Read Online Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) by J. Mark Bertrand - Free Book Online
Authors: J. Mark Bertrand
Tags: United States, FIC042000, FIC042060, Murder—Investigation—Fiction, FIC026000, March, Roland (Fictitious character)—Fiction, Federal Bureau of Investigation—Fiction, Houston (Tex.)—Fiction
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investigating a lie.
“You ready to roll?” he asks.
“I just got here.”
“What’s the deal? You don’t seem too jazzed about the big break. Yesterday we had nothing and now—”
“Okay, okay. Just give me a second and I’ll catch up.”
While he grabs his gear, I head to Bascombe’s office to let him know what’s going on. The computer match doesn’t sit right with me. The more I contemplate the matter, the less I believe a special agent in the Houston field office can snap her fingers and make something like that happen. Whatever’s going on, I know Bea wasn’t straight with us this morning.
The lieutenant’s office is empty. I ask around, and one of the new detectives points in the direction of the captain’s door. The blinds are shut, so I approach with caution, tapping lightly on the doorframe. No answer.
Just leave it.
I turn to go. Heading out, I see Hedges coming from the break room with a steaming mug of coffee in hand. He gazes at his feet like he’s afraid of tripping or possibly lost in thought. Based on the news Bascombe shared, I’m sure he is. As I pass, I’m almost afraid to interrupt.
“Sir?” I ask.
He pauses, steadying his mug with his free hand.
“I’m looking for the lieutenant. He’s not with you?”
Stupid question. He glances side to side and cracks a halfhearted smile. “I don’t see him. Do you?”
“Never mind.”
“Is everything all right?” he asks.
I should be asking him the same question. “Fine, sir.”
I get a few steps away, then he stops me. “Hey, March, you sure you’re okay? You’re walking kind of funny.”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I must have twisted something the other night when I took that spill.”
“Get it looked at,” he says, turning away.
All during the runoff election last year, he’d been an absentee boss, present in body but absent in spirit. Things got better, but never back to normal. Now there’s a hollowness to him I don’t like to see. Maybe it’s just knowing that he’s not long for the job.
“I’ll do that, sir,” I say. “Thank you.”
His eyebrows raise a twitch at the thanks, but he doesn’t say more. He heads back to his shuttered office as I run to catch up with Lorenz.
———
The sign pushed into the grass in front of Brandon Ford’s house says FOR SALE , so the first thing Lorenz does is snatch a flyer from the plastic dispenser. The address has taken us all the way out to Katy, to a neighborhood offering LUXURY LIVING STARTING IN THE 300 s, so new it could have been thrown up overnight. The brick-fronted houses squat massively on their lots, their wide concrete drives free of cracks and unspotted by grease. Instead of the typical suburban grid, they hunch beside gently curving streets arranged concentrically around a man-made lake. I see ducks swimming out there, and a spout of water that shoots up thirty feet.
“Price is a little high,” Lorenz says, handing me the flyer. “But at least there’s a pool.”
To my surprise, the flyer gives the construction date as four years ago. In all that time, the surrounding properties have managed to stay pristine. Only half the houses along the road yield signs of habitation—a freshly waxed Tahoe, some abandoned toys, a yard card in the shape of a soccer ball giving the jersey number of the child within. One or two in addition to Ford’s have Realtor signs, and even some that don’t sport the empty drives and naked aluminum windows of homes completed but never occupied.
We walk to the front door, peering inside through the unobstructed side window. Past the carpeted stairway, there’s a high-ceilinged great room with a gas fireplace and rustic-looking twisted iron chandelier and French doors that open onto the back patio. There’s no furniture inside, no decoration on the towering walls.
“If he ever lived here,” I say, “he doesn’t anymore.”
Lorenz heads around one side of the house and I take the other, glancing in
“You ready to roll?” he asks.
“I just got here.”
“What’s the deal? You don’t seem too jazzed about the big break. Yesterday we had nothing and now—”
“Okay, okay. Just give me a second and I’ll catch up.”
While he grabs his gear, I head to Bascombe’s office to let him know what’s going on. The computer match doesn’t sit right with me. The more I contemplate the matter, the less I believe a special agent in the Houston field office can snap her fingers and make something like that happen. Whatever’s going on, I know Bea wasn’t straight with us this morning.
The lieutenant’s office is empty. I ask around, and one of the new detectives points in the direction of the captain’s door. The blinds are shut, so I approach with caution, tapping lightly on the doorframe. No answer.
Just leave it.
I turn to go. Heading out, I see Hedges coming from the break room with a steaming mug of coffee in hand. He gazes at his feet like he’s afraid of tripping or possibly lost in thought. Based on the news Bascombe shared, I’m sure he is. As I pass, I’m almost afraid to interrupt.
“Sir?” I ask.
He pauses, steadying his mug with his free hand.
“I’m looking for the lieutenant. He’s not with you?”
Stupid question. He glances side to side and cracks a halfhearted smile. “I don’t see him. Do you?”
“Never mind.”
“Is everything all right?” he asks.
I should be asking him the same question. “Fine, sir.”
I get a few steps away, then he stops me. “Hey, March, you sure you’re okay? You’re walking kind of funny.”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I must have twisted something the other night when I took that spill.”
“Get it looked at,” he says, turning away.
All during the runoff election last year, he’d been an absentee boss, present in body but absent in spirit. Things got better, but never back to normal. Now there’s a hollowness to him I don’t like to see. Maybe it’s just knowing that he’s not long for the job.
“I’ll do that, sir,” I say. “Thank you.”
His eyebrows raise a twitch at the thanks, but he doesn’t say more. He heads back to his shuttered office as I run to catch up with Lorenz.
———
The sign pushed into the grass in front of Brandon Ford’s house says FOR SALE , so the first thing Lorenz does is snatch a flyer from the plastic dispenser. The address has taken us all the way out to Katy, to a neighborhood offering LUXURY LIVING STARTING IN THE 300 s, so new it could have been thrown up overnight. The brick-fronted houses squat massively on their lots, their wide concrete drives free of cracks and unspotted by grease. Instead of the typical suburban grid, they hunch beside gently curving streets arranged concentrically around a man-made lake. I see ducks swimming out there, and a spout of water that shoots up thirty feet.
“Price is a little high,” Lorenz says, handing me the flyer. “But at least there’s a pool.”
To my surprise, the flyer gives the construction date as four years ago. In all that time, the surrounding properties have managed to stay pristine. Only half the houses along the road yield signs of habitation—a freshly waxed Tahoe, some abandoned toys, a yard card in the shape of a soccer ball giving the jersey number of the child within. One or two in addition to Ford’s have Realtor signs, and even some that don’t sport the empty drives and naked aluminum windows of homes completed but never occupied.
We walk to the front door, peering inside through the unobstructed side window. Past the carpeted stairway, there’s a high-ceilinged great room with a gas fireplace and rustic-looking twisted iron chandelier and French doors that open onto the back patio. There’s no furniture inside, no decoration on the towering walls.
“If he ever lived here,” I say, “he doesn’t anymore.”
Lorenz heads around one side of the house and I take the other, glancing in
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