Bone Cold
Chapter One
The plumber had been working for more an hour. Marie Scoffito glanced at her watch and visualized hundred-dollar bills fluttering off like butterflies.
"Ma'am, this house's got some old plumbing. The pipes look like they're held together with dental floss and toothpaste. How long've you owned this place?" On his knees, the man monitored a small round gauge attached to a backyard spigot. In the midst of a pressure test to determine if the house had a water leak, he seemed content to chat a bit. Marie had things to do. She wanted him to finish up and leave.
"It's old, but it has good bones," she said, coming to her home's defense. A petite woman with thick black hair and meticulously manicured eyebrows, Marie forced an uncomfortable smile, the kind teachers gave students who disappointed on tests. "We just bought it last year."
"These old places are money pits," the plumber said. He wiped the sweaty sheen from his forehead with the back of his hand and grinned at her, as if he'd just said something insightful. When she didn't respond, he incorrectly interpreted it as an invitation to elaborate. "There's always something with a place this old. Some of 'em have electrical issues. Copper pipes that leak. I bet this place costs y'all a fortune in repairs."
He was right, but Marie didn't want to hear it.
"How old is this place?" he asked.
"Built in nineteen thirty-six," she answered, and he let out a long whistle. She thought again that he should stop talking and focus on the plumbing issue. The water bill was ridiculous, so somewhere the house had to have a leak.
"I need to get to work," she said, to shut down the conversation. "Please remember that I absolutely have to leave by one o'clock. I have a client to meet."
"We'll try to make that work," he said, grinning up at her.
"It has to work," she said, a firm edge to her words.
Once inside the house, Marie opened her briefcase and pulled out a bundle of papers, stacks of two or three stapled pages with color photos and text, listings for houses in the area. A real estate agent, she had a client flying in from California, an engineer being transferred in by a big tech company. Based on their phone conversations, Marie sensed the guy had a giant ego. Selling his house outside San Jose, he'd be flush with cash. In comparison to housing costs in the Silicon Valley, the prices in Houston would seem dirt cheap.
Marie thought about the prospects. Her agent friends called such clients "easy pickings."
In the stack, Marie had six listings with appointments to show, all within five miles of her own house. Just north of downtown's mirrored skyscrapers, the Heights was a patchwork of tree-shaded streets that once consisted of rambling Victorians and tidy Arts & Crafts cottages like Marie's, many dating back to the early 1900s. Proximity to the city's center, an easy drive to the ritzy Galleria shopping district, and not far from the world-renowned Texas Medical Center, the location made the property the houses sat on golden.
For the past decade or more, builders had often purchased houses in the Heights for their land. Tear-downs gave way to tony townhomes, posh condos, and flashy McMansions on postage-stamp lots. Prices spiraled, padding the wallets of those who'd invested early. Unfortunately for Marie and her husband, Bart, they'd bought at the crest of the boom and shelled out top dollar. Lately, prices had turned soft, and properties sat on the market, a trend Bart pointed out regularly.
"We just need to sell this pile of boards," he'd said to her that morning over English muffins and marmalade. "Third repairman we've had out this week, the electrician, now the second plumber. The plumbing's never been right, not since we moved in."
Despite the present setbacks, Marie insisted that the market would rebound. When the argument cropped up yet again, she'd held firm that the house would one day fund their retirement. "We've got an unusual property, one with a backyard big enough for a pool. We tear this old place down in a few years, build a two-story Colonial, and it'll be worth a fortune."
"Well, you're the expert," Bart said, doubt etching his brow. "But if we're going to live in this monstrosity until then, you need to find the leak. There has to be one. I'm convinced that I can smell mold."
At that, he'd kissed her on the cheek and left for the office.
That conversation had resulted in the call to the plumber and the pressure test that seemed to take forever. She glanced through the window out to the backyard and saw the man bend over to recheck the gauge. I wish he'd pull his damn pants up, she thought, turning away from the view of the pale, round moons of his exposed upper backside. What is it with these guys? Can't he feel the breeze?
Time passed, and Marie was tidying up the breakfast dishes when the man yelled toward the house. "Lady, you should take a look at this!"
"I'm kind of busy, can't you just…" she started, then thought better of it. She needed to do all she could to get him on his way. When Marie stood beside him, the plumber pointed at the gauge.
"The pressure's falling. Started at eighty PSI, but it's down to seventy-five." He shot her a glance that looked excited to be delivering bad news.
"That means?" she queried, arching her left eyebrow
.
"You've got a slow leak." He stood and yanked on his belt to reposition his pants snuggly under his basketball belly. "You want that I should find it?"
She thought about what Bart had said, that he worried about mold.
"Sure," she said, her tone doubtful. "But how do you do that?"
"No problem. I'm a plumber, remember. I'm kind of a leak detective." At that, the guy snickered.
Marie wished Bart was home to handle the problem. She thought about the house again, the constant repairs, and considered for the first time that perhaps her husband could be right. Maybe the old place presented too many problems to take on. Maybe curing all its ills would prove too costly. "Okay. But make it as quick as you can. Like I said, I have a client to see this afternoon."
The plumber's lips edged up, and she noticed a gold tooth gleam in the crevice between where his top lip met the bottom.
Moments later, he clomped overhead in the attic, while she sat at her laptop. Just on the off-chance that she decided to include it in the packet she showed her buyer that afternoon, she generated a listing sheet on her own house, adding photos she'd taken over the past months and typing in the address, description, and square footage. Under price, she bumped it up a hundred-and-fifty grand above what they'd paid. If the guy liked the house, that would make it worth moving.
Done, she set about picking things up, in case her buyer wanted to see it
.
The place looked respectable twenty minutes later, when the plumber stomped down the steps and disappeared inside the main bedroom. Wondering what he was up to, Marie followed and found him kneeling on the adjoining bathroom floor. He tapped lightly with his fist on the walls surrounding the toilet.
"Hear that?" he asked.
"What?"
"This is where your pipes are located. It's drywall." The guy stood up, again nonchalantly yanking up his pants. "What's weird is that the rest of the walls in this old place are plaster." After knocking on the adjacent walls, he asked, "Can you hear the difference?"
"I think so," she said. He did it again, pounded on the walls. She heard a dull thunk, thunk on the other walls, then a softer, kind of hollow sound when he tapped the wall behind the toilet.
"You know, when I was up in your attic earlier, I noticed that this section's floored. Someone nailed a board over it. Seems kind'a odd because the other areas over the plumbing are open." The guy scratched his head and then pointed at the wall in question. "What's on the other side?"
Marie glanced to her right. "My closet."
"Mind if I take a look?"
Minutes later, he crouched on the closet floor. Marie watched as he tapped on the wall and mumbled. "This is drywall, too. And something's off. The closet should be deeper."
Pulling a stained blue-and-green plaid cotton handkerchief out of his pocket, he mopped his forehead. "I think I found your problem, but there's something weird."
"Please explain."
"The wall's damp around the baseboard. The plumbing for the toilet is in that wall. I think that's where your pipes are leaking."
"That doesn't sound unusual. What strikes you as odd?" She inwardly wished she didn't need to pull it out of him. Couldn't the man just say what was wrong?
"Well, it looks to me like at some point after this old place was built, someone walled off a couple feet of that closet."
"Why would anyone have done that? Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Pretty sure."
Marie let loose a long sigh. "What do you want to do?"
"Well, you've got a leak that we need to fix. So, we need to move some of your clothes out of the closet, give me room to work. Then I'll cut out a section of that drywall. We'll be able to see what's back there. Once I get in, I can find the leak and fix it."
"How large a hole?"
"Not so big," he said with a shrug. "You can bring in someone to patch it up later. I've gotta guy I can recommend."
The plumber grinned, and Marie frowned when she again saw that gold tooth. But what could she do? "You're sure the leak's back there?"
"I'm pretty sure that there's a leak back there. I can't guarantee it's the only one. You know, lady, this house is old. Stuff breaks."
Marie's lips curled in irritation. "We've discussed this before. I know my house is old." She fought to hold back the ball of anger churning in her chest. "I don't need you to remind me of that."
The plumber's eyes narrowed. "Well, just trying to make sure you understand the situation. What'd'ya want me to do?"
Marie helped the man move five feet of her hanging clothes out of the closet and formed a mound of dresses, pants and skirts on the bed. She piled her shoes on the floor beneath it, while the plumber went outside to his truck to grab more tools. When he returned, he wore a white surgical mask. She gave him a quizzical look, and he explained, "In case there's mold."
With a deep sigh, Marie plopped down on a chair near the bed. "How long do you think this will take? I do have that appointment to get to."
"You might want to push it back a couple of hours," he called out from the closet. "Or maybe your husband can come home until I finish this?"
"Geez," she murmured. "If it's not one thing. . ."
In the closet, the plumber sawed away at the drywall with a box cutter. It went quickly, until she heard him suddenly stop.
"Did you find it?"
He didn't answer."Did you find the leak?"
Again he said nothing.
Marie peeked inside the closet. On his knees, the man held a flashlight shining a funnel of light into a two-foot-square hole he'd cut into the wall. "Did. You. Find. The. Leak?" she demanded.
The plumber turned and looked at her, his eyes round orbs.
"Tell me! How bad is it? Do I have to redo the whole bathroom?"
The plumber's face had drained a mayonnaise white. He slid the mask down. "I found something."
"What do you mean?"
The man stood and then stepped back. He brushed past her as he hurried out of the closet.
"Oh, geez. You found mold, didn't you?" He kept running, and she followed him, shouting, "My husband said he could smell it. He's going to kill me if it's true."
The man turned back toward her, his face contorted into a glare. "Yeah, there's mold. But that's not the problem. There's some, but—"
"Oh, no. I knew it. Mold! My husband will be furious. He'll—"
"Lady, you've got bigger fish to fry. There's a…"
The man stopped mid-sentence, and Marie cocked her head to the side, questioning. "What? For God's sake, speak! What?"
"Lady, shut up, will ya?" the man's voice gravel, he gasped for breath. "Shut up and dial 911. Tell them to send a squad. Now!"
"The police? Why would I call the—"
"Tell the cops to come quick!" The plumber's voice hushed, and his eyes had a wild look, as if he fought an overwhelming urge to turn and run. In barely a whisper, he said, "What's in that wall…well…it's way out of my job description."
Chapter Two
"Lieutenant Armstrong, please refer again to the documents before you. I have additional questions about page two of your report, focusing on your activities during the hours leading up to the incident."
I glanced at the clock on the courtroom's back wall. Friday. Afternoon. Ten past four. I'd been on the witness stand for twelve hours—most of the previous day, then back at it this morning—with no end in sight. The silver belt buckle on my khakis bit into my waist. My left leg threatened to go numb. I wanted to shed my navy blazer, to stand and stretch, better yet walk out the door. I felt trapped, kidnapped, held without ransom, locked up without bars. Tortured. Two days of agony, and I'd answered the same questions framed and reframed. I couldn't believe the judge hadn't chastised the attorneys and moved the trial forward. Powerless, I could do nothing but endure and bide my time until it ended.
"Of course. I have it right here." I did my best to hide my irritation. Page two had become my albatross. How could something so innocent threaten to become my undoing?
To disguise my frustration, I managed a tepid smile. Although, I doubted that I needed to bother. The way the jurors fidgeted in the box, I suspected they too had grown weary and wondered if this inquisition would ever end. A woman in the front row fought to keep her eyes open, and a rotund man on the far end shifted in his chair.
The sturdy woman in the gray designer suit behind the defense table didn't seem to notice anyone's discomfort. This was war, and Emily Blalock had no desire to make anything easy on me. She saved all friendly glances and knowing looks for the jurors. At times, she eyed them conspiratorially, as if telegraphing: This woman isn't trustworthy. Don't believe her.
Seated next to Blalock, her client scribbled on a yellow legal pad. I wondered if he doodled or made notes about my testimony. A bored look on his mug, doodling seemed most likely.
"So, Lieutenant Armstrong, on page two, you wrote that you were off duty that evening and driving to your home after having had dinner with a friend. Isn't that true?"
I took a deep breath. "Yes. As I've explained, I met a former coworker, a fellow Texas Ranger, for an early supper. I'd missed his retirement party. I was out of town on a case, and—"
"Yes, so you said." Blalock cut in. Head bowed, she glanced up and razor-focused on me. "You'd been drinking?"
We'd been over this, but she wouldn't let it go. Perhaps she couldn't let it go. The state of my mind that evening offered her only wiggle room. If I'd been impaired, my judgment on the scene may have been compromised. If the jury believed that I was one hundred percent, her client undoubtedly faced a very bad outcome. "Yes. I was off duty. But I'd had less than one glass of wine with dinner."
"One glass?" Blalock's right eyebrow arched in disbelief.
"Less than one glass. As I said earlier, I didn't even finish it. I wasn't—"
"As you also said!"
In Houston legal circles, Emily Blalock had a reputation. Behind her back, folks in law enforcement called her Barracuda Blalock. She represented a lot of police officers, so rather than a slam, the nickname constituted a compliment. Cops didn't mind a flesh-eating fish if it attacked on their behalf. Courtroom legend had it that Blalock once brought a seasoned medical examiner to tears on the stand, making the physician recount over and over in graphic detail the horrendous injuries of a young mother of three—an innocent bystander—mowed down during a high-speed chase. Blalock was trying to get the ME to say the woman had an undiagnosed aneurysm in her aorta that would have eventually killed her anyway. Such a waste of a life. The offender being pursued turned out to be a sixteen-year-old kid afraid of getting his first speeding ticket.
The reason I was on the stand? I'd been called to testify on another senseless and disturbing death.