Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 01 - Galveston (13 page)

I quickly explained my situation.

Marty was apologetic. “Sorry, Kid. Al’s in Cancun. Just left. He’ll be out for two weeks. Can I help?”

“Yeah,” the feminine voice said. “You sure can.” Wicked little giggles punctuated her remark.

I couldn’t resist a grin at his predicament, but I knew I could trust Marty, and that was about all I could say. He was a plodder, a lot like me. Two of us would probably get nowhere twice as fast in half the time. But at least, I could get someone else’s reaction.

“Okay, Marty. I’ll e-mail you what I have and what I think. Put your spin on it. Maybe you’ll spot something I’ve missed.”

Chapter Fourteen

Ted Morrison was sleeping fitfully when I came in. His torso had so many welts and knots, if you painted it red, it could pass for the Martian landscape. I studied the welts. There are welts, and then there are welts. Welts form in the shape of the instrument causing them. I had seen welts like these before in the interrogation room where rogue cops used batons and slappers for some extra-curricular activity. I nodded to them and cocked an eyebrow at Virgil.

He shrugged. In a hushed tone, he said. “Says Maranzano’s boys did it.”

“Why?” I had a couple theories, but that’s all they were, theories. But the truth was, Maranzano wasn’t part of them.

“No idea. Claims he never had any dealings with Maranzano.”

That made no sense. A family member screws the pooch, then expect retaliation. But, roughing up someone for no reason, someone outside the family—that made no sense.

“You believe that, Virge, and I’ve got lakefront property in the middle of the Sahara to sell you. Wonder why he came here?”

Virgil arched an eyebrow. “Maybe you’re the only one he trusts.”

“I doubt that. He knows I know about him and Cheshire. I just can’t prove it. Not yet. And he won’t admit it.”

“What do you want me to do with him?”

At first, I didn’t understand Virgil’s question. “You mean for tonight?”

“Yeah. Want me to take him to my room?”

“No sense in that.” I shook my head. “Let’m sleep. I’ll take the other bed.”

Virgil rose and stretched. “You sure? I’m ready hit the blankets.”

I agreed. “It’s been a long day. Yeah, just leave him here. I’m going to take a shower and then send out some e-mail.”

After closing and bolting the door, I headed for a hot shower. I was tired and sore, but all in all, I had managed to accomplish a great deal. Enough I hoped to give me some direction for tomorrow.

Morrison appeared to be sleeping soundly. I still had trouble with Maranzano being behind the beating. I padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower. As many motels, a door separated the vanity and shower facilities.

I failed to close the door completely. Steam from the shower seeped into the vanity and sink area. I noticed I was out of soap, so I climbed from the tub and opened the door enough to grab a fresh bar of soap.

I froze.

Reflected in the mirror was Ted Morrison on the floor beneath the dresser against the wall.

Stepping back inside quickly, I climbed silently in the shower and hastily soaped and rinsed. I snugged my robe about me and returned to the bedroom. Morrison appeared to be sleeping, and in exactly the same position as when I left the room.

My mother raised no idiots. I acted as if I had good sense and went about my business. I booted up the computer and put together my e-mail for Marty Blevins.

Just before I finished, Morrison awakened. With a pitiful groan, he climbed from bed and hobbled to the bathroom. The door clicked shut.

Instantly, I dropped to my knees and fumbled up under the dresser. I cursed as I jammed my fingers into the solid underbelly of the dresser. I stretched far back and ran my hand up the back of the dresser. My fingers stiffened as I touched a plastic bag taped to the back of the dresser. I ripped it off and jammed it in a pocket.

The commode flushed. I jerked back, scraping my arm across a sharp corner. I ignored the pain and slipped into my chair just seconds before Morrison reappeared.

He hesitated, glanced at me, and managed a weak grin. “Thanks for letting me stay here tonight.”

“Not to worry. You look worn out. Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He nodded gratefully and climbed back into bed.

I sat at the computer, typing gibberish while my heart thudded against my chest. What was going on here?

Obviously, you dummy, he’s setting you up for someone. The cops most likely.

I hoped the single packet was all he planted. Then I remembered his visit to the bathroom. Just as he pulled the covers up about his neck, I rose quickly. “Uh oh,” I said. “Nature calls.”

I didn’t bother to close the door. I glanced behind the commode. Nothing. I flipped through the stack of towels.

Bingo. Another bag. About a dollar’s worth. Same as the other. I ripped both bags open and dumped them in the commode and flushed it. I stood watching two hundred dollars of nose candy swish down into the sewer. Just to be on the safe side, I flushed it a second time.

Back in the bedroom, I worked on my e-mail to Marty. My heart was pounding so hard, I knew Morrison must hear it. As my adrenaline slowed, my anger rose. I bit my tongue and finished my e-mail. With a final punch on a button, I sent it into cyberspace.

Then I looked at Morrison who appeared to be sleeping.

I was about two seconds away from breaking one of his knees when a loud knock sounded at the door.

“Boudreaux! It’s the police. We have a warrant. Open up.”

Morrison sat upright, his eyes wide in feigned surprise.

I eyed him coldly, and I saw the recognition in his eyes that I knew what he had done. He licked his lips nervously.

The cops pounded on the door. “Boudreaux!”

“Hold it, hold it,” I yelled. “I’m coming.”

When I opened the door, three brawny uniforms burst in. One jammed a warrant in my hand. “Illegal drugs. Sit down. Don’t move.”

I obeyed without protest, which surprised them. Obviously they had anticipated some argument on my part.

One tore through the vanity and then disappeared into the bathroom. Another yanked and grabbed at the clothes in the closet. A third rummaged through the drawers, pulled the dresser from the wall, and peered behind it. A puzzled frown flickered over his face. He gave Morrison a fleeting look, but Morrison was glancing desperately at the door.

The one from the bathroom reappeared, a puzzled frown on his face. “Nothing,” he muttered, shooting Morrison an angry look.

“Nothing here either,” replied the second and the third.

I rose slowly. “Sorry you made the trip for nothing, Boys.” I shook my head and clucked my tongue. “I’ve noticed that we’re getting a mighty inferior quality of stool pigeons this year.”

If looks could have killed, I’d have died right there.

They glared at me, then exchanged puzzled looks, uncertain as to what they should do next.

Abruptly, Morrison jumped out of bed and slammed the heel of his hand into the chest of one of the uniforms. “What do you think you’re doing, coming into a man’s room like this? You got no right.”

The outburst surprised all of us, but a second uniform reacted quickly. With a shout, he grabbed Morrison around the chest and spun him away.

One of the officers shot a threatening look at me. I held up my hands, shook my head, and backed away in time to see Morrison take a wild swing at the uniform who had seized him.

Instantly, all three pounced on Ted Morrison, cuffing his hands and screaming obscenities at him.

All in all, I thought they were putting on a good show, probably better than the made for TV movie Channel 3 was showing.

“You’re going down to the station, Buddy,” one shouted, shoving Morrison toward the door.

With a startled grunt, Morrison stumbled against the end of the bed and fell forward roughly, banging his head against the open door. He jerked around, a thin line of blood appearing on his forehead.

One of the uniforms cursed. “Come on. Let’s get him out of here.” He glanced at me. I saw a flicker of alarm in his eyes. I just shrugged.

Virgil was standing outside the door when it opened.

Ignoring him, the three blue boys ushered Morrison down the gallery.

His eyes questioning, Virgil paused in the open doorway and watched as the small procession disappeared around the corner. He looked around at me. “Looks like you had some excitement.”

“Morrison was a plant. Two bags of happy stuff. D.A. must have sent him. You notice the welts on him?”

Virgil frowned. “What about them?”

“I’ve been thinking about them. I’ve seen enough ‘persuasion’ in the back room to recognize welts raised by batons. They must have worked him over good before he got here.”

“Huh? They? The cops? That don’t make no sense. Why work him over if he’s on their side?”

I arched an eyebrow. “Maybe he isn’t on their side. Maybe he honestly has no idea what’s going down. Maybe.”

“Oh.” Virgil nodded slowly. “I see.” He hesitated and shook his head. “No. I don’t see.”

A few pieces were beginning to fall into place. I hoped it was because that was where they belonged rather than because I wanted them to fit. “Morrison could be on the level. Cheshire could have hired him as a courier of sorts—feel out the fence, do the legwork.”

Virgil snorted. “Huh. I don’t know. I think he’s neck deep in the whole thing.” He paused, then said. “Before you got the call about Ben Howard, you were saying something about the California Cargo and Tri Oceans lines. You got something figured out on them?”

For a moment, I stared at him, confused. So much had taken place in the last few hours, I’d forgotten about the vessels. But, now I remembered. “Yeah—yeah. The California. Where are my note cards? I’ll show you what I’m talking about.”

Once again, I spread the notes and printouts. “The California is a regular at the Port of Galveston. All these other lines are regulars too except for Tri Oceans. Now, I’m taking some far-fetched presumptions here, but look at what we have. First the note, one dash twenty-one, ccc, bp. What if the twenty-one is the berth. That’s Abbandando’s. Second, ccc could be Centennial Cargo California or Tri Oceans Voyager.”

He arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Okay, but what about the other numbers and the letters bp?”

I gave him a wry grin. “Beats me.”

He tapped his meaty finger on the list of vessels. “So how do we know which is which between the California and Voyager?”

Smuggling goods was a new game for me, but it stood to reason that a cache of diamonds would logically come from a country that produced diamonds, or at least, the seaport nearest that country. To my fairly naïve understanding of smuggling, I figured chances were less likely that diamonds would come from Cuba rather than from South Africa or Australia. “I’m guessing, Virge, that we should focus on the vessel that had a port of call in a diamond producing country.”

He eyed me skeptically. “But what if they deliberately sent the goods to another country to bury the trail? That’s what I’d do.”

I studied him a moment. “Don’t confuse me. I got all I can handle with this.”

He drew a deep breath and nodded to the printouts on the table. “You know where the port of calls were?”

“If I don’t, I can get them.” I thumbed through the printouts. “Centennial Cargo California’s last port of call was Abidjan on the Ivory Coast. She’s loaded with general cargo.”

“You figure the shipment came out of there?”

I pondered his question. All I’d heard about Abidjan was that whatever your taste, avant-garde or conservative, you could get it there. I nodded. “A shipment of hot diamonds coming out of the Ivory Coast wouldn’t surprise me.” I looked back at the printout and grimaced.

 “What about the other vessel, the Voyager?”

“Yeah. There’s plenty on it. It’ll berth at Pier Twenty-three, remember?”

Virgil nodded. “Where’s it been?”

I flipped through the printout until I came to the schedules. I whistled when I spotted the Voyager’s ports of call. “Freetown, Sierra Leone.”

“So?” Virgil frowned at me.

“So, Sierra Leone is home to probably half the world’s known diamond mines.”

Virgil’s eyes grew wide. “Half? Did you say half?”

“Well, maybe not half, but there’s enough there that we can’t afford to overlook it, or the Centennial California.”

“Okay, so now we have two ships that could be bringing in the diamonds. My next question is how we find out which one.”

I sighed. “I got no idea. Not now.” Suddenly, I was exhausted. One second I vibrated with energy, the next I felt like every ounce of strength had been drained from my muscles. “I’m beat, Virge. I gotta get some sleep.”

But, sleep didn’t come. I lay awake for over an hour, sorting, cataloging, trying to make the pieces fit. Logically, the vessel with the diamonds would berth at Abbandando’s. That was the Centennial California. Even if I were right about that, the next problem was that I had no idea in what guise they would attempt to bring the diamonds ashore.

A familiar thought started nagging at me, one I had experienced in every investigation, one I tried to ignore, but one that continued to batter at me. What if the basic hypothesis was flawed? What if there were no diamonds at all? What if shooting Ben Howard was a mistake? What if Albert Vastar were not buried in cement? 

Somewhere in all of the ‘what if’s’, I finally drifted off to sleep.

That night I dreamed of being strapped on the execution gurney at Huntsville. Ben Howard was the one who inserted the needle in my arm.

Chapter Fifteen

The morning dawned bright and clear.

After a shower and fresh cup of coffee to clear the cobwebs from my head, I felt better, not much, but somewhat. I had two vessels, the California and the Voyager, both anchored offshore awaiting a pilot to bring them in. The California was due the next day, the Voyager a couple days later. I didn’t have much time to discover just how the diamonds would be brought ashore. To compound the problem, I hadn’t the slightest idea where to begin.