Old Wounds, a Gino Cataldi Mystery

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  “What time did he see it?” Tip asked.

  “About midnight, according to the caller.

  He remembered because he was already late going home.”

  “Did you get his name and number?” Tip asked.

  Charlie shrunk in the chair, almost like a scared dog. “He wouldn’t give it to me, Tip. He said—”

  “That’s all right,” Tip said. “I’m surprised we even got a call.”

  Charlie seemed to gain confidence. “One other thing, Tip. He gave us two numbers from the plate. He said he can’t swear to it, but he’s pretty sure the plate had a six and an eight.”

  Tip patted Charlie on the back. “You did good with this. Real good.”

  ***

  Tip looked at me and winked. “This is what we needed.”

  I looked at Charlie. He was all puffed up and grinning like we’d brought him a dozen bagels. “Good job, Charlie,” I said. “Damn good.”

  “Julie, get in here,” Tip said. “We have a real lead.”

  She walked in a moment later.

  “Get the information from Charlie,” Tip said, and then run the vehicle with the partial plate and print out a list. He turned to Charlie. “Help her prioritize it by age, gender, geography, anything we can think of because there are going to be a lot of those trucks in the city.”

  Karl had come in to see what was going on. I grabbed him by the arm. “See about getting a team up to the Cy Creek scene and have them go back over everything looking for tire tracks. We have a witness that says he saw an F–150 up there the night of the murder.”

  “You got it,” Karl said, and headed out.

  “That rain probably washed everything away,” Tip said, “But you never can tell. It’s worth a shot.”

  For the next hour or so, I helped Charlie prioritize the list of F–150 owners whose license plates contained a six or an eight, in any order. Fortunately, Texas uses a lot of letters in the plate numbers, but we still ended up with 120 that matched. While I worked on the leads, Tip filled Coop in on the new development. By the time he returned, I had a few prospects worth checking on. First up was a 2013 model that belonged to Randy Cusper, a 39-year-old registered gun activist with a plate that matched. And a record as a small-time dealer.

  “Keep working the list,” I said to Charlie.

  “We’re gonna start checking these out.”

  “Give the next batch to Delgado,” Tip said. “Tell him to keep us posted.”

  Randy Cusper lived just north of the Loop, tucked into an older neighborhood that was predominantly Latino now.

  We turned right on Crosstimbers, took a left a few lights down, and found Cusper living in a small ranch house off a side street. Three Latinos and a couple of dogs patrolled the street. They checked us out when we pulled up, but no doubt they knew we were cops.

  Cusper’s truck was parked in a short driveway next to the house. As we approached, I got my holster ready for a quick draw in case of trouble. Tip knocked on the door. I stood back a few steps and kept my eyes open on both sides of the house. A few seconds later a young teenage girl answered. She couldn’t have been more than 16 or 17.

  Tip flashed the badge. “Detective Denton,” he said. “I’m looking for Randy Cusper.”

  “What do you want him for?”

  She had an attitude, but that didn’t surprise me.

  “We have a few questions we’d like to ask him,” Tip said.

  “You can ask me,” she said. “My dad’s in jail.”

  Tip shot me a quick glance, then said,

  “How long has he been in jail?”

  She cocked her head to the side, as if thinking, then said, “Maybe two weeks. Something like that.”

  “Is your mother here?” Tip said.

  “Get off what you’re thinking, cop. I got no mother and haven’t had one all my life. I do fine by myself.” She started to close the door but Tip stopped her by jamming his foot in.

  “What’s your father in jail for?”

  “Parole violation,” she said.

  Tip handed her a card but he didn’t even get his spiel out before the door slammed shut.

  “So much for that,” I said.

  “That bitch has an attitude.”

  “I wonder why the printout didn’t show the parole violation?” I said. “We better check on that in case the ungrateful one’s lying.”

  “Not that she’d lie,” Tip said. “But just in case.”

  We got in Tip’s car and headed back toward the freeway. “Next up is Mano Perez.” I said. “Married, 24-years old, and drives a 2014 model F–150.”

  “Where’s he live?” Tip asked.

  “Up on Veterans Memorial. Looks like it’s just south of 1960.”

  Tip entered the freeway heading in that direction. “At least we won’t be dealing with a smart-ass teenager this time.”

  It only took twenty minutes to find Mano’s house. A young woman answered. She had what appeared to be a two-year-old clinging to her leg and younger child in her arms. I looked down at her belly. She was pregnant.

  Tip showed his badge. She shook her head. “No hablo ingles.”

  I stepped up next to Tip. “¿Donde està tu marido?”

  She smiled at me. “Está en el trabajo.”

  “¿Donde està?”

  She fumbled with the words, trying to get her point across in English, but we eventually understood her to mean he was working at a car dealership on I-45, by the airport exit. It all became clear to Tip when he heard the name of Señor Ingle.

  “Trabaja para Señor Ingle.” She said.

  As we walked back to the car, Tip looked at me. “Did she say he worked for Ingle? If so, this is getting more interesting all the time.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “RB Ingle owns the dealership she’s talking about. That opens up a whole new list of suspects.”

  I opened the passenger door and slid in the seat. “I guess I still don’t get it.”

  Tip turned and looked at me. “RB and Rusty used to frequent the stripper clubs all the time.”

  “Used to?”

  “Rumor has it that RB stopped after he married the daughter of a former police captain, but I doubt that stopped him.” Tip started the engine and backed out. “Either way, though. He probably knew our victim.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah,” Tip said. “And one of his employees has a truck that might have been seen where the body was dumped.”

  “I think we need to speak to Señor Perez,” I said.

  “Let’s hope he’s still there. You know the wife called to warn him.”

  CHAPTER 31

  A COUPLE OF QUESTIONS

  We parked and went inside the showroom for Ingle motors, fully expecting to find Mano gone. Tip winked at the receptionist, who flashed him a genuine smile in return. It seemed as if Tip couldn’t help himself when it came to pretty women, but on the other hand, they responded to him.

  He showed her his badge and leaned on the counter. “Darlin’, if there’s any way you can tell me where to find Mano Perez, I’d sure appreciate it.”

  She blushed, and then she pulled up Mano’s number and paged him. Within a few seconds, she said, “He’ll be right up,” and then to Tip, “My name’s Lisa.”

  “That’s one of my favorite names,” Tip said.

  Between almost choking over his ridiculous bullshit, and wanting real information, I said to Lisa, “What does Mano do here?”

  She turned to me, but her smile wasn’t nearly as inviting. “He works as a supervisor in customer service.”

  Tip was still chatting with her when Mano showed. “Lisa, you wanted to see me?”

  “These gentlemen wanted to speak with you.”

  I showed my badge, which drew a surprised reaction. Maybe his wife hadn’t called. “Can we go someplace to talk?”

  “Is something wrong? Mano said.

  “Nothing wrong. We have a few questions.”

 
He looked around and then led us to an empty office. He sat behind the desk. Tip and I sat in chairs opposite him. “Is something wrong?” Mano asked again.

  “Do you know Barbara Camwyck?” Tip asked.

  He scrunched his eyes up and looked at Tip, and then me. “The name is familiar, but I don’t think I know her. Did she buy a car here?”

  His English was very good. He spoke with only a hint of an accent. “I don’t think she did,” I said. “That’s one of the things we’re here to find out.”

  “Why don’t you check the computer and see if she was a customer,” Tip said. “It’s spelled C-A-M-W-Y-C-K. First name Barbara.”

  He typed her name into the computer. When the file came up on the screen, recognition showed in his face. “I remember now. She brought her car in a few weeks ago to be serviced. I gave her a ride home.”

  I looked over at Tip, who had leaned closer to Mano. “You gave her a ride home? When was this, exactly?”

  Mano checked the file and then said,

  “Three weeks ago. And she picked her car up the next day.”

  “What kind of car?” I asked.

  “A 2015 Ford Fusion,” Mano said. “Blue.”

  “What happened when you took her home?” Tip asked.

  “Nothing happened,” Mano said, and became defensive. “I dropped her off outside her building and then I left.”

  Tip got in his face. “And what, you went back the next week to get a little something?”

  “You’re sick,” Mano said.

  “And when she wouldn’t do it, you butchered her?”

  “I’d never do that. I’m not like that.”

  “Where were you the night of the murder?”

  “What murder?” he said.

  “Camwyck’s murder. She was the lady whose body was found in the dumpsters,” Tip said.

  Mano sat up straight. “Dios mîo.” Mano blessed himself and said once again. “Dios mîo.”

  Tip and I remained silent and let him digest the information.

  After a moment, Mano said, “When was the murder?”

  I was hoping he had an alibi ready, but he was playing it smart, pretending not to know when she was killed. I played his game and gave him the date.

  He thought and then smiled. “I was working for Mr. Ingle. He had a big party for the mayor’s campaign.”

  Tip said, “What were you doing at the mayor’s party?”

  “Mr. Ingle knows I need money. I do a lot of extra things for him. I worked inside, escorting people, getting drinks, waiting on tables.”

  “Where did this take place?” I asked.

  “At Mr. Ingle’s country club where he plays golf. Raveneaux, over on Cypresswood Drive.”

  “What time did you start?”

  “Right after work, maybe around 5:00 or 5:30. We had a lot to prepare.”

  “When did you leave?” Tip asked.

  Mano looked to the side and rubbed his hands together. “I left the country club about 8:30 or 9:00.”

  “What time did you get home?” I asked.

  “About 10:30.”

  Tip scrunched up his brow. “Why so late?”

  “I drove the other workers back to their cars or to their homes. I used the company van.”

  “Where was your truck during the party?” I asked. “Was it with you the whole night?”

  “Here,” he said, and his face lit up. “I didn’t even have my truck that night.”

  “Can your wife vouch for that?”

  He shifted in his seat and fidgeted. “She wasn’t home. And…she’s not my wife. She’s my cousin.”

  Tip said, “Your cousin?”

  Mano shook his head. “It’s not what you think. Her husband is involved with drugs in Mexico. She ran away and is hiding at my house, with me.” He looked at me, then Tip. “Please, don’t make trouble for her.”

  “What time did she get home?” I asked.

  “Not until the next morning. She stayed with a friend.”

  Tip stood and grabbed hold of Mano’s arm. “You’ll have to come with us,” he said. “You have the right to remain silent…”

  I knew we didn’t have enough to take him in, but more than likely, he didn’t and I wanted a look at that truck.

  Mano’s eyes opened wide. “What are you doing? I didn’t do anything.”

  I grabbed Tip’s arm. “Hold on. We might not need to do all that.”

  Tip looked at me and winked. “The hell we don’t.”

  I turned to Mano and said, “Maybe we can clear this up without going downtown.”

  “What do you need?” Mano asked.

  “How about you let us check out your truck?” I said.

  Mano seemed to relax. “Sure, man. Take a look. Take a drive if you want.”

  Tip put his cuffs away and said, “Let’s see the truck.”

  He led us to the employee parking lot and handed us the keys. “Right there. Look all you want.”

  Tip got down on his back and slid partway under the truck. He checked the undercarriage and the tires. “Have you cleaned this lately?”

  “Not in a few months,” Mano said.

  After Tip slid out from under the truck, we checked the cab, and then the back. A few pieces of lumber lay in the bed of the truck, along with an old tire and a plastic garbage bag. I climbed in the bed and moved a few things around. Back in the corner of the bed, near the driver’s side, I spotted something. It was either rust or blood.

  “Tip, we might have blood.”

  “Blood? Ain’t no blood in there,” Mano said.

  Tip looked over the side of the truck into the bed. “Looks like blood to me,” he said, and grabbed Mano’s arm. “You have the right to remain silent…”

  “That ain’t blood!” Mano said. “It can’t be blood.”

  CHAPTER 32

  THINGS DON’T ADD UP

  We took Mano for processing, and arranged for the crime scene guys to pick up and process his truck. Mano insisted he was innocent, and I felt certain he was. Regardless, we had to question him. A lot of things didn’t add up about this. I had read him his rights as protection, but I didn’t think we’d need it.

  Once we had Mano situated in the interview room, Tip took the first shot at him.

  “How did the blood get in your truck?”

  Mano shook his head while staring at the table. “I don’t know anything about blood.”

  “Have you cut yourself lately?” I asked, hoping he’d say yes.

  He shook his head.

  “As soon as they get the report back from the lab we’ll know it’s her blood.” Tip let what he said sink in, then, “And once we know it’s her blood, you’ll go to trial and be convicted, and then they’ll put a needle in your arm.”

  Mano looked up at Tip. “Bullshit. I want to call Señor Ingle.”

  “Is Mr. Ingle your legal counsel?” Tip asked.

  Tip asked Mano where he was the night Richards was killed, the woman from Dallas. Mano said he was working all day and didn’t get home until 8:00. If he was, that cleared him of the Dallas murder, but we didn’t know for sure if they were connected. I made a note to check his alibi.

  “Tell me again why you left the party so early,” Tip said.

  Mano sighed. Tip was getting to him. “I already told you. Mr. Ingle’s assistant sent several of us home early. Once we set up there was no need for all of us.”

  “And you went straight home?” I asked.

  Mano clenched his fists. “I told you. I drove the other workers home, and then I went home. I used Mr. Ingle’s van.”

  “What’s the assistant’s name?” I asked.

  “Reggie. I don’t know his last name.”

  Tip and I pressed him, and repeated a lot of questions, but he wasn’t changing his tune. The guy had a story and he was sticking to it.

  Before long, Mano asked to use his phone call. I figured he’d lawyer-up, but he called RB Ingle, which turned out to be far worse. Mano clamped up after
he spoke to RB, and within an hour a lawyer named Rengster showed up.

  He was obviously paid for by RB. In no time, he arranged for Mano to be released on bail, which RB also must have sprung for.

  We released the truck to Mano. The techs had already gotten what they needed. After Mano walked out with the lawyer, we went back to the office. Tip kicked his feet up on the desk. “What’s your take on it, Gino? Did we let a killer walk?”

  “You know we didn’t,” I said. “The question is who’s framing him.”

  Tip sat up in his chair and pulled out a notepad. “What have we got so far?”

  I pushed my chair to his desk and sat. “The lead called in to Charlie, the one that identified Mano’s truck.”

  Tip wrote it down. “The guy who wouldn’t leave his name.”

  “That’s him,” I said. “And whoever left the lead on the truck had to know that Mano wouldn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder.”

  “Which means he knows him,” Tip said,

  “And he knew what Mano would be doing that night.”

  “And the big one is the blood in the back of the truck, which I’m certain is going to match Camwyck’s.”

  “No doubt in my mind,” Tip said. “The body was dumped before the rain started, and it rained way too hard that night for the blood to stay in the bed of that truck.”

  I thought for a minute and then said, “The blood in the back of that truck means it was probably planted sometime the next day after the rain stopped. Which means they knew where the truck would be.”

  Tip stopped writing and looked over at me.

  “That trail leads right back to RB Ingle.”

  I thought about what Tip said, and nodded. “Mano worked for Ingle. He was working for Ingle the night of the murder, and he used one of Ingle’s vans to take people home.”

  “Which conveniently left Mano’s truck accessible.”

  “And let’s not forget that Ingle posted bail to the tune of $100,000,” I said. “That’s a lot of money for a low-level employee.”

  “That’s a lot of money for any employee,” Tip said. “Makes me wonder why he did it.”

  I took a sip of water and looked at Tip. “But let’s not forget my mystery caller. So far she’s been the source of our only good leads.”