Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip by Ben Rehder Page A

interview was getting them nowhere. He wondered if Garza would explore the fact that Scofield had disappeared in the same manner as Rita Sue’s husband. But the sheriff simply asked a few more questions. When was the last time you talked to Stephanie? Who are her closest friends? Can you name anyone she was dating recently? Nothing useful came from any of it.
    Ernie Turpin and Nicole Brooks had stayed behind at the office to take care of a few things, including calling David Pritchard. Brooks got him on the phone and asked if he knew Stephanie Waring.
    “Yeah, she’s another one of the car models. I met her at the fairgrounds in April. The chili cook-off. We were selling tickets there. Well, she and Vance were.”
    “What can you tell me about her?”
    “Like, in general terms?”
    “Sure.”
    “Very pretty girl. Kinda wild, I think. Kept asking me to buy her a beer.”
    “Did you?”
    “No, she’s underage.”
    “You said Vance Scofield was there?”
    “Yeah, he drove her over in the Corvette. I just stopped by to see how things were going. A friend of mine was in the chili contest. Got second place.”
    “Do you know if Vance and Stephanie were dating?”
    Pritchard laughed. “Like I told the sheriff, Vance did like to date them kind of young. But to answer your question, I don’t know for sure. I guess you should ask her.”
    “We would, but we’re having some trouble tracking her down.”
    “Oh. Oh. Okay, I see why you’re asking. You’re thinking Vance and Stephanie might be together.”
    “It crossed our minds. Or that Stephanie might be in possession of the Corvette.”
    “I don’t think so. At least not alone. Stephanie couldn’t drive a stick.”
    “The Corvette is—”
    “Yeah, one of those six-speed models. I remember Vance asking if she wanted to drive it around the parking lot, sort of stir up some interest, but she couldn’t handle the stick shift.”
    Buford liked the look of the Best Western motel in Johnson City. Big enough, with enough vehicles in the parking lot that they could keep a low profile. They were in the room now, queen beds, Buford leaning back against the headboard, boots off, sipping bourbon from one of those sorry foam cups you find wrapped in plastic next to the sink. At least the ice machine worked.
    Little Joe was sunk into a chair over by the air conditioner, drinking straight from the bottle. Buford knew the quart would be half gone before Joe’s eyelids would begin to sag. The little guy was the most wired-up man Buford had ever met, not counting druggies. Boy couldn’t hardly ever sit still. Always tapping a toe, drumming on the dashboard, something. Feisty as hell. Prone to violence.
    Buford had met Joe a couple years ago in the city lockup in Fort Worth, them sharing a cell overnight.
    “What’d they get you for?” Joe had asked him right from the get-go, sitting on one of the bunks, jiggling a leg.
    “Stopped me for speeding and tossed my car. Bullshit search, but they found a gun.”
    “All right. ” Joe grinned, apparently liking what he heard. “Me, it’s assault. I was selling dogs to this Korean guy with a restaurant. I went out to see him and—”
    “Whoa. Back up a sec.” Buford had been leaning against the wall, lighting a smoke, not paying much attention, but that caught his ear.
    “What?”
    “Selling dogs?”
    “Yeah, just strays I’d round up. I’d take ‘em to his house.” Joe said it like it was no big deal. Like delivering pizzas.
    “You’re saying this guy served dog meat in his restaurant?”
    Joe frowned. “Hell, I don’t know what he done with ‘em. Maybe he just liked dogs.”
    “How many’d you sell him?”
    “Couple dozen. Twenty bucks apiece.” Joe paused, waiting to see if Buford had more questions. Buford didn’t. “Anyways,” Joe said, “I took him this pointer mix, and he said it was too small. Seeing as how he was paying by the dog and not the pound, he wanted big ones only. That’s what he’d