Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (17 page)

I held back a shout of joy. I couldn’t believe my luck. In a
controlled voice, I asked, “How long was he there?”

“Couple months.”

“Would you mind taking a look at his report and see if
there’s any previous addresses. We’re anxious to get our hands
on this guy.”

Carey grunted. “Sure. Hold on ” I could hear drawers opening and closing, then the riffling of paper.

“Okay. Here we are. Eugene, Oregon. That where he says his
home was.”

“Any address, telephone number.”

“Naw. His parents, Willam W. Morrison. Stepdad, I guess.”
I thanked him, promised to stay in touch, and hung up.
Immediately, I dialed information in Eugene, Oregon. No
William Morrison, nor Bill, nor WW, nor any combination.

Then a wild idea hit me.

I called the motel in Pampa again. The old man answered, his
voice drugged with sleep. I apologized. “I need one more piece
of information. You said Villafono registered driving an
Oldsmobile?”

“So?”

“Did you get the license?”

“We always take down the license.”

“Can I have it?”

Moments later, I jotted it down. Arizona. I grinned. Finally,
a break.

Danny O’Banion is a local entrepreneur with his fingers and
toes in every pot in Travis County. Actually, he’s Austin’s resident mobster. Of course, no one calls him that to his face, but
the best I can figure he’s about half a step below the family
concierge. Perhaps, a better explanation is that he’s the
concierge for the concierges, a sort of liaison between those at
the top and the soldiers at the bottom.

But whatever explanation you can give for Danny O’Banion,
he has influence over a large portion of Texas, and numerous
friends in Louisiana who owe him big favors.

Danny and I had a history. Back in the eleventh grade, we
scrambled through a few scrapes together. Then Danny left
school before his senior year. Naturally, we drifted apart, but
those months during our junior year bonded us. I ran into him
at one of the annual football games between my alma mater UT
and Oklahoma up in Dallas one year. We hit each other on the
shoulder, lied a little, sipped from his silver flask a lot, and then
went our separate ways.

A few years earlier, I had saved his bosses a couple of suitcases of heavy coin. In doing so, I picked up a lead slug but
gained their gratitude. I always figured I got the best of that
swap. So, now, I hoped Danny might be willing to give me a
hand.

Not only did he agree to find every scrap of information and
dirt he could on Nelson Vanderweg or Villafono, but he insisted on taking me to dinner the next night. “At the County Line,”
he said. “I’ve been hungry for barbecue and cold beer.”

Congress Avenue Pharmacy remained open twenty-four
hours a day. The weather had moderated, but the wind was still
from the north, taking a break, gathering its strength to usher
in the next front.

Fred Seebell was medium height, slender with short hair
neatly coiffed. In fact, he looked like a New York stockbroker
in a white lab jacket behind the counter.

After I introduced myself, he nodded to his assistant. “I’ll be
back in my office, Cole.”

Without a word, he led me down a narrow hall and into a
cramped but neat office. He gestured to a chair as he slipped
into the wood swivel chair behind his desk. “Please, have a
seat, Mr. Boudreaux.”

Seebell must’ve been a no-nonsense businessman for he
came straight to the point. “Personally, I’m glad someone
killed George Holderman. I’ll probably burn in Hades for saying so, but it’s the truth.” He leaned forward, his eyes serious.
“We are religious people, Mr. Boudreaux, my wife and I. And
I know what it means to my soul to hold such hatred in my
heart. I’ve tried to take it out, but I can’t. And I won’t lie about it. I thought about killing him after he seduced my wife and led
her along for so many months. I even had the opportunity once
or twice, but, well … ” His brow furrowed, and he stared down
at his hands. “I just didn’t have the guts to do it.

“That lecherous spawn of Satan almost ruined my life, but
thank the Lord, Eunice and I have a wonderful preacher. He
worked hard with us, and now, we’ve forgiven each other, and
our lives are good.”

I’ve never been too surprised at the way some people
respond to questions. Some skirt the question like Al Waldron,
the realtor. Others, like Seebell or Kim Nally, bluntly say what
they have to say, and the heck with you. I prefer the latter. “I’m
glad for you and your wife. Now, that night, the night of the
PTA. Did you leave the building and go anywhere except to
your car?”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “No. In fact, our minister, Reverend J. Harvey Wesley attended with us. He gave the
invocation. He rode over with us, and we dropped him off at the
parsonage after the meeting. You can check with him.”

I jotted the name, and Seebell provided me his telephone
number. I slipped the notepad back in my pocket and rose to
my feet. “You’ve told me all I needed to know, Mr. Seebell.” I
offered my hand. “Thanks for your time.”

He looked surprised, but rose quickly. “Is that all there is?”

“That’s it. “

“But, I figured … well, I don’t know just what I did figure.”

I explained. “Look. I’ve done a lot of work on this. I’m satisfied you couldn’t have killed George Holderman that night.” I
didn’t tell him that the only way he could have gotten to
Holderman was by growing wings. I patted my pocket. “And if
Reverend Wesley verifies your account of the evening, you’re
out of the picture.”

He stared at me for several seconds. He released a long sigh.
“Thank you.”

I glanced at my watch as I left the pharmacy. Not quite nine thirty. I had time to return to the office and type up my notes
before lunch. When I climbed in my pickup, I pulled out my
cell phone and put in a call to the Reverend J. Harvey Wesley,
who verified the details Seebell had given me for that night.

Traffic was building on Congress Avenue. Parking spaces
were at a premium, and often drivers parked in the outside lane,
blocking traffic while they waited for a parked vehicle to pull
away from the curb.

Deep in thought, I mulled over my progress. I had eliminated Frances Holderman, Fred Seebell, and Kim Nally, although
the latter did have the opportunity. The algebra teachers,
Saussy, May, and Flores provided what I figured to be indisputable alibis for each other, unless the three of them were in it
together. That possibility I placed somewhere between being
more powerful than a locomotive and leaping tall buildings in
a single bound.

The two young men monitoring the hall claimed the three
returned within minutes. Of course, I reminded myself, it doesn’t
take hours to smash a skull and plunge a knife into a man’s chest.

I had only two suspects left, Perry Jacobs and Harper
Weems. I still considered the latter was a long shot, so long I
almost laughed at myself.

The truth of the matter was, I didn’t believe there was any
way Harper Weems could have pulled it off. Even if he could
have somehow reached the second floor, how much leverage
could he exert from a wheelchair to swing a ball bat?

I had covered every inch of the case, and no cigar. “So, Mr.
Smart Private Eye,” I muttered to myself. “Who did kill George
Holderman?” I was aggravated and frustrated. I needed a new
angle, and I couldn’t find one.

Suddenly, I became aware of someone behind me honking. I
looked in the sideview mirror and spotted a red Cadillac parked
behind me, waiting for my spot. I couldn’t make the driver out
except it was a woman, and she was waving for me to leave.

I rolled down the window and waved her past.

A screech of burning rubber split the air, followed by a
squeal of brakes. She had slammed to a halt beside me, an
obese woman with frizzy blond hair. A cigarette dangled from
her lips. She shook her fist at me. I couldn’t hear what she was
screaming, but I knew she wasn’t wishing me a good day.

In the next second, she angrily floorboarded the red Cadillac.
In a boil of blue smoke and spinning wheels, the large vehicle
leaped forward.

Maybe God does work in mysterious ways, for scant seconds
later, a parked vehicle pulled out, and our lady in the red
Cadillac slammed into it, knocking it into the car ahead.

I laughed with glee, and as I drove slowly around the pile-up,
I honked. When she looked at me, I waved my fist at her. It was
a childish act, I admit, but I enjoyed it immeasurably.

Back at my office, I made a few inquiries through Better
Business and the Chamber of Commerce about Austin
Expediters. The company was legitimate. I sighed with relief.

By mid-afternoon, another front accompanied by rain swept
in. I left the office early, stopped in a local glass shop and had
the windows replaced per my insurance agency’s instructions.

Just after six, I pulled under the carport and dashed across
the lawn to my apartment. Once inside, I turned up the heat, put
a can of chili on the burner, and ignoring my pledge, popped a
cap on a can of Old Milwaukee.

Then I fed the kitten. “Here you go, Cat. Chow down.”

Beer in hand, I stared out of the window at the darkening sky.
The rain fell hard, silver arrows pounding into the grass,
exploding in the street. In the reflection cast by the window, I
saw Cat gobbling his nuggets.

Abruptly, a black Lexus pulled up in front, and a giant
unfolded from the front seat and lumbered up the sidewalk to
my door. Godzilla aka Huey! And probably wearing a doublebreasted Brioni suit under his raincoat.

The only reason I knew the suit was a Brioni is that was the
only brand this particular Godzilla wore.

For a moment, panic threatened. Then I remembered. Danny
O’Banion had invited me out to the County Line Barbecue for
fat, juicy pork ribs and ice-cold draft beer along with a loaf of
the County Line’s home-baked bread.

The door groaned in its frame when Godzilla knocked. I
opened the door and stared up into Huey’s rock solid face.

“Mr. O’Banion sent me to get you,” he growled in inimitable
Neanderthal.

I gave him a weak grin. “Sure, Huey. Come on in. Let me
turn off the stove.”

Danny grinned at me when I slipped into the back seat. The
infectious Irish grin topped by a tousle of red hair always put me
at ease. “Tony, boy. How’s the man?”

We shook, and he handed me a Bud Lite.

“Hanging in there, Danny. You?” One glance at his cashmere
topcoat told me he wasn’t starving.

He laughed. “You know me. Never look behind. Whatever’s
back there might be getting closer.”

“Nice coat.”

He grabbed the lapel. “Like it, huh? It’s one of them Luciana
Barbera things. And this suit”-he gushed-“it’s a Nick Hilton.
Fifteen hundred bucks at Barney’s on Madison Avenue.”

I nodded. “Nice.” I glanced down at my washed out jeans and
tweed jacket from JC Penneys.

The luxurious vehicle eased into the street, and I leaned back
into the plush upholstery. I had forgotten the sensation of riding without bouncing.

The rain continued, a steady beat on the top of the car.

As usual, County Line was superb. We ordered the All-YouCan-Eat platter. With it came a loaf of freshly baked bread. As
we gnawed through rib after rib and downed beer after beer, Danny filled me in on Nelson Vanderweg and Villafono, aka
Nelson Van Meyer.

“Van Meyer?” I wiped the barbecue sauce from my chin.

Danny switched a mouthful of ribs to his cheek. “Yep. But,
the Oldsmobile is licensed to an Alice Baglino in Phoenix.”

I frowned, but he continued. “Not to worry. I put out word.
Just before I left tonight, I got the stuff for you. Villafono and
Vanderweg are two of the aliases the guy uses”

“Two?” I poured another mug of beer from the frosted
pitcher.

“And more. He’s got a list the length of your arm. Ladies
man. Loves them, then leaves them, but not before taking a
sizeable portion of their bankrolls. Pretty slick too.”