Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (18 page)

“Any warrants out for him?”

“Not in Texas. Arizona either. That’s what I meant about him
being slick. He knows just how far he can go”

I muttered a curse and tore off a chunk of meat from the
bone savagely. That didn’t surprise me. Not many women
wanted to go on record that they’d fallen for some goodlooking gigolo who cared more about their money instead of
their body.

Danny studied me a moment. “Who’s the guy to you, Tony?”

“Nobody.” I shrugged. “Not really.”

An amused grin played over his lips. “He get your squeeze?”

I shot Danny a murderous glare.

He chuckled. “Sorry. I remember your young lady. Rich if
I’m not mistaken. Spoiled too” He turned his attention back to
the platter of ribs.

We ate in silence for a few minutes.

“What do you plan on doing, Tony?” Danny’s question was
judiciously tentative.

“Beats me” I shrugged. “I guess I am a little jealous. Janice
and I would probably never have married, but we had a lot of
good times together. I don’t want to see her hurt.”

“Look, Tony. I don’t want to fight with you, so tell me if I’m out of line, but how come this squeeze of yours is so-what’s
the word? You know-”

“Gullible? Trusting?”

“Yeah. Gullible. How come she’s like that?”

I considered his question. “She’s always had money. Hey, ten
thousand to her is like ten bucks to me. She never worked for
it, so she’s got no idea of its value.”

Danny shook his head and tore off a chunk of bread and
sopped the sauce from his plate. He leaned forward and popped
the bread in his mouth. Around the mouthful, he said, “Say the
word. We’ll send this bozo back to Arizona for you, Tony Boy.
In a box.”

I was tempted. But I resisted. “Thanks, but I figure this is
probably something she has to find out herself. She needs some
kind of closure. The guy just up and vanishes, she’ll always
wonder about him.”

“What do you mean?” He frowned. “Wonder what?”

I pointed a dripping rib at him for emphasis. “You know,
why did he go? Was it something she did? Should she chase
after him?”

He cocked his head aside. “Why would she wonder something like that?”

I suppressed a chuckle. “Because she’s a woman. Women
wonder about things like that. A friend doesn’t call her for a
month, she thinks the friend hates her.”

For several moments, he considered my explanation. Finally
he shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

Danny and I had one of those typical male friendships.
Unlike the fairer gender, we could go months without seeing
each other and take up right where we left off. I’ve no doubt if
we showed up at a party wearing the same clothes, we’d throw
our arms around each other and swagger around the rest of the
night calling ourselves twins.

So, now our conversation ranged from sports to school days to gossip to present plans. “What kind of job you got going
now, Tony Boy? Anything exciting?”

“Exciting? Boring is more like it “

With a touch of amusement in his voice, he replied, “Come
on, now. I figured you were leading the life of James Bond.”

“In your dreams,” I answered. “I’ve run into one dead end
after another on this case. It’s really got me buffaloed.” I
sketched out my investigation of Holderman’s death, leaving
out the details that were none of his business.

He pushed away his platter of rib bones and leaned back in
the booth. “Who were some of your suspects?”

“No one you’d know.” I shrugged. “Teachers mostly. Not all
though.” I named them.

He arched an eyebrow. “That last woman, Frances … I heard
about her a few years back. If I’m not wrong, she turned tricks
at some bar in Elgin. The others, those teachers, I never heard
of except what’s-his-name.”

I was preparing to take the last bite of potato salad, but the
fork froze inches from my lips. “Who?”

“Holderman. The guy who got whacked.”

I tried to absorb his announcement. The two men moved in
different worlds. How in the blazes could they have met?
“George Holderman? How’d you know someone like him?”

Danny pulled out a pack of Marlboros and lit one. Inhaling
deeply, he released a stream of smoke into the rafters. “He the
one who was a big wheel in some school district around here?”

“Safford? Safford ISD. That one?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Beats me. But he’s the one.”

“Well.” I leaned forward impatiently. “What do you know
about him?”

He tapped the cigarette ash in his plate. “Not much. He’s a
small time butter-and-egg man, I hear.”

His remark put a frown on my face. “A what?”

Danny grinned. “You need to get out on the streets more, Tony boy. Butter and egg. A staker. He bankrolls the candy
man.” He shook his head wearily at the confusion scribbled
across my face. “Pusher. Junk dealer. Candy man.”

I understood, but all I could do was stare. Finally, I found my
voice. “Holderman is a drug dealer? I mean, he was a dealer?”
I tottered on the edge of disbelief.

Matter-of -factly, Danny replied, “No. There was no room for
another one. One of the dealers lost his staker and found
Holderman.”

I still had a couple of uneaten ribs on my plate, but my
appetite had vanished. I reached for my mug of beer and
chugged it down. Without hesitation or any thought to AA, I
refilled the mug. “How long had this been going on?”

He pursed his lips. “Oh, I don’t know. Three, maybe four
years.”

I made a mental note of his last answer. “You know anything
else about him?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Holderman was nothing. Sort of
like a gnat hanging around on the edge of all the business. He
probably didn’t pick up more than four to six grand a month.”

I did my best to contain my surprise. Six thousand a month.
I thought of his estate in Brentwood Hills. Now I knew where
the money came from.

Danny stubbed out his cigarette and added, “He’s small
change. His kind come and go “

If six grand a month was small change, I wondered just what
amount Danny figured to be worthwhile. I shivered. Then an
idea struck me. “Hey, Danny. You ever heard of a business
called Austin Expediters? Delivery company of some sort.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “No. Why?”

For a moment, I couldn’t decide whether I should tell him
about Stewart or not, but then, we went way back. “My cousin,
actually, my cousin once removed, is working there. Three or
four days now. I checked with Better Business and the Chamber of Commerce. It seems to be legitimate, but do you know if
they’re connected with the drug scene in Austin or not?”

A sly grin on his freckled face, he studied me a moment.
“Worried about the kid, huh?”

I shrugged. “Not a kid. He’s twenty-two, but yeah, I’m worried about him.”

He grew serious. “I never heard of the place. That don’t
mean nothing, but when one does open up, I hear about it fast.
This one, I haven’t heard nothing. Don’t sweat that one, okay?”

A thousand-pound weight was lifted from my shoulders.

The rain had slackened to a drizzle by the time Danny
dropped me off at my apartment along with a promise of our
getting together soon. I agreed although we both knew soon
could be a year from now.

Even before we left the County Line, I’d planned out my
next few moves. As soon as I got back to the apartment, I’d put
in a few phone calls, the first to Leroi to let him know Stewart
was doing just fine. Afterward, I would follow Nelson
Vanderweg/Villafono/Van Meyer home. I needed an address
for what I had in mind.

My first call was to Arizona, to Wylie Carey, the manager of
the Explorer Apartments in Phoenix.

A disgruntled voice answered.

I identified myself, reminding him of our earlier conversation about Vanderweg. “Yeah. I remember you. What do you
want now?”

“You want to get your money back, Mr. Carey? Make him
pay for trashing your place?”

“You kidding me? Just you tell me how.”

“First, have you filed charges against him for trashing the
place and threatening you with a lamp?”

“Naw. Started to, but I figured it was more trouble than it was
worth.”

“Every state’s different. But, could be that you might be able
to get a felony warrant on him. Maybe for assault. I don’t know
if you’d ever get your money back, but if you don’t file, you
sure won’t ever have a chance to get it. “

He hesitated. “Yeah. I know, but-”

“Look. This guy is a slick con artist. Comes in, finds rich
women, wines and dines them, then skips out with a chunk of
cash.”

“So?”

“So? Besides me, has anyone else called for him?”

The sudden excitement in his voice told me he understood
what I had in mind. “Hey, yeah. Yeah, now that you mention it,
there was one woman who must’ve called a dozen times trying
to find him.”

I contained my own excitement. `By any chance do you have
caller ID?”

“Sure. We get a lot of prank calls. Why? I … oh, yeah, yeah.
I see what you’re after.”

“Right. If you can locate her, call me back. This is my home
number. If I’m not here, leave her name and number on my
voice mail. I’ll contact her and try to get her to press charges
against the guy. With two Arizona warrants on him, Texas can
arrest him and send him back.” I crossed my fingers that the
name on his caller ID was Alice Baglino, owner of the beat-up
Olds Vanderweg had traded in on the Mercedes.

“You really think so, huh?”

“I know so. Now listen. Here’s what you’ve got to do. First
thing in the morning, go down and file charges. Let me know
what happens. Okay?”

Suspicious, he asked, “What’s in this for you?”

“It’s personal, Mr. Carey. Very personal.”

After hanging up, I called the Ranchman’s Motel in
Amarillo. The motel had no caller ID nor a means of recording
incoming calls. All my eggs were in the basket that Phoenix,
Arizona was carrying.

It was 2 A.M. when Van Meyer left Janice’s condo. He headed south on Burnet Road. I remained far behind, eyeballing his
taillights and the silhouette of his car against oncoming lights.
Once or twice, I cut into parking lots, made a loop and pulled
back on the trail, hoping to give the illusion of one vehicle turning off and moments later, another pulling onto the street.

I didn’t figure I needed to be so cautious because even early
in the morning, Austin traffic was hectic. Still, I didn’t want to
take a chance.

And that’s what caused me to first almost lose him, then
barely miss jamming my bumper up his tailpipe.

The second time I pulled back onto Burnet Road, I glimpsed
his taillights weaving through the traffic. “What the … ” I muttered, wondering why he had sped up. Had he spotted me?
Tightening my fingers about the steering wheel, I jammed the
accelerator to the floor, and when the powerful Vortec 5.3 V8
engine kicked in, my pickup leaped forward.

Suppressing a curse, I squinted down the street, trying to
pick out the Mercedes. Abruptly, lights flashed red just in front
of me. I cursed, whipped to my right, honked, and flashed past
the Mercedes. “Sonof …” Immediately, I turned right on
Shoalmont Drive.

I glanced in my rearview mirror in time to see the black
Mercedes pass the intersection. I took another left at the next
corner and circled back to Burnet Road.

By now, I’d lost Vanderweg, or Villafono, or Van Meyer, or
whoever the guy was.

Just as I passed the 45th Street intersection by the Texas
State School for the Deaf, I glanced to my right. I jerked my head back around when I spotted a black Mercedes coupe
parked next to a telephone carrel in the parking lot of a Big G
Convenience Store.

Cursing, I pulled into the right lane and circled the block,
coming back around to 45th just as Van Meyer sped past, heading west.

Eight or ten blocks later, he pulled into the Bull Creek
Apartments. Talk about luck, I told myself. Bull Creek
Apartments were leased for a minimum of six months. A lessee
had to fill out tons of forms.

I parked down the street and, staying in the shadows, hurried
into the parking area into which he had pulled.

“There you go,” I muttered as he mounted the stairs to the
second floor and entered his apartment. Minutes later, I slipped
upstairs and made a note of his apartment number.

Back in my apartment, I called information and under new
listings, found Nelson Vanderweg’s telephone number. Next I
booted up my computer and searched my public records databases for his social security number and birth date, both of
which I knew I wouldn’t find. They were as bogus as his name.

Sure enough, I didn’t find them. So, I went to the web page
of Eddie Dyson, computer whiz, entrepreneurial snitch, and
local thief. I typed in my request for a birth date and social
security number of Nelson Vanderweg, apartment 223, Bull
Creek Apartments.

Eddie had forsaken the dark corners of sleazy bars for the
bright lights of computers. 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 only
accepted VISA credit cards for payment.