Charity Kills (A David Storm Mystery)

by Jon Bridgewater

  Russell walked into the kitchen in time to watch Storm fumble with the coffeemaker. Storm’s big hands did not do minor things well and a “tablespoon” of coffee per cup meant Storm adding ten spoons in an eight-cup coffee maker.

  “Are you going to be at that long?” Russell asked as he watched Storm.

  “Might be. You never know. Had a murder at the Dome last night,” Storm said, almost as a second thought.

  That got Russell’s attention. “OK, Baretta. Talk to me. Who got murdered? I hope one of those dickhead big wheels down there.”

  “Nope, a young girl. Found her this morning in a dumpster with her throat cut”

  “Young girl, huh? Was she cute and do we know her?” asked Russell.

  “Her name was Leslie Phillips according to the ID they found along with some clothes they think are hers. Those were also found in another dumpster outside the stadium.”

  ”The new stadium?”

  “Yep.”

  ”Who found her?”

  “One of the guys on the cleanup crew.”

  “Wow, so you have already had an intriguing morning. But, why come see me so early? Did she have my wallet or anything of mine on her?” Russell said, smiling, his way of trying to lighten the mood that had suddenly turned somber.

  “You know why I’m here, Russell,” Storm answered. He had turned his friend into his sounding board for more than half their lives. They had met on their first day at football camp at Texas Tech and had ended up being roommates throughout college. He was there when Storm had met Angie and was their best man when they got married. He was there shortly after Storm found Angie dead and had consoled his friend for hours, knowing it was all he could do.

  Russell was from a wealthy family and had gone to Bellaire high school. He had played against Storm when they were in high school and the rich kids were sent home not just beaten but bloodied. Being from a wealthy family had always given Russell his perks. His dad was a Texas Tech grad and from the time Russell had made the high school football team, Tech was the only place for him to go to school. His dad pulled some strings and made sure his son had gotten a shot at the big time in college ball.

  Although Russell had some talent, he was basically lazy. In his sophomore year at Tech he quit football and took up what he really enjoyed, which was women and booze, and from then on he had more fun than most college students are allowed to have. It had disappointed his dad greatly but he had persevered through it. Russell was a good student, so he got to stay at Tech and room with Storm. He took communications classes, which was basically television broadcasting and basket-weaving. They were easy for Russell, who kept saying he liked the idea of being on TV someday. He might not have been too good at football, but he was charming, and he had everyone on campus watching to see what stunt he would pull next while doing a live broadcast on Tech’s college station. The camera loved him and he was a more than adequate storyteller, so he ended up being a reporter and writing for the college newspaper.

  When they graduated, Russell, Storm, and Angie had all come back to Houston to make their fortunes. He was picked up on one of the local TV stations doing news reports and later being the nightly anchor before becoming the nightly weather man; again his charm worked and he became one of the most recognizable television personalities in the Houston area. He did numerous charity events like golf tournaments and local fund raisers, which added to his notoriety. Unlike his friend Storm, for Russell monogamy with a single woman had never entered his mind. The world he viewed was his playground, and a variety of female partners only added to the fun.

  Storm turned to Russell. “You’ve been in Houston all your life just like I have and you’ve been with the TV station for more years then either of us wants to remember. Have you ever heard of a girl being killed at the barbecue before?”

  “Not that I remember, Rain Man, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Why do you ask?”

  Storm knew that anything he told Russell was between the two of them. “When I was at the precinct this morning Hernandez said something like, ‘So you got the Dome murder.’ Then he insinuated that there had been others, but when I pressed him about what he said he clammed up and said—” Storm paused. “He said nothing. He just made up some flimsy excuses and scurried off to his desk.”

  “Hernandez—he’s that guy who lost a leg a few years ago, right?”

  “Yeah, he is the sergeant on the homicide desk now at headquarters.”

  “Well, he probably hears everything that comes in and hears things you probably wouldn’t or you might have forgotten when you were in, well, let’s say, ‘when you were not operating at full function,’ right?”

  “You’re right, but I’m surprised something like that didn’t stick in my mind.”

  “Are you going to ask him more about it?’

  “Yeah, but that will have to wait until later,” Storm growled, still struggling with the coffee pot.

  “Well, I could ask the old time news guys at the station if you want. Do some digging around.”

  “Would you?” Storm had hoped Russell would volunteer to do so.

  “Sure. Now, about this coffee you’re making.” Russell looked at the coffeemaker and just shook his head and stepped into the operation. If he didn’t take over, the coffee would never get made and even if Storm had gotten it to perk, the coffee would taste like road tar.

  “So, you going out to the Dome to talk to the show people?” asked Russell.

  “Yeah. Lieutenant Flynn said that the mayor had already talked to them and they were going to help in any way they can.” Storm looked at Russell as if it made sense that the mayor was already talking to the show.

  “Look, Storm. That doesn’t set with me. The mayor already knows about this?” asked Russell.

  Storm could see the question marks appear in his friend’s’ eyes. He’s thinking, “why is the mayor involved in this?” Storm just shook his head “yes.”

  “What else did your lieutenant tell you?” pressed Russell.

  “That the Livestock Show was going to help to keep it quiet.” Again Storm looked to Russell for comment. “You know better than I do how much influence those people have with the mayor and his cronies.”

  Storm knew Russell’s dad had been a big wheel at the Livestock Show and Russell had grown up around it. Even if disillusioned with the whole kit and caboodle of the Show, he still retained his perks and kept up on who was running things out there. He had seen and been around all the shenanigans that had gone on out there for years; stuff that most outsiders didn’t know about. He knew about the girls and why there were rules against cameras in the VIP clubs. Russell still had access to his privileges, his badge, and his passes to the event and the VIP clubs, although he seldom used them. Even with his inactivity at the charity, his dad remained much too much a man of consequence for Russell to lose his benefits. Not that Russell wanted to pay for something he could get for free, but he would rather buy tickets than use the assets in the special club levels reserved for those esteemed charitable benefactors. So, yeah, Russell knows all the ins and outs of the Show.

  “Where are you going next, Storm?”

  ”Back out to the Livestock Show offices, meet with the staff.”

  “OK. Call me later to let me know how it went. I’ll go in and check with my old buddies at the station to see what they know and hey, by the way, us insiders just refer to it as the “Show” or the “Rodeo,” not by its full name.”

  Russell smiled like the proverbial cat that ate the canary as he poured cups of coffee into clunky ceramic mugs for each of them.

  After three more cups of coffee at Russell’s house Storm needed to pee real bad, but he hurried and controlled the desire till he could get back to the Dome. In a place that big he figured he could find at least one men’s room to get rid of the coffee overflow.

  Chapter Five

  Country Dog in the City

  By the time Storm left Russell’s condo it was past midmorn
ing and traffic on the 610 Loop had increased to a paralytic crawl consisting of both churchgoers and people heading to the trendy bistros in the Galleria for brunch. With expansion and growth in the city it was always repairing some main thoroughfare or building an extra lane and that always made the Loop an even bigger maelstrom of hindrances. The longstanding joke was that if you started to work on a road in Houston when you were eighteen, you could retire at age sixty-five from a road crew that’s working within ten miles of where you started. This seemed more fact then fiction.

  At the Dome complex, Storm was directed back to the first entry he had tried that morning. The offices for the rodeo were in the new giant sparkling contemporary center on the north side of the new stadium. This time, after he showed his police credentials he was told where to park, with emphasis that he not park in any spaces reserved for members of Houston’s new football team—and one of those spaces was exactly where he pulled in. He put his police tag in the window in case someone had a problem; his police tag trumped jock parking.

  The new center was huge. When you entered the massive hallway on the west end, you couldn’t see the east end—it was at least a quarter of mile long. To the left of the main hall was the exhibition area that ran the length of the building. The front of the exhibition area was occupied by vendors selling everything from Western clothing to artwork or farm equipment; you could get a turkey leg or sign up for college. Further back were the stalls and judging arenas for 4H and FFA animals to be exhibited: cattle, pigs, sheep, goats, turkeys, rabbits and chickens.

  Storm took an escalator up to the second floor of the building some fifty feet above the entry floor, which was composed of myriads of meeting rooms and offices for the Livestock Show, the National Football League, and the complex management company. Many of the rooms in the upper level were huge expanses of space that had sliding walls that could be configured as smaller rooms for meetings or large temporary members-only bars that dotted the entire complex during special events.

  Storm walked halfway down the long hallway till he saw the Rodeo offices on his left with its elegant mahogany double-doored entrance that opened into an opulent reception area. He remembered the simple offices in the now razed old convention center, which would have fit into the foyer of this place. “Nice digs,” he said to himself, his eyes moving over the magnificent Western art and sculptures. The lobby of these offices showed the Rodeo had arrived. This was no longer “a small town goat ropin’”; it was the biggest charity in the state and the largest indoor rodeo in the United States.

  Behind the huge mahogany reception desk sat a gray-haired lady gatekeeper. She asked his business and he explained who he was and that he was to meet someone from the rodeo staff.

  “You’re expected. Miss Taylor will be available to see you shortly,” she announced. “Please take a seat. Any seat is fine. Miss Taylor will be right out.”

  Storm sat on one end of one of the overstuffed leather sofa and continued to study the art and memorabilia in the lobby. There were gorgeous paintings of Western scenes, handsome bronze sculptures, replicas of Remington’s and cases of Show memorabilia, along with 18’ X 24’ framed photographs of past Rodeo presidents. Things had changed considerably, as most things change with huge increases of revenue; where the old offices were understated and belied the amounts of money that were accumulated and disseminated, the new offices were opulent. There was no doubt that this was an institution with financial strength and grandeur.

  Since this was the active season of the rodeo (the business was year round) people scurried back and forth and in and out, some already looking frazzled, while others appeared preoccupied with their radios and cell phones next to their ears. Activity would now be twenty-four hours a day; this was the beginning of the three-week period when the preparations of the previous year came to fruition, entertaining the throngs of patrons and garnering money for the scholarship fund. Storm didn’t envy these people or what they had to put up with over the next three weeks. The work of collecting donations for scholarships for Texas’ future leaders included soothing the never-ending complaints of spoiled patrons and members, covering up dropped balls that the public never saw, currying favors to keep donors happy, staving off various and sundry potential problems—and that was on a good day. No thank you, Storm smiled to himself. He didn’t like people that much, anyway, so God bless those who did, or could at least abide them without giving away their real thoughts.

  Storm had not been waiting long when a very attractive blonde woman with impeccable hair and a cute figure hidden by a suave business suit appeared. She was followed by a tall man in a rumpled corporate suit of armor that gave him that slept-in look. The receptionist pointed out Storm, sitting on the overstuffed leather couch, next to a display case containing countless belt buckles, trophies and pictures from past decades of rodeos. He stood as they approached (his momma had always taught him good manners and Angie would never have forgiven him if he hadn’t—“You stand in the presence of a lady!”), the blond extended her hand and said, “Hello, I’m Dakota Taylor, head of marketing and the assistant general manager of Show, and I’m sure you’ve met Mr. Vern Nagel from the mayor’s office.”

  Storm introduced himself, shook hands with Miss Taylor, and said, “No, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Nagel.”

  Nagel nodded and grunted, held out his hand for Storm to take and said, “Detective Storm, Vern Nagel, assistant to the mayor.”

  Storm looked quickly at Nagel’s business card: “Second assistant to Mayor Richard Lemay,” it read. He must think “assistant” sounds better than “second assistant,” Storm reckoned.

  Nagel looked like he had been pulled out of his nice warm bed early that morning by the mayor, probably given the lowdown, and told to report to the rodeo offices. Storm figured he was with Miss Taylor to be the eyes and ears of the mayor.

  A flashing thought sped through Storm’s mind. Who the hell is this guy, really, and why does the mayor already have someone staked out with this Miss Taylor? Another question nagged at him: Why would the Show assign a marketing person to be the liaison in a murder case?

  The reception area was cavernous and Storm was sure he would not be overheard when he asked, “I take it you’ve both heard about the girl that was found on the grounds this morning?”

  Dakota Taylor responded, “Yes, it is a tragedy. How could anything like this have happened? Do you know who killed her or how she ended up in one of our dumpsters yet?”

  Dakota took Storm’s elbow and directed him to a private glass conference room just off the reception area. She closed the massive door and they each took a seat around a small round table secure from any eavesdropping ears that might have wandered into the reception area. “Detective, I do not want us to be overheard,” she said.

  “No, ma’am. We do have her name from her driver’s license. Her name is Leslie Phillips. Does that ring any bells for you?” asked Storm.

  “The poor girl. No, Detective, it doesn’t. But I’ll be sure to make inquiries to see if any of the staff or management know of her.” Dakota added that promise almost as if an afterthought.

  “Do you know where she was killed, Detective Storm?” asked Nagel, sounding as if he was trying to get his two cents in.

  “No, sir.” Storm turned to face Nagel. “She was found in the dumpster outside the new stadium next to the exits leading away from the stadium and her clothing and purse were found near the loading docks in another.”

  “Do you think she was dumped here because we have so many dumpsters on site this time of year?” Asked Dakota.

  Storm’s mind focused for a second or two on the implications of her question. What does she mean “dumped here”? Why doesn’t this woman think she could have been killed here? What the hell is going on? And why is this guy from the mayor’s office getting involved?

  “Miss Taylor, why would you think she was dumped here? Have there been previous incidents of this kind?” Storm asked, trying to
see if Miss Taylor would admit to any other incidents of found dead girls on the grounds.

  Storm noted the shock in Miss Taylor’s face, the frown, and a tightening of the lips before she answered. “Well, yes, there have been a few robberies and muggings, but I don’t believe we have ever had a murder.” Dakota stressed the last word and smiled, though the smile looked artificial, or maybe just practiced, to the detective.

  “Will you be the information “go-to person” from Show for this investigation, Miss Taylor?” asked Storm.

  “Yes. Please contact me first if we can be of any assistance,” said Dakota, still with the stiff smile creasing her lips.

  “I will be back if I have more questions when we have more information.” Extending his hand, he ended his visit. “Thank you, Miss Taylor. I am sure I will be seeing you again.”

  With that said, Storm rose from the table and turned to leave. Damn, this broad was as cold as a well digger’s ass—and why the hell was Nagel here? He asked himself. Again he had more questions than answers and he was beginning to feel a little like the line from Best Little Whorehouse in Texas about the country dog in the city: “If I stand still, they fuck me...if I run, they bite me in the ass.” It seemed to fit in this situation.

  Chapter Six

  “I Know Nothing”

  As Storm left the offices he realized again how big this place was. It was at least three hundred yards just to get to the escalators, then a two-story ride down and another one hundred yards to the doors to the parking lot. Then another two hundred yards past the stadium, a structure big enough to house half dozen Goodyear blimps or the 70,000 spectators watching a game. It dwarfed the Dome, which stood sadly empty, looking forlorn and falling apart.

  After hurriedly walking across the expanse of the complex he was almost out of steam and needed a second to catch his breath when he got to where Hebert remained, still holding court over his minions.