Charity Kills (A David Storm Mystery) (6 page)

Hildebrandt lived in a high-rise condo overlooking Memorial Park near Loop 610 and the Galleria. His monthly maintenance fees were higher than Storm’s entire mortgage payment, but Russell didn’t seem to care. There was a doorman, a pool, tennis courts, and even an on-site dry cleaner. Russell lived on the eighteenth floor and the view from the huge picture windows was awesome. He had lived there for ten years and Storm and Angie had spent enough time there to feel at home. One of their favorite times was watching the downtown Fourth of July fireworks from the wraparound shatterproof windows that offered a view east toward downtown and overlooked the park.

Russell and Storm had always been at home with one another and always had each other’s backs. Lately it had been Russell’s turn to stand by Storm. Although physically different—Storm was dark, Russell was fair—they were both taller than average and athletic. Russell’s blonde hair and blue eyes made him and Storm look like different sides of the same coin. Even their personalities were different but complementary: Russell was gregarious and outgoing, where Storm was more serious and soft-spoken. The friendship had developed as easy as bees take to honey. With the loss of Storm’s brother in college and Russell being an only child, they had filled a void in each of their lives and their friendship grew through the years of both bad times and good.

Storm pushed the doorbell and waited, and a rode-hard-put-up-wet Russell answered the door, dressed only in knee length shorts and with a serious case of pillow creases across his face.

“Well, Baretta, what made you wake me up so early?” asked Russell as he wiped the sleep from his eyes.

Storm didn’t care for the nickname, but Russell had used it since he had made detective. So he had learned to live with it.

“I am your wakeup-and-vanquish-your-latest-floozy service. Didn’t I tell you? It’s my new vocation in life.” Storm grinned because this has been his typical answer for more than twenty years.

“Fine. But really, to what do I owe this early morning intrusion into my otherwise exciting and devil-may-care life?”

“I’ll tell you, if you make me some coffee, or did your latest road whore steal your coffeemaker this time?”

“I don’t know, check the kitchen. If it is still there she didn’t steal it, and who told you she was a road whore?” Russell chuckled, well aware of
his own reputation.

Russell went to work making himself a Bloody Mary, a habit that had been part of his Sunday morning ritual since his parents used to take him to the country club for brunch since the age of twelve. He once told Storm that he and the other children of prosperity could always get the wait staff to bring lightly made drinks while their parents weren’t looking. As he listened to the tinkle of ice in the glass, Russell asked again what had brought Storm over so early on a Sunday.

Storm snickered and said, “Oh, I was up and the thought crossed my mind, who is a bigger pain the ass in the morning than I am? Poof, your name sprang to mind. I know you love getting up early for breakfast, although it be liquid, not to mention I wanted to make sure you got off to church on time.”

Russell walked into the kitchen in time to watch Storm fumble with the coffeemaker. Storm’s big hands did not do minor things well and a “tablespoon” of coffee per cup meant Storm adding ten spoons in an eight-cup coffee maker.

“Are you going to be at that long?” Russell asked as he watched Storm.

“Might be. You never know. Had a murder at the Dome last night,” Storm said, almost as a second thought.

That got Russell’s attention. “OK, Baretta. Talk to me. Who got murdered? I hope one of those dickhead big wheels down there.”

“Nope, a young girl. Found her this morning in a dumpster with her throat cut”

“Young girl, huh? Was she cute and do we know her?” asked Russell.

“Her name was Leslie Phillips according to the ID they found along with some clothes they think are hers. Those were also found in another dumpster outside the stadium.”

”The new stadium?”

“Yep.”

”Who found her?”

“One of the guys on the cleanup crew.”

“Wow, so you have already had an intriguing morning. But, why come see me so early? Did she have my wallet or anything of mine on her?” Russell said, smiling, his way of trying to lighten the mood that had suddenly turned somber.

“You know why I’m here, Russell,” Storm answered. He had turned his friend into his sounding board for more than half their lives. They had met on their first day at football camp at Texas Tech and had ended up being roommates throughout college. He was there when Storm had met Angie and was their best man when they got married. He was there shortly after Storm found Angie dead and had consoled his friend for hours, knowing it was all he could do.

Russell was from a wealthy family and had gone to Bellaire high school. He had played against Storm when they were in high school and the rich kids were sent home not just beaten but bloodied. Being from a wealthy family had always given Russell his perks. His dad was a Texas Tech grad and from the time Russell had made the high school football team, Tech was the only place for him to go to school. His dad pulled some strings and made sure his son had gotten a shot at the big time in college ball.

Although Russell had some talent, he was basically lazy. In his sophomore year at Tech he quit football and took up what he really enjoyed, which was women and booze, and from then on he had more fun than most college students are allowed to have. It had disappointed his dad greatly but he had persevered through it. Russell was a good student, so he got to stay at Tech and room with Storm. He took communications classes, which was basically television broadcasting and basket-weaving. They were easy for Russell, who kept saying he liked the idea of being on TV someday. He might not have been too good at football, but he was charming, and he had everyone on campus watching to see what stunt he would pull next while doing a live broadcast on Tech’s college station. The camera loved him and he was a more than adequate storyteller, so he ended up being a reporter and writing for the college newspaper.

When they graduated, Russell, Storm, and Angie had all come back to Houston to make their fortunes. He was picked up on one of the local TV stations doing news reports and later being the nightly anchor before becoming the nightly weather man; again his charm worked and he became one of the most recognizable television personalities in the Houston area. He did numerous charity events like golf tournaments and local fund raisers, which added to his notoriety. Unlike his friend Storm, for Russell monogamy with a single woman had never entered his mind. The world he viewed was his playground, and a variety of female partners only added to the fun.

Storm turned to Russell. “You’ve been in Houston all your life just like I have and you’ve been with the TV station for more years then either of us wants to remember. Have you ever heard of a girl being killed at the barbecue before?”

“Not that I remember, Rain Man, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Why do you ask?”

Storm knew that anything he told Russell was between the two of them. “When I was at the precinct this morning Hernandez said something like, ‘So you got the Dome murder.’ Then he insinuated that there had been others, but when I pressed him about what he said he clammed up and said—” Storm paused. “He said nothing. He just made up some flimsy excuses and scurried off to his desk.”

“Hernandez—he’s that guy who lost a leg a few years ago, right?”

“Yeah, he is the sergeant on the homicide desk now at headquarters.”

“Well, he probably hears everything that comes in and hears things you probably wouldn’t or you might have forgotten when you were in, well, let’s say, ‘when you were not operating at full function,’ right?”

“You’re right, but I’m surprised something like that didn’t stick in my mind.”

“Are you going to ask him more about it?’

“Yeah, but that will have to wait until later,” Storm growled, still struggling with the coffee pot.

“Well, I could ask the old time news guys at the station if you want. Do some digging around.”

“Would you?” Storm had hoped Russell would volunteer to do so.

“Sure. Now, about this coffee you’re making.” Russell looked at the coffeemaker and just shook his head and stepped into the operation. If he didn’t take over, the coffee would never get made and even if Storm had gotten it to perk, the coffee would taste like road tar.

“So, you going out to the Dome to talk to the show people?” asked Russell.

“Yeah. Lieutenant Flynn said that the mayor had already talked to them and they were going to help in any way they can.” Storm looked at Russell as if it made sense that the mayor was already talking to the show.

“Look, Storm. That doesn’t set with me. The mayor already knows about this?” asked Russell.

Storm could see the question marks appear in his friend’s’ eyes
. He’s thinking, “why is the mayor involved in this?”
Storm just shook his head “yes.”

“What else did your lieutenant tell you?” pressed Russell.

“That the Livestock Show was going to help to keep it quiet.” Again Storm looked to Russell for comment. “You know better than I do how much influence those people have with the mayor and his cronies.”

Storm knew Russell’s dad had been a big wheel at the Livestock Show and Russell had grown up around it. Even if disillusioned with the whole kit and caboodle of the Show, he still retained his perks and kept up on who was running things out there. He had seen and been around all the shenanigans that had gone on out there for years; stuff that most outsiders didn’t know about. He knew about the girls and why there were rules against cameras in the VIP clubs. Russell still had access to his privileges, his badge, and his passes to the event and the VIP clubs, although he seldom used them. Even with his inactivity at the charity, his dad remained much too much a man of consequence for Russell to lose his benefits. Not that Russell wanted to pay for something he could get for free, but he would rather buy tickets than use the assets in the special club levels reserved for those esteemed charitable benefactors. So, yeah, Russell knows all the ins and outs of the Show.

“Where are you going next, Storm?”

”Back out to the Livestock Show offices, meet with the staff.”

“OK. Call me later to let me know how it went. I’ll go in and check with my old buddies at the station to see what they know and hey, by the way, us insiders just refer to it as the “Show” or the “Rodeo,” not by its full name.”

Russell smiled like the proverbial cat that ate the canary as he poured cups of coffee into clunky ceramic mugs for each of them.

After three more cups of coffee at Russell’s house Storm needed to pee real bad, but he hurried and controlled the desire till he could get back to the Dome. In a place that big he figured he could find at least one men’s room to get rid of the coffee overflow.

Country Dog in the City

By the time Storm left Russell’s condo it was past midmorning and traffic on the 610 Loop had increased to a paralytic crawl consisting of both churchgoers and people heading to the trendy bistros in the Galleria for brunch. With expansion and growth in the city it was always repairing some main thoroughfare or building an extra lane and that always made the Loop an even bigger maelstrom of hindrances. The longstanding joke was that if you started to work on a road in Houston when you were eighteen, you could retire at age sixty-five from a road crew that’s working within ten miles of where you started. This seemed more fact then fiction.

At the Dome complex, Storm was directed back to the first entry he had tried that morning. The offices for the rodeo were in the new giant sparkling contemporary center on the north side of the new stadium. This time, after he showed his police credentials he was told where to park, with emphasis that he not park in any spaces reserved for members of Houston’s new football team—and one of those spaces was exactly where he pulled in. He put his police tag in the window in case someone had a problem; his police tag trumped jock parking.

The new center was huge. When you entered the massive hallway on the west end, you couldn’t see the east end—it was at least a quarter of mile long. To the left of the main hall was the exhibition area that ran the length of the building. The front of the exhibition area was occupied by vendors selling everything from Western clothing to artwork or farm equipment; you could get a turkey leg or sign up for college. Further back were the stalls and judging arenas for 4H and FFA animals to be exhibited: cattle, pigs, sheep, goats, turkeys, rabbits and chickens.

Storm took an escalator up to the second floor of the building some fifty feet above the entry floor, which was composed of myriads of meeting rooms and offices for the Livestock Show, the National Football League, and the complex management company. Many of the rooms in the upper level were huge expanses of space that had sliding walls that could be configured as smaller rooms for meetings or large temporary members-only bars that dotted the entire complex during special events.

Storm walked halfway down the long hallway till he saw the Rodeo offices on his left with its elegant mahogany double-doored entrance that opened into an opulent reception area. He remembered the simple offices in the now razed old convention center, which would have fit into the foyer of this place. “Nice digs,” he said to himself, his eyes moving over the magnificent Western art and sculptures. The lobby of these offices showed the Rodeo had arrived. This was no longer “a small town goat ropin’”; it was the biggest charity in the state and the largest indoor rodeo in the United States.

Behind the huge mahogany reception desk sat a gray-haired lady gatekeeper. She asked his business and he explained who he was and that he was to meet someone from the rodeo staff.

“You’re expected. Miss Taylor will be available to see you shortly,” she announced. “Please take a seat. Any seat is fine. Miss Taylor will be right out.”

Storm sat on one end of one of the overstuffed leather sofa and continued to study the art and memorabilia in the lobby. There were gorgeous paintings of Western scenes, handsome bronze sculptures, replicas of Remington’s and cases of Show memorabilia, along with 18’ X 24’ framed photographs of past Rodeo presidents. Things had changed considerably, as most things change with huge increases of revenue; where the old offices were understated and belied the amounts of money that were accumulated and disseminated, the new offices were opulent. There was no doubt that this was an institution with financial strength and grandeur.