Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 09 - The Crystal Skull Murders (19 page)

The lanky man’s shifty eyes studied us. I could see
the wheels turning in his head. I decided to jump kick
his explanation. “For your information, the skull isn’t
where Abdo told you”

Anger flashed in his eyes. “What? Why that-”

Doreen chuckled. “Oh, he told you the truth, Buck,
but now the skull isn’t at the pawnshop any longer.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Now, how did you find out
about it?”

His eyes widened in disbelief. “Y-You know where
it is?”

Doreen smiled at him. “Yes,” she replied sweetly.
“We know exactly where it is.”

A crafty look filled his eyes. “Listen, Tony. If you
can get your hands on it, I’ve got a buyer. A bunch of
religious nuts. Coming in to town tomorrow. Claims it
was stolen from them, and they’ll pay just about anything to get it back. It’ll be worth more than you or
Doreen can make at that gumshoe job in ten years. We
can all retire.”

“Is that why you sent someone after it last night?”

“Huh?” He frowned. “Hey, I didn’t send nobody
anywhere last night.” He paused, then with a shrug continued. “Sure, I wanted it. I still do, and-” A crafty
look filled his eyes. “I was trying to figure out how to
get it, but I didn’t do nothing last night.” He paused, his face a mask of concentration. “You say someone tried
to get it last night?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned forward. With a sense of urgency, he whispered, “Jeez! That means someone else knows about it.
We have to work fast if we want to make a deal with
them guys, Tony.”

I studied him suspiciously, wondering if this were
just another of his smooth lies. “Why are these people
coming to town tomorrow. You don’t have the skull?”

He glanced sheepishly at Doreen. He forced a weak
laugh. “I told them I could get it.”

“Taking a chance, aren’t you? What are they going to
do if you don’t have it?”

He snorted. “What can they do? So, what about it,
Tony? Can you guys get it for me? It’ll be worth your
time.”

I glanced at Doreen. Feigning interest, I shrugged. “I
don’t know, Buck. Maybe. But tell me, how did you find
out about the skull?”

Buck drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “All
right. Now you remember, I ain’t made no secret that I
wanted to buy the Hip-Hop and Jimmy’s Bistro right
next door.” He gestured to the interior of his club. “Expand this place of mine, you know? Well, one morning a
couple weeks ago, I went down to the Hip-Hop before
we opened up. I’d seen Getdown go in so I thought I’d
get him alone and make another offer. I’d heard on the
street that the fat man had turned down one or two offers of a hundred grand, one of them from Abe Romero. I
figured on kicking it up to two hundred.”

Surprised, I whistled. “Two hundred. That’s steep”

“I figured the fat man would go for it.”

I studied him carefully. “Can you swing that kind of
bundle?”

A shrewd gleam filled his eyes and a faint smile
touched his thin lips. “It would have been hard, but I
could have swung it.”

He glanced at Doreen and continued. “The front was
empty. I figured Getdown was in his office, so I headed
back there. The door was open. I could hear talking.” He
paused, and in all fairness to Buck, I’ll admit a sheepish
grin did play over his face as he continued. “So, I listened.” He shrugged when he spotted the knowing grin
on my face. “Hey, it don’t hurt to listen. After all, you
never know what you can pick up”

Doreen chuckled. “So, what did you hear?”

“Whoever he was, this dude had a crystal skull he
wanted to sell to Getdown for ten Gs. He claimed the
right collectors would fork over three million or more
for it. Getdown figured it was a scam. He nixed the offer.” He shrugged. “If I’d knowed then what I know
now, I would of collared that dude myself.”

I interrupted. “If it was worth that much, why did the
guy want to sell it for only ten grand?”

Buck grunted. “I ain’t got no proof, but I got the feeling the dude was on the lam. He said something about
the next bus out of town. Anyway, when I heard the dude start to leave, I ducked into the storeroom. After
the guy left, Getdown sent Ivory to follow him and get
the skull.”

“Ivory?” I frowned.

Buck explained. “One of Getdown’s boys, Ivory
Washington.” He tapped his finger to his temple. “Slow
as molasses up here. I think his first name is Leander.
You saw him the other day when you talked to Getdown. Small guy, bald head”

I nodded, remembering the light-complexioned young
man.

Buck continued. “Look, I know the fat man. He’ll
chisel any way he can for a buck. My guess is that he
sent Ivory to find where the dude holed up and rip off
the skull.”

His little theory tallied with Goofyfoot’s story about
Rosey finding the skull in a Dumpster behind the Blackhawk Towers. The dude could have hidden it there, planning on returning to retrieve it. So, why hadn’t he?

We were beginning to pick up more and more loose
ends.

“This guy. You get a look at him?”

With an indifferent shrug, Buck grunted. “Kinda.
Small. Had a big nose. I ain’t got no prejudices, but he
looked like one of those Jew-boys. That’s about it.”

Doreen spoke up. “You said you had a buyer.”

His eyes narrowed. “Yeah. I can get us a good price.”

Casually, I asked, “How did you find a buyer?”

He grinned slyly. “I got contacts”

I thought about the names J.C.Towers had given us,
Carl Simmons of Dallas, George Bernard of Denver,
and Rosalind Attenborough in London. I had no doubt
just a little deeper digging online would turn up their
names as well as the names of other collectors. “Who?”

A fair sneer curled one side of his lips as he looked at
Doreen, then back at me. “Don’t worry, I got them” He
paused. “Well?”

His question jerked me back to the present. “Well,
what?”

“Do we have a deal? I mean, can you get me the
skull?”

I downed the last of the coffee and tossed a sawbuck
on the counter. “Sorry. No can do”

I slid into the passenger seat in Doreen’s Jag and
leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

While Doreen buckled up, she remarked, “You must
be exhausted.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. And that was the last I remember
until we pulled into the parking lot at the office.

She parked by my Silverado. “Can you make it
home?”

The few minutes sleep had done wonders, at least
wonders enough that I figured I could handle the
twenty minutes to my apartment on Peyton-Gin Road.
“Yeah. Thanks. See you in the morning. After a good
night’s sleep, we’ll sit down and figure just where we
stand”

On the way home, I suddenly remembered the date
with Janice later that evening. I hadn’t heard from her
since I had come face to face with her at the signal
light on Congress Street the night before. I had
planned to show up at her place at 8:00, figuring if she
were still angry from the night before, she’d let me
know then.

“At least,” I muttered as I pulled into the driveway, “I
can get a little sleep first.”

Locking my apartment door behind me, I stumbled
to the kitchen. The chicken salad and tea for lunch at
the deli was down to my toes. I was too tired to be hungry. I eyed the half-full bottle of bourbon, then drew a
glass of water and chugged it down.

The phone rang. It was Janice. When I heard her
voice, my life passed before my eyes. I steeled myself
for her tirade.

Before I could stammer or stutter, she apologized for
last night. “I realized later that you and your partner
were probably on the way to your surveillance. Anyway, as much as I hate to, I have to postpone tonight.
Aunt Beatrice wants me to fly to Dallas with her for a
few days. I’ll call when I get back. You understand,
don’t you, Tony? You aren’t upset, are you?”

Magnanimous me, I replied, “No. Oh no. I was really
looking forward to it, but I understand. Those things
happen. Have fun. I’ll manage”

After we hung up, I breathed a sigh of relief. I nuked
some milk for A.B., dished out some nuggets for him, and then shuffled to my bedroom where I undressed,
passed on a shower, and slid under the covers.

And died.

Next thing I knew, it was 5:30. I lay staring at the
ceiling, my body still tired, but my brain working.

We had a plethora of loose ends, but nothing to connect them.

Truth was, we weren’t much closer to finding the
torch man than we had been on Monday, three days
earlier.

I knew where the crystal skull came in. It was worth
a bundle, and while I had no proof, there was no question in my mind that whoever torched the Hip-Hop also
killed Rosey, perhaps in an effort to find the skull.

Suddenly, the phone rang, breaking the pristine silence of the morning and interrupting my poorly disguised efforts at playing Sherlock Holmes. It was
Doreen. “Tony, you watching local news?”

“No, why?”

“Turn it on. Channel eight.”

I flipped it on and froze.

Police cruisers were parked at every angle around
Towers’ Jewelers, and an animated reporter announced
that during the night, a single burglar had held an employee at gunpoint and taken several hundred thousand
dollars of merchandise.

The news hit me between the eyes. I knew exactly
what was missing, and immediately I started calling J.C.Towers every vile name I could think of and then
some.

The diminutive man wanted the skull. That fact was
obvious, but would he go to such an extent to possess
it? I found that hard to believe, but still, after several
years dealing with the human race, I had witnessed
more than one person throw his life away because he
couldn’t control his greed.

And to toss another log on the firestorm, Mrs. Bernie
called, demanding in her inimitable crude manner to
know just what had happened to her expletive, expletive, expletive skull. And it certainly did nothing to
salve her temper when I told her I had no idea what had
taken place.

Naturally, Doreen and I couldn’t get anywhere near
J.C.Towers until the police completed their initial investigation, so we sat in the parking lot in my pickup,
sipping coffee and waiting until the cops left.

After informing me she had contacted Jimmy Willis
at Carson’s Car Lot, and he verified Bull Abdo’s version
of the Miata purchase, she continued. “Last night, I
couldn’t sleep,” she said, staring out the window. “So I
pulled out my notes. I ran across a couple things that
puzzled me. Maybe you can make some sense of them”

I scooted around in the seat. “Such as?”

She flipped open her small notebook. “Okay. When
we talked to Abdo yesterday, he said he made his biweekly delivery to the clubs on Sixth Street on Tuesdays and Fridays.” I nodded and she continued. “Abdo said on Monday, he picked up all the dirty laundry and
dropped off towels, tablecloths, and the fancy uniforms
the waitstaff of the Hip-Hop were to wear.”

A tiny glimmer of understanding flickered in the
back of my head. One of the worst mistakes a PI can
make is not to take time to reflect and analyze gathered
information. Our investigation had been so intense the
last three days, I’d failed to take that time. “Go on”

“When we talked to Sillery, he said among his property lost in the fire on Tuesday were towels, tablecloths,
and some fancy uniforms he had bought for his people
to start wearing.”

I was puzzled. “And?”

“And,” she replied, her black eyes glittering with excitement, “he also claimed that on that Monday and
Tuesday, he was in Dallas at the Somalia Sunrise Club
auditioning rap groups for the Hip-Hop.”

I nodded, still uncertain as to her point.

She continued. “So, regular pickup and delivery for
laundry is Tuesday and Fridays on Sixth Street. That
week, Abdo delivered early, on Monday. If Getdown
was in Dallas, how did he know a new delivery of laundry was in the back? With the new uniforms.”

Suddenly, I understood exactly what she was trying
to say. “Yeah. The ones he bought from the laundry for
his people to-”