A Song to Die For (34 page)

After supper, he went down to the hotel lobby to use one of the pay phones. He put in a call to Papa Martini. By habit, they made a little small talk first, to bore the cops in case the phone was bugged.

“
Hey, bambino, that friend of yours remembered his buddy's nickname
,” Papa threw into the conversation.

“Yeah?” Franco reached for a notepad. He scribbled the name down as Papa threw it casually his way. As Biggerstaff had bemoaned to him, it was a rather stupid stage name. “Hey, Pop, do we have an associate in Austin, Texas?”

“Yeah, we got a guy looking into opening a franchise there. Why?”

“Just wondering. Maybe he can help my buddy find this guy with the nickname. He's a musician.”

“Why's your pal looking for him?”

“Hell, I don't know. I guess he misses him.”

“Yeah, I miss you, too, kid. You coming home soon?”

“I hope so, Pop. I just need to find this guy for my buddy.” On the other end, he heard his father's rasping cough, and another telephone ringing.

“
Gotta go. My other line is ringing.”

“Ciao, Pop.”

Franco hung up the phone and trudged back upstairs to his room.
The Tonight Show
was on TV. Johnny's guest was Charo, and she was shaking her ass. What a bimbo. He turned the television off. So, Austin was supposed to be some kind of live music hot spot, he had heard. He decided to change clothes and take a walk down Sixth Street, where a few bars featured live bands. He could pretend to be a music fan if he had to. Maybe he could ask around about Charles Biggerstaff Jr. of the stupid stage name. It was a long shot, but his luck had changed, and besides, a few beers sounded like a good idea.

 

34

CHAPTER

Hooley stood hunched over the evidence in his office, leaning on palms placed flat on the table across which his notes, maps, autopsy reports, and photographs were scattered. He felt the frustration like knotted ropes between his shoulder blades. The case had stalled again, and his patience was wearing thin.

Finding the boat had seemed like the big break. Then Mel had come dragging back from Conroe in defeat. Charles Biggerstaff had shut down like a rusted bear trap, refusing to even let Mel in the door, claiming his lawyer had advised him against the meeting, promising to contact the F.B.I. soon for an interview—with his lawyer present.

“They got to him,” Mel had said.

“Who?”

“The family.”

“The Martinis? How the hell did they know?”

“I don't know. But Biggerstaff flat out said he was afraid for his wife and family, so they obviously got to him.”

Now Hooley was wondering what he had missed, wondering how Franco had found Biggerstaff so soon, wondering who would die next if he didn't solve this case pronto. No pressure there. Just another corpse for Doc Brewster to shake his head over. Just another phone call from the governor. Just another failure to protect and serve.

Hooley stood straight, and pushed at the small of his back. He turned to the window, remembering that there was a world outside of his table strewn with evidence, albeit a view of the impoundment lot.

“Okay,” he said to himself, “what do you got to work with?” The latest attempt to carry the case forward was a subpoena to obtain Charles Biggerstaff's phone records. That had been executed, and the phone records obtained. Hooley had turned them over to his unofficial assistant, Lucille, to analyze. He thought about walking up to reception to see how she was coming with that when—as if she had read his mind—he heard a pair of heels clicking rapidly toward his office door, getting louder.

“Hooley,” she said, stepping through the door with the records in her hand. “I traced all the calls.”

“And?”

She shrugged. “They all seem like normal business calls or personal calls. Except…”

“Yeah?”

“After the boat was found, there are a couple of odd ones.” She put the records on his desk and pointed out two calls she had circled. “While you were lifting that boat out of the lake, Biggerstaff got an incoming call from the same neighborhood.”

“The same neighborhood as Biggerstaff's lake house?”

“Yes, the Blue Cove neighborhood. I traced that number, too. It's a rental. The owners rent it to tourists, by the weekend or the week, usually. Here's the address.” She pointed to her notes. “I wrote down the lake house rental company's number for you here. They said they'd open the house for you to look around. By the way, it's the same company that handled the rental house where Harbaugh's body was found. They said they never saw who rented the house, that it was handled over the phone.”

“You don't say. What's this other call you circled?” He tapped the list of phone calls with his long trigger finger.

“That's an outgoing call, made from Charles Biggerstaff's house in Conroe, the night after you pulled the boat out of the lake. It was made to a toll-free number. I traced it to Las Vegas, Nevada, but I don't know yet who owns the number.”

“I'll put your boyfriend, Mel, on it.”

“I wish,” Lucille said, her eyes flashing. “Has he gone back to Vegas?”

“Yeah, maybe you should go out there and try your luck.”

“I don't usually gamble. But…”

Hooley forced a chuckle, though he felt no smile on his face. “Thanks, sugar. That's real good work.”

“Call me if you need anything else.” She left his office and clicked on down the hall.

What next? What about this rental house in Blue Cove? He had a hunch it had been vacated by now, but he knew he had to follow up on it. He sat down at his desk and grabbed the phone. He called the county sheriff's office and told them to watch the place until he got there. Then he called the rental company and told them to meet him there with the key in an hour.

He took his tally book from his pocket and flipped through it until he found Mel's spy phone number.

“Doolittle.”
Mel said, answering Hooley's call.

“This is Hooley. Got a toll-free phone number for you to track down. It's a Vegas number.”

“
Okay. Why?”

“Biggerstaff called this number from his house after he sent you packin'.”

“Go ahead. I'm ready.”

Hooley quoted the number to him. “How's the weather out there?”

“Sunny. There?”

“Chamber-of-commerce perfect. It's Texas in the spring, though. Could change to hail and twisters any minute.”

“Any new leads?”

“I'm going to check one out, I'll call you back this afternoon.”

“Be careful, Hooley.”

“That's my policy, stud. Give my love to Samantha.” He hung up the phone, got up from his chair, and grabbed his hat. He looked back at the evidence spread across the table. What had he missed? What was he leaving undone now?

His eyes fell on the stack of photos from the confiscation of the wrecked Correct Craft. He hadn't even picked them up to thumb through them yet. What was the point? He had been there in person. What could a photo possibly reveal that his own eyes hadn't seen?

“A picture's worth a thousand words,” he muttered to himself. What would it hurt to look at them? “Leave no stone unturned.” He was thinking in clichés. Brain must be tired. He took his hat back off and picked up the stack of photos.

There were shots of the drained lake channel, the dock, the wrecked boat resting on the muddy lake bed, the crane lowering its hook into position, the boat being dragged out of the boat house and lifted from the muddy bed of the lake. The boat going over the roof of the Biggerstaff lakehouse.

“Oh, my Lord…” Hooley said. Here was a shot that the photographer had taken of Hooley himself, jumping out of his truck to cuss the county deputies up and down for creating a spectacle of what should have been a low-profile impoundment. The likeness scared even himself. He never knew he had so much anger in his face. It was ugly. He felt ashamed of that outburst now. He regretted that the camera had caught it. It was not pleasant to look upon.

He flipped to the next photo, found a profile shot of his scowling face.

“Hey, what the…” Hooley looked closer. In the background. There was that guy. He had all but forgotten about the jogger. In this shot, the runner was looking back at Hooley over his shoulder, wearing shades and a knit cap.

He shuffled the shot aside and found the next photo in the series. Now the jogger had his back turned, and had flipped his hood up over his head. Why would he do that? It had been rather cold that morning, but why just then would the runner go with the hood? Hooley squinted. There was something white on the back of the dark material of the hood. A sticker of some kind? He stepped over to his desk and found a magnifying glass. He got it focused on the back of the hood. Yes, it appeared to be a price tag or some such thing glued to the hood. A new running suit?

He looked at his watch. He needed to get out to Blue Cove to look at that lake rental. He grabbed his hat, and the two photos of the jogger, and turned up the hall toward reception. He found Lucille at her desk.

“One more favor, darlin'. Get the photographers to blow up this picture. Especially that tag on the back of this guy's hood.”

She frowned, obviously doubtful of the significance of such a request. “If you say so.”

“And fax this one where the jogger's looking back at the camera to Mel's office. Ask him if that looks like Franco.”

“Holy Lord in Heaven!” Lucille said.

“What?”

“You don't photograph well when you're angry.”

Hooley frowned. “Have 'em crop me out before you fax it.”

 

35

CHAPTER

The booking had come in from a beer joint outside of La Grange called The Red Rooster. It didn't pay well, but Luster and Creed had decided the band could use the practice for the Houston gig. Besides, La Grange was on the way to Houston. They could make the trip in the bus and feel like a real touring band. Almost.

Arriving, they found a dirty little dive and a crappy little sound system that Creed somehow made to function beyond its capability. Creed met the owner, a bulky tough named Karl who had scars on his neck and face that Creed could only explain as the creations of a prison shiv or hand-to-hand combat in 'Nam.

The bar soon filled up with Luster Burnett fans and the air turned so smoky that it clouded the view across the small room. As he played, Creed was thinking about the thousand dollars they had been promised for this gig. The cover charge was five bucks. He counted heads. There were maybe a hundred and twenty drunken honkies in the place. Didn't add up. The owner was going to have to dip into his bar sales, and owners were sometimes reluctant to do so. Still, Kathy had received a signed contract from the Tomahawk Talent Agency that guaranteed the band one grand. That, minus the twenty percent agent fee, would provide gas, motel, and meal money to Houston.

In spite of the cruddy surrounds, the band played well and the crowd remained enthusiastic and surprisingly well behaved, except for two unrelated fistfights and one random hair pulling. There were a couple comments made about a black girl, a Mexican kid, and a long-haired cowboy being allowed in the bar, but talent won over even the gossamer mind-sets of the rednecks, and last call came and passed without any bloodshed.

To Creed's relief, the county sheriff showed up with two deputies for the last set. Creed thought him rather young to have been elected sheriff, but noticed a U.S. Marine Corp tattoo on his oversized forearm and knew the lawman was a Vietnam vet. He figured him for an ex-commissioned officer, as he carried a Model 1911 Colt .45, a favorite sidearm of Marine officers in 'Nam, and the same handgun Creed had brought home from his tour in the war.

“I've waited my whole life to meet you,” the sheriff said to Luster after the gig. “It's a pleasure to shake your hand.”

“The pleasure's all mine.” Luster didn't have to voice his appreciation for the protection the law provided at the end of the show in a place like this.

“Y'all gonna spend the night here?”

“No, we're gonna hook up the ass wagon and head on to Houston. Got a big show there tomorrow night.”

“I'd say that's a good idea. Who's drivin'?”

“I am,” Creed said.

The sheriff looked him over. “You been drinkin'?”

“Did I play like I've been drinkin'?” He smiled.

The lawman narrowed his eyes at Creed, but returned the smile. “You handle that bus like your guitar, and you'll be fine.”

“
Semper Fi,
sir.”

“Corps?”

“Army.”

“Close enough. Carry on.”

Later, with Lindsay and Metro hidden safely aboard the bus, Creed waved to the county law as they left, and went back into the Red Rooster to make sure about the pay. As band manager, it was Kathy's job to collect, of course, but Creed predicted she might appreciate some backup in this rough joint.

Tump and Trusty were drinking at the bar when Creed came back in.

“Great gig, huh?” Trusty said, seeking Creed's approval.

“Yeah, not bad.” He patted the nerve-racked fiddler on the shoulder. “It helps when Tump and Metro lock in like that, huh?”

Tump grunted and shot another jigger of whiskey, tapping the shot glass on the bar to get the bartender's attention.

“Where's Luster and Kathy?” he asked.

“They went to get paid,” Trusty said.

Creed had already familiarized himself with the layout of the joint. He knew where the office was. He glanced at the bartender, who was washing shot glasses in dirty water and throwing beer bottles noisily into a large metal trash can. Creed saw his cash register drawer open and empty. The place smelled like stale beer, smoke, urine, and puke. He couldn't wait to get out of this dump.