The Fixer's Daughter Page 9

  Gil pulled back, but not very far. “Sorry, boss. I am. But we have certain things put in place now. Rules we agreed on. For safety’s sake. Your safety.”

  “I don’t give a flying shit. You don’t use that tone. I am still Buddy Goddamn McFee.” And to show emphasis, he chucked the only thing in his hand, the iPad, in the direction of Gil Morales’ head. The device crashed onto the flagstones, its lime green flap still open. Angus let out a little yelp and slunk back into the shade of the willow. “It’s your fault for ducking. Get me a new one. Today.” And, without another word, Buddy pushed himself up and lumbered into the house.

  Gil stood there staring after the retreating figure, wordless, motionless, muscles tensed. The only sound he made were the rapid, deep whooshes of air forced in and out through his nostrils, like a quiet hyperventilation. It took a full minute for the breaths to return to normal.

  Callie picked up the iPad and checked the broken screen. “How are you going to get a new one on a Sunday?”

  “I bought a couple back-ups,” Gil informed her calmly, as if the previous few minutes had meant nothing. “Fully loaded. Don’t tell your father that. It would spoil his fun.”

  “What exactly did you mean ‘for safety’s sake’? Is my father in danger?”

  “Not at the moment, no.” Gil paused, as if waiting for her to parse and rephrase the question. Then, quite uncharacteristically, he answered her in full. “Over the years, your father has heard the secrets of a lot of powerful people.”

  “You mean like Felix Gibson?”

  “Like him, yes. Documents can be destroyed, but the details are all locked away in the boss’s brain. I’ve been around for only eighteen years of those secrets and even then not the total depth, especially in my early years. So, if the rumor gets out that the lock is broken, that the great Lawrence Buddy McFee is apt to have a bad day and think he’s in the past… If Buddy spouts off something incriminating to the wrong person…”

  Callie shifted uncomfortably. “No. These men are his friends. They would never…”

  “The best friendships are the ones never put to the test. At least they’re the safest. I’m doing this for his own good.”

  “At some point, people are going to find out.”

  “I know that,” he almost shouted. “You don’t think I know that?” Gil took the iPad from Callie’s hands and slipped it under his arm. “If you have any suggestions, I’ll be glad to hear them. If there’s anything you think I should be doing differently, tell me. I’m dying to find some long-term solution, I really am. Your dad needs to be Buddy. And the men who run Texas need that, too.”

  “Yes, I understand,” she said, taking his point seriously. “Let me think on it.”

  “Will you really think on it, Callie, hon?” He was almost turning human, almost turning vulnerable. “Cause I could really use some help.”

  “I will.” She resented being in this position. At the same time, she hated herself for resenting it. She was his daughter, after all, returning home as if by fate. The fact that she had no idea what to do, or that his job and her job might put them on opposing sides of a murder, didn’t change that. They were family, in a world where family meant everything.

  When they walked back into the house, Buddy was nowhere to be seen, not in the kitchen or the dining room or the living room or the second living room or the front day room where they used to keep their toys, or the downstairs study. “I think the dragon’s retreated up into his lair,” Gil whispered as he walked her into the front hall by the curving oak staircase. “He’ll be all right, if you want to leave. I’ll say your good-byes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Nothing I haven’t dealt with a hundred times.”

  They had never been allies, Callie and Gil. He had been the outsider, the consigliere who always put Buddy and politics first. It was unusual, almost unheard of, for the two of them to hug. But after Gil walked her to her truck, they shared a short, embarrassed embrace.

  Callie drove slowly under the shade of the oaks toward Hacienda Road. A glint of yellow up ahead caught her eye, drawing her gaze to a wide, low-slung vehicle near the end of a dirt path just twenty yards to the right of the McFee driveway. If it hadn’t been for the glint of sunlight bouncing off the hood, she might have missed it, shielded as it was by the dappled shade of the buttonwood trees flanking the path.

  She wasn’t a car fan, but she couldn’t help concluding that this must be the same Lamborghini/Ferrari she’d seen behind the gated drive at Keagan Blackburn’s house. What the hell was Blackburn doing parked in the shadows in front of the ranch?

  He must be here to visit her father, she deduced, but he didn’t want to show up while there was some unfamiliar silver pickup out front. Part of her wanted to stick around and see what happened, but a larger part of her didn’t. Callie turned left onto Hacienda and kept driving.

  It wasn’t until ten minutes later, as she was turning onto Barton Springs Road, that she noticed the yellow sports car, two vehicles behind her, changing lanes when she changed lanes and flipping on its turn signal two seconds after she’d flipped on her own.

  CHAPTER 11

  Tommy on the Lake was one of the new spots in town, new in that Callie didn’t remember it from before her exile. The casual eatery was open for brunch and had outdoor decks overlooking Lady Bird Lake, which no one really considered a lake, just a wider, dammed-up section of the Colorado River. But the real appeal of Tommy on the Lake for her on this Sunday afternoon was that it was situated within sight of the highway exit. Callie risked her life by crossing two lanes, barely slowing down at the bottom of the off-ramp and making two quick rights until she came to Tommy’s parking lot, which was not quite full.

  Pulling into a spot between two other pickups, she sat in her truck, ignition off, slouched down, trying to see if any yellow sports car might be turning into the lot. When she was satisfied that she had lost the Lamborghini-Ferrari, she ducked out of her door and sprinted up to the canopied entrance.

  It was a seat-yourself establishment with a table for two that had just become available at the very end of a deck. She weaved her way through the usual Sunday crowd: young couples with strollers and child seats, groups of girlfriends catching up on the past week, buddies in Longhorn caps swigging from longneck bottles. There were clumps of techies in logoed polo shirts announcing their affiliations to Apple and Indeed plus several tech companies that she’d never heard of.

  After just three years away, she could see that Austin had changed or, more precisely, had continued to change. It was a younger city now, growing younger, with fewer Texas twangs to be heard on the ever-more-crowded streets. The new Indie bands advertised on the downtown bar fronts seemed even hipper than before, which just made her feel older and more out of touch. Austin, the town she’d grown up in, the seat of power, her father’s Austin, was fading. But it was still there. As long as the city remained the center of state business, Austin would still be Texas, and people like Buddy McFee would still have a place. And what would Callie McFee’s place be in this scheme of things? She couldn’t help but feel a little trapped, caught between the world of old boy deal-making, the world she’d spied on as an awestruck girl, and this new, simpler world. Everybody else’s world.

  The shade umbrellas, celebrating Heineken and Tito’s Handmade, rippled in the breeze coming off the water. Within a minute, she had ordered a Bloody Mary. Just ordering it helped calm her nerves. It was a nice place, she decided, probably the perfect spot for an after-work drink, watching the sun set over the lake. The idea of after-work drinks made her think of Nicole, a friend dating back to her last year of college when they both worked as news interns at KXAN. They had grown instantly close, but she hadn’t seen Nicole in years. I should call her, she thought. It might help make life a little more normal.

  As soon as the waiter brought her the Bloody Mary, she took a sip then took out her phone. “Oliver?” she whispered. “It’s Callie. Sorry to bother you.�
��

  “Callie?” She could detect his panhandle in just the one word. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  “Why do you assume something’s wrong?”

  “Because you’re whispering, first off, and you’re apologizing, which you wouldn’t do if this was good news. What’s up?”

  Callie didn’t feel like arguing, partly because he was right. “I think I may have poked the bear.”

  It took Oliver a few seconds to remember his own metaphor. “You confronted Blackburn?” His voice was shaky. “Didn’t I tell you? Why would you do that?”

  “I didn’t do it intentionally.” Callie proceeded to review her Sunday morning – the detour to Blackburn’s gates, visiting the ranch, seeing his Lamborghini/Ferrari, then finding the same yellow Lamborghini/Ferrari tailing her.

  “It’s a Lamborghini,” Oliver said. “Why would he tail you in a car like that?”

  “Quickly accessible? It was the only thing in his driveway.”

  “So, he’s at home on a Sunday,” Oliver hypothesized, piecing it together. “He sees an unknown pickup stopping by his gates and he follows it, probably feeling pretty paranoid ever since that night.”

  “I’m guessing it was him behind the wheel.”

  “Do you think you lost him?”

  “I’m pretty sure, yes.”

  “Does he know it was you? I mean, there was a security camera. Would Blackburn know your face? When did you last see him?”

  Callie glanced up from her phone then back down again. “Oh, Jesus! He knows it was me. Oliver…” Instantly she regretted mentioning his name. Damn. “I’m going to have to call you back.”

  “Oliver?” The man standing by her table waited until Callie put down the phone. “That wouldn’t happen to be Oliver Chesney, would it? Your daddy happened to mention your new job last time we spoke. Congratulations.”

  She had always been a bit nervous around Keagan Blackburn, based on nothing very definable. Not a large man like her father, he was of medium height and medium build with a comb-over of light brown hair, the shade chemically enhanced, by Callie’s guess. His overly white teeth were perfectly even, straight across, and also looked enhanced. “You came to pay me a call, so I thought I’d return the favor.”

  “You were following me?”

  “Not the whole time. Leaving my place, you were a little far ahead. But I figured you might be on your way to the ranch. Damn if I wasn’t right.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “My gate has a motion alarm, so I was alerted as soon as you pulled up. I was intrigued to see your face, but then you drove off, so I thought it might be a good time to take my Italian friend out for a spin. Don’t drive her nearly as much as she needs.”

  “So, you just sat in front of the ranch, waiting for me?”

  “It’s a nice day. Why not?”

  She tried to ignore his smile. “What else did my father tell you? Did he tell you what I’m doing?”

  “He told me you were back, working for some free, liberal piece of shit. But I’m good at addition. Your brother is on the case. Your dad is a man I confide in. Then you, a reporter, show up. I regret that you find me so off-putting that you couldn’t even ring my buzzer.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “I know Buddy didn’t tell you anything. I’d trust that man with my life. I can only assume your brother must have let something slip. I’m going to have to have a talk with him.”

  “State didn’t say anything, I swear.”

  “Well, as a gentleman, I’ll believe you.” Blackburn borrowed a chair from a neighboring table and settled in across from her. “So, as long as I’m here – any questions? Something you’ve been dying to ask? Off the record.”

  “Nothing the police haven’t asked a dozen times.” Callie reached for her phone.

  “Oh, no. You are not recording this.”

  “I’m not.” Callie touched the screen a few times, enlarged the image and handed it to Blackburn. “Here.”

  He squinted at the image and pursed his lips. “I assume this is her. The young woman. I never got much of a look, it being night and her being dead.”

  “She had a name,” Callie informed him. “Briana Crawley.”

  “Sorry. My snot-nosed lawyer won’t tell me much. Says we have to maintain some kind of firewall between her death and my case.” He kept staring at the young woman in her leather necklace. “Does she have a husband or a boyfriend?”

  “She has parents.”

  “Yes, of course. No parent should have to go through that. I’ve been having nightmares myself. Not that it’s comparable in any way.”

  “Do your nightmares include burying her?”

  A hint of anger flashed in his eyes. Then it was gone. “For the record, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The Crawleys need to know what happened to their daughter.”

  “I wish I could help them. I really do.”

  “If you told the police what you do know…”

  “That wouldn’t help. I’ve gone over it in my mind a hundred times. Nothing I tell them would help find her killer.”

  “Did you just find her body somewhere? Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “It’s more complicated than you can imagine.” He handed back her phone. “Thank you for letting me see her. Briana,” he added, as if to imprint the name in his mind.

  Callie took a breath – a deep, cleansing breath, in through the nostrils and out through the mouth. It didn’t work. Why did he have to seem so normal, so almost human? “I’m doing a story on one of Austin’s forgotten victims. And, full disclosure, I’m going to have to write about your arrest.”

  The oil executive didn’t flinch. “What arrest? I don’t believe you’ll find an arrest record anywhere.”

  Callie had thought about this. “Maybe not. But I’m going to talk to that state trooper – see what he has to say about that night.” The very second those words passed her lips, she regretted them. Why, oh why had she said it?

  Blackburn displayed no reaction, not the bat of an eyelash, which was probably the most chilling reaction possible. “Do you know the officer’s name?” She tried not to move a muscle. “Of course you do.”

  “And he knows yours.”

  “No comment.”

  The waiter, a boy looking barely old enough to legally serve alcohol, was on his way to their table, but Blackburn caught his eye, waved him away then stood up.

  “Leaving already?” Callie asked with more bravado than she felt.

  Blackburn leaned across her Bloody Mary. “You can go down whatever rabbit hole you want, young lady. I’m not going to tell you how to do your job.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Just remember who you’re dealing with.” He wrinkled the left side of his face into a wink. “A word to the wise.” Then he walked away.

  Callie pretended not to be upset or in a rush to leave. She continued to sip her Bloody Mary through the eco-friendly bamboo straw and even managed a few bites of her celery stick. What in the world had made her think she was up to this? Trading jabs with a man like Blackburn. Pitting herself not only against him but against her father. Was it just the hubris of a stupid beginner? Was it a combination of her meds and alcohol and sleep deprivation? Or had she just been following the script of a hundred half-remembered suspense films where the hero and villain face off with thinly veiled threats?

  As soon as she heard the heavy roar of the Lamborghini revving in the parking lot, Callie was back on her phone to Oliver, bringing him up to date, an apology gracing almost every sentence.

  “I don’t know what got into me,” she moaned. “I could have said nothing. I could have played dumb.” She laughed. “Well, I did play dumb, but in totally the wrong way. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. She could tell from his voice that it wasn’t. “What’s the trooper’s name? As long as we’re out in the open, we may as well make the most
of it.”

  She had already looked it up from the notepad on her phone. “Josiah Jackson.”

  “Unusual name. That’s good.” She could hear Oliver at his keyboard.

  “Are you looking him up on the THP database? I’m not sure how much info they have about officers.”

  “No, I’m doing a much more sophisticated search. Facebook. Oh, look. There he is.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Callie was shocked. Even without friending people, you could learn an awful lot about them on Facebook and they wouldn’t have a clue. It was a frightening revelation, both the things you could discover and the things you could infer. With Josiah Jackson, for example, she discovered what he looked like – early twenties, white, with a military-style crew cut – that he had a snarky grin and that his Texas Highway Patrol uniform was growing a little snug around the midriff.

  His photos showed that he liked to take selfies with a woman named Crystal, who seemed fond of tank tops and whose hair varied in shade between blonde and extra blonde. A comment on one of their selfies was from a Tiffany Shields who referred to Crystal as “Sis”. The word sis could refer to many relationships, Callie knew, but another quick Facebook search resulted in a profile for a Crystal Shields, a hairstylist at a salon in Travis Heights, who perfectly matched the woman in Josiah’s selfies.

  By making a few reasonable guesses, Callie and Oliver pieced together further details of Josiah Jackson’s life. The murder had occurred on April 12. On April 13, the highway patrol officer changed his profile picture to a selfie of him alone, smiling broadly and holding a coconut, its top pierced by a straw, with palm trees waving in the background. Definitely not Austin. The comments ran from the usual envy to surprise – “Where the hell are you?” – to more than one inquiry about Crystal. “Where’s Crystal, man?” Josiah – Joss to his friends – had not responded to any of them, not even stating where he was or why he was drinking from coconuts.