The Burial Place Read online

  THE BURIAL PLACE

  A ROB SOLIZ & FRANK PIERCE MYSTERY

  Larry Enmon

  This book is dedicated to all of my fallen brothers and sisters of the Houston Police Department (1975–1981). Some died from violence, some from accidents, and some from their own hands. You were the heroes. The rest of us—just survivors.

  Acknowledgments

  Few good books are written alone. I am indebted to a number of people.

  Thanks: To my daughter, Natalie Enmon Mobley, for the Christmas gift that provided the spark of inspiration and for reading the original draft.

  To Allen Holtz (Ret. DPD- CIU), Anna Davis, Kelli Grant, Walt Baty, and Zana Tidwell for reading and offering valuable suggestions for various versions of the manuscript.

  To my editors, Tex Thompson, Leslie Lutz, and Anne Brewer, for their magic with words.

  To my agent, David Haviland, of the Andrew Lownie Literary Agency, for believing in the project.

  To Jenny Chen and the staff of Crooked Lane Books for being easy to work with.

  And, last but not least, to the DFW Writers’ Workshop for their critiques and encouragement.

  1

  Katrina’s terror grew with each passing hour. There was no way to tell how far they’d traveled or in which direction. She struggled with the tape that bound her hands behind her back. Her left shoulder ached from the strain.

  The tape over her mouth and eyes had at first sent her into rounds of wild panic—hyperventilating to the point of almost passing out—but she’d gotten control of her senses and begun to study her predicament. The long, smooth road probably meant they were on a freeway. They had stopped only once, for less than a minute, not long after taking her. It still had to be dark. They’d snatched her out of her car a little after eleven o’clock. It had been no more than two or three hours since then.

  Where were they going? To a place they could torture, rape, and eventually kill her? She shook uncontrollably, dread building. The diesel engine’s growl decreased and the motion of the truck slowed. They’d stopped—no, they’d just turned right. They kept moving, but more slowly. If she could just shout or make some noise, this might be her best chance for rescue. But she couldn’t. The one lying beside her made sure of that.

  He hadn’t uttered a sound since they’d thrown her in the back of the old brown pickup with the camper shell. He’d held her down for the first few minutes, as if he expected her to bounce up and try to run. After they made the quick stop and got on the long smooth road, he’d lessened his grip, but his hands still moved over her body. His coarse fingers stroked one breast under her T-shirt until her nipple was raw. A couple of times his hand drifted down to her shorts. The jagged fingernails stroked the waistband, and once explored just below the elastic, but then withdrew. As if he was waiting for permission from someone.

  Her biggest worry, the one she couldn’t shake, was the odor. They lay on an old mattress or quilt that reeked of mildew, urine, and vomit. Others had lain there, gone where she was going. Her stomach churned, and she fought the urge to puke. With her mouth taped, she’d choke to death. But the other overpowering smell that sent chills up her back was an old one.

  As a young girl, she’d once gone deer hunting with her dad. After the day’s hunt, all the deer were dressed and the meat shared among the hunters at the camp. She’d watched the tall man with the sharp knife haul the deer up by its antlers in the tree. She’d stood a little too close as he gutted it, and when the intestines spilled into the five-gallon bucket, the odor had hit her like a hammer. The smell of blood and death. That same stench that filled her nostrils now.

  2

  Franklin Pierce leaned against the boxing ring in the Dallas police gym and watched Roberto Soliz pummel his sparring opponent. Roberto always sparred on Mondays. The ringing of free weights slamming onto a bar and the whine of exercise bikes and treadmills along the far wall reminded Frank of why he hated gyms. The smell of body odor and people grunting had never enlivened him. His last trip here had been for in-service self-defense training fourteen months before. Way too soon to return.

  Roberto and his partner danced more than fought. Each bounced around the ring, probing the other guy’s weak side. This was a predictable story. The officer was ten years younger than Roberto but not as experienced. He kept falling for the fake jabs. Frank lifted his jacket sleeve and checked his watch. When he looked up, Roberto’s eyes met his. Frank tapped his wrist and motioned toward the door.

  Sweat dripped from Roberto’s twice-broken nose and ran down the sides of his short black hair. He’d worn that high and tight haircut since his Marine days. Frank shifted from one foot to the other and gazed around. This whole exercise thing was a waste of time. He looked back at the ring in time to see Roberto fake with a right hook and nail the guy hard with a left uppercut. He fell straight on his butt and looked up with a “Where did that come from?” expression. Roberto tucked his right glove under his left armpit and jerked his hand out. He strolled to the defeated man and helped him up.

  “That was good. You’re getting better, Randy. Same time next Monday?”

  The guy wiggled his jaw, testing it. “Sure. See you then.”

  Roberto marched to Frank’s corner, slipping off the other glove, mouth guard, and headgear. He dropped everything in a pile and accepted a bottle of water from Frank.

  “You’re faster than most Mexicans,” Frank said.

  With sweat dripping off his chin, Rob downed a couple of long swallows and screwed the cap back on an empty bottle. He tucked his Saint Michael medal back inside his T-shirt. Still breathing hard, he asked, “What’s going on, cracker?”

  “Terry wants to see us in his office at nine, and we all have a meeting with Edna five minutes after that.”

  Rob ran his hand down his face and wiped it on his trunks. “What’s the deal?”

  “No idea. I got the call ten minutes ago. Figured I’d find you here.”

  Rob checked the oversize clock on the wall and twisted his neck a couple of times. “Forty-five minutes then. Okay, I’ll meet you there.”

  Frank turned to leave, but looked back. He sniffed in Rob’s direction. “Use extra soap today.”

  Walking to the door, Frank wondered what this meeting was about. He and Rob hadn’t crossed the line in weeks.

  Besides, working criminal intelligence wasn’t real police work. More about spying on criminals. Frank enjoyed it because of the mental exercise and the fact that Rob was his partner. They worked well together, and he counted him as one of his best friends. One of his best friends? Hell, I don’t really have any other friends. Lots of coworkers and acquaintances, but no friends.

  No two people could have been less alike. They both had over fifteen years in the department, but that’s where the similarities ended. Rob was short and stocky with a weightlifter’s physique, Frank tall and skinny with light brown hair worn a little too long. Rob, married for over twenty years with a son and daughter; Frank, forty-one and unmarried. Yeah, they were the Mutt and Jeff of the department.

  He took the elevator up one floor and stepped inside the Criminal Intelligence Unit, which greeted him with its usual hum. Familiar voices, phones ringing, and detectives typing always relaxed Frank. Other than his home, this was his favorite place. He drew in a long breath, happy to breathe fresh air again. How do people stand those nasty gyms? Other than yoga, he got no exercise at all. People probably thought him odd, but he didn’t care. He was comfortable in his skin. Everyone in the department got a reputation sooner or later. Rob was the golden gloves champion for the boxing team. Frank held the record for the cadet having the highest academic score in the history of the Dallas Police Academy. He was proud of that.

  He had one other recor
d. The most decorated officer still alive. The Nelson Park incident had given him that one. And he wished it had never happened.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, Rob checked his reflection in the shiny elevator door on the way to the fourth floor. He tucked his white dress shirt tighter into his gray Western-cut pants and adjusted the blue blazer on his shoulders. Rubbing the top of each cowboy boot on the calf of the opposite leg wasn’t exactly a spit shine, but good enough. When the doors opened, he marched into the CIU area. He scanned the cubicles and found Frank typing, as usual.

  Rob dropped his jacket over the back of his chair and slid into the adjoining cubicle. He lifted his head toward Sergeant Terry Andrews’s glass office. Few supervisors measured up to Terry. A twenty-one-year veteran, he held the respect of all his detectives. When he gave you an assignment, you felt you were working with him, not for him.

  The door was open and Terry had the phone snugged to his ear. Terry glanced at Rob, his customary smile missing. That can’t be good. Terry nodded in agreement to something the caller said and scribbled on a notepad.

  Rob swung his chair to Frank, who was still typing away. He had to be the most laid-back guy on the force. Never dressed up. Still looked as if he worked the Vice Unit. His standard polo and Dockers were his idea of business formal.

  “We in trouble?” Rob asked.

  Frank stopped typing and peered in his direction. “Dunno. Maybe.”

  Frank was being Frank again. About as gabby as a deaf-mute. Rob shifted in his chair and tried recalling what they’d done lately—nothing. They’d worked a visiting foreign dignitary with State Department Security last week, and the week before had been part of a surveillance team on a biker gang. Their “We’d rather beg for forgiveness than ask permission” attitude sometimes led to misunderstandings. They considered department regulations more as suggestions, never to interfere with a good investigation. If this stupid meeting is about that food court thing …

  Rob caught another glimpse of Terry. He had stopped writing and was massaging his brow and temple with his free hand.

  “Hey, Frank.”

  “Huh?”

  Rob leaned closer to the short cubical wall. “Terry has the look.”

  Frank never missed a key as he asked, “What look?”

  “You know, the ‘time for an ass-chewing’ look.”

  Frank craned his neck in Terry’s direction. “Probably just has gas.”

  Rob glanced over his shoulder in time to see Terry hang up and motion them to his office. “Okay, show time,” Rob whispered. He put his coat on and got up.

  Frank yawned and stood. He left his gold jacket hanging on the back of the chair and followed. He always got a pass from supervisors. Medal of Valor officers in Dallas PD got the same respect as Medal of Honor recipients in the military.

  The comforting aroma of fresh-brewed coffee welcomed them when they strolled into Terry’s office. Terry always kept a small pot going. He poured a little into his mug and held it up. “Coffee?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Rob said.

  Frank shook his head.

  “Grab a seat.” Terry handed Rob a steaming cup before closing the door.

  Rob liked Terry’s office. It felt like home. The standard family photos were on display, as well as the commendations and decorations you’d expect. What you didn’t expect was what gave it character. A half dozen oil paintings depicted rural central Texas vistas, the most prominent being a huge canvas behind Terry’s desk featuring an ancient live oak in a field of bluebonnets.

  Terry sat down and looked from one to the other. He had that nervous smirk that meant there was something uncomfortable to discuss. Rob called it his shit-eating grin.

  “So … what have you guys been up to?”

  Frank didn’t acknowledge the question. He slid into his slouch position.

  Rob cleared his throat. “Not much, just work—you know.”

  Terry lowered his head and ran fingers through his thinning hair. He looked up. “Do you know who’s in Edna’s office?”

  “No,” Rob said.

  “The major and deputy chief. And Edna wants to see us after they leave.” Terry’s eyebrows rose as he leaned closer to the pair. “What’s going on?”

  Rob sipped his coffee. “Honest, we haven’t a clue. Thought you knew.”

  Terry’s gaze shifted to Frank. “Is that the story you’re staying with?”

  Frank sat up and returned the stare. “For once we’re innocent.”

  Terry blew out a breath and leaned back in his chair, setting his coffee mug on his slim midsection. “That’s a relief.” He craned his head to the left and frowned, staring out the glass past them. They both looked around as the division major and deputy chief stalked out of Edna’s office toward the elevator. She stood in the doorway and gazed across the open cubicle area toward them. Edna beckoned with her index finger; she wasn’t wearing her happy face.

  Terry stood. “Let’s go. You know that if there’s anything you need to say, it’s better for all of us to tell her before she lays out her case against you, right?”

  Rob had a final sip and stood. “We got nothing.”

  Terry turned to Frank. He only shrugged.

  They wormed their way around the cubicles to Edna’s office. Frank brought up the rear. About halfway there, he began reciting Psalm 23:4. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil…”

  The back of Terry’s neck glowed red.

  “You’re a real funny guy, Frank. Real funny,” he said. He stopped at Edna’s door and allowed them to enter first, giving Frank the stink eye.

  Lieutenant Edna Crawford stood as they entered, her hair up in her signature tight bun. Edna’s five-foot-ten-inch frame put her at at least eye level with most officers, and she towered over Rob. She held the distinction of being the best-liked supervisor in the department. The fact that she’d made lieutenant after only ten years had less to do with her gender and race and everything to do with her competence and management abilities. She was the first black female lieutenant to lead criminal intelligence at Dallas PD. Unlike Terry’s office, which had a relaxed, homey feel, her space was all business. Decorations, commendations, and awards hung in tight formation on the walls, as did her diploma from Texas A&M in criminal justice. The only indication that she might have a private life was a five-by-seven photo on the desk of her, her husband, and two young daughters at Jackson Square in New Orleans. Edna’s light-brown complexion seemed better suited to the Mediterranean than Texas.

  She motioned Rob and Frank to the sofa on her right.

  “Terry, close that door, please.”

  Terry shut the door and sat in the chair across from her. Edna dropped into her executive seat, her wrinkled brow and pained gaze an ominous sign. Rob’s gut tightened when she began reviewing pages of handwritten notes, probably from the previous meeting. Her expression twisted into a frown.

  Rob glanced at Frank, who looked as if he might drop off at any time. Finally, Edna raised her head.

  “We have a little problem.”

  Terry sucked in a long breath and held it while she continued.

  She dropped the papers on the desk and eyed him. “The mayor’s daughter is missing and we’ve been instructed to find her.”

  Terry exhaled. “That’s it?”

  Edna’s brow furrowed and she pursed her lips. “What, that’s not enough?”

  Terry flashed his shit-eating grin. “No, what I meant was—never mind.”

  She scanned the notes again. “Apparently there was a big row at the mayor’s house last Thursday night. He, his wife, and their teenage daughter really got into it over her boyfriend. It seems they don’t approve of him. Anyway, she stormed out saying she was driving to Austin the next day to spend the weekend with him and to not bother calling, because she wouldn’t answer.”

  “How did we get all this information?” Terry asked.

  Edna laid the notes on her desk an
d picked up her stress ball, giving it a long squeeze. “When she didn’t show up Sunday night, they got worried. She didn’t answer calls or text, and her apartment looks like no one’s been there for several days. The mayor met with the chief and asked him to look into it.”

  Terry crossed his legs and interlaced his fingers. “I’m still not clear on why CIU’s handling this. This is a Missing Persons case.”

  Edna bit her lip. “That’s where things get complicated. It’s the mayor’s congressional race. He’s slightly ahead in the polls—wants to stay there. Better-than-average chance he’ll be the next congressman from this district. The chief feels keeping him in our corner is in the department’s best interest.”

  Frank spoke up for the first time. “And the mayor doesn’t want this to become a distraction to wreck his family-values platform.”

  Edna cocked her head. “Something like that.”

  “I’m still not following what this has to do with us,” Rob said.

  Her eyes narrowed and her lips stretched into a tight line. “The mayor wants to keep this quiet and discreet, at least until they know whether there’s a real problem or if she’s just laid up somewhere with a friend, sulking. I guess he’s not willing to bet his future political career on the whims of a flaky teenage girl.” She eyed Rob and Frank. “You two have to find her.”

  The tension had begun building between Rob’s shoulders as soon as he heard the word mayor. By the time he heard the words flaky teenage girl, that tension had become a hammer. If there was one thing he hated, it was family drama. He rubbed his face and closed his eyes. “Why us?”

  Edna rolled the ball between her palms. “Your background in Homicide and SWAT, and Frank’s in Missing Persons and Vice, provides the right combination of investigative experience. Also, you’re in CIU. We’re keeping this in-house for now.” Edna had that smug look that indicated she didn’t want any arguments.

  When Frank said, “You didn’t choose us, did you?” her expression changed. She’d been found out.