The Closer He Gets

“If by that you mean the man who was just beaten to death? Yes. I knew him to nod at. I wouldn’t call him a friend.”

“But you know his name.”

“Yes. Antonio. Antonio Alvarez, I think.”

“So you saw him as a nice guy.”

“He seemed pleasant. I understand he lived here with his uncle and a couple of cousins. Antonio is a friend of Lupe’s husband, Rey. As I said, I don’t—” the word caught in her throat “—didn’t know him well.”

“All right,” he said. “When did you first see him today?”

“I’d left my sweater and handbag in the living room. On my way out, I was reaching for them when I glanced out the window and was surprised to see a police car parked in front of Antonio’s house. I could just see him and the deputy, speaking.”

“And where were they standing?”

“Antonio had stepped down from the porch. I could see that the conversation was...heated.”

“Could you hear what was being said?”

“Not at that point. Only enough to know they were yelling. The deputy’s face was flushed, as if he was angry.”

“Now that’s quite an assumption, given you don’t know him.” The detective affected a look of surprise. “Or do you?”

“I do not.” And wouldn’t want to, she thought grimly.

“Then you have no basis for comparison.”

“No, I don’t. However—” She lifted her hand when he started to interrupt. “In my experience, a combination of a raised voice and flushed cheeks generally suggests anger in any individual.”

It went on that way. He tried hard to persuade her to admit she hadn’t seen what had preceded the first blow. But she had. By that time she’d been on the Estradas’ front porch with a clear sight line to the two men arguing.

“I was concerned because the police officer was considerably larger than Antonio. His voice and body language were belligerent.”

“But your friend Antonio was angry, too.”

“As I’ve said repeatedly, I wouldn’t describe him as a friend. It was clear they were arguing about a woman. Just before the first blow was struck, Antonio accused the police officer of hurting her. The deputy told him to stay away from her, pulled his nightstick from his belt, lifted it and swung. That first blow knocked Antonio back a step. The deputy pursued.”

Delancy kept circling back to what she’d seen when. “Now, you must have looked away at some point.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I so much as blinked. I may have missed something as I bounded down the porch steps, but your deputy was well into the beating by then. The second police car had pulled up and I saw that officer racing toward them even as I ran across the yard.” She swallowed. “We were both too late.”

“You approached from the left of the two men engaged in the argument.”

Since she’d described, ad infinitum, exactly where she was at all times, she said nothing.

“Deputy Hayes wears his service weapon on his right hip. Chances are good you couldn’t see it.”

She considered and finally agreed that, no, she probably hadn’t been able to.

He looked satisfied, thinking he’d made an important point. It wasn’t hard to figure out what that was.

Tess continued. “However, if you’re suggesting Antonio reached for the weapon, I can tell you that he did not. From where I stood, I was able to see his hands. He did not raise them or reach toward the deputy until he tried to cover his face after the beating commenced.”

God. She sounded like an attorney in court. Had she ever used the word “commenced” before? She kind of doubted it. But she’d never been interviewed by a police detective before, either. Or, in fact, anybody at all who so blatantly disbelieved every word out of her mouth. She’d had angry customers before, but none of them had tried so hard to twist what she said.

He asked more questions that were re-phrasings of ones he’d already asked.

Finally, Tess said, “Detective, I really need to get back to work. You’re welcome to contact me later if you need any more information.”

She had to ask for her driver’s license before he handed it over. The last thing he said was, “You’ve made one hell of an accusation here, Ms. Granath. I hope you know what you’re getting into.”

She had started toward her car but a sudden chill raised goose bumps on her arms. She turned around. “Just what is that supposed to mean, Detective Delaney?”

“Delancy. And I think you have a good idea. Deputy Hayes is a sixteen-year veteran of this department. He’s well liked and respected. And now here you are, suggesting he killed a man because he was a little annoyed.”

“Try furious,” she said bitingly. “If you didn’t know your Deputy Hayes has an anger-management problem, you should have.”

He said something else to her back but she didn’t listen and she didn’t look at him again.

Tess drove several blocks before she let herself pull over, put the gearshift in Park and rest her forehead against the steering wheel. Her heart raced, her hands shook and she was gasping for breath.

Oh, great. Now I’m falling apart.

Because she’d just seen a man killed? Or because she’d just been threatened by a police officer?

A broken laugh escaped her.

Eenie, meenie, miney, moe. God help her, she’d definitely caught a tiger by the toe.

She wanted rather desperately to believe she was overreacting. The detective might have been testing her to find out how strong a witness she’d be. It wasn’t as if shutting her up would do any good, considering that other sheriff’s deputy had been there, too. She would swear he’d been as appalled as she was. Angry, too.

Tess closed her eyes so she could picture him. Tall, lean, with unruly dark hair, shoving Deputy Hayes and snarling, “Back off and shut up.” And he’d said it was now a crime scene.

Her heartbeat picked up again as it occurred to her that he might have been warning the deputy to shut up before he said something they wouldn’t want her to hear.

But she remembered the way he’d touched Antonio’s neck in search of a pulse and then held out a hand to help her to her feet. When she asked why Antonio had had to die, the deputy had said, “I have no idea.”

And then there was the way he had looked at her. The way they had looked at each other. He’d been completely in command, except when his very blue eyes had met hers. Then he had let her see that he, too, had been shaken.

Or—God—she was imagining some kind of intense connection and his face hadn’t given away anything at all. He hadn’t shared the same stunned bewilderment, the same horror and grief she’d felt. She’d seen him talk quietly with whatever superior officer had arrived after the fact, and then he’d driven away in his patrol car. She wasn’t sure he’d so much as glanced at her again. He sure hadn’t attempted to speak to her before leaving.

It didn’t matter. She’d told the truth and she would keep telling it. And even if the sheriff’s department didn’t want to admit they had a bad apple, they were on the side of law, order and justice, right? That meant the investigator might pressure her, try to sway her testimony, but certainly wouldn’t threaten her.

Tess lifted her head from the steering wheel and made a face. No, she wasn’t that naïve, but she’d try to have some faith in local law enforcement.

Starting with the sheriff’s deputy who had run faster than she’d believed possible in his futile effort to save Antonio Alvarez.

CHAPTER TWO

“YOU HAVEN’T BEEN with us very long,” Sheriff Brown said kindly, although his eyes were a lot less friendly. “I know you come from a large city police department. Different atmosphere. We don’t get much turnover here, and there’s a reason. We think of ourselves as one big family. Times of trouble, we stand behind one another.”

Zach’s primary emotion was disbelief.

His initial, brief interview yesterday with Paul Stokes had been direct, an appropriate opening to a serious investigation. His impression was that the undersheriff had been as disturbed as Zach had been by the situation.

The talk he’d had earlier today with Stokes had been different. The undersheriff had been a little more closed off, his questions sharper, as if he was trying to shake Zach. He had suggested they handle this “incident” internally.

Zach now had a pretty good idea who had been leaning on him.

Sheriff Brown had used the word “incident,” too, when he’d made it clear that he wanted it swept under the carpet. Zach was supposed to be the broom.

His disbelief progressed through pissed to full-on fury.

A few minutes ago, as Zach had arrived in answer to the sheriff’s summons, Hayes had swaggered out of the office. As they’d passed within a foot of each other, he’d given Zach a look dark enough to lift the hairs on the back of his neck.

“You’re right,” Zach said calmly now to the sheriff. “My experience is with a considerably larger police force. Professionalism was emphasized.” He paused, watching Sheriff Brown’s eyes narrow. “What I saw yesterday was a deliberate, brutal beating that led to a death. Maybe Deputy Hayes didn’t intend it to go that far. I can’t say. But the fact is, it did. What I heard gives me reason to believe the confrontation was over a personal issue, but Hayes was wearing the uniform when he instigated it, and he used his police baton as part of the beating. As far as I’m concerned, that takes him a step over the line from second-degree murder. He shamed law-enforcement officers everywhere.”

That hard stare never wavered from Zach’s face. Until now, he hadn’t made up his mind about the longtime sheriff. In his sixties, George T. Brown was mostly bald and carried forty or fifty pounds too much. His strength was a folksy, reassuring charm that appealed to voters.

Call him a cynic, but from his initial job interviews, Zach had suspected Brown was a figurehead, with the real decisions being made by Stokes, the undersheriff.

Looking into these shrewd, angry eyes now, Zach changed his mind. Brown was no figurehead. And he had to have been leaning heavily on Paul Stokes.

In his short time with the department, Zach had heard some sexist and racist jokes he didn’t like. There were only a couple of female deputies on this force. He couldn’t help noticing how few Hispanic deputies had been hired, too, considering the county population had to be a third Hispanic. One had risen to sergeant. Otherwise the command structure was Caucasian and male. Ditto for the detectives.

He’d heard the same kind of jokes on his last job, and the hiring of female and ethnic officers had lagged in most police departments. Here in Harris County, part of the problem lay in the fact that so many deputies were long-timers. Change would come, but only as those long-timers retired.

He wondered whether the prevailing attitude might have been a little different if the dead guy had been Caucasian. Say, the son of a local businessman instead of an uneducated farmworker who had turned out to be in this country illegally.

That meant the uncle and brother, presumably also illegals, had disappeared, unable to demand justice for Antonio.

The sheriff’s chair creaked as he leaned back. “Son, I’m going to give you a few days to think about this before you damage the reputation and career of a fellow officer. You go that route, I can’t swear anyone will buy in to what you have to say, anyway. Judges, prosecutors, defense attorneys...they all know and respect Andy Hayes. The man is a sixteen-year veteran of this department. You have any idea how many times he’s testified in court in those years?”

Zach didn’t say a word.

“Nobody knows you.” He gestured, as if holding a weight in each hand. One sank while the other rose. “One thing for sure, I can guarantee you won’t be real popular in this department if you hold on to what looks a lot like a vendetta. You might find yourself deciding to go back to your big-city department.” The last was a drawl barely disguising a sneer.

Zach kept his expression from changing in any way. He held the stare long enough to make it plain he wasn’t intimidated and rose from the chair he’d been offered facing the sheriff’s desk. “Sir,” he said politely, bending his head and walking out of the office.

He knew he was in deep shit, made worse because he was the new guy. A couple other deputies had quietly expressed their support, but a number had urged him to retreat from his “story.” Andy Hayes was a fine officer, a good guy. He wouldn’t have just beaten a man to death for the hell of it. No, sir. Accidents happened. If the fellow’s head hadn’t happened to hit that concrete step... Damnedest thing, him stumbling back and falling in just the wrong place. But when a man went for a police officer’s gun? Well, he was asking for anything.

Zach was ninety-nine-percent sure Antonio Alvarez had not gone for Andy Hayes’s gun. Even if he had, Hayes had dominated the encounter from that moment on. He could have had Alvarez on the ground, cuffed and arrested without breaking a sweat. Zach couldn’t think of an excuse in the world for Hayes to have beaten the shit out of the guy. What’s more, he had a suspicion Alvarez had been dead before he’d hit the concrete. Maybe he’d only lost consciousness, but he’d looked like a dead man from the instant his head snapped back and his body collapsed like a puppet’s with the strings cut.

Nobody wanted to talk about why Hayes had been there in the first place—well out of his patrol sector. They weren’t talking about the results of the autopsy, either—if it had even been done yet. As was common in rural counties, the coroner wasn’t a physician. Zach wanted to believe he wouldn’t cooperate with a cover-up.

No matter at what point Alvarez had died, going for a police officer’s gun was not a crime deserving of the death penalty, not if the officer had the ability to control the situation. Which Hayes unquestionably had.

Zach had no doubt he’d already have been fired if the sheriff hadn’t been afraid of the repercussions. Whatever Stokes thought personally, publicly the undersheriff would have to bow to his boss. Right now, they controlled the contacts Zach could talk to. If they cut him loose, they had to know he’d go straight to the press, the county commissioners, activists representing the Latino community.

The killing of an unarmed Hispanic man by a red-neck white deputy had the potential to explode into a scandal of nationwide proportions. The sheriff and undersheriff had to be seeing Ferguson and Pasco in their nightmares.

Too bad no one had had a camera phone, Zach thought grimly.

The good news was that he hadn’t been the only witness. It was pretty clear the woman hadn’t backed down yet, at least. She hadn’t gone to the press, either, but if they pushed too hard, they couldn’t stop her.

Zach knew her name now. Teresa Granath. Ms. Granath, the detective had said with sarcastic emphasis.

Zach had just come in from patrol. The sheriff’s department couldn’t afford to lose two of them at the same time and, as was standard practice, Hayes had been placed on administrative leave since a man had died during an altercation.

The incident.

Having finally clocked out, Zach had decided to contact Ms. Granath. He’d been careful yesterday once Stokes had arrived at the scene not to make eye contact with her or to try to speak to her. He didn’t want anyone thinking he’d influenced what she had to say. He’d be in trouble if he was seen with her now, but he’d passed the point of caring. He wanted to know how much shit they’d been giving her and whether she could stand up to it. Whether he could depend on her.

He assumed she’d have left her workplace, which he’d learned was a home improvement store. He’d planned to pay it a visit one of these days, anyway, because he was only days from closing on a house that needed work. He’d be out significant money if he lost his job.

But forget the house. If he didn’t last on this job, he’d lose the chance to investigate his sister’s murder. His jaw was tight as he jumped into his pickup. Damned if he’d give up this easily.

No Teresa Granath appeared in the local phone directory, so, despite the rules against it, he’d accessed DMV records to find her. She lived within the city limits of Clear Creek, which would reduce the likelihood of anyone from the sheriff’s department happening to drive by and see his Silverado parked out front.

Just to be on the safe side, he left it a block away. The neighborhood consisted of nice family homes, ramblers and some split-levels. Most probably dated to the 1980s. Hers was a rambler, not a big place but in good shape, with a white picket fence and flowerbeds. She or someone she lived with was a gardener. The concrete walkway passed under an arch covered by rose canes unfurling green leaves.

If she was home, her car was in the garage. He rang the doorbell and waited...

He frowned and glanced toward the front window. Unfortunately the wood blinds were drawn.

At the sound of the door opening he turned back sharply. The sight of her disturbed him, renewing the strange bond they’d formed yesterday when they’d looked at each other over the dead body.

This time he was able to assess her, although no physical evaluation would tell him how strong an ally she’d be. As a man, he did like what he saw.

She was pretty, with beautiful hazel eyes and a cute bump on the bridge of her nose. A few freckles gave her a girl-next-door look—except that she had a sexy mouth. The hair he’d vaguely thought of as brown was actually glossy and caramel-colored.

Otherwise...she was tall for a woman. Five ten or even eleven, and slim. He’d have said skinny except she did have curves. They were subtle but plenty female. And long legs. Damn, it was no wonder she’d crossed that lawn so fast.

“Deputy,” she said, her voice just a little husky.

“Ms. Granath.”

Her mouth curved. “Your detective really wanted me to be a miss or a missus. ‘Ms.’ seemed to disturb his sense of order.”

Zach chuckled, although her smile along with those really fine legs stirred his body in uncomfortable ways. He reined it in. “This area seems to be lagging a little behind the times.”

She made a face. “I’ve noticed. Please, come in.”

He followed her in and waited while she closed the door.

“Why don’t you come on back to the kitchen?” she suggested. “I was working on dinner.”

“I’ll try to make it brief, then. I, uh, just wanted to make sure you’re being treated decently.”

He was distracted as they went by the glimpses he had into her living room, what looked like a library and home office and a dining room. He was impressed. She must have had some serious work done.

He doubted floors in a house of this era had originally been hardwood, for example. The molding could have been from a 1920’s cottage, the effect enhanced by wood blinds either white-painted or warm-maple-stained throughout and a French door that led from an eating area out to the back garden. Kitchen cabinets had a cottage look, too.

The stained maple was the same color as her hair, he couldn’t help noticing.

Countertops had been tiled in a bold red picked up by the display of antique stoneware on a shelf above the upper cabinets.

And, damn, something smelled good.

“You’re a gardener,” he said, gazing out at a backyard that, like the front, wasn’t very big but was bound to be a profusion of cottage-garden bloom in another couple months. There was color even now, mostly from daffodils and crocuses and a shrub with vivid yellow blooms. She seemed to have a lot of rosebushes.

“I am,” she agreed. “It’s my hobby. I especially love antique roses. There are moments I wish I had a way bigger yard so I could grow more of them, but I remind myself how much maintenance what I have takes. I don’t want gardening to quit being fun and start being work.”

“I know what you mean,” he agreed. “I just bought a fixer-upper to flip.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“I’ve remodeled a couple before,” he explained, “and made a decent profit when I sold them.”

“Really.” After adjusting the heat on a stove burner, she leaned back against the counter. “You know I’m in the home improvement business.” She waved at the bar stools. “Have a seat.”

Because he wanted to ease into his real purpose, he asked a few questions and learned she didn’t just work at Fabulous Interiors, she and a partner owned it. Her area of specialty was window treatment and ceramic tile. Her partner, flooring. The partner was a man—she called him Greg—but Zach couldn’t get a feel for whether the relationship was business-like, friendship or romantic.

He was irritated at himself for even wondering.

“What got you started flipping houses?” she asked. Pretty obviously, she was sounding him out the same way he was her.

So, okay, he could give a little.

“I had a stepfather who was a contractor.” Actually the stepfather whose name he’d taken. “I worked for him summers during high school and college. That’s not what I wanted to do for a living, but I enjoy working with my hands.” He shrugged. “It’s a good hobby.”

She glanced ruefully toward her garden. “Except you actually make money at your hobby.”

He had to laugh. “Mostly. When too many problems don’t turn a house into a sinkhole.” After a pause he asked, “Are you a local?” This was edging a little closer to what he really needed to know. How woven into the fabric of this community are you? Can I depend on you not to buckle under the pressure?

He hoped she hadn’t noticed his stomach rumbling. He’d try to get out of here before he embarrassed himself.

“Yes and no. I graduated from high school here, but left for college. I came back three years ago because my dad is in poor health. Mom is gone...and I thought he needed me.” She huffed. “Not that he agrees. He’s determined to stay in his house. And although he finally let me hire someone to do the housework, he still insists on doing too much.”

“Heart?”

“Stroke.” Grief shadowed her face. “It’s probably just a matter of time before he has another one.”

“I’m sorry,” he said gently.

“Thank you.” She turned back to the stove, giving something a stir before turning off the burner and pulling the pan off. This time, when she turned to face him, her expression was resolute. “You didn’t come to exchange gardening and home improvement tips.”

“No.” Zach moved his shoulders a little to ease the tension. “The department wants the ‘incident’ never to have happened. The two of us are an inconvenience.”

“I’ve noticed.” Her tone was dry. “Should your department be investigating when it’s one of their own officers accused of a crime?”

“No,” Zach said bluntly. “My guess is some of the pressure is being applied now in the hope the department doesn’t have to hand off the investigation to someone else. Which, in my opinion, should have happened immediately.”

“Well, it definitely hasn’t been. Detective Delaney—excuse me, Delancy—grilled me two ways from Sunday. And then he stopped by the store again today. He seems to think if he keeps circling back, I’ll either change my story or he’ll get me to admit that Antonio and I were having a torrid affair and I’m lying through my teeth because—who knows?—I’m protecting his memory. I haven’t a clue.”

He nodded. “Ms. Granath, I won’t ask you what you’ve told him, and I’m not going to tell you what I’ve said, either. It’s easy to be subconsciously influenced once you share what you saw with other witnesses.”

She nodded. “That makes sense. Please, call me Tess. You’re Deputy Carter?”

“Zach Carter.”

Her gaze became challenging. “Are you here to lean on me a little, too? Point out how much damage I’m doing to an upstanding officer’s career?”

One side of his mouth tipped up. “Never crossed my mind. I will tell you that Andrew Hayes is an ass.”

Her carefree laugh came out of the blue, considering what they’d been discussing. “In that case, unless you’re expected home for dinner, you’re welcome to share mine. It’s chicken in a wine sauce on brown rice.”