On the Street Where You Die (Stanley Bentworth mysteries Book 1) (12 page)

Chapter 16
 

This time Officer Bob waved us right into the compound, but security was tight at Buford’s. A guard in a black suit and sunglasses was stationed at Buford’s personal gatehouse. He checked our identification and waved us through. Two black SUVs stood in the driveway near the entrance. Another black suit stood at the doorway talking on a walkie-talkie.

Rodney helped me out of the car and to the door.

“Wait in the car, please,” I said. He got a disappointed look on his face, which I pretended not to notice.

The black suit stood aside and let me in. He said that Mr. Overbee was waiting on the patio.

I went through the house and out to the patio. Buford was on a chaise lounge with Missy on one side and Serena on the other.

Buford got up and said, “Let’s go in the study where we won’t bore the ladies with business.”

However this conversation was going to go, he didn’t want anyone else in on it. Neither did I. Especially Missy and Serena.

We went into the study and sat in facing leather easy chairs. Gravity allowed me to sink into the chair, but I’d need help getting up. I laid my crutches on the floor beside the chair.

Ramon was there right away with drinks for both of us. We waited for him to leave.

“You look like shit,” Buford said.

“I get that a lot.”

“Any trouble getting in?”

“No. Bob and the Men
In
Black passed me right through.”

“Some of
Sanford
’s guys.
I brought them on after I was outed.”

“Tell me about the boat bombing.”

“You mean the boat accident?” he asked, looking away.

“Come on. You might get an onboard fire from a spark and gas leak, but they said there wasn’t anything left of that boat but flotsam.”

He took a sip. I took a healthy swallow.

“My boys had nothing to do with it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said. “Did you read about him being Army Intelligence and Homeland Security looking into it?”

“Think they’ll find anything?”

“Not if whoever did it is competent. I understand some of those terrorists are real good with explosives.”

“Well, his soldier pals think I had something to do with it. They’ve been stalking me.”

“I’ll tell
Sanford
. He might be able to discourage them.”

“Okay, but don’t go blowing up any Army vehicles.
At least not in front of my office.
I don’t have the alibi any more.”

He didn’t answer. I had the distinct impression that Buford Overbee would be a good friend to have and a fearsome enemy. I changed the subject.

“Let’s talk about your case. Did the cops tell you where they found the gun?”

“In the trunk of my Rolls.
Under the wheel in the spare tire compartment.
Whoever offed Vitole must have planted it there.”

That didn’t leave many probable suspects.

“Who has access to your car?”

“Me and Sanford.”

“Anyone else have keys?”

“Not that I know of.”

We were getting closer.

“Do you think
Sanford
bumped Vitole?”

Buford stopped. Then he said, “He knew we were having trouble. He knew that Vitole could put me out of business.
Sanford
could have done it and with good reason. Without me he’d have nothing.”

Sanford
was getting to be a sure thing.

“Do you want me to work that angle?”

“I want you to work any angle that gets this ankle bracelet off and these charges dropped. I don’t care if the Pope did it.”

It surprised me at first that Buford would so readily throw his old friend under the bus. But then, he had a history of doing just that when his own hide was at stake.

“Did the cops question
Sanford
?”

“Not much. He has an alibi.”

“Didn’t he drive you to Vitole’s house when you went to see him? Is that his alibi?”

“No. I didn’t want anyone else implicated. Didn’t know what might happen. I was packing. I drove myself.”

“What’s
Sanford
’s alibi?”

“Ramon. They were here shooting pool in the rec room all day.”

“So, they’re each other’s alibi. What are their full names?”

“Ramon Sanchez.
Probably not his real name.
He’s your garden variety undocumented alien. Smartest kid I ever met. The only guy I know can beat me at chess.”

“And
Sanford
?”

“It’s the only name I’ve ever known him by.”

He put down his drink and looked at me. “I don’t think it was either one of them, Stan, although they’re both loyal employees.”

“You have a theory?” Sometimes—oftentimes—your best leads come from the people who hire you.

“My guess is that Vitole was shaking down other guys. One of them probably got to him like we
did,
only whoever it was took extreme measures to get him off their back. People in witness protection are not usually Sunday School teachers.”

“How could they have planted the gun?”

“Any time I was out somewhere.
Or when I was in the holding cell.
Get the trunk open, plant the piece, don’t leave prints,
don’t
get caught.”

“Was the Rolls out of here during your incarceration?”

“Sure. Selena and Melissa have
Sanford
or Ramon take them shopping or wherever.”

“How could the killer have gotten the gun in the first place?”

“That I don’t know.”

“Do you know whether it’s actually yours?”

“Could be.
They haven’t shown it to me. Nothing’s missing from the collection.”

“Are all the guns in these display cases?”

“Stan, you can’t open a drawer or box in this house without finding a loaded piece. I’m paranoid about being caught unaware and unarmed. Look down at the side of the chair you’re sitting in.”

I looked down. The leather chair had a leather holster stitched onto its side. The brown grips of a .32 automatic pistol stuck up out of the holster.

“Do you have many guests?”

“I sometimes receive clients here. Ones who already know what I look like.”

“And who know who you used to be? Could one of your clients be in the same boat you are? Getting shaken down by Vitole?”

“I suppose anything’s possible.”

“Could someone like that have taken one of your pieces?”

“Might have.”

“And planted it in your car?”

“That’s far-fetched.”

“We’ll play hell getting the feds to release a list of witness protection clients,” I said.

“Penrod said the same thing when I suggested he look into it. No, the cops are content to have me. They don’t need anyone else. Case closed.
Job well done.
You used to be in that business, Stan. Isn’t that how it works?”

“That’s how it works. Can you get me a list of your clients? You can leave out the movie stars and other famous people.
Just the ones with vague backgrounds.”

“That won’t be a long list. I’ll get it together and send it to you.”

“Was Vitole’s wife there when you visited?”

“No. He said he was alone.”

“That’s what he said when I visited. I guess she works.
Too bad.
She could have told the cops he was alive when you left.”

It was time to get into the difficult parts of the case.

“Now,” I said. “We agreed that I should chase down any lead, any hunch, whatever.”

“Yes.”

“What about the ladies in your life?
Missy and Serena?”

Buford paused. “I never gave that the first thought.”

“I did. Do I chase it?”

“Chase it,” he said, taking another sip of his drink.

“Even Missy?”

“Especially Missy.
She’s very protective and has the balls and brains to do something like that. Serena is dumber than a bag of ball peen hammers and doesn’t think about anything past her hairdo, nails, and makeup.”

“And what do I do if it starts to look like Missy?”

He stopped and thought about it. “You tell me,” he said. “I handle it from there.”

I started thinking about opportunity,
who
had it, who was likely to use it.

“While you were out that morning, did the others have a way to get over to Vitole’s house?”

“Yeah.
There are several SUVs here. And both the girls have their own cars.”

“Were they here when you got back?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Were Sanford and Ramon?”

“Don’t remember.”

That brought our meeting to a close. I finished my drink and started to struggle to get up from the easy chair, Ramon was there in a flash helping me up.

“Does he hear everything we say?” I asked Buford.

“I do not listen, Señor. I only watch.”

I hoped he was telling the truth. I wasn’t ready for him and Sanford to know they were suspects.

Chapter 17
 

I lay in the bed on my back, still in pain. Almost everything hurt. I got a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand and fumbled with the book of matches tucked under the cellophane. Nothing is easy when only one hand works. Bunny sat up next to me, took the pack, extracted the matches, and lit my last cigarette ever.

Rodney had dropped me off at Ray’s the day before, and I wound up here at Bunny’s. I’m not sure how that happened, but I was glad.

“It’s good to be back,” I said.

“
It’s
better when you can move,” she said. She got up to get me an ashtray.

“You always wanted to be on top anyway.”

She handed me the ashtray. I put it on the bed next to me, and she stretched out again.

“I thought you quit smoking,” she said.

“Tomorrow.”

She pulled the sheet up over herself.

“You don’t want me looking at you?” I said.

“You’ve seen
better
. You married better.”

That hit a sore spot. “Don’t remind me. Besides, what’s wrong with your looks?”

“Stretch marks.
Cellulite.”

“They’re nothing compared to my scars.”

“On a guy they look tough. On us we just look old.”

“Tough?”

“Well, not yet. They have to heal and scar up. Right now you look like you’ve been in a chainsaw fight.”

“But I’ll look tough? Hell, I’d have paid money for that.”

“Wait’ll you get the hospital bill.”

We lay quiet for a while, looking at the ceiling while I smoked my cigarette.

“You want to talk about us?” she said.

“About us?
We’re here now. What’s to talk about?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I always left that up to you.”

She rolled over on her side and faced me.

“Maybe that was the problem, Stan. Maybe you shouldn’t have.”

“You’ve got a point. It never turned out good when you were in charge of tomorrow.”

“Give me another chance?”

“Don’t I always?”

“You do.”

“And then next thing I know you’re gone again.”

“That’s happened.”

“Why would this time be any different?”

“It could be,” she said. “Maybe it will be.”

“
You making
a promise?”

“No,” she said. She got out of the bed. “I got to get to work.”

“Me too.
Help me get my clothes on?”

“Why not?
I helped you get them off. Do you want to take a shower?”

“Not with all these bandages. I’ll get a sponge bath later at home.”

“You want one now?” she said.

“Thanks, but I really have to get to work. A sponge bath would take a long time.”

“I’d hope so.”

We got dressed with Bunny dressing both of us. Damn, I felt useless. I was able to get to her car without help. She lived on the first floor. She took me to Ray’s for breakfast.

Afterward I called Rodney to come escort me to the office and help me up the stairs. He was there in a heartbeat.
Always eager to please.

“You remember Rodney,” I said to Bunny.

“Oh, yeah.
The nephew.
I liked the other shirt better, Rodney, but the shave and haircut is an improvement.”

We walked across the street. The olive drab Chevy was there again. They were still watching. I considered calling Bill Penrod, but by the time we got up the stairs I had forgotten about it.

“Good morning, Willa.”

“Good morning. Amanda called.
Just checking up.
I didn’t know where you were, so she was worried. Rodney said he left you with Bunny, so I figured you were okay.”

“Did either of you think to call my cell phone?”

“I didn’t want to get you out of the middle of somebody.”

Man, that Willa had a mouth on her.

“Rodney,” I said, “can you get us one of those whiteboards with felt-tip markers? We’re going to need one for talking points for this case. The office supply store should have them.”

“Yeah, I can get one. Am I helping you with the case?”

“Yes. I’d like to bounce some of my ideas off you, and I need the board to organize them.”

“Man, that’s cool. Can I get a badge like yours?”

“Sure. Google ‘private investigator badge’ and you’ll find them. Mine cost about thirty bucks.”

“I’ll do it when I get back,” he said. “Do I have to pay for it myself?”

“You do.”

“What about a gun?”

“No gun.”

“Why not?”

Kids always whine and ask why not whenever you tell them they can’t have or do something. Usually, “because I say so” is a sufficient answer, but in this case I had the law on my side.

“Because you have to be twenty-one to get a carry permit, is why not. Now go get the whiteboard.”

Willa gave Rodney some money from petty cash, and he headed out.

I went into my office and got Roscoe out of the safe. It hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. I took it out of the holster and unloaded it. My gun cleaning kit was in a desk drawer under a bunch of other junk. I got it out and carefully cleaned the piece, enjoying the procedure and the unmistakable scent of gun oil.

I wasn’t going to go anywhere without Roscoe now that the ever-diligent soldier boys were on my trail again. My badge was still pinned to the holster. I reloaded the gun, put it in the holster, and put the assembly into my top desk drawer.

I called Ray’s Diner. Bunny answered.

“What’s for lunch?” I asked.

“How about a taco?”

After the laughter faded, I said, “Can’t make it over there today. My orderly is out on an errand and won’t be back.”

“Shall I bring you something?”

“Yeah.
Bring something for Willa too.”

In about a half hour, Bunny was there with three club sandwiches in Styrofoam boxes. Willa was pleased that she wouldn’t have to go out and that we’d thought of her. I let her think it was Bunny’s idea.

The three of us ate together. Willa kept looking at Bunny with a suspicious eye. Willa did not hide her disapproval. Bunny would break my heart again. It had occurred to me too.

Rodney was back after lunch with a big flat carton. He took it into my office and took the whiteboard out of the box.

“Hang it over there,” I said pointing to the blank wall opposite the window.

He went to his truck and came back with his toolbox. In a matter of minutes the board was hanging on the wall. Accessories included a pack of markers, an eraser, and a spray bottle of cleaner. We were ready to go.

I told Rodney to stand at the board and make a chart of suspects’ names with columns alongside for means, motive, opportunity, alibi, and the date I interviewed each suspect. I called out names, and he wrote them on the board.
Mr. and Mrs. Sproles, Vitole’s wife, Missy, Serena, Sanford, and Ramon.

On another part of the board I had him list witnesses along with the date interviewed and comments about what they saw or knew. So far the witness list was empty.

Rodney had nice block-letter handwriting. I was surprised.

“You know, Uncle Stanley, we could have done all this with a spreadsheet on the computer.”

“Yeah, but then I couldn’t lean back in my chair and ponder them. Call me old-fashioned. This is how we used to do it when I worked homicide.”

Across the top of the board we made a timeline that traced events related to the case by date and time. We’d add to the timeline as we learned new things.

“How about this?”
Rodney said. “Every time we update the board, I’ll take a picture of it and upload it to the computer? That way, we’ll have a record.”

“Okay. And print one for Willa to put in the file.”

Willa came in to look at our artwork.

“The Y people,” she said.

“What?” I said.

“Almost everybody’s name ends with a Y. Stanley, Rodney, Missy, Bunny, Jeremy, Mandy,
Vitole
.

“Mandy, Bunny, and Jeremy aren’t part of this case,” I said.

“But they fit the pattern.”

“Vitole doesn’t end in a Y.

“It sounds like it does. So does Overbee.”

“You left out Mickey,” I said.

“Who’s Mickey?” she asked.

I tapped my watch. She laughed and went back to her office.

Rodney and I spent the afternoon kicking around theories and opinions about various aspects of the case. Rodney’s contributions were superficial at best, but I needed someone to bounce off whatever crazy notion I had. Penrod and I used to do that a lot, and I missed that part of being a murder cop.