Low Pressure

“He left a voice mail on the hangar phone. It was Ray Strickland, all right. They ran the plates on the pickup. But when a state trooper stopped a small pickup with those plates, it wasn’t Strickland driving. It was a young black woman, college student, dean’s list, works part time at Walmart. No police record, nary a blemish on her good name, and she’d never heard of Strickland.”

“Ray switched the plates.”

“Seems like. So they’re looking for a truck with this college kid’s plates now.”

“Is Ray employed?”

“At a glass works of some kind out on the east side. According to the deputy, they checked there, and Ray’s foreman said he hasn’t reported to work for several days. Not answering his cell phone. He’s not at his house, either.”

“Whereabouts unknown,” Dent said.

“You got it.”

“No sign of… the other?”

Gall, realizing that Dent was referring to Bellamy’s fan Jerry, cast a look in her direction, but she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts. They must’ve been troubling. Her brow was furrowed, her eyes staring vacantly.

“Naw,” Gall said to Dent. “All the same, you two gotta be careful.”

“Planning on it.”

“What else are you planning?”

“Moody was pretty straightforward with us, but he fell short of making a full confession. He didn’t tell us the thing that might have made a difference in the outcome of the case. We need to talk to Rupe Collier.”

Gall spat a chunk of cigar to the floor. “It might not mean doodle-dee-squat, but Rupe was on TV today. Caught his show while I was still at my lady’s place.”

“His show?”

“He wasn’t hawking cars, but conducting a press conference.”

“What?” Dent exclaimed.

Bellamy suddenly came to life. “Talking about what?”

“About how his face got fucked up. Not in those words, of course. But Ace here can’t hold a candle to how bad Rupe looked.” He gave them a description. “He claimed not to have got a good look at his attacker and was vague about where the assault had taken place, but he played the victim angle up big. You ask me, the timing of this is fishy.”

“It stinks to high heaven.” Dent turned to Bellamy. “We need to have a heart-to-heart with the former ADA. Do you know where his office is?”

“His flagship dealership. That’s where I met with him.”

“He whipped the media into a frenzy during that press conference,” Gall told them. “That car lot is surrounded by reporters hoping to grab another sound bite or two, which Rupe is good at. You couldn’t get anywhere close without them swamping you, too.”

“That leaves his house,” Bellamy said quietly. When he and Dent turned to her, she added, “I know where he lives.”

“No wonder you know his address,” Dent said as he turned onto the street. “You hail from the same ritzy neighborhood.”

The Lystons’ estate where she’d grown up was several streets over. “Don’t hold that against me.”

“You ever been inside Rupe’s place?”

She shook her head. “After Strickland?

??s conviction, my parents were invited to his Christmas open house three years in a row. They declined each time, and I guess he and his wife finally got the message, because the invitations stopped coming.”

Rupert Collier’s limestone house sat on a rise of sprawling lawn with well-tended grass, centuries-old live oak trees, and lush flower beds. Parked at the curb in front of it was an Austin PD squad car.

Dent asked, “What do you think?”