Bitch Factor (29 page)

Rebecca sucked in a sharp breath. “OUT!”

“I only want to help—”

“Travis! We don’t need her money. Throw her out of here.”

Payne hesitated, then very quietly he said, “It’s our right to refuse service to anyone.” Anyone. His Saint Nick twinkle was gone, replaced by a hooded wariness.

Now that she’d alienated the Paynes as well as Jonathan Keyes, Dixie knew she’d have to tread carefully. Everybody filed harassment suits these days. With only six days before Dann’s trial resumed, she couldn’t waste it arguing with a judge.

Wrestling mentally with what would be her next step, she cruised past the Valdez house. It sat dark and quiet as ever. Dixie wasn’t surprised. The longer Hermie Valdez sat in a cell with a few incorrigibles, and the more prostitutes she watched sail in and out, scarcely warming a bench, the itchier she’d be to roll over on Sikes to save herself. But if Rashly was planning to withhold the Keyes case folder until Dixie located Sikes, she wished he’d get on with his part.

She spent a couple of hours at the courthouse, looking up construction jobs Keyes had worked on and reading transcripts of the custody hearing. Even with her contacts, the files took time to acquire, time to read, and in the end proved to be about as useful as a sewed-up pocket.

Keyes’ building designs held no surprises. They were fairly basic, mostly steel and glass boxes. A few of the newer ones boasted interesting stone facades. No unusual lawsuits or
worker’s comp reports. The custody hearing provided more fascinating reading.

In the end, the judge denied joint custody, but granted Jonathan Keyes generous visitation rights, in return for substantial child-support payments, considering Rebecca was making a pretty fair wage as a chef.

Leaving the courthouse, Dixie remembered her promise to visit Ryan. She found him sniffling and still somewhat pale, but no longer feverish.

“Check out this letter, Aunt Dix. I deleted all the obvious geeks—you know, too old, too young, too wimpy. This one’s got a son, fourteen, and a daughter, thirteen.”

DWM, 41, with Curb Appeal My clan heads for the South Dakota cycle rally this summer. If you’re “born to be wild,” let’s fit your seat to the leather on my spare Harley before road fever is upon us
.

A color photograph that accompanied the letter showed a brawny, ponytailed man in a black leather jacket and black boots on a huge black motorcycle. Two equally brawny teenagers posed beside him on smaller bikes. They looked like a trio Dixie might see eventually in a police lineup.

“Ryan, I’m not sure this is a good idea.” It was a
terrible
idea. “Suppose one of these men showed up on my doorstep one night—uninvited.”

“Can’t happen, Aunt Dix. All they know is your E-mail
address, actually my E-mail address, which exists in cyberspace.”

“Cyberspace?” To curtail his enthusiasm, maybe she should ask Amy to arrange another dinner with Old Delbert Snelling. “Are you positive there is absolutely no way anyone can trace your E-mail address to this computer? To this house?”

“None. Aunt Dixie, you need to join the technology age. You’re riding a bicycle in a space shuttle zone. Look at what you can do—”

He pushed the mouse around its pad, and the monitor lit up like
Star Wars
. This wasn’t the first time Ryan had endeavored to impress Dixie with his keyboard wizardry, but this time she paid attention. Close attention. Because this time she realized she’d overlooked the most obvious way to learn more about Jon Keyes.

Valdez’s house was still dark, Augie was still on sick leave from the Green Hornet, and the Gypsy Filchers wouldn’t arrive at their headquarters until midnight. Sometimes Dixie wished her life had a fast-forward button. The Filchers had given her a private number to call if she needed to reach them in a hurry. She dialed the number from her car phone and punched in a code. The callback came from Hooch. He had some friends, he assured her, who could take a peek at Jon Keyes’ financial records without anyone knowing.

“You’re sure they’re discreet? And they know computers
as well as
business?”

“What they doan know, girlfriend, you doan need or doan want.” He directed her to a corner in the Heights. “No way you ever find their place alone. I’ll take you.”

Having lived most of her life in Houston, Dixie found it hard to imagine a place she couldn’t locate with good directions, especially in the Heights, a formerly prestigious neighborhood near downtown. Hooch was standing on a dark corner when she drove up in the van. He swung up into the passenger seat, his ruined face grinning on one side. She wondered
how many people he’d given heart attacks, lurking around in the dark like a grotesque phantom.

He directed her down a dead-end street, through a gate posted with HIGH VOLTAGE signs, into an alley behind a shipping company, and then down a set of stairs that opened into a narrow, musty-smelling hallway. The hallway turned twice before Hooch knocked on a plain wooden door, identical to other plain wooden doors. For several moments, Dixie heard voices raised in argument behind the door.

“Who are these people?” she muttered. “Do they
live
here?” Who would live in such a secluded, uninhabited place?

“Pearly White and Smokin.”

“Those are names?”

The door finally opened two inches, and a man of about seventy peered out at her, bald, with a trim white beard, half-size reading glasses, cherry-red suspenders, and cloudy brown eyes full of suspicion. He stood about as high as Dixie, but looked as if he might have been taller in his youth, as if someone had washed him too often in hot water.

“Smokin!” Hooch greeted the little man with a high-five. “Pearly White told you we was coming, didn’t she?”

“Yep, yep. She didn’t say when.”

“I said directly,” came a crisp voice behind the door. “Said they’d be here directly, and here they are, right on time.” A white-haired woman even shorter than the man pulled the door wide and smiled at Dixie. “Why, Hooch, you didn’t say she’d be so pretty. Did you? I don’t recall you saying she’d be pretty.”

“Must’ve slipped my mind, Pearly White. You take care of what she needs, though, and I’ll be owin’ you.”

“It’s me that’s got what she needs.” The little man grinned, all suspicion gone. He took Dixie’s arm and tugged her into the room. “Yep, yep. Come right on in here.”

Hooch faded into the shadows and was gone.

The room held a big-screen TV, VCR, and two recliners at one end. The TV/VCR straddled a black line that had been applied to the carpet with electrical tape. The line divided the
room precisely in half, with one chair on either side. At the other end of the room sat two pairs of sawhorses. A wooden door had been laid across each pair to make two desks, one on either side of the black line. Each desk was covered with computer equipment and software manuals. Dixie recognized some slight differences in the two sets of equipment. One monitor glowed with a screen saver that looked like July Fourth fireworks, the other with tropical fish swimming serenely across a sea-green background. On one desk, beside a cigarette dispenser, an ashtray was filled to overflowing.

Smokin sat down at the chair with the ashtray and fireworks.

“Let’s have it. Who do you want to know about and what do you want to know?” He selected a lengthy butt that was still burning and puffed on it.

“Can you look into someone’s bank account?” Dixie asked. As the girls’ legal father, Jon Keyes could carry life insurance on them. His bank records would show whether he was hurting for money. Unusual fluctuation in the account could mean heavy gambling debts or an expensive drug habit.

Smokin grinned and smashed out the cigarette butt. “My specialty.”

“Your specialty? Since when is a bank job your specialty?” Pearly White sat at the other computer and touched a key that dispensed with the fish. A cursor blinked expectantly. “What about credit cards, sweetie? Credit card purchases can tell so much about a person.”

“She said ‘bank.’ Not credit cards,
bank
. Got wax in your ears, old woman?” He touched a few keys. “How about police records? This fellow got a sheet? Drug trafficking? Burglary? Disturbing the peace?”

“The child wants to know about his money, not his work habits. Now what was that name, dear?”

Dixie gave them the meager information she had on Jonathan Keyes. They both typed it in, and minutes later the monitors were filled with information.

“We’re in, sweetie. Now what do you want to know?”

Good question. “Can we look at general cash flow? Say, over the past two years?”

“No problem.”

“Yep, yep. I knew he’d have a sheet,” Smokin said. “Eight traffic tickets last year. Speeding, illegal turns, failure to stop. Yep. Let’s see what else we can find.”

He typed a string of characters and the words on the monitor changed. Dixie tried to read over both sets of shoulders.

Regular deposits showed that Keyes earned a substantial salary from his architectural firm. He wrote most of his checks during the first half of the month, spending approximately the same each month on household expenses, travel, entertainment, and insurance premiums. His car insurance was high, perhaps due to the traffic violations. His mortgage payment was modest in relation to his earnings.

When Betsy and Courtney died, Keyes received $10,000, most of which he paid out again on what looked like funeral expenses. Child-support payments dropped after each death, but the amount, though generous, was insignificant compared to his income. Nothing Dixie saw pointed to unreasonable spending.

“Look at this transaction, sweetie.” Pearly White pointed to a withdrawal. “That money was transferred to another account in the same bank. Would you like me to check that out?”

“Go for it.”

“Go for it,”
Smokin mimicked. “While you two are pussyfooting around over there, I’ve got the fellow cold for assault and battery. Yep, yep.”

“Really? Who was the complainant?” Dixie looked at Smokings monitor and saw for herself: Travis Payne. According to the notation, Rebecca had wanted Keyes to pay his child support quarterly instead of monthly. Keyes got into a shouting match with her. When Payne stepped between them, Keyes punched him out.

“Yep. He’s a rounder, that one. Bet the FBI has a sheet on this perp.”

“Isn’t it illegal to tap into FBI files?” Dixie hadn’t counted on digging that deep.

“Depends.” Smokin lit another butt from the ashtray. “Anyhow, what do you think
she’s
doing over there? Think that’s legal? Tell her, old woman, is that legal?”

“Here’s his savings account.” Pearly White whistled softly. “You should have stayed in architectural school, old man.” Keyes’ savings account held $75,000. “See this highlighted symbol? That means there’s yet another account.” She toggled a key and found a certificate of deposit in Keyes’ name for $500,000. This time Dixie whistled.

“Mr. Keyes’ money would earn a much higher return invested in mutual funds,” Pearly White said. “He needs a financial planner, sweetie.”

“I should have such problems,” Dixie said.

“Is this man a partner in the firm, dear? We could check out his company accounts.”

“Do it.”

They found three accounts, one for taxes, another for everyday business, and a third for escrow on jobs in progress.

“Nothing here looks out of order, dear. The business seems to be prospering nicely.”

Dixie had to agree. Financially, Jon Keyes was squeaky clean.

“Dadburn it! FBI has
nothing
on this bozo. Was he in the army? Navy? Marines?” When Dixie shrugged, Smokin said, “A rounder, this guy? Angry, feisty, ready to fight? Probably marines.” His fingers flew over the keys.

Dixie summoned an image of Jon Keyes: agitated, angry. Reasonably well built. Not bad-looking. She wondered why he’d never remarried. The obvious reason sickened her.

“Mr. Keyes travels a bit,” Pearly White said.

She had pulled up a list of credit card purchases, several for airline tickets. The trips to Austin were numerous, as expected. Dixie asked Pearly White to scroll backward to the months before Betsy’s death. They found a purchase for a tour package to Disney World in June. The package was canceled two weeks later—three days
before
Betsy’s accident. Because
of his big job in Austin? Or because he knew Betsy wouldn’t be available for a trip to Disney World?

“Who else you want to check out?” Smokin jabbed keys with one hand while he stubbed out a cigarette with the other.

Dixie already had what she’d come for, and she was tempted to call it a night. But that would be poor investigative technique.

“Rebecca and Travis Payne” she said.

“Bonnie and Clyde team?” Smokin’s left hand danced over the keys, his right hand jabbing the mouse.

Pearly White tossed him a look, as her own fingers picked up speed. Moments later Payne’s banking records were onscreen. Dixie asked her to scroll backward two years to about the time Travis and Rebecca married. He had added Rebecca’s name to his account and she apparently transferred her savings, because the joint account showed a sudden increase of $132,000.