Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (27 page)

I recognized some of the teachers; Kim Nally, Perry Jacobs, and Henry Bishop. Then there was one of Rita Viator sitting at
her desk in the counselors’ office.

Tim Briggs and Marvin Handwell were easy to spot in the
football pictures. One spectacular shot had to have been taken
with a monster lens from the end zone for it depicted Briggs
throwing out his right arm for balance as he released a pass to
a fleet receiver far downfield.

Yeah, Harper Weems had a knack for cameras. For all the
good it did him.

Disappointed and disgusted, I headed back to the office, trying to rearrange my broken puzzle. I refused to admit I was
whipped, but every alley I turned down ended in the proverbial
brick wall.

It’s a cliche, but it is the truth. Misery does love company.
Utilizing my shaky and questionable Biblical knowledge, I
took that cynical observation one step farther, bad news begats
bad news.

I had no sooner walked into the office than the phone on my
desk rang. It was Janice. She was so wired, she could have lit a
light bulb if you could find some way to screw it in her ear.

“Nelson says this deal is fantastic, Tony. He says I can double my money in two weeks. I just had to call back and see if
you had changed your mind. This is a fantastic opportunity, and
I hate to see you pass it up “

“Sounds exciting, but no thanks. By the way, did you ever
find out what he’s investing in?” I glanced around the office.
Two of the guys were busy at their desks across the room.

“No. But whatever it is, it must be important. He wants me
to meet him at his bank with the sixty thousand in cash.”

“Cash? I thought you gave him a check.”

“I did, but he called me back. Seems like the deal is moving
faster than he thought. He can’t wait for the check to clear, so
he wants cash. We’ll deposit it in his account tonight. That way,
he can draw on it immediately if he has to.”

There was no doubt in my mind he was planning on moving
fast, like the next morning.

Janice interrupted my speculations. “Tony, are you sure I
can’t loan you some money?”

My brain whirled furiously. “Yeah, yeah,” I replied almost
absently. “But thanks again.”

“Okay. But don’t forget, I asked.”

“I won’t.”

I depressed the release button and called National Security
Bank, once again using the automated line in bookkeeping.
When prompted by the computerized voice, I entered his
account number and his social security number. The hesitating,
synthesized voice of the computer replied. “Account number
four, six, nine, three, zero, eight, one, one, dash, zero, one,
eight, nine, two has a balance of eight thousand, five hundred,
fourteen dollars and thirty-three cents. Thank you for using
National Security.”

I resisted the impulse to thank the machine.

Replacing the receiver, I pondered the information.
$8,514.33. Where was the forty thousand, Nelson?

I knew where it was. Why was I asking?

Uttering a curse, I punched in Eddie Dyson’s number. Eddie,
a perfect example of modern business and graft adjusting to the
Internet, surprised me by answering immediately. We
exchanged pleasantries and then in a lowered voice, I told him
what I wanted. “I plan to give a con man a taste of his own
game. I’ve got all the information, bank account number
included. I want to transfer a sum from one account to another.
In the morning. Before the bank opens. Can you do it?”

“Nope.”

I frowned.

But he continued. “However, I know who can.”

“Who?”

Eddie chuckled. “Forget it, Tony. You go through me. How
much you talking about?”

I glanced around the office again and cupped my hand over
the mouthpiece. “I was hoping for eighty-five Gs. It’ll probably
be closer to seventy,” I said, adding the sixty thousand deposit
to the current balance.

“Cost you ten percent.”

“That’s good for me, Eddie. There was supposed to be a hundred in there. The guy’s probably spent most of it. Get all that
you can. “

“You got it. Ten percent of whatever we can get.”

“Yeah.”

“Now, who’s the guy?”

I gave him all the information. “And transfer it to Robert
Rodison at the same bank, National Security. I’ll call you back
in fifteen minutes with the account number.”

There was a short pause as he took the information. “Okay,
Tony. You want me to put it on your VISA?”

I laughed. “What else?”

After I replaced the receiver, I rummaged through my desk
for my stack of ID cards. I pulled out the driver’s license and
social security card for Robert Rodison. By a strange coincidence, my picture happened to be on the driver’s license.

From time to time, we all have to stoop to devious methods,
but then, it’s the bad guys that force us.

Fifteen minutes later, I had the account open with an initial
deposit of two hundred bucks. Outside, I called Eddie on my
cell phone and gave him the account number.

Now, all I had left was to put in the call to the Travis County
Sheriff’s Department and have them pick up Nelson
Vanderweg.

I sat in my Chevy pickup in the National Security bank parking lot while I called the sheriff’s department. I identified
myself. “There’s a runner in town.”

Under his breath, he cursed. “Another one.”

Ignoring his disgusted remark, I continued. “Two Arizona
warrants on him, aggravated assault and grand theft. His name
is Nelson Vanderweg, apartment 223, Bull Creek Apartments.”
I provided them the telephone number of the apartments plus
the manager’s name, knowing they would verify Vanderweg’s
presence before taking another step.

“You can contact me at Blevins Investigations or at home.” I
gave them both numbers. “I think the guy is ready to fly.
Probably tomorrow. No telling where he’ll light.”

I clicked off the cell phone. “So much for your sorry tail,
Vanderweg.”

Shifting into gear, I headed for the nearest McDonald’s for a
traveling lunch, visualizing the unfolding scenario at the sheriff’s department. At that moment, the Travis County Sheriff’s
department was calling Phoenix, Arizona to confirm the warrants. With the confirmation, the sheriff’s department would pick Vanderweg up, take him before a judge, and then pop him
behind bars to await an Arizona lawman to take him back.

I chuckled. Couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy.

Back at my desk, I spent the rest of the afternoon juggling
and rearranging my notes on the Holderman case. Finally, I
reconciled myself to the fact that Weems was in all probability
not responsible for Holderman’s murder.

If only I could have spoken with Carrie Cochran.

Woodenly, I reviewed my list of suspects, carefully jotting
down evidence that failed to support their complicity even
though I had it all memorized by now. Kim Nally, PE teacher:
Too short, right-handed, too weak, no motive. But, she had the
opportunity. Perry Jacobs: Too short, right-handed. He had
motive, but no opportunity. Frances Holderman and Fred
Seebell had no opportunity. Both the band camera and the two
young hall monitors verified that fact.

With a sigh, I leaned back in my chair and tossed my pen on
the desk. I was exhausted. My head hurt. And I was confused.

Before I went to bed, I checked my e-mail. The Denver PI,
DL Burnet, had sent me the information I requested. If there
had been any question about Arthur Weems’ part in the murder,
the message blew it into a million pieces. Weems was where he
had said, Saudia Arabia, from December 2003 until May 2005.
Threequarters of his income, as did Harper Weems’, came
from a family inheritance.

Driving south in the heavy traffic on Lamar the next morning,
I replayed the investigation over and over in my head, searching
for some piece of evidence I might have misinterpreted, some
scrap I could have misjudged.

Though I had not given Marty any false hopes, he would be
ticked off. Either he’d fire me or I’d end up back at my old job
running down skips and serving warrants. Maybe that’s where
I belonged. Maybe I would never be as successful as Al Grogan, the number one honcho at Blevins Investigations.
Maybe in the grand scheme of life, I was destined to be
mediocre.

Of course, I told myself in an effort to rationalize my failure, the Safford Police Department had done no better.

I stopped at a traffic light and muttered ruefully. “Too bad
there wasn’t one of Weems’ cameras in the classroom when
Holderman was murdered.”

I remembered the collection of Weems’ photos on the walls
of the chapel. And abruptly, a new piece for the puzzle
appeared. That ethereal scrap of misjudged evidence. I couldn’t
believe it. Why hadn’t I seen it before? That was it!

Shouting an ancestral expletive at the top of my lungs, I
slammed the side of my fist against the steering wheel halfa-dozen times, each time screaming the expletive with growing
enthusiasm.

Ecstatic, I looked around. Drivers on each side of me stared
curiously, probably wondering when I was going to begin
frothing at the mouth. I just gave them a stupid grin, and as
soon as the light changed, sped away. I knew who had murdered George Holderman. And how. And why. It was as plain
as the nose on my face, but I had been too blind to see it. Now
all I had to do was prove it.

And I had a hunch how I could do that. It all depended on the
answer Jim Hawkins, the teacher who provided the airtight
alibi for Perry Jacobs, gave me.

At my office, I dialed his number. I asked him one simple
question. He gave me the simple answer I wanted, the same one
he’d given me before, but that I was too dumb to pick up on it.
I thanked him, then dialed Harper Weems’ number.

When Arthur Weems answered, I quickly explained what I
had in mind and laid out my idea for a special reading of the
will at the memorial service. That would give us time to notify
everyone I had interviewed. “Tomorrow night, with your help,
I’ll show you who murdered your brother.”

He agreed. I provided him a list of the suspects. Via his attorney, Weems contacted all, explaining that his brother had
remembered that individual in his will and requested his presence when it was read at the memorial service.

I began making plans.

For once, Sergeant Chief Pachuca didn’t laugh in my face.
When I laid out my evidence, he stopped chomping on his
ubiquitous cigar. “Ummm.” He studied the plan. “What happens if they don’t bite?”

“I thought of that. I’ve got license numbers of kids who
made buys in the parking lot. I’m seeing them today. One of
them will rat.” I hesitated. “Don’t sweat it, Chief. It’ll work.”

Chief Billy Vanbiber of the Safford Police Department
agreed to be present also.

I spent the afternoon lining up the incriminating evidence. At
3:15, I called the sheriff’s department. Vanderweg had been
arrested and presently was residing in Travis County jail awaiting extradition.

Without replacing the receiver, I placed a call to Eddie
Dyson. I kept my fingers crossed, hoping he had managed to
shift most of Janice’s last investment.

Eddie was effusive. “Tony. Tony. How you doing, my man?
You’re a good dude to do business with, you know? I always
like doing business with you.”

I frowned. He was almost delighted. That wasn’t like Eddie.
Or was he being sarcastic? Tentatively, I asked, “What happened, Eddie?”

“You made my week, Tony. The deal’s done. One problem, I
could only debit your account fifteen thousand. You owe me
another eight. A total of twenty-three thousand.”

My jaw dropped open. “Twenty-three thousand?” What in
the dickens was going on? “Hey, Eddie. Ten percent. That’s all
you were supposed to charge.”

“And that’s what I did, Tony. The guy had two hundred and thirty-one thousand in his account. I transferred it like you said. All except one G.”

My brain raced. Two hundred and thirty thousand. Jeez.

Slowly, Eddie’s voice cut through the roaring in my ears. “Tony, you okay? Hey, Tony.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” I hesitated. “Eddie, are you sure?”

“Hey, I never make mistakes, Tony. That’s part of the service.”

Laughing weakly, I said, “Well, you gave me some good service this time. Thanks. I’ll get the other eight to you, don’t worry.”

“I ain’t worrying, Tony.”

I sat staring at the receiver. It was almost four. The bank was closed. As soon as the bank opened in the morning, I’d draw out three cashier’s checks, one for $15,000, one for $23,000, and the third for $85,000.

What about the other $107,000.00? What poor, trusting suckers did it belong to?

I’ve never been one who believed if you focused on a problem just before sleep, your dreams would solve it. However, that’s the only explanation I can give for the dream I had that night. I awakened, laughing at just what I was going to do with the additional $107,000. Still chuckling at the idea, I turned over and went back to sleep.