Six Murders Too Many (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 1)

by Dallas Gorham

  I entered that into my laptop. “How did your father meet Ramona?”

  “A mutual friend at the Wessington Club introduced them and they dated for a few months. Then boom! Dad had a heart attack. He was in his seventies, and it scared him. Hell, it scared us too. Dad decided he needed someone to look after him other than Lorraine and I. He’d dated Ramona casually before the heart attack, but she stayed with him constantly in the hospital while he recovered. I guess he figured she was loyal enough.”

  “Where did Ramona’s money come from?”

  “She told us she inherited it from her father. He had a lot of property in Spain,” Wallace said.

  “How well do you two get along with Ramona?”

  “Surprisingly well. I was Dad’s best man, and Lorraine was Ramona’s matron of honor.”

  “Ramona doesn’t have any other family?”

  Simonetti frowned. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but she doesn’t. Isn’t that weird that she didn’t have any family at her wedding?”

  Wallace left the window wall and stood behind Simonetti. She placed her hands on his shoulders. “Be that as it may, Ike and I are Gloria’s godparents, and Ramona even named us in her will as Gloria’s guardians.”

  “Is Ramona a U.S. citizen?”

  Simonetti twisted to look at his wife. “Lorraine, would you please sit down? I can’t see you back there.”

  She shrugged and took a chair. “I presume she’s a citizen. But she told us she was born in Spain.”

  “Where in Spain?”

  “A little town we’d never heard of. I don’t even remember the name. Do you, Ike?”

  Simonetti shook his head. “‘A little village,’ I think she called it. The village was on her father’s land, like he’d been a nobleman or something.”

  “How long were they married?”

  “A little over a year. I remember we celebrated their first anniversary in Dad’s hospital room.”

  “What did he die of?”

  “Cardiomyopathy,” Wallace answered.

  “And, in English?”

  A tolerant grin. “A heart attack.”

  “Any foul play suspected?”

  “None,” Simonetti said.

  Wallace frowned. “With the benefit of hindsight, Ike, I’m not so sure.”

  Simonetti made a stopping motion. “But when he died? No. Dad was seventy-five years old, for God’s sake. He’d felt poorly for months while Ramona cared for him at home. And the man had a long history of heart trouble.”

  “Let’s keep Ramona in the dark as long as we can,” I suggested. “She shouldn’t get defensive if she doesn’t know you suspect Gloria’s paternity. Lorraine, with your medical practice, can you take time off to visit Ramona and Gloria?”

  “I’m a dermatologist, so we don’t have many emergencies. I, or we, can visit Gloria anytime we want.”

  “Good. You two try for two or three times a week, just casually. Now, let me change the subject. Ike, you were in the oil business?”

  “Well, technically, petroleum exploration and production.”

  “Why move back to Port City?”

  “I was tired of the whole energy industry and Dad wanted me to take over his company here so he could retire.”

  “Your dad was in real estate development?”

  “Redevelopment—office buildings, shopping centers, golf course communities. We buy distressed properties and whip them into shape.”

  “Is that how you met Vicky and Don?”

  Simonetti nodded. “They were Dad’s attorneys, so they became mine. When Don cut back his hours, Vicky continued to handle my affairs.”

  “Lorraine, we’ll need a sample of Sam’s DNA from somewhere. Would his doctor have one?”

  She frowned. “He might. His name is Virgil Norris. Ask Tom for his number and address.”

  “Okay. We don’t have to prove who fathered Gloria, only that it wasn’t Sam. As I mentioned before, without your Dad’s certified DNA, we have to rely on Sam’s personal effects that may contain his DNA. Again, think of that as circumstantial, not conclusive, evidence. That might not be legally sufficient and, if not, we’ll have to positively prove who did father Gloria. That’s a big haystack to find a needle in.”

  Simonetti grinned. “That’s why you’ll have to earn that bonus we talked about.”

  “Agreed to, actually. How about a photo of your father?”

  Simonetti canted his head. “I can get you one from the Forbes spread, but why? What’s Dad’s picture got to do with Gloria’s paternity?”

  “Maybe nothing; I don’t know at this point. I ask questions; that’s my job. I want pictures of your father, of you, and of your half-sisters, their birth certificates and yours, your father’s marriage licenses for all four weddings and both divorce decrees. I want death certificates for Willamina, Allison, and her daughters, and a lot more I’ll think of later.”

  “Are you sure you’re not doing this just to pad your fee?”

  I thought back to Vicky the night before. “I’d be a fool not to.”

  “Okay, now I know you’re kidding.”

  “Ike, I’m serious when I say I never know what’s important until I find it.”

  He shrugged. “At least your fee’s tax deductible.”

  Like I said, everybody wants to screw the IRS. I looked at them both. “Should be all for now.”

  Chapter 7

  Wallace had suggested I start with the tennis pro. That was as good a place as any. Reynaldo Mateo was the head professional at the Wessington Club, 250 bucks per fifty-minute lesson. Wallace claimed he spent his free time shtupping female students.

  It must be nice to be Reynaldo.

  I called my research guy, a techno-geek with the handle Flamer21. He didn’t fit any gay stereotype I knew, but that was irrelevant. I’d never asked why he picked the handle. “This is Chuck McCrary. I need your magic background check on one Reynaldo Lopez Mateo, a tennis pro at Wessington Country Club.”

  “Spell it.”

  “Sure. W-E-S-S-I—“

  ”Always with the jokes. Can you spell ‘asshole?’ No, I meant the guy’s name.”

  I spelled it.

  “How deep you want to go, Chuck? Quick and dirty, or you want his nanny’s name when he was a baby?”

  “Quick and dirty. I’ll tell you later if I want deeper.”

  “When you need it? Yesterday like usual?”

  “Of course. Stream it to my email as you get it.” I could check it on my phone or tablet from my car.

  Data started to flow as I drove to the club in my Avanti. I parked a block from the entrance and reviewed the info on my tablet, including a criminal record and Mateo’s picture from the Wessington website. He looked like a Latin movie star—straight white teeth, wavy black hair, dark tan.

  Mateo was thirty-six years old and had a sealed juvenile record from nineteen years before. His adult rap sheet had two arrests for domestic violence against women who wound up in the hospital. One had two cracked ribs. She claimed she fell off a ladder changing a light bulb. Six months later another woman claimed she fell down a flight of stairs, but the broken humerus with a spiral fracture meant someone had twisted her arm.

  I knew about spiral fractures from a case I had taken a few months before. The client’s ex-husband repeatedly ignored a restraining order. To get him to stay away from her, I had to negotiate with a head butt and a kick to his balls. The negotiation was successful. Abusers make my blood boil.

  Both of Mateo’s police reports said that he had cuts and bruises on the knuckles of both hands. At least the women had fought back. Each time the complainants failed to press charges.

  Mateo looked like a movie star, but he was an abuser.

  Maybe it wasn’t so nice to be Reynaldo, after all.

  ###

  I faked my way into the Wessington Country Club by pretending to be interested in joining. Throwing Ike Simonetti’s name around got me past the gate keepers and ont
o the tennis courts.

  Mateo was lobbing balls to a blonde Barbie practicing her overhead smash. The thirty-something woman wore her too-blonde hair in a long ponytail. Her Wessington-logo white top was soaked in sweat and clung like she was in a wet tee-shirt contest. Unfortunately, she wore a bra. But that was okay; I have a vivid imagination.

  I watched Mateo from the stands until he and the Barbie finished. He approached the net and kissed her hand with gallant flair. She laughed. Mateo released her hand as he said, “Until later, then.” He blew a kiss and, despite the long workout, the Barbie headed into the women’s locker room with a decided spring in her step.

  “Hi, I’m a friend of Ramona Simonetti’s,” I said as I walked out onto the clay. “Chuck Andrews.” We shook hands. “I believe she takes lessons here?”

  Mateo paused a second too long before he answered. “Yes, but not for some months. She used to take the lessons three times a week. But she got pregnant and had to quit. Doctor’s orders.” His smile now looked a little forced. Was there something there?

  “Did she take lessons from you or one of the other pros?”

  He leaned back and studied my face for a few seconds. “From me. I’m the head pro.” His unspoken message: I’m the best. I would’ve expected him to smile when he bragged about being the head pro, but he didn’t. He just stared at me.

  “How long did you teach her?”

  He took a step back and put his hands on his hips. Not easy to do with a water bottle in one hand, but he managed. “Why do you ask? What difference does it make?”

  “I played a little in college years ago. I want some lessons too.”

  “That’s good, but why all the questions about Mrs. Simonetti?”

  “No particular reason, just making conversation. Is she a good player?”

  His eyes narrowed. “If you know her, you should know the answer to that.”

  “Actually, I was more of a friend of her late husband, Sam. I haven’t played with Ramona yet. She any good?”

  He waggled his hand back and forth in a “so-so” gesture. “She’s better than when she started. But if you were on a college team, you’d beat her blindfolded.”

  “That’s a relief. I’d hate to let a pretty girl beat me at tennis.”

  Back on familiar turf, his smile broadened again. “We have at least two professionals always on duty seven days a week. When would you like?”

  “I’ll check my calendar. When are you here?”

  He told me. “Call the pro shop; they handle all the schedules. Tell them you want Rey for the lessons.”

  We shook hands again. He grabbed his racquet and walked like a loping panther toward the locker room. Still moved like the professional athlete he must have been. Hell, if I were a woman, I might fall for him too.

  Ignoring the recycle bin, he tossed his water bottle near the trash can. It bounced on the clay, but he ignored it. I really hated him now. I retrieved the empty bottle with a handkerchief, stuck it in my pocket, and left.

  Mission accomplished—I had Mateo’s DNA. And fingerprints from his left hand if I ever needed them.

  Chapter 8

  I drove straight to the lab I use and left the water bottle for DNA analysis. I told them to get the fingerprints too, but just to keep them on file. You never know what you’ll need until you need it.

  I changed vehicles and returned to the Wessington Club in my white minivan. I call it my invisible minivan because white vans are as common as waves on the ocean. They attract as much notice as an extra bucket of water over Niagara Falls; that’s why I drive one.

  After watching Mateo with the Barbie, I figured he’d leave early for a booty call.

  I called a friend at the DMV. She got me the description of Mateo’s car and its license number, TNNS PRO—what else? It also helped that Mateo drove a red Mustang. I cruised the employee lot and found his car. I parked across the street. While I waited, I changed shirts and reviewed the rest of my info on him.

  ###

  In less than an hour, Mateo wheeled out of the lot. I let two cars get between his Mustang and me.

  It’s easy to follow someone who doesn’t suspect. My DMV lady friend had also told me where Mateo lived, but I didn’t expect him to go there—not with the Barbie waiting for him. Sure enough, he passed the turn to his apartment and continued toward the fancy suburbs.

  When you follow someone on a busy street, the traffic hides you. But it’s tougher in a residential neighborhood. By the time Mateo turned into the last residential street, the other traffic had dropped off. I was only a hundred yards behind him for the last three blocks. That would be too much coincidence, so when he turned into a cul-de-sac, I went straight. I parked at the curb, grabbed a clipboard, and quick-stepped back to the intersection just in time to see his Mustang disappear into a driveway a block down the street. It was too far away for me to be sure which driveway.

  I waited two minutes. Then I walked up the street with my clipboard. You can get away with anything if you carry a clipboard. People assume you have the right to be there. Otherwise, why would you be carrying a clipboard?

  I worked my way up the street to the area where the Mustang had disappeared. At first I didn’t see Mateo’s car. I was getting frustrated until I saw the last two feet of a red Mustang sticking out from behind one of the houses. Bingo. I couldn’t see the license plate, but what were the odds? I photographed the house and address number and walked back to my minivan.

  I turned the van around to watch the intersection and waited for Mateo’s Mustang to reappear.

  I passed the time with a medley of oldies on my iPod while I reviewed the info Flamer had sent me. Twilight fell, and I’d worked my way down to Marty Robbins’ “El Paso” by the time Mateo’s Mustang appeared under the streetlight.

  I paused Marty. I knew he wouldn’t mind; he died before I was born. I concentrated on following the Mustang. Darkness is a mixed blessing when you follow someone. It’s easier because all they see in the mirror are headlights. It’s harder because you can’t see car color from a distance, and oncoming traffic blinds you.

  I lost him, but I figured he was on his way home. I had input his home address to my GPS while I waited. I caught up with him as he turned into his apartment complex.

  Mateo’s third floor apartment was on the end, separated from the next apartment by an exterior hallway. Any noise wouldn’t be heard next door. I wasn’t sure about the people downstairs; if it came to rough stuff, I would take my chances.

  I glanced both ways down the walkway; I was alone. I knocked three times. The faint light through the peephole darkened as someone looked through it. “Who is it?”

  “Adolph Throttleback,” I mumbled.

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “The atomic number of gold is seventy-nine,” I said, but louder.

  I heard him unfasten the door chain. As soon as the door cracked, I beamed and stuck out my hand. “Hey, Rey. Chuck Andrews. I had some more questions about the tennis program at the club.”

  When someone smiles at you and extends a hand, you naturally shake hands. It’s a conditioned reflex that I counted on. Mateo shook my hand as I stepped into the room. He looked puzzled. I closed the door behind me. “I have a few questions for you.”

  His face lit up when he recognized me. “You’re the guy from the tennis courts this afternoon.” He smiled for real.

  Foolish man.

  I decided not to speak Spanish. The less he knew about me the better.

  “Let’s sit down.” I sat on his living room couch before he could react.

  “How did you find my address? I’m not listed.”

  “I followed you from the club.”

  “You what?”

  “I followed you from the club.”

  Mateo looked at his watch. “I left there over two hours ago.”

  “I know. Lots of stamina, old boy.”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Don’t ask;
I’d lie.”

  “You mean you were not interested to join the club?”

  “Nope.”

  “You lied to me?” Mateo may have been handsome, but he was not the brightest bulb on the porch.

  “If it’s any consolation, I feel bad about it. Now, I know you’re shtupping that blonde I saw you with this afternoon. Are you still shtupping Ramona Simonetti too?”

  He pointed at the door. “I don’t have to talk to you; get the hell out!”

  “Rey, I don’t go anywhere until I get answers. Are you still boinking Ramona Simonetti?”

  “Get out, or I call the police.” He picked up the phone.

  “Yeah, Rey, why don’t you call the police? Tell them you let me in here. Tell them I asked about your affair with a married woman, a member of the club that employs you. I’m sure the Wessington Club would love to hear about that. Go ahead and call; I’ll wait.”

  He stood holding the phone and swayed back and forth. “Screw you.” He slammed the phone down. He charged and swung at my head—an easy target since I was sitting on his couch.

  I leaned sideways and shot a left jab to his balls that knocked him on his butt. He groaned and rolled onto his side, holding his crotch.

  He glared up at me. “That was a sucker punch.”

  “I guess that makes you the sucker.”

  He struggled to his feet and came at me again. I jabbed him in the ribs. He fell down again. “Stay down, Rey. I can do that more times than you can.”

  He got up slower but staggered toward me.

  This time I stood up. “What are you, a slow learner?” I punched him in the ribs on his other side, the better to distribute the bruises artistically. “How many times do we do this dance, Rey? I just want to talk.”

  He started to get up again, thought better of it, and sat back on the floor. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Tell me about your relationship with Ramona Simonetti. Rey, I don’t need to embarrass you at the club. But don’t even think about lying to me, because I know all about you. I don’t care who you ride off into the sunset with–the blonde from this afternoon or anybody else. I just want to know about Ramona Simonetti.”