Greg Tenorly Suspense Series Boxed Set

by Robert Burton Robinson

  “It’s okay. I just don’t require your services anymore. Your debt is paid. So, slip out of town quietly and go your merry way. You’re free. But don’t forget to burn that letter. Do it now. Goodbye.”

  Marty felt like he had just been fired, and he didn’t like it. He wanted nothing more than to be done with this job. But he wanted to finish the job. Marty Crumb might have been one of the lowest of the lowlifes—but he was not a quitter. And he could not allow himself to be fired.

  As he walked into the bathroom with Sam Spokane’s unopened letter, he placed a Marlboro between his cracked lips and flicked his lighter. He lit his cigarette and took a long drag, studying the handwriting on the envelope. What was this horrible secret about Buford? He would burn the letter over the toilet and then flush the ashes.

  **********

  Buford wanted to kick himself for getting involved with Marty. It had seemed like a good idea—a cheap way to get it done. But Marty had become a loose cannon. If Buford let this go on, everybody connected with the trial would end up dead. And eventually the police would be at his door. He had to take immediate action. He unlocked his lower right drawer and exchanged the cell phone in his hand for a different one.

  “Yeah?”

  “This is B.B.”

  “Who’s the mark?”

  “Hang on. What’s this going to cost me?”

  “Ten Grand.”

  Buford felt a sharp pain in his stomach. “That’s too much.”

  “Then get somebody else. Goodbye—”

  “—wait. Okay.”

  “Then it’s agreed? Ten-thousand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Who, where, and when?”

  “His name is Marty Crumb. He’s currently at the Holiday Inn in Coreyville, Texas, room 212. I don’t know how long he’ll be there. So, do it as soon as possible, and let me know when it’s done.”

  “Got it.”

  “I didn’t get your name.”

  “John X.”

  20 - GET OUT OF TOWN

  Greg checked his watch as he walked into the lobby of the Holiday Inn. Nearly 11:00 AM. He was afraid everyone would be watching him.

  The desk clerk was talking to a couple who were checking out. A housekeeper was cleaning up the stale pastries and other remains of the breakfast bar. Three or four late risers were reading the paper and drinking coffee. Two men in suits were sitting at a small table, doing business over a laptop.

  Nobody seemed to notice Greg. But he should have picked up Cynthia at the back door. They should be keeping a low profile. There was a killer somewhere in Coreyville.

  The elevator doors opened as Greg was passing by. He instinctively took a quick glance, and saw a creepy little man standing alone in the elevator, staring at him. Greg reprimanded himself for judging the man by his appearance.

  Then he had a chilling thought: what if it was the killer? Greg tried to calm himself. The man was probably a wonderful husband and grandfather, but he was the scariest looking person Greg had ever seen. He just wanted to get Cynthia and get out of town in a hurry.

  He located Room 112 and knocked. The light showing through the peephole went dark and Greg knew Cynthia was looking at him. When she opened the door, he was surprised that she was dressed only in a slip.

  “I’m sorry I’m not ready yet, but I just got here two minutes ago.”

  “That’s okay.” Greg tried to hide the fact that he was freaking out. He might have just passed the killer in the hall. “Why don’t you wear something casual? You know—clothes you wouldn’t normally wear on a workday. Maybe then nobody will recognize you.”

  “Yeah, good idea.”

  “‘Because if the police catch you leaving town they might arrest you.”

  “That’s a happy thought.” Why was this happening to her? Cynthia’s life had been uncomplicated a week ago. Working at the bank by day, being abused at home by night. An uncomplicated life, but certainly not a good life.

  “Don’t worry—you won’t get caught. Here—this will help.” Greg had a Texas Rangers cap in his hand. He tossed it on the bed next to her suitcase.

  “Good. I’ll put my hair up. Try to look like a guy.”

  Her figure was slender, yet curvy in just the right places. “You could never look like a guy,” Greg said, smiling.

  Cynthia returned the smile, slightly embarrassed.

  How could she not know how beautiful she is? Her modesty made her even more beautiful.

  She selected some items from her suitcase, picked up the baseball cap, and walked into the bathroom. “Give me five minutes.”

  Was he helping Cynthia escape from danger or putting her life in greater jeopardy? He wasn’t sure. But if she was with him, he could do his best to protect her. But how would he protect her? He didn’t have a gun or any other weapon. And he was not much of a fighter.

  She stepped out of the bathroom, wearing white walking shoes, pink shorts and a pink and white tank top. Greg was amazed at her long, lovely legs.

  Cynthia seemed gratified by Greg’s reaction to her appearance. However, if he had kept his eyes on her legs for one more second, he would have gone from admirer to gawker. She had pulled her hair back into two small pigtails and topped it off with Greg’s baseball cap.

  Her makeup was gone, revealing a face full of freckles. Greg wouldn’t have recognized her. She looked almost tomboyish—except for those legs. She also looked much younger. Great, he thought—except that people might think he was a dirty old man, having a fling with an under-aged girl. Or they might think she was his daughter. He didn’t know which was worse. Ah, Thursday—a good day to feel old.

  “Why don’t you wait for me at the back door, and I’ll drive around and pick you up. The fewer people who see us together, the better.”

  “Okay.”

  She walked down the hallway, toward the back of the hotel. He headed in the opposite direction.

  Greg wanted to run through the lobby and out the door as fast as he could, but he forced himself to walk at a normal pace, so as not to draw any special attention. In fifteen minutes, he and Cynthia would be safely out of town. Once they were on the highway, Greg’s blood pressure might return to normal. There was nobody in the parking lot except a family, busy loading suitcases into their car.

  He got into the Bonneville and drove around to the back of the hotel. But the car was just so big and so red. It was like driving a car with a huge billboard on top of it that said Look everybody, here’s Greg Tenorly leaving town with Cynthia Blockerman. It was the first time he wished he still had his old beige sedan. Cynthia walked out, get in the car, and they drove away.

  Nobody was in the back parking lot. Nobody saw Greg and Cynthia drive off together—except the man standing at the end of the second floor hallway, looking out the window.

  He dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and ground it deep into the carpet fibers with his dusty, black shoe. No civilized person would do that. But then, he was not civilized.

  He walked to his room, picked up a cell phone and called Buford. “Looks like Greg and Cynthia are leaving town.”

  “I told you that your job is done.” Buford was about to tell Marty not to ever call him again, but then he saw the opportunity. “I’m sorry. Thanks for the information, Marty. Hey, would you mind doing me a favor and wait there, and let me know when Cynthia returns to the hotel?”

  “She may not be coming back.”

  “That’s okay. Just wait there for a couple of days. Okay?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Thanks.”

  Marty knew Buford was up to something. Buford was skilled in the art of deception, but Marty was a master. And he knew in his gut that the killer was about to become the target.

  21 - CONFESSION

  Just one more traffic light, and Greg and Cynthia would be out of Coreyville. He glanced over at her. She looked years younger in disguise. The freckles and baseball cap really did the trick.

  Something in
his rear view mirror caught his eye. It was a police car turning onto Main Street behind him. He checked his speed. He was doing 35 mph—the speed limit.

  Be careful—don’t run the light. It turned yellow, and he stopped. After the light had been red for what seemed like five minutes, it changed and he drove forward.

  Before the police car even started moving, its lights were flashing. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Did the cop somehow recognize Cynthia? They had been so close to getting away.

  “Sir, I need you to step out of the vehicle.” Greg got out of the car as the cop took a long look at Cynthia. She stared straight ahead. Greg walked to the rear of the car with the cop.

  “I need to see your license, Sir. Please remove it from your billfold.”

  Greg handed it to the officer, and glanced around to see who might be looking on.

  “Who’s your passenger?” he asked, while he began to study the license.

  How much jail time could Greg get for lying to a police officer? He should have thought about this ahead of time. If he told the truth, Cynthia would be arrested. How much did he really care about her? How badly did he want to protect her?

  “It’s my niece, Cindy. I’m taking her down to Kilgore College for an audition. She’s going to be a music major in the fall.”

  “I see.”

  Was the cop about to reach for his cuffs? He could picture it all. His beloved car being mishandled by some uncaring, greasy-handed, tow truck driver. Would Bonnie be permanently scarred by such cruel treatment? Greg and Cynthia riding in the back of the police cruiser, handcuffed. He could just punch the cop and run. No, stupid—just stay calm.

  “Better advise the young lady to major in something else. You can’t make any decent money with a music degree.”

  Greg laughed nervously. “That’s for sure.”

  The officer handed Greg his license. “Your inspection sticker has expired.”

  “What? How did you see it? You were behind me.”

  “I checked your license plate on the computer while we were sitting at the light. That’s how I found out. We do it all the time.”

  Wow, Greg was impressed. The Coreyville police department was more high-tech than he had realized.

  “You’ve got a five-day grace period, but you’re on the last day. So, you’d better get it taken care of today.”

  “Yes, Sir, officer, I will.” He was so relieved that he wanted to hug the cop.

  Greg drove away cautiously, afraid of jinxing his good fortune. Once the police car had disappeared from his mirror, he began to breathe again. “That was a close one.”

  “What happened?”

  “My state inspection sticker expired. But I nearly lost it when he asked who you were.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That you’re my niece, and that I’m taking you to Kilgore College for an audition. You didn’t know you were going back to school as a music major, did you?”

  “And he believed you?”

  “Apparently—which makes me a little sad.”

  “Why? We got away.”

  “Do I look old enough to be your uncle? Wait—don’t answer that.”

  “You worry too much about looks.”

  “Well, of course you would say that. You don’t have to worry about your looks because you’re beautiful.”

  “Gee, thanks, Uncle Greg.”

  For a split second, Greg was hurt. But the cute smile on Cynthia’s face made him forget his silly thoughts and smile back at her. She was disarmingly irresistible.

  “You haven’t told me where we’re going.”

  Cynthia was running away with him to an unknown destination. She really trusted him, he thought.

  “We’re going to Dallas, to visit the infamous Buford Bellowin.”

  “Isn’t he that big-time trial lawyer who wants to be governor?”

  “That’s the guy. He grew up in Coreyville.”

  “Really? But what does he have to do with the murders?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I was on the phone with Dorothy Spokane when she was killed and—”

  “—you’re kidding.”

  “No. She called me and said Buford was behind all of the killings. But she didn’t give a last name. So, I googled the name ‘Buford’ along with ‘Coreyville’ and came up with ‘Buford Bellowin.’ There was a puff piece written about him in the Coreyville Courier. It mentioned that Buford had worked for Sam Spokane when he was a teenager. So, I’m thinking that must be the connection.”

  “But, why would Buford Bellowin want to have people murdered just because he worked for Sam Spokane years ago?”

  “I haven’t figured out that part yet.”

  “It’s quite a stretch.”

  “I know. But there’s got to be some reason. Maybe some deep, dark secret about Mr. Bellowin. Maybe he did something illegal to get one of his murder clients off.”

  “But what would that have to do with Dorothy Spokane or Troy?”

  “I don’t know. We just need to brainstorm. We’ll think of something. If not, we’ll just try to shock him with some outrageous accusations and see how he reacts. At least then maybe we’ll know if he’s involved.”

  “Yeah, but we might find ourselves on the wrong end of one of his lawsuits.”

  **********

  The big red convertible had traveled down FM-2208 to Loop 281. They would soon hit Interstate 20.

  Cynthia thought it was about time to confess. “Greg, I need to tell you something. And I hope you won’t hate me.”

  Was she about to confess to killing Troy? Perhaps Greg had misjudged her. He was already falling for Cynthia. Not that he was certain she had any feelings for him. But could he really allow himself to be drawn in? If she was a killer, how could he live with that? “What is it, Cynthia?” He braced himself.

  “On Monday when I came to see you I was trying to seduce you.”

  And you were doing a great job of it, he thought. It had been all he could do to contain himself.

  “I was threatened by some man on the phone that morning. He told me that I must do whatever he said, or my mother would have a terrible accident. He sounded mean. I believed him.”

  “What?”

  “He told me that you would be selected as a juror on the murder trial—I don’t know how he knew that. But he said to flirt with you to get your attention and then influence you to fight for the defendant. He told me if Kantrell Jamison was found guilty, my mother would die.” Tears were welling up in her eyes.

  Now it made sense. She was not flirting with him because he was a good-looking, sexy guy. It was because somebody was forcing her to do it.

  “Now, don’t get me wrong. I really like you—even more as I’m getting to know you. But on Monday I was acting.”

  How could he have been such a fool? “What about when you called me Monday night saying Troy was beating you up—was that fake too?”

  “No—it was real. He was drunk and he was hitting me, so I decided to use the situation to get your sympathy. I’m sorry.”

  “But then Troy called me. He sounded like a madman. What if he had come over to my house and blown my head off?”

  “I know—I’m sorry. I had to try to protect my mom. I didn’t know what else to do. But I knew Troy would forget everything by morning. He always forgot what happened while he was drunk.”

  Greg calmed down as he reflected on the state of his relationship with this woman. “I guess it worked. I fought Troy and the other jurors long and hard. I was determined to return a ‘Not Guilty.’ I can’t believe I was being manipulated.”

  “I am so sorry. And now I still don’t know if my mother’s safe. When I talked to her yesterday, she said she was going to stay with a friend for a while. I think she was talking about her high school friend who lives in Texarkana. I sure hope he can’t find her there.”

  “So, maybe this man who called you is the one who killed Troy and Dorothy Spokane. And maybe even Arabeth Albertson.�
��

  “I thought that was an accident. Didn’t she fall down the stairs?”

  “I’m not sure I believe that story anymore. Someone might have tripped her. I don’t know if that would leave any evidence.”

  They rode for several miles without speaking. The redhead sitting next to Greg looked different now. She was still beautiful. And he wanted to believe her story about the mysterious caller. But how could he know what to believe? And what if she had killed Troy? Did he even know if the abuse was real? He wanted to trust her, but doubts were racing through his mind.

  22 - JOHN X

  His real name was John Smith. It sounded like a fake name for a hit man anyway, so he opted for a cooler sounding name: John X. He had relocated from Amarillo to Arlington when he was 22, and had established himself as a well-to-do bachelor over the three years he had lived there.

  He wore expensive Italian suits and drove a new Jaguar. Nobody really knew him, but the people in his neighborhood, at the grocery store, the bank, and at restaurants seemed to think highly of the image he had created for himself.

  He was sitting on a Greyhound bus, traveling to Shreveport, Louisiana. How he detested wearing ordinary clothes. And what was that awful smell—the old man in the seat in front of him?

  There were a few rough-looking characters on the bus. They had probably sized up John X, and at 5?6?, 160 lbs., he looked easy. They would think they could take whatever money and jewelry he had. If the thugs had known how much cash John was carrying, they would not have hesitated to jump him. But they would have been very sorry. The revolver under his jacket, and his skill of using it, would more than compensate for his lack of stature.

  The bus trip was unpleasant, but necessary. He would steal a car in Shreveport, drive it to Coreyville, and do the job. When the police connected that car with the murder, it would lead them to Shreveport—not to Arlington. Some poor sap would have his car stolen, and if he didn’t report it right away, would be investigated in connection with the murder. If the guy were lucky, he’d have some kind of alibi.