Old Wounds, a Gino Cataldi Mystery

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  “George, it’s Tip Denton.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The last time I was over, you mentioned that Cybil had you pick up Barbara Camwyck from over in East Texas and bring her to Houston.”

  “I remember,” George said.

  “Do you remember where?”

  “Lumberton,” George said. “Little town north of Beaumont. She was waiting for me outside of an HEB grocery store.”

  “That’s a pretty good memory for something that happened so long ago,” Tip said.

  “Like I told you before, that woman had an effect on me, even from that first day. She was standing in front of HEB and she looked like she’d been crying. When I got out of the car she quickly wiped her tears. I tried being nice to the kid. Back then I wasn’t a very nice person, but this girl got to me. I said to her, ‘You all right, kid?’ And she looked up at me and said ‘Fuck off, old man.’”

  George’s laugh came through the speaker loudly.

  “That one sentence cured me of bein’ nice,” George said.

  “What happened after?” Tip asked.

  “She didn’t say jack shit all the way to Houston. I dropped her off and that was that.”

  “George, you’ve been a big help. I appreciate it.”

  “Stop by and visit sometime,” George said. “You know where I live.”

  “I will,” Tip said, and then he hung up.

  Tip called Julie on the intercom. “We need to dig into employment records, tax filings, anything you can find on Barbara Camwyck from back when she was in East Texas. She was in Lumberton for a while. I believe it was about 18 years ago, and she might have worked at the HEB grocery store.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Julie said.

  “Hurry up. We’re on our way there now.”

  When I heard Tip say that I jumped at the opportunity. “I’m driving,” I said, and headed for the door.

  “It’s about time we got going,” Tip said. “We’ve been planning this trip since last night.”

  “We’re on the way now, after all of your bullshit.” I drove east on I-10. Tip talked nonstop, jumping from discussing the case to talking about his dogs. I spent half the time nodding and saying “uh-huh”, when I wasn’t thinking or worrying about Ron and wondering how he was making out at the new rehab center.

  Worry seemed to have found a permanent place in me since the first time I caught Ron with drugs, and that brought up another sore subject—my mother. The only insightful thing she ever said in her life was when she told me that ‘A parent never stops worrying from the moment their first child is born.’ I know I’d said it before, but this one stuck with me. For once, she had been right.

  Tip’s phone rang as I passed a sign announcing the exit for Winnie, Texas, a town that looked big enough to support a couple of gas stations, but only because of the freeway.

  “Hello, darlin’,” he said.

  He didn’t need the speaker on; Julie had a pretty big voice.

  “I couldn’t find income tax records, but I did find a report of social security wages paid by Dairy Queen, on Route 96 in Lumberton.”

  “When was it?” Tip asked.

  “That’s the thing. She only worked there about three months.”

  “And you didn’t find anything else? No utility bills? Or phone records? Hospital records?”

  “Nothing,” Julie said, “But I’ll keep digging.”

  “All right, let us know,” Tip said.

  “Three months?” I said. “Doesn’t sound right.”

  “Not for a young girl who went off to have an abortion,” Tip said. “What was she living on?”

  I tried to come up with an explanation. “If we assume Marsen paid for the abortion, he might have given her money to live on, too.”

  “Maybe she was boarding with someone,” Tip said. “I imagine it wouldn’t be hard to find a room to rent in a small town.”

  “Maybe so,” I said.

  A little less than an hour later we arrived in Lumberton. It wasn’t difficult to find the HEB that George had mentioned, and the Dairy Queen was only a short walk away.

  I showed my badge to one of the cashiers and asked to speak to the manager. A tall string bean-thin man came out a moment later. He looked to be about fifty.

  “I’m Brent Hegl,” he said. “How can I help?”

  Tip said, “We’re investigating a case and need to know if you remember a young girl named Barbara Camwyck. She worked here about 18 years ago.” Tip produced a picture of Barbara Camwyck that dated back about ten years, which was the closest we had to when she lived in Lumberton.

  Hegl looked, then held the picture up and brought it closer. “I was here back then, but I can’t place her.”

  “Do you have records we could look at?” I asked.

  “Everything’s computerized,” he said. “It’s a project we’ve worked on for years. Come back with me,” he said.

  We followed him to a small office in the back of the store, and before long he located the records we needed, personnel and payroll records from that time.

  He thumbed through a few files, then said, “She only worked here for three months.”

  “We know that,” Tip said. “Do you have an address where she lived? Or a name she might have listed for someone to contact in case of emergency?”

  “There’s an address listed here,” Hegl said, then he reached for a notepad and wrote it down. “It’s not far from here. A small ranch house on the corner. Back in that time, Mrs. Zelker owned it, but she’s gone. Her son lives there now.”

  Otto Zelker was working on his lawn when we pulled up. He had grass stuck on his arms from sweating, and he was breathing heavily. I told him what we wanted after showing him my badge.

  “I remember her,” he said. “Not a very pleasant girl, but pretty.”

  “Did she live here long?” I asked.

  Otto shook his head. “Couldn’t have been more than a few months. She rented a room from my mother and she helped out around the house. She was good with the garden, too.”

  “But she was only here a few months?” Tip said.

  Zelker nodded. “No more than three. After that, she left. I remember my mother being upset because the girl didn’t even tell my mother she was leaving. She left enough money on the table to pay her rent through the month, but nothing else. Not even a note.”

  We pressed to see if he knew anything else, but he didn’t. And he had no clues who else in town might be able to help.

  We checked in with local law enforcement before leaving, telling them why we were here asking questions, and also to see if they had any information.

  After that, we talked to an old-timer who was clerking as a part-time job. He said he’d been there 30 years. He didn’t recall Camwyck, and when he checked, he had no records for her. After a few more dead ends, we got back on the road to Houston.

  “Struck out there,” Tip said. “And we’re back to where we started. Why the hell would Ingle kill her for a couple of million? And why would Marsen risk killing her for any reason? He’s the goddamn president.”

  Things had been stirring in my mind since Julie had called with the employment records. Suddenly it clicked. “Suppose it was a lot more than a couple of million?”

  “What are you talking about?” Tip asked.

  I smiled. “Suppose she didn’t get an abortion, and there’s a seventeen-year-old kid running around East Texas who looks like the president? Or Ingle.”

  Tip cracked one of his smiles. “Then I believe we’d have what we call a Texas conundrum.”

  “A what?”

  “A Texas conundrum,” Tip said.

  “How’s that different than a normal conundrum?”

  “It’s the same thing, but bigger.”

  I shook my head. “Either way, it’s big blackmail. If it’s Marsen’s kid, we’re looking at a president with an illegitimate kid. And if it’s Ingle’s kid we’ve got a whole lot of money involved.”

/>   “That would explain the missing nine or ten months between Camwyck disappearing and her working at the Dairy Queen.” Tip pulled out his phone and dialed. “Julie, we need you to go over everything in the Camwyck files. I mean everything. Get more help if you need it, but check financials, phone records, bank accounts, taxes, properties she owns…all of it.”

  “What are we looking for?” Julie asked. “I’m already doing that.”

  “Then do it harder,” Tip said. His voice was loud and gruff. “Look for a kid,” Tip said. “But I’ll take anything that looks out of place.”

  He hung up and said, “We need to find out where Camwyck was for nine months.”

  “The hell with Camwyck,” I said. “We need to find the kid.”

  “I thought Ben said she had an abortion,” Tip said.

  “Could have been after the fact,” I said. “She could have had a kid, then later gotten pregnant again and had an abortion.”

  “I guess so,” Tip said.

  CHAPTER 60

  A MISSING CHILD

  I decided to take a different route back to Houston, opting for highway 105 instead of the freeway. It would take longer this way, but the drive was more pleasant.

  “What I can’t figure out,” Tip said, “is why they killed Camwyck. I know we’ve been through this before, but hear me out because the kid makes a difference.”

  “I’m listening. But don’t forget the kid is speculation. We don’t know if there is a kid.”

  Tip turned slightly in his seat so he was facing me while I drove. “Forget if. I’m convinced she didn’t get an abortion—at least not at that time. We know from Ben she had one, but it could have been later as we’ve already said. So let’s assume the kid belongs to Marsen. If that’s true, we’ve got a president who is going to be damned embarrassed by his past indiscretions, but presidents have survived worse. Hell, he wasn’t even married then.”

  “Suppose Camwyck was saying it was rape and the child was the result of rape?” I asked.

  “It would be her word against his. And I’m sure Ingle would come to his defense, and probably Cybil, too. Camwyck wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  I agreed with Tip on that. “Okay, what’s your next point?”

  “We assume the kid belonged to Ingle. Why would he care? Certainly he wouldn’t care enough to kill her.” Tip looked at me and I saw the question written on his face.

  “Why not? It would cost him a fortune. Half of his fortune.”

  “That’s my point,” Tip said, and then he smiled. “He has no kids, so why would he care who gets it when he’s gone?”

  For a moment, Tip remained quiet, giving me time to think. Then I saw what he was getting at. “But who stands to lose at least half, if not all of his fortune if a real, live heir pops onto the scene?”

  Tip smacked his hand on the dashboard. “Goddamn right! Mrs. Ingle. She could end up losing a few hundred million or more. It would depend on what kind of terms they agreed to in a pre-nup.”

  “If she has one,” I said.

  “I’d bet my last dick she signed a pre-nup, but knowing RB Ingle, his lawyers would have made certain it was all in his favor, and at the time of the marriage, she was in no position to argue.”

  I glanced over at Tip. “How many dicks do you have?”

  “Just one, but if I had more than one, I’d bet my last one on that gamble. That’s saying something.”

  “Tip, I’m starting to worry about you.”

  He laughed. “You have to admit, the theory about Mrs. Ingle is sound. She’s the one with everything to lose.”

  I gave it more thought. “Do you really think anybody would worry about losing a few million, or even a few hundred million, when they’d have so much anyway?”

  After Tip stopped laughing, he said, “You better join the real world, partner. The people that worry the most about money are the ones who have it all.”

  “Maybe we should pay another visit to the recently widowed Mrs. Ingle.”

  “We’ve got nothing better to do,” Tip said. “Besides, I think she said she’d be staying at the Four Seasons. I love their menu.”

  “If we’re going downtown, we need a new route. Pull up a map.”

  Tip looked at me and said, “A map? What do you need a map for? You’ve got me in the car.”

  “Spit out some directions then.”

  “Not too far up the road you’ll hit Highway 146. Take a left. When you get to Liberty, take a right on Highway 90 and follow that into Houston.”

  We were about thirty minutes outside of the city when Coop called. Tip answered.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “An update would be nice,” Coop said. “Are we closing this case?”

  “Not yet.”

  A long pause followed. “Tell me what not yet means, and it better be damn convincing. Your friend, Chief Renkin, is waiting on my call. And he’s not happy.”

  “Tell John to sit tight. We’ve got issues, Captain. Something’s not right, but we’ll fill you in when we get there.”

  “Where are you? And what’s not right?”

  “Sweet little Mrs. Ingle isn’t right,” Tip said. “We’re on our way to see her.”

  “Denton, you better not cause trouble. That woman still has a lot of influence and with the sympathy she’ll draw from having her husband killed…”

  “I know all about it. Let us do our job. You handle Renkin.”

  “Goddamnit,” Coop said. “Goddamnit.” And then she hung up.

  We called ahead to the Four Seasons, and made an appointment to see Mrs. Ingle. Tip told her to expect us around five, and we didn’t miss the mark by much, pulling into the parking garage at 5:10. We rode the elevator to her suite, and were shown in by the maid who worked at the Ingle house.

  She nodded, smiled, and led us to the sitting area, where Mrs. Ingle sat on a sofa, nursing a cup of tea. The bruises on her face looked worse than when she was in the hospital.

  “Like a drink?” she asked. “Or coffee, tea?”

  “Water for me,” I said. Tip opted for tea.

  “Be right back,” the maid said.

  Ingle waited until we were seated, then asked, “What brings you to see me?”

  “We had a few follow-up questions,” I said, and pulled out my notepad.

  She set her drink on the end table, folded her hands on her lap, and smiled. “Go on, Detective.”

  I flipped back to the notes I took at her house. “We are confused about the order of the gunshots. You said you heard yelling between Mr. Ingle and Mr. Grage, followed by a gunshot, and then a few seconds later, another shot.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said.

  “How much time was there between the shots?” Tip asked.

  “About ten seconds, if I remember. Why? Is it important?”

  The maid brought the water and tea, and turned to leave. “Hang on, ma’am,” I said. “I have a question for you also.”

  She turned back to face me, but her face tightened up, and she turned to Mrs. Ingle.

  “¿Si¿”

  “Can you tell me about the gunshots that day at the house? What you heard?”

  She clasped her hands together, her right thumb rubbing the back of her left thumb, like she was counting rosary beads. “Heard yelling. Then gun. I cover head with a pillow, then another gun fire.” She glanced over at Mrs. Ingle after she finished.

  Tip looked to me, then up at the maid.

  “How long between the first and second shot?”

  Again, she looked at Ingle. There was a brief pause, then she said, “Don’t know. Maybe…ten seconds.” A quick smile appeared on her face when she said it.

  I pretended to look through my notes, but I didn’t need to refer to them. It wasn’t what she’d told us that day at the house.

  “Ma’am, you told us before that there was a shot, then about one minute later, two more shots. Then after another minute, a final shot.” I closed the notepad and looked up at her. She w
ouldn’t look me in the eyes.

  I then did my best to translate what I’d said into Spanish.

  “No. Was confused. Very upset.”

  Tip stood and looked down at her. “It’s pretty difficult to confuse a timeline so different.”

  The backs of her fingers turned white from squeezing. She was stressing. “Don’t know. Like I said.”

  Mrs. Ingle got up from the sofa, walked over and gave the maid a hug. “It’s okay, Manuela. I know you’re still upset. We all are.”

  She looked at Mrs. Ingle. “I can go now?”

  “Of course you can. And don’t forget we have guests coming tonight.”

  “Si, Señora,” she said, and quickly exited the room.

  “We weren’t done asking questions,” I said.

  Mrs. Ingle took her seat again. “I’m sure any questions you have can wait for another day. You can see she’s upset.”

  “I noticed,” Tip said. “Mrs. Ingle, remind me why you called us in the first place.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  “When you called Detective Cataldi and told him about the dress. Why did you do it?”

  “I believe I already answered that, Detective.” She looked at the clock on the wall and said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have guests to prepare for.” She walked to the door and opened it. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  We reluctantly followed her to the door, and then, as we waited for the elevator, I said, “I’ve never been thrown out of a place so politely.”

  “Or such a nice place,” Tip said. “I think we struck a nerve.”

  “We certainly did with the maid. Funny how her story changed.”

  “Damn funny.”

  I pressed the button again, knowing it did no good, but I did it anyway. “Mrs. Ingle’s story didn’t change, though.”

  “Not a single bit,” Tip said. “Despite all the stress she’s been through.”

  The elevator opened, and a guy with two small kids got out. I stepped inside, pressed the button for the lobby, and said to Tip, “We need to dig deeper. A lot deeper.”

  I was about to open my car door when the phone rang. It was Julie.

  “What’s up, Jules?”

  “I hope ya’ll are on your way back here, because I think I’ve got something.”