The Puzzle of Piri Reis (8 page)

He looked at me blankly. "Key?"

"Yeah" I nodded impatiently. "A room key"

"Oh. Okay. Let me see" He emptied all of his pockets. No key.

For a moment, I considered tossing him in the river,
but then I'd have to haul him out, and without being
soaking wet, he was close to three hundred pounds.

I rolled my eyes. "Come on. Stay at my place"

Ten minutes later, I unlocked my door, flipped on
the light, and froze. Someone had torn the room apart.

"What's wrong, Tony? This the right room?"

"Yeah," I muttered, staring at the tossed bed, the mattress on the floor by the patio doors, the clothes yanked
from the closet, and the gear dumped from my sports
bag. "Yeah, it's the right room" At least I'd taken the
precaution of leaving my laptop and portable printer in
my pickup.

Jack laughed drunkenly. "You sure ain't very neat."
He then promptly passed out on the mattress.

After straightening the room, I left Jack snoring on
the mattress on the floor, and, figuring this was one of
those special occasions, went back to the River Walk
for a straight bourbon.

Leaning against a balcony railing in front of Pooky's,
I stared unseeing down at the thinning crowds on the
flagstone sidewalks below, pondering a connection between the eighteen-wheeler earlier that morning and
my tossed room.

I had worked the underbelly of society long enough
to figure there was a connection even though I couldn't
see it.

Ted Odom was the only one who knew I was coming
down from Austin. And then he, Edna, and George Moffit were the only ones who knew I was in town. I paused, then added the police chief, Louis Ibbara, to the short
list.

Ted hired me, so why would he have someone run
me off the road? Besides, all three-Ted, Edna, and
Moffit-knew I had learned nothing of the location of
the map.

I wanted to believe that whoever broke into my room
was probably some lowlife creep who made a practice
of rifling tourists' rooms for whatever he could pawn,
but the skeptic in me refused. I turned up the glass and
drained the last of the bourbon.

That night, as I lay on a cheesecloth-covered sheet
of four-by-eight plywood the hotel laughingly called
box springs, I toyed with Edna's idea that the map was
still in the house despite Ted's belief it had been stolen.
Having thoroughly searched the den myself, my inclination was the same as Ted's. The eighteen-bytwenty-four-inch parchment was not in the den.

Staring into the darkness above my head, I blew
softly through my lips. If I was going to question every
individual on the list I needed background-background that might take weeks to dig out of reluctant
suspects. To speed up the process, there was only one
person to whom I could turn-Eddie Dyson.

Once known as Austin's resident stool pigeon, Eddie discovered his mission in life when he stumbled
into the computer revolution. He discovered he possessed an uncanny knack for computers, and developed unique skills that led him to become a wildly successful entrepreneur in a seamy business.

Instead of sleazy bars and greasy money, he found
his snitching niche in the bright glow of computers
and credit cards. Any information I couldn't find, he
could. There were only two catches if you dealt with
Eddie. First, you never asked him how he did it, and
second, he accepted only VISA credit cards for payment.

I never asked Eddie why he accepted only VISA.
Seems like any credit card would be sufficient, but considering the value and the expediency of his service, I
never posed the question. As far as I was concerned, if
he wanted to be paid in kopecks, shekels or rubles, I'd
pack up a couple of barrelfuls and FedEx them to him.

Failure was not a word in his vocabulary. His services did not come cheap, but he produced. With Eddie,
the end was always worth the means.

Eddie was expensive, fast, and reliable.

Quickly rising and dressing, I retrieved my laptop
from the pickup and using the inn's wireless, went online. In my e-mail, I asked for credit reports as well as
civil and criminal background checks on Ted Odom,
Edna Hudson, Lamia Sue Odom, George Moffit, and
the names on the list Ted provided. And I asked for
what bank accounts he could hack into.

I'm often amused when I overhear individuals discussing means to protect their own privacy. Whether
we like it or not, Big Brother is alive and well. The truth is, if any Joe Sixpack wanted to part with enough
palm oil, he could find out anything about anyone.

While waiting for his response, I had no choice but
to plod along in my own inimitable blunder-ahead
methods that had taken me years to perfect.

And I would begin with Ervin Maddox early next
morning.

Jack was still snoring when I rose at five thirty. On
the restaurant balcony overlooking an almost deserted
River Walk, I jotted down a few questions for Maddox
while I helped myself to the inn's continental breakfast
of cheese bagels, chocolate doughnuts, and hot coffee,
a perfect way to start off the day by clogging my arteries and loading up on the carbs.

At seven thirty, I called Maddox, simply telling him
it was imperative I speak with him about the Piri Reis
Map. I informed him that the map was missing, and
that he and several others were known to have a morethan-casual interest in it.

I added, "I spoke with Chief Ibbara of the San
Madreas police force and received his full approval to
work on this case. I'm free this morning. I can be at
your shop on the River Walk by eight thirty. That'll
give us time before you open at nine."

Maddox hesitated. In a soft, cultured voice, he
replied, "The Piri Reis Map, you say?"

"Yes"

He hesitated, then, his tone suddenly wary, asked, "Why me? I don't know how I could be of any assistance."

"I'm talking to anyone who expressed interest in the
map. Ibbara agrees that one of you might be responsible
for the missing map" A little lie, which I followed with
a not-too-veiled threat. "If you don't meet with me, the
police might wonder why you refused"

"I beg your pardon. I didn't know anything about
the map being stolen."

"I didn't say anything about it being stolen. I just
said it was missing."

A sense of urgency filled his voice. "No! No! I
didn't mean that. I meant, I don't know anything about
the map. I wanted it, but Bernard refused to sell it to
me"

"So, you wouldn't mind if I come over for a short
visit and clear all of this up?"

He sighed deeply. With resignation, he asked, "Do
I have a choice?"

I chuckled. "Sure you do, Mr. Maddox. Me or the
San Madreas police."

After several moments, he replied, "I'm not in the
shop today. You know where I live?"

"Yeah. 8135 San Jacinto Drive. I drove by last night
just to be sure I could find it." The last was a lie, but I
found over the years that sometimes a little white lie
provides me a psychological edge if a suspect believes
I've already checked him out.

I left a few minutes later so I would have plenty of
time to find Maddox's place. Jack was still sleeping. Hoping he would take the hint, I left him a note. See
you in Austin. Jack was a good friend but he was on a
drinking vacation; I was working; I didn't want him tagging after me.

As usual traffic was heavy, so I found a lane and
stayed in it. Whether it was by a stroke of luck, divine
intervention, or a twist of fate, a green sports car shot
through a red light. I slammed on my brakes and
screeched to a halt, barely missing the idiot who never
slowed or looked back.

When I hit the brakes, I felt something strike the
back of my loafer. I pulled across the intersection to
the curb before glancing at the floorboard.

Behind my heel was a plastic bag containing white
powder. "What the-" I picked up the bag. Suddenly,
I clutched it in my fist and looked around hurriedly to
see if anyone were watching.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw no one was
paying me any attention. Holding the bindle in my lap, I opened it and picked up some powder on the tip of
my finger. I tasted it.

Wow! Pure coke.

For a moment, I tried to figure out what the dickens
was going on. Obviously, someone had jimmied the
lock during the night, planted the bindle, and locked
the door. I had no idea who, although I was beginning
to catch a glimmer of why. Someone wanted me out
of the way and a bag of coke was just as effective as a
bomb. Crushing the bag in my fist, I looked around for
some way to get rid of it.

I pulled into a convenience store down the street,
quickly searched the rest of the pickup, then after buying a cup of coffee used the restroom to dump the coke,
flush the bag, and wash my hands. Only then did I continue on my way to Ervin Maddox's.

A few minutes after eight, I found his place, a neat
brick home nestled back in a cul-de-sac lush with tropical shrubbery.

I was surprised when a slender, gray-haired gentleman who parted his hair in the middle opened the door.
To add to my surprise, he smiled. He reminded me of
a college professor. "Ah, Mr. Boudreaux"

"Mister Maddox?"

His smile grew wider, and he offered his hand.
"Ervin."

"I'm Tony" I took his hand, taken aback by his
amiable demeanor. From our conversation, I had ex pected him to be sullen and reticent, one from whom I
would be forced to drag information.

His grip was firm, and he tugged me inside. "Come
in, come in, please. I put on coffee and popped some
cinnamon rolls in the oven."

Still puzzled, I followed him through the house.

A slight man, he was a couple of inches shorter than
my five-ten. He wore a crisp light blue shirt, sharply
pressed gray slacks, and shiny black loafers. I figured
him at a hundred and forty pounds. His leather heels
clicked on the hardwood floors.

The walls of the neat home were covered with a
number of oil or watercolor canvases. Below the paintings on one wall was a set of glassed-in shelves spanning a forty-foot-long wall, displaying various artifacts
that looked Mayan or Aztec.

I hesitated, staring curiously at a small statue sitting
cross-legged with a paintbrush in one hand and a shell
paint pot in the other.

Noticing my interest, he explained. "That is Pauahtun, the God of scribes and artists. The face is that of
a howler monkey. He was an artisan in Mayan myth.
Dates back to 725 AD or so"

"Quite a collection," I replied, admiring the hundreds
of other artifacts.

"Thank you," he said simply, turning on his heel
and leading the way onto a small patio out back surrounded by thick tropical shrubbery. He gestured to a
padded wrought-iron chair and paused at a small table with a coffeepot. "How do you like your coffee? It's
Colombian. I'm quite proud of it."

I sat. "Black is fine"

In the middle of the glass-topped, wrought-iron table
was a platter covered with a starched linen cloth, beneath which, when he pulled it away, were four steaming cinnamon rolls, the hot icing running down the
sides.

"Help yourself, please, Mr. Boudreaux. I'll pour."
He tilted the coffeepot. "I must apologize for my rudeness when you called. I had just learned that an artifact on which I had bid had gone to another."

I studied him as he poured the coffee. He moved
more like a woman-gracefully, delicately, purposefully. The truth is, he was very effeminate. On the other
hand, I have been acquainted with more than my share
of effeminate men whom I would never cross. "Apology accepted" Nodding to his house, I said, "Quite a
collection you have in there. Have you been in the
business long?"

Handing me a fragile china cup three-quarters filled
with steaming black coffee, he nodded to the rolls. I
declined. "I had a bagel at the hotel"

With a shrug, he poured his coffee. "As long as I can
remember. Even in grade school, I collected what I, at
the time, thought were treasures of art" He laughed and
sat back on a cushioned chaise lounge. He grew serious.
"Is what you say true-the Piri Reis Map was stolen?"