Page 36 of Backtrack

Four clean-shaven young men came through the door before Johnson could respond. They wore civilian clothing, Western and brand-new, like they’d just arrived in Fort Worth and wanted to fit in. None of them looked a day over twenty-five. Regulation mustaches that didn’t extend beyond the corners of their mouths immediately identified them as being from nearby Carswell Air Force Base. Cutter’s house was in the flight path of the B-52 Stratofortress bombers that flew every day out of Carswell as part of Strategic Air Command.

Gloria Blaisdell threw back her drink and then smacked the glass on the bar with a loud clunk, drawing a side-eye from Jorge the bartender. “I’m on,” she said, nodding at the newcomers. “These young bloods always come in with a pocket full of bills they are just itchin’ to be rid of.” She looked at Cutter. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Even if one of ’em buys a dance, we’ll be done by the time your cop artist gets here.”

Blaisdell dropped her robe on the barstool, revealing she had on nothing underneath but a metallic red G-string. “Are you sure you don’t want Jorge to fix you up some cheese fries while you wait?”

“We’re fine,” Cutter said.

Blaisdell reached up and thumbed a curl of dark hair out of Deputy Johnson’s forehead, letting her bright red nails trail down his cheek as he stood, hat in hand, stupefied.

Jorge stooped low behind the bar and changed the cassette in the tape player to Dusty Springfield’s breathy rendition of “Son ofa Preacher Man.” The airmen and other patrons clapped and catcalled as Gloria Blaisdell—obviously a fan favorite—front rolled onto the stage and did a handstand in front of the metal pole. Cutter glanced away. Lucy really liked “Son of a Preacher Man.” He didn’t want the image of Gloria Blaisdell’s dimpled ass in his head the next time he heard it.

He leaned over to Johnson and spoke over the music. “Listen to me,” he said. “I told you to keep Blaisdell cooperative, but don’t you ever let anyone get that close to you when you’re on duty.”

Johnson gave a wry chuckle. “Pretty sure she’s not carrying any weapons.”

Cutter turned to look the young deputy dead in the eye. “If you learn nothing else today, learn this: That woman is armed with more shit that’ll get you hurt than any felon you’ll ever slap the cuffs on—naked or not.”

Mouth agape and lost in Gloria Blaisdell’s gyrating dance, Johnson nodded. “I … I can’t argue with you there.”

Weatherford PD Officer Horton Granger arrived at the Show Pony with his pencil case and yellow sketch pad less than half an hour later. He’d been on duty and came straight there when he got the call. Though Cutter and Johnson wore badges and firearms, they were in plain clothes. A uniformed officer darkening the door caused more stir than the earlier brawl between Mitzi and Troy. Two of the girls slipped out the back, returning moments later after they’d dumped whatever they’d been holding in the pockets of their robes. The Carswell airmen left a pile of cash on their table and scooted out the front.

In his early thirties, Horton Granger was the kind of cop who smiled benignly when he wrote a speeding ticket, which he seldom did. He played the guitar at parties and volunteered to sit in the dunk tank in full uniform to raise money for the Pythian Home orphanage during the Parker County fair. Cutter couldn’t help but wonder how that would work out for the man in the long run. Gentle souls had a way of getting beaten down in this line of work. That said, nude dancers and the overwhelming atmosphere of despair in the Show Pony didn’t seem to faze Granger one bit. Maybe he’d be just fine.

“Thank you for coming out so quickly.” Cutter nodded toward the door. “You park your marked unit out front?”

“Didn’t have a choice,” Granger said. “I was all the way out Fort Worth Highway by Punkin Center. Dispatch said you needed me in a hurry. Now I can see why. Think we can get your new guy to stand watch over my car and make sure no one screws with it?”

Johnson glanced up at the PD officer from his perch on the barstool, clearly annoyed at the prospect of having to leave. He’d developed a keen interest in the chubby redhead about his age who was in the process of taking Gloria Blaisdell’s place on stage.

Cutter held up a hand. “Stay put, kid,” he said. “There’s a pay phone outside. I’ll give TexSafe offices a call. We’re already this close to Fort Worth. May as well go talk to Gerald Moffit while we’re here.”

“You sure?” Johnson said, not meaning it.

“I’m sure,” Cutter said. “There’s not enough air in here for all of us.”

CHAPTER 13

Ricky Lee Pink used an old pair of binoculars to study the Weatherford cop’s farmhouse across ten acres of sun-scalded pasture. Even the prickly pear cactus were beginning to look parched.

Duvall shoved a pistol at him that looked like something from a James Bond movie poster, a Ruger .22 Standard. “You carry the hush puppy,” he said. “I’ll stay ready for Bryant.”

They’d parked Duvall’s one-ton on a dirt road behind the property so as to keep out of sight of nosy neighbors. Pink paid careful attention to the old sheds and barn—places a dog might hide out from the heat of the day. A rusted yellow sign on the barbed-wire fence boasted a drawing of a snarling German shepherd and the words FORGET THEDOG, BEWARE OF THEOWNER! Pink was tempted to shoot it full of holes.

The article in theWeatherford Democratsaid Ray Gene Bryant was the first officer at the scene of the armored car robbery. It made sense that he’d have the diamonds.

Along with the .22, Pink had a nine-millimeter semi-auto in his waistband and a box cutter in his pocket. Vince Millner had taught him that box cutters didn’t look suspicious if you got caught with one—but they were especially handy if you needed to extract information. Pink didn’t have any experience with such things, but Millner always said you could get more answers by going to town with a box cutter than you could by just pointing a gun. Something about the sight of a blade made people spill secrets they didn’t even know they had.

Duvall grubbed around in the briars and found a stick, running it up and down the barbed-wire fence like guitar strings.

Pink let the binoculars fall against the strap around his neck and took the pistol. “I’m ready to get my hands on that cop,” he said with much more bravado than he felt. “But I don’t want to hurt no dog.”

He had no doubt he could hit something the size of a German shepherd, even if it was running at him. But he liked dogs a hell of a lot more than he liked people.

“Let’s see if you feel the same way when some sweet little pooch is about to rip your throat out.” Duvall strummed on the barbed wire a few more times. “It’s hot as blazes out here. I guess the dog could be hanging out under the porch—but I say any hound worth its salt should be all over us by now.”

“No cars in the driveway,” Pink said. “Could be they took the dog with.”

“Maybe.” Duvall said. He chanced a shrill whistle, eyes on the house. Nothing. “Let’s go. Just stay ready with that hush puppy.”