“Deal”.
As they were about to leave, Sergeant Kelton stopped Stonecoat in his tracks. “We got some settling up to do, mister.”
“Sergeant,” began Dr. Sanger.
“Ma'am, this is between Officer Stonecoat and me, ma'am.”
“It's Doctor, Sergeant,” she countered, “and at the moment, Officer Stonecoat and I are working on special assignment for Captain Lawrence. If you've got a beef, take it up with Lawrence.”
He just stared at her, chewing on his next move. Then he stepped aside and watched them, his intent narrow eyes never leaving them as they disappeared out the door.
Damn it, thought Kelton, this means I gotta find someone else to hold the keys to the Cold Room today. I wonder if Lawrence has a clue to the workload that goes by the wayside when he does shit like this. I wonder if Commander Bryce has any idea what goes on. Wonder if I should call Bryce on such petty matters. Maybe he'd give it some thought over a cup of coffee.
But the coffee didn't help Kelton's disposition any. Soon after, he stalked off to see if he could shake anything loose from Captain Lawrence as to what gives with letting the Indian run in and out as freely as if he were a full- blown detective. Besides, he didn't like things going on in the precinct he knew nothing about.
For one, it wasn't fair-not if he was responsible for the duty logs.
Hempstead in Waller County was a picture-perfect, quiet little town with white picket fences, red mailboxes, lovely farms, schools and churches, not a one of which was in ill repair or need of painting. It was as if the town provided the paint. There were no overturned trash cans, discarded sofas, abandoned bikes, or a scrap of paper out of place, and this without a single warning sign about littering. The grass was greener, the sky bluer, the paint on the homes newer than any place Lucas Stonecoat had ever seen. There were no broken-down hovels, no ramshackle shacks, no ancient automobile relics or appliances on people's lawns or porches. It was as if those who'd dared these transgressions in the past were immediately run out of town. The main roads were narrow and the lines freshly painted.
Only the state penitentiary on the outskirts of town detracted from the Disney appearance of the place.
“You'd never know the place was once called Six-shooter Junction, would you?” she asked.
“No, but I've heard that it once was. That it was a wild and woolly place for decades after the Civil War.”
The rolling hills south of Hempstead were settled as early as 1821, but today only scattered historical markers, many hidden by time, told the story. In 1857 it became the terminus for the Houston amp; Texas Central Railroad, an early small-gauge train line that tooted across much of Waller County before expanding north to Bryan-College Station. During the Civil War, the railroad made Hempstead a major supply and troop depot for Confederate brigades, and at the cessation of hostilities, Confederate soldiers made their long walk home from Hempstead. Hempstead had also been the geographical turning point in Texas's war for independence from Mexico. Sam Houston's retreating forces camped and regrouped here from March 31 to April 14, 1836, before beginning their final aggressive march on San Jacinto and ultimate victory over Santa Ana and the Mexican army.
Hempstead had obviously awakened to its past, all the historical houses, buildings, and the old railroad station having been refurbished and freshly decked out, some now open to the public, some soon to be.
As they found Junction T-6 at US 290, they saw the old railroad hotel, the Hempstead Inn, originally built in 1901, now fully restored and open for business and serving lunch and dinner. The old place beckoned as they passed by.
The only blot on the entire area was the dull red-bricked, looming fortress and guard towers of the newly constructed penitentiary, which came into sight on the horizon after acres upon acres of fenced-in land that the state had bought up as a kind of buffer zone between Hempstead and its new neighbor.
It was to the gates of the medieval-looking yet modern brick facility that they drove. They were stopped at the guard station, where a display of their credentials got them waved through.
On the inside, they waited impatiently, anxiously for John “Jack” T. Covey, former Houston cop now serving time for abduction, lewd and lascivious acts with a minor, pornography, and child abuse. The man had been close to retirement, a life-crisis period for all cops, Meredyth told Lucas in a feeble attempt to explain his reckless lifestyle when he was apprehended. A good pension and clean record, all lost, everything having blown up in his face due to his sexual addiction and proclivities, or so it went. Lucas wasn't so sure that justice had been served in the case, finding Covey's partner's death, atop all else, rather a strange coincidence, both men conveniently out of the way, perhaps so that someone, somewhere could sleep better at night.
The moment Covey stepped into the interrogation room, he went on the defensive. A big bull of a man, he looked like King Rat here, his muscles bulging so that his prison shirt pulled and tugged with each movement he made. He obviously took great care of his physical health, and for a man his age, he seemed incredibly fit. His eyes were an icy gray steel, and they bored into Lucas as he asked Meredyth,
“What's he for? I thought you wanted to talk cozy-like, just the two of us. Jack don't fancy talking to no one else. Get 'im outta here, or Jack don't talk.” He referred to himself in the third person.
“We're partners,” she countered. 'This is Detective Lucas Stonecoat.”
“HPD? I don't deal with HPD, no, never.”
“Dallas,” lied Lucas, quickly showing his gold shield from Dallas.
“DPD, HPD… where's the difference? You're all scum.”
“Hold on, there.” Lucas's voice rose an octave, but Meredyth stood and stepped between the two men.
“Now look here, Mr. Covey.”
“Jack, he likes to be called Jack,” Covey replied, “sweetheart. What's wrong, you afraid to be in a room alone with Jack?”
“No, Jack, but my partner has to know what I know. You've got to remember how it was with you and Felipe.”
“Felipe got himself killed knowing what I know. You want me killed?”
“You help us, Jack,” she countered, “and we'll see your sentence is reduced, and you'll be out of here a great deal sooner than you could ever hope for through any other avenue.”
“I'd be out by now if Jack hadn't made that stupid getaway attempt.” He grinned at her, searching for some sign of understanding.
She tried to assure him that she was on his side. “I know that, but this is no stupid getaway attempt. Work with us.”
He again suspiciously eyed Stonecoat.
“Sit down,” she suggested.
“I could be murdered in my sleep just for talking to you people,” he muttered. “I told everyone inside that Jack was talking to a shrink about his problem. Jack even showed around a picture of you, darling.”
“A picture of me?” She was surprised, and Stonecoat was equally surprised.
“I still get the Police Gazette, sweetheart, and Jack can read. Read it from cover to cover. Guys in the joint think he's screwy, but we all know better, don't we, Doctor? Jack tells 'em on the inside that there's a lot to learn from the Gazette, and I particularly enjoyed your article on-”
“ 'The Psychology of Pedophiles and Interrogation Techniques,' yes.”
“Yeah, gave him a thrill, a whole new insight.”
“Insight into himself, or how better to behave during an inquiry, you mean?”
Covey gave a broken-toothed, tobacco-stained, loose-lipped laugh as his response. He appeared to have disgusting habits, despite an otherwise solid, masterful physique. He looked as if he'd had his nose broken on more than one occasion. Stonecoat sensed it was best to keep silent, to let Meredyth work her unique magic with this cretin.
'The article gave Jack plenty of insight-insight into you, Meredyth.” He looked up at Stonecoat, glaring, still feeling he'd been cheated of his private moment with this celebrity, Meredyth Sanger. “You show guys like Jack a great deal of… of genuine… compassion. Jack likes a girl with compassion, understanding, you know?”
'That article was about cop psychology and how foolishly some cops treat pedophiles, that in treating them as untouchable monsters, they easily lose the upper hand in interrogating the pedophile. It was about a cop's need to distance him self from the emotional constraints of a crime that involves children, not about-”
“It spoke volumes to Jack,” he countered, his hand having almost imperceptibly slithered across the table
