Chapter 17
Casa Woods was on Dumont Avenue: a sleepy boulevard in a suburb of McAllen girdled by neatly planted Hinckley's oak. A white-stone wall topped with pointed black iron bordered the property. Beyond its flowerbeds of blood-red Irises, mulched ground became several acres of neatly trimmed green. The Casa, itself, was a salmon-colored stucco, four-story affair with white stone trim and a terra cotta tile roof. The front windows were leaded. It was slightly larger than Buckingham Palace with several patios, each large enough to embarrass a soccer field. Along one end was a swimming pool. The latter was a bit small for a battle cruiser, but in South Texas, one must make do.
I parked the rental in the gravel turnaround and walked up a short flagstone stair to steel front doors. They were a deep blue, about nine feet tall and rounded at the top. Instead of a peephole, a small leaded window in one opened inward for the curious. All about me was the murky scent of cut grass. And from somewhere came the mating call of a Vireo striving to raise voice above the buzzing sounds of lawn trimming equipment. I knocked and wondered why I had not gone into small-town politics.
Some time later a tall elderly man with silver hair and thick, bushy eyebrows opened the door. He was thin as a rake and dressed in a swallowtail tuxedo replete with shoes shiny enough to shame a mirror. When he saw me, his long bluish nose tilted upward as if he were testing the air for rancid pork. I got the impression I should have called at that back entrance.
"Deacon Bishop," I said, handing him a business card that bore only my name. "I'm calling on Nadine Woods."
He glanced at my offering before letting his dry green eyes give me a once over. "Is Miss Nadine expecting you, sir?" He had a British accent.
I told him she was not but added, "I'm sure Nadine will want to see me."
"May I tell Miss Nadine the reason for your visit?"
"Blue silk sheets and matching pillowcases. The nose powder was free, but the mirror above the bed extra."
The butler stared at me curiously for a moment, then nodded. "I will let her know that you are here." He stepped aside. "Please come in."
I moved past him into a mausoleum style foyer. The walls were white marble, inlaid with Celtic-patterned silver. The domed ceiling was a Roman feast depicted in leaded glass. The floor was ginger terracotta with an engraved design. It was a quiet, cool shadowy place where one could gather for prayers, murder or perhaps a combination of both—still feeling that one dwelt in rare good-company.
"I can see why the mayor's running for reelection," I remarked. "This place is a little big for my taste. But, I guess I could get used to it." Then I asked the butler his name.
"Reynolds, sir," he replied, and turned on his heels. "This way, please."
I followed Reynolds from ginger terracotta along black marble to white carpeting deep enough to warm cold ankles. I flexed my toes and noted the firm yet soft feeling of my shoes digging into the finest of woven wool. I was in an open-beamed room that had a huge bay window, partially cloaked by sheer curtains, overlooking the back forty. Another panel of glass, also with sheers, glanced out onto a string of garages. The room's furnishings were French in design; the tables marble-topped, and the paneled walls black walnut. It smelled of cigar smoke and dreams of the newly rich. Portraits of men, women and children decorated the walnut. Some of the paintings were of a long by-gone era if clothes were any indication. Others were from times more contemporary. Of these, three were clearly from the present-day. All had been painted quite recently. All the people had similar facial features. All smacked of an ego gone wild in a desperate effort to establish socially acceptable provenance.
"The family Woods?" I asked the butler, nodding towards the wall hangings.
"As you say, sir," Reynolds agreed, with obvious distaste. "Miss Nadine is having breakfast. Unless she objects to the early hour she will be with you, shortly."
"Does she object to early hours?"
A wisp of a smile tugged at the old man's blue lips. "Frequently, sir."
"It must be a trip for a guy like you working here. A bunch of rednecks trying to make themselves into bluebloods."
"A trip is often on my mind, sir."
Reynolds went out, his footsteps dying along the hallway. The door shut. Then there was silence. I went over to the bay window. Outside, the lawn was getting concerted care from a large crew. Some mowed. Some trimmed. Others fertilized. Every effort was extended with all the loving care that tax-money can buy. I lit a cigarette and moved to the other side of the room.
There were ten garages sitting wall to wall: the kind rich people have to store adult toys and naughty secrets. One of the doors was open. Inside I saw a bright yellow convertible. Its front license plate read, 'Nadine'. How had Betsy put it? 'Nadine had a nice house.' I guess Casa Woods qualified in a pinch.
A fax machine rested on a table next to the window. I went over to it, making note of the telephone number someone had kindly affixed with tape to the handset. Then I let my fingers do the walking on its menu key. The history-list showed only one number over the past six months. And that number had a Mexican prefix code.
"You don't look like a millinery salesman," a girlish voice chirped behind me. "What happened? Did your tailor die?"
I turned to see a blond girl about the same age as Betsy. She was lanky and dressed in black leather that left her midriff bare. Her oval face was embedded with bits of gold and silver jewelry. Her thin lips were crimson. Her slightly upturned nose delicately chiseled, the nostrils slightly red. Her eyes were large and cobalt blue. Above these thin straight eyebrows matched her hair-color. She could have passed for a rebellious high-schooler except for the recent burns around her navel—cylindrical dots of bright red about the diameter of a cigarette.
"Don't let the suit fool you. It's what's underneath that counts. Nadine Woods, I presume? Or, should I have said, how's tricks?"
She crossed her arms and tilted her head as her eyes drifted back and forth over me. "I'd say you were a cop, but I know all the cops in this town. You Federal?"
I shook my head. "Just trouble. Eli Huggins gave me your name. Said you were quite a party girl and he had the snaps to prove it. He also said you were handy with guns. I thought I'd stop by to see if he'd steered me straight."
Nadine's face went pale and she glanced nervously at the open door, "Never heard of him."
I'd have known she was lying to me even if I hadn't seen her driving away from his home. "Sure you have. He was fiftyish, thin, liked to be entertained in bed by matching blondes: preferably the underage kind who didn't mind being videotaped. Last time you saw him was Thursday. He was hot them. These days he's cooling in the morgue. Oh, there's a nametag on his right toe because somebody put a bullet in his brain. Still no bells? What about Dominic Portello? You also came highly recommended by him. In fact, I understand you and Dom are quite close. He brings the cigarettes and cocaine. You bring the handcuffs."
My reference to cocaine drew a mesh of lines across her face and her eyes became deep, dark bismuth chips. She went to the door and silently shut it—like a nun might close the entrance to her cell as a prelude to those very private moments. Then, Nadine clasped her hands at her waist and sauntered toward me, all composure again.
"Blackmail?" she was no longer intimidated.
"Blackmail is such a dirty word. But, from the look of this place it has potential." I pointed at her belly. "Dom does like his play on the heated side, doesn't he? Where's he staying? Here?"
She tossed her head letting blond tresses fall across her shoulders like a gilded shawl. "And you're going to do what if I don't do what you want?"
"I'll let you know after you tell me about Eli's killing."
She lifted a corner of one lip and shrugged. "How should I know?"
"Playing the innocent might work for Dom. He's always been one for teases. But, I'm a completely different kettle of fish. Did Dom kill Eli?"
She turned and swayed back towar
d the door. "I'm quite busy, Mr. Bishop. So why don't you take your questions elsewhere?"
"I can't see Dom doing a hit on Eli and carelessly leaving a body around. Brother Salvator frowns on such a faux pas. But, your father is another matter. Amateurs often kill without giving consideration to the corpse they're creating. And dead bodies are such a weighty problem. Usually first-time killers run away, hoping for the best."
Nadine stopped and turned back, her face red. "I don't like you."
"I've always had trouble making friends. But you'll get used to me. What happened out at Eli's? Did Daddy find out about your little drug habit? Or did Eli get careless with his videos?"
"First I'm supposed to know Eli somebody. Then I'm supposed to know another guy you call Dom. And now you're telling me my father killed the first guy?" She laughed the tight, sneering little laugh often offered up by those unfettered by conscience. "For all I know, Mr. Bishop, you did it."
I blew smoke in Nadine's direction as I studied her. She was not what I would consider attractive—not even when I'd been a young man. Her chin was too small and too sharp. Her cheekbones were too high. She had a habit of drawing her upper lip away from her teeth as she spoke, as if some invisible puppeteer was controlling it. The lower lip drooped at one corner, whether talking or not, as if she was not sure whether to laugh or cry.
"I wasn't the one playing sheet-bingo with Betsy in Eli's bedroom," I taunted. "Surely, you remember Betsy? Blond, your age, about your weight and build. She has cats and rattles easy."
Her hands dropped nervously to her waist where they toyed with her belt. "You'd better get out of here."
I wagged my head. "And leave you wondering? I had a little chat with Betsy. According to her, you and she drove out to Eli's and parked in the garage—separate transportation, of course. After that, the two of you went up the metal staircase and entered the living room through the wall panel. Eli was waiting. He sipped scotch while the two of you did a line or three of cocaine—just enough to set the party mood. Then, Eli took you up to his bedroom and put on music to squirm by. You wore nothing. Betsy wore less. He got naked and started the camera. It was all very family-oriented."
"Betsy" Rage twisting Nadine's face into something round and ugly. "I told the bitch to keep her stupid mouth shut."
"I'm glad to hear you're the one with brains. I had doubts until, now. Shall we do business? Or, would you prefer I give the video to the press?"
Her eyes grew large. "Video?"
I patted my pocket. "I took a little memento from Eli's entertainment library. The close-ups of you at Betsy's fount were awe inspiring!"
She crept toward me on shaky legs. "I don't have any money."
There was an ashtray on the windowsill near the fax. I smudged out my cigarette. "Somebody shot Eli. I want that name."
She disengaged her eyes from mine and looked beyond me into the darker corners of her shadowy past. "Why don't you ask Betsy?"
"I did. Betsy said she'd have to talk to you first. Then she gave me your gun. Somehow, that gave me the impression you killed Eli."
Renewed anger flared across her face like boiling blood. "No. But if I had my gun I'd kill you."
"I believe you. Was your father there, Nadine?"
"Ask Eli after you land in hell." Nadine jerked a pack of cigarettes out of her slacks and went over to the window overlooking the yard-workers. "I'm busy. So take your goddamn video and scram."
"Sounds like I should be talking to your father. Is he here, or at his office?"
She stuffed a cigarette into her mouth, turned back to me and lit it. "My father won't believe a word you say." She blew some smoke at me, and then spoke through it with a soft sneer. "I'm his little princess."
"There's always Bascomb."
Two chiseled clefts formed between her blond eyebrows and she burst into shards of laughter. "Bascomb is my godfather. How do you think you'll make out, now, old man?"
I patted my pocket again. "If he's not interested, there's always television. It's an election year and the sight of you squirming on top of Betsy would make delicious news." I sniffed loudly and rubbed my nose. "How's yours this morning, Nadine? Mine's a little stuffy. Oh, that's right. Dominic fattened up your supply."
Her face hardened, cracking at the corners of her mouth. "You won't be so smart when I tell him about you."
I took a videotape from suit coat pocket. It was blank but she had no way of knowing that. I waggled it over one shoulder as I headed for the door. "By that time it will be too late!"
Nadine rushed after me catching my arm; trying to take the tape. "No."
I shoved her away with more than a little roughness. "What will the world think of the mayor's little princess after seeing this?"
"You can't! Please! It will—" Her voice suddenly jammed in her throat and she fell silent.
"I can and will if you don't cooperate. Was your father at Eli's?"
Her eyes clenched shut and then she nodded.
"Did he kill Eli?"
The door opened and a fat man of fifty plus years came into the room. His round, mottled, fat face was grimly set below a high-domed bald head. That latter made his jutting ears look like television dishes that had slipped their moorings. His broad nose drooped over a Hitler moustache. His thin lips rippled above a stubby chin. He wore a dark blue suit, his tie crimson, as was the folded handkerchief jutting from his breast pocket. His shirt was pearl-white. From the lack of wrinkles around his popping green eyes, he was a devotee of surgical rejuvenation. One of his small, pudgy pink hands held my business card. He snapped it against his fingernail as he moved toward me.
"I'm Philip Woods." He glared at me.
"His Excellency the Mayor. I didn't realize you'd be home this time of the day. Late night? Or, just lazy?"
Splotches of red came to his cheeks the way it does when anger rises in a man. He stopped, tossed my card to the floor "What's your business with my daughter, Mr. Bishop?"
"I didn't tell him anything, Daddy." Nadine raced over to her father.
"Leave us, Nadine." Woods gave his daughter a shove toward the door.
Her cigarette dropped from her fingers as she ran out. Woods went to the door and closed it. I picked up Nadine's discarded butt. We glanced at each other then he drifted to one of the chairs framing the bay window, and sat down.
"You got a lot of balls coming to my home and threatening my little girl."
"I'm an asshole," I admitted, examining the lipstick smear on the butt. It bore the telltale sickle-shaped scar. "But that's my nice side. What was your business with Eli the day he died? And don't try to deny you were there."
His neck stiffened but he said nothing, continuing to stare out at the lawn workers.
I stuffed the butt into my pocket and walked over to where Woods sat.
He ignored me as if his muteness would somehow make me disappear. I tapped his shoulder. Still he sat and stared.
Finally, I spun the chair around so he was facing me. "You killed the bastard, didn't you?"
A frightened snicker crept from his throat like a rat squeaking out in terror at a weasel. "You can't prove a thing."
I feigned walking past the chair. As I got along side, I swung down with my left hand and grabbed him by the throat. Then I squeezed. He kicked and squirmed, clawing at my wrist with both hands. I clenched my fingers tighter and tighter. After a few seconds, his face contorted in terror and he began to whimper. When his eyes rolled back into his head and his body went limp, I let go. His throat rattled but his breathing quickly steadied. I watched the wet stain spread across his crotch.
Forty seconds later, Woods came around. He tried to rise from the chair but I convinced him otherwise with a right hook to his midriff. He clutched his big belly and sagged back. The wet expanded, running down both legs.
"The way I figure it, you and Delaney came to an understanding," I told him. "You would take care of Eli and he would find a fall
-guy. After that, the pair of you planned to run Eli's not so little smuggling operation."
"You won't get away with this." His hands massaged his throat.
"Why not? You expect to get away with murder."
He cast a strained look at me. "I haven't killed anybody."
"I think a grand-jury will see it otherwise."
Woods made a frantic roll over one of the chair arms like a pig rushing for the trough. He landed on his knees with a loud groan. I stepped forward and gave his fat ass a kick that sent his nose skidding along the carpet. He rolled on his back, his face white, his nose streaming blood and his hands and feet raised in a protective posture.
I lit a cigarette and blew smoke at him. "Did Delaney mention Enrique Rodriguez and Moira Huggins were also promised a cut?"
He gaped.
I continued, "The even split he offered will have to go four ways—unless one or more of you are removed from the partnership. It won't be Enrique: far too dangerous a move when the Portellos have their sights set on finding the missing cocaine. Moira? Delaney has her penciled in to take the Portello heat once the cocaine buy-back is arranged. That leaves you as the patsy. Delaney'll haul your ass in. Charge you with murder. With his testimony, your conviction is assured."
The Mayor got to his feet, wiping the blood from his nose and mouth on his suit sleeve. He offered a confused, frightened stare. "You're just spouting off. You're fishing for information. Well, you won't get anything from me."
I sat down in the chair next to the one he had vacated and casually crossed my legs. The lawn workers were moving onto another area of the lawn. "Interrogations are a specialty of mine, Woods. We can make it hard or easy. It's up to you. But one way or another I'll get to the truth."
The door burst open and Delaney rushed in, gun in hand. When he spotted me, he took dead aim. My Mauser was still under lock at police headquarters and I hadn't brought the little guns I'd taken from Leon's women, so there was nothing I could do but grin.
"No," Woods shouted, rushing to Delaney. "Jesus. Not, here. Take him to the desert."
"Too risky." Delaney's finger coiling around the trigger.
"For god's sake think, Delaney. You shoot me in here and the Mayor'll have to get this whole room redone. The carpet alone will cost a fortune—not to mention this comfortable chair."
"I'll foot the bill."
The big cop tried to push Woods out of the way, but the mayor was determined to save his sanctuary and pushed back. Delaney fell over his own big feet, dropping his gun.
I leaped up and charged. I managed to kick Woods in the head as the pair scrambled for the gun. Delaney got his hands on it. But I sidestepped as he turned to fire, and brought my knee up hard catching him in the face. He crumpled and I grabbed his hair with my left hand, raised my other knee into his chin and then introduced my right fist to the base of his skull. He went limp, dropping the gun.
"You killed him." Woods gasped in awe. "Just like that you killed him."
"That would be too easy, Mayor. I'll give you twenty-four hours to get your affairs in order and turn yourself in. It's the only way you'll beat the death penalty. After that I'll be back."
Nadine was leaning against the rental car, waiting. Tears had smeared her makeup and her nose was red.
"Please don't tell my Daddy I said he was out there."
"Why did your father kill Eli?"
She glanced back toward the door and then stared down at her feet. "He was there. I saw his car. But he wouldn't have killed anybody."
"I think your father is capable of anything—when it comes to money."
"But it wasn't him."
"Had to be. Come with me to Bascomb's office. If you make a statement now, you won't be charged with anything."
She stared up at me and wagged her head frantically. "No. I can't. He wouldn't have. He couldn't have. He's my Daddy."
I did not like what I was hearing so I took another tack. "Why did you give Betsy a pistol?"
"Delaney told me to. He said Betsy should have it in case you got tough."
"The gun is registered to you?"
Nadine nodded. "Daddy bought it for my eighteenth birthday."
I pointed to her belly. "Where can I find Dominic?"
Her arms encased her cigarette-burned middle in a protective hug. "He's staying at the Ventura Hotel. Does daddy know about him, too?"
"I didn't tell him. Was he with your father when Eli was killed?"
He head shook. "Dominic came to town the night before, to see me. Betsy got me on my cell-phone while I was at his hotel the next morning. She wanted me to go to Eli's with her."
"You told Dom about the killing?"
"I called him after I got home. Dominic got real upset when he heard what happened. He said I wasn't to see him for a while—not until all this blew over. And, I sure wasn't to tell anyone about us. Then he went on about his brother already going ballistic about the cocaine being gone."
"How did he find out about that?"
"He just knew."
There were only three ways Dominic Portello could have known about the cocaine theft before my call to Salvatore. First, he had been out there after Delaney walked off with it. Second, somebody told him it was gone before it actually disappeared. Third, he had ordered Delaney to carry it off. I liked the last option. It was like Dom to pull a fast one on Salvatore. Whether he would survive it was to-be-determined.
"Delaney and your father are sort of close," I told her. "Is Delaney a friend of yours, too?"
Nadine opened her mouth to speak. Then she closed it and put a small, confiding smile upon her face. She made a croaking noise, and her eyes melted with tears just before her chin dipped.
For a moment, I thought she was having some sort of fit and reached for her shoulders. But, she batted my hands away, and then raced off.
I got into the rental and drove away. Delaney's request to give Betsy the pistol all but guaranteed it was the murder weapon. The problem was linking it to whoever pulled the trigger. Woods could have had company on his visit to Eli—company like Enrique—company who did the hit. Or, Eli could have been dead when Woods arrived, company or not. His keeping quiet about what he knew could be motivated by greed, rather than fear.
And, I could be up for knighthood.
Dead On Page 17