Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery

by Louise Gaylord

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “One of my jobs is to make a sweep of the offices every six months or so.” He riffles through the pages on his clipboard. “The one before this was done in September. This office was empty then.” “That’s the month I joined the firm.” The reality finally sinks in. “You say you found a bug in my handset?” He nods.

  We sit staring for a few minutes as my mind races back through the business transactions I’ve made. Nothing sensitive. All negotiations up front and aboveboard.

  Just as I open my mouth to say as much, a red flag pops up. I am an officer of the court who has known about a drug trafficking operation for almost a year.

  “I can’t imagine why anybody would want to bug my phone.” He gives me an oh-really look. “Gee, me either.”

  “What should we do?”

  Again, that thin smile. “It looks like your recent international transaction has been successfully concluded and the contracts you’re covering now are local and don’t include sensitive material, but I did notify Mister Perkins.” He pauses, then puts the clipboard on the edge of my desk. “Since your phone is the only one that was bugged, it doesn’t look like the tap is business-related. Anything personal I should know about?”

  When I don’t answer, he rises. “I’ll keep a watch on things. Easy to do, now that I’ve pinpointed the problem.”

  Despite the laundry room gossip that Duncan has just dumped his fiancée, my decision to contact him is purely professional. As Assistant DA he offers the easiest access to that side of the law. I reach for the phone, then hesitate, wondering what he’ll say. I dumped him plain and simple and when I found that he was going on with his life, I wasn’t happy about it at all. Am I using this latest development as an excuse? Reason overcomes my guilt. I need his help.

  Duncan seems genuinely happy to hear my voice and after catching up on careers and carefully skirting anything of a personal nature, I say, “My office phone was bugged. The security chief found it Saturday while making a routine sweep.”

  After a long silence, he says, “Do you think it could be about that mess in Uvalde?”

  “Maybe.” I hesitate only a second before saying, “I remember everything.”

  There’s a second long silence on his end, then, “That’s really good news... isn’t it?”

  “I suppose. Frankly, I hoped this was all behind me, but...” He interrupts. “I think I can get hold of someone who’ll help you. Can you leave work now? I’ll meet you at the Capitol Grill.”

  I forgot how handsome Duncan is and to my surprise, I feel my heart skip a few beats when he clasps my hand. We manage to get through the greeting and seating, then he orders two martinis. Mine “up” with three olives. He hasn’t forgotten.

  We are halfway through our drinks when Duncan’s buddy Nate Fallon pulls out a chair and slides into it. A private investigator who often works for the county, Nate is a man who gets a job done—fast.

  “So?”

  With that one question asked, Nate stirs his lime and Perrier furiously until there are hardly any bubbles left, while I fill him in on the discovery.

  He nods agreement. “Something’s out of whack. Bugging’s mostly corporate espionage stuff.”

  Duncan interrupts. “Tell him, Allie.”

  I know I have to, but the thought of revealing my knowledge of drug trafficking in the Valley gives me pause.

  Nate gives me a gentle urge. “I can’t help you unless I know the facts.”

  “I know.” I take a large draw from my martini and launch into the story, carefully omitting anything personal about Bill Cotton.

  Nate’s low whistle is echoed by Duncan’s, “Wow.”

  For the next few minutes the three of us are silent, surrounded by the buzz of low conversations and the clink of flatware against china.

  Finally Nate says, “I’m not going to soft-pedal this, Allie. Somebody must be afraid you know too much about what went on, or is still going down, out there.”

  “If there is a bug in my apartment and you remove it, what happens then?”

  “If I yank it, they’ll find another way to keep tabs on you. You might not want to go there.”

  After dinner, which the two men inhale and I pick over, we head for my apartment. Once inside, Nate opens the small black bag he retrieved from the trunk of his car and heads for the telephone.

  I watch as he twists off the mouthpiece and smiles. With a pair of tweezers he picks up the twin to the disc in my office and, to my horror, replaces it.

  When I gasp, he puts his finger to his lips, then assembles a wand-like device. Moving from room to room, he scans the lamps, the tables, the pictures on the wall, and the electrical outlets.

  When he reappears, he waves us into the elevator hall, and says, “Only a telephone plant. Probably all they had time for.”

  I grab his arm. “Why didn’t you take it out?”

  He removes my claw and shoots me a million-dollar smile. “Look. The thing works only when you lift the receiver. Why tip them off that you know? The bug at the office could have been damaged somehow, but if both bugs go...”

  The light dawns. “I’ll just have to watch what I say.”

  He nods. “If you need to make a sensitive call, use somebody else’s phone. Otherwise, just the usual on your own line.”

  Duncan closes the door and turns. “It’s going to be fine, Allie. Nate gave you some good advice.”

  Angered by his glib assurance, I flop on my couch, arms crossed. “Some comfort that is. I’ve probably been tailed since I got back from Uvalde.”

  “Probably.” “But by who?”

  When Duncan shrugs, I answer my own question: Someone’s been in here. Going through my things. Planting a bug. But how long have I been bugged? And how did they get past Elton? Then a chill cuts through me—could Bill be in on this?

  Duncan looks toward the door and I realize I can’t let him leave just yet. “Care for a nightcap?”

  He checks his watch. “Sure. Want me to open some wine?”

  I’m already halfway to the kitchen. “I have part of a bottle of Port left. Stay put.”

  Once I’ve settled on the couch next to him, Duncan raises his glass, then says, “What’s your next move?”

  “Well, I’m certainly not going to sit around and play the damsel in distress. Guess my next move is to fly to Laredo and get that envelope.”

  Duncan puts his hand on mine. “That’s the last thing you should be thinking about. Not after what happened today.”

  I bridle at the remark. “What do you mean by that?”

  “The last time you made a trip out there, you were almost killed. Remember?”

  Duncan’s concern sounds more like control. I stiffen. “I have no reason to think that could happen again.”

  “But you don’t know this lawyer or anything about him. How do you know you’re not stepping into a trap?”

  The gauntlet’s down. I leap to my defense, voice dripping acid. “Don’t be such an old lady. Gibbs is only interested in clearing up his client’s estate. I’ve talked with him several times on the phone. No reason to think the man is anything but aboveboard. Besides, I have no intention of going near Uvalde or the Anacacho.” Exasperation fills his words. “Can’t you just wait and see what Nate digs up before you go off on some cockamamie mission?” “Cockamamie? What I do, cockamamie or not, really shouldn’t concern you, Duncan.”

  He winces and jerks his hand away as if he’d touched a red hot poker, then takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. If you’re so damn comfortable with this Gibbs, then let’s go through the scenario. You meet in his office and when you open the envelope you find incriminating evidence in it. What then?”

  To my relief the rough patch between us dissolves. I speak attorney to attorney. “First a question: Since Laredo’s in a different county, wouldn’t that mean jurisdictional problems?”

  “Not necessarily. Since you believe this to be drug trafficking evidence, it immediat
ely comes under the DEA’s auspices. So, in order to save time, I’d ask that the witnesses be DEA.”

  “I can’t imagine the evidence would be anything else.”

  “Neither can I. That’s why your trip could be dangerous.” His voice lowers. “What’s the problem with Gibbs coming here?”

  “Well, he sounds rather elderly for one thing.”

  “If that’s what you’re planning to do, I know a few Feds in the Valley. I’ll be glad to call them and set up an appointment.” “Thanks, Duncan, you’re a brick.”

  “Still glad you made the switch to the private side of the law?” “More than you can imagine. I’ll always be grateful you steered me in that direction.”

  I notice his glass is empty. “Refill?”

  “Thanks, but I better be on my way.” He stands and looks down at me. “Unless there’s something else you’d like to discuss?”

  I rise to join him, extending my hand. “Nothing I can think of, right now, but do I have permission to recall?”

  He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “You bet.”

  Duncan turns to go, then pauses. “Are you sure you feel comfortable about making this trip?”

  Chapter 26

  IT’S ALMOST TWO O’CLOCK on a Friday afternoon in mid-April when the Embraer Turbo Prop touches down on the runway in Laredo. An unexpected trip to Columbus, Ohio, prevented me from hooking up with Mr. Gibbs until now. Even then, because the Feds were involved, it was all I could do to set up this meeting on such short notice.

  Duncan has been a big help with the DEA. He says they promised at least one agent and hopefully two will be waiting in Gibbs’s office when I arrive.

  It’s hot, the delayed flight on the commuter was bumpy, and the cab ride through the teeming throngs in the central business district isn’t helping my frame of mind. I’m particularly disgruntled because there are no longer creases in my slacks, and my linen jacket looks like it ran into a mix-master.

  I take the wheezing elevator to the third floor and push open a door reading Jaynes & Gibbs, Attorneys-at-Law. I smile my way past the secretary, and extend a firm hand to Mr. Gibbs. He looks nothing like he sounded over the phone.

  I pictured sort of a round, Santa-like man, but though his hair is white as snow, he’s really quite dashing. Dark complected, indicating some Border heritage despite the Gaelic surname, Gibbs is medium tall and powerfully built.

  He ends the shake and motions toward the nearest chair, then settles behind his desk. “Well, little lady, we meet at last.”

  I flinch at his lack of political correctness, but taking his age into account, I cut him some slack.

  “Yes, at last.” Since I saw no one in the outer office when I greeted his secretary, I wonder what he’s done with the DEA. “Nice flight?”

  “Very bumpy and late, as you can see.”

  “Maybe some iced tea? My secretary makes a pretty mean pitcher.”

  “That would be wonderful, thank you.”

  We exchange idle chat until the secretary slams down a couple of glasses on the desk and retreats. Gibbs rises and comes around to my side of the desk, hands me my glass, then sips from his. “Hits the spot, doesn’t it?”

  I have to admit it does.

  We stare at each other for a few minutes, then he retreats to his chair. “Guess you’re looking for this.” He pulls a large brown envelope from his desk drawer and pushes it across the desk.

  I pull it to me, and stare at Paul’s hurried scrawl.

  The “ie” of my name has been reduced to a few squiggles with the dot for the “i” almost over the “A” of Armington.

  I turn it over.

  The flap is seemingly still intact, though it easily could have been steamed open and re-sealed.

  “Well?” Gibbs is almost salivating with eagerness.

  It dawns on me that there will be no DEA present—at least not today. Either Gibbs has headed them off at the pass or they have chosen to ignore Duncan’s request.

  “I’m sorry, Mister Gibbs, but when we discussed my trip down here, I requested that at least one member of the Drug Enforcement Administration be present when I opened this.”

  He studies me for a minute through hooded eyes, then says, “Yes, I remember, Miss Armington, but I can’t believe you really meant that. Think of Mister Carpenter and what these revelations, if any, could do to his good name.”

  “That’s exactly what I am considering, Mister Gibbs. Paul was...”

  I start to add that Paul was murdered in cold blood and though I didn’t witness it, I overheard plans being made for his death and mine, but there goes the red flag. For some reason, I decide to save that piece of news until I get a better picture of this man.

  I stand, lean over his desk and into his face. “I certainly agree that Paul’s good name is at stake, therefore, I do not intend to open this until the DEA is represented.”

  He raises his hand against my onslaught. “I sincerely apologize for failing to recognize the urgent nature of your request.”

  “You told me Paul died of a heroin overdose. To me that indicates some type of criminal action was going on at his hideaway. That’s why I insisted on having a DEA agent present.”

  “Oh dear, this is far more grave than I ever realized. Of course, I have no idea what’s in that envelope, so, when they called this morning, my secretary told them it wouldn’t be necessary to send anyone over.”

  “But I felt it was necessary and I still do. I thought that was our agreement.”

  “It was, it was. But I got to thinking. What if there’s nothing in that envelope? Then we would have wasted one or maybe two valuable men and their time. The DEA is short-handed as it is with all this border mess.”

  Though Gibbs has made a valid point, I’m not giving an inch. “No DEA, no open. Sorry.”

  He hides his surprise rather well by raising his brows and offering a broad smile. “It is I who am sorry, Miss Armington. I shouldn’t have tried to think for you.”

  I check my watch. Still ample time to make the last flight to Houston. I start to stand and he motions me back to my chair.

  “I’d like to make this up somehow.” He shoots me a toothy grin. “If you’ll be a guest in my home this evening, I promise you will have someone from the DEA to witness the opening of that envelope first thing in the morning.” Before I can answer, he says, “My wife, Elvira, is not only a fine cook, but a wonderful hostess and we’d be honored to have you stay with us.”

  Though it’s not too late to make the last flight, what would that accomplish? I’d just have to reschedule and, as it is, I’m booked on a Sunday flight to New York to begin negotiations with a Dutch group interested in another tank farm on the ship channel. Fortunately, I always carry the bare necessities in my briefcase.

  I hand the envelope back to Gibbs, still leery of his hospitality. “I’d rather not impose, thank you. However, I would like to get this handled now. I have to be in New York by Monday. If you don’t mind, I’ll get a room at a hotel. I hear La Posada is very nice.”

  He laughs and moves toward a wall safe that is open, deposits the envelope, and slams it shut. “Fat chance you’d have of getting a room there. It’s spring and a weekend. I’d be willing to bet they’ve bussed every other cost-conscious woman in Texas down here to shop ’til they drop across that damn river.”

  Gibbs yells to his secretary to call the hotel and we stare each other down until she calls out, “Booked solid.”

  After Gibbs instructs his secretary to call his wife and contact the DEA, we take the elevator to the first floor and head down a darkened hall to the parking lot at the back of his building. When he points me toward a shiny black Suburban, I can’t help but smile. Mr. Gibbs is anything but old-school.

  Gibbs inches the Suburban past the crowd and away from the center of the city to a pleasant, upscale neighborhood. After winding through a few streets, he turns into a circular driveway and stops in front of a two-story stucco with a walled patio in front.


  He escorts me through the wrought-iron gates, beneath a large elm to double doors that open into a commodious entry hall. To my surprise the decor belies the exterior of the home. I assumed Elvira was a Latina and would have such tastes, but the furnishings and art are highly sophisticated.

  The aromas wafting through the house invite us to the kitchen, where I fully expect to see a woman near Gibbs’s age bustling over a hot stove. Instead, a tall, curvaceous woman with jet-black hair turns away from the wall-oven to face us.

  Gibbs plants a long kiss on her lips. “Miss Armington, my wife, Elvira.”

  Her engaging smile reveals a row of even, white teeth. “I’m glad to meet you, Miss Armington. You’re just in time. The margaritas are in the freezer and the nachos are a minute away from perfect.”

  I warm to her immediately. “Thank you for going to all this trouble on such short notice.”

  “Not at all. Ray’s secretary explained the small glitch in your meeting.” She turns to check the oven. “I hope you’ll take advantage of the delay by enjoying our guest room and a good, home-cooked meal.”

  The Gibbses prove to be lively conversationalists, well-versed on Valley politics as well as the latest shows in Manhattan. An unlikely connection since they are practically in Mexico.

  The meal turns out better than billed. No doubt the margaritas before dinner and the fine bottle of Cabernet to complement the most delicate cabrito I’ve ever put in my mouth have something to do with it.

  Blaming an attack of sciatica, Ray leaves the two of us to finish our Port. Since Elvira seems in a chatty mood, I take advantage of the opportunity to do a little sleuthing. “You two seem like newlyweds.”

  She smiles. “Well, thanks. We’re going on five years. But it’s the first marriage for both.”

  My guess is Ray is pushing sixty-five and, on closer inspection, Elvira could be in her early forties. Still, it’s almost a twenty-five-year gap.

  She must read my mind. “Ray was my father’s law partner. Dad was the Jaynes of the partnership and Ray just left it the way it was. When I was fifteen my parents were killed in an automobile accident and, since there was no next of kin, Ray became my legal guardian. He took me into his home and shepherded me through high school and college, then saw to it I had a safe place to live in Manhattan.”