Rupe had called him repeatedly throughout the night, but Ray didn’t answer. He knew Rupe was calling for an update, but, as far as Ray was concerned, Rupe could go screw himself. He was on a mission of his own. He wanted to find and kill the man who’d sent his brother to prison.
He’d spent the remainder of the night driving to all the places Rupe had called “Moody’s old haunts,” but with no luck. Moody wasn’t to be found. It had shocked the hell out of him when he’d let himself into his duplex and was immediately caught in a headlock by the man himself. With his other hand, he’d pressed the barrel of a pistol against Ray’s temple.
“Why were you trying to follow me, Ray? Huh? I hear you’ve been up to some mischief lately. Slicing up Dent Carter, trying to kill an old man. Was I supposed to be next? Hmm? What’s got into you?”
Ray rammed his elbow into Moody’s soft gut and broke his hold. Ray spun around, and as he did so, he whipped his knife out of its scabbard and lunged. Moody saw it coming, but he was winded, and clutching his chest with his gun hand, and—Ray didn’t think he was imagining this—he kinda smiled.
Ray’s knife made a clean arc. The blade went through Moody’s neck like it was warm butter. Blood spurted everywhere, on the walls, the furniture, on Ray, who leaped back but not far enough to escape the fountain.
Moody dropped his pistol but otherwise didn’t move. He just stood there with that strange smile on his face, looking at Ray. Then finally his eyes rolled up into his head, his knees buckled, and he dropped like a sack of cement.
Ray, cursing the blood spatters on his favorite leather vest, stepped over Moody’s body, went into his kitchen, rinsed the blood off his knife, dried it with a dish towel, and returned it to the scabbard. He then washed his hands and bent over the sink to scoop several handfuls of cold water into his mouth.
Killing was harder than it looked like in the movies.
He figured he ought to call Rupe, report this, get the man off his back. But Rupe didn’t answer. The asshole was probably getting his beauty sleep while Ray was doing all the work.
Ray left him a blunt message. “Moody’s dead. He made a mess of my place, so I may have to move.”
He disconnected, made himself a potted-meat sandwich, and washed it down with a glass of milk.
When he went back into the living room and saw how funny Moody looked with his head lying to one side like that, he got the inspiration to take a picture and text it to Bellamy, using the old geezer’s phone. That way she wouldn’t have Ray’s number, which Rupe had told him to keep just between them.
That done, he now realized how bushed he was. He’d had a long night and a busy morning. Before he addressed the problem of moving Moody’s body, he decided to get some rest.
He went into his bedroom, opened the closet, and knelt down on one knee. To the naked eye, the corner of vinyl flooring looked like all the rest, like it was still glued to the concrete underneath. Only Ray knew that it could be easily peeled back because it was he who’d pried it loose the day after he’d moved in.
He’d chipped away at the concrete underneath, until he’d dug out a shallow depression. It didn’t need to be deep, only large enough to hold a pair of panties, and there wasn’t much to them at all. They were lighter than air. You could see through the material.
Taking them from their hiding place, he admired them as he had the first time Allen had crammed them into his palm. Ray remembered it like yesterday. Allen had been nervous. No, more than nervous. Scared. Moody and another detective had parked at the curb and were coming up the walk.
Allen was talking fast. He was sweating. “You gotta hide these, Ray. Okay?”
“That girl’s panties?”
“Hurry. Take them. Hide them.”
Ray stuffed them down his pants and into his own underwear, then patted his clothes back into place. Allen watched, nodding approval. “Soon as you can, get rid of them. Burn them. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Then the cops knocked hard on the door. Allen wiped his damp upper lip, clapped Ray on the shoulder, and went to answer the door. Moody read him his rights while the other detective put cuffs on him. Then they took him away.
The whole time Allen was incarcerated, they never talked about the panties again. Allen never asked if he’d burned them, and he’d never admitted to breaking his promise. He couldn’t bring himself to destroy them. They were his most prized possession. They were the last thing his brother had ever given him.
He didn’t take them out of their hiding place very often. Not as often as he wanted to. But if killing Moody wasn’t a special occasion, he didn’t know what was.
He stretched out on his back on his bed and put his hand inside the panties, then held it up to the window and looked at his splayed fingers silhouetted through the sheer fabric. He sighed with contentment and rolled onto his side for a doze.
The cramped cockpit of a fighter jet had never made Dent claustrophobic, but being inside an interrogation room at the Austin Police Department was an unsettling reminder of the last time he’d been here, being hammered by Dale Moody. It mattered little that Moody was dead. He still felt like clawing at the walls.
Beside him, Bellamy looked pale and shaken, and often anyone speaking to her had to repeat what they said before it registered. Her distraction was understandable. Seeing the picture of Moody with his neck open had been a shock.
Because everyone in the department recognized her as a celebrity, and as the surviving daughter of the recently deceased Howard Lyston, the detectives were deferential.
Nevertheless, sweat had begun trickling down Dent’s rib cage as soon as they were ushered into the interrogation room to give their statements. He kept a tight grip on Bellamy’s hand, admittedly as much for his comfort as for hers.
Haymaker had called the police department from his house. Speaking to a homicide detective, he’d told him about the grueso