The Puzzle of Piri Reis (10 page)

"Why yes," he replied, clearly puzzled. "The hallway leads to the front lobby"

I thanked him and hung up, wondering just where
Maddox had spent that hour. Still, there might be a
logical explanation for his absence.

I dialed Maddox's home number. When he answered, I asked, "Did you, by any chance, leave anytime during the exhibit at the museum on the
second?"

He hesitated. "No. I parked my car in the museum
garage. I even have receipts with time in and time out
if you wish to see them"

His last remark took me by surprise. "Receipts. Do
you make it a practice to keep parking lot receipts?"

In a surprised voice, he said, "Why yes, doesn't
everyone? Business deductions."

After hanging up, I studied the video on the TV.
What if he had left by another means?

Quickly I began dialing local taxi services.

By the time the three-hour video ended, I had discovered that a cab company had picked up a fare in front of
the museum at eight thirty and dropped it off at 2112
Fairchild, and another company had picked up a fare at
that same address but had no record of where the fare
was taken, or when he'd been dropped off.

I hesitated. 2112 Fairchild. Odom's place! My
pulse picked up. I was on to something. "Isn't that unusual?" I asked the dispatcher in regard to the destination of the second fare.

"Yeah, but not with this joker. Casey would forget
his head if it wasn't tied on. But he's dependable for
the most part. Ain't much of that around no more"

"How can I get in touch with this Casey?"

"Can't. He's on a fishing trip. He'll be back Saturday. He's scheduled to work Sunday"

"Good. Can I leave my name and number?"

After hanging up, I leaned back and stared at the
wall, wondering if that fare could have been Maddox.

I rewound the tape to the point Maddox came back
into the picture. I replayed it noting the time on my
watch. An hour later, the exhibit closed down. An hour.
If the museum closed the exhibit at ten then Maddox
didn't return until nine o'clock.

"That would work," I muttered, jotting the new information on my note cards. "Fifteen minutes there,
fifteen minutes inside, and fifteen minutes back to the
museum."

Before I confronted him, I would show the cab drivers
a picture of Maddox and see if they could identify him.

I paused, shaking my head as a cynical thought
crept into my head. Perhaps that's why he pulled such a
switch in behavior. He didn't want me snooping into his
business.

A sudden yawn overtook me. I hadn't slept much
the night before. Jack's snoring didn't help; nor did
the clamor from the River Walk; nor did the fact I lay
awake pondering the missing map.

Yawning again, I stretched my arms over my head
and lay back on the bed. Moments later, I was asleep. I
awakened around eight that evening, showered, slipped
into fresh clothes and started for the door. As an afterthought, I booted up the laptop and went online.

A big grin spread over my face when I spotted mail
from Eddie Dyson.

I printed up his information and cringed when I saw
his charges. Seven hundred dollars. I thumbed through
the sheath of papers. While he had been unable to provide all of the information, that which he did was detailed. I printed it.

"It's worth it," I muttered, shutting down the computer and heading for the door. I was looking forward
to a leisurely Mexican dinner washed down with an icy
margarita while I perused the information from Eddie.

Hoping to avoid Jack so I could get some work done,
I turned the other way on the River Walk and found a
balcony table at Pepe's, known for his sumptuous dinners of shredded beef chimichangas and his highpowered margaritas.

I sat back and drew a deep breath, enjoying the tropical ambiance of gay voices, laughing faces, and the occasional come-hither look flashed by dark, daring eyes.

After the young waitress took my order, I opened
the manila folder in which I had placed Eddie's report
and began reading. To my disappointment, he had not
been able to procure all of the bank accounts.

A few minutes later, the waitress slid an icy margarita in front of me followed by a platter of steaming
chimichangas, but I was too absorbed in Eddie's report.

My eyes grew wide. I whistled softly. By the time I
finished the report, my dinner was cold, my drink warm.
Not a good combination.

Ordering another margarita, I apologized to the waitress and asked her to warm my dinner. I grinned sheepishly and tapped a finger on the manila folder. "I just
got involved in work. Sorry."

I had hoped Eddie would provide me something to
chew on. He did but it was a piece of leather. Of the
eight names I sent Eddie, five had no obvious motive.

Ted Odom had no reason to steal the Piri Reis. The
map belonged to him. And nothing in Edna Hudson's
nor Father Poggioreale's report suggested motive, although I was curious as to why, according to Ted and
Edna, the good Father tried to buy it three times.

The fourth one, Joe F. Hogg, appeared to be nothing
more than a newly rich man struggling for the
celebrity his wealth might bring. Other than his having married a Las Vegas showgirl two years earlier, there
was nothing unusual about him. Many individuals, after gaining wealth, turned to the arts, hoping some of
the sophisticated culture would somehow soften the
crassness of money.

And the last was George Moffit, curator of the museum for forty years, well respected, happily married
to the same woman for thirty-eight years, and earning
a respectable income from the museum. He wanted
the map for his second wife, the museum, but even if he
had stolen the Piri Reis, where would he display the
map? An understandable quirk among museum curators is that they want to display their artifacts for the
world to see and admire.

Opening the folder, I started rereading files on the
other three, this time circling important facts with a
ballpoint.

Most of the details Eddie provided for Ervin Maddox, owner of Cassandra's Baubles on the River
Walk, I had uncovered except for the fact his bank account was running low. From Maddox's own admission, he wanted the map, but its value was beyond his
grasp.

Art broker Leo Cobb had been booked twenty-two
years earlier for the theft of a Seventeenth Dynasty alabaster unguent vase, but the case was dropped upon the
return of the vase, for the museum in Seattle did not
want the publicity. Cobb, Bernard Odom's one-time liaison with hopeful sellers of various artifacts, had sued
Odom three times, twice for breach of contract and once for slander. He'd won one and lost two, the latter a slander case four years earlier.

According to Eddie's report, Cobb had filed for
bankruptcy only a year earlier. I frowned, noting that
while his income dropped after the last suit against
Odom, it didn't appear enough to have precipitated
bankruptcy. But even now, his mortgage company was
threatening to foreclose on his home.

I whistled softly. That was motive in spades, plus,
as an art broker, he had connections with buyers all
over the world.

The young waitress interrupted me with my margarita. I sipped it quickly, not waiting for it to water
down into the bland taste of the first.

After she left, I pulled out Eddie's report on Lamia
Sue Odom. I shook my head as I scanned the report.
She was well traveled, having visited over thirty countries and spending three-quarters of her life since her
fifteenth birthday in Europe.

True, she was beneficiary to a half-million-dollar
policy on Bernard Odom, but at a glance at her bank
account, I could tell five hundred thousand wouldn't
last her more than a couple of years. Five million, ten
million for the Piri Reis would provide her another
twelve, fifteen years on the jet-set circuit.

A young man appeared at my side with a steaming
platter of freshly prepared chimichangas packed with
shredded pork and the oven-baked flour tortilla basted
with pineapple. I put the folder aside, determined to
push the map from my mind and enjoy my meal.

I took a bite of the piping hot chimichanga. I looked
up at the sound of laughter. Beyond the laughing foursome at the next table, I spotted Ted Odom speaking
with two hard-looking zombies on the River Walk, his
face showing a sense of urgency.

Easing my head to one side, I peered around the
back of an animated young woman whose bouncy energy kept blocking my view, but even a fleeting glance
at the two goombahs confronting Ted told me they
were not deacons of the local church. At that moment,
I would have given hundred-to-one odds they were
soldiers belonging to Patsy Fusco, San Antonio's resident mob boss.

The young woman leaned back. I stared at her unseeing, wondering. Ted and those two were like oil and
water. They didn't go together, so what was the conversation all about? Why did he look so worried?

A sharp jab on my shoulder jerked me back to the
present. I shook my head and looked up into the glowering face of an angry giant. "Huh? Oh, yeah. What's
upT"

He hooked a thumb at the table next to us. "I don't
like nobody staring at my wife like you was"

The three at the table next to me were glaring daggers. I blinked my eyes once or twice, then forced a
weak grin. "Sorry, pal. I wasn't staring at your wife. I
just got to thinking about my job, and was staring into
space."

He glared at me, confused by my apology. He
glanced at his wife.

I turned to the young woman. "I apologize if I offended you, ma'am."

She nodded, and he grunted. "Well, okay."

By then, Ted had disappeared.

I leaned back and stared at the folder on my table,
my curiosity piqued.

Back at the Grand Isle Inn, I paused before pushing
my door open, half expecting the room to be tossed
again. It was as I had left it. Not even Jack Edney was
around to greet me.

I stepped onto the balcony and called Danny
O'Banion, Austin's local mob boss. Danny and I have
a history, all the way back to high school.

Very few people can place a call and get through to
Danny. I'm one of the few. I don't know if that says
much for my character or not, but it does provide me a
means of information that I might not be able to find
elsewhere.

Danny finally came on. After a couple of minutes of
idle chit-chat, I asked if he could contact Patsy Fusco
and see what he knew about a guy named Ted Odom.

"Trouble, Tony?" The tenor of his question told me
he would send help if I needed it.

I grinned. "No. Just a case. No trouble. I got a feeling Odom might be involved with Fusco, that's all.
Nothing to do with Fusco"

"No problem. Same cell number?"

"Same one"

After hanging up, I called Leo Cobb. I was anxious to see why he had filed suit against Odom three times. A
woman who identified herself as Mrs. Cobb answered.
Her husband was not in.

I thanked her and hung up, but something about her
strained voice made me wonder.

As cynical as it sounds, people tell lies. Some
white, some not so white. Al Grogan works on the assumption that every individual he interviews is lying.
Working on that basis, you quickly learn to verify information at least once, and twice if possible.

So that was my mindset when I called Leo Cobb
just after eight the next morning. The same woman informed me that he was on a business trip to Panama
City, Florida for the next week.

I feigned disappointment. "Looks like I goofed. I
should have called him when I got in town day before
yesterday" I waited for her response.

"Oh," she replied brightly. "That wouldn't have done
you any good. He's been gone a week already"

After hanging up, I called Joe Hogg.

Hogg lived in Ridglea Hills, a gated community north
of San Antonio filled with two-million-dollar mansions
on two-acre grounds, each with a tennis court and swimming pool.

Pulling into the parking area at the side of the house
just after nine, I quickly skimmed back through Eddie's
report on Hogg. The guy was worth millions, had a
maid, a chauffer, and a trophy wife. In his garage sat a
white Cadillac, a gray Rolls Royce, and a bright red
Ferrari. "Not too shabby," I muttered under my breath.

A neatly attired Hispanic maid showed me to the sunroom overlooking the pool. Hogg, wearing plaid slacks
and a white Polo shirt stretched tight over a protruding belly that would never fit behind the wheel of that
red Ferrari, rose and with an ebullient grin removed a
black cigar from his lips and offered his hand. "Mr.
Boudreaux," he said, looking up at me. "We've been expecting you" Using the cigar as a pointer, he indicated
the sultry blond standing at his side, a head taller than
the short man. "This is my wife, Nadine."

Nadine Hogg was a striking blond wrapped in a
filmy house robe. Voluptuous would not do her justice.
She smiled halfheartedly, and just as halfheartedly offered me her hand. "Mr. Boudreaux."