Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 12 - Murder Among Friends (12 page)

I leaned back and arched an eyebrow. “Does the name
Trimunti mean anything to you? Frank Trimunti?”

The question shattered the rage on his face.

Remembering Chief Pachuca’s warning, I continued,
“I’m not suggesting you had anything to do with it. All I’m
saying is that I know you owe Trimunti eight thousand, and
in the last few months, you’ve lost over seventy grand”

A sheen of sweat covered his face. He licked at his fat
lips. In a growl, he demanded, “So what? That’s nobody’s
business”

I held up both hands to my shoulders, palms out. “Hey, I
know. Nobody’s saying it is. My only point is that Carl
Edwards is not the only one who had motive for the job” I
paused, and then added, “Do I think you had anything to do
with it? No. All I really wanted to ask you was if in any of
your conversations with Edwards, he’d ever mentioned someplace he would like to visit. That’s all. And you told
me”

He relaxed. After a few seconds, he grinned. “You had
me going there”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to” It was a lie, but I told it with a
straight face, and he believed me.

“As far as where he might be, I have no idea. We weren’t
close. Oh, we’d worked together for years, but he was a
vice president, and I was one of the peons. We didn’t run in
the same circle. Of course, if I was out somewhere and
spotted Carl, we’d wave. But that wasn’t too often”

I wanted to make the sarcastic comment that the reason
it wasn’t too often was that Edwards didn’t frequent illegal
gambling salons, but I kept my mouth closed.

After Busby left, I jotted details on my note cards as
well as a reminder to pursue the two leads I’d just been
given; one being that Edwards had lost a bundle on gold investments, and the second to see just what important job
Edwards had at work on February 3 that kept him from
going home.

According to Raiford Lindsey, Edwards’ wife and daughter had packed up his remaining personal items after the
criminalists had taken what they wanted.

I glanced at my watch as I headed for my pickup. Almost
4:00. I couldn’t help worrying about my old man, but I
wanted to take a look at Edwards’ desk calendar or desk pad.
If he were like most organized businessmen, he maintained
a daily log of things to do, routinely checking them off after they were accomplished. I was anxious to see what he
had written for February 3.

During the drive to the police station, I pushed Edwards
from my mind and concentrated on my old man’s predicament.

Salinas Sal had been murdered by two hitmen, Hymie
Weinshank being one of the killers. The other was either
Maury Erickson or Alex White. The motive for Sal’s death
had to be his witnessing the transfer of a body from one car
to the other at Barton Springs four or five weeks earlier.

According to Danny’s snitches, Weinshank hung out at
the Zuider Zee Bar and Grill on the river.

I flexed my fingers on the steering wheel and chewed on
my bottom lip. A sense of guilt nagged at me as it had all
afternoon. I drew a deep breath and released a long sigh. I
knew the only way to assuage that guilty feeling was to
give Pachuca Butcherman’s version of the story. Besides, if
it blew up in my face, if the chief learned I knew of it and
had said nothing, I’d never get any help from him again.

That decided, I mentally made my to-do list. After
checking with Chief Pachuca about looking at Edwards’
belongings, I’d stop by the apartment with a bag of hamburgers and another case of beer for my old man. Then I’d
head for the Edwards’ in Brentwood Estates, and finish off
the night by dropping in at the Zuider Zee and getting a
look at Weinshank and his cohorts-if they showed.

Pachuca rolled his eyes when I opened the door. “Now
what?” His gaze focused on my black eye.

I plastered a little-boy-lost grin on my face and replied,
“I’ve got some information for you, and I need-I mean,
I’d appreciate a favor.”

He eyed me suspiciously, and then jabbed a meaty finger
at the chair across his desk. “So?”

I plopped down in the chair and leaned forward. “A
transient was beaten to death out at the rail yard a few
nights back. Salinas Sal was the name he went by”
Pachuca frowned, and I continued, “There’s nothing high
profile about it. I imagine a dozen a year turn up out there”

He grunted. “At least”

I explained how I became involved, that my old man was
found passed out near Sal, and he was a suspect. “I have
him out on bail. One of my sources on Sixth Street told me
another transient who went by the name Butcherman had
witnessed the murder” I paused, figuring that my next revelation would infuriate Chief Pachuca.

“Now, Chief, I know you’re stretched thin, and the truth,
with transients passing through-” I hesitated, uncertain
just how to say they were usually given little concern.
“Well, sometimes poor slobs like Sal kind of fall through
the cracks”

He studied me a moment, and then nodded. “Go on”

“Anyway, I ran Butcherman down and asked him about
it” Pachuca’s face darkened. I continued hastily, “Two
nights earlier, he saw two men beat Sal. My old man was
passed out nearby. The two spotted Butcherman, but he
ditched them” I paused. “A couple nights back we were in
Wichie’s Last Chance Bar down on Sixth Street when two
goons burst in and chased Butcherman out the back door” I
laid my finger on the knot over my left eye. “That’s where
this and the black eye came from”

He curled one side of his lips. “It improves your looks”

“You bet. Anyway, one of the goon’s face was scarred
with acne. A source I’d rather not mention said that it
sounded like a guy named Hymie Weinshank. There was a
second dude, but I didn’t get a chance to see him. Hymie
runs with Maury Erickson and Alex White”

Pachuca leaned forward. “Don’t keep nothing from me,
Boudreaux. Who told you about Hymie?”

I lifted my eyebrows. “O’Banion”

The chief studied me a moment, and then nodded. “He
ought to know. Is that all?”

“No. The story gets a little more intriguing. According to
Butcherman, Sal told him that early in February, he was
sleeping under a picnic table at Barton Springs, and he woke
up to see two men hauling a body out of one car and dumping it in the trunk of another. They spotted Sal. He managed
to get away, but he heard one of them say he’d recognized
Sal”

Pachuca eyed me skeptically. “So why didn’t he get out
of town?”

“He did. San Antone. He was heading to Fort Worth
when the train made a layover here. He made the mistake
of going down Sixth Street to pick up a few bucks.”

“Not too smart”

Thinking of my old man, I replied, “Nope. None of
those old boys are what you’d call rocket scientists. Anyway, I wanted you to know in case there were any reports of
missing persons around early February”

Without replying, he turned to his computer and drew up
a file. After studying it a few moments, he glanced over his
shoulder. “About half a dozen missing, and your Carl Edwards is one of them.”

I nodded, having made no previous connection, but now
a crazy idea popped into my head.

“Now,” he growled, breaking into my thoughts. “What’s
the favor?”

“Huh? Oh, I was wondering if you’d had any luck on the
information the psychic gave us”

“Not yet. Is that the favor?”

“No, not really. I’d like to look over the evidence from
Edwards’ desk”

“Why?”

“There’s a possibility he jotted down a destination. Something. I don’t know what” I grinned sheepishly. “I know it’s
a crazy hunch, but hey, who knows?”

He studied me a moment. “Tell you what. Tell Bob Ray
to let you sign for whatever evidence you want. No sense in
you sitting down there all night”

“Thanks, Chief. You’re a gentleman and a scholar.”

He waved me out of his office. “And you’re full of it.
Now get out of here”

I pulled up to my apartment thirty minutes later with a
case of Old Milwaukee and a bag of burgers and fries.

I wrinkled my nose when I opened the apartment door.
My old man still hadn’t bathed, but at least he had donned
his old clothes that I had run through the washer twice,
each time with a copious amount of bleach. I couldn’t complain. Part of him was clean. He was slumped on the couch
in front of the TV, a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the
other. At least, I told myself, he had not run off somewhere.
I held up the bag of burgers. “Here’s dinner,” I announced,
setting the bag on the snack bar and sliding the case of beer
in the refrigerator.

I had considered leaving the box of evidence at my
apartment, but I didn’t trust him. It would be safer locked
in my toolbox in the bed of my pickup.

“Well, boy. What did you find out today?”

“Getting closer,” I replied, not wanting to go into any detail. “I’ve got an appointment tonight that might shed more
light on the situation.”

He shrugged, returning to the couch with a burger in one
hand, a beer in the other, and a cigarette dangling from his
cracked lips. I studied the contrary old man. The only reason he had consented to slip into his freshly washed clothes is because I had warned him I planned to wash the sweat
suit he had been wearing even if he was still in it.

An impish grin played over my lips as I paused in the
bedroom doorway. I had an idea how to get him to clean
up. “Like I said, I’ve got a couple of appointments tonight.
If things turn out the way I think, you might go before the
judge in the morning. Get in there and shower and shave
tonight. I’ll bring you some new clothes back”

He turned to me, his black eyes filled with anticipation.
“That mean I can get out of this town?”

With a shrug, I replied, “We’ll see tomorrow if the judge
gets around to you. Just be ready.”

I didn’t know if my ruse would work or not, but it was a
shot. I’m not particularly fastidious, but after a few days of
the overpowering stench of dried sweat and a dirt-caked
body, I had to have some relief.

Before I left that night, I switched license plates, a move I
usually pull when I’m venturing into an environment where
I want to evade identification. A local curio and joke shop
down on Sixth Street made personalized license plates to
decorate bedrooms and dens or whatever. I had one made
that read TOOBAD, and on occasions such as tonight, I popped
it on, and then clamped the legitimate plate in front of it.
Removal of the legit plate took mere seconds.

I pulled into a Walmart on the way to the Edwards’ and
picked up a couple of shirts, a change of underwear, and
two pair of jeans for John Roney. During the drive to the
Edwards’, I decided not to mention Busby’s specific assertion that Edwards had lost everything in his gold investment.

Streetlights lit the well-maintained streets of Brentwood
Estates. I pulled into the Edwards’ driveway, and Debbie
met me at the door.

Her smile couldn’t hide the worry on her face. She led the
way into the den, where Mrs. Edwards rose and greeted me.
I could see the anxiety in her face also. “I hope you have
some good news for us, Tony,” she said softly. “We’re worried sick.”