by Bill Crider
I ran about three miles with only an occasional twinge from my bad knee, and by the time I got back to the house I was feeling much better. The run had loosened me up and relaxed my muscles. A hot shower relaxed me even further, and after I dried off I sat down to think things over.
I'd put in a hard day on Sunday, but I wasn't sure I had much to show for it. About the only conclusion I'd come to was that nearly everyone was still lying to me. Maybe not Dino, but I thought his daughter was. And I was absolutely certain that Patrick Mullen and Chad Peavy were. Everyone was covering up something, and I wondered if all of them had played some role or another in the death of Kelly Davis. I hoped not, especially in Sharon's case, but I didn't know what else to think. It was depressing.
Even more depressing was the fact that I knew no more about what had happened to Randall Kirbo than I'd known when I started out.
What I did know was that Big Al was involved in both cases. Or maybe I didn't even know that. Maybe only Henry J. was involved. Dino's idea about Henry J.'s over-reaction made sense when I thought about it. Dino had over-reacted the same way when he wanted to put an end to a conversation. That could explain some of Henry J.'s behavior, I thought, but not all of it.
I was also sure that in all the lying, someone had told me the truth about something important, something that should have meant something to me, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out what it was.
I didn't know what to do next, so I looked through the notes I'd made in the police station. I'd taken down the address and phone number of Kelly Davis' parents. I didn't feel like making the long drive to San Antonio to interview them in person, but I could call.
The mother answered the phone. Kelly's father was at work, she said, but after I explained who I was and what I was working on and told her that I'd spoken to Bob Lattner about things, she said that she'd be glad to talk to me if I thought I could do anything about Kelly's death.
"Someone killed her," she said. "And I want that person punished. I want that person to suffer a little of the hell I've gone through for the last nine months."
"I don't know that I can do anything about that," I said. "I've really been hired only to find out what happened to Randall Kirbo."
"I can understand why his parents are concerned," she said. "Bob thinks he's dead, too."
I assumed that would be Uncle Bob, the cop.
"Did he say why?" I asked.
"He says that whoever killed Kelly probably killed the Kirbo boy, too. He says they put them both in the Gulf, and that Kelly just happened to be the one who was found."
Old Uncle Bob hadn't shared that thought with me. I wondered why, aside from the fact that he didn't seem to like me very much at all, a fact I had neglected to mention to Mrs. Davis.
"Bob really loved Kelly," she went on. "She was his favorite niece. He loves Kate and Karen, too, of course, but Kelly was always the one he doted on."
Good old Bob hadn't mentioned that, either. I'd been worried from the beginning about the possibility of his emotional involvement in the case, and Mrs. Davis had done absolutely nothing to relieve my misgivings.
"Kate and Karen were Kelly's sisters?" I said.
"Yes. They're still in high school, and I'll never let them go on spring break when they get to college. You can count on that."
I didn't blame her. I said, "Did Kelly call you while she was here in Galveston?"
"Yes. She called twice to tell us that she was all right and to tell us what a good time she was having."
Mrs. Davis had to pause for a second while she tried to stop remembering, something that's not always easy. Sometimes it's just downright impossible.
"I don't know what happened that night," she went on after a while. "All I know is what Bob told us. She went to a party, and she met some boys there. He talked to some of them, but they didn't tell him anything. Or so he said."
"Why do you put it that way?" I asked.
I could hear her breathing while she thought about it.
"He just seemed vague when I talked to him," she said finally. "It was as if he really did know something, but he didn't want to tell me."
I filed that away under "Other Stuff I'd Like to Discuss with Uncle Bob."
"Did he tell you any of the boys' names?" I asked. "Had Kelly known any of them before?"
"One of them was named Chad," she said. "I don't remember his last name, and I don't think Kelly knew him."
"That's OK. I've met him."
"What kind of boy is he?"
"I'm not sure," I said.
"Sometimes I think I'd like to talk to them, just to ask them what she was like that night. You know. Was she having a good time? Was she behaving herself? She was a good girl, Mr. Smith. She really was. She would never have done anything to cause someone to kill her."
There was nothing I could say to that, nothing comforting at any rate. The truth was that you could never be sure what someone might do, even someone you thought you knew very well indeed. I'd had some experience along those lines. More than I'd ever wanted to have, as a matter of fact.
"You can see the problem, can't you?" Mrs. Davis said.
I could see it all right. A bunch of all-American kids at an all-American party, just having a good time without any intent to harm anyone at all. But it hadn't been that way. It couldn't have been that way. If it had, Kelly Davis would still be alive, and I wouldn't be having this conversation.
"Did Kelly drink?" I asked.
"She did at that party," Mrs. Davis said. "There was alcohol in her blood. But not much, not even enough to make her legally drunk, much less to impair her judgment. That's why I have so much trouble with the whole thing, Mr. Smith. It just doesn't make sense."
We talked a while longer, and after I hung up the phone I thought over every conversation I'd had since meeting the Kirbos. As far as I could tell, everyone involved in the whole mess was a wonderful person, highly moral, a good student, and a model son or daughter who would never even have thought of doing anything wrong.
With the notable exceptions, of course, of Big Al and Henry J. No one would mistake them for prototypes of rectitude.
Which didn't mean they'd killed Kelly Davis. They seemed to be lacking one essential requirement.
They didn't have a motive.
I had to agree with Mrs. Davis about one thing for sure. It just didn't make sense.
23
When you don't know where else to turn, go to the cops; that's my motto. It really isn't, of course, but I like thinking of it that way since the very idea drives Dino crazy.
I called Gerald Barnes, who said he'd be glad to talk to me. Well, maybe glad wasn't exactly the word he used, but he did say that he didn't mind if I came by, as long as I had something to tell him that might be important. After all, he was a very busy man.
He didn't look especially busy when I saw him sitting at his desk. He just seemed to be pushing some papers around, but I didn't think I'd try staying any longer than the time he'd mentioned. I didn't want to impose on his good nature any more than necessary.
"So what's new, Smith?" he asked when he looked up and saw me.
"Nothing," I said. "That's the problem."
"Things not going quite the way you thought?"
I sat in the chair by his desk. "Nope. I thought maybe you could help me out a little."
He looked genuinely puzzled. "How could I do that?"
"I want to know about Bob Lattner," I said.
As usual, Barnes looked around to see who was listening. Maybe he was paranoid. Or maybe all cops are. At any rate, no one seemed to have the least interest in us. Everyone had a report to fill out or someone to question, or a coffee cup to fill.
"What do you want to know?" he asked.
"I want to know how he happened to get assigned to a case that he was personally involved in. I didn't think that was allowed, as a general rule."
"I don't know about any rules like that. Not any written rules, anyway. Besides, whe
n he got assigned to the Kirbo disappearance, there was no involvement. Officially, there's still not."
"Did he put in a lot of hours?"
"I wouldn't know about that."
"Yes, you would."
He didn't take the bait. He said, "Why do you want to know?"
"It's just an idea that I'm working on."
"But you're not going to share it with me, are you?"
I smiled ingratiatingly. "Maybe later."
"Sure. I know what that means. It means never."
"I've helped you out before, haven't I?"
"Some," he admitted.
"Then you can help me out a little this time."
"All right. He worked darn hard on the Kirbo thing. He put in a lot of hours for a while. What are you onto, Smith?"
"Probably nothing," I said, and it was the truth. "Nothing seems right about the whole thing, and I'm only trying to make some sense of it."
It was an evasive answer, and he saw right through it. He let it slide, however.
"Something's worrying you, though. Am I right?"
"You're right. I can't even figure out how Big Al and Henry J. figure in."
"Maybe they don't. Big Al is involved in plenty of things, all of them bad, but that doesn't mean she had anything to do with this."
"The party was at one of her houses."
"She rents out houses all the time. Half the restaurants in town have her ads stuck up on bulletin boards."
"Henry J.'s been following me."
"So? If you've been sticking your nose in Big Al's business, Henry J.'s going to try to stop you. You should know that." He smiled and pushed up his glasses. "And speaking of noses, I understand that Henry J. has some new nose problems. And that someone started a fight with him and Big Al last night at the Hurricane Club."
"You've been talking to your C.I.'s," I said.
"More crimes have been solved by using confidential informants than by computers, fingerprint experts, forensic pathologists — you name it. Don't knock C.I.'s."
"I wasn't knocking them. I was paying you a compliment."
"I know. And I think you're on the right track with Big Al. She likes to keep a low profile, and getting into a brawl at her own club isn't a good way to do that. Half the people who were in there last night have called here today to tell someone about it."
"I don't think it was her idea. You wouldn't know whether Henry J.'s been branching out on his own, would you?"
Barnes looked at the ceiling, then down at the top of his desk. There was nothing very interesting there that I could see.
"That's an interesting question," he said. "What made you ask it?"
"I was just curious."
"There you go, being a wiseass at the wrong time again. You should try telling the truth from time to time, Smith. You might find out more that way."
I didn't think so, but I didn't want to get into a philosophical argument with him.
"I'm sorry. It's just a bad habit I've picked up from Dino."
He gave me a look and said, "I'll let that one pass. But you might be onto something. I don't know what, though."
"Then why do you think I'm onto something?"
"Just rumors. And pretty vague ones at that. Do you know what the relationship between Big Al and Henry J. is?"
"I don't think anyone knows that for sure. He's obviously some kind of bodyguard, but I don't know if there's more to it than that."
Barnes looked around the room again. There was still no more interest in us than if we were a couple of chairs.
"Let's go outside," Barnes said. "I don't really like to talk in here."
The weather hadn't improved a bit. If anything, it was getting worse. There was a light mist that clung to my face and my sweatshirt and settled in my hair.
"We can sit in your truck," Barnes said.
I was glad that the tourists had cleared off The Island for the most part and there had been plenty of places on the street. It would have been embarrassing if I'd been parked in someone's private spot.
When we were both in the truck and had closed the doors, I lowered my window about an inch so that the windows wouldn't fog up while we talked.
"What's the big secret?" I asked.
"Nothing, really," Barnes said. "But Big Al has ears everywhere, and I don't want her hearing about this."
"About what?"
"About the fact that I've found out some things that even she might not know."
"I thought she had ears everywhere."
"She does, but I might be one step ahead of her this time. You probably know that she's into a little bit of everything crooked on The Island."
"No!" I said. "You're kidding. I'm shocked."
"Knock it off, will you?"
I knocked it off. I said, "Whatever she's doing now, she's been doing for twenty years, but no one's stopped her."
"I didn't say I was going to stop her. I don't remember saying that I was going to stop anyone."
"All right. I'm getting ahead of you. Why don't you just tell me what the deal is."
He leaned against the passenger door. "The deal is that Henry J. is branching out. He's been doing a little business of his own, and he's not as smart as Big Al. He's been careless."
"What kind of business?" I asked.
"The drug business. Big Al controls plenty of that action herself, of course, but we think Henry J.'s been cutting himself in lately. He's always been the middleman, but now he's the end of the line."
"And Big Al doesn't know?"
"I don't think so. It's just nickel and dime stuff. Walking around money."
"Which brings us back to my original question. What's the relationship between Big Al and Henry J.?"
"Nobody knows about that for sure, but whatever it is, there's been a little breakdown in the last few months. And that's what I'm going to use to get them both. I hope."
"Where does that leave me?" I asked.
"It leaves you where you'd better not screw things up for me. That's where it leaves you."
I didn't want to screw things up, but I was already wondering what this little bit of information meant to me and how I could use it. It certainly seemed to back up the suspicions I was beginning to develop about Henry J.
"There's one person here in town who might be able to tell you a little more about those two," Barnes said.
"What two?"
"Who do you think? The two we've been talking about. Big Al and Henry J."
"Right. And who's this person who can tell me about them?"
Barnes smiled and said, "It's someone you know pretty well."
"Dino," I said, thinking that my old friend had suckered me again.
But Barnes fooled me. He said, "No, it's not Dino. It's a woman."
I was already tired of guessing, so I said, "Look, just go ahead and tell me."
"Sure," Barnes said. "It's Cathy Macklin."
24
Moisture had condensed on the inside of the truck windows in spite of my having left an air space. Barnes was just a gray blur as he walked back across the shiny black parking lot to the police station.
I opened the glove compartment and found a little packet of tissues, got one out, and rubbed the windshield until I could see through it more clearly. I couldn't just sit there all day, so I started the truck and drove up to the seawall, where I turned right and headed west. Before I'd gone very far, the heater had cleared the windows completely, and I devoted my time to thinking about Cathy Macklin.
Cathy was Braddy Macklin's daughter, and Braddy had been a bodyguard for Dino's uncles back in the good old days, or the not-so-good old days, depending on your point of view. He'd been tough and mean and ruthless and perfect for the job, but he'd gotten old and slowed down some, and someone had killed him. It was because of his murder that I'd met Cathy.
It stood to reason that she would know Big Al. Her father had known just about everyone involved in the shady side of Galveston life, and some of them had been his goo
d friends. Whether I wanted to talk to Cathy about one of those friends was the question I had to answer.
I drove west along Seawall Boulevard, which was practically deserted. The tourists had gone home, and no one else wanted to get outside on such a gloomy day. The S-10's headlights seemed to be absorbed into the wet black street. The dark water of the Gulf slapped into the pilings of the Island Retreat and rolled up on the beach.
Cathy had inherited a motel from her father. It was about the only thing of value he'd left to her, but she did a good business most of the time, especially considering that the location wasn't one of the best on The Island. It was down on the west end, just past the area that had once been an Army post named Fort Crockett. If you looked closely when you drove past, you could still identify some of the old Army buildings, but most people had forgotten the post was ever there.
Cathy's motel, the Seawall Courts, was designed to look like a tourist court out of the 1940s. It was composed of individual stucco units on tall legs, and all the units stood in a low area behind the seawall. I supposed that the people who stayed there got a cheap thrill from the idea that in case of a flood they would be stranded in their rooms until the water went down, but it didn't have much of an appeal to me.
I stopped the truck beside the stairs leading up to the manager's unit, where Cathy lived. I hadn't called her in weeks, and I didn't know what to say to her. I sat in the truck for a minute, trying to think of something, and while I was waiting, the clouds opened up. The mist turned to a downpour that drummed on the Chevy's metal roof, and I could hardly see past end of the hood. Just what I needed, I thought. A flood.
I don't carry an umbrella in the truck. I never use one. It just isn't worth the trouble. Sure, an umbrella works pretty well when you're getting out of a vehicle if the wind doesn't turn it inside out within ten seconds, but when you're getting back in and trying to fold the umbrella down at the same time, you usually get as wet as you would have if you hadn't had any cover at all.
I got out of the truck and dashed up the stairs. The rain plastered my hair to my head and soaked through my sweatshirt before I reached the top, where there was a covered landing. I stood there feeling like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on me and rang the bell.