Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery Read online

  “Feet apart. Feet apart.”

  I spread them as far as my skirt would allow. The steadiness of my position on the hood grew more precarious. The passenger side door of the cruiser opened and the head of Lieutenant Hawkins popped out. Crap. What was he up to now? And what the heck was he doing with a Hays County deputy?

  He sauntered toward me with all the grace of an overfed duck. My anger grew with every step he took.

  “Well, Mullet, looks like you’re in a heap of trouble now.”

  I started to rise up to snap out a witty rejoinder but felt the deputy’s hand pressing me back into position.

  A car drove by, slowing down to let its passengers stare with open mouths and questioning eyes. Man, this was humiliating. “What do you want, Hawkins?” I snarled like a cheap gangster from an old black and white movie.

  The deputy shoved me forward. I stiffened just in time to keep my face from striking the metal surface.

  Hawkins put the tip of his index finger on my chin and turned my face toward his. “My, my, my, Mullet. Looks like you’ve been in a bit of a scuffle.” He pushed up the sleeve of my blouse. “And looky here, more signs of a struggle on your arm. Cuff her, deputy. We’re taking her in.”

  “Are you crazy, Hawkins?” I shouted.

  The deputy grabbed my right wrist and jerked it back. As he twisted, fire burned in my shoulder, my elbow, my wrist. He slapped on the cuff and the pressure eased.

  As the pain subsided, I spat out, “Hawkins, have you lost your mind?”

  The deputy grabbed my left arm and put pressure on my thumb. For a moment, all I could see was pure white with brilliant shooting sparks. I fell forward—face first—on my car. The deputy jerked me backward off the car. I clenched my teeth to suppress a scream.

  Hawkins stepped into my space, his oversized belly bumping into my breasts. “You are a person of interest in the Happy Parker homicide, Mullet.”

  “Homicide?”

  “You betcha. As I said, Mullet, you are in a heap of trouble. Stick her in the back, Deputy. I’ll follow in her car.”

  Holding my cuffs, the deputy pushed me forward. When I stumbled over the loose gravel, he bumped my rump with his knee. As he pushed down on the top of my head to stuff me in the car, I hollered out, “Hawkins. Do you know how to work a shift?”

  Hawkins laughed and climbed into my poor little car.

  As we pulled out, I twisted my body around to peer out the back window. My car jerked a bit as it started out but he did not appear to be abusing my transmission too much. Hawkins’ arm came out of the driver’s side window. I saw the little daisy-filled vase that brightened my dashboard go flying out of the car and smash on the side of the road.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Transporting me from the cruiser to inside the station did not bring out the deputy’s chivalrous side. He manhandled me as if I were twice his size. Hawkins followed with my purse swinging from one of his beefy fingers. My cell phone rang. I liked my phone’s ring. But in this setting, the reggae beat beach tune sounded stupid. Hawkins raised my purse in the air to eye level and stared at it.

  “Hawkins, can I get that?” I asked.

  He thrust a hand into my bag and pulled out the phone. He looked at the screen and said, “Oh, don’t worry about it, Mullet. It just says ‘Travis cell’ is calling.” The ringing stopped and he pressed a couple of buttons. “And it looks like this is about the twelfth time he’s called in the last fifteen minutes. Hunh, when I heard that before I thought the jerking of the gears was firing off a CD in your car.” He laughed, tossed the phone back in my bag. “If he called that many times, he’ll call again.”

  “Could you at least call him and let him know where I am?”

  Hawkins tilted his head to the side. For a brief moment, I thought he was seriously considering my request. “Nah, he’ll keep. It’s best if you keep men guessing, Mullet.”

  I was hustled into a dingy little room where cheap plastic, molded chairs in a putrid shade of orange flanked the sides of a long, scarred table.

  “We’ll take your cuffs off now, Mullet. But if you act up, we’ll fasten you to the chair or to that ring in the wall back there.”

  I bit off the smart-ass retort I wanted to fling in his direction and focused on the relief of having my hands free again. The two men left the room, pulling the door closed behind them.

  Hawkins returned right away—my cell phone in his hand. I thought he was going to let me make a call after all and stretched out my hand for the phone.

  “Oh, no, Mullet. No. No. No.” He propped one foot in a chair and rested his elbow on his knee. He punched in a number.

  “KSAT-12? Good. Can I speak to Gina Galaviz, please? Thank you.” He grinned at me while he waited. “Look, Gina. I thought you might want to know that the investigator for the defense in the Bobby Wiggins case was just picked up today by the Hays County Sheriff’s Department for questioning as a person of interest in the homicide of Happy Parker.” Hawkins grinned at me again while he listened. “Oh, yes. I did say homicide.” He pushed a button disconnecting the call.

  “You are a pig, Hawkins. What do you expect to accomplish with this little farce?”

  Instead of responding, he smiled and stabbed another number into the phone. It just amazed me that he could get those chunky fingers in the right place on those tiny buttons. “KGNB? Good. Is this David Ferguson? Great. David, I thought you would want to know that an ex-cop from your ’hood who’s investigating the Bobby Wiggins case for the defense has just been picked up in Hays County as a person of interest in the murder of Happy Parker.” He terminated the call and turned to me. “Any more questions, Mullet?”

  I sat mute.

  “Thought not. See ya later.”

  My eyes followed his back as he left the room. I was alone again. At first I was content to sit still and rub life back into my reddened wrists. But as the minutes crawled by, my anxiety grew.

  What was happening in that courtroom? I was certain that Dale Travis was about to be ambushed by the prosecutor. I wanted to warn him. But there was no telephone in sight and no place to hide one.

  Why was Hawkins calling Happy’s death a homicide? There must be an autopsy report—at least a preliminary one. They must have rushed that through this morning. And if it was a rush job, there had to be something obvious overlooked at the scene. The Medical Examiner did not bow to law enforcement pressure to announce conclusions unless there was no room for doubt.

  And does all this mean Heather is right? It must. Faver and Parker’s murders had to be connected. If so, it had to boil down to that bloodstained T-shirt Happy found in his kick drum. Did the police find that? They couldn’t have or I would not be sitting here right now. I’ve got to find that T-shirt. I wonder if Heather knows where it is. If she does, she may be the next to die. I’ve got to get out of here. Lost in thought, I didn’t realize I was on my feet pacing and rubbing my right arm until the door banged open.

  “Ms. Mullet,” the deputy barked. “If you cannot retain your position in your seat, you will force me to restrain you again. And rubbing on that ugly tattoo ain’t going to make it disappear.”

  My butt hit hard plastic at the speed of light. The deputy glared at me as if daring me to defy him.

  I smiled and put the sweetness of a sugar bowl into my voice. “Sir, when do you think Mr. Hawkins might come back and talk to me?”

  “When he’s good and ready,” he said as he slammed the door.

  Another perfectly good smile wasted on a man with no appreciation for the finer things in life.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dale Travis lived by the philosophy that a person is late when not fifteen minutes early. People were a perpetual disappointment to him. When the courthouse bell tolled at half-past two and there was no sign of Molly, he was irritable.

  He punched in Molly’s number on his cell. No answer. For the next fifteen minutes, he paced the hall and called her number at the end of each lap. At 2:4
5, Thelma Wiggins stepped out of the elevator and into the hall, heading toward the courtroom.

  “Molly’s late, Thelma,” he said.

  “And hello to you, too. Dale. Nice to see you again,” Thelma replied.

  Chagrined, Dale held out his arms for a hug. Thelma took two steps back. “Sorry, Thelma. I forgot,” Dale said. “Listen, I need Molly but I’ve got to get into the courtroom. Here’s my cell. Can you keep calling her until the hearing begins?”

  “Sure, Dale. Go on inside. Molly will be here.”

  *

  By 3:00, Thelma was concerned, too. This was not like Molly. Molly was prompt. Molly was dependable. The hot glow of hope that brought her bouncing to the courtroom today faded to a flickering light. Something was wrong. With great reluctance, she turned the cell phone off, walked into the courtroom and slid into the row behind the defense table.

  Dale turned to her with a question on his face. She shook her head. His jaw tightened. His lips pursed. He spun around in his seat.

  From afar, it sounded like sleigh bells coming down the hall. As the noise neared, the clanging grew harsh and the whispered shuffling of shackled feet scraped on Thelma’s heart. A chain of orange jumpsuits linked at the waist came through the side door. Deputies led them across the courtroom and seated them in the jury box.

  Bobby looked bewildered and distressed as he sat with his fellow prisoners. Then his eye caught his mother’s and he smiled. He lifted his cuffed hands to give her a thumbs-up. In the process, he jostled the man next to him who gave him a quick, hard elbow into the side. Bobby winced. Another little piece of Thelma died. The chains struck up another discordant symphony as the prisoners stood when the judge entered the room.

  *

  Dale argued his case for the dismissal of all charges against Bobby Wiggins for the murder of Rodney Faver. When he finished, the judge turned to the prosecution.

  “Your Honor,” District Attorney Ted Kneipper intoned, “the state believes this motion is premature. The investigation into the death of Happy Parker and his possible involvement in the murder or Rodney Faver is ongoing.”

  Judge Krause bowed her head and studied the papers before her. Travis used this lull in the proceedings to study his opponent. There was a reddish tint high on his cheekbones—he was excited about something. Not a good sign. His jawline was pink and stubble-free. That shave was less than an hour old. That was even worse—the man obviously had plans to strut before the TV cameras. What surprise is he going to pop on me now?

  The judge broke Dale’s reverie. “Motion denied,” she said.

  Dale Travis sprang to his feet. “Your Honor, we request a ruling on our second motion.”

  “Proceed, Mr. Travis,” she said with a nod of her head.

  “Your Honor, we ask that you reconsider the denial of bail for our client in light of these recent developments. The appropriateness of the charges against Bobby Wiggins has been seriously brought into question by Happy Parker’s written deathbed confession to the crime with which Wiggins is charged. The presumption of the innocence of my client demands that he be released pending further investigation.”

  Ted Kneipper was on his feet. “Your Honor?”

  “Yes, Mr. Kneipper.”

  “The State would like to submit to the court a copy of the Medical Examiner’s report regarding the death of Happy Parker.”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Dale Travis barked. “The defense has never seen this document. In fact, we were unaware of its existence.”

  “With apologies to the court, Your Honor, the State only received this report moments ago.”

  “We’re not at trial, Mr. Travis. Objection overruled. You may submit the report, Mr. Kneipper.”

  Kneipper handed a copy to the bailiff. “Your Honor, you will see from this autopsy report from the Bexar County Medical Examiner’s Office that the manner of death was homicide.”

  “Objection, Your Honor.”

  “Overruled.”

  “As you see, Your Honor,” Kneipper continued, “despite the presence of a suicide note and the conclusions of the officers at the scene, Happy Parker’s death was not caused by injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident, whether intentional or not. There is a bullet lodged in Happy Parker’s skull. And since no weapon was recovered at the scene, the assumption is clear: Happy Parker did not pull the trigger. A person or persons unknown fired that fatal shot.”

  “Do you have a suspect, Mr. Kneipper?”

  “No, Your Honor, but the investigators are questioning a person of interest up in Hays County as we speak.”

  “Your Honor,” Travis said, “the presence of a person of interest in Hayes County is even more reason to grant my request for bail.”

  “On the contrary, Your Honor,” Kneipper said. “Investigators have found nothing to link the murder of Rodney Faver to the Happy Parker homicide.”

  “The note is a clear link,” Travis argued.

  “At this time, investigators suspect that the person of interest may have played a role in Parker’s death for the sole purpose of diverting suspicion from Mr. Travis’ client,” Kneipper explained.

  An unpleasant thought formed in Dale’s mind. He turned and scanned the courtroom. Molly Mullet was not there. Of course not. Molly Mullet is the person of interest now in custody one county north of here.

  “That is an outrageous allegation, Your Honor,” Travis protested.

  “Motion for bail denied, Mr. Travis. If you have no further business for this court, we will move on to the next case.”

  Dale retrieved his cell phone and bolted out to his car. Thelma stayed in her seat, unwilling to leave while Bobby was still there. She felt broken and hollow. But she turned toward Bobby, stuck her thumb in the air and smiled.

  Chapter Thirty

  An hour passed. Then an hour and a half. Toward the end, I was entertaining myself by looking for bunnies, dogs and people in the peeling paint—sort of like the childhood game of looking for shapes in the clouds, only a lot more depressing.

  Finally, the door eased open and in walked Lieutenant Hawkins looking very pleased with himself. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mullet.”

  Yeah, right, I thought. But I smiled and said, “No problem, sir.”

  “I was wondering if you could tell me where you were on the night that Happy Parker died.”

  “How about you tell me where you think I was, Hawkins. That will save us some time. And after you do that, I would like to call my attorney.”

  “You’re not under arrest, Mullet. You don’t have a right to call anyone.”

  “Well, then, if I’m not under arrest, then I think I’ll just go on home.” I placed my palms on the table and pushed myself to my feet.

  “Sit, Mullet. I’m not joking around with you here. This is serious.”

  I slid back into my seat and stared at him. “What’s troubling you, Lieutenant?”

  “You were out at Happy’s place before his murder. You were out at Happy’s place after his murder. I want to know where you were in between.”

  “I’m at a disadvantage here. You keep calling Happy’s death a murder, but the cops on the scene said it was an accident. I don’t know why you are saying otherwise.”

  “Sure you don’t. Look at you, Mullet. Your face. Your arms. You want to explain how that happened?”

  “I’d love to. But first I need to talk to my attorney.”

  “You need to talk to an attorney? You were a cop, Mullet, you know how this works. Asking for a lawyer is like waving a red flag with ‘guilty’ written on it in big, bold white letters. If you didn’t do it, what do you have to hide?”

  “Lieutenant, have you ever for one moment considered that Happy’s murder and Rodney Faver’s murder are connected?”

  “It’s crossed my mind.”

  “Do you realize that means Bobby Wiggins could not be responsible for Rodney Faver’s murder?”

  “I ran that thought up a flagpole and saluted it a time or two.”
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br />   What is it with this guy? One minute he’s spitting out ghetto slang, the next he’s recycling phrases from my grandmother’s trash bin. “Then why aren’t you out there looking for who killed them both?”

  “I am, Mullet.”

  I laughed. He must be kidding. He made me for both homicides? But I looked in his eyes and saw no amusement lurking in the shadows. “You think I killed them?”

  “Just the other day, you spent a considerable amount of time target shooting. And you were damned good.”

  “Did Eddie tell you that?”

  Hawkins did not respond.

  “Oh, come on, Hawkins. Get real. If I killed Faver, why in heaven’s name would I be working to get Bobby Wiggins off the hook?”

  “Stranger things have happened, Mullet.”

  “Be logical, Hawkins.”

  “I am being logical. Perps often insert themselves into an investigation to find out what we know—what we’re thinking.”

  “If that were the case, Hawkins, it would be pretty stupid of me to be working on the side of the defense, wouldn’t it?”

  “Perps are stupid. That’s why they’re perps.”

  “I’m going home, Hawkins.”

  “No, you’re not. Make one move and I’m cuffing you to the chair.”

  Outside of the ratty little interview room, a tempest was brewing. Loud voices struggled to talk over one another. In the midst of all the din, I heard the welcome voice of Dale Travis.

  “You stay right here, Mullet,” Hawkins said as he opened the door and left the room.

  With the door ajar, the voices outside the room were now distinct. “I demand to see my client immediately,” Dale shouted.

  “She’s not your client. She works for you,” Hawkins said.

  “The two are not mutually exclusive, officer. I do not discriminate on any basis.”

  “Are you implying that I do?” Hawkins asked.

  “I’m sure your record speaks for itself. I demand to see my client now.”