Shoot from the Lip

by Leann Sweeney

  The liquor store was on Cavalcade, a good distance away from Emma’s house. I decided to try Pedro’s Beer Garden first. Interesting name. Maybe I’ll find Wolfgang’s Cantina around the corner, I thought, as I pulled into the empty lot next door to the bar. There was no parking lot.

  Tejano music blared from speakers at the back of the building, where I could see a few rusty wrought-iron tables on a patio. The bar was a run-down shack made of metal sheeting. I noted only a few cars besides my own, or should I say pickup trucks, not cars. Three of them.

  Since I was alone in an unfamiliar part of town, I considered sticking my gun in my bag—but bringing a firearm into an establishment that sells liquor is a big no-no, and I do want to keep my PI license. I put on a confident smile and walked through the screen door.

  The sunlight was so intense that when I entered the dark interior, I had to pause while my eyes adjusted. The music was even louder inside, but the wonderful smell of cilantro, hot peppers and retried beans more than compensated. It was past one o’clock and I’d skipped lunch. My stomach knew it.

  The place had a few mismatched tables and chairs as well as a bar with five stools. I could make out the silhouettes of two men seated there wearing cowboy hats. Both of them were eating, and as I got closer I saw they were also drinking longneck bottles of Dos Equis.

  The bartender looked about forty, with dark hair slicked back in a ponytail. He wore a grungy once-white canvas apron. “You lost, señorita?” he said.

  I practically had to shout over the music. “No. I’m hoping you can help me.”

  The two men who’d been eating lunch switched their attention to me and offered raised eyebrows and smarmy smiles to the bartender. To his credit, he ignored them and offered a welcoming expression.

  I had a business card ready and handed it to him. “My name is Abby Rose. I’m investigating the death of a woman who lived in this area in the mid-nineties. She disappeared in 1997 and I’ve learned she was murdered.”

  The bartender stepped back. “I don’t know nothing about no murder. I’m a Christian man and run a good place. And I keep it good. No fights. No gangs. No killings.”

  I swallowed, a little scared at his sudden switch in temperament. “I’m only trying to find anyone who knew this woman, saw her—anything.” I mustered as much sweetness as I could, still feeling the stares of the two customers. “Can I please show you her picture? Her name was Christine O’Meara.”

  The man stared at my card and then back at me. “You’re not no cop? They come in here with the wrong idea every time a new one gets this beat. Who knows? Maybe they’re sending women now.”

  “Do I look like a cop?” I set my purse on an empty bar stool, held out my arms and twirled. I was wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt. “I’m not carrying, as you can see.”

  That brought a laugh from all three, and the customer with a tattoo of a Bible verse on his bicep said, “Oh, you’re carrying. Just not no weapons.”

  I held out my bag. “You want to look inside? You can check my ID. I promise the most dangerous thing in my purse is a Snickers bar.”

  More laughter, and the bartender yelled over the music, “Show me this picture.”

  While the bartender examined the photo, I decided I might need an eardrum transplant if I stayed in here much longer.

  He placed the picture on the bar in front of the customers, shaking his head. “I been here fifteen years and I can count on my fingers how many white women come in here, and that’s with counting you. This lady in the picture, I don’t know her. I never seen her.”

  The two customers shook their heads no, too, and returned to their nearly finished lunches of tamales, beans and rice.

  “If you’ve been here fifteen years, then you know the area.” I sat at the bar. “Is there anywhere else a woman who, well, enjoyed her liquor might go to spend time around here?”

  “Ah. She was una borracha, yes? A drunk?”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t let that kind stay around my place. But a couple streets over, there used to be an icehouse. People could hang around all day if they wanted. Guess the woman who owned it didn’t care, you know? She was something. Drove a motorcycle to work.”

  Thank goodness the current song was a simple Spanish guitar solo and I could hear better. “You said there used to be an icehouse. It’s not there anymore?”

  “Closed about five years ago, I’m thinking. Some of those customers—mostly gringos—they tried to come over here. Me and my brother, we had to keep throwing them out. They wanted to stay all day, take up my tables, sneak their own bottle in to fill their glasses after only buying one drink.”

  “Do you remember the name of this place?”

  “Oh, si. Rhoda’s. It’s not there no more, but maybe somebody on that street knows something.” He wrote directions on the back of my business card and gave it to me.

  “Thanks so much—is it Pedro?”

  He nodded.

  “One more thing,” I said.

  “¿Si?”

  “Can I get a few tamales to go?”

  But Pedro convinced me to stay for lunch. Seemed his mother had just dropped off homemade flour tortillas. They were still hot. Besides enjoying delicious beans and tamales, I spread two tortillas with butter and rolled them up to enjoy with my meal. There is nothing in the world better than a homemade tortilla dripping with butter. Since the key ingredient in a good tortilla is lard, I was glad I’d exercised that morning.

  Then I drove several blocks to where the icehouse used to be. The only structure anywhere near where Pedro had told me to look was a strip mall housing a pizza outlet, a dry cleaners, a manicure shop and a place that offered eight-dollar haircuts.

  Okay. Wouldn’t learn anything from the pizza place. Kids usually worked there. The cheaper hair salons probably had a high employee turnover. I parked in front of the manicure shop—Nails by Suzi—and went inside.

  The pretty Asian woman was alone, and no matter what question I asked, it was always answered with, “You want French manicure?” Or “You want pedicure? We do nice pedicure.” When I offered my card, I was directed with a smile to a fishbowl on the front counter loaded with other business cards, phone numbers inked on the backs. “We have drawing once a month,” I was told. “Free manicure.”

  I backed out quickly, hearing, “It’s okay you come tomorrow. I be here.”

  Please, dry-cleaner person, know something, I thought.

  The man behind the counter said, “Ticket,” and held out his hand even before I was through the door. In the background, a huge circular rack held plastic-draped clothes, and a giant gray laundry bin was overflowing with recent acquisitions.

  “I don’t have a ticket, I—”

  “No ticket. Hmmm. And you’re not a regular customer, because I certainly don’t recognize you. What shall we do?” He clasped his hands in front of him and cocked his balding head. His pants were belted high, and his starched shirt was buttoned all the way to the neck. I guessed he had to be about sixty, maybe older.

  “My name is Abby Rose, and I’m not here to pick up dry cleaning.” I handed him the card the manicurist wanted me to drop in the fishbowl. “I hope you can help me with a case.”

  He took the card and stared at it for a second; then his eyes grew wide with delight. “You’re a detective? How fun.”

  “Right. Fun,” I said. “How long have you worked here ... um ... sorry. What’s your name?”

  “How rude of me.” He held out his hand. “Herman. Herman Bosworth. I opened in 2002.”

  We shook, and I had to pull my hand away when he kept holding on.

  “You own the place, Mr. Bosworth?”

  “I do—or should I say the bank and I do. What would life be without mort-gag-es?” He practically sang the word, and followed this with a snorting laugh.

  This guy’s crosshairs definitely weren’t lined up. “Okay, then. Would you by chance know who owned any of the properties bought up to build thi
s strip center?”

  His eyes grew brighter, and he supported his elbow with one hand while the other hand rested on his cheek. “I might. What’s this about, Abby?”

  “I’m hoping to talk to a woman named Rhoda who once owned a bar around here. I don’t have a last name.”

  “Why do you need to find Rhoda?”

  “As I said. I need to talk to her,” I answered.

  “You’re being e-va-sive. About what, Abby? You can tell me.”

  I could research real estate records and might find out what I needed—probably should have done that to begin with. But I had a feeling this guy knew something. He could save me time if he’d quit fooling around. “You want money, Mr. Bosworth?” I started to open my purse.

  But Herman Bosworth was shaking his head vigorously. “No-no-no-no. No money. I’m simply interested. Dry cleaning is, well, rather dry. Dirty clothes in, clean clothes out. But you’re dealing with something important, and I can help you. So do tell, Abby. Please?”

  I sighed and, without naming names, I told him I hoped to locate anyone who may have known a cold-case victim, hoping that would be enough information to satisfy him.

  “Cold Case. I love that show. You don’t look anything like that blond actress. But you’re doing what she does, and that is so awesome.”

  “Will you please tell me Rhoda’s last name now?”

  He folded his arms, leaned toward me and whispered, “I can do more than that.”

  But before he could say another word, Paul Kravitz walked in. “You’re sure taking a long time picking up your dry cleaning, Abby.”

  Damn. I thought he was leaving town, yet here it was Thursday and he was still lurking around. He’d found me even though I’d been watching for a tail. Probably had someone helping him who knew Houston streets.

  “Do you work with Detective Rose?” Herman asked.

  I said, “He does not—”

  “Detective Rose,” Kravitz said. “I like that. You could say we work together. Exactly what part of the case are you helping her with?”

  “Don’t answer that, Herman,” I said. “I don’t work with him. I don’t work for him. He followed me here.”

  “You were followed?” Herman clapped twice. “Oh, my goodness, wait until I tell my partner, Robert.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “You can tell Robert all about it. But this guy—”

  “You’re him. You’re Paul Kravitz from Crime Time.” Herman’s eyes had grown wide behind his glasses, and he was pointing at Kravitz. “Get over here. Let me have a good look at you.”

  Kravitz gave me a smug smile as he approached the counter.

  I was certain celebrity status outweighed detective status and I wouldn’t get what I needed.

  Meanwhile, Herman was studying Kravitz. “I have to say, you look far better on TV. Are you ill?”

  Paul laughed. “No, sir. Healthy as a horse. How are you a part of our story, Mr.... ?”

  “Bosworth.” He looked at me. “Am I connected to the story?”

  Only in your mind, I thought. “Listen, Herman, I can’t tell you what to do, but you promised to help me, not him. You have my card. You decide.”

  I walked out knowing I was taking a risk. Now I had to wait.

  14

  I waited a better part of the day for a call from Herman Bosworth, and waiting is not my strong suit. I felt as edgy as an armadillo at a monster truck rally as I paced in my kitchen. Adding to my agitation, the promised DNA comparison hadn’t come in. I knew this because I’d bugged DeShay so many times he told me to stop calling him.

  I’d done the property-records search for the strip mall, and this produced more than a dozen names of people who’d sold their land or businesses before the center was built. No one named Rhoda appeared on that list.

  Finally, though I knew what had probably happened between the dry cleaner and Kravitz, I called Bosworth around seven that night. He told me he’d given Rhoda’s last name to Paul Kravitz in exchange for studio-audience tickets to a talk show. When I asked if he’d do me the same favor for, say, Houston Rockets or opera tickets, he said that if he gave me any information, Kravitz’s offer, which included money for a nice stay in Hollywood, would be withdrawn. Herman hung up with one long “Sorr-eeee.”

  Great. I’d lost out to Kravitz and also wasted precious time. I had to do something productive, and was headed to the computer to search the Internet for anything—a Web site, an ad or even a sentence containing the word Rhoda—when someone knocked on my door.

  I checked the security monitor. Paul Kravitz. What the hell did he want? A chance to gloat?

  I opened the door and said nothing.

  He smiled. “Can we talk?”

  “I thought you were going away. Far away. On an airplane.” But I widened the door to let him in. I could take anything he wanted to throw at me. I might not have Hollywood connections, but I had something he didn’t: a connection with Emma and a burning need to obtain the answers she wanted so she and her family could have a future without sorrow and regret haunting them for the rest of their lives.

  I led him into the living room, and he accepted an offer of wine. He chose red, I took white and then we sat down across from each other.

  “I think we’ve gotten off to a bad start,” he said.

  “What would make you think that?” I tried to sound like I didn’t give a rat’s ass and failed.

  “Don’t you understand? I can help your client find the answers she needs about her past and her family. Venture has the resources to do what you probably cannot.”

  Now, that really pissed me off, but I managed a smile. “You think I can’t do the job?”

  “Did I—”

  “If I’m so worthless as a detective,” I said, “how come you followed me today?”

  The tips of his ears burned red. “That’s the reason I came. I didn’t realize Houston sprawled twenty miles in every direction. You know these streets and are obviously following a lead that has to do with this Rhoda person. If you share the information with me, maybe we could get answers for Emma sooner rather than later.”

  “Let me guess. What you learned today is not quite fitting together for you.” I had to smile. I was betting he’d also gone to see Pedro. But from what little I knew of the cantina owner, he probably hadn’t told Kravitz or his buddies anything. Yup. Kravitz had no idea why Rhoda was important and didn’t want to talk to her until he did. I held her piece of the puzzle.

  He said, “I’m willing to share what Mr. Bosworth told me if you agree to work with us on solving this mystery.”

  “I already got that offer from Reality Check and passed. I’m getting to the bottom of this and I don’t need your help.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Your client is legally committed to our production. What we learn needs to be complete. We want to tell the story from her perspective, but we can’t do that without the facts. You can have a hand in making sure we get it right.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way. “Before I cooperate with you, you need to tell me what Bosworth said.”

  Kravitz sipped his wine and then stared straight into my eyes. “Then you’ll tell me why Rhoda is important?”

  “Yes. But I’m not promising anything else.”

  Kravitz considered my terms for a second. “I can accept that—but only if you agree not to talk to the press. If they get in the middle of this, I’ll have one giant headache.”

  “They’re already in the middle,” I said.

  “Yes, but they aren’t camped outside your house like they are outside Emma’s hotel. You’re almost anonymous, unlike the rest of us.”

  “Ah. Now I get it. A sensational story makes for a crowded work environment. I have no plans to tell the press anything.” I drank my wine, noting how much better it tasted all of a sudden.

  “The name you want is Rhoda Murray,” he said. “Bosworth says she owns Murray Motorcycles now. We don’t want to question the woman until we know why s
he’s important. Seems all Bosworth heard from you is that you’re investigating a cold case. Which cold case are we talking about, Abby? The baby or the mother?”

  “See, there you go, asking for more information before a minute has passed,” I said.

  “Why are you being so stubborn? We both want the same thing. The truth.”

  “Oh, I am stubborn, but my daddy used to say that the way to deal with a stubborn person is like you’d deal with a mule. You don’t try to whip him into the corral. You leave the gate open a crack and he’ll go in all by himself.”

  Kravitz smiled. “That’s why I’m here, I guess. To crack the gate and hope you’ll come in.”

  “Problem is, I can’t have you or your investigators thwarting my every move like what happened today. I want to talk to this woman alone.”

  “You won’t allow one of my detectives to go with you?” he asked.

  “You can’t ask me to tag-team with someone I don’t know. I’m pretty good at getting information out of people, but I’d feel awfully uncomfortable with another investigator there. Rhoda Murray might not like it much, either.”

  “Can you record the interview, then?” he asked.

  “Not without the woman’s permission,” I said.

  Kravitz took a deep breath, clasped his hands between his knees and leaned forward in the chair. “But you’ll share what you learn?”

  I didn’t answer right away. But the truth was, we were on the same page. Finally I said, “We can’t be tripping over each other on this, Paul. You let me do this my way and you’ll get what you need.”

  “I like to be in control, you know,” he said with a smile. “This is killing me.”

  “I prefer hanging on to the key to the gate myself.”

  “Looks like I’m not taking it away from you, either.”

  “You got that right.” I smiled.

  Kravitz stood and offered his hand. We shook and he said, “I’m glad we came to an agreement, and I hope you’ll soon realize that I do what’s right. We’ll continue to work with the police, follow any leads we turn up on our own, but Rhoda Murray is all yours.”

  “Good.” I wanted to believe this guy, but he probably knew how to say all the right things.