It's hard to be the better man
When you forget you're trying
It's hard to be the better man
When you're still lying
-Handcuffs by Brand New
Raylan holds the phone to his ear for a few more seconds, frowning when the call cuts off. Getting up he puts it back into his pocket and walks over to Art's office. There's a little swell of concern in him that he tries his best to suppress. He knocks on Art's door as a courtesy not waiting for a response before stepping inside. Art looks up and sighs.
"Yes Raylan?"
"I just had a bit of a strange phone call with Tim."
Art gives him a look and takes off his glasses, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.
"You're goin' to have to be a bit more specific then that, I've had lots of strange phone calls with Tim. None of them warranted barging into a superior's office. Not that that ever seems to bother you."
"Well he called me, said he thought he saw Trevor Wilcox snooping round his place. I asked if he needed backup and then the line went dead. Now could be his phone died, could be it was a false alarm and he just hung up…"
Raylan trails off, and Art gives him a pointed look.
"But you don't think it is."
It's not a question and Raylan just nods.
"Well why don't you go down to Tim's place and have a look around, see what you find. And Raylan, don't go doing anything stupid you hear me?"
Raylan nods
"Loud and clear Art. No stupid shit I promise."
He doesn't miss Art's muttered groan,
"If only I believed that…"
As Raylan drives down to Tim's place his fingers tap a nervous beat out on the steering wheel. There really isn't much reason for worry, he'll probably get down to Tim's house and find him safe and sound and probably a little aggravated at Raylan's appearance. There isn't much reason for worry, but Raylan does anyway. Normally he wouldn't, Tim's a tough guy and Raylan's seen first hand that he can take care of himself if he needs to. This thing with Wyatt and Ted Billings and his goddamn grandson had really been messing with his head though, and he's sliding back from whatever progress he's made since Raylan's known him. He thinks back to Tim's voice on the phone, it sounded firm and clear, not the voice of a paranoid delusional man. He thinks about Valdez's 23 kills and pushes his foot on the gas a little bit further down.
As he drives down Tim's block warning bells sound when he sees Tim's truck parked halfway down the block from his place on the opposite side of the street. He pulls up behind it and gets out of his car, glancing over to Tim's house. It looks dark and quiet and empty, lights off in all the rooms Raylan can see. He peers into the truck and finds it also empty with keys still in the ignition and stands for a minute a little unsure of what to do next. The pit in the bottom of his stomach grows deeper. Tim might be an alcoholic vet with PTSD but he's reliable, has a system and a schedule and sticks to it. It's not like him to leave his truck parked like this and then disappear after a phone call like that. Figuring it's worth a try Raylan pulls out his phone and calls Tim's cell, foot tapping impatiently as it rings. As he waits he hears another phone ringing somewhere nearby, but when he looks around he's alone. When Tim's phone goes to voice mail he ends the call the ringing ends too. With a sinking feeling he calls Tim again, not bothering to put the phone up to his ear this time and follows the ringtone to a bush, using his handkerchief to avoid contaminating evidence he reaches in and pulls out Tim's cellphone, his name and number glowing bright on the screen. Looks like it wasn't just a bad feeling after all. With a grimace he calls Art.
"Went down to Tim's house, he's not there. His car is parked with key's in the ignition and I just found his phone in a bush."
Art swears,
"You figure Wilcox is good for this?"
Raylan shrugs, even though he knows Art can't see him.
"I trust Tim's word. But I don't think Wilcox was working alone."
"You think Valdez was there to?"
Raylan looks back at Tim's truck, the phone in his hand.
"Maybe maybe not. I just don't think one Detroit gang banger who barely has two brain cells to rub together could take Tim out by himself."
Art sighs.
"Shit."
The word is emphatic and exhausted and pissed off and concerned all at once and Raylan sympathizes greatly.
45 minutes later Raylan is back at the Marshal's office, when he left Tim's truck the street was awash with red and blue lights, officers crawling around the scene like bugs. Now he, Art, and Rachel are gathered in the meeting room staring at the photos of Wilcox and Valdez. Their frozen faces stare back, cold and impartial and completely unwilling to give up any information about the location of the missing marshal. They sit in silence for a while, like maybe if they look hard enough at the board it will unravel like a home-made sweater and give up its secrets. Unsurprisingly it remains just a sheet of plywood and corkboard and gives up nothing. Eventually Art throws down his pen.
"Shit."
That word has been bandied around quite a lot this particular day, and most of the time the person doing the bandying it is Art. Rachel stands, pacing back and forth in the front of the room.
"So, what do we know?"
Her voice is clear and authoritative and to someone who didn't know her very well sounds steady and detached. Raylan knows her pretty well, and hears the concern just beneath the surface. Raylan mutters under his breath
"Not much"
Rachel shoots him a glare and continues unfazed.
"Three weeks ago Tim takes Wyatt into custody. Week and a half later Wilcox shows up in town, and the day after Valdez flies in. Valdez is working for a Mexican drug cartel, Wilcox is working for a Detroit gang they supply, same gang Wyatt's been running with. Both are presumably in town to take care of Wyatt. They lay low for almost two weeks, so why move now? Why break cover and bring a whole lot of attention to this case?"
Raylan stares at Valdez thoughtfully.
"I think we can safely assume Valdez is the brains here."
He says pointing towards the grainy photo.
"He's had a lot more experience, Wilcox is just a low level banger. It doesn't seem logical for him to grab Tim, high profile kidnapping of a federal officer like this brings a lot of heat and only puts Wyatt further out of reach."
Art nods in agreement.
"So why did they move now? Not like Wyatt's court date is any time soon."
Raylan sit's and thinks for a second, chewing his lip. He slowly starts to speak, an idea forming.
"Tim wasn't supposed to be home. He only went home because you sent him back. What if they never meant to take Tim, what if they were just snooping around his house and he surprised them."
Rachel chimes in now, an edge of excitement in her voice.
"So, Wilcox sees him, panics, then grabs him and runs?"
Raylan nods.
"That's what I'm thinking. Only thing doesn't make sense is this doesn't seem like something Valdez would do which implies he wasn't there with Wilcox to make the grab."
"So you're saying there's a third player involved, someone we haven't seen yet?"
Art asks. Raylan nods again, getting up and walking over to the board. Pinning a blank piece of paper up he grabs Art's discarded pen and draws a question mark on it.
"Valdez is the leader, and then Wilcox and our mystery man are just the brawn."
Art sighs and rests his elbows on the table, rubbing his face with his hands.
"So we better figure out who the mystery man is then."
Raylan grabs his hat from the edge of the table and shrugs on his jacket.
"I'm gonna head back down to the scene, interview some of Tim's neighbors and see if they saw anything."
Art shakes his head.
"Raylan there's plenty of cops doin' just that. Feds are flying in soon and they're goin' to want to talk to you. I need you here"
Raylan just walks out, throwing over his shoulder
"You know where I'll be if they ask for me."
Art throws up his hands and rolls his eyes.
"I swear, nobody in this whole damn office listens to me anymore. I am your boss you know!"
He calls after Raylan. Raylan pretends not to hear.
Raylan drives down the streets to Tim's house for the second time today and wishes he wasn't. Pulling up to the scene he hops out of his truck and ducks under the yellow plastic tape that's been set up in the time he's been gone, flashing his badge at the attending officer. There isn't really much of a crime scene to secure, just Tim's truck and the bush where he found Tim's cell. And Raylan's seen crime scenes a thousand times, and a thousand times bloodier then this but this one makes him uncomfortable because now it isn't a nameless shapeless victim they're cordoning off, it's Tim. The thought unsettles him in a way he never thought it would. Walking over to the older officer who looks to be in charge he tips his hat as greeting.
"Found anything yet?"
The man shakes his head, face grim. Raylan glances at the nameplate pinned to his lapel, it reads Brady in tiny engraved letters. When he speaks his Kentucky accent is thick and clear.
"Nothin' so far unfortunately. No blood, no prints, no weapon. We'll keep at it but it doesn't look good."
Raylan nods, he's not surprised really but it still stings to hear the news.
"What about the neighbors, anyone see anythin'?"
Another head shake, another grim look.
"A lot of people aren't even home yet. Those who were aren't divulgin' much."
"What about this one here? Should have had a good view of Tim if he was standing by his truck."
Raylan says, pointing to a smallish grey house in front of them. It's definitely seen better days, paint peeling off the side boards and the whole frame looking a little dilapidated. The front yard is well kept though, grass green and evenly trimmed and flowerbeds brimming with color. Brady looks at the house and shakes his head for the third time. Raylan's getting real sick of shaking heads.
"We tried, but only person who lives there is an old lady. Pretty senile too, couldn't get anything that made sense out of her."
Raylan looks back at the house, the neatly manicured lawn.
"Mind if I have a go? I've been told I have a way with old folks."
He hasn't really, but who's to say he doesn't. Raylan prides himself on being quite the charmer, senile old lady or not. Brady shrugs, not looking particularly confident.
"Go right ahead, you're wasting your time though."
Raylan nods and thanks the man for his help. As he starts to walk away Brady calls to him.
"I hope you find your guy."
Raylan turns back and nods.
"So do I."
Ms. Delilah Tucker certainly is old, and quite possibly senile Raylan thinks as he sits on her overstuffed floral couch. She's a sweet old woman, a wisp of a thing, all billowing white hair and thin bony hands. She looks like she might break in two if the wind blew a little to hard. She's the kind of old lady Raylan imagines bakes lots of chocolate chip cookies and crochets lace doilies. In any case it's difficult to keep her on topic, she tends to loop tangentially to long winded stories about her children and grand children, or her late husband Fred who passed four years ago, or the neighborhood kids who like to ride their bikes through her yard. Or pretty much anything other then what Raylan's trying to ask her. He leans in a little bit, sets down the cup of tea she insisted on making him and tries to get her focused again.
"I noticed you have a beautiful garden out front Ms. Tucker."
She smiles and her eyes sharpen a little, mist clearing away for a moment.
"Why thank you, I do try to keep it nice. The house has gone a bit ever since Freddie died but I take pride in my garden."
"It must be hard to take care of it all by yourself."
She nods,
"Oh it is, I'm a bit old to be gettin' down on my knees like that. Timothy helps me out with it you know, such sweet young man."
Raylan's a little taken aback, it's hard to imagine Tim down on his hands and knees gardening. He files it away to make fun of Tim with later if (when, he corrects himself) they find Tim. He's never heard anyone call him Timothy either, always Tim or Deputy Gutterson or occasionally 'that bastard who shot me' he tries to reconcile Timothy the nice young man with the Tim he's seen shoot a man in the head from six feet away without flinching and fails. He supposes everybody has different sides to them and just never really bothered to discover Tim's.
"Well Tim's got himself in a spot of trouble just now. It would be real helpful if you could just try and remember if you saw anything at all out of the ordinary today."
She sits, staring out the window, face dreamy and for a moment Raylan thinks he's lost her again but then she snaps back, like a camera coming into focus.
"You know , there was somethin' a little strange. Earlier today I was upstairs doin' a little cleanin' and I looked out the window and saw a car parked in front of Timothy's house I've never see before. I've lived here a long time and I know most of the cars and people round these parts."
Raylan sits up straighter now, sensing he's closing in on something.
"Do you think you could describe the car Ms. Turner?"
She grins (a little bit wicked) and Raylan can see that she used to be quite beautiful.
"I can do you one better, got the license plate number somewhere. I collect them you see, states and numbers, just somethin' to keep the mind sharp."
Delilah stands walking into another room in the house and Raylan hears papers shuffling. When she comes back she's holding a little moleskin notebook in her hands. Sitting down she flips it open and runs her finger down the page, stopping over one entry.
"Here we go, 392 JMD."
Raylan pulls out his own notebook and notes the plate. He thinks back to Brady's dismissal and has to suppress a smirk.
"Did you happen to see either of these men in the car?"
Raylan pulls two photos out of his inside jacket pocket, one of Wilcox and the other of Valdez and holds them out to her. She squints for a few moments and then nods, pointing to Wilcox.
"This fellow here was driving, and there was a passenger but it wasn't him."
She says gesturing to Valdez.
Raylan nods.
"If I got a sketch artist down here do you think you could describe him?"
She nods, that glint in her eyes again and Raylan gets the impression that under her clean white cardigan and string of faux pearls Delilah Turner is cold hard steel.
"Thank you very much for your help Ms. Turner."
He gathers his noteback and the photos, putting them back in his pocket and stands. Delilah stands with him.
"Are you good at your job, Deputy Given's?"
He considers his answer for a second, and the replies.
"Yes I am."
She nods matter of factly and smooth's out her cardigan.
"Good. Now you better go out and find these son's of bitches. My garden ain't gonna weed itself you know."
Raylan smiles a little, senile my ass, and nods.
"Yes ma'am I will."
Walking out the front door he pulls out his phone and dials Art. He answers, sounding tired.
"I've got confirmation Wilcox was here, and a plate, make and model for the vehicle he's driving. Also, I have somebody who saw our third guy, I'm going to get a sketch artist working with her."
There's silence on the other end of the line and Raylan wonders if Art's hung up but then he swears,
"Well shit, I'm not goin' to ask how you do it Raylan. I'm just glad you do."
Pulling out his notebook again he rattles off the information he got from Delilah and then hangs up sticking his phone back in his pocket before heading over to his car.
Walking into the office Raylan throws his jacket over his chair, turns to Rachel.
"Got a BOLO out on the Toyota?"
Rachel nods, he can tell she wants to make a sarcastic comment but she restrains herself.
"Ran the number you gave us, the plates were reported stolen about a week ago. Same with the car, matches the description of one reported missing a week and a half ago in Dayton. We've sent a uniform over to talk to the owner but I doubt we'll get anything."
Raylan sighs, walking over to the kitchen and pouring himself a mug of coffee. He sips it, and grimaces. It's cold.
"So Wilcox and his buddy steal a car in Dayton, steal plates for it here in Lexington. No way to connect it to them or the Bloods."
He pours the rest of his coffee down the sink and puts on a new pot, turning and leaning against the edge of the counter.
"Where's Art?"
Rachel makes a face.
"On the phone with the feds."
Raylan feels like making his own face. The FBI were not popular in this office, they had a tendency to not quite understand how the team worked and more often then not got in the way. Raylan had yet to meet a FBI agent whose company he enjoyed and he doubted that would ever change, especially not today. As if on cue Art walks out of his office looking like he just sucked a lemon.
"So two of our special friends from the Federal Bureau of Investigation will be joining us later today. They've been working the cartel Valdez is connected to for a few months now and are here to 'assist us' in our efforts. Now I want you all to play nice when they get here, I'm lookin' at you Raylan."
Raylan throws his hands in gesture and nods.
"Now why would I go around pickin' fights Art."
Art just gives him a look, not even bothering to respond and shakes his head as he walks back to his office muttering under his breath, Raylan catches the words insubordinate and pig headed and can't help but smirk.