Not Forgotten Read online

  I pulled to the side of the gravel road. When the dust settled, I opened my window to let the cigar smoke out. “I didn’t know I was supposed to be holding a grudge,” I said.

  “Patrick was made in the mold of his ancestor, just as you are. Just as we all are.”

  I liked to think people made a choice to act good or evil, but Grandpa believed who you were and how you acted had much more to do with where you came from and how you were raised. I looked at my watch. I still had two hours before the jewelry store closed. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for at Allison’s drilling rig, but if I could get anywhere close, I would take a look around.

  An oil field water truck pulled through the gate, which explained why it wasn’t locked. I followed the truck toward the oil rig.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The entrance to the drilling area was protected by a single guard wearing an orange hard hat and black uniform. He emerged from a portable building, shielding his eyes against the sun and the dust. He waved the water truck through and held his hand up for us to stop. He was a big man in his early thirties with five days’ growth of beard. Stacks of drill pipe, machinery, and a dozen metal storage containers were scattered over a muddy ten-acre area, along with two single-wide trailers for the staff and a long row of dirt-encrusted four-wheel-drive pickups.

  “What is it you’re looking for out here?” Grandpa asked me.

  “I don’t know exactly. Spare parts from Mexico maybe.”

  “Usually, it’s Texas equipment that ends up down there. That’s why the big man in a hard hat is wearing a sidearm,” Grandpa commented. I noticed the what looked like a Glock 9mm on the guard’s utility belt. He meant business.

  “If I can, I’ll take a look in one of those metal containers,” I said and unrolled my window. Sam stuck his head out, anxious to take a break after the long drive.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the guard shouted above the constant roar of the drilling rig. He stood five feet from the door with his hands resting on his wide hips. “What’s business vit Allison Oil?” His accent was distinctly German, as if he’d wandered out to South Texas from a Hamburg factory.

  Grandpa leaned toward my open window. “Wo kommen Sie her?” Grandpa had grown up speaking German, along with most of his generation in Gillespie County. My father had learned it. By the time I came along, there weren’t enough kids my age who were interested.

  “Ein Mitdeutscher?” The guard’s eyes lit up like he’d just found a long-lost relative. Seeing a Labrador and an old man seemed to put him at ease.

  Grandpa nudged my knee and got out of the pickup. The guard immediately joined him near the bumper. They were shouting at each other in German over the noise. My knowledge of the language was limited to hello and goodbye, and a few German table prayers and hymns we sang in church. After the initial greeting I was lost. Grandpa said something about water, and the guard gestured toward the nearest trailer. The guard glanced in my direction. Grandpa put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. I gathered he said something about me not going anywhere.

  “I’ll wait here,” I called to them, but they couldn’t hear me. I knew Grandpa was happy as a clam getting to speak German. His small group of Texas-German speakers was down to just a handful, and they only got together once a month. All were descendants of the original German settlers.

  When they disappeared into the trailer, I let Sam out and we headed for the nearest container. A half dozen other workers in hard hats were busy on the rig itself, but no one within a hundred feet of my pickup. Once I got to the row of containers, I was out of sight. Sam made a beeline for the nearest mudhole, wasting no time cooling himself down in the muddy overflow from a tanker truck. I didn’t have time to pull him out. He would need a bath later. I tried the handle on the container and found it open. It was the kind loaded onto to semitrailers and trucked to the site. It was stuffed with motors, gears, couplings, hoses and mechanical parts I’d never seen in action. Working in the oil field was one of the few jobs I hadn’t done. I recognized the PEMEX red-and-green logo with the eagle head. Sosa and Patrick Allison were definitely in business together.

  “Halt dich munter,” Grandpa shouted.

  I pretended to zip up my fly as I stepped around the front of the container and saw the guard and Grandpa standing by my pickup. The German guard shot me a suspicious look, but Sam immediately rushed to him and rubbed his muddy self on his legs. It was just the distraction I needed to get safely back into my pickup.

  “Halt dich munter,” the guard repeated and let out a belly-shaking laugh. It was a salutation I’d heard Grandpa use all my life. According to him, it meant keep your chin up. The native German had probably never heard it before but seemed to understand.

  When I got Sam and Grandpa back into the pickup, we took off.

  “What’d the square-head have to say?” I asked.

  “He’s fresh off the boat. Looking for a Texan wife. I told him to try San Antonio.”

  “Good advice.”

  “What did you find?” he asked when I’d gotten back to the paved road.

  “I found PEMEX equipment. The containers are full of it.”

  “Hell, the Mexican oil company has gas stations in Texas now,” Grandpa said.

  “Sosa told me his deal with Allison fell through because of Marcus Lopez.”

  “That’s funny,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The German said he worked for Marcus Lopez. Marcus Lopez took over the drilling operation in the middle of July.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Robert Byrd factory store was a collection of single-story limestone-block buildings located near the interstate in Kerrville, a medium-sized Hill Country town which supported a university and an annual folk music festival that drew musicians from around the country. I parked under a shade tree near the showroom. The heat from five to six in the afternoon could be lethal in the first week of September, and Sam would have to wait in the pickup. The parking lot was empty as I’d hoped. I was going to have to get creative to find out any info about the bracelet, and I didn’t want interference from other customers. I thought I had a good cover story until Sam spotted a flock of semi-domestic ducks swimming in a small man-made pond on the parklike grounds.

  I had dropped Grandpa off so he could work on his airplane. Something to do with the hydraulic line. He had given me a warning about Patrick Allison, but I had already been on my guard. The interesting information was that Marcus Lopez had taken over operation of Allison’s oil rig in July. I wondered what had prompted the change of ownership.

  Sam had enough driving for one day and immediately jumped out when he saw the pond and the ducks. By the time I got him back in the pickup, it was fifteen minutes till closing time, we were both covered with mud, and the ducks were in the next county.

  I walked into the store tracking pond scum and dripping sweat. I pretended to check out the half dozen glass display cases featuring handcrafted silver earrings, necklaces, and bracelets. I wasn’t a connoisseur, but Sylvia raved about the designs. I studied a young female clerk who was busy polishing the countertops and making ready for the end of the day. When she didn’t look up, I cleared my throat and plunged into my cover story.

  “Not too busy today,” I said, trying to establish a rapport.

  The name on her shirt read Tiff. She glanced at the clock on the wall, trying to decide if I was worth the maximum sales pitch and the commission that came with it or if she should continue her cleaning duties and let me fend for myself. She no doubt had a boyfriend to meet or homework to do.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Tiff,” I said, trying to sound charming. “You think I’m on the hunt for a last-minute gift for my wife or girlfriend. Am I right?”

  She stopped cleaning and came over to me. She looked to be in her early twenties, probably a student working her way through the local university. She had rodeo-queen good looks and was dressed casual w
estern, with a thick blond braid reaching the top of her sequined jeans.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “The rest of the crew...” She paused midsentence. Her eyes lingered on my forehead. I could see that look of fear in her eyes, as if she expected me to pull a pistol and rob the place.

  “Don’t worry, I’m friendly.” I offered what I hoped was a disarming smile. “I’m sorry about the mud,” I said, pointing at the splashes on my jeans. “My Labrador found your pond.”

  Her eyes shifted to my smile. “Mine does that all the time,” she said. “Where is he?”

  I pointed out the door. Sam had found the driver’s seat and was keeping a sharp eye out the window for returning ducks.

  “He’s adorable,” she said. Sam had won her heart and eased her fears.

  “I’m in a real jam,” I said, and showed her the bracelet. “Do you recognize this?”

  “It’s ours. A Mother’s Love bangle.” She walked to a display case and showed me two identical bracelets but made of silver. “Yours is gold. Most of the ones we sell are silver. It’s our specialty.”

  “Could you tell me where it was sold?” I handed it to her so she could take a closer look.

  She examined the engraving. “I can tell you this was a special order.”

  “This is gonna sound crazy. And I’m totally embarrassed. My wife had a baby shower in July. July fifth. Now, the baby’s here and everything’s fine. But here’s the thing… my wife is trying to send thank-you cards to everyone and I… Well, I tossed all the cards.”

  Tiff looked at me like I’d just fallen off a turnip truck. She was adding the mud and the pickup with the Labrador to my description of dumping the cards and coming up with every dumb cowboy she ever dated. I had gotten the story from Rocky, my redneck high school buddy. It was his explanation for why his wife left him, but I suspected it was only one of many problems she had with his behavior.

  Tiff took an involuntary glance at Sam through the glass door. I knew she was almost convinced I was telling the truth.

  “If you can’t do it, you can’t do it. I told my wife it’s just a bracelet. She can send out a generic thank-you note to everybody who came and call it good.” I acted like I was going to walk out and grabbed the bracelet from the countertop like it was made of plastic.

  “That bracelet cost thirty-eight hundred to be exact,” she said, sounding slightly hostile. She was a sister-in-arms with my imaginary wife. “Not including the engraving.”

  “Wow, I never would have guessed.”

  She raised her left eyebrow like I was a country bumpkin who had a lot to learn. “What were you thinking, throwing out the cards?” She suddenly sounded twenty years older. Her voice shifted from rodeo queen to ranch momma, all apprehension gone.

  “I thought I was being helpful. It was a big party. Everything was a mess.” I tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. “I’d like to buy her another bracelet too. Something to smooth things over.”

  She raised her eyebrow again. I’d seen that look before too—the look that said, you cheap bastard. I pulled two more hundreds out of my pocket, part of Sosa’s final tip. Ranch Momma was making me feel guilty for a social faux pas I’d invented.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” she said, after she saw all three bills were the same denomination. “I can imagine your wife’s worried sick about this. I know just what she’d want.” She walked toward the front door. “I’ll check the sales records from the first week of July,” she said. “Let me lock the front door first. The guard will check it at six and come in if it’s open.” She flipped the deadbolt on the front door, and I followed her into the back office. While she booted up the computer records, I glanced at the photos on the wall. One by the back window caught my eye, a picture of a younger Patrick Allison standing by a man near the same age at some sort of ground-breaking ceremony. The inscription below read, “Boys and Girls Camp Number One.”

  “Is that Robert Byrd next to Mr. Allison?” I said, pointing to the picture.

  She didn’t have to look up from the computer records to answer. “Yes,” she said. “Mr. Allison and the Byrd family have been partners in a charitable foundation for years.”

  “Our families have known each other for a long time. Used to be neighbors way back in the day,” I told her.

  “Really?” she said, not believing a word.

  I studied the picture. Allison didn’t look like the murderous cutthroat Grandpa described, nor did he act like one when we had met at the fundraiser. But I wasn’t naïve enough to believe in appearances. A smile and a charity donation didn’t preclude a person from being a cold-blooded killer.

  “Here,” she said. “On July second we did an engraving on a gold Mother’s Love bangle.”

  “So, you sold it here?”

  “No, it was a special order for the La Cantera Parkway store off I-10 in San Antonio.”

  “Who bought it?”

  “You’d have to check with the store.”

  “Can you call them?”

  “I really shouldn’t be doing this, you know?”

  “Ya gotta help me out. I’ve been sleeping in the baby’s room for three weeks. On top of the nine months before that. I’m goin’ crazy, if ya know what I mean.”

  Tiff’s cheeks turned red, and she stifled a smile. “Okay,” she said and picked up the phone. She called whoever answered by her first name and explained some of my phony story. Something the clerk said made Tiff laugh. I’m sure it was at my expense. I knew I was letting Rocky and the brotherhood of country boys down, but what the hell. I was on the job.

  While Tiff talked, I studied the bracelets in the three-hundred-dollar range by the register. As long as it fit my cover story, I might as well pick out something for Sylvia and see if it would have a better effect than the over-the-hill yellow tulips. I glanced at the engagement rings in the next case. Six months ago, I had been ready to take the plunge. She didn’t like my leaving law school, but my private investigations business had started to pick up. Sylvia had taken me to meet her parents, and I had taken her to meet Grandpa. Then the summer slump hit. Now, I was just hoping to save our relationship. Just when I’d made my choice of a silver infinity design, Tiff came out of the back room with a big surprised smile.

  “You weren’t kidding about knowing Mr. Allison,” she said.

  I didn’t say anything. I hadn’t told her a lie, but it was a complicated relationship.

  “That bracelet was sold to Danny Allison.”

  I thought maybe I had heard her wrong. After spending an hour listening to Grandpa talk about the history of the Allison clan, maybe my mind was playing tricks on my hearing.

  “Allison?” I asked.

  “Yep, Danny Allison. He bought it and had it engraved.”

  “Thanks for all your help,” I said. I stopped myself at the door and remembered the infinity bracelet I picked out for Sylvia. I had almost walked out without paying.

  Tiff rang up the sale, and I hurried out to find Sam as anxious to get going as I was.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pulsing music vibrated the metal no parking sign outside the front door to the dance club. I was waiting in line behind a trendy group of partygoers that were dressed like extras in a Mad Max movie. I checked the sign to make sure I wasn’t at some midnight audition for part four or five or whatever the series was up to these days. It seemed an unlikely venue for a trendy night club. The owners had taken a turn-of-the-century brick structure built by German immigrants, with elaborate white-stone arches over the windows and doors, and added stainless steel and graffiti highlights to give it a modern twist. The security guard wore black leather armbands with metal studs and a matching dog collar. When he checked my ID, I told him I was looking for Mel Gibson. He rolled his eyes.

  I had dropped Sam off, changed out of my pond-scum clothes, and decided to visit the place where Marissa was last seen alive. Finding Danny Allison’s name was the first solid le
ad I’d gotten, and I wanted to move on it quickly. If I wanted Detective Peterson to reopen the case, I would need more than just a name and a bracelet.

  Inside, the walls of the renovated nineteenth-century building were painted black and overlaid with green and purple glow-in-the-dark graffiti—more of a reflection of modern Germany. There were pieces of chain-link fence lining the dance floor and blocks of concrete used for tables. It had a post-apocalyptic feel. The decorator must have been the same person in charge of the artwork displayed in front of the new public safety building.

  When my eyes adjusted to the laser light show, I didn’t see anyone doing anything that remotely resembled the dancing I knew. I wasn’t a big fan, but my grandma had insisted I learn the two-step and the polka, which required partners to hold each other and attempt to step in time to the music. It required at least a passing knowledge of balance and the rudiments of coordination. The only touching I could see on this dance floor was forced contact because of the limited space. Conversation was out of the question. It was only eleven thirty. The party was just getting started, but the throbbing music and the lights were already giving me a headache.

  I searched the ceiling for surveillance cameras, found two on the bar and four on the dance floor, then looked for the manager. A bouncer stood guard near the office. He looked in his late twenties with a serious steroid addiction. Whatever exposed skin I could see was covered with tats like an NBA player. I had one tattoo I’d gotten on my eighteenth birthday. It was a small Chinese character representing family. It was an act of rebellion because Grandpa insisted that I not get a tattoo, so naturally, I had to get one. He didn’t say anything when he saw it. He just shook his head. Had he raised hell with me, I probably would have ended up like the bouncer.