Jack stepped forward, wanting too much to slam his fist in Carlos Hernandez’s nose. “If I find out you’re lying to me, Hernandez …”
“You going to tell the priest on me?” he mimicked. “He your boyfriend?”
The three laughed. Jack started to walk out. He was too close to letting loose. Too close to letting the demons out. And Carlos wouldn’t survive.
Art Perez walked into the bar, a deputy at his side. Could the chief of police not go anywhere alone? Jack stopped when Perez blocked his path.
“I hear you’ve been sticking your nose into my investigation,” Perez said.
“I’m not interfering with your investigation.”
“You dragged Pablo Hernandez out of bed, then beat up his little brother in the middle of the street.”
“Damn straight,” Carlos said from the bar. “Arrest him, Officer!” He laughed and everyone around him joined in.
Jack said, “Scout was one of my men. I will find out what happened.”
“Maybe you brought trouble back with you from Guatemala.” Perez glared. “Yeah, I know all about you and the other soldiers of fortune here. I also know a bit about your good friend Frank Cardenas. You might want to think about that, Kincaid. Frank’s history may not go over well with some of the people here, and if enough of them flood the diocese with complaints- well, let’s just say he may find a nice post in the cold Alaska diocese after I’m done.”
Jack had always known that Perez was a bastard, but this was low even for him. The police chief was baiting him, waiting for Jack to throw a punch so he could arrest him. Waiting for him to react. Jack froze. He would do Scout no good in jail.
“Stay out of police business. I know how to do my job.” Perez stepped forward, toe to toe. Jack didn’t budge. He barely breathed. “And leave Carlos Hernandez alone, or it’s war. Ten years living here is nothing, Kincaid. You’re still the outsider, and I’m still the hometown boy made good.”
Perez left. Carlos and his two cronies followed. Jack turned back, glared at Enrique, and slapped his hand on the bar, rattling every glass underneath.
Pablo slid a Tecate over to him. “On me. Sorry about Scout, Senor Jack. Really.” He ambled off down the bar.
Jack breathed out slowly. He took a long swallow of the beer, tasting nothing. He glanced up at the television. There was no sound, but the tag on a photo of some capitol building read “THREE DEAD SOLDIERS.”
“Pablo!” he shouted. “Turn up the TV!”
Pablo obliged, and the ancient Zenith TV behind the bar blasted into life. The fuzzy channel at least had clear sound.
The reporter was saying, “So far, three men in three different states, all U.S. Army veterans, have been found dead-execution style.” Pictures of three soldiers in uniform flashed on the screen, but the images weren’t clear enough for Jack to make them out. He could tell, however, that Scout wasn’t one of them.
“According to the Austin Police Department, the Federal Bureau of Investigation has taken an active role in the case, sending two agents from Washington, D.C., to assist local authorities in tracking who may be the first serial killer targeting our armed forces….”
Serial killer? Scout? Jack didn’t want to believe it, but he couldn’t deny that Scout was killed execution style. Except the report said nothing about hamstringing. Jack knew the police routinely didn’t share all details of a crime with the public.
The reporter continued. “If anyone has information about these crimes, please contact Detective Jose Vasquez with the Austin Police Department at …”
Jack left. Austin P.D. be damned. He was going straight to the top.
He sat in his truck and called Washington, D.C. His brother Dillon was living with a fed. And dammit, Jack would pull every string and make any promise if it led to justice for Scout.
For the first time since he’d seen Scout’s body, Jack believed he had a decent shot at finding his friend’s killer.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The VFW Hall that Duane Johnson had frequented every Monday night for a poker game was located on the dilapidated side of the Austin business district. As Jose Vasquez drove Meg and Hans across town, the scent of thunderstorms hung in the air even though the colorful, sunset-hued sky was clear. Megan was exhausted. This was their last stop before checking into a hotel Agent Davis had secured for them.
The hall was more than half full, with the majority of patrons in their late fifties and sixties. Vietnam era, Megan thought. Still, a decent number of men were in their thirties. And while women had a larger role in today’s armed forces, there were only a handful in the establishment.
Taking the lead, Vasquez led Megan and Hans over to two men sitting at a table on the far side of the back room. Two of three pool tables were in use.
“Reggie, Norris, meet Special Agent Elliott and Dr. Vigo from the FBI. They’re here to help find Duane’s killer.”
Reggie was as white as Norris was black. He was tall, skinny, around forty years of age; Norris was tall, linebacker-wide, and at least sixty, if not older. He also had only one eye, but it didn’t miss anything. Both were drinking draft beer.
“Hmm,” Norris said.
“Skeptical?” Hans asked.
Norris shrugged. “Been a couple months.”
Megan sat down next to the men. “Sometimes it takes awhile, but neither Hans nor I are backing down.”
“Yep.”
Megan tried a different tack. “Where were you stationed?” she asked.
“Fort Meade,” Reggie said. “Spent three years in Iraq.”
Norris stared. “Ord.” He sipped his beer.
Meg nodded. “California. I know it.”
Norris raised an eyebrow. “It’s closed.”
“Right. In 1994. I lived there when I was ten. My father moved around a lot.”
“Army brat.”
“One of the brattiest.”
Reggie chuckled. “Somehow, I don’t see that.”
“Just ask my brother. He was so fed up with army brats that he joined the navy.” She rolled her eyes.
The men laughed, and Megan breathed easier.
“You really think you can catch Duane’s killer?” Norris asked doubtfully.
“Yes,” Megan said. “I don’t give up.”
“Easily?”
“I don’t give up.” She had a few cold cases on her desk that she still worked. She hated to lose; she hated more to have a killer walking free while his victims were six feet under.
“We told the detective everything we know.”
“My partner, Hans Vigo, and I have some questions. They might sound strange.”
“Did Vasquez say you’re a doctor?”
Hans shrugged. “Depends how you define ‘doctor.’ I have a Ph.D.” Hans had three, but Megan didn’t elaborate. “I might be able to save you if you start choking on peanuts, but if you need emergency brain surgery, you’re dead meat.”
The men laughed again, and Hans sat next to Megan.
“What do you want to know?” Reggie asked. “We told Vasquez everything about Duane. He plays poker with us on Monday nights-that’s when his restaurant is closed. He’s known for his ribs, but it’s the hamburgers that bring me out on payday.”
“We’re a tight bunch here. We’d notice strangers hanging around,” Norris said. “Nothing bizarre or out of the ordinary for as long as I can remember. Duane was a good guy. Paid his taxes. Loved his kids. Hell, he even loved his ex-wife. Dawn was a good woman, they just couldn’t live together, you know?”
“They were still getting it on,” Reggie said.
“Shut up, kid,” Norris said.
Reggie waved his hand in the air. “Duane wouldn’t care. What do you think, that Dawn had something to do with his murder? Not a chance.”
Megan said, “What I’m really interested in is Duane’s military background.”
Both men grew serious. “Why?” Norris asked.
“Have you seen the news? Two other veterans have been murdered in a similar manner.”
“You mean that homeless vet in Sacramento?” Norris said. “Just saw that tonight, before you walked in. There wasn’t much to the story. Just that police thought it might be connected with Duane’s case, but they didn’t give us shit in the report. Same as we been hearing for the last two months. No offense, Jose.”