The Puzzle of Piri Reis (4 page)

Standing on her tiptoes, she smiled sweetly and
touched her delicate lips to mine. "Thank you, Tony"

During the drive back to my apartment, my head
reeled with confusion. While I don't possess the inherent intuitiveness of Al Grogan, the top investigator
in our agency, the years working with him had begun
to hone the PI mentality in me. I tried to analyze just what had happened that night. Her suggestion of marriage had come out of nowhere. Why? What prompted
it? Could it be she was serious? Did she truly want to
marry me? I couldn't believe her aunt agreed with her
choice of mates.

Beatrice tolerated me, pure and simple.

Flexing my fingers about the steering wheel, I muttered softly, "After all, Tony, she's rich, and you do
care for her." I came up with half a dozen other reasons to marry Janice, but for some reason the prospect
just didn't appeal to me. Was it simply a matter of cold
feet? Or the fact I just didn't want to marry again after
one bad marriage?

At 2:50, I pulled into my drive. It had been a long
day, and tomorrow would be even longer.

Before I left next morning, I made reservations at the
Grand Isle Inn on the River Walk in San Antonio, then
called the hospital. Beatrice was doing well. "She had a
good night. Call me when you settle in," Janice said.
"I'm staying with Aunt Beatrice until she's released."

"Right"

To my relief, she didn't mention our conversation
from the night before, and I certainly didn't.

When Mom had moved us to Austin twenty-odd
years earlier, the ninety or so mile drive from Austin to
San Antonio had been broken only by a mere handful of
small hill-country towns. Today, just about every single mile is filled with malls, service stations, curio shops,
discount centers, car lots, and any of a thousand other
businesses catering to the public.

Twenty-odd years ago, most of the traffic, other
than eighteen-wheelers, had been University of Texas
students visiting the open arms of exotic entertainment in San Antonio or farther south at Nuevo
Laredo. Today, all lanes, both north and south, were
jammed with bumper-to-bumper traffic, and exotic
entertainment could be enjoyed at the top and bottom
of every hill.

I hit the interstate just before nine after stopping off
at the police station and convincing Chief Pachuca to
put in a good word for me with the police chief at San
Madreas, Louis Ibbara.

He eyed me suspiciously. "Why?"

I explained I was only trying to find a missing map.

He agreed.

Chief Pachuca and I went back a few years. I always
made a point of never sticking my nose in his business
nor stepping over the lines he drew for me. Two or three
times, my nosing around helped him, and he always remembered.

So, tooling along 1-35 that morning at sixty-five in my
Chevrolet Silverado pickup, the only thing I had on my
mind was Janice's suggestion of marriage from the night
before and why she had not mentioned it in our conversation that morning. Then the thought hit me that maybe
she hadn't mentioned it for the same reason I hadn't. Or
maybe she was simply worried about her aunt.

I passed a black eighteen-wheel Peterbilt tractor
and a red Dodge Ram pickup. I couldn't help noticing
the big tractor had a dealer's license taped to the back
window. Half a mile ahead, I spotted the bridge spanning the San Marcos River. I pulled back into the right
lane. Moments later, from the corner of my eye, an object loomed on my left, filling the window. I glanced
over and to my stunned horror, spotted a massive black
tire as big as my pickup only inches from my truck.
The huge, eighteen-wheel tractor I had just passed had
pulled up beside me and was easing into my lane, forcing me onto the shoulder.

I laid down on the Klaxon horn but he ignored me.

Suddenly, steel guardrails loomed ahead. Muttering
a curse though my clenched teeth, I slammed on the
brakes, released them, touched them again, stomped
on the emergency brake and spun the wheel to the right,
hoping the weeklong driving class Marty had sent me
to a few years earlier would pay off.

To my relief, the pickup did a one-eighty and slid
onto the grass beyond the graveled shoulder, only inches
from the guardrails. Woodenly, I dropped the transmission into park and sagged back on the seat, my heart
thudding against my chest like a bass drum pounded by
a deranged drummer down on Sixth Street. I closed my
eyes.

Moments later, I heard a tapping on the window. I
opened my eyes to see a burr-headed young man staring at me in alarm.

"You all right, mister?"

Slowly, I rolled down the window and nodded.
"Yeah. Yeah. A little shook up, but I'm okay."

He shot a withering look at the highway. "That idiot
almost ran me off the road trying to get to you"

I blinked once or twice. "What's that?"

Nodding emphatically, he said, "Yeah. He'd been
following me for several miles. After you passed us, he
pulled out and came after you. What'd you do to the
guy?"

"Do? Nothing."

The young man arched an eyebrow. "Well, I don't
know for certain, but like I said, it sure looked like that
joker was deliberately trying to run you off the road. I
tried to get a license number, but he didn't have no
plates"

After the young man left, I waited another few minutes to still my shaking hands before pulling back on
the road. I always expected some drivers to be rude or
thoughtless, and more than once they've inadvertently
forced me into another lane or to slam on my brakes.
Other than cursing their ancestry, I forgot about them.

This one? Well, I didn't know.

After a few miles, I pushed the incident from my
mind. The driver probably had no idea he had run me
off the road. I figured the young man was just letting
his imagination run away with him.

San Madreas is a subdivision of San Antonio, having
been absorbed by the burgeoning city decades earlier. One of the stipulations before the community accepted
San Antonio's offer to annex was that the community
could keep its own civil and judicial infrastructure. I
couldn't help thinking it was sort of like Mayberry in
the middle of San Antonio.

The San Madreas police, if Chief Louis Ibbara was
any indication, were very informal. Casual and laidback were also apt descriptions. I was shown to a briefing room at the rear of the station where three officers
were bent over their desks in one corner completing
their shift reports. In another corner, a lanky, middleaged man in wrinkled khakis was slumped on a couch
drinking a Dr Pepper in front of a blaring TV. His mustache and wavy hair were neatly trimmed and black as
night.

Before I had a chance to plead my case, he rose and
extended his hand. "You're Boudreaux?"

"Yeah"

He gestured to a refrigerator. "Grab a Coke and
have a seat"

While I did as he suggested, he announced, "Ramon Pachuca called me this morning. He said you
were okay" He paused and his black eyes grew hard.
"Teddy said you were looking for the map"

I nodded and sipped my Coke.

"We're a small community here, Boudreaux. You
look for the map and we'll get along fine. Anything I
can do to help, let me know."

The warning in his tone was obvious. "No problem"

He grinned. "How was the drive down?"

"Lot of traffic," I replied, saying nothing of the
eighteen-wheeler.

"So that skinflint uncle of mine hid the map, huh?"

"Hid? Ted said it was missing. He thought it might
be stolen."

Ibbara snorted and gulped a couple of swallows of
Dr Pepper. "Teddy's always been an alarmist." He
grinned. "It wouldn't surprise me if Uncle Bernard hid
it so it would never be found."

His remarked puzzled me. "Why is that?"

His grin faded. "He was hard to get along with. Contrary as sin." He shook his head, his brow knit. "I hate
to say it about family but he was a mean man. Selfish.
Thought of nobody but himself. Always figured he
knew better than everyone, and it galled him when
anyone got more attention."

I was confused. "What does that have to do with the
map?"

He considered his answer a moment. "That map was
his lifetime achievement, something no one else could
ever match" He paused and squinted at me. "That make
sense?"

"Yeah. That makes sense" I sipped my soft drink.
"Ted said his father fell and hit his head"

Ibbara nodded and fished a pack of Marlboros from
his shirt pocket. He shook one out and offered it to me
but I declined. "Yep. October second. Uncle Bernard
was always a preoccupied sort. Looked like he was
reading one of those history books of his and wasn't
watching where he was walking. Stumbled over an ottoman and hit his forehead on the end table by the
couch. When he bounced off, he hit the back of his
head on the coffee table. Teddy found him on the floor
around eleven."

I grimaced. "Freakish, huh?"

Chief Ibbara screwed up his face in a frown. "Yep.
Old George-he's our Justice of the Peace-well, old
George said there was no evidence of foul play. He concluded Uncle Bernard tripped and hit his head. A blunt
trauma sort of thing, forehead and back of head"

Before I could catch myself, I asked, "Ted said
there was no autopsy"

For a moment Ibbara eyed me suspiciously, but the
grin on my face told him the question was casual, not
probing. "No reason. Uncle Bernard's skull was caved
in. Anyone could see that and blood was on the coffee
table and end table"

I grimaced. "Freakish, all right. You have any ideas
about the map?"

He looked at me like I was crazy. "Me? Nope, not a
single one. Uncle Bernard was involved with one of
those societies of weirdoes, all caught up in missing
continents, aliens from outer space, all that nonsense.
Me, I never saw the map. For all I know it might not
exist."

I chuckled. "Ted had better hope it does. Otherwise,
he's putting up a pretty penny for a lot of nothing."

Just before two that afternoon, I pulled up at the curb in
front of a three-story mansion of white limestone at
2112 Fairchild on a hill overlooking San Madreas and
San Antonio. I whistled as I studied the imposing structure. The two diagonal corners of the mansion were
cylindrical watchtowers with copper cone-shaped roofs
covered with a sheen of green tarnish. A balcony with
ornate railings stretched over the front entrance, which
could only be reached by puffing your way up a flight of
twenty concrete steps. A concrete ramp, wide enough for
delivery trucks, led up to the rear entrance, all of which
was also covered by a balcony. Spreading oaks dotted
the grounds, which took up an entire city block. A
spiked wrought-iron fence enclosed the entire grounds.

After managing all twenty of the front steps, I
knocked on the door. Moments later it opened, and a slender woman with a waspish face and gray hair pulled
into a severe bun stared indifferently at me. She wore a
simple one-piece dark blue print dress with a buttoned
torso and a thin white belt. "Yes?"

I forced a smile and introduced myself. "I'm here to
see Ted Odom"

Recognition flashed in her eyes and her tightly pursed
lips blossomed into a thin smile. "Mr. Boudreaux. I've
been expecting you" She stepped back, opening the
door. "Please, come in. I'm Edna Hudson. I am-I
mean, I was-Mr. Odom's private secretary for over
thirty years"

She led me to an office in one corner of the house.
The interior of the mansion suggested late-nineteenthor early twentieth-century construction. The wood
floors glittered like glass, and upon closer inspection,
I saw they were of heart pine wood. A spiral staircase
led to the floors above.

As elaborate, as ornate as the house was, it was just
as spooky.

In her office, she gestured to a chair as she slipped
behind her desk. Resting her left hand in her lap, she
smiled primly at me while picking up the phone and
punching in the numbers. I glanced around the office,
noting the computer hutch behind her desk and the
framed snapshots filling the wall around it. A multifunction, all-in-one office machine sat on one end of
the hutch.

She replaced the receiver. "Ted'll be right down,
Mr. Boudreaux"

I arched an eyebrow. "Oh? He lives here?"

She nodded briskly. "Yes. He has a nice room on
the third floor."

Room? On the third floor? A man in his forties?
Mentally, I whistled a tune of amazement. "I see. So
Ted isn't married?"

"No. He's too young really. He's only thirty-two."

For the second time in as many seconds, I was taken
aback. Thirty-two. And I figured him to be in his midforties. My estimation of Ted Odom began to change.
I've seen forty-five-year-olds look like thirty-two, but
the only thirty-two-year-olds I knew who looked fortyfive enjoyed lives of absolute dissipation and unqualified indulgence. I tried to hide my confusion. "I see.
Does-I mean, did he work with his father or have a
business of his own?"