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

by Dallas Gorham

  “Did you leave any girls at the altar in Texas?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any jealous husbands from your misspent youth?”

  “None I’m aware of.”

  “You got any enemies in Houston?”

  “At least one.”

  “So who wants you dead?”

  “It could be someone from back when I was a cop.”

  “Yeah, but that was in Port City, not Houston. They hired talent from Houston for a reason.”

  Chapter 36

  I called Tom Collins to set up another conference with Simonetti for the next afternoon.

  As I hung up with Collins, I had an Oh shit! thought. I called Snoop. “Have you conned anybody into buying you lunch today?”

  ###

  Snoop suggested the Fat Tummy, a locally famous greasy spoon restaurant. The food columnist for the Port City Press-Journal rated it three heart attacks.

  I spotted him sitting at a table studying a menu. I pulled out a chair as a server approached. “Welcome to Fat Tummy. What would you like to drink?” Snoop had a beer, half-gone.

  “Unsweetened ice tea.”

  Snoop said, “I recommend the Heart-Stopper Special hamburger. It has two meat patties, cheese, bacon, and guacamole. Barbeque sauce is optional.”

  “Snoop, don’t you ever eat healthy?”

  “Do corn flakes count?”

  I scoured the menu for something, anything, that wouldn’t elevate cholesterol. I gave up.

  “Felix told me that Ramona buried three husbands in Mexico. All rich. All with large insurance policies. He called her a black widow.”

  The server arrived with my tea. “What can I get you to eat?”

  Snoop pointed to a picture on the menu. “I’ll have the Heart-Stopper, all the way, with onions and barbecue sauce. And another beer.”

  I read her name tag. “Cora, do you have anything that won’t clog arteries?”

  “Try the Sweep-the-Floor Vegetarian Pizza on whole wheat crust.”

  “Sweep the floor?”

  “It’s got all the vegetable items for toppings: jalapeños, mushrooms, green peppers, onions, pineapple, tomatoes, and three kinds of cheese. It’s real good.”

  “Okay, sounds acceptable. I’ll have the medium.”

  I filled Snoop in.

  “I have two new mysteries. First, assume Ramona murdered Sam in the hospital. How did she do it? Second, who ordered the hit on me? I guess that makes three mysteries. Because if it was Ramona who ordered the hit, how did she know my real identity or that I was investigating her?”

  “Okay,” Snoop said. “Let’s take them one at a time. Maybe Ramona didn’t off the old man. Maybe he just died. Old men with heart conditions do die of natural causes. And if she murdered him, wouldn’t she have had his body cremated like she did the other three? But she didn’t do that. Did you think of that?”

  “Of course, but we always suspect the spouse first. And his death was convenient for her.”

  “Chuck, his death was convenient for Ike too.”

  “I have doubts about Sam’s cause of death. But after I hung up with Felix, I had an oh shit thought. I think we have to ask Ike to get an autopsy.”

  Snoop frowned. “What’s this ‘we’ have to ask? This is your baby. And you know what that means.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yeah, they’ll have to exhume the body.”

  “That’s even less fun than a funeral. I had two exhumation cases when I was on the job. Neither family liked the idea. I don’t envy you that conversation with the client.”

  “At my first meeting with Simonetti, I mentioned that we could get Sam’s DNA with an exhumation. It didn’t go over well. But if I tell Lieutenant Weiner about Ramona’s history, she’ll investigate the cause of death. She could be the bad guy and request the autopsy.”

  “Oh, Mother will love that.”

  “What are friends for if they can’t use and abuse each other once in a while?”

  “How do you intend to approach Mother on this?”

  “I’ll discuss the dead Mexican husbands with the client first. I’ll get his permission to approach the LT. Then the request for the investigation comes from Ike Simonetti, the big taxpayer, instead of Chuck McCrary, the annoying PI.”

  Snoop smirked. “If I looked up ‘devious’ in the dictionary, there would be your picture. I’ll bet you won’t tell your client that a homicide investigation will involve an exhumation and autopsy, will you?”

  “I’m young, Snoop, but I’m not stupid. One thing at a time.”

  “Okay. Next mystery, who wants you dead? Maybe the hit has nothing to do with the paternity case. You got somebody besides me annoyed with you? You give that any thought?”

  “I come up blank. The guys were from the Houston mob. That’s all I know.”

  Snoop frowned. “Well, somebody in Houston wants you dead.”

  “And if it’s Ramona, what’s her connection with Houston, and how did she know who I was?”

  “You’re the hot-shot detective. You’ll figure it out.”

  Chapter 37

  When I arrived at Simonetti’s office the next afternoon, Wallace was there. Again. Hmm.

  “I have some developments to report. Ramona first. Her name is Ramona Elena Gomez—not Gamez. She changed it when she came from Mexico.”

  Simonetti looked puzzled. “She told us she was from Spain.”

  “She lied on her marriage license application. She was born in Leon, Mexico. She is thirty-five-years old and was married three times before—in Leon, Veracruz, and Ensenada. All three husbands died under suspicious circumstances and she had each one cremated. Her father, Ramon Gomez, may have been involved in each death.”

  “He’s the electrician?”

  “Yeah. He was a bar brawler in Mexico. Two of her husbands died in muggings while Ramon lived in the same cities. The third husband had a convenient heart attack. Each time she inherited substantial assets. My contact with the Mexican Federal Police calls her a black widow.”

  Simonetti asked, “Why didn’t the Mexican police arrest her years ago?”

  “The Mexican police didn’t even know about her until I contacted them. Her father has a criminal record, but Ramona doesn’t. When the Mexicans traced the father for me, they discovered her true identity. Then my Mexican operative discovered the three marriages and three dead husbands.”

  “Why didn’t the Mexicans know about this before? Three dead husbands—that’s got to be more than a coincidence.”

  “The marriages and deaths were in different states. It was like committing crimes in Omaha, Atlanta, and San Francisco. The cops wouldn’t tumble to the crimes here. It’s no surprise the Mexicans didn’t.”

  Simonetti looked stunned; Wallace, not so much. She almost smiled at the news. “I thought Pop’s wife was just an adulterous gold digger. Now you say she’s a murderer too?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  Simonetti said, “We figured Dad’s prenup would prevent any financial rip-offs when he died. I didn’t think it could be something this bad. Did she murder Dad?”

  “I wouldn’t bet against it.”

  “Do we need to go to the police?” Wallace asked.

  Simonetti jumped in. “I don’t want any bad publicity if it’s a false alarm. Chuck can prove that she changed her name and outlived three husbands, but the Mexican police don’t have any evidence to charge her with the deaths of her other husbands or they would’ve arrested her years ago in Mexico. Right?”

  “Not exactly. Now that they know about the three dead husbands, my contact at the Mexican Federal Police has opened three murder investigations.”

  “Anyway, there’s no proof Pop was murdered. His death could be a coincidence,” Wallace said. “Remember he died under a doctor’s care and in a hospital.

  “That’s right,” Simonetti agreed. “Ramona didn’t cremate Dad. Even if she intended to kill him, he must have died naturally before she could. I’d
like to keep this crap out of the media. They’d love to smear the family name.”

  I nodded. “Ike, let’s tell Vicky about this and ask her if we have enough evidence for a judge to require a DNA test. I took Sam’s personal effects to the lab just two days ago. We won’t have DNA test results for a few days.”

  “Call Vicky.”

  Wallace asked, “Shouldn’t we wait for the DNA results?”

  Simonetti frowned. “Lorraine, we don’t have a choice.” He turned to me. “Call Vicky now.”

  I called Vicky’s secretary. “Carmen, this is Chuck McCrary. Ike Simonetti and I need to see Vicky ASAP.”

  I put the phone on speaker. “She’s in court today and tomorrow, Chuck. How about ten o’clock Monday morning?”

  I turned to Simonetti. “That work for you?”

  Simonetti glanced at his computer monitor. “Okay, Carmen. Chuck and I will meet Vicky then.”

  I put the phone back in my pocket as Simonetti turned to me. “You mentioned you had other developments?”

  “The Port City cops found fingerprints in the apartment of the guy I shot. They’ve identified two gangsters from Houston. They’re looking for them now.”

  “Houston? As in Texas?”

  I nodded. “Both shooters are in the Santorini mob family.”

  “Why would anyone in Houston want you dead?” Simonetti asked.

  “Don’t know. Just thought I’d tell you. It may not even be connected to this case.”

  Wallace leaned forward in her chair. “Be careful, Chuck. We don’t want to lose you.”

  Chapter 38

  “CSI has found fingerprint. Call my mobile. Saunders.” Ted Saunders had sent the email late the previous day.

  I looked up his number in my phone’s address book. “Hey, Ted, what did they find?”

  “Something weird. Our CSIs found one print from a left middle finger of a guy in the FBI data base. That print belongs to a convicted arsonist named Howard Hopper.”

  “What’s weird about that?”

  “The guy lives in Houston.”

  That made no sense. Hiring someone from Cleveland, yes. From Port City, yes. Even from Mexico, yes. But Houston? “Houston, as in Texas?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Has this guy moved to Cleveland?”

  “We got no record for him in Cleveland. The notes here say that the Houston cops told our cops that Hopper is on parole, and he checks in with his parole officer every week. At least his parole officer hasn’t put out an arrest warrant for him. He must still be there.”

  “You got his address?”

  “Not in the notes. Our cops will send a detective down there in a couple of days.”

  “Okay. What about his PO’s name?”

  “Nah. But I got the name of the Houston cop our guys talked to. You want that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sergeant Humberto Gonzales.” Saunders gave me Gonzales’s phone number.

  “Ted, I appreciate this. Thank Captain Crawford for me.”

  “I hope this helps. We’ve done our part. It’s in the police department’s hands now.”

  “I’ll follow it up and let you know if I find anything.”

  Houston. Could be coincidence. And it could be coincidence that streets get wet when it rains. I don’t believe in coincidences.

  I pulled out the class directory from my tenth anniversary Theodore Roosevelt High School reunion. One classmate had worked for the Houston PD. I called the number.

  “Officer Simpson, may I help you?”

  “Bettina, this is Chuck McCrary. We graduated from Roosevelt High together.”

  “I remember you, Chuck. We slow danced at the reunion last year. You’re a detective at the Port City PD. How are you?”

  “Just fine, Bettina. I’m flattered that you remember me.”

  “Are you in town? I’d love to see you again.”

  “I’m in Port City. But I left the job a few months ago and hung out a shingle as a PI.”

  “Gumshoe McCrary. You told me you intended to do that. How’s business?”

  “Pretty good. I have a case that points to Houston, so I may come there.”

  “When?”

  “I need to make a few calls to see if the lead pans out. That’s where you come in.”

  “How so?”

  “Do you know a Houston cop named Sergeant Humberto Gonzales?”

  “We have over 5,000 cops in the department. I don’t even know all the cops at my substation, and I’ve been there six years.”

  I was disappointed, but not surprised. “It was a long shot, but it’s good talking to you anyway.” I started to hang up.

  “Not so fast, Chuck. Were you planning to see me when you come to Houston?”

  “Would you like me to?”

  “Well, duh. Let’s have dinner while you’re here. I’ll cook for you.”

  “Dinner sounds good. But I don’t know when, or even if, I am coming yet. Full disclosure—I have a girlfriend here in Port City. It’s early days yet, but we’ve been seeing a lot of each other and you deserve to know that. Do you still want to cook for me? I could just take you to a restaurant.”

  “Chuck, I don’t expect to marry you, just maybe do another slow dance. Sure, I’ll cook. And I might just take unfair advantage of you and then discard you like a used Kleenex.”

  “You always were a sweet talker. I’ll call you when I know one way or the other.”

  ###

  I called Gonzales on the number Saunders had given me. “Sergeant Gonzales.”

  “Sergeant, my name is Chuck McCrary. I’m a PI from Port City. I got your number from a contact at the Cleveland Fire Department in connection with an arson case I’m working that could involve Howard Hopper.”

  “Yeah. A CSI in Cleveland called yesterday about Howie the Hophead.”

  “Is that what you call him?”

  “Yeah. Nobody called him Howard. He was hopped up on drugs most of the time. I put him away eleven years ago. He was paroled three years ago. What was your name again?”

  “Carlos McCrary; my friends call me Chuck.”

  “Carlos? Odd name for a guy named McCrary.”

  “I’m half Mexican.”

  “Small world; so am I. Mother was an Oklahoma Sooner volleyball player and Daddy was a Texas Longhorn running back.”

  “No, I mean I’m really half Mexican. My mother was born and raised in Mexico. ¿Habla español?

  “Sorry. Three generations in Texas as a Good ‘Ol Boy. Don’t speak the lingo anymore. I was named after my grandfather. My friends call me Gonzo. So how can I help, Chuck?”

  “Cleveland CSIs found a fingerprint at a fatal house fire from Hopper.” I filled him in on what I’d found in Cleveland. “I want to know if he was in Cleveland last September around the time of the fire. If you were me, how would you find that information?”

  “I’d call his parole officer. He has to get permission to take a piss, let alone leave Harris County.”

  “Would his PO tell me, a private citizen, if Hopper went to Cleveland last September?”

  “Probably not. When I call a PO, it’s official, but you’re a civilian. Tell you what—I’ll see what I can find out and get back to you. Give me your contact info.”

  ###

  After lunch Gonzales called. “Howie got permission to go to Oklahoma last September to his aunt’s funeral.”

  “I’d bet a case of whiskey against a can of Coke he went to Cleveland instead of Oklahoma. When did he go?”

  A pause while he referred to the file. “September twenty-first. He returned to Houston on September twenty-seventh. Does that help?”

  “More than I can tell you. I owe you one.”

  “Buy me a beer next time you’re in Houston.”

  “I’ll be on the next plane. I’ll buy you that beer tonight.” I got Howie’s contact information from Gonzales and headed home to pack.

  I needed to get to Howie the Hophead before the Cleveland cops d
id.

  Chapter 39

  Howard Hopper’s registered address was 326 Jackson Village, a housing project. I drove around the four-square-block project to get a feel for the area. Apartment 326 faced the parking lot. I parked my rented gold minivan in a visitor’s spot and knocked on the door. While I waited, an old lady opened the door to 324, which shared the concrete porch. She came out with a shopping bag.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. Could you tell me if Howard Hopper is home?”

  “Who?”

  “Howard Hopper. He lives here.”

  “Don’t know any Howard who stay here.”

  “Who does live here?”

  “Darshonnay Perkins. She stay here.”

  “Where I could find Ms. Perkins?”

  “She there now. She come in at five o’clock this morning. She woke me up—again—with her noise. These walls are so thin you can hear your neighbor tear the toilet paper in the bathroom.” She laughed at her own joke. “She usually sleep it off this time of day. You never see her up ‘til afternoon.”

  “Thanks.” I turned to the door to knock again.

  The old woman laughed. “That won’t do you no good. She sleep in the back bedroom on the second floor. And she run that old window unit in her bedroom. That noisy thing drown out any noise out here. That’s one reason she run it.”

  “Ma’am, if you were me and wanted to talk to her, how would you go about it?”

  The old woman cackled. “Why, mister, I’d open the door and walk right in. That lock’s been broke for months. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to the market.”

  “One thing.” I pulled out the mug shot that Gonzo had given me the night before. “You know this man?”

  She looped the shopping bag handles over her forearm, lifted her glasses into place, and took the mug shot with the other hand. She squinted at me over her glasses. “You a cop?” She gestured at the bulge in my jacket where my Glock 26 nestled in its holster.

  “I’m a private investigator. I’m just looking for Howard.”

  She tapped the photo. “This him?”