Free Beneath Forbidden Ground by Doug McCall

and him, with the realization cold cases couldn’t grow much colder before Monday morning.
    Leaning over the steering wheel to peer through the windshield, he attempted to gauge the skies. The massive oaks lining the Crews’ driveway hid the heavens from view. He knew the weather forecast for the following day was spotty, but as long as thunderstorms kept their distance, he planned to be on his in-board fishing boat with his wife somewhere on Galveston Bay. He wanted to give her a day to enjoy before the uncertainties of the coming week.
     

 
     
    8
     
     
     
    Skies that threatened all weekend without opening up finally erupted Monday morning, and the rains set in. Scallion eased his car into a parking slot on a side street intersecting with Westheimer Road. Pressing a button to flip his fold-up umbrella open, he walked hurriedly around the corner, then into West End Studios to escape the onslaught.
    He carried with him the glow of the weekend spent with Marti. Deep-water fishing on the open waters of Galveston Bay Saturday seemed to have been a tonic for them both, leaving them with their usual pleasant exhaustion from the heat and breezy salt air. Later, at night, wanting to keep her close, he had invaded her space in bed, holding her snugly in his arms until she drifted off. He allowed himself only good thoughts about her future —their future, refusing any alternatives. They were selfish feelings, he knew, thinking only about the outcome of her looming surgery in terms of how it affected him. But there was no way to avoid it. She was his life.
    In spite of the lousy weather, it was easy to hold on to the memories of the last two days; his tender, reddened scalp was a constant reminder. It enabled him to keep his spirits high, giving him a determination to keep them elevated. But things wouldn’t work out that way, at least not at first.
    The art gallery was not large, made to look even smaller by the hap-hazard arrangement of small stands and easels displaying paintings of all sizes, all displaying ridiculous price tags. Some were landscapes, some still lifes, a few non-sensical abstracts, and a few portraits, all arranged in no logical order. He wondered if Otto Howorth had placed his work here. In addition to his many other interests, the man was an accomplished artist. On second thought, recalling that Howorth’s paintings were mostly western scenes, he didn’t see them as a good fit among these.
    Since it was barely past 9:00 a. m., the gallery’s opening time, there were only three people he could spot milling around; most likely employees.
    Getting the attention of the nearest, a rail-thin red-headed girl, wearing a large pair of glasses, the frames almost covering her face, he approached. “Pardon me, Miss. I’m looking for Brandon Newell.”
    She seemed to look right through him before answering. “Yes, just a minute,” she said without smiling, before gliding away toward the rear of the shop where the other two were, both of them men. She spoke in a whisper to the apparent older of the two, possessing a slick-bald head. He looked back in Scallion’s direction. Handing the painting in his hands to the younger man, he came forward, wearing a look indicating he was bothered by the early intrusion.
    “Yes, I’m Brandon Newell. May I help you?” Newell asked, with an air that indicated the early visitor was an unwelcome nuisance. He glanced at the floor around the visitor’s feet, horrified to see rain water dripping onto his carpeted floor.
    Scallion had an immediate dislike for the man. He was tall, perhaps six-four, with a long angular face, sporting ear-studs penetrating both lobes, not just one, as most men who chose such jewelry had. But it was the air of superiority that got to the detective, an attitude that told him this would not be a pleasant interview. Maybe it just went with the artsy-fartsy territory.
    “Hopefully. I’m Detective Pete Scallion, Harris County Cold Case unit.” He