The Ying on Triad (17 page)

As I watched through one of the arches in the hedge,
they halted when a white stretch limo pulled up to them.
A window hissed down. Cleft Chin leaned forward,
apparently speaking with someone in the stretch.

He shook his head, stepped back, turned, and stared back at the tent. I moved behind a portly gentleman and
peered around him. Cleft Chin turned back to the limo,
and shook his head again. The window hissed up as the
limo pulled away, heading for the exit that was beyond the
hedge on the far side of the tent. I quickly wound my way
between clusters of guests, hoping to reach the other side
before the limo disappeared.

Pausing, I glanced around to see if anyone was watching, and then casually wandered across the manicured
lawn to the opening in the hedge just as the limo braked
at the exit, turned left, and headed for the highway.

I read the license plate, then hastily repeated the combination of characters while I fumbled for a scrap of
paper on which to jot the number, LSH-YOT. Another job
for me at the courthouse next morning.

Mingling once again, I searched for Bradford, but he
was nowhere to be seen. I'd missed him but I eased my
disappointment by telling myself I'd try his local office in
the morning.

We didn't leave until after 4:00 P.M., later than I had
expected. Aunt Beatrice was effusive in her thanks for the
court bouillon and insisted that Cajun cuisine would be
part of her annual reception in the future.

Janice was ecstatic over the success of the reception
and kept up a steady stream of observations about the
party. I was paying more attention to her than the traffic
and didn't see the Peterbilt semi barrelling toward us as
we putt-putted along Loop 360 at a vulnerable thirty
miles per hour.

"I
had a wonderful time," Janice gushed, glancing up
at me. "Aunt Beatrice was extremely pleased with the-"
the smile on her face froze, then exploded into wide-eyed
terror. "Tony!"

I jerked around to see a tire the size of a small house
staring me in the face. I yanked the wheel to the right. It
seemed like an hour before the Runabout responded,
finally bouncing over the concrete shoulder.

The Peterbilt tractor, sans trailer, followed.

I headed across the grass, steering toward the access
road. I crossed my fingers that something wouldn't break
when we jumped off the curb down a few inches to the
concrete.

The snarling grill of the roaring tractor was right
behind us.

Luckily we hit a gap in the traffic and shot across the
access road into the empty parking lot of a deserted warehouse; unluckily, the Peterbilt hit the same gap.

A dozen or so security light posts in the parking lot
were mounted on concrete pedestals two feet or so in
diameter, and about two or three feet high. Just as I passed one, I whipped the Runabout to the left. Our only advantage was that we could turn in a smaller radius than the
semi.

Janice clutched the dashboard, her eyes fixed on the
towering black Peterbilt as it careened in a circle and bore
down on us. "Tony! What are we going to do?"

For once, I didn't have a wisecrack. My feet tap-danced
on the pedals. "Stay away from him. At least until someone sees us playing tag and calls the cops" I can't say we
raced along the side of the parking lot. Putt-putted is more
like it, but we managed to swing around another pedestal
as the roaring tractor howled past.

Desperation pounded in my chest. I clenched my fingers around the steering wheel feeling like a three-legged
mouse dodging the cat from Hades in a locked closet.

For the third time, I whipped around a pedestal, and the
Peterbilt roared past, missing my back bumper by inches.
An eighteen-wheeler tractor without a trailer is fast, and I
couldn't afford to take any chances. I cast a hasty glance at
the access road, praying for the flashing lights and the wail
of a police cruiser. But no one seemed to be paying us any
attention. Where were the cops when you needed them?

I shot a look over my left shoulder in time to see the
black tractor with the snarling chrome grill whip into a
circle, the rear wheels bouncing up and down as they slid
sideways. I lined up a pedestal between the tractor and us,
stopping far enough from it so I could dart (I use that
word loosely) either left or right depending on which side
of the pedestal the Peterbilt swerved.

Engine screaming, the massive black cab with the
snarling grill headed straight for us. Swallowing the lump in
my throat, I waited, watching for the slightest hint of which
way he would turn. "Come on," I muttered, "Turn, turn!"

Janice grabbed my arm. "Tony? It-It looks like-"
her words stuck in her throat. And then she screamed.

The Peterbilt slammed into the pedestal. For a moment,
everything stood still, and then the thirty-foot light pole
flipped over the back of the tractor, which veered to our
left from the impact. I headed to our right.

I spotted a sidewalk that cut behind a chain link fence
at the far corner of the parking lot. Out of desperation, I
headed for it, crossing my fingers that the narrow ribbon
of concrete led somewhere. When I reached it, I saw that
a drainage ditch paralleled it on the left so I cut between
the chain link fence and the ditch.

The Peterbilt decided to take a shortcut. He angled
toward me, ignoring the fence. I kicked the Runabout up
to its top speed, which was slightly faster than a kiddy car
powered by foot pedals, but I quickly realized I couldn't
dodge the angle taken by the Peterbilt.

I slammed on the brakes and in the midst of a grinding
and gnashing of gears, slammed the little car into reverse.

The lumbering truck hit the fence, ripping a section of
the galvanized netting from the ground. The fence tangled
under the truck's front wheels, jamming the steering. In
the next seconds, the truck swept in front of us dragging
fifty feet of chain link in its wake and plunged into the
concrete drainage ditch, coming to an abrupt halt with its
rear wheels spinning in the air.

We shot forward and bounced off the sidewalk onto the
street. I threw a quick glance back at the tractor and spotted a figure sprinting across the parking lot toward the
freeway.

While he was too distant for me to discern his features,
he was tall and bulky and sported a prominent beer belly.
He was definitely not Asian.

We were both shaken.

Janice remained silent for the first few blocks. Finally, she looked up at me, her face almost as pale as mine.
"That truck was trying to kill us, wasn't it?"

I turned down the street to her condo. "I think you'd
better not come with me anymore. Somebody out there is
getting serious"

She studied me, her eyes reflecting hurt and disappointment. "You think I'm just a silly little rich girl, don't
you, Tony? You don't think I can take it when things get
tough, do you?"

I kept my eyes on the road ahead and the road behind.
"I think that what you want to believe doesn't reflect the
truth of the job. It can be dangerous. You just had a taste
of that. I don't want you hurt"

We pulled up in front of her condo. I walked her to the
door and she looked at me hopefully. "Do you want to
come in?"

"Thanks, but I got my old man back at my place-if I
have any place left," I added with a grin.

She smiled weakly. "See you later then"

I leaned down and touched my lips to hers.

Back in my apartment, I found my old man sleeping on
the couch. I looked around. No furniture was missing; the
computer was on the desk; appliances still in the kitchen;
even the toilet bowl remained in place.

Luck had smiled upon me. Maybe John Roney was trying to set things right.

I glanced at the empty aquarium and grimaced. It was
going to seem odd without Oscar around. With a shrug, I
plopped down in front of the computer to update my notes
and plan for the next day.

While I had blown the opportunity to interview Senator
Bradford, I did have the personalized license number of
the white stretch, the owner of which, in all probability, initiated the fourth attempt to either frighten me off or kill
me-five attempts total if I counted the two goons at the
reception.

I made a note to look up the owner of license number
LSH-YOT and the legal descriptions of A. A. Aggregates
and Asphalt as well as that of the Kwockwing Funeral
Home.

Glancing back over my cards, I paused at Eric Lavern's
assertion that Bradford was behind the entire scheme. I
started thinking about Don Landreth. He had been murdered while waiting for me. The next logical question was
did someone murder him because of me, because of my
investigation? I believed so, but I had no proof.

I leaned back in my chair, balancing it on the two back
legs, and muttered, "If they got to him because of what he
was going to give me, how did they find out about it?"

There was only one explanation. Someone must have
tapped his phone line. Nodding slowly, I realized there
was only one way I could be sure. And if the line was
tapped, the logical conclusion had to be that whoever had
murdered Landreth and made the attempts on my life
would stop at nothing to prevent a stay of Bobby
Packard's execution.

Once Packard was executed, the identity of the real
killers would be forever hidden.

Thinking back to my visit with Danny O'Banion when
he pointed out there was very little substance to what I
had uncovered in the last three days, I had to agree. But
now I had a chance to come up with something solid.
While the proof might not be irrefutable, it would be
enough to suggest that Bobby Packard had been framed.

And how could I prove some sort of conspiracy? By
determining if Landreth's phone line was tapped.

My old man was still sleeping. I checked the refrigerator. One six-pack left. I shrugged. Not bad. Only eighteen
beers in twenty-four hours. Hey, that was less than one an
hour. I slipped on my windbreaker.

"Six-fifteen," I mumbled glancing at my watch. That
would put me in Marble Falls around 7:30. I didn't figure
I'd have trouble finding Landreth's place. The rancher in
the convenience store had said it was five or six miles out
on Farm Road 301. That had to be a rural mail route,
which meant there would be a mailbox at the side of the
road.

Just as I closed the door behind me, Janice's Miata
pulled into my drive.

"Hi," she said brightly, climbing out of the little roadster.
"Are you going somewhere?" She eyed my windbreaker.

"Marble Falls," I said.

She didn't reply for several seconds, expecting me to
elaborate. When I didn't, she asked, "For Packard?"

"Yeah" I changed the subject, hoping she would go
back to her place, "What are you up to?"

"Oh, nothing," she shrugged. "I was just wondering
how you were after this afternoon"

I couldn't help chuckling. She was worrying about me
when I was the one worrying about her. "No problem. It's
all part of the job. How about you?"

She nodded, "Tony?"

"Yeah?"

The glow from the porch light cast her face in shadowy
relief. "May Igo with you?" she chewed on her bottom lip.

"You'll be bored sick."

"I don't care. You know, I was very serious when I said
I wanted to help you, to be a part of what-you. do °"

For a moment, I started to refuse, but I didn't want to
hurt her feelings. Besides, she could stay in the pickup while I slipped past the crime scene ribbons and into the
house. "Like I said, it'll be boring. Just a ride out to
Marble Falls and back"

"That's okay with me. What's out there?"

"I want to check the telephone to see if the line was
tapped"

"Tapped? How do you do that?"

I gestured to her Miata. "If you'll move your car so I
can get out I'll explain on the way"

While she moved her small car, I fumbled through my
toolbox of security gadgets and pulled out a pocket-sized
TTD system designed to recognize taps. I dropped it into
my pocket.