.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I should’ve let Gunner take me in,” he admitted, halfheartedly.
“Now, about the murder charges,” I began.
His eyes grew wide and the phone started shaking uncontrollably in his tightly fisted hand. “Murder charges?” Wyatt strangled out.
I ignored him and pressed on. “Did you by chance go to any swinger parties while you were with Danny?” I asked, crossing my fingers and praying for a “Nope” like a teenager trying to buy beer hopes that the clerk doesn’t ask for an ID.
His eyes lit up, and a dirty smile broke out on his face.
“Yeah, a couple.” He smiled. “Mr. Redbud wanted to show me how different a big-city swingers-club party could be.”
Well, screw me with a crooked dick.
He kept talking. “Oh, Laney, you wouldn’t believe what I saw at those parties…”
“Shut up!” I growled at him. “First off, how the hell did you ever get to be friends with a man that no one in Pistol Rock has ever laid eyes on?”
A smirk formed across his face. “That’s the beauty of being a criminal mastermind.”
“Oh, cut the crap.”
“Fine.” He sighed, defeated. “Redbud introduced himself to me a few months back at one of his barbecues. From there we sort of became friends, I’d say, since he asked me to tag along with him to a bring-your-guest swinger night. Other than that, I was so blitzed out of my mind…” Wyatt scratched at his butt chin. “I don’t remember much about the guy except that he had a scar running down his left cheek.”
Pressing a single finger to my lips, I then motioned for him to come closer to the glass window separating us, as if it would make a difference. Like a well-trained dog, he leaned closer. Voice unusually low, I laid it on him straight. “Here’s the deal…”
I told him about the murder charges, their connection to the swingers club, Cavanaugh’s suspicions of Wyatt because of the coincidences—mainly the fact he’d been caught kissing Smith at the party and now there’s a snapshot of the momentous event that the good detective found on one of the dead guys—and the previous pot charges. I stopped every now and then when I saw his eyes glass over to make sure he was paying attention. I finished with the question I had dreaded asking ever since he had admitted to going to the screw parties.
“Does Detective Cavanaugh know you’ve been to any of those swinger parties?”
“Yeah,” he confirmed. “He asked me what I’d been up to, and I told him everything. About the gun smuggling, Willie King, the parties. Everything.”
That sneaky son of a bitch Cavanaugh had kept that one from me.
“Oh my God, you’re an idiot!” I snapped at him. “You have got to shut up, do you hear me? Don’t say another word to Cavanaugh, or to anybody for that matter, until your lawyer gets here. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah, I understand. Don’t talk to anybody but my lawyer,” he muttered, rubbing the top of his thighs. “But there’s one thing I don’t get.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re a deputy. Why can’t you get me out of here?” he whined.
Then his eyes lit up.
“Or you could call Gunner! He could get me out of this.”
“The first thing you need to understand is that I’m not calling Gunner. The second thing for you to wrap your head around is that I’m out of my jurisdiction on this case, and they aren’t releasing you into my custody for the gun-smuggling charges out in Ector County.” A frown marred his face. I blew out a sigh. “You wanna hear it straight?” I asked, biting my lip and holding my breath until I witnessed the nod of his head. Then I practically nose-bumped the glass as I told him, “The murder charges sort of trump drug-and-weapon trafficking, but as far as I can tell, they don’t really have anything solid on you. As for now, Cavanaugh is holding you over on the drug-possession charges in hopes of finding some evidence to link you to the murders.”
His mouth fell open.
“You gotta get me outta this, Laney,” he cried. “Just get me outta this.”
“I’m working on it. Just keep your damn mouth shut. Don’t talk to anyone but your lawyer, and I’ll check in with you tomorrow,” I snapped. And then I hung up the phone and walked out the door, looking over my shoulder to watch my cousin shuffle out of the holding cell with a guard latched to his arm.
This entire damn case was turning out worse than the street taco I ate that time I was down on the border for a weekend of partying. I needed to get my hands on something that’d allow me to nail down Redbud’s whereabouts, because in the end, I figured he would be able to clear up everything and everyone, including my cousin, involved in this shitfaced case.
Chapter Seven
Three hours later, I rolled into my parents’ neighborhood. The sight of their pathetic ranch house summoned up an ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’d been months since my mother broke her Home and Garden addiction, but the Astroturf was still an eyesore. Adding to our pitiful family home, my parents decided to stick a cardboard Santa and Frosty the Snowman next to a rotting pumpkin left over from Halloween. It comes as no surprise we Briggs weren’t much into holiday cheer.
I parked at the curb and quickly zeroed in on the empty rocker swaying back and forth while the Texas winds backslapped it on the slanting front porch. There were only two explanations as to why my father’s tail end wasn’t cemented to that chair. Either the crapper had his number or a NASCAR race was on the television. I never thought I’d say this, but I was praying that there was a race on.
The last place I wanted to be was breaking bread with my mother. But I was never lucky enough to snag a get-out-of-jail-free card when it came to family obligations. Besides, she’d have had my head on a silver platter if I dodged her phone calls another minute. I begrudgingly jogged across the lawn. Goat heads stuck to my boots, and I could already feel my eyes twitching before I had reached the porch steps. I pulled open the storm door and swore to myself that if I made it out of this lunch date without blowing up at my mother, I’d treat myself to a gut-busting DQ Blizzard. It didn’t take long to notice the empty Miller High Life cans piled around the bottom of the recliner. I rounded the couch and immediately spotted a pair of holey tube socks attached to a pair of woolly mammoth legs. When I saw my father’s face, he looked happier than a North Korean with electricity, soaking in the televised NASCAR race.
“Dad,” I shouted over the roar of the television.
He acknowledged me by raising his beer. My father always did have good people skills. I gave up on him at the sound of another beer cap popping and headed off to the kitchen. My boots skidded to a halt and hair prickled along my scalp when I encountered my mother perched over the stovetop dressed in her Sunday best. It was sacrilegious for that peach chiffon dress to be out of its dry-cleaning bag. She hadn’t even pulled it out for her own father’s funeral. Something was up. Just when I think I’ve hit rock bottom, I find out to never discount the scheming Ruth Briggs. I tucked a stray piece of hair behind an ear and stepped into the lion’s den.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, even though my gut was screaming, run for your life.
My mother whirled around with a cigarette dangling from her bottom lip. Her green eyes looked me over not once but twice, silently critiquing my wardrobe. Then she took a drag and cooed, “Laney! I’m so glad you could make it to lunch, pumpkin.”
“Well, thanks for having me over. I’m starved.” I heard the television shut off, and I knew I’d missed the open window to bolt. Personally, my mother scared the shit out of me, even more so when she was being too nice. I would give this get-together five seconds before it all went to hell in a hand basket. She snuffed the butt on a Marlboro dishrag and gingerly wiped her hands clean on her apron.
“Then you came to the right place. Now come and give your old mother a hand.” Her voice squeaked. She picked up a chocolate sheet cake and beamed a skin-crawling smile.
“I thought a celebration was in order,” she chirped. She shoved the cake at my arms. It took a second for it all to register, but piped in white-fluff icing were the words Good Riddance, Gunner Wilson.
