by Lee Killough
Zane cruised through the parking lot twice to make sure he did not overlook the Beamer, but he spotted no BMW sports car among the trucks and cars belonging to the Basin personnel and shrimp boat crews.
Over the Basin offices, the blue Hilst company flag with its white H and trawler silhouette flew at half mast in honor of the Old Man, Charlie Hilst. A good guy, Charlie, Zane reflected... down to earth, for all his money. At the funeral yesterday, had they managed anything like the Viking send-off he always said he wanted? Heading on downtown, Zane hoped that Charlie’s wife at least spread his ashes at sea.
At the head of the bay he passed the ferry landing, where a surprising number of people for this time of year stood waiting. One led a saddled horse and a handful carried birders’ cameras and binoculars, or towels and beach totes. The rest must be members of the film crew shooting on the barrier island and had chosen to ride the ferry out rather than drive around the far north end of the bay to the bridge there. Beyond the ferry landing waterfront West Bay became tourist-oriented North Bay. The serpentine of Cotton River Park stretched off northwest. The boulevard curved away along the water, lined on one side by a string of motels and the tracks for the outer half of the trolley loop and on the other by narrow parking lots, the quay, and rows of docks where sailboats and sport fishing boats bobbed invitingly in their slips.
Zane turned up North Parkview Drive to the Law Enforcement Center...a trefoil grouping with the squat, broad proportions of petroleum storage tanks. Tanks with plenty of windows, however, except for the Correctional Unit. The third floor of the Law Enforcement Unit, which Investigations shared with PD’s Administration and the Sheriff, enjoyed great views of the park and bay. Like something out of science fiction, a wave of his badge case past the lock on the rear entrance opened the door for him, the reader detecting the code in his ID card even through the leather folder.
As promised, up in the office Carillo had the warrant ready for him, and minutes later Zane was back in the car headed through the Market district into the Laguna neighborhoods. Commerce gave way to affluence. Not the level reflected in the mansions along Laguna Drive, where the outer bay and intracoastal waterway separated the mainland from Lacabra Island, but apartments and condos up-scale enough to proclaim their owner’s prosperity. Demry lived in an hacienda-style garden complex probably built in the thirties...white stucco walls, deep porches shaded by palms, quarry tile floors and barrel tile roofs. Zane rang the bell, and when no one answered, used the key.
Inside, Demry’s taste ran to ultra-modern, the furniture angular and metal edged, relieved only by the sybaritic touch of a multi-colored goatskin rug in front of the fireplace. Not somewhere to kick off your shoes and kick back.
Staring around as he tucked his sunglasses in his breast pocket, he realized what really bothered him about the room. No books. Some newspapers and law journals sat in a neat stack on a shelf under one end table and a couple of jazz magazines and a monthly guide to Austin night life lay on the sofa table, but the shelves flanking the fireplace held only CD’s, a few photographs, and art glass. Expensive art glass. Zane recognized Tiffany, some Steuben, and a Lalique.
He grimaced. Susan had collected glass, too, and like Demry, considered that bookshelves existed solely to display it. Out of curiosity he flipped through the CD’s. Mostly jazz except for a little easy listening and new age.
In sharp contrast to the furniture, an old-fashioned leather briefcase with the scars and patina of long use sat on the floor by the end table with law journals. Going through it, Zane pictured it being handed down from his father or grandfather, and Zane liked Demry for carrying it. Neither living room nor kitchen had a phone.
Up a hall off the living room, a bedroom overlooked the central pool and garden area...furnished with an acre of neatly made bed and an entertainment center. Again, CD’s ran mostly to jazz. Drawers of the bedside tables contained only sex toys and other supplies for entertaining female guests.
Next he tried a door across the hall.
Bingo. A desk flanked by a file cabinet and small photocopier sat under a window in the far wall, and even from the door he saw a Rolodex sharing the desktop with a computer and a telephone. On the way toward it, he automatically glanced at titles on the shelves of law journals and law books lining the wall between door and desk. To his surprise, one whole section of journals and many of the books dealt with copyright and trademark. Interesting. He would never have imagined Arenosa’s legal business supporting such a specialty.
Zane checked the telephone but the built-in answering machine had no messages and only two speed dial buttons programmed, one for Demry’s office and one for the Dallas number. It did have a hefty phonebook list, nearly forty numbers...some helpfully labeled with the names of doctors, a car dealership, a stock broker, the rest with just names, often only first names. No indication of whether the full names were business contacts or friends. Maybe the Rolodex would be more helpful, before he just started calling numbers. He pulled it to the front of the desk. “Demry, thank you for cardstock and ink backup.”
Sorting out useful names might take a while, though, he reflected, spinning the cylinder. Demry had nearly filled it.
So he might as well make himself comfortable. He shed his coat and tie, and rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows, then started through the Rolodex.
It was more helpful. Some of the cards carried notations: Wife-Claire, son-Jason--at Yale; Courthouse reporter, Arenosa Sentinel; met ABA, 1999, golf and sailing...or more interestingly: divorced, babysitter problems, knows wines and antiques. After consideration, Zane flipped past the cards with notations. Anyone Demry needed to remind himself about could not be a close friend, though as a last resort they could always come back to those with date data. He also skipped over the service numbers. Other cards with Arenosa addresses, he pulled.
The telephone rang. The caller ID said: Patricia
Zane picked up, and before he could speak, an exasperated female voice said, “Alex, I can’t believe you’re still home! I just tried there as a last resort. Have you forgotten you’re taking the Aguilar deposition in five minutes? Mr. Torrance--”
Zane broke in. “I’m sorry, Mr. Demry isn’t here.” He pulled his notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. “This is Detective Kerr with the police--”
“Police! What are you doing at his apartment?”
He dodged the question with one of his own. “May I ask who I’m speaking to?”
“Patricia Ormand, his secretary. Has--”
“Ms. Ormand...” Secretary. That could be helpful. “...do you happen to know what Mr. Demry’s plans were last evening? Was he going out somewhere?”
She took several seconds to answer. “He left the office with notes relating to the deposition we’re taking this morning and I assumed he intended to spend the evening going over them. He didn’t have me make dinner reservations for him, which he often does when he’s planning to go out. Has something happened to Alex?”
Zane’s cell phone warbled. “Just a minute.” He hit the Mute button on the phone and answered the cell phone.
“How are you doing?” Allison asked.
He eyed the growing pile of Rolodex cards on the desk. “Coming along. At the moment I have Demry’s secretary on his phone and of course she wants to know what I’m doing here.”
“Tell her...without details. The lawyer hasn’t called me back. If he isn’t available, I may use her to identify the body.”
He put Allison on hold and went back to the secretary. “Ms. Ormand? I’m sorry to have to inform you that Alex Demry is dead.” He overrode her gasp to add, “There will be another detective coming to your office presently to talk to you.”
Once she left the line he went back to Allison and gave her a rundown of what he had found. “I should have the last cards with local addresses pulled shortly.” With his free hand he resumed flipping through the Rolodex. “What’s happening at your end?”
She paused before ans
wering. “I called Gary Golden. He says he drove down Lavaca twice, the first time about a quarter after twelve, then again around one-thirty.”
That narrowed the time to between twelve-fifteen and one o’clock. Assuming Blue’s statements could be trusted. “Do you have the dental records yet?”
“Yes.”
“And we’ve queried Austin and NCIC about other killings like this?”
Allison paused. “Of course...while I waited for Ident to finish up.”
Too late Zane realized he sounded as if he were questioning whether she knew what to do. A fine impression he must be making. “Any results back yet?”
“Yes...both negative.”
“Any sign of the car?”
“A unit spotted it in a parking lot at Sailfish and B.”
Just up from Avenue A, where bars, fine dining, and fast food restaurants mixed with tattoo parlors, video stores, boutiques and shops selling souvenirs, shells, beachwear, and marine supplies. Most of the city’s entertainment and visitor-oriented retailers in one eight block stretch, anchored on the west end by the pseudo-pueblo of Mercado Square. Demry had gone out for the evening, then. Where...and with whom? “Shall I go check out the car and the A?”
“There isn’t much point at this time of day. We’ll canvass when places there have staff and customers who might have seen him. I’ve already arranged to bring the car in for the lab to process. Not that I expect to find anything. I doubt he drove it to West Bay.”
Zane agreed. He did not see the killer returning the car to a populated area and walking away from it in bloody clothes.
“When you have all the local names, start calling them. You might as well do it from there.”
He thumbed the stack of cards with a sigh. That should use up his day. Welcome to Investigations.
While the first number he punched in rang, he eyed Demry’s computer, and as an answering machine picked up, switched the computer on. Hoping it was not password protected. E-mail had an address book, too.
He left a message on the answering machine. The next number gave him a busy signal.
By that time the computer had finished booting. Not asking for a password. Hallelujah. When he clicked on e-mail, the program loaded with the In box open...listing 70 messages, eight unread. The warrant’s “electronic address book” arguably covered the e-mail address book, but not reading e-mail messages. Still...who could know what information might be useful.
The list looked very much like that on Zane’s own computer: some messages from people, several listserve digests–in Demry’s case, two on law and copyright and one on jazz–boldface indicating unopened mail. He opened some of the read messages, and found, without surprise, that a number were jokes, often with legal humor taking pokes at lawyers...which the arrow icon indicated he forwarded on. Unlike Susan and her family, Demry appeared not to take his profession too seriously. It made Zane like the man even more and feel angrier about the brutality of his murder.
Yesterday Demry opened only one message, from [email protected], subject: invitation. Zane clicked on it. Coolflute wrote: thought you might be interested that I’ve got a gig there this month...opening tonight at five to midnight...hope you can come. tonya.
The arrow icon indicated a reply. Which, when Zane went to Sent Items, proved to read: I’ll be there.
Zane regarded it with satisfaction. So Demry came home, downloaded his messages, and after reading this one decided to take Tonya up on her invitation. But...Tonya was opening where at five to midnight? And why such an odd, and oddly specific, time?
Seconds later he sighed in disgust at himself. He had let the lack of capitals throw him. Zane reached for the phone book lying on the bookcase and opened the yellow pages to Clubs. Arenosa posed no challenge to Austin’s music scene, but he did find a listing and ad for a club named Five To Midnight, showing silhouettes of double bass and saxophone players along with the announcement: Live jazz nightly; Cool sounds until the wee hours. Located at Marlin and A. Two blocks from where Demry parked his car.
Next question: had Demry met his killer on the way to the club, or leaving it? Perhaps he, Demry, and Tonya made up a triangle...although the message sounded more like one from a friend than a lover. But maybe he had dumped her and she set the other man up to exact revenge for her. And the other man was psycho.
He opened the computer’s address book. But Coolflute’s entry contained nothing except the e-mail address, clearly an automatic entry made by replying to mail received. Not what he would expect if she were a lover, or even just a friend. Yet they obviously had some kind of relationship.
He flipped through the Rolodex cards. They had no one named Tonya, with or without the Coolflute e-mail address or a notation about flutes. Well, he did have one way to reach her...Five To Midnight.
He looked up the club again and called the number. No one answered.
He could log on and e-mail Tonya, but that left an electronic trail back to this computer... where only he could have sent the message at this time. Then if she turned out to be involved in the murder, it would lose them any evidence on this computer or evidence generated by the information on it. Did he feel lucky?
Generally he did. Luck had kept him in one piece running all over Kansas City on his own as a kid. He certainly had protected him that summer he was ten and tried to hitchhike to his grandparents in Seattle. But maybe he better not push it on his first case in Investigations. He would track down Tonya via the bar.
Now he just needed to a way to explain knowing about Tonya other than reading Demry’s e-mail.
Easy enough. A click of the mouse printed out her message. Then he set it on the desk where Demry might have...in plain sight of anyone at the computer.
Now, back to the phone canvass.
7.
In the waiting room of Caffey, Schroer, Wentz, and Glass, Allison handed her card to the law firm’s receptionist. “I’d like to speak with--”
“Go right on back, Detective. Third door on the left.”
The name on the door read: John A. Glass. So he had not bothered to call because he assumed she would show up asking for him?
The distinguished, sixtyish man behind the desk inside looked familiar. His scent, mixed with an astringent aftershave, seemed even more so. He waved her toward a chair. “Allison Goodnight. If you’re on the case, that answers half my question. Now I just need to know how Alex Demry was murdered and when we can expect an arrest. Mrs. Ormand came to me in tears earlier. The other detective wouldn’t tell her anything. But don’t tapdance with me. I’ve known Alex since he was born. He’s like a son to me.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, stare boring into her. “I want to know what’s going on.”
Now she recognized the man. A voice for the defense, trying to skewer her on cross examination...full of outrage and accusation, of insinuations about personal police agendas and doubts of her competence and character. Even being on the receiving end she always admired his artistry, but in the time it took her to sit down, Allison decided to apply that human adage about sauce for the goose and gander.
“Exactly what I came to tell you, councilor. Which you would know if you had bothered to return my call.” At his blink of surprise, she added, “I left a message with your receptionist.”
His gaze flicked toward a pile of message forms on his blotter. Quickly, he thumbed through them, and near the bottom of the stack, paused. “This doesn’t say anything about Alex.”
“You would prefer I left a message saying I need you at the morgue for the formal identification of an associate?”
Anger flashed in his eyes at her sarcasm, but after a moment, he shook his head. “No.” He paused. Regrouping? The defense attorney eyes bored into her again. “You still haven’t told me what happened.”
She told him.
After one intake of breath, his courtroom face slammed on, leaving her to guess at what he might be feeling. At the end of her recitation, he sat silent for a minute. “It had
to be a madman or drug-crazed junkie. No one could hate Alex enough to kill him like that.”
“Demry’s library suggests he specializes in trademark and copyright law. Is that so, or did he handle other kinds of clients, too?”
“You’re thinking someone who went to jail blamed Alex?” Glass shook his head. “He never took criminal cases. He did contract work here but otherwise just copyright and trademark. And while he lives here...because he likes Arenosa...his clients were almost always in Austin or Houston.”
“We have to consider all the possibilities.” She stood. “Shall we go?”
8.
At the morgue, the attendants had arranged the stretcher with the best side of the victim’s face toward the viewing window and managed to wedge the jaw almost into normal position, but Glass stared through the window for a long time, granite-faced, before speaking. “That’s Alex. If you need further proof, his secretary will know his dentist’s name. You’ll also find a long surgical scar on the right lower leg from where he broke his tibia skiing when he was fifteen.”
On Allison’s other side, Pedicaris nodded, confirming they had already found the scar.
Glass turned from the viewing window. “After I’ve talked to his parents I’ll let you know about arrangements for the body. Meanwhile...” The courtroom iron slid back into his voice. “...I expect to see the police department sparing no effort to find the monster who did this!”
Oh how human, assuming himself superior, with the power to coerce her into greater effort. “Councilor, save your alpha posturing for someone it will impress. I’m already giving this case top priority. If you want to be useful, spread the word through your firm that we need to trace Mr. Demry’s movements last night.” She handed him a half dozen cards, then turned her back on him. “Zena, will you be starting the autopsy soon?”