Adamant Page 5

  Beth found a spot beside two other cars in the parking lot—neither of which looked to belong to any law enforcement—and put the rental car in Park. We stepped out and walked toward the man on the ladder.

  “Sir,” Beth said.

  “Too fancy to be from the sheriff’s department. And no camera or microphone following you, so you’re not reporters. I’m going to guess FBI,” he said.

  “Good guess.” Beth nodded at the man.

  The guy descended the ladder steps then walked to us. “Think we told the sheriff’s office and the other FBI agents that were here earlier just about all we know. Or at least my waitress and cook told them what they knew. I wasn’t here when it went down. Can’t wrap my head around how something like that could happen out here. The families of those deputies. Of that woman.” He scratched at the stubble on his cheek and shook his head. “Then the damn news vans have been here all day. Lining the street out front. Just shooed the last one off a little bit ago. Reporters don’t want to do anything but spread more doom and gloom.”

  “You are?” I asked.

  “Colin Herrick. My wife, Sara, and I own the diner.”

  “I’m Beth Harper, and this is Hank Rawlings. We’re from the Manassas, Virginia, office of the bureau.”

  “Long way from home,” he said.

  “We get called out for specific types of investigations. This would be one of them.”

  “Escapees?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” Beth said.

  The guy’s furrowed brow and wondering look said he wanted more of an answer, but he didn’t ask, and we didn’t give him one.

  “Can we just have a quick walk through the diner?” Beth asked.

  “I can walk you through, sure,” he said. “Susie is here if you need to talk to her. She’s inside.”

  “The waitress who served him?” I asked.

  Mr. Herrick nodded. “She’s giving Sara and me a hand cleaning up. Come on.” He waved for Beth and me to follow. We climbed the steps and entered the restaurant. “The first deputy went down right about where you’re standing now.”

  I looked at the checkerboard floor beneath my feet.

  “We already mopped up in here. Which, mopping up blood wasn’t something that I imagined I’d be doing today when I rolled out of bed this morning. The forensics gentleman said it was going to be worse if we waited around to do it.” The owner took a couple of steps farther into the diner. The place was standard 1950s diner fare with the checkerboard floor, pin-striped wallpaper, and neon lights. A long counter came with stools, and some booths along the wall faced the parking lot. The diner had red leather seating and some tin signs advertising soda. A waitress was standing near the booths closest to the blown-out windows, sweeping glass from beneath them. She glanced over at Beth and me.

  “Susie, these are another couple agents from the FBI,” the diner owner said.

  She propped her broom against the booth and stepped to us. “Susie Waingrow.”

  We had her run through her story with us, which hadn’t varied more than a couple of words from what we’d heard from Agents Alper and McManus. She recognized the vehicle and Burr from the television coverage, she made the call to 911 before he got inside, she got the other customers out, and then she served him, trying to keep him in the restaurant until the authorities arrived. The woman that Burr killed, Heather Serra, came in looking for doughnuts. The woman’s reaction to the sheriff’s deputies arriving caused Burr to notice the approaching deputies and get the drop on them. After shooting the deputies, Burr dragged Mrs. Serra outside, went through her purse, shot her, and stole her vehicle.

  “He headed north?” I asked.

  “He took a couple shots at me when I was looking out the windows at him and then left the lot. Went north, yes.”

  “Did you happen to see which way he originally came from?” I asked.

  “I didn’t see the car until it was in the parking lot,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “Do you remember any of the small talk between you and him as he sat and ate?” Beth asked. “Sometimes thinking back to what was said, even if it was something small in passing, can help.”

  “I don’t think it was much different than any other customer interaction. He sat, I offered coffee, which he accepted, and I put in his order a moment later. He talked to the woman who came in about doughnuts a little bit. Said he might get some to go. I mean, really, he didn’t talk too much. Struck me as tired. He kind of had puffy eyes like he hadn’t slept. When I asked him if he wanted leaded or unleaded on the coffee, he said ‘very leaded.’ For whatever that was worth.”

  “He could have been driving through the night,” Beth said.

  I nodded, agreeing. “And no security cameras here.” I was merely triple-checking. We’d been told there weren’t.

  The owner shook his head. “I probably should look into it. But, I mean, we’ve never really had a reason to have any.”

  The thought of cameras remained in my head. “What’s the next town or city in the direction he headed?”

  “If he stayed on 2154, he would run into Wellborne about ten minutes up the road on his way into College Station and Bryan,” the owner said. “But Wellborne is only about a quarter mile long. Blink and you’ll miss it.”

  I imagined that little town would be our next stop. If we could get lucky with some video that caught the roadway, maybe we could confirm his direction into College Station. Yet with College Station and the surrounding areas having a total population of a couple of hundred thousand, finding the van, or Burr himself, in the area would be like finding a needle in a haystack. That was assuming he decided to dump the van there and stick around. Him simply passing through was another matter altogether.

  Beth had the diner owner continue with the tour. We saw where Burr had been sitting. Some fingerprinting powder remained on the counter around a half-eaten stack of pancakes. Another plate, a cup of coffee, and some silverware accompanied the breakfast and powder. We continued through to the exit door, where the other officer had been shot. The aluminum door’s screen was ripped—I imagined from bullets passing through.

  “The other deputy’s body was there.” The owner pointed at the clearly disturbed dirt a few feet from the bottom of the steps.

  I couldn’t help noticing a little blood remaining on some scrappy nearby grass. My eyes went back to the door and the steps. The deputy had probably run up them and taken the shots the second he put eyes inside. I let out a breath—I’d seen enough.

  Beth and I gave the owner a couple of our cards, thanked him for his time, and headed for our rental car parked up front.

  “What do you think?” She swung the driver’s door of our car closed.

  I pulled my seat belt over my shoulder, clipped it, and got the time from the dash—a quarter to seven. “Up to you. If this next town is only a couple minutes up the road, we can go sniff around a bit before it gets too late. Maybe get a camera that catches the van. At least it’s something.”

  “Yeah, we’re up here, may as well get it checked off the list.” Beth started the car, and we pulled from the diner and headed north for the next town.

  I pulled my vibrating phone from my pocket a mile or two up the road. The call was coming from Scott.

  “Hey,” I answered. “What’s up?”

  “We just left the prison and are headed back to the hotel in Baton Rouge.”

  “Did you guys get anything out there?” I asked.

  “We talked to the warden, yeah,” Scott said. “He gave us all the visitor logs. It looks like there are only a couple names in there—lawyers, father, son, two other people that we need to look into, but that’s about it. As far as phone logs, we won’t be able to get our hands on those for a day or two. We called back to the office, and the twins are going to handle it. The main thing, though, is the guys that he rolled with inside. Aside from past and present cellmates, the warden is going to make everyone that Burr was friendly with avail
able for us to interview. We’re going to start doing that bright and early tomorrow morning. Who knows, maybe we can get someone to talk.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “What about you guys? How’s it coming?”

  “Checking things off the list. We stopped into the Houston field office for about an hour and then headed up to the diner to have a little look around. We talked to the waitress who made the 911 call. About it. Now we’re headed north to the next town up the road. See if we can get lucky and catch him on video somewhere. Confirm that he was still headed north.”

  “Anything that we didn’t already know?” Scott asked.

  “Not really,” I said. “Right now, after the diner, he’s a ghost.”

  Chapter 9

  Chuck planted himself on a barstool and put his elbows up on the bar. He looked around. The bar, dim and stinking of stale beer, had only five or six people inside. Three guys wearing leather motorcycle vests occupied the single pool table in the place—two played while one guy with his back to the bar watched. Chuck figured the bikes outside were theirs. Another guy and a woman wearing a flannel shirt sat talking at the far end of the bar—both had mugs of beer before them. The bartender walked up to Chuck. The guy looked to be about fifty. He wore faded blue jeans and a tattered old motorcycle shirt.

  “You take a shower in some gas or something?” He scrunched his nose.

  “Topping off my truck and got some gas on my pants.”

  “Think you got a little more than some on you. Bathroom is in the back if you want to try to clean up.”

  “It’ll wear off.”

  “Suit yourself. What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

  “Whiskey and water,” Chuck said.

  “Kind?”

  Chuck pointed at a bottle, and the bartender fixed his drink.

  The bartender set the drink before Chuck. “Six and a quarter.”

  Chuck fished a ten out of the wallet in his pocket and passed it across the bar. He glanced down to see a dead man’s face on the ID staring back at him. He’d lifted the wallet off the old man at the appliance repair store, and it had been filled with cash—almost four hundred bucks.

  The bartender took the ten, rang up the transaction through the register at his back, and set Chuck’s change on the bar.

  “Is Jerry here?” Chuck figured he would get to the matter at hand, considering he had a dead guy’s truck parked out in the open in front of the place.

  “Are you friends with Jerry?” the bartender asked.

  “Friend of a friend,” Chuck said.

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, friend of a friend, Jerry’s not in.”

  “Know when he will be?” Chuck lifted his drink and took a sip.

  The bartender smirked and shook his head.

  “Can you find out?” Chuck asked.

  “Hang tight. Let me go ask.” The bartender wore a grin as he walked off to the end of the bar, where the man and woman sat in front of their beers. Chuck watched the man nod in his direction as he spoke to the couple. The two both looked directly at Chuck. Chuck wondered what the bartender was saying and what the hell the guy’s little smirk was about. He wondered who the people were at the end of the bar. He also wondered if all the bodies had burned inside the gas station. When the bartender walked up, his mind circled back to the task at hand.

  “Well?” Chuck asked.

  “No Jerry here,” the bartender said.

  “Yeah, you said that. I thought you were going to see when he’ll be in.”

  “You’re not hearing me,” the bartender said. “There is no one named Jerry here for you. Not now. Not ever.”

  “I’m a friend,” Chuck said.

  “Apparently, not that close of one. Now you should probably finish up your drink and head out.”

  Chuck figured the guy might be more helpful if he dropped Leland’s name. “Leland is who sent me here for Jerry.” Chuck took another drink from his glass and set it on the bar.

  “I’m giving you a chance to go without any trouble,” the bartender said. “You should take it.”

  “Trouble? From you?” Chuck raised an eyebrow.

  The bartender grabbed the drink. “All right. That’s enough. You’ve got to go.”

  “Nah, nah, nah.” Chuck grabbed the guy’s hand that was wrapped around his drink and yanked the glass away with his other hand. “I paid for that. I’m drinking it.”

  “Jake!” the bartender called.

  The guy at the end of the bar stood up, and Chuck held up a finger at the bartender to hang on as he finished what remained in his glass then placed it down on the bar. Chuck nudged it toward the bartender.

  The guy, apparently named Jake, headed in Chuck’s direction.

  The bartender leaned toward Chuck. “You should have left when I gave you the chance.”

  The bartender’s movement put him within striking distance, but Chuck didn’t go for a punch to the eye or nose. He snatched him by the back of the head and brought the guy’s face down into the glass. The glass shattered, and the guy’s face bounced off the bar. He fell behind the bar, and Chuck stood and yanked the pistol from his waistline. The advancing guy, just five feet away, stopped the second he saw the weapon.

  “Gun!” the guy shouted.

  The men at the pool table immediately produced firearms and came to the guy’s back. Chuck had three guys aiming at him while he held his aim on the one man who’d called for the backup.

  “That’s enough!” the woman called. “Put your damn guns away before this gets out of hand.” She rose from her spot at the end of the bar and approached. When she reached the men, she leaned over the bar to look at the bartender on the ground. Chuck glanced at the guy, who had his back to a cooler. The bartender held his face, which was spilling blood all over him and everything else. “Jesus Christ! One of you get Red to the damn hospital.”

  None of the men budged. They all kept their weapons on Chuck.

  “I said put them away!” she shouted.

  The men did as asked. She pushed her way through the guys and went directly before Chuck.

  Chuck still held his pistol at his leg.

  The woman, looking in her forties, had jet-black hair pulled back into a ponytail. The sleeves on her flannel shirt had been rolled up—tattoos ran up and down both arms. “Give me that.” She held her hand out for Chuck’s pistol.

  Chuck paused.

  “I’m Jerry,” she said.

  “It’s just like Leland to not tell me Jerry was a woman.” Chuck passed her the weapon. “He told me to come here and ask for you.”

  “Is that right?” She glanced at the weapon in her hand then kneed Chuck in the groin.

  He hunched over. The pain ran through his midsection like a hot poker in the gut. Chuck dropped to a knee.

  “Check him,” she said.

  The guys pulled Chuck to his feet and patted him down. They yanked at his shirt, undid his pants, and dropped them down around his ankles. They checked his footwear and went through each article of his clothing.

  “He’s clean. No wire. Didn’t find a wallet or phone, though,” one of the guys said.

  “Put him in the back until we figure out what the hell is going on with him,” she said.

  Chapter 10

  I took a drink of my morning coffee and rocked back in my hotel room chair near the window. Karen, on Speaker, had been giving me the play-by-play of a conversation that she’d had the day before with a coworker at the DEA regarding some new policy that they were implementing. I hadn’t really been listening and was mostly zoning out—my thoughts were split between the current investigation and wondering how many back-and-forths it was going to take before whoever was driving the sedan in the parking lot would park. I’d been watching them out of the window for a couple of minutes. They’d pulled in and out of the same parking spot at least a half dozen times, and it looked like they were working on about a half dozen more.
/>
  “Hank,” Karen said.

  I snapped to it, sat up in the chair, and gave Karen my attention. “Yeah, I think you’re right,” I said. A safe response to anything wife related. Usually.

  “You think I’m right.”

  “I mean, yeah. I see what you’re saying.”

  “Hank, I asked how the hotel was.”

  “Sorry. I must have missed that. I thought you were still talking about Debbie from work.”

  “It was Leslie.”

  “Her too,” I said.

  Karen laughed.

  “Sorry. Just thinking about the investigation. I wasn’t consciously trying to tune you out.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Karen said. “Anyway, how is the hotel?”

  I glanced at the king-sized bed and the rest of the room, which looked like so many others I’d spent who knew how many nights in. “Standard airport hotel fare. Okay hotel, okay room, okay bed, and a bar downstairs with far too expensive food and drinks.” A plane came over the building, descending to the George Bush International Airport just a stone’s throw from our hotel. The window rattled as the plane passed overhead. Thankfully, there weren’t a ton of flights overnight, and with my television on, the noise was mostly drowned out. I’d stayed in just about every airport hotel in existence, so I’d become accustomed to incoming and outgoing flights rattling windows.

  I thought about some of the truly questionable places that I’d stayed in during my time on the job. “It could always be worse.”

  “You guys are going to a sheriff’s office up north, then what?” Karen asked.

  “I don’t know. Until we get a hit on the woman’s van that he stole, we’re kind of in a waiting pattern. We came up empty trying to get any video last night. There were only five or six stores that were open in the little town we stopped in, and only one had video that caught the road out front. No van that we saw. Who knows? I guess it kind of makes sense that he would get off the main streets.”