Murder Takes a Break (11 page)

There were lots of
ifs
involved in my thinking, but it seemed at least likely that there was some connection between the disappearance of Randall Kirbo and the death of Kelly Davis.
 
Just what the connection was, I didn't know.
 
But if they'd been seen together at a beach party, the possibility of a connection was strengthened.
 
Too bad those two kids who'd seen them there had changed their stories.

I looked at my notes.
 
Patrick Mullen and Travis Bittner.
 
Roommates at the University of North Texas.
 
Patrick was from Texas City, only a few miles away from where I was sitting.
 
Travis was from Wichita Falls.
 
I could imagine Patrick suggesting that they go to Galveston for spring break.
 
They could have mooched food at Patrick's house for free and spent most of their days and nights on the beach.
 

I wondered if Patrick were home for Christmas vacation.
 
If he was, I could stop by to see him on my way to talk to Chad Peavy, Randall's roomie, the one whom Tack Kirbo insisted was probably lying.
 
And he might have been, especially if he'd had a visit from Henry J., as Gerald Barnes suspected Riley and Travis had.

Let's say the girl died at the party.
 
Say that Randall Kirbo knew what had happened to her.
 
Say that drugs were involved, not hard to imagine if Big Al were tossed into the mix.
 
If all that was true, or close to true, it wasn't hard to imagine Henry J. intimidating witnesses or even eliminating them.

Unlike Big Al, who as far as I knew had never even gotten a parking ticket, much less been arrested for something more serious, Henry J. had a rap sheet that any aspiring hardcase would have envied.
 
I knew for a fact that he'd been arrested for assault at least twice and that he'd done jail time for attempted murder.
 
Rumor had it that more than once he'd done more than attempt it, though no one could prove it and no one was likely to talk on the record.
 
Henry J. liked to use his hands, but he wasn't above using a knife.
 
He didn't much like guns, however.
 
They weren't personal enough.

Maybe I shouldn't have tossed him over the balcony.
 
The Everly Brothers were singing "Problems."
 
They didn't know what real problems were.

I wondered if Henry J. might pay
me
a visit.
 
The thought was enough to make me get up and get my pistol out of the closet.
 
It was a 7.65 mm Mauser in a sheepskin-lined case, but it wasn't loaded.
 
In that condition, it wouldn't slow Henry J. down for a tenth of a second.
 
I had to get the ammunition clips from a drawer in the kitchen.
 
Gun safety is my middle name.

Nameless heard me open the drawer and thought I was probably getting him something to eat.
 
After all, it had been practically a full hour since I'd fed him.

He looked up at me and said, "Mowr?"

I showed him the clip.
 
"This isn't for you.
 
Lead isn't good for cats.
 
People either, for that matter."

"Mowr?"

"Forget it.
 
Why don't you go outside and bully some lizards?"

"Mowr."

I took that for agreement, and walked to the door.
 
Nameless followed me, but he took his time.
 
He wasn't going to let me think I had the upper hand.

I opened the back door and he went through it at his own pace.
 
Clouds had come in from out over the Gulf, and the night was very dark.
 
I could hear the sound of the surf and the branches of the oleander bushes scraping against the side of the house.

I went back to the kitchen, oiled the Mauser and shoved in one of the clips.
 
Gun safety is fine, but I didn't want to take it to extremes.
 
If Henry J. came around, I might need a pistol.
 
Unlike him, I didn't believe that violence had to be intimate to be effective.

Before I sat back down in the recliner, I put the pistol on a little end table nearby where I could reach it easily.
 
Then I listened to the Kingston Trio sing "A Worried Man."
 
They didn't know the half of it.

I wondered just how Bob Lattner figured into things.
 
Sure, he was supposedly investigating the disappearance of Randall Kirbo, but the Davis girl had been his niece.
 
That gave him an emotional stake in things, and sometimes that interfered with professionalism.
 
If he blamed Kirbo for his niece's death, he might not care whether Randall Kirbo ever got found.

After a while I picked up the collection of John O'Hara stories and started reading.
 
Before long I'd forgotten about Henry J. and Big Al and even Randall Kirbo.
 
But not Kelly Davis.
 
For some reason she was always there, just at the back of my mind.

T
here are two schools of thought about interviewing people in connection with a crime or a suspected crime.
 
You can either call them and ask permission to talk to them, or you can just drop in, cold, and see if they'll talk to you.
 
I've tried it both ways, and I'm still not sure which one is best.
 
This time I decided to do it the legit way and call ahead.
 
That way had the advantage of saving time.
 
I didn't want to drive all the way to Houston and then find out that Chad Peavy wasn't at home.

I waited until about nine o'clock the next morning to make my calls, figuring that either people would be staying in for the day or getting ready for church, and I got lucky.

Patrick Mullen's mother said that he was home and that he would be glad to talk to me.
 
Of course she might have said that because she somehow got the impression that I was representing his university's Student Retention Office and that I wanted to talk to him about ways he might help us keep students in school if we gave him a part-time job.
 

Maybe I could smooth that over when I got to their house, or maybe not.
 
I hoped it wouldn't matter because by the time they found out there had been a misunderstanding, I'd already be inside.
 
It wouldn't be easy to get me out, not unless Patrick was bigger than Henry J.

Since my minor fabrication had worked so well with Mrs. Mullen, I was sorry I couldn't try it on the Peavys.
 
Too bad the kid had dropped out of school.
 
But then, a representative of the Student Retention Office of Texas Tech University might very well be interested in interviewing a drop-out to discover the reasons he'd decided to leave.

Sure enough, Mr. Peavy found that a reasonable idea.
 
He even sounded enthusiastic about it, which made me feel a little guilty, but not much.
 
He thought my talk with his son might encourage him to return to classes, but I was pretty sure it would do just the opposite.

After I hung up the phone, I wondered if either Texas Tech or the University of North Texas actually had Student Retention Offices.
 
If they didn't, they were missing a bet.
 
Maybe I should consider going straight.
 
I could call up the universities and talk to someone about it.
 
If they already had an office dedicated to retaining students, I could go to work for them, tracking down drop-outs and counseling them.

Sure I could, about the same time that Big Al and Henry J. joined Big Brothers and Sisters.

I went to the bedroom to look for something to wear.

C
ontrary to what many people believe, I do own a sport coat, some slacks, a white shirt, a tie, and a regular pair of shoes.
 
Of course the coat is about ten years out of style, and the tie is even older.
 
As for the shoes, I have no idea whether anyone wears wing-tip loafers with tassels on them these days.

But no one expects academic types to be fancy dressers.
 
They're supposed to be intellectuals, concerned with things of the mind, not with material possessions and outward show.
 
Or at least that's what I hoped people expected.

What bothered me most was just how the S-10 fit into this scheme of things.
 
I was pretty sure that even academic types wouldn't be driving to Texas City in a thirteen-year-old pick-up truck.
 
As a representative of the Student Retention Office, I'd most likely have a school-issued car, some dull-colored four-door sedan.
 
Since I didn't know anyone who owned a car like that, and since I didn't feel like renting one, I'd just have to take my chances.

I'd also have to hope that no one thought to ask me for a card.
 
I didn't have a card of any kind.
 
I did, however, have something almost as good: a clipboard with a yellow legal pad held down by the silver clamp at the top.
 
A man carrying a clipboard and a yellow legal pad could hardly seem anything other than completely legitimate, especially if he was wearing a jacket and tie.

Tying the tie presented a problem, since I was considerably out of practice, but I finally attained something resembling respectability.
 
The shirt could have used ironing, and the jacket didn't hang exactly like an Armani original, but I'd shined the shoes, and the crease in the slacks was above reproach.

"So," I said to Nameless, "how do I look?"

He looked up quizzically.
 
"Mowr?"

"Not exactly the overwhelming endorsement I was hoping for, but it'll do."

"Mowr?"

"Oh.
 
You're right.
 
I forgot the clipboard.
 
No wonder you thought something was lacking."

I got the clipboard and tucked it under my arm.
 
"Well?"

"Mowr."

"I think so too.
 
They'll spill their guts to a sharp-looking guy like me."

Nameless didn't even bother to respond to that one.
 
He went off somewhere to sleep, probably in my recliner, which I wouldn't ordinarily allow.
 
He knew I was leaving, though, and he was going to take advantage of the opportunity to misbehave.
 
Cats are like that.

I
drove into Texas City on Highway 146, going past the mile long stretch where the Union Carbide plant sprawled, a labyrinthine entanglement of pipes and towers that always filled me with amazement.
 
I wasn't at all amazed at the myriad products the plant produced.
 
What amazed me was that anyone could ever have built something so intricate and complicated in the first place.

Steam and smoke spiraled into the sky, and I resisted the urge to hold my breath.
 
I told myself that I was only imagining that my throat was beginning to tingle.

I turned down Palmer Highway and went toward town, if that was the right word.
 
Texas City is one of those towns that really isn't there anymore.
 
All the business had migrated out toward the interstate, and I drove past huge discount houses and restaurants serving everything you could think of, from Chinese food to barbecue.

Somewhere along the way, Palmer Highway changed names and became 9th Avenue.
 
Fewer restaurants, but plenty of fast food: sandwich shops, a Dairy Queen, a Jack-in-the-Box.
 
I didn't bother to stop to see if Mr. Box was there.

I drove between the high school and the Moore Library.
 
Not far ahead on my right, a bulbous water tank with "Fighting Stingarees" painted on it sat atop its towering legs.
 
I passed a park with a train engine and a caboose in it, and then I was nearing what had once been the downtown area.
 
On both sides of the street were auto repair shops, car washes, pool supply houses, pest control offices.

The downtown itself was a mere shadow of its former self.
 
There was a nicely restored building housing a coffee shop, and there was a pharmacy that looked prosperous, but that was about all.
 
Down 6th Street, the Street of Memories according to the sign, there was an old movie theater, the Showboat, with a poster for
Blackbeard the Pirate
displayed in front.
 
Linda Darnell, Robert Newton, William Bendix.
 
All of them dead now, like most of the downtown itself.
 
Across from the theater was an entire block of deserted buildings, their plate-glass windows dark, some of them cracked, some of them covered with writing: "Going out of business."