Wary-eyed, Wagner responded as if I’d just suggested he donate all his money to Greenpeace’s global-warming, anti-oil campaign.
“Isn’t that what I just told you?” he said, at the end of his patience. “You need an interpreter for English?”
“When’s the last time you were at the Stanhope Field?” I asked.
Again, Wagner paused, sucking in a deep breath that fanned out his brittle, old chest, as if reining in great frustration. “I don’t know that I’ve ever been there,” he said. “But if I was at Stanhope, it must of been close to a decade ago.”
“You feel pretty certain about that, Mr. Wagner?”
“I wouldn’t have said it if I weren’t certain,” he said, arms folded tight across his chest.
With that, I unzipped the black cloth folder I’d brought and took out the photo from Billie’s computer. “Please, tell me about this then. When was it taken?” I asked.
Again the churlish frown. I had no doubt that Wagner had been candid about at least one thing, that he’d stepped on plenty of toes during his career and managed to make more than one enemy.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked.
“That’s not important. Just answer my question. When was it taken?”
Wagner shook his head. “I’m not sure, but at least eight years ago. Matter of fact, I’m pretty sure it was right before my old partner, Ty Dickson, retired. It was in December, right before Christmas, because we’d made some plans to go to Florida that year for the holidays. We couldn’t go because Ty’s wife, Emily, died unexpectedly a few days later. I’d forgotten about that night, when you asked me earlier.”
“Why were you there?” I asked.
Wagner shook his head, as if I were the most incompetent woman asking the most ridiculous questions. He sighed and then said, “Ty and I still ran Century Oil back then. We were looking at buying the mineral rights to the field. At the time, oil was dirt cheap and it cost too damn much to get it out of those old wells.”
“You’re telling me, and you’re sure about this, that you haven’t been to the Stanhope Field since?”
“Nope. Not unless you’ve got another picture in that case of yours to jog my memory,” he challenged.
“Tell me why Billie kept this photograph on her office computer,” I asked.
“Beats me.” He shrugged. Then he looked at me and flashed a wizened smirk. “The girl did like me. I was kind of a father figure to her. Maybe it was out of deep affection.”
When I said nothing, just stared at him, he said, “We about done here? It’s time for my afternoon nap.”
“Almost,” I said. “One more question. Where were you the afternoon Billie Cox died?”
“The way this conversation was going, I figured you’d get around to asking that,” he said. “I was at my doctor’s office. I’ll give you the man’s name and phone number, if it’ll stop your inane questions. You get as old as I am, you spend a lot of time tending to your body. Not that it does much good. No matter how much you patch it, the damn thing keeps falling apart.”
At four that afternoon, it felt like a long day. I hadn’t had much sleep the night before, but I drove to Grant Roberts’s real estate office. The beautiful Miss April Sims was just heading out the door, with her oversized gold lame purse under her arm. She let me in, gave me a rather cold stare, pointed at the back of the offices, toward Grant Roberts’s cubicle, and turned to leave. Then she started to stalk out the door. I grabbed it before she could open it.
“I just need to get your recollections of that afternoon on tape,” I said. “For my records. When you saw Mr. Roberts at the office the afternoon his sister-in-law died.”
She looked at me, tilted her head a bit and frowned, then shrugged. “Okay, but make it quick.”
Glad to cooperate, I held up my small digital recorder, pushed the record button, and said, “This is Lieutenant Armstrong investigating the Billie Cox homicide. I’m with April Sims. Miss Sims, can you please tell me when you saw Grant Roberts on the afternoon of his sister-in-law’s death?”
Sims bent down to get close to the recorder, and then said, in a matter-of-fact manner, “Mr. Roberts was in the office earlier that day and then out previewing properties late that afternoon. He returned here at about six-thirty and left shortly after. That’s all I know.”
I clicked off the recorder, and she turned and left, not appearing at all concerned that I’d just recorded her statement for posterity.
About then, Roberts walked into the lobby. He must have heard me talking to Sims, because he glared at me and shook his head. “Haven’t you got better things to do?” he asked.
“That’s funny,” I said. “At first, Miss Sims looked less than happy to see me, too. Is there some reason for that? Have I unintentionally hurt someone’s feelings?”
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I just need to get your whereabouts at the time of the murder,” I said, showing him the recorder. “I need it on tape so the secretary can transcribe it and put it into the case file, when I get back to the office.”
“I’ve told you where I was once,” he said. “Why do I have to explain again?”
“I’m sure you have forms to fill out in your job,” I said. “This is something I have to do for mine.”
With that, I clicked the recorder on and held it up to my mouth. “This is Lieutenant Sarah Armstrong of the Texas Rangers,
and I’m speaking with Mr. Grant Roberts in his offices regarding the investigation into the murder of his sister-in-law, Billie Cox,” I said. “Mr. Roberts, please tell me where you were on the afternoon of Miss Cox’s murder.”
At first, I wasn’t sure he’d answer. Roberts appeared wary and angry. Finally, he bent down toward the recorder and said, “I spent that afternoon from about three or three-thirty on previewing houses, narrowing down the possibilities of what was on the market for an out-of-town client who came in that Sunday. I was back at the office about six-thirty, and left not long after, arriving home sometime before seven.”
“When you preview houses, you look them over inside and out?” I asked, with a smile. “You want to find something similar in floor plan to what your client has expressed an interest in?”
“Of course,” he said. “You have to go inside, see what they look like, what kind of condition they’re in, or you end up taking the client into something totally unsuitable and wasting a lot of time. That’s why I spent the time working on it, to narrow down the choices.”
“Then why didn’t you enter a single house that afternoon?” I asked, still smiling, the tape recorder rolling.
“What are you talking about?” he said, looking stunned, glancing nervously at the recorder. “Of course I went inside the houses. I went into a bunch of houses.”
“The folks who monitor the lockboxes for all the real estate agents in Houston gave us copies of their records. Your computerized keypad wasn’t used to access a single house that entire day,” I said. “Where were you really?”
Looking up at the tile ceiling and fluorescent lights, Roberts remained silent for a few moments, as if trying to decide what to say. When he spoke, he said exactly what I’d expected: “I’ll hire an attorney. You can talk to him. Now, please leave.”
I looked at Roberts, turned off the recorder, and smiled.
“Now that I have your lies recorded, so they can be played in a courtroom at the proper moment, you need to come clean,” I said. “No sense in continuing to lie. We’ll figure this out. We’ll find out what you’re afraid of.”
“I said, ‘Leave,’ ” he repeated. “Now.”
With no warrant for his arrest, no real evidence, I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t take him in. Instead, I said, “Mr. Roberts, I promise you that I am going to find the person who murdered your sister-in-law, and if it’s you, you’re better off working with me than pissing me off.”
Flushed with anger, he opened the office door and held it. I walked through, and he slammed it behind me.
I
made one stop on the way home, at a convenience store, chugged gas into the Tahoe, watching the cost climb on the digital display, all the time thinking about oilman Clayton Wagner’s mansion, and bought myself a Dove ice cream bar, the kind with crispies mixed into the chocolate. On my way out the door, I spied the magazine rack and made a detour. Cassidy Collins was on the cover of nearly every teen magazine. I peered at the options for a few minutes: “Cassidy at Home!” “Is Cassidy in Love?” “Can you kiss like Cassidy Collins?”
Geez, it was worse than I thought. I bought them all and then headed out the door munching on the Dove bar.
David’s government-issue, blue, four-door sedan was in the driveway when I pulled into the ranch. I figured he’d called my office and heard I was on my way home. I assumed he wanted to finalize the details for our trip to Dallas the next day. In the house, Mom had every available countertop and the stove covered with cheesecake ingredients, more desserts in the making for Bobby’s barbeque cook-off party that night. I thought about the years Mom baked for us like that. She used to all the time, until she went pro
and it became work. Now she only gets the bug when something’s needling her. I guess having Bobby around had settled her down, because I, despite the now-consumed Dove bar, started to long for the days when dinner ended with homemade apple cobbler.
“David Garrity is up in the stable with Maggie,” Mom said, when I walked in.
“David’s in the stable?” I asked. “Never realized he was into horses.”
“It was Maggie’s idea,” she explained. “She wanted him to meet Warrior.”
“How is the little guy?” I asked.
“Small, Sarah. Can’t remember when we’ve had such a little one,” she said. “But strong. I think the name Warrior fits that horse.”
“Hope you’re right,” I said.
Mom nodded, and I tunneled my finger though a bowl of whipped-cream frosting dyed green to top her armadillo cheesecakes. She feigned annoyance and slapped at my hand, missing as always. When I got to the shed, David and Maggie were petting Warrior. He was chatting it up with the colt like they were old buddies.
“You’re a handsome guy, aren’t you?” he said, his voice gentle. “Beautiful black coat. One day you’ll be a real ladies’ man.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Seems to me that Warrior has more sense than that.”
“Ah, the voice of reason,” David said, with a small laugh.
“Hi, Mom,” Maggie said, glancing up. “Mr. Garrity and me were just keeping Warrior company.”
“Mr. Garrity and
I,
” I corrected.
Maggie grimaced. Math, not English, was her subject. “Mr. Garrity and I,” she repeated.
“How’s he eating?” I asked.
“He didn’t finish his afternoon feeding,” Maggie said, worried.
“But Gram says maybe Doc will give the okay and he’ll be able to feed from Emma Lou tomorrow, if the blood tests are all right.”
“That would be good news, Maggie,” David said. He looked at me and smiled. “You look tired.”
“Thanks, that always makes a girl feel beautiful,” I said. “A long day, and I’m worn out after last night.”
“Are you up to talking about tomorrow?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, sincerely glad to see him. As much as I didn’t understand what had happened between us, I missed being with him. “I’ll grab a couple of beers and meet you at the picnic table.”
Nursing our beers, we spread the plans for Dallas’s American Airlines Center out on the picnic table under the corral elm tree, the one with Maggie’s lights strung on every limb. “I think we’ve got the arena covered,” David said, pointing to the massive stadium’s perimeter and motioning at the doors. “Per the plan you discussed with them, Dallas P.D. is bringing in enough extra men to guard every entrance and exit, public and private, along with scanners for the doors. Even the workers will be checked. And you’ve got that sweep with the dogs you set up for two hours before the concert. That should uncover anyone hiding inside.”
“So what are we forgetting?” I asked.
David shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “But let’s face it, there’s no way to ensure that kid’s safe. If someone really wants to, they’ll find a way to get a weapon in.”
“Unfortunately, that’s true,” I agreed. We sat there for a moment, and then I said, “Nice of you to talk to Maggie like that. I didn’t know you liked horses. That’s something you never mentioned last year when we were—”
“Yeah, we were, weren’t we?” he said with a chuckle. He shook his head, as if recalling an old memory. “Last year was one heck of an investigation, in more ways than one. We were something else, weren’t we, Sarah? Traveling all over the state, chasing a killer.”
“Yeah, we were,” I said, glad to see his wide grin and the bit of mischief in his eyes. I’d missed that. “That’s a good smile, David. Where’ve you been hiding it?”
“Sarah, you can be absolutely exasperating,” he said, followed by another small laugh.
“Glad you still think so,” I said, meaning it. “Seems to me that’s something.”
“It is. It certainly is. You know . . . ,” he said, but then he stopped, looked at me, and as quickly as he’d let his guard down, it was back. “We’ve got a tough day ahead of us,” he said, motioning at the diagram. “Anything else we can do? Anything at all to get ready for tomorrow?”
Deciding yet again that somewhere inside the man sitting across from me hid the old David, waiting to burst out, I figured I’d better follow his lead and concentrate on work. At least that was something I had a chance at understanding. Unlike men, especially this one. So I considered the ways Argus could smuggle a weapon into the arena. There had to be a bunch, but maybe I was just too tired to think of them. I’d just have to stick to that kid like a second skin to make sure nothing happened.
“Did you follow up on having the arena’s sound equipment inspected?” I asked.
“Everything has been checked and double-checked,” he said. “They’ve run circuit tests on every system, from the audio to the headphone systems used by the security people. They didn’t find a thing.”
“So, if the guy finds a way to break into Collins’s headphone and talks to her again, what are the possibilities?”
“The folks at the arena say none of their systems cover beyond the inside of the arena,” David said. “So if he manages to break in like he did in San Diego, he’s on-site, in the audience or behind the stage, somewhere in that arena.”