The Ying on Triad (5 page)

Her eyes widened in disbelief. "After all these years?
How long has it been?"

With a sheepish grin, I replied, "Ten or eleven"

"And you really believe you can find the tape?"

I raised an eyebrow. "In all honesty?"

"Yes," she nodded vigorously, "in all honesty."

"No, I don't but I've got to try." A thought hit me.
"Take a look at the transcript again. Is there any mention
of a videotape?"

After fifteen minutes, she looked up. "Nothing," she
said.

"Huh! That's odd."

Janice frowned at me. "What's odd?"

Keeping my eyes on the road both front and back, I
replied, "If you were the district attorney and you have a
video of Packard shooting Hastings, wouldn't you use it
in court?"

"Certainly. What idiot wouldn't?"

"There are some, believe me. Anyway, if there was a
video available, why wasn't it produced?"

Growing excited over a possible corroborative theory to
support the existence of the tape, I answered my own
question. "The tape wasn't used because the DA had no
idea that it existed." I shot Janice a glance. "Most security
cameras are hooked into a central location where images
are recorded on a tape of some sort. I'll lay odds that in
this case when the criminalists detailed the crime scene,
they found no tape-or if they found a tape, someone had
swapped it"

"Red!"

"Exactly."

Within a few miles, we drove into the small village of
Lincoln, where I pulled into a Wal-Mart to replace the
blown tire. As the young technician changed the tire, he
remarked at the puncture in the sidewall. "What did you
hit here?"

"Beats me," I shook my head. "Piece of metal or
something"

He poked a screwdriver in the depression. He grinned
crookedly. "Sure someone wasn't shooting at you, mister?"

His question sent chills up my spine. I forced a laugh,
"Positive"

Endicott Video was on South Congress beyond the
Colorado River. I pulled into the parking lot on the north
side of the white fieldstone building and glanced at
Janice. "You want to come in?"

She smiled, dimpling her cheeks. "I should say so. I
need to stretch my legs"

Inside a young woman smiled from behind a glass
counter filled with video equipment. Similar counters stood in front of the walls of either side. "Yes, sir. Can I
help you?"

I glanced around. There were two doors behind the
counters, both closed. "I hope so, Miss," I showed her my
ID. "I'm a private investigator, and I'm looking for a man
named Red who worked here ten or eleven years ago"

She frowned. "We don't have anyone that goes by Red.
What's his last name?"

With a shrug, I replied, "I don't know" She raised a
skeptical eyebrow. I explained, "I know it isn't much, but
this Red guy might have some information that could save
a man from execution at Huntsville next week"

She glanced at Janice and smiled apologetically, "I
understand, but I don't know anyone by that name"
Abruptly, she turned. "Just a minute. Let me see what I
can find out" She opened one of the doors. She called out
to a technician bent over a workbench in the adjoining
room, "Hey, Kelly. You've been here longer than me. Did
you ever know someone who worked for us by the name
of Red?"

Keeping his eyes on his work, Kelly called back, "How
long ago?"

"About ten years"

He shook his head, "That was before my time" He
glanced around and, standing upright, shrugged. "Sorry,
about the only one who would know for sure would be old
Floyd. And he retired four or five years ago"

"This Floyd, does he have a last name?"

"Yeah. Holloman, Floyd Holloman. He used to live out
east of Austin somewhere around the little town of
Manor."

Floyd Holloman was easy to contact. Reaching his
place at Box 2964, Star Route 7, Manor, Texas, was much
more complicated. "Take Highway 290, and turn north on the second dirt road east of Wilson's Wrecking Yard," he
explained over the telephone. "Then shoot a left on the
dirt road before you reach the Barnes' place. The Barnes'
place has a gate with steer horns on top. You've gone too
far if you get there. About a mile down the road, there's a
fork. Take the one to the right. My road is the second on
the left after you go pasta tin feeder barn"

I repeated each step, slowly enough so Janice could jot
it all down.

As we wound our way along the twisted roads, Janice
looked around at me. "Tony?"

"Yeah," I kept my eyes on the narrow dirt road.

"Is this what your job is really like? I mean, driving
around and asking questions?"

I gave her a lopsided grin, "Pretty much"

She fell silent, staring thoughtfully out the window.

"Not much like Nick and Nora Charles in the movies,
huh?"

"Well, to be honest, it isn't exactly what I thought"

I suppressed a grin. Like most of her impulses, this one
appeared to be dying its own slow death. I tried to encourage it along its journey by adding, "Most of the time, the
job is pretty dull. It's legwork, questions, digging for
information ... pretty dull"

With a disappointed shrug, she grinned weakly, "I just
thought it would be more exciting"

I chuckled, "It's like what a pilot once told me about
flying. `Flying,' he said, `is hours and hours of absolute
boredom, punctuated by moments of sheer terror.'"

She laughed.

What neither of us knew was that Floyd Holloman
would put us on a road laden with moments of sheer terror.

The driveway to Floyd Holloman's circled a pond the
size of a football field and ended in a graveled parking lot
in front of a double-wide manufactured home sitting in
the shade of a broad canopy of ancient pecan and oak.

A roly-poly gentleman in bib overalls and a blue cotton
shirt, with a straw hat perched on his head, stood in the
middle of a pumpkin patch, staring at us curiously. He
reminded me of the Pillsbury Doughboy in farmer's garb.

Even before we stopped, he was walking toward us, his
hand held over his head as a gesture of greeting.
"Howdy," he called out as we climbed out of the pickup.

I nodded, "Mr. Holloman?"

He stopped in front of us, an amiable smile on his full
face. "Yes, sir. Floyd Holloman" He spoke with a nasal
twang.

"I'm Tony Boudreaux and this is Janice CoffmanMorrison," I said, extending my hand. "I talked to you
earlier."

Despite his advanced age, his grip was firm. "Pleased
to know you folks. What can I do for you?"

"You retired a few years back from Endicott Video"

A slight frown wrinkled is forehead. "Six years ago I
started drawing my Social Security."

"When you worked at Endicott Video, did you happen
to know a man named Red?"

The frown on his face faded into shocked disbelief.
"Red? Red Tompkins? You mean he finally turned up?"

A surge of excitement raced through my veins. "So you
knew him?"

He nodded emphatically, "I should say so. We worked
together four or five years before he just up and disappeared. Went into a Chinese funeral home and never came
out. Where is that worthless hound anyway?"

I shook my head. "That's what I'm trying to find out"

"You mean-I'm sorry. I just assume .. " he shifted
his gaze to Janice, then back to me. "He still hasn't shown
up, huh?"

'No.

"And you're looking for him."

"Yes"

He studied me for several seconds. "Why now? He's
been gone ten or eleven years"

"There's a man on death row in Huntsville scheduled
for execution next week. The story I heard was that Red
had some video film that would prove the guy's innocence, but he disappeared."

Holloman digested my explanation, and then suddenly
his face lit in understanding. "Video film, huh? So that's
what that rascal was talking about. I never could figure it
out."

Janice and I exchanged surprised looks. "What do you
mean that was what he was talking about?"

He removed his hat and dragged his arm across his
forehead. "Well, sir, I'll never forget. It was October 3.
We finished up our daily itinerary early that day, and Red
had me detour over to the west side of Austin to a Chinese funeral home" He hesitated, his face knotted in concentration. "I can't remember the name, but it was on
Balcones Drive. Red had been acting kind of funny for the
last couple days. When I asked what was at the funeral
home, he grinned and told me I'd know soon enough"

"And that was it?"

"Yep. Well, except he did something funny."

"Like what?"

"Well, sir, just before he climbed out of the truck to go
inside the funeral home, he patted the heel of his cowboy
boot. He always wore cowboy boots-thought of hisself
as a cowboy. You know ... jeans, flowery shirts, big belt
buckles"

I frowned, puzzled. "What was so funny about patting
the heel of his boot?"

"It wasn't that. It was what he said"

Impatiently, I prompted him. "Which was .."

"I never understood what he meant"

"And?"

"He was funny that way, Red was"

I was growing exasperated, having to drag information
from him piece by piece. "I understand. So, what did he
say?"

He raised an eyebrow. "He patted his boot heel and said
that was what was going to make him rich"

Janice looked up at me with a puzzled look on her face.
I shook my head. "Rich? I don't understand, Mr.
Holloman. What did he mean by that?"

The elderly man shrugged. "The boot heel. It was hollow. Red carried a spare twenty in the heel of his boot so
he'd never be broke" He wagged his finger at us. "I'll
wager that if he was figuring on selling film valuable
enough to make him rich, he's bound to have carried it in
the heel of his boot" He paused, looking up at me with
smug satisfaction. "Do you understand now?"

I understood, but I wasn't quite sure if I truly believed
Floyd Holloman. "He had hollowed out the heel? Is that
what you're telling us?"

Holloman nodded.

"How ... did it work? Did the heel come off or what?"
I couldn't visualize it.

"Nope. The bottom of the heel just turned to the side.
He showed me once when we ran out of money at a bar.
He just pulled the boot off, twisted the heel, and pulled
out his twenty"

"And you say, he never came back out of the Chinese
funeral home"

He glanced toward his trailer house. "You folks care for
some sweet tea? I worked up a thirst out in the pumpkin
patch"

Janice peered at the baking sun, shading her eyes with
her hand. "I wouldn't mind at all, Mr. Holloman"

Leading the way to the small brick patio in front of the
house, Floyd Holloman continued his story. "I waited
outside the funeral home for about thirty minutes, getting more and more ticked off at Red. Finally, I went
inside. There were two or three funerals going on. Red
wasn't nowhere to be found. I run down one of those
Asian guys who worked there, and he said a red-headed
man had come in earlier and walked straight out the back
door."

Holloman gestured to some lawn chairs in the shade.
"Sit. I'll get the tea" He tossed his straw hat on the round,
glass-topped patio table.

While he was inside, Janice whispered, "Do you think
he's telling the truth?"

"He has to be. The story's too cockeyed to make up"

She shook her head. "It is that"

He returned carrying a tray with a pitcher of tea, three
ice-filled glasses, and a bowl of sugar. "Help yourself. Sweeten to taste," he said with a grin, setting the tray on
the table.

"So, like I said," he continued, plopping down in a lawn
chair, "Red walked out the back door. I went out to see if
I could find him. All I found was an alleyway. But there
was no sign of him" He paused. "Then I went back to the
truck. I waited until all the funerals were over and the
place was empty except for the owners" He shook his
head, "Red never showed up. And as far as I know, he
hasn't until this day" He sipped his tea. "Cops came
around later and asked a few questions. That was it"