Apparently, the judge enjoyed lavishing his wealth about on others who came here for gala events and parties. Lucas recalled something in the news accounts about his employing his home as a place for fund-raising events on a grand scale, with such guests as Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, and Merle Haggard as his draws. One paper called him the most beloved benefactor in all of Houston, an altruistic horn-blower and enthusiastic supporter of the human spirit. People high up in such organizations as the March of Dimes, the American Diabetes Association, Al-Anon, Alzheimer's Research, AIDS Research, Cancer Research, Farm Aid, the Red Cross, Disaster Relief Fund of Greater Houston, Advocates for the Homeless-”You name it,” said one official.
So, who could hate a guy like this? wondered Stonecoat as he moved about the kitchen, looking for exactly what he didn't know.
Hate was the operative word-passionate hatred or fear.
You didn't dismember someone after blowing a three-centimeter hole through his heart because you liked the guy. Maybe there was some irrational maniac involved, one whose fear of Mootry was so great that he must completely and utterly destroy the man to be free of his hatred or fear or both. In the legends spoken of by old men of his tribe, Lucas knew the steps one took to completely annihilate an enemy. You cut out his heart, you take his vital power-the privates-and you lay waste to his limbs and head, and to be doubly sure such a powerful enemy could not resurface, you buried each part in separate secret locations.
Lucas Stonecoat wondered if he might be seeing the work of another Indian. There were all manner of American Indians living in the Southwest and Texas vicinity. There were, besides those on his home reservation, the Tonkawa, Tawakoni, Atakapa, Karankawa, and Coahiltec to the south, the Kichai and Waco to the north, the Apache, Commanche and Llanero all to the west, small pockets of all these peoples having at one time or another found their way back to Texas lands they considered theirs. This being the case, was one of Mootry's big fund- raising efforts in any way attached to a cause that might have embraced or disowned the American Indian?
At any rate, Mootry had to have had some contact previously with his killer. It was looking more and more to Lucas like a family thing or a revenge killing, but Mootry's “family” extended to an untold number of guests regularly invited into his home.
According to reports, police and servants, nothing was removed from the mansion, which ruled out theft as a motive. Besides, how many second-story men carried cross bows around with them? Lucas wondered who most benefited from the old man's demise; to whom did his estate and holdings fall? He made a mental note to check into this, a simple enough matter if he could get his hands on the case file, as it would likely finger the same recipient as Amelford's chief suspect at the moment: he who benefits most from another's death. A standard procedure in wrongful deaths and homicides.
Still, something didn't smell right, feel right or taste right about this case; this didn't seem a standard case, so following standard measures might be a waste of time and effort.
One thing was obvious. It was a premeditated homicide, quite possibly a contract killing. The question was, who took out the contract and who carried it out?
Lucas looked about the kitchen just as he had the other rooms, even glancing into the large walk-in freezer, primarily concerned with eyeballing anything out of the ordinary. Nothing looked amiss. He saw no glasses, silverware or dishes in any of the seven or eight sinks. He next opened one of the dishwashers. It was completely empty, as was the second he glanced into. Opening the third, it too appeared empty, except for two glasses with long stems. They were, in fact, crystal goblets, most likely used for sipping brandy or wine. On closer inspection, they appeared to be ornate Waterford crystal, born in fire.
This reminded him of the two coasters in the living room that were not stacked with their counterparts. Lucas began searching the cabinets for the most expensive glassware, and when he came to one cabinet, he found a set of twenty-two goblets identical to the two in the dishwasher.
Most people, even the idle rich, knew better than to place such expensive glassware into an automatic machine; most such easily breakable glassware was cleaned and polished by hand. Would a servant working for Judge Mootry make such a mistake?
If Mootry knew his killer, and if he actually had shared wine or brandy with the assailant, then perhaps he was immobilized by something placed in his drink. After the killing, the assailant may have wiped the goblets clean of any fingerprints and placed them out of sight by putting them into the dishwasher. Even this, if it were true, told Lucas something about the killer: that he was of a cool mind when he left, that he went about his work in a methodical manner, that he was no young street punk or disorderly minded individual who stumbled in for sex with the judge and in a moment of passion decided to kill him. In the bowl of one of the goblets, there might remain trace residue of a sleeping potion.
Lucas heard the sound of a number of voices Filtering through the huge house. He found a window that looked out over the drive and saw that there were new arrivals; possibly Amelford, his partner, more evidence techs with their electronic Magna brushes and infrared cameras in search of a blood trail or a usable print. Or the newcomers might be all of the above, returning from dinner together. Whoever it was, he didn't want to meet them, not here and not like this. The guy at the door had by now mentioned the fact that Jack Plumber had arrived from Dallas.
His hands still gloved, Lucas quickly but carefully pinched first one and then the other crystal goblet between his finger and thumb, delicately placing each into its own plastic bag, which he'd found in one of the cabinet drawers. He concealed each goblet in his sports coat pockets.
The others were coming, he could hear their approach, the sound like a replay of his pounding heart. He enjoyed the moment.
He quickly replaced everything and shut all cabinets and the dishwasher; next he located a back door out of the kitchen, which freed him into a series of other rooms and passageways until he was returned to the ballroom. There he rushed for the curtained windows, and behind the heavy burgundy drapes, unlatched one of the doors, praying no alarm would be set off, certain the fools had been sure to turn off any alarms before they'd begun their investigation-if any had been turned on by the killer.
No alarm sounded, and he felt the rush of Houston's hot, humid wall of air rush in at him as if its life depended upon getting inside. He held firm to the door and carefully eased it closed. Silently, he moved away from the house, taking a shadowed path around to where he'd left his car.
It looked as if he'd make it out of here, if the cop at the house hadn't yet radioed ahead to his partner at the gate.
He made a long sweep around the premises, and he could see that the search for him had advanced through the house; lights were going on even in some upstairs rooms. Hearing a footfall, knowing someone was skirting the perimeter in search of him now, Lucas crouched beside a hedgerow. When the man came into view, Lucas recognized him as the uniformed young man at the door. As soon as he was near enough, Lucas placed the cold steel of his. 38 against the nape of the kid's neck, making him start.
“Shut up and listen.”
“Are you nuts, Plumber?”
“Shut up, I said.”
The kid complied.
“Drop your weapon and kick it away.”
He did as told once again.
“Radio the gate that everything is okay here, and your pal's to let Plumber exit peacefully.”
The kid hesitated.
“Do it, damn you!” He cocked his weapon and rested it again at the base of the kid's brain. He intentionally allowed the weapon to shiver as if he were nervous. The feel of the muzzle lightly shaking and raising the kid's hairs was enough to convince him.
“All right, all right…” The young cop made the call and repeated precisely what Stonecoat wanted without hesitation or a quiver in his voice.
“Well done and good night,” Stonecoat pronounced, striking a blow that sent the kid into unconsciousness. “Sorry, kid,” he apologized as he stepped over the young man.
He quickly made his way to his car, got in, and started away, bringing his headlights up on the gate, where already the partner had hit the electronic gate opener. The gates rolled back, the open streets of Houston welcoming Lucas back into their anonymity.
He casually waved to the gatekeeper, who waved back, and Lucas felt the weight of the crystal wine goblets
