Big Red Tiquila - Rick Riordan (39 page)

“Suicide my ass," he told the beat cop. He pointed at the
slit wrist on Mrs. Gutierrez’s bloated forearm. “You see any
nicks on either side of the main cut?"

Just before he left to throw up, the beat cop admitted that he did
not. Schaeffer put the dead hand down long enough to blow his nose,
then continued his conversation with me.

“No hesitation marks," he said. “It takes two or three
tries to get over the pain when you do it yourself. Somebody did this
job for her."

He looked at me, for applause, I guess.

“Is this your idea of getting even with me?" I mumbled
through the cotton balls.

The idea seemed to amuse him. "Come on, kid. I’ll show you
why I drink Red Zinger."

I followed Schaeffer downstairs. He started a pan of coffee
grounds burning on the stove to help with the smell of the corpse. If
I hadn’t been breathing Old Spice already, it would’ve almost
been enough to make me swear off the java too. Then we looked for the
window the intruder had forced open. Schaeffer didn’t believe in
waiting for the evidence tech. He used a spray bottle of diluted
super glue to get the impression of a dried boot print on the carpet
by the front door, a hand print on the wall.

“Lesson for the day, kid. The scene doesn’t lie. Went right
out the front, probably in broad daylight.

Probably raped the old lady too. I’d bet money."

I didn’t offer any. When Schaeffer decided to go outside for a
break, I was only too glad to follow. We sat on the hood of his car
and waited for the coroner while Schaeffer adjusted his pants back
over his belly. I thought about the way a corpse would look after a
week and a half. A corpse I knew.

“So what was the favor?" Schaeffer asked.

"I want the Cambridge case done right," I said. He
squinted at the sun coming down through the pecan trees. He said:
“That’s not a favor. That just happens."

"But I want some leeway."

Schaeffer stared at me. “Now it’s starting to sound like a
favor. What kind of leeway?"

"I want to know what you’ve found out, and I want until
Friday."

"Until Friday for what?"

"I don’t want the FBI knocking down Rivas’s investigation
just yet. Making people nervous. If Lillian is still alive, I need a
few more days to look."

"And if she gets not alive between now and Friday?"

"She’s been gone for a week already. You’re the expert.
If she’s not dead yet, what are the chances?"

Schaeffer didn’t like conceding the point.

"Still no deal," he said.

“Then you look," I said. “I’ve tied it to homicide.
Take it to the CID chief that way."

“And by Friday when the Feds are into it anyway?"

"I’ll have to make it work by then."

Schaeffer almost laughed.

“What exactly are you expecting to make work, Navarre? From all
I can see you’ve been making about as much progress as a pinball.
You going to solve this by getting bashed back and forth a few more
times?"

“You’d be surprised," I said.

“I’d be very surprised."

He stared at me for a minute longer. I tried to do my winning
smile. Finally he shook his head.

"All right. The corpse that got driven through Sheff”s
office wall, Eddie Moraga—we traced the Thunderbird exactly
nowhere. Switched plates, the engine block number placed it as stolen
from Kingsville. It doesn’t get any more nowhere than that."

“A big stop off for the cocaine trade. Might connect it to
White."

“Maybe," Schaeffer said, but he didn’t like the tie-in.

“The fatal shot was through Moraga’s heart, close range,
angled down, like he was sitting and the killer was standing right
over him. The bullets in the eyes happened postmortem. Weapon was a
9mm Parabellum."

“Glock, maybe?"

He shrugged. "Looks professional. Everything wiped clean.
Moraga probably knew the guy who killed him, never even saw it
coming."

"If it was a professional job—"

“It means Moraga really pissed somebody off, up close and
personal. This bullet-through-the-eye shit--you have to screw up
pretty bad to rate that."

"But you still don’t like it. "

He twisted the edge of his napkin. "It’s too showy. The
methods, yeah, professional. But these guys—they’re like fucking
actors."

"Like somebody imitating what they think a mob killing would
be."

He didn’t like that idea either, but he didn’t offer another.

“Garza?" I asked.

"The trailer he rented six months ago. Wife and kids live in
Olmos Park, knew nothing about it. He was killed on the scene,
sometime that morning, probably around ten."

"Right after I talked to him on the phone."

"Looks that way. Garza was sitting down when he got stabbed,
and he was drugged. Heavy valium in his system, couldn’t put up
much of a fight. You saw the blood. Slice the artery and it was over.
Same problem--looks professional, too flashy."

"Karnau?"

“Not the same. Not a very smart killer, and definitely not a
pro. Near as we can tell Kamau just opened the door, bought it
instantly, then got displayed. Different M.O.; I’d bet money it’s
a different killer from Garza and Moraga."

"But the display?"

Schaeffer shook his head. “Kamau was laid out neatly, like he
was sleeping. They didn’t want a mess. Usually means your killer
wants to convince himself nothing happened here. It’s like—‘I’ll
just comb the dead guy’s hair, tuck him into bed, wash my hands,
and everything’s normal.’"

I thought about Dan Sheff, what he’d said about wanting to hold
the wound closed on Karnau’s head.

“You said the killer wasn’t too smart."

"Stupid choice of guns. Very clear striations from
ballistics. A pretty rare little .22 this guy used."

“A Sheridan Knockabout," I said.

“How the hell did you know that?"

I told him about the deer blind in Blanco. Schaeffer thought about
it, then nodded.

“Top of the class, Navarre."

I watched the coroner’s car arrive. Then two more squads. On the
porch next door, the neighbors were sharing coffee. Somebody had
brought binoculars. In a minute they’d start serving appetizers.

I got up. The sunlight on my skin was just starting to burn off
the itchy feeling I’d picked up in Mrs. Gutierrez’s house. A
couple of stiff drinks and I might even forget her body in the
bathtub long enough to think about a few other dead people. I looked
across at the turquoise house that was just being taped off.

“I don’t know how you handle it every day," I told
Schaeffer; "My dad hardly ever talked about it. All those bodies
on the highways, hunting accidents, bar fights."

Schaeffer blew his nose. He looked at me for a minute like he
might even smile. Maybe he was going to gift me his napkin.
Fortunately he only offered me a ride in the queasy beat cop’s
squad car back to my VW. “I didn’t know your dad," Schaeffer
said. "I do know he was in the field a lot. He got shit for it
too."

I nodded.

"He a drinker?" asked Schaeffer. "Religious?"

“Drinker."

Schaeffer looked at me like he was remembering every family
argument the Navarres had ever had, like he’d been right there with
me.

"Usually one or the other. Next time you think about him,
Navarre, think about twelve or thirteen Mrs. Gutierrezes a year,
maybe a few worse. See if you wouldn’t rather drink it away than
tell your kids about it."

We walked back over to the house. The beat cop joined us, looking
almost flesh-colored again. He told me sourly that he was ready to
go.

“And you?" I asked Schaeffer. “You religious?"

He shook his head. "I just talk to them."

I looked to see if it was a joke. "Who—the corpses?"

Schaeffer shrugged. “It keeps me sane. Keeps me thinking about
them like they’re human. Plus they’re a great audience, very
attentive."

I looked up at Mrs. Gutierrez’s bathroom window.

"Tell her I said good-bye, then."

"I’ll do that."

Schaeffer turned and patted the coroner on the back, then they
went into the blue house like old friends.
 

56

The fountain in front of the White House was still being worked
on. In fact, progress seemed to be going backward. More pipes were
exposed now, more gaping holes and piles of dirt marred the lawn. The
workmen were taking an extended lunch break under the shade of a live
oak. One of the men grinned and gave me the thumbs-up as I walked up
to the front door.

BeeBee didn’t exactly smile when he recognized me, but his grunt
sounded collegial. He buzzed Emery, who came downstairs within two
minutes and shook my hand repeatedly. Evidentally he had new orders
concerning my visits. Or maybe he’d just given up. Emery’s tie
was dark red today, his shirt olive-colored and just as oversized
around the collar.

We compared head injuries—his forehead bruises from where Maia
had slammed him into the door, my swollen jaw from where Red had
kicked me. Then he started telling me about his three brothers in
West Texas and how funny it was that they were all on probation at
the same time.

“Shee-it," he said. "Jestin—that’s the one in El
Paso, you unnerstand—he made two thousand dollars just last week at
cockfighting. You believe that shit? Ole Dean back in Midland, now—"

"That’s great," I interrupted, trying to smile. “Is
Mr. White at home?"

“Sure. He’s busy upstairs at the moment, you unnerstand."

He leered at me. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

“Maybe I could wait for him?"

Emery was agreeable. He even apologized when he had to frisk me.
Then he led me into the study where White had almost blown my brains
out. The elderly black maid brought us margaritas—made without
Herradura, but otherwise acceptable. Emery talked about brother Elgin
out in San Angelo. I nodded my head a lot. It was all very civilized
except for Emery alternately cleaning his .38 and picking his nose
while he reminisced.

After about ten minutes Guy White, tan and immaculate as always,
appeared in the doorway and shook my hand. He was doing beige
today-raw silk pants and an untucked broadcloth shirt open at the top
just enough to show off his well-developed pects, perfectly devoid of
chest hair.

He sat behind the desk, crossing his legs and leaning back, at
ease. He nodded to Emery, who left. The maid brought in the refilled
margarita pitcher and then disappeared too.

“My boy," White said, showing off his perfect teeth.

“What can I do for you?"

I took out a page of notes I’d made after talking to Schaeffer
and handed it across the desk to White.

"Edit this for me," I said.

White raised his eyebrows just slightly. He looked at the paper,
then back at me. He produced a pair of silver-rimmed reading glasses
from his shirt pocket. White read my notes without comment or
expression. Then he put them down and smiled.

"Flattering," he said.

"That wasn’t the first word that came to my mind."

He laughed without sound. "I mean that I should still be
taking up so much of your thoughts. But regrettable that you could be
so mistaken?

He patted the paper like it was the head of a puppy. At the moment
I wanted very much to stick that well-manicured hand into the nearest
food processor and see how well White could maintain his smile.

"Three men are murdered," I said. “Two look like
professional hits and the third is probably shot with the same gun
that killed Randall Halcomb, the only real suspect, besides the mob,
in my father’s murder. The press is already loving the mob angle.
And that doesn’t concern you at all."

“On the contrary," he said easily. “It concerns me a
great deal. But it doesn’t change the fact that you are still
mistaken about my involvement."

He met my eyes level and calm. I sat forward.

"The thing is, Mr. White, for every question I keep asking
myself, you keep coming up as a very good answer. It’s possible
you’re the person who took over Sheff Construction in the
mid-eighties, bailed them out of debt and put their resources to work
on illegally contracted city projects. If not that, it’s equally
possible you worked with whoever the new owners were to rig the
bidding process at City Hall, in exchange for a cut of the very
considerable profits. There were two people with Randall Halcomb in
Karnau’s photos—both of them saw to it personally that my dad’s
killer was eliminated; both prohted from Travis Center then and are
interested in profiting from the new fine arts complex now; both had
a lot to lose when Karnau started his blackmail last year. You could
be either one of those people."

White dabbed the salt away from the edge of his margarita and took
a sip. I’d like to say I was rattling him, throwing him into a
nervous fit, forcing him to make careless mistakes. Unfortunately the
only thing I seemed to be making him was late for his next tanning
session. He checked his watch, trying to be polite about it.

“All very imaginative? He looked at me with a half smile. "But
really, my boy, you don’t believe a word of it. Allowing myself to
be photographed at a murder scene, much less one done by amateurs.
Kidnapping Ms. Cambridge. Disposing of people by such sloppy and
obvious means. You give me more credit than that."

The margarita was now waltzing pleasantly through my circulatory
system, turning my limbs to lead. It took away some of my will to get
out of my chair and strangle Guy White with his Gucci belt. What
irritated me was that he was right. As much as I might want to, I
couldn’t really see him being at the center.

White nodded as if I’d assented out loud, then gazed off toward
the ceiling. He looked like he was thinking about rose arbors,
philanthropy, anything but decade-old murders.

"Your father was a great rattler of cages," he said
after a while. "I would think twice before following that family
tradition, my boy."