A Song to Die For (14 page)

“Yeah, good idea. Don't sing the parts that don't exist yet.”

“Okay, here goes…” Creed patted out a rhythm with his palm on his thigh.

“Fair Thee Well

May your good times never end

May you always find a friend

At every crossroads and bend

And may the sun

Shine warm upon your trail

Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah blah

Fair Thee Well.”

He risked a glance at Luster and found his head tilted like a dog trying make sense of some unknown strain.

“How do you like it so far?” Creed said.

“I've heard worse at the Opry.”

“So, you'll write it with me?”

“I told you I don't co-write. But finish it, and maybe we'll work it into the act. Gonna need some new tunes.”

Luster slammed on the brakes, almost missing his turn into the bus yard. Three shiny Prevost buses waited in the lot, but each had the name of a band spelled out above the windshield: ZZ Top; The Allman Brothers; Pure Prairie League.

“Looks like those are all taken,” Luster said. “Hopefully, Junior will have another available by the time we start touring.”

“Junior?”

“You're fixin' to meet him. He's the son of one of my former guitar players who wised up and got into the bus business instead of the band business. He made a killin' before he kicked the bucket and left the business to Junior.”

They left the Caddy and walked across the crushed gravel drive toward the office. Creed noticed a fourth bus—an old Silver Eagle—squatting on flat tires under a shade tree at the edge of the lot, its chrome bereft of sheen.

Entering the office he found a man about his own age on the phone, shouting at someone about parts that hadn't come in. Creed saw a worn army field jacket hanging on a coatrack with sergeant's stripes on the sleeve and a patch indicating service in the 101st Airborne Division. Looking up from the phone call, the man recognized Luster, and his eyes brightened. He yelled, “Just send the parts!” into the phone and slammed it down.

After playfully cussing each other out and shaking hands, Luster made introductions. “Junior, this is Creed Mason. Creed, Junior.”

“You're Creed, of Dixie Creed.”

“'Fraid so,” Creed admitted.

“I dig your song, man. ‘Written in the Dust.' Cool tune.”

Creed nodded modestly, always uncomfortable with the approbation. “Thanks.”

“Junior, what've you got for me?” Luster began.

“What do mean?”

“We've got a nationwide tour planned. I'm making a comeback.”

“You're shittin' me?” Junior grinned. “That's great! When?”

“Two weeks.”

The grin dropped from Junior's face. “Two weeks? I'm booked months in advance, Luster. I've got five buses out on the road right now.”

“I'll take one of those,” Luster said, pointing out the window at the three in the parking lot.”

“Those are all contracted out to major label bands, Luster.”

“Aw, hell, contracts are made to be broken, aren't they?”

Junior shook his head in fear. “They got mean Jew lawyers, Luster. They'd crucify me.”

“What about that old Silver Eagle under the live oak tree?” Creed asked.

Junior scoffed. “That thing hasn't run since Christ was a corporal.”

“Or before you were a sergeant?” Creed said, jutting his thumb at the field jacket.

“What do you know about that?” Junior asked, testing.

“I was an E-five combat engineer. Fire Base Bronco.”

Junior nodded. “Airborne. All over the goddamn place.”

“I imagine.”

“Well, seriously, Creed, that thing hasn't run since I took over the business from daddy. I don't even know what all's wrong with it. Nobody wants to rent those old, narrow, ninety-six-inch Model Ones anymore, anyway. All the bands insist on a hundred and ten inches in width nowadays.”

“Will you supply the parts if I fix it?” Creed asked.

“You can do that?” Luster asked, shooting a surprised look at Creed.

Creed nodded. “I was a diesel mechanic before I got my major label deal. And I usually had to fix my own heavy junk in 'Nam.”

Junior shrugged. “You get it runnin' and y'all can tour your happy asses off in it. I'll buy the parts, and you can use anything you need in the shop.”

“Let's take a look,” Creed said to Luster.

The phone rang, Junior answered it, and resumed his shouting match with the parts people on the other end of the line.

Leaving the office, Luster and Creed strolled toward the bus, Luster shaking his head at the dilapidated Silver Eagle.

“You sure you can fix that thing?”

“No … I'm not sure at all. But it's worth a try. Under one condition.”

“What's that?”

“You co-write ‘Fair Thee Well' with me.”

“What did I tell you about Rembrandt?”

“Actually, he did co-paint. He had these protégés who would do the backgrounds and maybe the clothes people were wearing, then Rembrandt would do the important stuff like the people's faces—put the finishing touches on the final project.” Creed wasn't at all sure that was completely accurate, but he had successfully bluffed Luster at poker games before.

Luster shook his head. “You know when to play a hole card, Creed, I'll give you that.” He turned and walked toward his El Dorado.

“Where are you going?”

“To get the beer and a guitar. You get to work on the bus.”

“So you'll write the song with me?”

“You frame it up. It'll do the trim work.”

 

13

CHAPTER

Hooley took a sip of coffee gone cold, frowned, and dumped the rest of the cup into his kitchen sink. He headed for the back door, grabbing his Resistol from the deer antler hat rack without breaking stride. His shoulders slumped under the subconscious weight of the two recent deaths until he saw the sun rising east of Liberty Hill. He took a moment to admire the orange rays streaking through the live oak branches. As he turned back to lock the door, the phone rang in his den.

Thinking it might be some reporter, he considered not even answering it, but gave in to his curiosity and went back inside.

“Johnson,” he said, picking up the receiver.

“Mornin', Hooley,” said the voice at the other end. “This is Dolph.”

Surprised, Hooley looked at his Rolex wristwatch, then felt odd when he realized the time piece had been a gift from the man at the other end of the phone line. “Mornin', Governor. You're up and at 'em early.”

“Got to stay one step ahead of the screw worm, Hooley. How's Glenda?”

“Just fine since she divorced my sorry ass three years ago.”

There was a pause. “Oh. Sorry to hear that. It's been a while, huh? Listen, Hooley, what the heck is going on with these killings?”

“I'm headed out to try to make sense of it right now, but I've also got a cattle rustling operation and a dope smuggling case to mop up, too.”

“Put all that on the back burner. You can turn the stove around after you solve these killings. Two young girls. One from a reputed mob family. I don't like the looks of it.”

“Well, the view wasn't any better from the morgue, Governor.”

“Hooley … We've been friends since we were kids. Worked cattle and hunted deer together. So, don't blow up, okay?”

“Don't light my fuse and I won't.”

“I had to call the F.B.I. I
had
to, Hooley, it's a jurisdictional matter.”

“Relax, Dolph. You saved me the dime. I was gonna call them myself this morning.”

A sigh of relief wafted through the receiver. “They're going to send an agent from the Las Vegas office. I want you to pick him up at the airport at one o'clock. The name's, uh … Doolittle.”

“Perfect,” Hooley groaned.

“And Hooley … Try to avoid the press, will you? I don't want this turning into a circus like that riot down in Houston.”

“You know what they say. One circus, one ranger.”

The governor chuckled. “Thanks, Captain.”

Hooley left the house and headed for Austin and the registrar's office at the University of Texas. He asked for copies of the files for Celinda Morales and Rosabella Martini. While he waited, he got out his tally book and pencil. On the first blank page of the tablet, he wrote:

10:00—boat ramp

11:00—morgue

12:00—lunch

1:00—airport

As he sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair and waited, he watched people come and go at the UT registrar's counter. Pasty-skinned professors … college kids that looked hardly older than twelve … administrators moving mysterious stacks of paper. Finally, the secretary brought his copies, handing them to him somewhat fearfully. Hooley realized he was a dinosaur to these people.

He strolled to the Texas Union Building, observing the long-hairs and the short-hairs, skinny-legged girls in miniskirts and hot pants, perky breasts bouncing bra-free under gauzy shirts. An ROTC kid strutted by in full uniform. Bet he was glad the war was over. He glanced up at the tower from which that nutcase had shot all those people back in 'sixty-six.

At the Texas Union Building, he bought a cinnamon roll and a cup of coffee and sat down to peruse the school records. Rosa's file suggested she was all about art, architecture, and design. Celinda was business, criminology, and pre-law. They didn't seem to have much in common, except a shared address. The Kappa Delta Sorority house located just off campus at the corner of Nueces and 24th.

He exited the Texas Union Building and left the campus when he walked west across Guadalupe Street. Another couple of blocks brought him to Nueces Street where he found the Kappa Delta House—a handsome structure with Greek columns out front and ivy growing up one wall. He rapped on the door, using a large brass knocker.

A girl in skimpy pajamas answered. Hooley flashed his badge. “Captain Johnson, Texas Rangers.”

The teenager's eyes just about popped out of her head. “Is this a raid?”

“Take it easy, sweetheart, your stash is safe. I need some information on a couple of former residents here.”

The realization clicked with the freshman. “The two dead girls! My roommate told me they had lived here. I didn't believe her.”

“I'd like to talk to your roommate. Or anybody who knew either of the girls.”

The youngster turned and yelled back into the room. “Man in the house! He's a cop!” She ushered Hooley through a door, into the front parlor. He sat on a sofa and waited. You'd have thought the house was on fire from the sounds of feet running around upstairs. A couple of girls carrying stacks of books appeared in the doorway to the parlor and leered in at Hooley as they passed by on the way to their classes. More curious girls peeked in, some giggling ridiculously as they ran off.

Hooley felt like a freak in a carnival.

Finally, two girls in jeans and T-shirts came in. One was a blonde, the other a redhead.

The redhead spoke first. “Is some psycho killing Kappa Delta girls?”

“Yes,” Hooley said, immediately regretting the quick answer. What if she talked to the press? “Well, I mean … Any cold-blooded murderer is a psycho in my book. I don't know if the deaths are related yet. One of them may have been just a boating accident. That's why I'm here—to figure it all out. Did you two know the girls?”

The blonde sat down. “I did.” She seemed a little stunned, though she had to have known about Rosa for days. Sometimes the reality took a while to sink in. “What do you need to know to catch the psycho?”

Hooley studied the blonde. Classic Texas beauty. West Texas drawl. Oil money, he guessed. “Did Rosa and Celinda know each other?”

“Yeah, but … Well, all the girls in the house know each other.”

“But were they close friends?”

“Not so much. Not that I ever noticed, anyway. But there's a bond among sisters. If somebody needs help…”

“Tell me what you remember about them. Their personalities.”

The blonde smiled. “Celinda was all business. Three-point-nine. She took eighteen and twenty-one-hour loads every semester. Summer school, too. She wanted to be a prosecutor.”

“And Rosabella?”

“She just called herself Rosa. She was very artsy and creative. Always sketching and doodling little designs. More of a society girl. A little spoiled by her daddy, maybe. Different boyfriend every week.”

“And Celinda? Boyfriend?”

The blonde shook her head. “She didn't have time. But I saw her on campus a couple weeks ago. She's going to law school.
Was
 … going to law school.” The stunned look crept back over her face. “She told me she had a boyfriend. A lawyer. Do you think he…?”

Hooley shook his head. “He seems to check out okay. He was on a trip with some buddies when Celinda was killed.”

The redheaded girl began to sob, and walked out of the room. The blonde could only shrug.

“Your name is…” Hooley said, flipping open the tally book.

“Amanda Lynn Rogers.”

“If you think of anything else…” He handed her his card. “Off the record, Amanda … Did Rosa take drugs?”

“No way. Well, she may have smoked a joint or two, but she wasn't one of those cokeheads or pill-poppers or anything. She liked her cocktails, but only on the weekend. No, she was a pretty straitlaced girl.”

Too bad her laces got tangled, Hooley thought. Too bad.

*   *   *

At 10:09, he pulled up to the familiar boat ramp on Lake L.B.J. The divers contracted by the Texas Department of Public Safety were peeling off their wet suits and stowing their scuba tanks in the back of a pickup truck with a camper shell on it. Hooley introduced himself to the leader of the dive team, an athletic sort, pushing thirty, who had ex-military written all over him, probably Navy SEAL, maybe Air Force Pararescue.