Page 18 of Concrete Evidence
A segment of national news transitioned to state, then local. A storm brewed in the Gulf and weather forecasters monitored it. She listened five minutes more, while her heart pounded in overtime.
“The Montgomery County’s Sheriff’s Department through an anonymous tip recovered the body of a man identified as Liam Zachary. He was found shot and killed. Mr. Zachary worked for the Army Corps of Engineers in Fort Worth as a civilian structural engineer.”
Avery flipped off the radio and rubbed the chill on her arms. Granddad and Liam had been friends since she came to live at the ranch. Liam and his sweet wife had visited the ranch on several occasions. Could this be who she saw lying in a pool of blood at the family cemetery? The friend? Surely not. But the truth was often more easily denied than embraced.
God forgive me. Help me to see that Granddad would not deliberately kill a man.
Answers took time, so she set up her new laptop, connected to the hotel’s Wi-Fi, and enabled the VPN. Typing the deceased man’sname in the search engine, she prayed her fears were unfounded and an error had occurred. A nearly identical report on finding Liam Zachary’s body appeared as local breaking news. She read through a second article—he’d left a wife, an adult daughter and son, and three grandchildren...
She shuddered. To suspect a guest of the ranch and a good man had been shot and killed on her beloved ranch? Why? And why remove Liam’s body unless to cover up Granddad’s role? His phone conversation with someone replayed. If Liam’s murder occurred on the ranch, could it have been self-defense? An accident? What prevented Granddad from going to the authorities?
Who would handle the murder case? Local authorities? The FBI since the deceased was a federal employee? The Army CID? How soon before the authorities publicly confirmed where Liam’s body had been found?
Avery typed in her password to remotely access her granddad’s computer, but his device denied her access. She wanted to check emails for any issues between Liam and Granddad. She attempted twice more with the same results. He’d eliminated her ability to get into his computer. Avery had Liam’s professional and personal information, and she wanted to contact Mrs. Zachary with her condolences. But should she? Granddad had specifically told her not to reach out to anyone. Why, when no one could trace a burner phone? But technology had the means to find out the location of where any call was made.
Despite the failed steps to cover her tracks since leaving the ranch, she still had witnessed a violent crime, and her conscience stopped her from letting Granddad handle it. What mistake had he made that put her in danger too? Real life never happened like the rapid pace of cop shows. TV producers had forty-five minutes or so to solve a crime and make an arrest. She gripped the arms of the chair. Having this mess resolved in less than an hour’s time might not be a bad thing.
Granddad claimed she had wisdom and discernment. He must have been thinking about someone else, not his granddaughter, who sat paralyzed in a hotel room, struggling with fears and emotions. A man had lost his life... a man who had family and friends who loved him and grieved his death.
Granddad had requested she talk to Special Agent Marc Wilkins at the Houston FBI and tell the agent all she’d witnessed. Should she make contact? Was Granddad aware of her threatening call? Had he received the same? What did all this mean?
13
MARC ENTERED FORT WORTH’Scity limits, certain he’d flushed his brains down the sewer. After a very early start, a streak of orange and yellow crossed the morning sky. Three days had passed since his father’s funeral, and now he aimed his pickup toward the home of his half sister. He doubted she was even out of bed before sunup.
A peculiar eagerness filled his internal fuel tank. At Mom’s insistence, he’d arranged a meeting with Tessa through the grandmother, Marnie Litton. Mrs. Litton sounded weak, coherent, but hostile. Who could blame her when life had shoved all manner of physical pain into her aging years? From what he’d learned from Mom and digging online, the grandmother had poured her life into Tessa. Mrs. Litton’s mama-bear side showed when she warned Marc if he upset her granddaughter, she’d pull out her rifle and send his FBI rear to kingdom come. Her words were a little more colorful, verifying life’s bitter pills often brought out the worst in people.
Marc wanted an opportunity to get to know Tessa, but he’d leave at the first unwelcome sign. Uneasiness scraped against his better judgment. Tessa might be better off without him. What did he have to offer? Career advice? College recommendations? Maybe big brother things... whatever those were. The grandmother claimed Tessa had expressed some reservations about meeting him too.
Like a punch in the gut, it occurred to him Tessa might not have a home once her grandmother died. Sad. Very sad. What would happen to her? Their father had no living relatives for her to turn to. Marc moaned. She had a stepmother. Why hadn’t he talked to Mom about Tessa’s future?
He drove courtesy of his GPS in and around streets with one right and left after another. Had Mrs. Litton purposely given him the wrong address? Two more turns and he heard the familiar “You have arrived” status. The one-story wooden houses looked like a set of dentures that hadn’t seen Polident in a decade.
After parking in the driveway, he glanced at the passenger side. Yesterday while going through items Mom had kept for him over the years, he found a high school yearbook belonging to his father. Marc planned to show it to Tessa as a conversation starter, and if she showed interest, he’d give it to her. Grasping the yearbook, he exited the truck feeling like he’d exited adulthood and reverted to a pimple-faced kid on his first date.
The Litton yard cried out for help, but the weeds were all that had answered the plea. Didn’t look like the type of neighborhood where the owners subscribed to a lawn service. He made his way up a cracked concrete sidewalk and knocked on a door in dire need of a paint job. A clay pot of petunias bent low as though warning him not to enter.
The door creaked open slowly.
The Tessa he’d seen online stood before him. Light-brown ponytail. Tank top. Shorts. But not too short. Large green eyes veiled in thick lashes. She nibbled on her lower lip.
“Tessa?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Marc, your brother.”
A shy smile met him, and she motioned him inside. “Gram is still sleeping, and a hospice nurse is with her.”
“So we can’t play loud music?”
She shook her head. “Or sing.”
He faked a laugh, and she joined him sounding equally phony. “I’m surprised you’re up.”
“Gram had a bad night.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
