Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (19 page)

And then I went to bed, knowing in the morning when I
awakened, the information I wanted would be waiting. Thank
God for technology and Eddie Dyson.

And it was.

Birthdate and social security number of Nelson Vanderweg.
And Eddie only debited me $150. Probably because I gave him
a lot of business.

Nursing a morning cup of coffee, I studied the monitor and
jotted the information in my notebook. At eight o’clock, I
would take my next step, although I hadn’t decided exactly
what I was going to do with the information.

While I waited, I perused the Denver white pages databases
for Harper Weems’ brother. “A name like that shouldn’t be hard
to find,” I muttered, scrolling down the Ws. There were four
Weems in Denver, one of whom was a woman.

As a consequence of surfing the web, examining various
databases, and monitoring various chat groups, I developed a
fairly broad network of contacts around the country. There
were two PIs in the Denver area. I knew both.

I e-mailed DL Burnet a contract for frontal pictures of
each of the three Weems to be e-mailed as an attachment. In
addition, I requested he indicate each individual’s dominant
hand.

The next hour, I spent transcribing my notes and posting
charges for Marty. He’d yell when he saw the bill from Eddie
Dyson, but he’d be good for it. He had before. He knew that
was one of the costs of doing our kind of business.

Finally, I pushed back from the computer and breathed a sigh
of relief. I was caught up on the dreaded detail work. I was
good at it, but I still hated it.

I pulled out my notes on Vanderweg and reached for the telephone. Time to play detective and see what other information I
could dig up about him. If he followed his MO then he was
milking Janice for all he could, and would do so until he slipped
out in the dark of the night.

Even though she’d dumped me for Vanderweg or Villafono or
Van Meyer, which made me not just a little jealous, I didn’t want to see her taken to the cleaners. We’d had good times. And knowing her mercurial temperaments, we probably would again.

Donning the persona of Nelson Vanderweg, I dialed
Southwestern Bell, explaining to the young woman in the billing
office that although I had put down my deposit on the new service, I had forgotten to record it in my check register. “Could
you tell me how much it was and the date I wrote you the
check?”

She told me.

“Seventy-five dollars. On the tenth. That was almost a month
ago. By any chance, can you tell me the amount of my next bill.
I’ll go ahead and send it in”

After a pause, she replied. “Seventy-three dollars fortyeight, Mr. Vanderweg. And the due date is the same day of the
month, the tenth.”

I thanked her again, broke the connection, and dialed
Vanderweg.

A sleepy voice answered.

“Mr. Vanderweg. This is Charles Riley, service representative for Southwestern Bell. I am calling about your seventy-five
dollar deposit. We have no record of receiving payment, and
you have another bill in the amount of seventy-three forty-eight
due in a few days. Unless we receive some kind of payment or
you make arrangements to pay, we will be forced to discontinue your phone service.”

He exploded. “What the … I paid you lousy …” He ranted
and raved. “How do you think I got this telephone in the first
place?”

I let him rage. After a few moments, I calmed him. “Look,
Mr. Vanderweg. Why don’t your look at your checkbook while
I’m on the phone.”

“You bet,” he sputtered. “Just a stinking minute.” Seconds
passed, and he returned. “I’ve got it right here. I paid the
deposit on November 10.”

I played innocent. “You did? What was that check number?”
I grinned to myself as he read it off. “What bank did you draw
it on? And the account number please so we can locate it in our
billing system. It was probably credited incorrectly to another
account, Mr. Vanderweg. I’m sorry.”

Gleefully, I recorded the data.

Now, with his account number, social security number, and
birth date, I was ready for my next step, which was to call the
automated line at his bank and enter the account number and
his social security number.

The thin voice of the automated attendant replied. “The last
deposit was November 18 in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars. Four checks, numbers eight-seven-nine, eight-
eight-zero, eight-eight-one, eight-eight-three cleared in the
amount of four thousand two hundred and ninety-seven and
twelve. The balance in the account is twenty-seven thousand
four hundred and twenty-eight and thirty. Thank you. If you
wish this message repeated, press two.”

I whistled softly as I jotted the figures into my notebook. He
hadn’t wasted any time with Janice. I sat studying the figures,
contemplating my next move. Should I show her what I’d dug
up on the sleazeball? Or should I confront him?

Both questions were no-brainers. Neither would work. Either
way, Janice would resent me for interfering. Of course, I
reminded myself, with the Morrison fortune behind her,
twenty-five Gs, even fifty wouldn’t be missed.

“That’s probably why the Lothario hooked up with her,” I
growled, puzzling over my next step, which I finally decided
was to do nothing. Nothing, except wait and watch. Be patient
until I heard from Arizona. At least, I could keep an eye on his
bank account. The gigolo wasn’t working, so it was safe to say
that future deposits would probably be courtesy of the
Morrison fortune.

Maybe if I was patient enough, I would find the opportunity
I needed. I crossed my fingers.

But, for Janice’s sake, I couldn’t afford to be too patient.

I put in a call to the Travis County Hospital to check on
Carrie Cochran’s condition. She had a name for me, one that
might break the case wide open.

She was still in ICU. “But her condition has been upgraded
to guarded,” a young nurse said.

The phone rang while I was in the shower, but I couldn’t hear
it. When I padded back into the living room, the light was flashing. I punched the voice mail.

I grinned when I heard Wylie Carey’s voice. “Got what you
want. Alice Baglino.” He gave me her number, and added, “She
called sixteen times over a three-day period after that louse
bailed out. I haven’t called her. Figured you’d want to. As soon
as I hang up, I’m going downtown to file charges.”

I stared in disbelief at the receiver in my hand. Sixteen
times! She must’ve really been hung up on the guy to call back
so many times. I crossed my fingers that she had some kind of
written proof of any money she had given him. If she did, then
we could nail his sorry hide to the wall. If not, well, then we’d
have to depend on the charges filed by Wylie Carey, the manager of Explorer Apartments.

I guess one of the reasons I felt as if I’d found my niche in
the PI business is that I had a chance to stop some of the bullies of the world from running over those who were weaker.
Not that I’m a do-gooder, but I don’t like seeing someone having the screws put to them without some recourse.

Alice Baglino was at first reluctant. Naturally, she didn’t want word spread of how romantically foolish she had been,
but when I gave her Vanderweg’s background, which I shamelessly embellished with a lie or two, she agreed.

`Now, Miss Baglino. The money you gave him. Cash or
check.”

“Oh, check, of course.”

“How much?”

She hesitated, then reluctantly answered. “Fifteen thousand”
She hurried to explain. “He said he would invest it for me, but
he cashed it and left. I know because when I got the check back
from the bank, he had endorsed it and cashed it the same day I
gave it to him.”

A check. I wasn’t sure just how Arizona law would view a
check. Probably as a gift.

But then she made my day. “But I did write out the name of
the company on the check.”

That threw me. “Company?”

“Yes. You know, the company he said he was investing it in.
Investment-Royals Incorporated. That was the name of the
company, but when I checked, there was no such company in
Walla Walla, Washington.”

I resisted shouting for joy. “I think you have more than
enough to file charges, Miss Baglino. I don’t know how much
of what you gave him you’ll be able to get back, but if he wants
any break at all with the law, he’ll try to make some kind of
restitution.”

She hesitated, then added, her voice filled with pain, “I didn’t
have that much, Mr. Boudreaux. I had to quit work years ago to
care for my ailing mother. We lived on her social security, and
saved what little I made addressing envelopes at home. After
she passed away, I was all by myself, and then I met Nelson. He
was so gentle, and so understanding. I thought he was Mr. Right
for me. I trusted him. Why, the day he disappeared, I even
loaned him my car. He took it too.”

“An Oldsmobile.”

“Why, yes. A ‘95 model. How did you know?”

I ignored her question for the moment. “Did you sign over
the title to him?”

“No, but it was in the glove compartment along with insurance and registration papers.”

“Look, Miss Baglino. I know for a fact he had the Oldsmobile
in Amarillo, Texas. He’s driving a Mercedes now. I don’t know
if he sold your car or just left it next to the curb somewhere.”

“But, he didn’t steal it. I let him use it “

I rolled my eyes. Love made people do crazy things. And
lonely people in love did even crazier things. “Yes, but maybe
if you explain to the police that you expected it back in a few
days, they can do something.”

“Yes, but ..

“Look, Alice. This guy skipped out with a large part of your
nest egg and your car. He has a history of taking advantage
of”-I caught myself before I said `lonely’-“of trusting
women. If you don’t help me stop him, he’ll do it again.”

There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Finally,
in a soft, tremulous voice, she said, “You’re right, of course. I
just … well, you know, I just thought Nelson was different.”

I grimaced when I heard the tiny tremor in her voice. “Look.
Here’s my home number. Call me after you file the charges.
Then I’ll start things in motion down here. I’ve got voice mail
so if I’m out, just leave a message, okay?”

After hanging up, I leaned back and grinned smugly at the
telephone. Surely, between Alice Baglino and Wylie Carey filing charges, we could nail Vanderweg.

The December weather turned unseasonably warm. To many
Texans, Christmas was enjoyed in shorts and tanktops, and
unless there was a big change within the next couple of weeks,
that’s how they would again gather around the table to fill their
plates and plop down in front of the TV for the ball games. We
did the same back in Louisiana.

I was in a sort of limbo, waiting for the attachments from
Denver. Expecting no startling epiphany, I decided to spend the
remainder of the day visiting the businesses George Holderman
had inscribed on his desk pad. So before noon, I visited Hanks
Barber Shop, the YMCA, Olympic Gym, and Luigi Liquors.

They all remembered George Holderman as a steady customer, a likeable guy, and a free spender. A regular guy was the
consensus, a crying shame, the common accord.

As an afterthought, I asked about Harper Weems and Perry
Jacobs. Hanks knew Jacobs as a customer. He’d never heard of
Weems.

I had no better luck at the other businesses.

On the way home, I pulled into Lupe’s Tacos on Ben White
Road, a bright pink stucco structure with a red tile roof and
sweeping arches. Inside, colorful pinatas dangled from the
heavy black beams spanning the ceiling. An eclectic collection
of bullfighting paraphernalia hung on the walls, toreros’ swords,
matadors’ capes, picadors’ lances, in the center of the rear wall
hung a Traje de Luces, the suit of the lights, a colorful sequined
suit worn by bullfighters. The shiny wood tables gleamed; the
tile floors sparkled. Lupe’s was a clean Tex-Mex restaurant.