Bad Penny (4 page)

There were the usual things one would expect to find in a car. A couple of matchbooks had been found in a console. One from a café in Nuevo Laredo, the other from a café in Austin, Texas. Neither of them meant anything other than at one time Tutuola had been there.

There were a handful of coins: some pesos, some American. A map of Texas and a half dozen postcards of various locations in Tijuana. Nothing had been written on them. Who knew why a man such as Tutuola would buy postcards? From what Montoya had seen on Tutuola’s rap sheet, he couldn’t picture the man maintaining a cordial correspondence with anyone.

Then Montoya came to the duffel bag. Within moments, he knew that the contents had never belonged to his victim. These clothes would have fitted a man less than six feet tall and weighing no more than onehundred-eighty pounds, and according to the coroner and Tutuola’s rap sheet, he’d been close to 300 pounds and five inches over six feet tall. Montoya’s heart skipped a beat. Maybe this was the first clue he was looking for to the accomplice.

He dug through the pockets and then checked all the labels, looking for a name. Nothing turned up until he looked in an inside jacket pocket and found a business card for Mark Presley of Presley Implements in Dallas, Texas.

Montoya frowned. Something about the name and business rang a bell, but he couldn’t remember if it was something he’d read or something he’d heard, much less what it was.

A few minutes later he was finished. He took down the name and phone number of the implement company, then returned everything to the evidence locker and headed for his desk. The first order of the day was to call Presley Implements. But when he asked to speak to Mark Presley, the silence on the other end of the line was telling.

“Hello? Are you still there?” Montoya asked.

“Oh. Yes. I’m sorry. Um…Mr. Presley is no longer here. Mrs. Presley is acting CEO. I’ll put you through.”

Luis Montoya prided himself on being able to read people. He knew when they were lying, or when they just weren’t being as forthcoming as they should have been. It was the latter that he picked up on this time.

A moment later the call was answered.

“This is Penny Presley. How can I help you?”

“Ms. Presley, my name is Luis Montoya. I’m a homicide detective in Chihuahua, Mexico, investigating the death of a man named Solomon Tutuola. There was a card belonging to Mark Presley of Presley Implements found with his belongings, and I’m trying to find out how or if they knew each other.”

He heard a sharp, indrawn breath and then what sounded like a hiss before he got an answer he hadn’t expected.

“God! I not only don’t know anyone named Tutuola, but during the past few months, it became apparent to me that I didn’t know the man I’d married all that well, either. Mark is in prison, on death row, awaiting execution for the murder of his pregnant girlfriend. Needless to say, we are divorced. I suggest you speak to the Dallas Police Department for all the sordid details.”

“Have you or your husband ever been to Chihuahua?”

Sarcasm was thick in Penny Presley’s voice. “I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, but it has become blatantly obvious to me that I had no idea what Mark was doing. He could have been to the moon and back and I would have been the last to know. Is there anything else?”

Montoya sighed. Divorce was often ugly. This one had obviously been over the top.

“No, señora. Thank you for your time.” The click in his ear was her only goodbye.

He hung up the phone, made a couple of notes on his file, then dialed Information for the Dallas Police Department. From one cop to another, he was expecting his reception there would be warmer than the one he’d gotten from Presley’s ex-wife.

He dialed again, absently tapping the end of his pen against the desk as he waited for the call to be answered. A few moments later, a softspoken female picked up.

“Dallas Police, how may I direct your call?” “Homicide Division.”

“Thank you.”

This time his call was answered on the first ring.

“Homicide, Detective DeWitt.”

“My name is Luis Montoya. I am a homicide detective in Chihuahua, Mexico, investigating the murder of a man named Solomon Tutuola.”

“Yeah, so how can I help you?” DeWitt asked.

“We found some property that we think might have belonged to a man named Mark Presley. It was in a car belonging to my victim. I’ve been told Presley was convicted of murder, and I’m assuming it was your department that ran the case.”

DeWitt’s attention suddenly sharpened.

“You need to talk to Detective Bradley. He’s the one who had the case. Hang on a minute, I’ll put you through.”

Again Montoya was put on hold, but only briefly, and this time the man who answered was more than ready to help.

“Detective Montoya…this is Bradley. How can I help you?”

Again Montoya explained the reason for his call, telling him about the murder, then about finding the card and the duffel bag full of clothes.

“So…here’s my question,” Montoya asked. “Was there any question about Presley acting on his own? Did you ever suspect he had hired someone to kill his girlfriend?”

Bradley frowned. “No. As far as we know, he acted alone. Believe me, if there had been someone else to blame, Presley would have done it. Why do you ask?”

“We have information that Tutuola was carrying a very large amount of money on him before he was killed. I’m trying to figure out where it came from. Someone might have wanted it bad enough to kill for it, but I need to know who else knew Tutuola had it.”

“What kind of money are you talking about?” Bradley asked.

Montoya remembered the Realtor’s description of a “bagful of money” and took a wild guess. “We have reason to believe there could have been as much as a million dollars in American money, maybe more.”

“Presley was worth a hell of a lot more than that,” Bradley said. “But when he was turned over to the American authorities at the border, he didn’t have anything on him.”

Montoya’s heart skipped a beat. “He was arrested in Mexico?”

“Technically, he wasn’t arrested there. It’s a little complicated, but here’s the deal. Mark Presley’s private secretary was a woman named Marsha Benton. Her best friend was a woman named Cat Dupree. When Benton went missing, it was Dupree who suspected foul play. We didn’t have any proof of Dupree’s accusations against Presley, so she made it her business to do some investigating on her own.”

“What do you know about this Cat Dupree?” Montoya asked.

“Oh, she’s sort of a local legend here in Dallas. She works as a bounty hunter for a Dallas bondsman named Art Ball.”

“Really,” Montoya said, and made another notation.

Bradley sighed. He remembered all too well how disgusted Dupree had been with them for not going after Presley sooner. He had to admit, the man could easily have gotten away with murder if she hadn’t been tracking him.

“Yes. It all came out in Dupree’s statement when she turned him over to the Texas authorities at the border.”

Now Montoya was impressed. “So it was this Cat Dupree who tracked Presley into Mexico?”

“Yes. She and another bounty hunter trailed Presley to an abandoned hacienda outside Nuevo Laredo. If I remember correctly, there was an explosion and then a fire during a gun battle. I believe Dupree stated that there was another man on the premises, but that he was an unknown who’d died in the fire.”

“Ah…the fire,” Montoya said, more to himself than to Bradley. That would have explained the healing burns that Realtor Chouie Garza had mentioned seeing when he sold Tutuola the property.

“So do you know where I can reach this lady bounty hunter?” “Call Art Ball Bail Bonds. Hang on, I’ll give you the number,” Bradley said.

Montoya waited, then wrote down the number, thanked Bradley for his help and disconnected. Just as he was about to make a second call to Dallas, all hell broke loose.

There was a loud explosion; then the desk at which he was sitting actually moved a good foot across the floor. Outside, he could hear screaming, and then the sounds of sirens.

“Madre de Dios!” he cried, as he ran to the windows.

Even though he had a clear view of what had happened, he found it difficult to believe his eyes. Three buildings less than two blocks away were on fire, and the flames were already jumping to the adjoining rooftops. Something had blown up. Whether it was an accident, arson or an attack remained to be seen.

He ran back to his desk, grabbed his gun from a drawer and headed out of the building as fast as he could run. Solomon Tutuola’s murder would have to wait.

Three

The morning dawned gray and overcast and, as the day wore on, it continued to worsen. The air was sultry—barely stirring—and there was a gray-green cast to the clouds that warned of the possibility of hail accompanying the gathering storm.

Carter and Wilson were at the barn working on a hay rake. Every so often, one of them would stop and glance up at the sky before returning to work.

Cat was on her way to Austin with the radio on her favorite country station, while thinking of Shelly Green’s hasty exit from Texas and her

abusive boyfriend, Wayne.

She thought back to earlier that morning, when she’d received an unexpected call from the girl….

“Hey, Cat, it’s me, Shelly Green.”

Cat absently pushed up the sleeves of her yellow shirt as she sat down to take the call, relieved to hear the girl’s voice.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

“That’s why I’m calling,” Shelly said. “I just wanted you to know that I got me a job working at one of them Seattle coffee shops. They’re all over the place, and you wouldn’t believe how many ways they got to make a plain old cup of coffee.”

Cat laughed. “Good for you. Did you find a safe place to live?”

“Yep. Nice little efficiency apartment over the garage of a retired dentist and his wife. I’ll be fine. I just wanted you to know that and to tell you…to say…”

Cat heard the catch in Shelly’s voice and knew she was trying not to cry.

“You’re welcome,” Cat said, then heard Shelly sigh before she managed to continue.

“I won’t ever forget what you did for me, and I remember what you said. One day I’ll pass the favor on, right?”

“Right,” Cat said.

“So, I guess I’d better go. I don’t want to be late for work. Thank you again, Cat Dupree.”

“You’re welcome,” Cat said.

When the dial tone sounded, she disconnected, then glanced at Dorothy, who was at the sink peeling potatoes.

“That was Shelly Green,” Cat said. “She made it to Seattle, and she already has a job and an apartment.”

Dorothy frowned. “Thanks to you,” she said. “I don’t know what might have happened to her if you hadn’t come along. Wayne’s family is just horrified by his behavior. I heard at church that his daddy is sending him to Michigan to live with his brother Joe, who’s a cop up there.”

Cat thought of the man who’d come close to ending their lives and decided that spending a few winters plowing through the Michigan snow would be good for him.

“Life is always a surprise in the making,” Cat said, and then began washing her hands. “Want some help?”

Dorothy could tell Cat wasn’t going to discuss her Good Samaritan act

again, but it didn’t matter.

Once, she’d feared her eldest child would wind up an old bachelor, but no more. She already had an opinion of the woman her son was in love with and she was thoroughly convinced the girl had been worth the wait.

“I’m making pie crusts,” Dorothy said. “If you’ll peel these apples, it will cut the prep time in half for me.”

“Consider it done,” Cat said, and happily began the task. Working in tandem with anyone, especially a woman, was new ground for her, and she was liking it.

A short while later, they had two pies in the oven and were cleaning up the kitchen when Wilson and Carter came in the house.

“Something smells good,” Wilson said.

Carter winked at Cat as he moved past her and gave Dorothy a quick hug. “Honey, you make coming home a pleasure,” he said softly, and kissed the side of her cheek.

Dorothy beamed.

“Come outside,” Carter said. “I’ve got something to show you.” “What is it?” Dorothy asked.

“The old barn cat had herself some kittens, and she’s gone and brought

them all up to the house. I heard them mewing inside the old doghouse.”

“Oh my goodness,” Dorothy said, and hustled outside with Carter in the lead.

Cat sighed. The love between them was palpable. She glanced at Wilson, who was washing his hands at the sink, and thought how happy she was at this moment and how close she’d come to ruining their relationship. If Wilson had quit on her—if he hadn’t come to Chihuahua, Mexico, looking for her—she would have died from the beating Solomon Tutuola had given her, and she knew it.

Suddenly she realized Wilson was watching her. Old habits made her want to shut down her emotions and turn away. Instead, she took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his gaze. The love she saw took her breath away. Her vision blurred.