When Old Men Die (28 page)

I didn't think there was any danger of that.
 
And besides, he was making me curious.
 
So I didn't go for the phone.

"If you didn't kill Macklin, why were you looking for Harry?"

"Fuck you, Smith."
 
He took a step forward.
 
"If you don't make the call, I will."

"You take one more step, and I'll shoot your leg out from under you," I said.

I thought for a minute he was going to try it, but he thought better of it and leaned back against the wall.
 
It was just as well.
 
I don't know whether I could have shot him or not.

"Let's try it another way," I said.
 
"I'll tell you something, and you tell me if I'm right."

He shrugged, which could have been either yes or no.
 
He didn't look exactly eager to cooperate, however.

I gave it a try.
 
"I think you're telling the truth about Macklin," I said.
 
"You didn't kill him.
 
Maybe you don't even know who did, and maybe you don't even care."

"You got that right," he said.

"You did kill Ro-Jo, though," I said.
 
"I'm not sure the cops can prove it, but you did it."

He just looked at me, and I could see the answer in his eyes.
 
He'd done it, all right.
 
And after he still couldn't find Harry, he'd gone to
Zintner
and Becker and bought them off.
 
Or threatened them off.
 
Or maybe a little bit of both.

"I was wrong all along the line about you," I said.
 
"Well, not exactly.
 
I thought you might have killed Ro-Jo.
 
I was right about that, but I was wrong about everything else."

"That's just too damn bad.
 
Now are you going to call 911, or am I going to bleed all over your wall?"

"I'll call," I said.
 
"I think I know all I need to know."

"You didn't get it from me," he said.

"No.
 
You weren't any help at all.
 
But that doesn't make much difference now.
 
I've pretty much got things figured out."

"Maybe you're wrong again."

"Maybe," I said.
 
But I didn't think so.

N
ameless didn't show up the whole time we were waiting for the ambulance.
 
I suspected that he was behind the refrigerator, which was a place he'd hidden in the past, but I didn't have time to look for him.
 
I had to keep an eye on Minor, who was feeling less and less perky thanks to his blood loss.

I figured that wherever Nameless was, he was fine.
 
And he was probably asleep again.
 
I didn't need to worry about him.

I did, however, have to worry about Gerald Barnes, which was my fault.
 
I'd figured I might as well call him now and get it over with.

When he arrived, I admitted as little as possible.
 
I told him that Minor had tried to kill me because I was looking for Harry Mercer, that I was sure Minor had killed Ro-Jo, and that Minor was probably involved in the murder of Macklin, though he might not have pulled the trigger.

"Can you prove any of this, Smith?" Barnes asked me.

I couldn't, of course.
 
So I told Barnes that was his job.
 
He didn't appreciate my attitude.

"I'd like to take you down to the jail and do some serious talking," he said, as if he missed the old days when he might have been able to use the rubber hose on me.

He had every right to feel that way, I suppose.
 
He was the law, and I'd shot a man, after all.
 
But this was Texas.
 
I'd shot the man in my house, after all, where he'd come without invitation.
 
There wasn't a Grand Jury anywhere in the state that would return an indictment against me.

The case would go to the Grand Jury, no doubt about that, but the D. A. would refer it without any charges; that was the way it usually went.

Barnes knew all that, but he didn't like it.
 
He also didn't like the fact that because I had used my pistol on my own property, there was nothing he could do about it.
 
I couldn't take the gun into town openly, but the law said I could use it in my own defense in my home.

So Barnes basically had to forget about me and be satisfied with Minor, who had already left the premises in the ambulance, under guard.

"You don't think he pulled the trigger on Macklin?" Barnes asked.

"You'll have to run a ballistics test to find that out," I said.
 
"His gun's on the floor in my bedroom."

I really didn't have to tell him about the gun.
 
He knew it already.
 
He'd brought an investigative team with him, and they were going over the bedroom thoroughly while we talked.

"I'll be getting some other ballistics tests back pretty soon," Barnes said, referring to the one he'd be having run on the casings he'd found in the warehouse.
 
"I'll probably be back to talk to you some more."

It was a pretty useless threat, I thought.
 
He wasn't really going to be able to do much.

I said, "If you happen to find out that I fired my pistol in that warehouse, it really won't help you, will it?
 
After all, Ro-Jo wasn't killed by a bullet.
 
He was beaten to death.
 
And Minor did it."

Knowing that I might be right didn't make Barnes any happier.
 
He still wanted to charge me with something.
 
And he thought I was still holding out on him.
 

That didn't hurt my feelings, however, because he was right.

I
t was well after five-thirty when I finally got rid of Barnes and his investigators.
 
Barnes kept after me for as long as he could, trying to get me to admit some complicity in something that he could charge me with, but I didn't give him any satisfaction.
 
He left, but I knew he'd be back.

As soon as he'd driven away, I called Johnny Bates.

"Hey, Tru," he said.
 
"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."

"No, I just had a visitor that didn't know when it was time to leave.
 
Did you get what I asked for?"

"Sure I got it.
 
What did you expect?
 
You want the long version or the short one?"

I told him that I was in a hurry and that the short version would be fine.

"OK.
 
Here it is:
 
I saw the records, and you were right."

That was good news, but even the bank records wouldn't actually prove anything.

"Did you get copies?" I asked.

"Hey."
 
He sounded hurt.
 
"This is Johnny you're talking to.
 
Of course I got copies."

"Great.
 
Give me some of the specifics."

"Don't you want to come over and look at what I have for you?"

"I'll do that tomorrow.
 
I need to know right now."

"All right.
 
Here's the way it went."

He went on to explain that after locating the banks where Macklin and Lytle had accounts, he'd checked the deposits and withdrawals for both Patrick Lytle and
Braddy
Macklin.
 
Beginning about the time Lytle's wife disappeared and continuing for years afterward, there were regular large withdrawals from Lytle's account.
 
Just as regularly there were large deposits into Macklin's account, almost always for exactly the same amounts that Lytle had withdrawn.

"Thanks, Johnny," I said, and meant it.

"It was easy," he said.
 
"I just --"

"I'd love to hear all about it," I told him.
 
"But let's make it tomorrow.
 
I have something to do tonight, and it won't wait."

"All right, but when you come, bring Dino.
 
I haven't seen him in just about forever."

"You get that tank out of the living room and I'll bring him," I said.

"I'll cover it up."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Johnny," I said.
 
"And thanks."

"No sweat," Johnny said.

After he hung up, I called Cathy to tell her that I was going to be a little late but that we still had a date for dinner.

Then I called Patrick Lytle and told him that I was coming over.

I
t was after dark when I got to the old Lytle mansion.
 
The oaks and magnolias looked even more impressive in the gloom of early evening.
 
The darkness was kind to the old house as well, cloaking the fading paint and the weathered facade.
 
There was only one light that I could see, and that was in the window of Patrick Lytle's room.

I got out of the Jeep and walked through thick shadows and up onto the dark porch.
 
Paul Lytle answered the door again, and I followed him to his grandfather's room.

The old man was sitting silently in his wheelchair.
 
He waited until Paul left the room to begin talking.

"I'm glad you called," he said.
 
"I was hoping you might have some news for me.
 
About Harry Mercer."

I shook my head.
 
"It's not about Harry," I said.

"What then?" he asked.
 
"I'm not a man who likes to waste time, Mr. Smith."

"That's fine.
 
I'm not either.
 
So let me tell you what I know."

He wriggled around in his chair as if trying to find a comfortable position.
 
His blanket slid off his legs, and I reached out to help him put it back.

He didn't thank me.
 
"Please get on with it," he said.

I did.
 
"Here's what I think happened.
 
Your wife was having an affair with
Braddy
Macklin, and she divorced you because of it. I think your ego couldn't stand the shock, and I think you killed her for it."

I paused and watched him.
 
There was no sound in the room except his wheezing breath.

A full minute passed without either of us saying a word.

Then I said, "I didn't expect you to admit it.
 
However you did it, you must have done a good job.
 
No hint of it ever got out.
 
Everyone thought that she'd gone to Hollywood because she'd told friends that was what she'd like to do, but she never left town.
 
You'd heard what she said, so you took advantage of the situation.
 
You probably even packed her bags after you killed her.
 
Maybe you buried them with her."

I thought about what Sally had told me, that she was sure Patrick Lytle hadn't buried his wife in the back yard.
 
I wasn't so sure now that he hadn't.

Lytle didn't care what I thought, however.
 
He was just sitting there, looking at me, listening attentively, his hands folded on his blanket.

"And do you have any proof of your wild speculations?" he asked.

"No.
 
But there's more.
 
I think you also killed
Braddy
Macklin."

"Now why would I do that?"
 
He glanced down at his legs.
 
"And
how
would I do it?"

"I don't know that part of it yet," I admitted.
 
"But the why is easy.
 
Braddy
Macklin could have proved you killed your wife.
 
Maybe he even thought about killing you in return, but he decided on something better.
 
He decided to blackmail you.
 
And I can prove that."

I told him about the bank records, which really proved nothing, though maybe he wouldn't realize it.

"There was something I'd been wondering about all along," I said.
 
"How could Macklin afford to buy his daughter the Seawall Courts?
 
That's some very expensive property, and even if the uncles paid Macklin better than I think they did for his body guarding services, he couldn't have afforded something like that motel.
 
You could, however."

Lytle's mouth twisted with bitterness.
 
"Yes, I could have afforded it.
 
At one time.
 
I'm very sorry to say that you're right, Mr. Smith.
 
It was my money that bought that property.
 
Braddy
Macklin slowly bled me dry over the years, and he left me with only what you see around you.
 
A decaying house and a useless body."