Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 (23 page)

“You don't get it even yet, do you?” My tone was scathing. “You know, you're going to be lucky if you don't end up dead or in a Tijuana jail. Think about it. Your contact, the person you paid, is more than just a conduit for the gold. That person's a killer. Now, the cops don't care about the gold. They care about catching a murderer. Give me the name; I'll keep you out of it, and when the case is over, the family will try to find your money for you.”

So the logic was shaky, the premise crazy. But this was a man who dealt in stolen treasure. Why should anything sound weird to him as long as he got his? Or got his back?

“Yeah.” A dark pleasure shone in his eyes. He'd lost the gold. He couldn't, at this point, touch me. But he could cause trouble for the bastard who had his money. “Yeah. Have a little talk with Tony Garza.”

 

I've never been happier to close a door. I hoped I never again saw that young, decadent, dangerous face, never. The hallway seemed graced by light and life, the butterfly-adorned doors harbingers of freedom. I hurried down the hallway, still scared, but holding tight to the case and to the name. But knowing wasn't proving. Certainly Tony Garza fit the profile of an art thief. Tony was an adventurer, a risk-taker, a gambler, a man who would think it was fun to mastermind the heist of the century. No Brinks robbery could compare to a cat burglar scaling the walls of the National Museum. No wonder he'd been alive with excitement today. Somewhere nearby he had hidden a suitcase full of cash, enough money for him to indulge any taste at all. I quashed a sharp sense of sadness. If it came to a choice between Manuel and Tony, that choice was easy. At least, it was for me. But it was sad that Tony's ebullience and charm and undeniable magnetism masked the heart of a killer. I pushed away any thought of Maria Elena. I was indeed going to bring her one heartbreak in place of another. Tony was the son she'd chosen to run Tesoros, and that told everything about her feelings for him.

But right now, the fake alligator case seemed leaden in my arms, and I had to find a safe place for the gold. Certainly I couldn't trust Kenny King. I thought I'd precluded any move by him because certainly his fingerprints were on the gold. But he might simply have decided it would be smart to remove any contest between us from the hotel. There were two possibilities.
He might intend to get the gold back, if at all possible. Or he might now be hurrying down to the River Walk, seeking a public phone. All it would take was one anonymous call. Borroel might not have believed in my tales of treasure, but he couldn't ignore a phone call with descriptions of the specific pieces, descriptions that could easily be confirmed.

It might please Borroel a great deal if that stolen gold was found in the possession of one Henrietta O'Dwyer Collins.

I was in the middle of the lobby and felt as out of place as a Democrat at a Newt Gingrich rally. By the time I reached my car, I was trembling and well aware I carried with me a fabulous treasure. I could march to the police station, plump it down on Borroel's desk, but that would not only sabotage Tesoros, it would betray Rick. The only reason I ever found the gold was through Rick's cooperation. So far today, I'd spun so many lies, skirted so much truth, that wily coyote would seem the archetype of honor in comparison. No, whatever I did, within the bounds of protecting Manuel and trapping Tony, I intended to keep my word to Rick.

But what could I do with the gold?

I unlocked the car, slipped inside, and gasped at the pocket of heat trapped within. But I didn't roll down the windows. I started the car, put the air-conditioning on high, and eased down the parking-garage ramp.

Where to go? What to do?

After I had paid and zipped the window shut again, I paused and glanced at the rental car map on the seat. Okay. It was a straight shot to the airport on 281 North. I'd find the lockers, indigenous to all major airports, and stash the case. I'd mail the key to Emily.

It was damned hot in the car, but that didn't account for the sweat beading my face.

The Bible urges us to be kind to strangers because we thereby often entertain angels unaware. I was totally absorbed, fighting panic, frantic to be free of the gold. A troupe of angelic strangers could have perched on the car hood and I would scarcely have glanced. So an angel's wing brushed my shoulder. How else can I explain the impulse that made me check the rearview mirror as I drove up Commerce? But look I did. I looked and saw a gray Jaguar in the next lane and the gleam of copper-red hair. So I jockeyed lanes and instead of heading for the expressway, I drove straight to Santa Rosa and turned left. I pulled into the parking lot at Nueva and Santa Rosa and looked across the street at the blue-and-white-tiled facade of the San Antonio Police Department.

The gray Jaguar kept right on going.

I waited until the Jaguar was past and hurried across the street and up the low steps. It was an odd sensation to walk past the smudged glass doors carrying a trophy sought by police on every continent. If I'd been bluffing before, I was now gambling high, wide and handsome. I stopped at the pay phone, dialed La Mariposa.

Tom Garza answered.

“Tom, this is Mrs. Collins. Please take this number”—I read off the pay phone number—“to Rick in the auction room. Tell him to call immediately and to do so where he cannot be overheard. Tom, this is urgent.” I hung up. I didn't want to answer questions, I didn't want to talk any longer. I wanted Rick. I stood close to the wall on the interior side of the phone. If Kenny King dared to follow me inside, I'd have to make some tough decisions the minute I saw him.

By my watch, it took four minutes for the phone to
ring. By my nerves, it was a millennium, and all the while I watched through the smudged glass for that moon face and powerful body. At the first buzz, I grabbed the receiver. “Rick? I have the materials we discussed earlier, obtained from Mr. King. But he's not giving up. He's following me. I'm in the lobby of the police department on Nueva. Send somebody absolutely unconnected with Tesoros and La Mariposa with a big purse or gym bag. Not you. Not Iris. And fast.”

I hung up, wiped my face and pushed through the second set of doors into the main lobby. Fortunately, the traffic in and out is fairly heavy and constant. I took up a post by the entrance to Sex Crimes/Homicide and tried to look inquiring and impatient, occasionally checking my watch.

I didn't imagine Rick was thrilled at the prospect of taking charge of the gold again, but nine minutes later a tall, slender girl in a T-shirt, shorts, and athletic shoes strode purposefully into the lobby, glanced around. When her eyes slid over me, she gave an infinitesimal nod.

I waggled a hand and walked into the waiting room where I'd spent so much time yesterday. She followed. Once out of sight of the main lobby, I greeted her, my back to the counter and the long-faced receptionist, my eyes on the doorway into the main lobby. She came close, opened her gym bag. I pushed in the fake alligator case. It took a half minute, neither of us spoke, no one saw.

I stayed in the reception area, sat on the uncomfortable bench. The receptionist looked at me incuriously. I had to decide what to do. I knew what I wished I could do. I wished I could walk up to the receptionist, demand to see Detective Borroel. I wanted to tell him this was his job, not mine. But I'd
already made one decision when I handed off the gold. I was going to try and keep faith with Rick. I wouldn't have the tag on Tony Garza except for Rick. But how could Tony be revealed as Schmidt's murderer without any reference to the stolen gold? I held fast to the fact that it didn't matter what had been hidden in the wardrobe; all that mattered was the confrontation between Tony and Ed that ended in Ed's death. But every piece of physical evidence pointed to Manuel. Somehow I had to lead the police to Tony instead. If only Manuel had not looked down from his balcony that night…

I was no longer aware of the hard wood of the bench or the fatigue after my horrific encounter with Kenny King. I sat still and tense, the beginnings of an idea in my mind.

Manuel looking down from his balcony…

What Manuel saw didn't really matter. He obviously saw enough to bring him downstairs. If Tony could be persuaded that Manuel saw him and that somehow Manuel was going to be able to describe that moment Tony would be forced to act. I glanced at my watch. Almost four. The party at Frank and Isabel's home in the King William district, the party to which I'd been so gaily invited, would not begin until eight. With luck and hard effort, there should be time enough.

I grabbed my notebook from my purse, flipped it open, began to write:

I folded the note, addressed it to Maria Elena Garza.

But still I sat on the hard bench, knowing that once Maria Elena received it, there would be set in motion a chain of events that had to end in sadness, that could end in horror. I wasn't certain that I would take this gamble if I were Maria Elena. It was a choice only she could make. Was it a choice I should offer her?

Was there an alternative? What if I told Borroel about the gold? But that wouldn't make any difference. The result was still the same: Tony Garza identified as the conspirator with Ed Schmidt was no proof at all that it was Tony who battered Schmidt to death. Borroel could still argue that the evidence proved Manuel committed the murder, that the gold didn't matter. He would, of course, be pleased to be the police officer responsible for returning the gold to Mexico. That would be a plume in his hat. But I was afraid it would make no difference at all in his judgment about the murder. So, if it wouldn't help to link the gold to Tesoros, there was no reason not to try and protect the store. As for the gold, with luck and planning, we should be able to return it to the museum without a hint it had ever been in the United States, much less at Tesoros in San Antonio. The gold mattered, but it didn't matter as much as Manuel. And the gold didn't exonerate Manuel. The only possible way to prove Manuel's innocence was to prove Tony's guilt.

What if I proposed my plan to both Borroel and Maria Elena? Whatever happened, Maria Elena had to make the final decision. Would Borroel cooperate, help us create a short span of time in which the murderer would reveal himself?

I recalled the detective's dismissive gaze, his barely repressed irritation. He was smart, tough, and convinced he had his murderer. I suspected he would warn us against any such endeavor. In fact, instead of providing undercover men to watch over and protect Manuel, he might even arrest Manuel immediately, effectively making a trap impossible, or he might send a police officer to the party to be in public attendance upon Manuel, equally effective at scotching any effort to draw a move from the murderer.

But wasn't it too dangerous to expose Manuel's life to a man who could grab an unseen moment and kill so cleverly that Julian Worth's death was officially accepted as an accident?

I looked down at the folded note. That's what the murderer would have to do with Manuel. Manuel's death would of necessity have to appear to be either an accident or a suicide. If the latter could be arranged, so much the better. The murder of Ed Schmidt would be closed and the murderer safe forever.

Accident, suicide. I suppressed a shudder. Tony Garza was quick and ruthless. Would Maria Elena and I be any match for him? Our only chance was to create an atmosphere of utter urgency and contain the possibility of murder to a short span of time.

Could we do it? Dare we do it?

Manuel, so defenseless, so unable to help us in protecting himself. To put him in danger was terrifying. How could I even suggest to Maria Elena that she place the life of this cherished child in peril?

I opened the note, reread the words. I don't know if I have ever felt such a grave sense of responsibility. I wished I'd never envisioned this possibility. Then I wouldn't have to decide whether to seek out Maria Elena. But once I foresaw a way to save Manuel, how
could I refuse to offer it to his mother? It might be the only way in the world to save him from prison.

I opened my purse, reached for my cell phone. I held it, not wanting to call, feeling I must call.

The door near the counter opened. A young man in a dark suit held it open for Maria Elena and Manuel. Dear Lord, they'd been here all these hours, all day. I guessed the young man was Manuel's lawyer and likely one of the extended family. His face was carefully composed, lawyers always keep their cards hidden, but a muscle ridged in his jaw. Maria Elena looked a decade older than when we'd first met, her dark eyes haunted and stricken, her mouth drooping, her creamy complexion tinged with gray. She held tight to Manuel's arm. He shambled alongside her, staring down at the floor, his shoulders drawn tight. Oh, God, he was so frightened, so bewildered, even with his mother at his side. And what would happen if they took him away from Maria Elena?

Fate. Karma. The brush of an angel's wings. None of these or all, I didn't know, could never know. But I was here at this moment as this despairing woman walked near.

I gave one last quick glance toward the greater lobby, then stood and moved in front of Maria Elena. I stood with my back to the lobby, though surely Kenny King was now far away from here. I reached out, embraced Maria Elena and tucked the note into her hand.

Her eyes shot toward my face, her fingers squeezed around the paper, and then she was past.

I gazed after the three of them and knew exactly how Caesar must have felt when he stood at the Rubicon.

 

I brewed coffee in the small coffeemaker and sat in the comfortable chair near the open french door. Shadows slipped across the river as the sun sank behind the buildings. I sipped the coffee and waited in an odd state of relaxation. I'd done all I could do.