Page 45 of Backtrack

CHAPTER 15

“Do you really think Ray Gene might be involved?” Layfette Johnson asked after he’d taken over a dozen photographs of possible tracks around the Bryants’ well house. Several of the tread patterns were remarkably similar to the waffle-soled jungle boot Trooper Teague found beside the abandoned Crown Victoria.

“I’m not leaning that way,” Cutter said. “Timing’s too perfect. Our armored truck came in from Eastland while Ray Gene was on his way to work on Sunday morning. That’s sixty miles, give or take, a long haul for all parties to end up at the exact spot where he could happen by at just the right moment. Way too many variables for that to be some grand plan. Nope. Occam’s razor here. The most obvious theory is that Ray Gene was just doing his job and heard the call go out over the radio.”

“Glad to hear it,” Johnson said. “Because his wife scares the shit outta me.”

“Me too.” Cutter gave a contemplative nod. “But we do need to pay particular attention to anyone who had contact with that armored truck from the moment it stopped on the Interstate.”

“Because someone will have left a clue,” Johnson said. “A horseshoe nail …”

“About the size of it,” Cutter said.

“Uncle Bud was there, you know.”

“Sheriff Langford?” Cutter raised an eyebrow. “You’re not wrong to look at him, but let me give you a little slice of advice. Going after the boss is like picking your nose in public. If you find something,you’re gonna have to figure out what to do with it. If you accuse someone in power, better be ready for the blowback.”

“I know full well it wasn’t Bud who took the diamonds,” Johnson said, a little too smugly for someone so inexperienced.

“Oh, and why’s that?”

“Simple,” Johnson said. “If he was involved, he would never have picked you to figure it all out.”

Cutter scoffed. “You should be a car salesman. …” He took the exit and then crossed back over the Interstate to South Main. “You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“Pizza Place has a lunch special. …” He checked the time on his Cricket. “Should be up and running for another half hour or so. Summer school is still going on. We’ll grab something to eat, then show this sketch to whatever teachers happen to be in the building. This Man Cub looks to be pretty young. I’m thinking he hasn’t been out of school too many years. We’ll hit Weatherford High first, then head on over to Mineral Wells.”

“Pizza Place …” Johnson smiled. “Roger used to sponsor my baseball team.” He yawned, then leaned back in his seat, hat pulled down over his eyes. “Anyone ever tell you your car smells like horse feet?”

“My shoeing chaps are crammed behind the seat.” Cutter took a deep breath, as if savoring the pungent odor. “Smells like money.”

“And horse feet.”

Cutter gave a rare chuckle. “I guess it does, but those horse feet give me just enough folding money to pay for our lunch.”

The parking lot behind Pizza Place was nearly vacant when Cutter pulled his El Camino into a cramped spot in the shade of a gnarled oak tree. The sun beat down with a particular intensity today, leaving the asphalt sticky beneath the soles of his boots—or maybe that was just the remnants of whatever he’d picked up from the Show Pony’s nasty carpet.

A local icon, this was the place the other two pizza joints in Weatherford ordered when they wanted a change of pace. The smell of garlic butter and freshly baked cracker crust drew Cutterin like a warm hug as he opened the door. Memories of dates with Lucy came rushing back. She loved it here.

As was his custom, Cutter paused when he stepped inside and immediately took a brief scan. There were a few couples who’d planned their lunch strategically, waiting until any rowdy summer schoolers had cleared out. Three men in suits and boots sat at the larger conference table in the great room to the left of the counter. An older lady with perfectly coiffed silver hair and a powder-blue polyester pantsuit sat at a small window table to the right of the salad bar. The high-backed booths off the great room and the upstairs tables were out of his line of sight, but judging from the mood of the people Cutter could see, things were copacetic.

Plainclothes deputy sheriffs wore their guns and handcuffs exposed and their badges prominently displayed over their left breast pockets. A few of the patrons looked up when they came through the door. Most returned to their pizza after a perfunctory glance—but not the woman in the blue polyester suit. She clutched her big macramé handbag and perused Cutter and Johnson with the intensity of an X-ray scan. Her lips pursed as if she were about to burst. Cutter was accustomed to being stared at. There were those who just plain did not like cops. Others had a problem with the open display of handguns. Some, he reckoned, were just extra sensitive souls and saw him for who and what he really was.

Cutter ordered a couple of cheese pizza lunch specials—figuring he’d send any leftovers home with the kid. The girl behind the counter flirted benignly with Johnson, then handed an oversize queen of hearts playing card to Cutter to track their order.

“You should smile more,” she said.

Cutter gave her a frowny wink. “Noted.”

He paid, then gave the queen of hearts to Johnson before going to wash his hands. He came out of the restroom to find the woman in the blue polyester suit had Johnson hemmed in at their table, grilling him about something. Cutter slowed, listening as he approached.

“… ma’am,” the young deputy said, “I’m sure the investigators who’ve been assigned your case will get back in touch with you soon. Like I’ve told you half a dozen times, it’s not my case. Look, we have important—”

“Someone bashed my mailbox to smithereens!” The lady fumed.“Are you telling me that’s not important?” Cutter guessed she was at least seventy-five. He hoped he had that kind of chutzpah when he was her age.

“No, ma’am,” Johnson said. “I’m telling you we’re in the middle of a murder investigation. We—”