Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (10 page)

“You Clarence Jolly?”

“Yeah. But I don’t own that Mercedes.”

I continued my lie. “Sorry, bud. According to the up-to-date
registry, you own it. We got it in storage and you owe two grand
on it. “

He muttered a curse. “Look … who are you?”

“Ed George. I own George’s Wrecking and Towing down
here in Austin. Cops had me haul this black Mercedes E-Fiftyfive AMG off the street. I want to know who’s paying for it.
You’re listed as the owner.”

His voice became placating. “Look, Mr. George. I sold that
car three weeks ago to a guy out of Boulder, Colorado. His
name was Nelson Villafono. Some kind of Greek, I guess. I
don’t even know what Villafono is, but he wrote me a check on
a Boulder bank. It cleared without a problem. After it did, I
signed the title over to him. He’s the one you need to get hold
of. I don’t want to get involved in this. It ain’t none of my business now.”

“Don’t know if I can keep you out of it or not, Mr. Jolly.
Somebody’s got to pay the fee. Can you tell me anything about
him so I can track him down?”

“I don’t know much about him. He hung around here a few
days. Said he had some business to take care of. He even paid
for my call to his bank.”

“Where’d he stay? Any idea?”

“No. Wait a minute. Yeah, yeah. He said something about
staying at the Ranchmans’ Motel out on Highway Sixty, the
Pampa highway. They might be able to tell you where he was
headed.” He hesitated, then gave an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry.
You already know that. You got his car. He must’ve gone to
Austin from here.”

I thanked Clarence Jolly and hung up. For several moments I
stared at the receiver trying to focus my thoughts. I had a couple of options with Nelson Villafono or Vanderweg or whatever.
The fastest would be to check the arrest records in Boulder. I jotted a reminder in my notebook, and then headed for the door.

Before I visited Perry Jacobs again, I wanted to see George
Holderman’s desk pad, which was being held in the evidence
room at Safford Police Station. If Jacobs was telling the truth
about the letter or reprimand, maybe I could find some mention
of it on the pad.

The wind had dropped, but the sky remained cloudy, keeping
the temperature in the low forties.

That George Holderman was a meticulous person was evident. My own desk pad was a collage of indecipherable doodles, upside down notes, scribbled reminders, vague questions,
and some drawings that could be labeled marginally obscene.
Holderman’s notes were in precise hand and confined to the
respective boxes. As each obligation was met, he placed a
checkmark beside it. Once all obligations for the day were met,
a neat X crossed off the box.

The last box X’ed out was Monday, November 10, 2004.
November 11 was the night he was murdered, and one of
the notations in the box was to see PJ. In parentheses beside
the note was written a name and business, AW, CR Real
Estate.

PJ? AW? CR? I skimmed the previous days. Some names
were written, some abbreviated. PJ? Could that be Perry
Jacobs? My pulse quickened. Perry and a real estate agent in
the same note? I glanced back over the November calendar.
Each of Holderman’s appointments were numbered, neatly
separating one meeting from the other. If this AW was a separate appointment, Holderman would have indicated such.

On my own desk pad, my notes were so confused that at
times I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to do. But
not Holderman. Talk about organized. I hated organized
people.

I could almost reprise his day on an hour-by-hour basis, both
personal and professional. Quickly, I thumbed through the yellow pages for real estate and discovered one CR, Colorado
River Real Estate, owner, Al Waldron.

Bingo. AW.

I jotted down Al Waldron’s address and phone number.

Skimming back over November, I saw no commentary
regarding a letter of reprimand for Jacobs. I looked for the previous months’ records. They were nowhere around. I checked
with the officer in charge. He frowned at the cream-colored
pad. “Yeah. I remember. There’s a whole box full of them pages. Folded in quarters and stuck in brown envelopes. Guess
the guy saved them for whatever reason.”

I suppressed a grin. Having been in the school business, I
knew why Holderman saved everything-to cover his tail from
irate parents upset because their precious child had to stay after
school or didn’t make the cheerleading squad or any of another number of reasons, none of them having to do with class
work.

The box of envelopes turned out to be a gold mine of information. My initial inspection was cursory because of the detail,
and I quickly realized that even if Holderman had kept a diary,
he could not have provided more information than did the years
of notes.

And he was as meticulous in archiving them as keeping
them. Each sheet, eighteen inches by fifteen, was folded into
neat quarters, and placed in manila envelopes with the year
written in felt-tip on the outside. Twelve years’ worth. The job
would take me hours.

Safford Police Chief Billy Vanbiber let me sign for the box
of Holderman’s notes. “Thanks, Chief. I’ll have them back in a
couple of days, if that’s okay with you.”

He gave me a big grin. “Chief Pachuca said you’re okay.
Take your time.”

Sometimes the good old boy network pays off.

Colorado River Real Estate was on the way back to my place
on Peyton-Gin Road, so I decided to stop by.

Al Waldron did not look like a real estate salesman, which
was probably why he was so successful. A short, rotund man
with close-clipped, neatly combed hair, he wore a genial smile
and his warm tone instantly convinced you that you were the
most important person in the world.

His demeanor didn’t even crack when I identified myself as
a private investigator. He simply ushered me into an office with
expansive windows offering a sweeping overlook of the
Colorado River, a wide ribbon of gray water below. The room
was tastefully appointed, but not ostentatious.

The only time the smile fled his face was when I explained
that I was looking into Holderman’s death. Al shook his head.
“Shame about that. George Holderman was a good man. He
was a risk-taker. He almost made the big time.”

“The big time? You mean, in real estate?”

“That’s where the money is today.” He eyed me curiously.
“You ever been tempted to take a flier, take a risk? I know
where there’s some speculative property for a fair price. If the
right things happen in the next couple years, a man could spend the rest of his days on the French Riveria sipping Dom
Perignon and eating Beluga Caviar.”

“What kind of caviar?”

“Beluga Caviar. The best. Hey, one sturgeon can carry up to
several thousand dollars worth of caviar.”

“I’ve heard of caviar, but not that Beluga stuff.”

He grinned. “Top of the line caviar. Straight out of the
Caspian Sea. A hundred and fifty bucks an ounce. Now, what
about it? Want to take a chance?”

I made a face, then laughed. “On what I make? You’d run me
out of here if you knew what I take home weekly.”

He joined the laughter, but kept selling. “George started
small. He did everything the right way. He saved, invested as he
could. Never lost patience or hope. Almost had it. You probably
could do the same thing.”

Now I was seeing another side of Holderman, though his
strong appetite for life and his meticulous attention to detail
seemed to fit right in with his investment strategies. “What
happened?”

Waldron’s smile faded. He paused and stared into the air
over my head. “Too often, Mr. Boudreaux, all of the careful
planning, the well thought out strategies, blow up because of
one factor.” He fixed his eyes on mine. “Greed.”

I frowned. “Greed? You mean he lost his money?”

Waldron nodded. “Not all of it, about half. And on top of
that, he made himself one big enemy.”

My pulse raced. An enemy? Who could Waldron be talking
about? My brain raced. The only name I could come up with
was Perry Jacobs. “Go on. He listened to the wrong person, you
said. Who? Who is the enemy he made?”

He hesitated.

“Look, Mr. Waldron. Holderman’s dead. I don’t know if
whoever you’re talking about had anything to do with it or not,
but it could be important.”

He gave me a sheepish grin. “I always figured it could, Mr. Boudreaux, but when the police never came to ask questions, I
dismissed it. If they didn’t think it was important, why should I?”

I’m always amazed at just how easy it is for people to lie to
themselves so they won’t have to be involved. It’s so much
more comfortable to simply forget about a bad situation if possible. Push it out of your mind. Let someone else handle it.

But, I bit my tongue. I still needed information, so I couldn’t
alienate the man. “I don’t know, Mr. Waldron. Could be they
knew nothing about Holderman’s real estate interests.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.” A tinge of embarrassment colored
his plump cheeks.

“So, who is this enemy you’re talking about?”

He hesitated. “Maybe enemy is too strong a word.”

I was growing impatient. “Come on, Waldron. Either you tell
me, or I’ll bring the cops out. I don’t have time for games.”

An embarrassed grin spread over his round face. “I’m sorry,
Mr. Boudreaux.” He gave a deep sigh. “Look, Boudreaux, I’m
like most. I don’t want to get involved.”

“I understand. But, you understand, you might have information that will help find the killer. Either way, Mr. Waldron,
you’re going to give us the information you have.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“Good. Now, this enemy he made. Who is it? The same one
who told him about the investment?”

“No. Chu Cheng Lee talked George into investing. We all
thought the deal was legitimate, so George convinced a friend
to invest. This friend did and lost it all. They almost went to
blows right here in this office.”

“Who is the friend?”

Waldron hesitated.

“Come on, Waldron. Who are we talking about?”

“Perry Jacobs,” he replied softly. “Perry Jacobs is the man
who lost everything.”

My reply was couched in the archetypical Tony Boudreaux
eloquence. “P … P … Perry Jacobs?”

He nodded.

“The teacher? The schoolteacher? That Perry Jacobs? He
lost everything?” Motive in capital letters flashed before my
eyes. Compound that with his loss of a contract, and you could
be talking lethal injection time. But then I reminded myself that
a teacher couldn’t have that much to lose anyway.

Again, Waldron nodded. Clearing his throat, he explained.
“Chu Cheng Lee set up a parent corporation to invest in several large real estate complexes in and around Austin. He was
smooth. Half a dozen Chinese nationals invested over twelve
million with him. At first, the investments paid off nicely for
Holderman. At the time, him and Jacobs were on friendly
terms. Jacobs laughed at Holderman when he heard about the
investment. Said Holderman was a sucker, but when
Holderman picked up a nice little thirty percent return on his
investment the first year, Jacobs jumped in. He sold the old
family property on the other side of Lake Travis and followed
Holderman’s advice. He sunk his entire savings in the scheme.”

I changed the thrust of the conversation slightly. “What
about you? You get in on it?”

“At first, then I got out. Something about Chu Lee bothered
me. I tried to talk to Holderman about it, but he refused to listen even though we had worked together for years in various
investment strategies.”

Waldron shook his head at the frown on my face. “It turned
out to be the old pyramid scheme, Mr. Boudreaux. We later
learned that Lee had carefully constructed a paper empire,
complete with slick brochures picturing the brand new Alamo
Life Insurance Building in downtown Austin, which he claimed
he owned. In addition, he convinced his investors he was in the
process of purchasing eight or ten Fortune Five hundred companies. In the beginning, he had a world-class center of operations for the whole world to see. For a couple years, he floated
fraudulent loans with which to pay off investors and draw in
more money.”