by Roslyn Woods
“He’s actually working at home. He’s sending out bills to insurance companies for his clients. He says he’s almost got it down to a science, so I’ll soon get to take over.”
“You sound like you’re looking forward to it.”
“I am. I love spending more time together. He just has to work more right now to make that happen. It’s too bad he has to go to another conference though.”
“Another one? When?”
“He’s flying to Phoenix tomorrow.”
“Oh, wow. For how long?”
“Two days. He’ll be back Sunday afternoon.”
“We could have a paint party at my house, and you could stay over!” said Shell.
“Could we?”
“We can paint and take breaks to watch movies if the new TV gets installed!”
“The girls will be so happy!” said Margie, laughing.
They went to the electronics store and ordered the TV and scheduled delivery and installation for the following afternoon. On the way out, Margie pointed out that the furniture store was still open. They went in and, on the decision of the previous night, Shell bought the end tables, nightstands, and bookshelves she had been needing.
“This is turning out to be an expensive day,” she said looking at Margie, “but I just want to get on with my life.” There would be no trips to New Braunfels in search of antique pieces with Dean.
“I love the idea. Then if you decide you want something more on the antique side, you can take your time choosing it and replace these things one at a time.”
Shell felt a strange sense of accomplishment about making the purchases. She was getting on with her life.
“Margie, there’s something I need to tell you,” she said, as they headed for the car.
“What?”
“I drove by Danny’s Place a few hours ago.”
“And?”
“I was looking to see who was parked there.”
“Any silver SUVs?” asked Margie. They had reached the Corolla, and Margie was looking over the top as Shell unlocked the doors.
“Several. They’re everywhere, aren’t they?” They got in and fastened their seatbelts.
“So what did you see?” asked Margie, as Shell pulled out onto Anderson Lane.
“I found the access to the parking in back. You have to use the alley, but the Mercedes was there.”
“You’re sure?”
“I checked the license plate.”
“We’ve got to tell Dean.”
“I’m staying out of it. I’m telling you, not Dean. Since this little problem with the house, I’d rather just stay on the sidelines.”
“But Shell, you’re not on the sidelines. Every significant thing we’ve learned has been because of you.”
“Only because I happened to be at the house and saw Kojak. Since then it’s just that I recognized him in the bar.”
“And you’re the one who got his license plate.”
“And look how much good it’s done. Sgt. Gonzalez won’t even check it,” said Shell bitterly. She didn’t mention the fact that she was obsessing on Amanda’s murder and events at the bar night and day. She knew it had something to do with the bar and the men who had been searching the two houses on Barrow Avenue.
“I’m going to see Dean right now,” said Margie. “You keep Tabitha.”
“Okay, but don’t make it sound like I did anything much. I can’t stand his wrath.”
“Remember when you told me to be strong? You can handle his wrath.”
But Shell wasn’t sure she could.
Chapter 33
It was disappointing. The trip to Onion Creek wasn’t very fruitful. No one answered the door, and they didn’t have a warrant to go in. Wilson was working on getting one, but it would probably take another day. The neighbors didn’t have much to say about the place. The woman next door said the lawn was always done, and no one left cars on the street. Yes, they had seen people driving in and out of the garage, but they kept to themselves. Gonzalez had even asked her if she had seen anyone there recently, but she just said she couldn’t be sure.
On the way back up I-35, Gonzalez said, “Let’s go by the bar. They should be open about the time we get there.”
He decided that one of the benefits to getting to a bar early is that there’s usually good parking. They got a spot right in front of the courtyard and below the neon that said Danny’s Place.
Gonzalez took in the glitzy look of the place as they walked in. So far he had only spoken to someone on the phone, a guy named Frank Alonzo who had identified himself as the bartender. The place was still pretty empty, just a guy sitting in a corner booth up on a raised area, and a quiet couple talking in hushed tones at a table near the door.
Gonzalez and Wilson walked up to the bar and greeted the bartender.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“Just a few answers today,” said Gonzalez, showing him his badge. “I believe you’re probably the guy I’ve been speaking with on the phone lately. I’m Sergeant Gonzalez and this is Detective Wilson from the Austin City Police Department. Can we ask you a few questions?”
“Okay.” The look the bartender was giving him was direct and unfriendly.
“Are you Frank Alonzo?” asked Gonzalez, noticing the size of the man and his thick, brown hair.
“I am.”
“On the phone you said you thought Danny Lopez had gone to Albuquerque. Has he come back?”
“No.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“No.”
“And you don’t have any phone number other than the cell you already gave me?”
“That’s right.”
“How many folks work here?” asked Gonzalez, looking around the room.
“Just about ten people.”
“And they are?”
“What? You want names?”
“I do.”
The bartender breathed heavily, like a teenager who had been told to take out the trash, before he answered, “Me, Angela, Anna, Ray, and Paulo.” He paused, as if thinking about whether or not to continue, and then decided to go on. “Then there’s Julio, Ginny, Kate, Sheen, and Brenda.”
Wilson was rapidly writing the names and cringing as the list got longer. He would have to do a background check on each worker.
“That was very good, and off the top of your head,” said Gonzalez, glancing over at Wilson’s list.
“Yeah. I work here,” he answered coldly.
“How about last names?” Gonzalez asked.
“Why? Have we done something wrong?”
“No, no, I’m just trying to get an idea about the place and how it runs when the owner is away and can’t be reached.”
“I don’t see why it matters.”
“It may not be for you to see,” said Gonzalez. “Are you interested in being cooperative?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course, I just don’t get it.”
“That’s okay. So we’ve got your name,” he said looking at the small notebook Wilson was holding. “Angela. What’s her last name?”
“Alonzo.”
“Same as you?”
“She’s my wife.”
“I see. And then you mentioned a Ray. Ray who?”
“Hoffman.”
“And what does he do here?” Gonzalez asked as Wilson wrote in the notebook.
“He helps with the banking, watches the place, picks up orders of food, that kind of thing.”
Gonzalez nodded. So Dean Maxwell’s sister and little girlfriend were right. Hoffman had been in the bar the other night. “Who’s this Paulo?”
“He’s our cook.”
“His last name?”
“Rodriguez.”
“And Anna?”
“Harris.”
“What does she do?”
“She and my wife wait tables. They switch off Monday to Thursday and they both work on Friday and Saturday.”
“Julio? What does he do and what�
�s his last name?”
“He’s an alternate chef. Last name’s Jimenez.”
“Okay. How about Ginny?”
“Severt. Kate Sanders. Sheen Robinson. Brenda Gutierrez.”
“What do they do?”
“Wait tables and clean.”
“So you’re open when?”
“We’re closed on Sunday.”
“And where are the ladies now?” asked Gonzalez.
“They don’t start till five on weekdays.”
“Do you mind if we look around?”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Do you have a warrant or something?”
“Do I need one?”
“I think you do. We don’t have to walk you around the back or anything.”
Gonzalez gave Frank Alonzo a long look as Wilson put the notebook back in his shirt pocket. “It surprises me a little, Mr. Alonzo, that you’re not willing to just show us around. You’re making me think you’ve got something to hide.”
“I don’t. I just happen to know my rights.”
“Okay, but I hope you know you’ve made me a lot more curious about this place than I was a few minutes ago. Has he made you more curious, Detective Wilson?”
“He has,” said Wilson. “He’s made me a lot more curious.”
“Okay, okay. Come look in the back then,” said Frank Alonzo, but he didn’t sound happy.
He waved them to the door behind the bar and walked back with them. There was a surprisingly small kitchen, and a short, heavy-set man was frying bacon on a grill. A large, SubZero refrigerator hummed against the north wall, and there were racks next to it filled with trays of crustless, sliced bread. A short, granite counter was next to the racks. The cook, Paulo, didn’t look up as the three men walked through. In fact, he looked angry to Gonzalez. The back room contained a desk, a file cabinet, a stainless steel table, and three wooden chairs. There were boxes on the floor and stacks of receipts on the table. In the corner of the room was a door.
“Where does that go?”
“Storage,” he answered, gesturing for them to go ahead and see.
Gonzalez walked over and opened the door. There was a narrow staircase on the far wall, and the rest of the room appeared to be filled with bottled water, soft drinks, various canned goods, breads, and packaged tortilla chips. There was also an exit door to the back from here. Wilson opened it and looked out. He shook his head at Gonzalez to indicate that there were no cars in the carport.
“How about upstairs?” the sergeant asked.
There was a long pause during which Frank just looked at him.
“Okay,” he said finally, with a slight shrug.
Gonzalez walked across the room and climbed the narrow staircase. Frank followed him and watched as he opened the door at the top. There was a rather nice room up there. It was a large, hotel-like, black and beige bedroom with an unmade, king-sized bed. There was standard, if somewhat oversized, bedroom furniture. Nightstands. Lamps. On the desk was a computer with a large monitor. Gonzalez walked over to the sliding glass door that opened to a staircase. He could see that it went down to the carport below. He tested the handle and pushed it open.
“You should probably keep this locked,” he said, looking back at Alonzo before he pulled it shut and walked over to the double, wooden closet doors. He pushed one of the doors open. There were several empty hangers, and toward the back, he could see a few black shirts. He examined the tag on the one closest to him. Large. He closed the door and turned around.
“Whose shirts?”
“Those are mine,” said Alonzo. Gonzalez wore a large himself. He had worn a medium for years, but he wasn’t as trim as he used to be. Alonzo was a big fellow. He was both taller and broader across the shoulders than the sergeant.
These shirts belong to someone smaller than Frank Alonzo.
“You stay here?” he asked.
“No, but I sometimes need a clean shirt.”
Gonzalez nodded but didn’t speak. He could see there was a bathroom with a shower in an adjoining room. He walked over to have a look at the bath, just giving it a once over. Frank stood at the top of the stairs, silently watching.
“Nice place,” said Gonzalez, looking back at the computer desk and chair. He walked over to the chair and lay his hand on the seat as he looked back at the bartender. It seemed warm, but he didn’t say anything. He turned and headed back to the stairs. They descended and went back through the kitchen and into the bar. The place was starting to fill up, and Gonzalez noticed the man at the corner table was gone.
“So who uses the room upstairs?” he asked.
“Ray stays here sometimes. Danny uses it a lot when he’s here.”
It seemed odd to Gonzalez that someone had obviously vacated the room just before he had gone upstairs to look at it. He wondered who had been there. Was Danny here? Was he hiding up there?
“I kinda need to get to work here,” said Frank. “There’s no one to wait on people.”
“Thank you, Mr. Alonzo,” said Gonzalez. “We’ll be seeing you.”
Chapter 34
Detective Wilson had already been through the surveillance video from Steiner Place before getting the autopsy report, and he wasn’t looking forward to going through it again. There were probably dozens of people going in or out of the apartment complex on the morning of the shooting, and Wilson hadn’t recognized anyone as Dean Maxwell.
He got himself some coffee and a donut. This could take some time. He looked up at the bulletin board to the right of his desk. There were the pictures he had printed of everyone Gonzalez saw as suspects in the case. Dean Maxwell, Daniel Lopez, Raymond Hoffman, Jason Novak, and there was a blank sheet of paper on which he had written, “Unknown Intruder.” Wilson had added some smaller pictures of the women Amanda had been friends with, Linda Morrison and Becky Lester. They weren’t suspects. He just liked having their pictures up there.
“If you’re going to include their pictures,” Gonzalez had said, “you’d better add Gabe Castillo,” but he had been amused when he said it, and Wilson hadn’t done it.
He had done background checks on each of the men. Maxwell was as clean as a whistle. Never even been stopped for a DWI. Lopez was another story. He had a record from the time he was eighteen. Petty theft, mostly, but he had actually spent a little time in the county jail in Santa Fe for stealing a car when he was twenty-three. After that he almost seemed to disappear till he emerged in Austin two years ago. No more apparent criminal activity. Must have cleaned up his act. Hoffman had two DWIs. One was from five years earlier, and one two years after the first.
As far as Maxwell’s other friends went, Castillo was completely clean, but Novak had a history. As a nineteen year old he had spent a few days in jail for beating up his mom’s boyfriend. Pictures of the injured boyfriend looked positively gruesome. The judge had let him off because it was a first offense, and Novak had gone on to college without another problem other than a few speeding tickets. Maxwell himself had never gotten anything more exciting than a parking ticket. Neither of Amanda Maxwell’s lady friends had records of any kind.
Once the autopsy report came in and the time of Amanda Maxwell’s death had been narrowed from nine to noon, Wilson was ready to try again on the surveillance video, but he wasn’t particularly hopeful. Cameras at the complex were woefully absent. They were only set up in the parking lot and the gate entry of the complex. Still, the gate was the only place of entry or departure from the buildings, and Wilson was pretty sure the killer had gone through there.
He sped up the video and slowed it down starting at 7:30 a.m. on the morning of the 15th and watched. Mostly, people had been leaving the complex, going to work. Maybe that explained why no one reported hearing a shot. The place had been practically empty.
“You find anything yet?” asked Gonzalez.
“Not yet.”
Wilson was utterly bored by this process. He saw no recognizable person entering or leav
ing. Then at 10:28, a man in an orange Longhorn hoodie entered at the gate. He appeared to be tall, about Maxwell’s height, and he turned his face away from the surveillance camera. No way to tell if he was just looking away or deliberately avoiding it, but Wilson couldn’t see his face. He continued watching, and someone who appeared to be the same guy left at 11:13. Again, his face wasn’t visible.
Wilson isolated screen shots of the man with a time stamp and printed them. He put them on the bulletin board with Gonzalez looking over his shoulder.
“So you did find something,” he said.
“Yup. Looks to be about Maxwell’s height.”
“He does, but that doesn’t mean it’s him. Hoffman and Novak are about the same size.”
“Well, one of them did it,” said Wilson. “I’d put my money on Maxwell.”
“Or it could have been someone else who’d spent the night there and left openly, so you didn’t consider him. You might have looked right at him and not guessed he was the shooter. You saw this guy enter, didn’t you? It’s not a sure thing this guy did it.”
“Yeah, well, this guy looks suspicious.”
“I agree. But this is no positive ID. And we need a weapon.” Gonzalez paused, “Have we got an interview with Novak yet?”
“This afternoon.”
Chapter 35
Margie called to say she would be late for the painting party. She had driven Donald to the airport, but the traffic on north I-35 was backed up. That wasn’t so unusual on a Friday. She would have to get off and use surface streets to get up to Shell’s. If she was lucky, she might be able to get there in forty-five minutes or an hour.
“I’m sorry, you hit traffic, Margie!” said Shell. “Just take your time and don’t worry about it. Carmen and I can get started. There will be plenty of work left when you get here!”
“Okay. Want me to stop and get anything?”
“No. Just bring yourself and Tabitha. I’ve got tuna salad sandwiches and iced tea for our lunch.”
“Okay. Tabitha can hardly wait to see you!”
Shell had put on her paint clothes a little while before she expected Carmen and Margie to arrive. Her baggy shirt and sweat pants were amazingly well covered in paint spatter. Years in front of an easel will do that, she thought, as she caught her reflection in the dresser mirror. For some reason, Bitsy seemed to think the change of clothes meant it was time to play in the back yard, and she ran to the back door expectantly wagging her tail.
