High Alpha-Q: A Buck Duran Mystery: Buck Duran Mysteries, #1

By Robert Bogan

At the dawn of the digital age, a notorious beauty goes missing from the colorful live music scene in Austin, Texas. Mega-star Tom Brodie sends his bodyguard, Buck Duran, to help find her. In his search, Duran faces a variety of bizarre characters in and around the dynamic city. The trail leads to a ranch where Duran runs into a drug smuggling gang that preys upon the burgeoning high tech community in Austin. Violent foreign interests manipulate events and ignite an explosive climax. HIGH ALPHA-Q is a treacherous race through Austin's wild music scene that goes down a dark rat hole of espionage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Bogan
• Release date: May 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524224615

Book preview

HIGH ALPHA-Q

A Buck Duran Mystery

Robert Bogan

The Buck Duran Mysteries

High Alpha-Q

Odessa on Ice

Bonnell Vespers

Way Tight

Sisterdale Shadows

The Millennium Mash

Austin, Texas

April 1986

One

An olive uniform streaked past, within inches of Duran’s left shoulder. It darted around his car in a burst of headlight.

Rain blurred the windshield. Wiper sweep showed the officer run towards a white van near the dark intersection. He jerked open the rear door and leaned into the dawn rain, hand on holster. Three stringy brown men in canvas pants and loose cloth coats climbed down into driving rain.

A shape dived from the van and darted lizard-like up the sodden rise to the bogus ruins of the entry to Lost Oak, a housing tract packed with new mansions.

The officer stepped back, thrust out his pistol with both hands. Flash and blast shattered twilight.

Except for the rain, everything stopped for a heart thump. Then the runner tumbled down the muddy slide.

Dad, he shot him! gasped BB, Duran’s teenage daughter. She sat to his right in the passenger seat of the Fiero.

No shit! Duran whispered.

The light changed to green. Traffic sat stunned, headlights ripping through rain sheets. At last a horn blast, tires groped forward.

BB and her dad said nothing else on the rest of the drive to Westbank High School. She switched the radio off. They slowed past rows of rain-clean fender trim lining both sides of the road.

For Duran this meant the end of the day’s best hour. Every chance he had, most days, he picked up BB at her mother’s house and drove her to school. His brave and proper fifteen-year-old passenger balanced books and notebooks on her knee as they pulled into the circular drive.

What was all that about? she asked.

Guy got shot? Probably illegal. Duran mumbled. Shooter was INS.

Immigration? Why did he shoot that man?

I don’t know. He ran.

No reason to just shoot him like that. Can we do anything?

He thought about it. I’ll go back and check. Maybe, more to it than what we saw.

As they slowed, BB held her eyes on a group of students gathered under the sheltered entryway of Westbank High School.

Think about this weekend, she reminded him.

All right. Maybe I’ll drive up and see Rait today, but I’ll call you tonight. How much time we looking at?

We’ll leave Friday morning, come back Sunday afternoon, so that means Friday and Saturday night at the beach. The trash pick-up is on Saturday. Miss Childs said she’d keep in touch with the weather service, in case it stays bad. But we’ve got all week for it to clear up. Duran’s daughter looked at him. Find out what you can about the man that got shot. I’ll talk to you tonight.

When they stopped at the curb, BB opened the door. She smiled, said bye and slipped out.

On morning driveway duty Miss Childs, the biology teacher, glanced at Duran through the rain-streaked windshield. Trim navy blue suit and sharp black pumps gave her a hard edge but her gentle green eyes seemed to say, call me!

He thought about those eyes as he wheeled the Fiero back to the loop and joined outbound traffic. He switched the radio back on. Someone was singing about a blue highway.

Minus several of its temporary crew, the white van sat tilting on the shoulder of the steep ramp into the Lost Oak development. Already five patrol cars and an EMS truck were huddled in a cluster around the van, all two-hundred lights flashing.

Duran drove to the next crossover, spun a one-eighty, and drove back to the intersection. Pulling well off the pavement he parked off-kilter. It was fully daylight now. The rain’s force had diminished but still plenty came down. He reached behind the bucket seats for his maroon windbreaker and hat—a black straw highroller with a faded crazy-weave hatband.

His jeans drank rainwater as he walked toward the flashing lights in no hurry, hands at his side. He didn’t want anyone to see him as a threat, which happened on occasion. He could not count the times he had seen cops ease fist to pistol when he walked up.

And he walked up to cops all the time as security chief for a superstar.

There were a dozen uniforms engaged in the scene, all grim-faced but one, a young deputy who was chewing gum with nonchalant vigor. Duran caught the deputy’s eye and the deputy stepped out to block his path.

You have business here? Deputy popped his chin back.

Beyond him Duran could see the quick-draw INS officer standing near other deputies, attempting to smoke a cigarette. His hands were shaking and he looked like a kid trying to decide whether to cry. There were of course no tears visible.

Name’s Buck Duran. I’m a witness, He said to the deputy, sweeping spread-wide palms. Saw what happened here.

Yeah? What did you see, mister Doran?

INS was pulling workers, out of that white van? One jumps up and runs.

What a stinkin’ mess! Some punk freaks out and gets plugged, gives us all a zit. And there’s not much you can do about it. The deputy shook his head, and spoke under his breath: This town draws ‘em like flies to bull flop.

INS fired one shot, Duran went on. Looked like he was aiming low.

The deputy nodded. Winged him in the hip. He’ll limp but he’ll live. Tell me something. Did the officer yell a warning?

Duran reran the reel in his mind. Didn’t hear a shout, but it was raining hard and I was several cars back.

I see. Tell you what: Why don’t you wait a couple hours, call the Travis County Sheriff. Ask for Sergeant Denny. He may want to talk to you.

Anything I can do now?

We got more units be here any minute. You might ought to return to your vehicle and go on about your business. You have a good day.

The deputy spat his gum dismissively into the ditch and walked back toward the cluster of patrol cars.

Duran returned to his vehicle and went on about his business which meant, check in with the boss. Tossing wet hat and windbreaker in back, he dug out a Killer Bees tape and shoved it into the deck before keying the ignition.

The rain stopped before Duran crossed the Pedernales River. The hood of the black Fiero was almost dry when he angled off the highway at Spicewood and followed the one-lane blacktop that twisted through indigo hills of hickory and oak.

Before long, a weathered stone gate appeared on the left. Wrought iron ropes in the arch spelled out Las Águilas. He slowed and rolled the wheel. Just inside the gate the ranch foreman crabbed down from a battered Willys Jeep. He squinted up at the ragged gray sky as he limped stiffly towards the car.

Liable to start up again directly. Keeps ‘is up, all our cans gonna get full!

Morning, Rink, Duran said.

Boss wants to see you, Buck. Rink Barton rested a rough hand on the coupe’s low sheen.

You know what about? Duran asked.

Said to get on up there, soon as you back from town. One of the boys got him out of bed with something.

Duran slid the Fiero past his cabin, up the slippery trail to the main house at the top of the hill. An oil baron from Kilgore built the house in the 1930s as a retirement get-away for his wife and himself, but for decades the property lay abandoned. So country music star Tom Brodie got a bargain when he purchased the ranch for his own new bride, Lucia. It was Brodie’s third marriage, Lucia’s second. The new Mrs. Brodie rebuilt and refurnished the big house, and crowned it with the bright metal roof that came into view just now as Duran crested the hill. Rising above a stand of ancient live oaks, the limestone manse commanded a broad view of the Colorado River valley.

With seven gold and platinum records, Brodie was riding a wave of new wealth and fame in the mid-80s. As everyone knows, by the end of that decade Brodie lost everything he possessed including Lucia. And Duran lost his job as bodyguard, but we’ll go into that some other time.

Assorted vehicles were scattered under the oaks near the big house. He parked alongside a vintage VW van and entered through French doors that led to the trophy room, remembering not to bump his head on the lintel.

Sonny Ritter was there, sitting near the big limestone hearth where a fire flickered from November to April. Sonny was still a roadie now and then, going on twelve years, since the days when Tom Brodie was touring with Harley Knox’s band. Sonny was another longtime hippie: leather jacket, frayed Levis, three or four years of frazzled hair on his face.

Brodie himself sat relaxed in his cowhide lounge chair, propping a fat cinnamon roll and a mug of coffee on his jeans.

Come on in, Buck. You know Sonny, have a seat. Brodie lifted the mug toward another chair, balancing the Manske roll with patrician ease. His deeply lined face framed a youthful smile. Can I get you something?

Naw thanks, I ate. Duran settled into one of the plush chairs, squeezing groans from a deep spring.

Sonny here’s been telling me about a problem’s come up. Brodie took a slow sip from his steamy mug, settled his eyes on Sonny. Why’nt you start over? Tell Buck what you been telling me.

A lady named Anna Dixon had been missing for a week. Sure, Duran had read about that in the paper. Sonny said the missing lady was his sister. She had driven from Kings Rock to their parents’ house on Inks Lake, Friday afternoon ten days ago. Once a marble-lined bend in the wild Colorado, the azure crescent of Inks Lake lay two hours northwest of Austin, hiding in the fractured landscape of the Llano Uplift. At the end of her visit Anna Dixon left on Sunday afternoon, and had not been seen since. Each day that went by, Sonny’s parents became more anxious and willing to try any means of finding Anna.

Everybody’s heard about Tom Brodie’s top hand, Sonny said sideways into the thatch of his beard, glancing at Duran. So my dad asked me, come and talk it over with you. See if there’s something you can do to help us.

Well, I’m real glad you come to us, Sonny, dropped Brodie. What do you think, Buck?

I don’t know for sure. Tell me about her.

She’s thirty-six last November. Scorpio. Got a old man and a kid. Al Dixon and Tad. Sonny watched Duran with placid camper eyes gazing out through hairy tent flaps. She looks ten years younger.

Nice-looking woman, Brodie agreed. A real lady! Came to one of our picnics, couple years back? You remember, Buck. Some of the boys was tripping on their lips!

Duran nodded. What kind of car was your sister driving?

T-Bird, one of those designer kind. Sonny described the colors as he reached into his leather jacket and pinched out a polaroid snapshot.

Here’s what she looks like. I wrote her address and phone number at the bottom. Like I said, they have a place in Kings Rock.

Anna Dixon’s hair was a few shades darker than the red pomeranian she was holding. Her features were balanced and regular except for a cleft that saved her chin from being sharp. The half smile on her lips and in her eyes made you wonder what was on her mind.

Brodie asked Duran: Think you can do anything?

Can’t tell yet, but I’ll try to come up with something. I can get right to it, ‘less you need me for anything.

Brodie washed down the last bite of roll with a swig of coffee and touched a white napkin to his mouth. As was her custom, Lucia had braided his long, graying hair that morning while he shaved.

No, you help these folks, he said. "Just remember our agreement. First priority, make sure things around here are all ‘go’. Also check in with me, ever few hours. Let me know what’s up, case we