The Last Chance Olive Ranch by Susan Wittig Albert

Author:Susan Wittig Albert
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2017-03-07T16:11:58+00:00

Chapter Ten

MCQUAID

Late Friday Afternoon

Still thinking about his son and the girl with the tennis racquet, McQuaid took East Oltorf under the freeway to the Sonic Drive-In and ordered a burger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake. While he ate, he reminded himself that one kiss does not a long love affair make, and that they were only sharing a house. They weren’t married. And there was no point in dwelling on the situation. Brian would tell him what was going on when the boy was good and ready. Anyway, he had to think about tonight—assuming Royce came through with the contact information—and about his plan for luring Mantel out into the open where he could be captured. He clenched his jaw. Or shot. Five dead. This time, if the man stood in front of him, asking for it, he was likely to get it. Right between the eyes.

Finished eating, he doubled back under the freeway, made a left on the access road, and took the on-ramp, heading south on I-35. The gray clouds were grimly ominous, the wind was picking up, and an occasional brief shower splattered the windshield. He turned on the wipers, but they left muddy arcs across the glass. As he flicked the windshield washer on, he remembered that the Lions barbecue had been rained out the year before, and they’d had to reschedule. His Plan A would be scuttled if they were rained out again, and he had no Plan B. Irritated, he wished he’d paid more attention to the weather forecast.

He was still thinking of this when Harry Royce called.

“I dug out Mantel’s local connections. Two addresses in New Braunfels and San Antonio. If you still want them, I’ll email them.” Royce’s voice darkened. “Nobody says you have to do this, McQuaid. It’s your own private undertaking.”

“Understood,” McQuaid replied. Royce was right. Tracking down Max Mantel, putting him back where he belonged or—

Or whatever. It was his own private crusade. He checked his mirror, then swung out to pass a big yellow school bus that was trucking along at the speed limit, nearly seventy. It was empty, but it was still moving fast for a school bus. “Who are they? The local connections, I mean.”

“One of them is Mantel’s stepbrother,” Royce said. “A guy named Lester McGown, age thirty-seven, three priors. Two misdemeanor possession, one felony armed robbery. Lives on Chisholm Road, outside New Braunfels. I pulled the Huntsville prison visitation records. McGown is on the list. He saw Mantel about two weeks ago, and a couple of weeks before that.”

The inside of the windshield was fogging and McQuaid turned on the defroster. “So McGown might have been in on the escape,” he said. “And the shootings.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Royce was matter-of-fact. “I had a trooper do a drive-by on the Chisholm Road address. It’s a single-wide, looked to be occupied but nobody was home. If I had the manpower, I’d put somebody on the place.”

“I’ll get on it this evening,” McQuaid said. “Maybe I’ll have better luck.

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