Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (2 page)

Instead of taking up Danny O’Banion on a free treat out at
the County Line Barbecue that night, I should have packed my
bags, gathered my gifts, slid my Cajun rear in my pickup, and
headed home to Church Point, Louisiana for an early Christmas
on the bayou with the alligators and crawfish.

Had I left Austin, I would never have met Frances Holderman. But, I met her, and from that moment on, the tangled
machinations of chance began unwinding. Because of the
Holderman case, I found myself struggling to pin down the murderer of an ex-stripper’s husband; coping with my young cousin
who, I discovered too late, fancied himself an up and coming
drug lord; and in a final twist of fate, fortune, and fortuity, my
on-again, off-again Significant Other, Janice Coffman-Morrison,
instead of working at my side in the PI business, dumped me.

As soon as I saw Frances Holderman, I forgot all about the
cold drizzle outside and the hot argument inside between me
and my boss, Marty Blevins, who had reneged on a raise.

She was knockdown beautiful-blond, hazel eyes, and pouty
lips. She wore a full-length fur coat, faux fur as far as I knew.
I couldn’t tell alpaca from muskrat. Fur’s fur, but I guessed that
beneath the coat was probably a sculpted body any twentyyear-old stripper would have envied.

Obviously, Marty felt the same way for he snugged up his tie
to his size twenty-two neck and slipped on his wrinkled jacket.
He even dumped his overflowing ashtray in the trash, and
popped into the lounge to gargle some Listerine hoping to
mask his mid-morning shot of bourbon.

But after taking a second, closer look at Holderman, I
picked up a trace of hardness beneath that finely chiseled jaw.
Her flesh seemed a little too firm, her eyes a little too sharp,
her manner a little too direct.

On the other hand, business was business, so I did the polite
thing and nodded when Marty introduced me. “Tony Boudreaux
here is one of our top investigators,” he explained as Frances
Holderman extended her hand and gave me a warm smile.
Marty must have cringed when he gave me that introduction.

Her hand was tiny and soft, but cold. Her slender fingers
squeezed mine, then she withdrew her hand and folded it back
in her lap. She arched an eyebrow at Marty, and with a faint,
almost challenging smile, replied, “I hope so, Mr. Blevins. I
sincerely hope so” She shifted her hazel eyes back to meet
mine. “You see, Mr. Boudreaux. If this is not handled properly,
I could lose eight million dollars.”

Marty gagged.

The office grew silent. Outside, a spray of rain splattered
against the window, sounding like a handful of gravel.

I glanced at Marty who had started drooling at the mention
of eight million bucks. I didn’t blame him. If I hadn’t been facing her, I would have drooled too, but I was too busy trying to sound suave and reassuring. I hitched up one leg and plopped
down on the edge of Marty’s desk. I crossed my arms. “I’m
sure you’ll be happy with our work, Mrs. Holderman. Blevins
Investigations is well known in Austin for client satisfaction.”

That was bull, but it sounded good, and Marty ate it up.

From her red purse, she pulled out a silver cigarette case
encrusted with diamonds from which she retrieved a Virginia
Slim cigarette and held it to her lips between two slender fingers. Her nails were indecently long and, not surprisingly and
I wondered if perhaps not symbolically, painted bright red. “Do
you mind if I smoke?”

Marty answered her question by falling all over himself to
light her cigarette.

After a deep drag, she filled us in on the details in a monotone that suggested she had told and retold the story a thousand
times. “My husband, George Holderman, was superintendent
of Safford Independent School District south of Austin. He was
murdered a year ago. The police are at a dead end, but the case
is still open. Consequently, the insurance company, Universal
Life, will not pay off on my husband’s policy. You see,” she
said calmly, “I am a suspect because of the amount of the policy and the fact during heated arguments at home and various
get-togethers, more than once, and in the presence of others, I
threatened to kill George for being unfaithful.”

She shrugged noncommittally. “Naturally, the insurance
company refuses my claim for the benefits. I want you to find
the real murderer. I’m willing to pay up to fifty thousand dollars.”

Marty tried not to choke. I could see the dollar signs in his
eyes. Finally, he found his voice. “Why, ah, I think we can help,
Mrs. Holderman,” he replied. “Don’t you, Tony?”

I knew what I was supposed to say. “Yeah. We certainly can.”
But, my brain raced. No PI poked around in a police investigation, especially if he wanted to keep his license. Local police
tolerated private investigators like the human race tolerates the common cockroach, like Marty and me had tolerated each
other for the last few months.

She eyed me narrowly. The faint smile over her lips
remained fixed. “What would you do first, Mr. Boudreaux?”

I shot Marty a glance. His eyes pleaded with me to say the
right words. Clearing my throat, I replied, “First, Mrs.
Holderman, since your husband’s case is still open, I’d make
sure the local police have no objection. Second, I’d let the
insurance company know we’re looking into the matter and that
we will share everything we find. As you say, they won’t pay
off until the real killer is convicted, or until their own investigators are satisfied.”

She took another drag and released the smoke slowly, all the
while studying me and digesting my reply. “What if the police
object, Mr. Boudreaux?”

I nodded to Marty. “That’s up to Mr. Blevins. It’s his license
they could mess with.”

Marty cleared his throat. Then, a little too emphatically
announced, “That won’t be no problem, Mrs. Holderman. I
have excellent rapport with local law agencies. I’m quite sure
we can come up with a working relationship.”

A rumble of thunder rattled the windowpanes, counterpointing his words.

I don’t think Marty spotted it, but I saw a hint of skepticism
in her eyes. I suddenly had the distinct feeling that dumb blond
jokes did not apply to Frances Holderman. “So when can you
tell me just what you think you can do, Mr. Blevins?”

Marty’s fleshy cheeks colored at her question’s hint of his
impotence. In his best Humphrey Bogart manner, he growled,
“Mrs. Holderman. I guarantee we’ll be ready to provide you a
contract by this time tomorrow.” He paused, then added, “We
work on a customary five thousand dollar advance which we
bill against. Above that, it’s seventy-five dollars an hour and
expenses. “

Her eyes held his for several seconds. She dropped her gaze to her purse, retrieved a business card, and handed it to Marty.
“Here’s my number. I expect to hear from you by noon tomorrow. “

Marty took the card with his thick fingers and nodded like a
panting bluetick hound. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Holderman. We’ll
do you a good job.”

After Frances Holderman left, Marty lost no time in pouring
a drink. He loosened his tie and plopped down in the swivel
chair behind his battered desk and looked up at me. The
splotches of color had faded from his fleshy cheeks. “You know
Chief Ramon Pachuca. Check with him and with the insurance
company. Find us a starting point on this case.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Forget Pachuca. What about my raise?”

He frowned, then shook his head slowly. “Look, Tony. My
cash flow is-”

“Bull, Marty. I know better. I’ll take this case, but I want my
raise just like you promised after I kept Danny O’Banion’s
nephew from riding the needle in Huntsville.”

He stared at me for several long seconds, released a long
sigh, then nodded. “Okay. You got it. “

I grinned. “All right. Now what about Chief Pachuca?”

“You know him. See if you can get him to give us a hand.”

“He’s with the Austin force. They got nothing to do with it.
Holderman was murdered out in Safford. I don’t know anyone
out there.”

Marty gave me a glazed look. Abruptly, the click of understanding flickered in his eyes. “Yeah. Well, see Pachuca anyway. Maybe he has a contact with the Safford PD “

That was the best we could hope for, I figured. “I’ll see what
I can do.”

Back at my desk, I called Bob Ray Burrus, an old school
chum who worked the evidence room for the local police. I
wanted some background before I tried my pitch on Chief
Pachuca. Quickly, I told him about Holderman’s visit. “You got
buddies at Safford. You hear anything about it?”

He hesitated. “Not much. There were three or four possibles,
but the homicide boys ran into a brick wall at every turn. It’s in
the open file now.”

I grinned. “Open, huh? That probably means it’s dead.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks, Bob Ray. I owe you, buddy.”

Now I was ready to see Chief Pachuca, with whom I’d
worked on a couple cases. Despite his dislike for PI’s, we’d
managed an amiable relationship.

When I stepped into his office, mustachioed Chief Pachuca,
a fourth generation Texan, looked up from his desk, his ubiquitous cigar clamped between his teeth. A frown carved deep
crevices in his broad forehead. “What are you doing here,
Boudreaux? I don’t like PIs dripping water on my floor.” His
cigar bobbed up and down when he spoke.

I grinned sheepishly. There was nothing like being made to
feel right at home.

For the most part, Pachuca was a fair man although his
brusque manner suggested he was a world-class jerk. He was as
direct and impatient as he was perceptive and meticulous, but
in the few instances where we had worked together, we had
developed a comfortable, though reserved, relationship.

I brushed the water from the sleeves of my raincoat.
“Protocol, Chief. Protocol. And a favor.”

He leaned back and studied me with wary eyes. The frown
faded from his square face. “For what?”

I gestured to a straight-back chair. “Mind if I sit?”

His eyes narrowed. “You going to be here that long?”

“Depends on you, Chief. You tell me to beat it, I’m gone.”

He leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “Sure. Have a seat.
Never let it be said Austin’s finest don’t go out of their way to
please the public even though they’re making a swimming pool
of my office. Now, what are you after?”

I glanced at the water pooling around my feet. “Sorry. But,
the reason I’m here is that Frances Holderman paid us a visit
today. She wants us to clear her as a suspect in her husband’s
death.”

Pachuca’s thin face darkened. His mustache quivered. “Holderman? You gotta be kidding. The woman is guilty as sin.
If it was my jurisdiction, I’d nail her keister to the wall.”

I literally backed up a step, his sharp reply taking me by surprise. “Hey, what’s going on here? That doesn’t sound like you,
Ramon.”

The veins in his neck bulged. He glared at me for several
seconds, and then closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
“Sorry. It’s just that I knew George Holderman. He wasn’t no
saint, but he was a decent man. Pretty shrewd for the most part
except when he married that tramp. Look at her. Almost half
his age. He found her in a topless bar over in Elgin doing pole
dances.” Before I could reply, he continued. “Of course, that
was eight, ten years back, but I’ll always believe she started
planning his murder on their wedding night.”

Trying to feel my way through the minefield of his obvious
malice toward her, I replied, “I know the Safford department’s
been working on it, but I heard the investigation has run into a
dead end.”

He snorted. “You said it. Dead end. I’ve seen the evidence.
Plenty of physical, some circumstantial, but none of it leads
anywhere. There were four solid suspects. I don’t remember
who they are, but your client is one of them.”

“Prospective client,” I corrected him.

He nodded. “Yeah. Well, I know deep in my gut she’s guilty.
That witch is staring at an eight million dollar payoff. That’s
reason enough to kill anybody. Besides, neighbors heard her
threaten him.” He grimaced and chewed on his cigar. “The way
I heard it was there were four or five more teachers plus a couple high school seniors in the area when Holderman got it after
a PTA meeting one night.”