Old Wounds, a Gino Cataldi Mystery

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  “Morning, Tip. How’s that case coming?”

  “If you ever figure out the mystery of those lyrics we might catch a break,” Tip said. “Get busy.”

  Charlie shook his head and mumbled something, but he kept walking down the hall.

  “Good morning, Cindy,” Tip said. “Gladys in?”

  Cindy nodded and raised her eyebrows almost to her hairline. That was all Tip needed to know. “If she’s in that bad a mood, you better bring both of us tea, but wait about ten minutes.”

  Coop was hanging up the phone when Tip walked in. “Morning, Captain.”

  “Good morning my ass. It’s anything but a good morning.” She moved a few files to the edge of her desk, looked at Tip.

  “Where’s Cataldi?”

  “He had some personal business to take care of. He’ll be here shortly. In the meantime, tell me what’s got you pissed off.”

  “I wasn’t here ten minutes before the chief called. He said the department had gotten complaints about the way some of my detectives had handled investigations. He even hinted that there was widespread corruption in our department.”

  “Sounds like bullshit,” Tip said. “And I know where it’s coming from.” He thought of Ron’s troubles and then Elena’s. Now Coop. There was no longer even an inkling of doubt in his mind of who was behind these problems.

  Coop narrowed her eyes and sat. “Pull up a seat and tell me about it.”

  Tip told her what happened with Ron, and then about the call from Elena. “The way I figure it,” Tip said, “the only person powerful enough to pull this many strings, and do it this fast, is RB Ingle.”

  “And you’re sure Gino’s boy had nothing to do with those drugs?”

  “I’m not sure,” Tip said, “but I’d bet money on it. When I mentioned Ingle’s name to the house manager, he recognized it, and not from the newspapers.” Tip leaned forward and pushed the intercom button. “Cindy darlin’, will you bring me some tea, please? And you better get a refill for Gladys also.”

  That drew the first smile Tip had seen from Coop since he’d arrived. “Besides,” he said, “There is no way that Elena’s troubles just happened to pop up now.”

  Coop tightened her lips, her head bobbing. “That son of a bitch is sending us a message.”

  “That’s the way I see it,” Tip said. “We hit a soft spot and triggered this.”

  “The question is which spot did we hit?” Coop said. “I think we’re going to have to press harder to find out.”

  Tip walked around Coop’s desk and hugged her. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, darlin’.”

  Coop pushed him away, but she was laughing. “You’re a damn idiot, Denton. Now get the hell out of here.”

  When Tip got to his desk he saw a note from Julie.

  See me about Mano.

  He walked to her cubicle and held up the note she had left him. “What’s up with Mano?”

  Julie looked up from her computer. “We received a call from Laredo. They found his truck a few hundred yards off a back road just outside of town. It had been set on fire. Not much left.”

  “I don’t imagine there’s been any signs of Mano?”

  She shook her head. “Not a peep.”

  Tip thought for a moment. “Which means he’s either in Mexico or buried next to a cactus.”

  “I hope he’s in Mexico,” Julie said.

  “Me too, Julie, but somehow I don’t think he is.”

  Half an hour later a package came from Santos—the video. Tip took it to Coop and they sat down to watch it. It started off similar to the other videos, only this one starred Patti in the leading role, along with Tom Marsen.

  “Looks like our president gets around,” Tip said.

  “He always has,” Coop said. “He didn’t have morals as a kid, and he still doesn’t.”

  The door opened and Cindy came in. “There are people here from the chief’s office. They are asking for files.”

  Coop sat up in her chair. “Which files?”

  “Mostly from major crimes, but a few homicides also.”

  “Which homicides?” Coop’s tone had taken on a dangerous edge.

  “The Barajas case from last year, the Randolph killings, and the one we’re working on—Ms. Camwyck.”

  Coop looked at Tip. “Those bastards are trying to bury this,” she said, and then to Cindy, “Give them the other files, but not Camwyck. Not even copies.”

  Tip looked over at Coop and flashed a big grin. “Keep this up and I’ll have to kiss you, Gladys.”

  “Try that shit and I’ll break your goddamn arm.”

  Coop and Tip finished watching the video but saw nothing new. Coop leaned back in her chair, hands folded behind her head. “We’ve got three videos of either Ingle or the president screwing prostitutes who both turn up dead. And we’ve got blackmail demands.” She braced her foot against the desk and spun her chair. “What are we missing? Sure as hell this isn’t about sex.”

  “I agree,” Tip said. “I’m still trying to figure out why Ingle would want to be with someone else when he’s got Mrs. Ingle at home.”

  “I’m not going to get down in the gutter with you, Denton, but I do understand where you’re coming from. That woman is gorgeous.”

  “So if it’s not about sex, what is it about?” Tip said.

  Coop got out of her chair and downed the last sip of cold tea. “That’s what you and Cataldi are going to find out.”

  “We might ruffle a few feathers.”

  “I don’t give a shit if you pluck them naked,” Coop said. “Find out who killed those women.”

  “You got it,” Tip said.

  On the way to his car he called Gino.

  “Cataldi.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I just left the rehab. They were fantastic. Had everything ready.”

  “Great. I knew they would, they’re a good group of guys.”

  “You ready for this? In the few hours you’ve been gone, they’re busting ass on Elena and Coop. This son of a bitch is pulling out all the stops.”

  “Elena? Are you shitting me?”

  “I’m not. I think they’re trying to distract us, but more importantly, send us a message that the game just got serious.”

  Gino was quiet, then, “Son of a bitch, Tip. Maybe Ron really didn’t do it.”

  “You stupid shit. I told you he didn’t. I wouldn’t have called in a favor if I thought he did.”

  “Goddamn!” Gino said. “Where are you? I’m 30 minutes from the station.”

  “Forget that. I’m going to see an old buddy of mine. I think you should go see Mrs. Ingle again.”

  “Mrs. Ingle?”

  “That’s right. Stop and buy a few rubber bands and maybe take a cold shower, but get over there and put on the pressure. We need her to break RB’s alibi for the night of Camwyck’s murder.”

  “On my way, partner.”

  CHAPTER 48

  RUNNING SCARED

  Tip hung up from Gino and hurried out the door, forsaking coffee. He’d been thinking of calling old George, a retired cop who knew everything that went on in the old days. When George was young he might have been in on most of it, but as he neared retirement he cleaned up and played it straight.

  A quick phone call would tell Tip if it was worth the effort to go see him. He looked up George’s number and dialed, letting it ring seven or eight times before someone answered.

  “What the hell does somebody want?”

  Recognition came instantly even after all these years. “George, is that you, you mean crotchety old bastard?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Tip Denton. Remember, I—”

  “I remember you. The last time I saw you, you were nothing but a little fuckhead trying to push your way to the top and askin’ people too many questions.”

  “I guess some things never change.”

  George laughed. “What are ya’ calling me for?”

  “I need
information.”

  “Huh. Everybody needs information. Go do the Google on it, or whatever the hell that is they do now.”

  “I need to know things about Rusty and the old crew.”

  Tip sat silent through a long pause, then George mumbled into the phone. “You know where I live?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, I’m here, goddamnit. Come on down.”

  George lived in the Heights, an old section of town that used to house the white-collar types, but it deteriorated and then went on a roller coaster ride of ups and downs, shifting between high-crime district and the newest place to be. Lots of people had tried to get George to move out of there, but stubbornness and George had found each other long ago and they both seemed to like the relationship.

  Tip pulled off the freeway, went down Yale Street then across 17th. He spotted George as he made the turn, sitting on the front porch, rocking.

  He parked, got out and made his way up the sidewalk. “Morning, George.”

  Tip thought he heard a mumbled response, but he couldn’t be sure. It might have been go to hell. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  “What do you need to know about Rusty?”

  George wasn’t one to waste time on unnecessary words. “We’re working a case and the list of suspects brings us back to Rusty or his wife or their friends.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Me and my partner, Gino Cataldi.”

  George reached over and took a sip of iced tea from what looked like a quart mug. It had the state of Texas image on one side and the flag on the other. “Your partner, he a Mexican?” The way he said Mexican pissed Tip off.

  “He’s Italian. What difference does it make?”

  “Italian. Mexican. Same thing. Foreigners are ruining this country.”

  Now Tip remembered why he didn’t like George, and why he hadn’t been to visit him since he retired.

  He didn’t want to remind George that the US pretty much stole this land from the Mexicans. He didn’t want to but he did, despite needing the information. Tip reminded George of that, then he called him a cranky old fuck and warned him he’d likely die alone in that rocker.

  George sat and stared at Tip, probably wondering whether to tell him to fuck himself or eat shit and die. It surprised Tip when he did neither. “How far back you want to go regarding these tales about Rusty?”

  “As far as your memory takes you, but I do have to get to work today.”

  George thought for a moment, as if running through a Rolodex of names in his head, then he nodded real slow, almost in rhythm with his rocking.

  “There was a young cop named Edgar Harbough who used to work downtown. The man was as dirty as week-old underwear. A lot of rumors followed him around, but the one that seemed to hold the most water was that Rusty pulled Ed in and out of his back pocket as needed. And back then he was needed a lot.”

  “What was going on?”

  George gestured to a chair beside him. “Sit. This could take a while.”

  Tip dragged the rocker over and sat opposite George, careful not to block his sun.

  “I guess we should focus on Tom Marsen; he was the one who climbed the highest.”

  “How do you know so much about this?”

  George stopped rocking, grabbed a cigar from the table beside him and lit it using a long match stick, the kind popular forty years ago. “I’m not going to ask if you mind, because I don’t rightly care if you do.”

  He puffed a few times to get it started, then continued with his rocking. “Anyway, you asked how I knew about this. I was crooked as the Buffalo Bayou back then, as I’m sure you’ve heard. I did about everything but murder, and I can’t swear I wouldn’t have done that if someone offered me enough, or even if they offered me a little and I’d had a lot to drink. And back then I’d always had a lot to drink.”

  Tip let him stop and start at will. No sense in interrupting.

  “Houston politics was a mess, and Rusty Johnson and Paul Grayson ran a nice piece of the show. They called themselves the magic act.”

  Tip stopped rocking and sat up attentively. “What did you say?”

  “I said they called themselves the magic act,” George said, and his voice cranked up a notch or two.

  Tip thought for a moment, realizing it might have been Grayson, not Gladys, that represented the “G.” He nodded to George. “Go on. I’m sorry.”

  “Rusty was a councilman and Paul Grayson was a captain on the force. They had a lot of contacts. But it wasn’t until Cybil got involved that things heated up. She’s the one who brought Tom Marsen and RB Ingle into it.”

  George stopped to sip his tea, then started right up. “Tom was a young pup, fresh in from the countryside. His rise in the political world was the result of him coming under Rusty’s wing, and that was the result of Cybil coming under Rusty—if you know what I mean. It’s been whispered that Rusty used a stable of young women to extract favors and commitments from supporters; some even said he resorted to blackmail.”

  George puffed hard on his cigar and looked at Tip. “What they didn’t know was that Cybil was the brains. She knew how easy it was to get men to do things with a little sex, or even the promise of it. Combine that with a hint that it might get out, and she had herself a fistful of opportunity. She put together a bevy of sharp, witty, sexy young girls who didn’t mind doing what had to be done, as long as the rewards were there. And when dealing with the clientele Rusty provided, rewards weren’t the problem.

  “Her first girl was one she knew from back in East Texas; in fact, she had me go fetch the girl and bring her here. I still remember how long her legs were, and how sassy that girl was. It took Cybil six months to train her to speak proper and learn how to talk to the kind of clients she’d have, but it paid off. This one was sweet as pecan pie.”

  “Do you—”

  “Remember her name?” George laughed. “Like I remember my first time—Barbara Camwyck. She could send a man to heaven in ten minutes and leave him dreaming about it for weeks.”

  “Or years.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing. I was just thinking.”

  “Anyway, it wasn’t long before Cybil and her girls gathered enough dirt on the businessmen and politicians to give Rusty and Grayson an unbeatable edge.”

  “How did Marsen fit in?”

  George shook his head, as if he didn’t want to talk about it. “That boy was a mean one. Nasty as a cottonmouth. He rode up on Rusty’s coattails, but he wasn’t content to wait his turn. He convinced Barbara to seduce Clyde Bannick, who was a senator at that time. When they got what they needed, they blackmailed him.”

  “An affair seems like mild stuff to hold as blackmail.”

  George scoffed. “You’re not giving that Camwyck girl the credit she deserved. She could not only suck the soul out of a man, she had a way to extract every secret he had. She could pull out a secret tucked up a man’s ass for ten years. Some said she could extract things a man had forgotten about. Once she got what she came for, she reported back to Cybil.”

  “What did she have on Bannick that was so incriminating? Did he like young girls or something?”

  “It wasn’t the girls he was embarrassed of.”

  “Boys?” Tip asked while he sat forward to wrote notes.

  George nodded. “And he liked ’em when they were too young to grow hair.”

  Tip scooted his chair to the side, getting it out of the sun, which was shaping up to be a typical Texas heater. He glanced at his watch as he settled back in his seat.

  “I know. It’s getting late and I’m getting windy. I’ll wrap it up for you.” He took a big puff on his cigar. “Barbara was the one who got the information, but it was Tom who decided how to use it. In this particular case, Cybil didn’t want nothin’ to do with it. Gotta give her credit on that. She even fought over what to do, but Tom and Barbara were set on climbing that mountain.”

  George pulled a match and fired up the
cigar again. “I delivered the demand to Bannick. He was more than willing to pay money, but Tom wasn’t satisfied. He wanted the money and Clyde’s council seat, which meant Clyde had to step down.”

  George stopped rocking, and took a long sip of tea. “That night Clyde Bannick killed his wife and daughter, then himself.”

  George shook his head and took another long, slow drag on the cigar. “It was then that I quit, Tip. That’s when I decided to go straight.”

  “And we elected this man president…” Tip sat back in the chair, thinking what a sad world it was, then, “What happened with Marsen?”

  “With Rusty’s support, and of course, Barbara’s blackmail, Tom got elected to Clyde’s seat. His political career was launched.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “He was that. That and a lot more. And now he’s our fucking president.”

  Tip took a long pull on his mug. “What did Grayson get out of this? Besides money, I guess.”

  George looked at Tip and shook his head. “You don’t know nothin’, do you?”

  “George—”

  “I know you’re itching to go, but sit back and listen for a minute.”

  Tip leaned back and tried to appear relaxed, but this story had him worked-up.

  “Grayson had a problem with hookers. He’d been stuck on prostitutes since he worked vice. And then one of them got pregnant.” George twisted his face into a scowl. “As nasty as that man was, he wouldn’t abandon his daughter. He put her in an orphanage, and when he felt she was old enough, he arranged to adopt her—of course that wasn’t until she was a young teenager.

  Grayson wasn’t much as a father though, and it wasn’t long before she started running with the wrong crowds, and got pregnant.” George stopped again to drink more tea. “Paul Grayson nearly had a stroke. He chased her boyfriend out of town and arranged for her to marry a proper man—although a lot of people would dispute that assessment—RB Ingle.”

  Tip leaned forward. “I’ll be goddamned.”

  “I’m sure you will,” George said. “But that’s what happened.”

  Tip wrote a few notes on a pad he had in his pocket. “George—”

  George got up from his rocker and limped toward the front steps. “I know. I know. You got to go now that you got your information. But that’s all right. I didn’t expect no more. It was nice to have someone to talk to. Now, help me down these steps so I can water the yard. I don’t want it to shrivel up and die, like me.” He shook hands with Tip, offering a firmer grip than Tip expected. “I appreciate you stopping by, no matter the reason.”