Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 14 - Murder in a Casbah of Cats (25 page)

Henry glanced at his watch. The smile on his face had long since disappeared. “Wonder where she is. It’s late. She’s never out past seven.”

“Maybe they had car trouble,” I said.

Karla spoke up. “They would have called. They both got cell phones. Besides, Pawpaw has a chain of auto-repair shops, American Acme. Frank would call them. They’re always helping me out.

Back in the kitchen, I glanced out the window at the garage. The Ford pickup bay was empty.

By eight o’clock, we had called them twice on their cells with no answer.

Edna, Karla, and Henry were pacing the floor, worrying about wrecks and hijackings. I would have been also, except for that suspicious little nagging that most PIs develop over a period of time, the nagging idea that perhaps I hadn’t been all that wrong
about Gadrate. But, I told myself, if I weren’t wrong about her, I had really dropped the ball about Frank Creek.

I turned to Edna. “You said Frank was going to get some more gasoline. You know the name of the station he goes to?”

Henry supplied the name. “Jefferson-Jones Fuel Service.”

Jefferson-Jones Fuel Service had not seen Frank Creek. My suspicions were growing. I placed a call to a couple of friends on the police force, giving them a description of the pickup with the Watkins mansion logo on the doors.

We called the local hospitals. Nothing.

After hanging up, I announced. “Let’s take a look at Gadrate’s room.”

They gaped at me like I’d suggested we shoot the pope. “Look,” I said, “we can’t file any kind of missing-person report until tomorrow. No hospitals have treated or admitted anyone of their description. Maybe we’ll find something that will help us. Maybe they decided to stop off for a movie and just didn’t mention it. Or maybe they didn’t.”

Reluctantly, they agreed.

Her room was as neat as she kept the laundry room. Her dresser and vanity drawers were full, but the desk drawers were empty, and from some of the cosmetics spilled to the floor, it appeared she gathered some hurriedly.

I gestured to the empty desk drawers. “Any idea what she had in here?”

Edna shrugged. Henry shook his head. “Nope. Personal stuff, I suppose.”

“Personal stuff, huh?” I glanced once again at the top-middle drawer, then the three drawers on the side of her desk.

“What are you looking for?” Karla took a step closer.

“I’m not sure.” I was lying but I didn’t want to alarm them until I was positive. Most people keep their financial records, such as checkbooks and bank registers, within easy access. It wasn’t as much as what I found in her desk as what I didn’t find.

No bank records, and from Eddie’s report, I knew Gadrate had around twenty thousand in her bank account. Most of us would keep those records in safe-deposit boxes, but not our checkbooks.

I looked around at Henry. “You think maybe we might find anything at Frank’s that would give us an idea of where they are?”

He studied me a moment. “You think something has happened to them?”

“I don’t know.”

Karla headed for the door. “Let’s go see. At least that gives us something to do besides stand around and worry.”

Frank’s neat cottage looked as if it were waiting for his return. The TV was on; a half-full tumbler of peach vodka sat on the table beside his easy chair.

Edna shook her head. “I’m really getting scared now.”

“Yeah,” Karla replied. “This is spooky.”

“What do you think is going on, Tony?” Henry’s brow knit in puzzlement.

“I don’t know.” I sorted and cataloged some events of the last few days. My theory about Mendoza had blown sky-high. I still couldn’t shake the idea that the voice in the tunnel had been Gadrate’s, nor could I reconcile Guzman’s presence on the grounds with anything but a drug deal.

“Something’s screwy,” he said.

I spotted a trash can against the wall. It was almost full, and on top, I saw an empty box that once contained sandwich bags. I
rummaged through the trash can. As soon as I found three more empty boxes, I remembered the neatly stacked boxes of sandwich bags I’d seen on the cabinet earlier.

Closing my eyes, I muttered a curse.

“What’s wrong, Tony?”

Gesturing to the desk against the wall, I ignored Henry’s question as I jerked open the middle drawer on Frank’s desk and gestured to the cabinets. “Look through the cabinets and bookcases,” I said.

“For what?” Karla stared at me.

“Bank records,” I said. “Checkbooks. Any kind of financial data.”

“But why?”

Without looking at Edna, I replied. “There were no bank records in Gadrate’s room. There were personal bills in her desk, so we can assume that’s where she took care of her business.” I paused and looked up. “You have your checkbook on you?”

“No. Of course not. It’s back in my…” She hesitated, her eyes growing wide. “In my desk with all my other records,” she added softly.

“Where you always keep it unless you plan on using it, right?”

“Yes. Unless I plan to use it.”

I turned back to the desk. “And I’ll give you odds we won’t find Frank’s bank records either.”

Slamming the last drawer shut in frustration, I pounded the heel of my hand against my head. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. I should have seen it.”

Henry looked around from the cabinet drawers. “Seen what?”

I made a sweeping gesture of the cottage. “All this. It was right in front of me, and I was too blind to see it.”

All three were staring at me, their faces reflecting their confusion.

“See what?” Henry asked.

Taking a deep breath, I shook my head slowly. “Little things about Frank that I never snapped to. The spiders, for example. You remember that morning at breakfast when we were talking about them?” Henry nodded. I continued. “He said, big black hairy spiders are scary. Remember that?”

Edna agreed emphatically. “Yeah. I remember that.”

“How did he know, if he hadn’t seen them? You can ask Henry here. I smashed those suckers to a pulp. And then, Frank once told me he was in the kitchen with you when you two got word Mr. Watkins was dead.”

A frown knit her brow.

“I know. He lied about that. According to Henry here, you were flying in from your sister’s funeral. That’s what I mean about playing the dummy. I just never saw that.” I rolled my eyes and snorted. “Yeah, I really missed the ball on this one. I even thought Mendoza was the mule, the deliveryman for the drugs. It made sense.”

“How do you mean, Tony?”

I gave old hairless Henry a crooked grin. “You see, I got word that Collins was still in the business. I figured he gave the goods to Mendoza, who would drop them off to Gadrate, who broke them down and sold them to her distributors.” I paused, and then said, “I was wrong. It was Frank.” Their eyes grew wide. “Look,” I said, picking up an empty box of sandwich bags. “Frank got the goods from Jefferson-Jones Fuel.” I gestured for them to follow me into the storage shed adjoining the cottage. “I’m betting the goods were delivered with the cans of gasoline. Had you ever noticed how much gas Frank used?”

Henry shrugged. “Never paid any attention.”

I turned a can up and pointed to the rim. “Look how deep it is. The goods came taped to the bottom of the can. Frank pulled them off, then redistributed the goods in these plastic bags.” I held up the empty box.

Edna shook her head. “But, how did he take them to Gadrate without one of us getting suspicious?”

I glanced around the shed, spotting a white laundry bag on the floor in front of the worktable. “There. His laundry,” I replied, crossing the room to retrieve the bag. I felt a weight inside when I picked it up. I glanced in and my jaw hit the floor.

I started laughing. “Take a look.” I held the mouth of the bag open. Mixed with several strips of gray duct tape in the bottom were half a dozen sealed sandwich bags with tiny pebbles of crack cocaine in them.

Edna shook his head slowly in disbelief. Karla just stared at them. Henry peered into the bag, and then looked up at me, his gray eyes filled with pain and sadness. “I can’t believe it. Not Frank.”

I blew out through my lips. “It happens.”

“So, now what?”

“Now we call the police.”

Two of the jerricans still had goods taped to the bottom, nailing down Frank Creek’s involvement in the scheme. My identification of Gadrate’s voice plus her sudden disappearance was proof enough for the police to put out a BOL on her, Placide, and Frank. In addition, they attached Gadrate and Frank’s known bank accounts, cutting off a source of escape funds.

Fenster shrugged when he told me of the attachment. “Not much in their accounts. They’ll never touch them. They were for show. I wouldn’t even begin to guess how much they snuck back out of the country.”

Skylar Watkins was stunned when she learned of the bizarre events that had been taking place at the mansion.

Bill Collins was arrested.

The criminalists digging through the tunnel found two more caches, prescription drugs.

The next day, the Watkins mansion pickup was discovered in a deserted warehouse in downtown Austin. Less than twenty-fours hours later, Lieutenant Fenster notified me that Gadrate and her brother had been gunned down in a drug deal gone bad.

While Herbert Adam Watkins III’s reputation had not been foremost in my mind, I kept hoping nothing would break in the
papers about his alleged involvement in drugs with Bill Collins. I was realist enough, however, to know that once Collins went to trial, news anchors and headlines would scream out the allegations as loudly as they could. The media would have a new toy to badger and destroy. If it were only Watkins, I wouldn’t have blinked twice. The old man would deserve it, but the folks in his family were good people. They didn’t warrant that kind of demeaning notoriety.

That’s why when Collins turned up dead the day after he got out on bail, I didn’t cry. I don’t think anyone in the city cried except his clockers, those dealers who stayed on the street 24-7.

But I continued to wonder about Frank Creek and the loose ends still surrounding those few days at the mansion, until one day a month later I received a letter from Nuevo Laredo, Tamps, Mexico.

I had just come in from work. I grabbed the mail, popped open an Old Milwaukee, and plopped down on the couch. It was a good thing I was sitting because the letter would have knocked me on my keister.

It was from Frank.

Greetings Tony,

Sorry about the knot on the back of your head, but you caught us by surprise.

I suppose I should be mad at you for spoiling a sweet little deal, but I can’t complain. It could have lasted for years, but Gadrate had to bring her brother into it.

Placide killed Guzman over drug money. Gadrate took care of Morena. She thought he might give us away. She was dumb like that.

I only mention them because I know they’re dead. And no, I had nothing to do with that. That’s why you’re still alive. Her and that crazy brother of hers wanted you out of the way. I might be an old scoundrel, but I’m not a killer.

I took a liking to you, Tony. You’re a good boy. I enjoyed our little chats. I’ll miss them, but then the few million I have stuck back will soothe my feelings, don’t you think so?

Go ahead and give this letter to the cops. I know that’s what honest guys like you have to do. Don’t waste time looking for me. The real Frank Creek died thirty-five years ago when we jumped off a freight together in Arizona. I buried him and took his name.

Take care, and have a good life. So will I.

Frank

I read the letter twice, once in disbelief, and the second time in anger. I’d truly liked the old man, but now when I think of the damage he did to human life all those years of pushing drugs, the only luck I wish for him is to be a cell mate of Corky Radison in Camp J at Angola in Louisiana.

Lieutenant Fenster pursed his lips as he read the letter. When he finished, he looked up at me, and in a wry voice said, “Well, here’s another who weaseled out of a mess.” He folded the letter and slipped it into his coat pocket. “But we’ll get him, Boudreaux. Don’t you worry about that. Sooner or later, if we don’t get him, someone else will.”