Big Red Tiquila - Rick Riordan (38 page)

Kellin hesitated. She looked up at him, cold and
expectant. Then he disappeared.

“
Before I have you thrown out, Mr. Navarre, perhaps
you’d explain yourself to me. Then I have my guests to attend to."

As if on cue, the music outside flared up into a
fiddle solo. People started clapping.

“
Where is Dan?" I asked.

“
My son is not feeling well."

“
I bet."

Cookie wasn’t used to being contradicted. For an
instant her eyes almost focused on me, as if I was worth considering.

"I can’t make you understand," she said.
“You will never be a mother, Mr. Navarre. You can’t possibly
appreciate—"

“
Try me," I said. “Your sick husband, your
years of raising Dan alone. Now here he is at the tender young age of
twenty-eight, not quite ready to leave the nest but already, despite
your best efforts, deeply involved in the family’s shit. Where did
you go wrong?"

She was tempted to get angry but to give her credit,
she controlled it. She stared at the photo of her husband on the
wall—young Dan Sheff, the Korean soldier.

“
I have no idea what your crude comments imply, Mr.
Navarre, but I will tell you this. My family means more to me than—"
She faltered. "I will not allow you to—"

I’d interrupted a perfectly good chastisement by
taking the faded pink envelope out of my back pocket, carefully
unfolding the letter, and holding it up.

"You were saying?" I prompted. "Your
family means more to you than what—an old lover who got too
curious? The burden of betraying him to your husband? The guilt of
knowing you got him killed?"

Cookie stared at the letter in my hands. Her harsh
expression threatened to melt. Somewhere underneath the cosmetics, I
think her cheeks actually flushed. I could see suddenly the remnants
of a younger, more attractive woman, one who allowed herself emotions
other than disdain. A woman my father might have seen as an
interesting challenge.

Then she managed to refocus her eyes on that
invisible fixed point in the distance. She corrected her posture.

“
How--dare--you."

A row of small black mascara specks appeared
underneath her eyes when she blinked. Except for that I would never
have guessed there was extra moisture anywhere in her. Her bleak
stare and the tone of her voice were as arid as the Panhandle.

“
I will not sit here," Cookie continued, “and
listen to accusations from a young man who understands nothing about
my life."

I folded up the letter and put it back in my pocket.

"I think I understand pretty well, ma’am. You
were having a hard time ten years ago. Your husband’s illness was
just getting bad; he would be bedridden within a few more years. The
business was deep in the red. Your son was away at college. You
needed a little affection and my father was there to provide it. He
must’ve been refreshing for you at first, before he told you he was
about to start investigating your husband’s company for defrauding
the city, all because of papers he wouldn’t have found if he hadn’t
been sleeping with you."

Before she could answer, Kellin reappeared at the
door of the study. He walked over and handed Cookie a glass of wine.
Then he picked up the small picture of Dan Sr. that Mr. Cambridge had
knocked off the desk. Cookie glanced at it, then looked away. She
brushed a strand of luminescent blond hair behind her ear.

“
My past mistakes change nothing, " she said,
almost to herself. “I have my son to think of. I have done what I
can to raise him well."

“
To protect him."

"I am protecting him," she agreed
tonelessly. "And I will not allow you—I will not allow
another—"

She stopped herself.

“
Another Navarre to interfere," I offered.

She shook her head slowly, but there was something
new in her eyes: resentment. She smoothed the belly of her sparkling
evening dress with a withered hand.

“
No," she said evenly. "Nothing like
that."

I looked at the silver-framed picture of Dan’s
father, robust enough when I was in high school to flirt with
countless young cheerleaders. Now Dan Sr. was upstairs somewhere,
listening to the drip of the IV and the sound of dancing and Bob
Wills that was rocking his floor, trying to remember his own name.
I’m not sure what I was feeling for him, but it wasn’t pity.

“
What the hell is going on?" someone said
behind me.

“
Danny," said Mrs. Sheff. Her throat sounded
like it was constricting. "I thought we’d agreed . . ."

The tux had made some difference in Dan Jr.’s
appearance. From the neck down he looked dapper, cleaned and pressed,
both shoes tied, a tumbler of bourbon in his hand instead of a Lone
Star bottle. From the neck up he looked about the same—bloodshot
eyes, sickly pale face, I blond cowlicks slicked only partially into
submission..He looked like he was probably more sober than I was now,
but that wasn’t saying much.

"You agreed to talk later," Dan said. "I
want to know what’s going on now. It’s my damn company, Mother."

"Actually," I said, "that’s part of
the problem. It’s not."

Dan stared at me. Cookie stared at me. Kellin stood
behind Cookie with all the emotion of a sideboard, looking at nothing
in particular.

"I’d been wondering how Sheff Construction had
repositioned itself for the Travis Center deal in ’85," I
said. "You were on the edge of bankruptcy, then overnight you
were a powerhouse again. Even to your partners who were helping you
to obtain the contract, you couldn’t have looked like a very safe
investment. I was also wondering how Terry Garza had the balls to
push the Sheff family around. After all, he was supposed to be your
faithful employee. So I just checked the files on your personal
computer, Mrs. Sheff."

Cookie was totally still. Dan swayed a little,
looking down at me.

“
What are you saying?"

“
This isn’t your company, Dan. It hasn’t
belonged to the Sheffs since ’85, when your dad had dug a debt hole
so big he couldn’t possibly climb out on his own. You were quietly
bought out, taken over, repossessed. Then you were used to make the
new owner and his partners, maybe the mob, a lot of money on city
building contracts. Congratulations, Dan. You’re going to inherit
an honorary director’s title, the right to use your own name
without getting sued for trademark violation, and if you’re a good
boy, a modest yearly stipend. You’re just an employee, like Moraga
and Garza. Like your mother."

Outside, the band ended its song. Applause. An
announcement about a new case of champagne being opened. Dan Sheff
was swaying a little more, like he wanted to fall over but couldn’t
quite decide which way. His blue eyes were vacant.

“
Mother?" His tone wasn’t exactly angry. It
was more pleading, hopeful that his mom might have a speech in her
repertoire to cover this contingency. Cookie didn’t offer one.

I pushed the faded pink letter toward her. “As near
as I can figure, you told my father only one thing that was true.
Sheff Construction was being used. That isn’t Dan Sr. getting rid
of Randall Halcomb in the blackmail photos; nobody with Parkinson’s,
even the beginnings of Parkinson’s, is going to shoot someone
cleanly between the eyes with a .22 on a dark night. It wasn’t the
Sheff family that ordered Garza to pay the blackmail, or Moraga to
kidnap Lillian so she couldn’t talk. You’re not protecting your
son or your husband, Mrs. Sheff. You’re protecting your owner."

When Dan stumbled backward, Kellin was there
instantly to steady him. Kellin helped Dan raise the bourbon glass to
his mouth.

Cookie was shaking her head. “All I want, Mr.
Navarre, is for you to leave. My son is going to inherit his company.
He will get Lillian back safely without your help, or that of the
police. Then he’s going to marry her."

She could’ve been reading from Dr. Seuss, the way
she said it. For some reason that thought made me angry .

“
I can’t leave it like that," I said.

Dan started to say something, but Cookie silenced him
with a look. Then she nodded at Kellin.

“
Good night, Mr. Navarre."

It wasn’t much of a fight. Even if I’d been
sober, Kellin would’ve had speed on his side and a score to settle.
Two punches connected with my gut. Then I was lying on the Sheffs’
antique kilim rug, looking at the ceiling with a funny warm feeling
in my head. I think it was Kellin’s boot.

We went out a side door through the kitchen. Kellin
dragged me along at just the right angle so I could admire the
Saltillo tiles. The waiter tried to give me back my garbage can. A
few of the cooks were telling jokes in Spanish. They got quiet as we
went past. When Kellin dragged me around to the front yard I looked
up briefly into Fernando Asante’s face. The councilman was just
going into the party with his satin-dressed cherubs and a few
tuxedoed businessmen. Asante’s bow tie was bright green.

“
Leaving us, Mr. Navarre?"

Somebody laughed, a little nervously.

Kellin dragged me a few more feet, then pulled me
upright.

"No offense," he said.

Then he introduced my face to the gravel and walked
away.
 

55

I’d been waiting for Detective Schaeffer at his desk for thirty
minutes before he came down the hall with his garlic bagel in hand.
Schaeffer looked even more tired than usual, like it’d been a busy
morning for homicides.

“No time," he said. “Got a stiff to take care of. Want to
come along?"

A few minutes later we were heading toward the East Side in an
Oldsmobile so brown-wrapper and so obvious that some kid with a sense
of humor had spraypainted “THIS IS NOT A POLICE CAR” on the
sides, right in English, left in Spanish.

"Only fucking unit available," Schaeffer told me.
Somehow, though, I got the feeling he kind of liked this one. We
drove down Commerce for a few minutes before he said: “So what’s
the occasion?"

“I thought we should talk."

“I said that two days ago."

“And I need a favor."

“Lovely."

He checked with Dispatch. Yes, the wagon was at the scene. They
were waiting outside the house. Schaeffer swore, then blew his nose
into the huge red napkin that had been holding his bagel a few
minutes before.

"Waiting outside the house," he repeated. “Lovely."

“So the smell is inside," I said.

He made a noise that might have been a grudging acceptance. "Your
dad was a cop."

We turned south on New Braunfels, then left into a neighborhood of
matchbox houses and dirt front yards.

“So tell me about it," Schaeffer said.

I’m not sure when, the night before, I’d decided to come clean
with Schaeffer. Somewhere around 3 A.M., I guess, when I’d finished
picking the gravel out of my face and had been staring at the ceiling
so long I started seeing dead faces in the crystalline plaster. Maybe
they’d started looking a little too familiar. Or Carlon’s
newspaper deadlines had started looking too close. Or maybe I just
needed to make Larry Drapiewski and Carl Kelley proud of me. Whatever
it was, I told Schaeffer what I knew.

When I was done he nodded. "Is that all?"

"You wanted more?"

“I want to make sure your bullshit filter is operating today,
kid. Is that all?"

"Yeah."

“Okay. Let me think about it."

I nodded. Schaeffer took out his napkin again.

“Maybe when I calm down I’ll decide not to kick your ass for
being so stupid."

"Take a number, " I said.

I don’t know how Schaeffer drove with one hand and a napkin
larger than his face pressed against his nose, but he managed to
navigate us through the turns without slowing under thirty and
without hitting any of the residents. We pulled up next to a couple
of squad cars outside a two-story turquoise house on Salvador. Sure
enough, everybody was waiting outside. You could tell the ones who
had been inside recently. Their faces were bright yellow. A group of
neighbors, mostly old men still in bathrobes, had begun to gather on
the neighbor’s porch.

"Someday," Schaeffer snuffled, "I want to know what
it is about 11 A.M. that makes everybody want to turn up dead. It’s
a corpse rush hour, for God’s sake."

“You got cotton balls or something?" I asked.

"In the glove compartment with the Old Spice."

I made a face. “I’d rather smell the deceased."

"No you wouldn’t. One good thing about sinuses, Navarre. I
can’t smell a damn thing. You should be so lucky."

I opted for the Old Spice. I doused two cotton balls and put one
in each nostril. When we got into the house I was glad I had.

The victim was an old widow, Mrs. Gutierrez. Nobody had seen her
for a few days, according to the neighbors, until the guy next door
had gotten worried enough to check on her. The minute he opened the
front door he closed it and called the police. I’d seen dead
bodies, but usually not after they’d been floating in bloody
upstairs bathtubs in one-hundred-degree heat for several days. Mrs.
Gutierrez wasn’t easy to look at. I must’ve needed to prove
something to Schaeffer. I stayed with him while he went over the
scene.