by Susan Fleet
He’d called her an hour ago from the airport in Odessa. She was eager to talk to him, grief-stricken about her boy. The Pecos police had done the notification on Saturday after NOPD called them.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to trouble you at a time like this.”
“I still can’t believe my boy is gone. Come in and sit down.”
He stepped into the living room and stopped, appalled by the odor. The house reeked of cat piss. A flowered-print sofa faced a wide-screen television. Three calico cats lay on the sofa. Clarisse shooed them off and gestured for him to sit down. How many cat hairs would cling to his pants, he wondered as he perched on the edge of the sofa.
Clarisse plucked a fresh tissue from a box on an end table and sank onto a well-worn wingchair beside the sofa.
“Do you know who killed my boy?” she said in a querulous voice.
“That’s why I’m here, Mrs. Conroy. I’m hoping you can help us.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “Why would anyone want to kill my Tex?”
Two black cats appeared in the kitchen doorway, stared at him and disappeared. How many cats did she have? Judging from the smell, a lot. He tried breathing through his mouth. It didn’t help.
“Losing Eugene was bad enough.” She pronounced it You-gene.
Going with it, he said, “When did you lose You-gene?”
“Five years ago. He had a heart attack. You-gene was the police chief and that could be very stressful. Tex was all tore up when he lost his daddy. Two months later he moved to New Orleans. I didn't want him to go, but ...”
“He lived here with you then?”
“Yes. He fixed up a room in the basement, put paneling on the walls and whatnot. It's got a private entrance.” Her gaze shifted and settled on a mewing calico cat that prowled the room.
“Did Tex have a girlfriend?”
“Oh, Tex had lots of girlfriends. All the girls loved Tex.” But she didn't seem happy about it, clamping her thin lips together.
“Did he go to college after high school?”
“Tex had no interest in college, no interest in being a policeman like his daddy, either. After high school his best friend got a job at the federal prison, but Tex wasn’t interested in that, either.” She gave him a plaintive look. “Tex never found himself, you know what I mean?”
Frank said he did, and waited. Silence often elicited better results than questions.
“He thought about being a park ranger. For the National Park Service? But he failed the test. I told him to take it again." Clarisse smiled for the first time. “If at first you don't succeed, try try again. But he wouldn’t. Tex was stubborn, like his daddy.” Her blue eyes welled with tears.
“Did Tex ever mention a man named Arnold Peterson?”
"Not that I recall. When he came to Pecos, he stayed with one of his high school friends.” Her lips tightened. “He didn’t like my cats.”
For the hell of it, he said, “How many cats do you have?”
“Lordy, I don't know. A couple dozen? I just feed ‘em and take care of the little ones when they come. They keep me company now that I’m alone.”
Dozens of cats. He tried not to shudder. “Did Tex have any enemies?”
“Of course not," she said indignantly. "Ev’body loved Tex. Why would he have enemies? My boy wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
Except for slapping his girlfriend around. “Did he like to gamble?”
“Not that I know of. He liked to have fun with his friends. And his girlfriends.”
“I’ll need names. Do you have his high school yearbook?”
“Of course! Tex was co-captain of the football team. Him and Randy. Lordy, that class was jinxed.”
“Jinxed? In what way?”
Clarisse rose from her chair. “Let me get the yearbook.”
She left the room and he heard her calling the cats by name. Dozens of them. It gave him the creeps. Cleaning the litter boxes, feeding them. Cat hairs everywhere. The overwhelming stench. No wonder Tex moved out.
She returned with the yearbook, sat beside him on the sofa and opened the book to the page with Tex’s picture. An average-looking kid, confident smile, open face. The motto beneath the photo said: Winning beats losing any day.
“You said something about his class being jinxed?”
“Sure did seem like it. Right before graduation Tex’s girlfriend committed suicide. And then the night of graduation ...” She sighed. “Tex drove his date home from the party and the car went off the road and hit a tree. Lordy, it was awful. Tex was okay, but the girl died the next day."
The police chief's son hits a tree and his passenger dies? Worse than awful. “Did they charge him?”
“Soon as he heard, You-gene went over there and drove Tex home. The girl's parents said Tex got drunk at the party.” Her lips tightened. “But I don't believe it. My boy could hold his liquor." She lapsed into silence, staring into space.
“So they didn’t charge him?”
“Well, yes, they did. Negligent driving, death resulting, I think it was. The judge put him on probation for a year. That made it hard for him to get a job.”
“Sounds like he had a tough year."
“He sure did. And then his best friend died. Randy and Tex were co-captains of the football team." She flipped some pages and tapped a picture. “That’s Randy.”
He studied the photo. Randolph Brixton, aka Randy. Unlike Tex, Randy's face had a hard look, no smile, dead-fish eyes. “What happened to Randy?”
“He was having a picnic with his family near the Pecos River. Somehow or another he slipped and fell over the bluff.” Her lips pursed. “Randy’s friends figured his cousin pushed him.”
“His cousin?”
“Natalie. That girl was trouble, I can tell you that. She came to live with the Brixtons after her mother was murdered. In New Orleans.”
Stunned, he said, “Murdered in New Orleans? When was this?”
“Years ago. Natalie was ten when it happened. Back in '88, I think it was. That girl was strange. Tex told me her mother was a prostitute.”
Surprises galore in Pecos. “Is her picture in the yearbook?”
“Maybe. She was in the drama club.” Clarisse flipped to the Drama Club page. “That's her there.” Tapping her finger on a group photograph.
Natalie stood beside a short Hispanic boy. Attractive girl, tall and slender with long legs. Nice smile. “Does she still live in Pecos?”
“No. After Randy’s funeral she left, hasn’t been heard from since.”
“I’d like to borrow the yearbook. The photographs might be helpful.”
Clarisse looked at him, horrified. “You're going to take it?”
“Just for a few days. I’ll get it right back to you. Do Randy’s folks still live in Pecos?”
“Well, his mother does. I’m not sure about the father. Faye lives over near the bus station now.”
“Can I use your phone book? I’d like to call and see if I can talk to her.”
Clarisse rose and went in the kitchen, cooing to her cats. A calico cat tore through the room pursued by a big black cat, their claws scratching the wood floor as they disappeared around the corner. Clarisse returned with a phone book. “Faye should be home. She watches soaps most every afternoon.”
The only Brixton listed in the phone book was a Jerome Brixton. He wrote down the number and rose to his feet. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Conroy.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “You’ll find whoever killed my boy, won’t you? And punish him? The coroner’s office called this morning and said they're ready to release the body. One of Tex’s friends is going to drive to New Orleans and bring him home.” She mopped her eyes with a tissue. “Thank you for coming, Detective Renzi. Will you be in Pecos at dinnertime?”
For an instant he had the horrible thought that she was going to invite him to dinner, with her dozens of cats.
“There's lots of Mexican places, but Longhorn Jack's is the best restaurant in
town.” Her lips tightened. “Natalie used to work there.”
He thanked her again and went out to his rental car, wondering if the rumors about Natalie were true. After he talked to Faye Brixton, maybe he’d stop by Longhorn Jack’s and see if anyone could tell him more about Natalie. The tall slender girl with the long legs and the nice smile.
_____
Unlike Clarisse Conroy, Faye Brixton lived in seedy part of town. Clarisse looked careworn, but Faye looked worse, a gaunt haggard face, sallow skin. She let him into the living room and muted the television set. A soap opera was on. He had no clue which one. To him, they all seemed the same: beautiful people arguing and bed-hopping like crazy.
But he didn't smell any cats, for which he was deeply grateful.
“Thanks for taking time to speak with me, Mrs. Brixton.”
He sat on an easy chair with faded brown upholstery. No cat hairs.
Faye sank into a well-worn depression in the couch next to an end table with a tall glass of what appeared to be orange juice. “You said something happened to Tex,” she said, her voice flat and expressionless.
Her hair, dyed platinum blond, was styled in a '60s bouffant. She had a hard look about her, like her son Randy, and her pale-blue eyes seemed glazed. Maybe there was more than OJ in the glass.
“Yes. Someone shot him in New Orleans. He's dead.”
Her mouth gaped open. “Someone shot Tex? Who’d want to kill Tex?”
“I understand your son was a friend of his.”
Emotion worked her face, emotions he couldn’t identify. Grief wasn't one of them.
“Him and Randy were co-captains of the football team."
“Mrs. Conroy said your son had an accident.”
Faye Brixton took a long pull from the glass of OJ. “Randy fell off a bluff near the Pecos River. As I’m sure Clarisse told you.”
He detected a slight slur in her speech. Definitely not just OJ in the glass. “Can you tell me what happened?"
“I didn’t see it happen,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
“But you were there?”
“Ellen and I were at the picnic table.”
“Ellen?”
“My daughter. Randy’s sister.” She took another swig of OJ. “Natalie wanted to take Randy’s picture so they went around the bend to find a good spot. That’s where it happened.”
“Where what happened?”
Faye gazed at him, expressionless. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
“Mrs. Conroy said Randy fell off a cliff.”
“Onto some rocks. Yes.”
Her demeanor seemed odd. No grief, just matter of fact statements about the death of her son. “Was Natalie with him when he fell?”
“She told the police that Randy was drunk and he slipped and fell over the bluff. That’s what she said.”
“What do you say?”
A muscle worked in her jaw. “I say she's right. Randy brought a six-pack of beer to the picnic and drank the whole damn six-pack himself.”
“Where’s your daughter? Does she live here with you?”
“No.”
“And Mr. Brixton?”
Her lips tightened in a grim line. “We're divorced. I had to sell our house and move into this dump. I don't have a clue where the rat-bastard is now.”
“Does Ellen live in Pecos?”
“Yes.”
“How old is she now?”
“Old enough to get herself a boyfriend and get pregnant. Ellen is a very unhappy person.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. She’s always been unhappy. Then she met this guy and they started dating and she got pregnant. The asshole split, of course.” Faye grimaced. “Men.”
It seemed like Faye was the unhappy one. Or maybe this was just one big unhappy family.
“Do you have Ellen’s phone number? I’d like to speak with her.”
"She lives two streets over.” Faye checked her watch. “If you hurry you might catch her before she goes to work. She’s a waitress at Longhorn Jack's.
Faye gave him the directions to Ellen's place. Before he got to the door, she hit the clicker and a cacophony of voices spewed from the TV set.
Soap time! Soap and OJ, and whatever else was in the glass.
CHAPTER 9
Faye Brixton's place was no prize, but Ellen Brixton's was worse, a run-down duplex with filthy white siding and sagging gutters. When Frank rang the doorbell, a young woman opened the door. Mousy brown hair framed her thin face. Her colorless gray eyes regarded him with suspicion.
“Hi, Ellen? I’m Frank Renzi, New Orleans police. I just spoke with your mother and I'd like to ask you a few questions. Can I come in?”
“What kind of questions?” Her wispy voice was barely audible.
“It’s really hot out here. Mind if I come in?”
Her mouth quirked. “Okay," she said, clearly annoyed, "but I have to go to work. If I’m late the manager gets pissed.”
Toddler toys littered a threadbare oval rug in her tiny living room. Ellen had on a white blouse and a short black skirt, her work uniform he assumed. She didn’t invite him to sit down.
“Your mother said your brother fell off a cliff several years ago. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Randy was drunk.” Her voice had an edge to it. “My mother's a drunk, too. As I'm sure you noticed.”
Unhappy, and definitely angry. “How’d you get along with Natalie?”
“We got along okay.”
“Your mother said you were having a picnic the day Randy died.”
“Right, me and Mom and Natalie. And Randy.”
“And Natalie was with Randy when he fell?”
She looked at him, her colorless gray eyes expressionless. “I guess.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Like Natalie said. Randy was drunk and fell off the bluff.”
“Uh-huh. You miss your brother?”
“Not really. Randy was a shit.”
“Where’s your father?”
“Living in Dallas with his girlfriend. I have to go or I’ll be late.”
“Does your mom baby-sit while you work?”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn't leave Tommy with a drunk. I pay the woman next door a big chunk of my pay to watch him. Mom’s useless.”
The Brixton family was beyond dysfunctional. An alcoholic mother. A father living with his girlfriend. And Ellen had no use for her brother. Dead or alive.
“What are you doing in Pecos?” she said, her eyes wary.
“Tex Conroy has been living in New Orleans. Someone shot him.”
“Really?” Her demeanor and body language said she could care less. “Did you talk to the Cat Woman?”
He struggled to keep from laughing. “You mean Mrs. Conroy?”
“Yes. How’s Tex doing?”
“He’s dead.”
“Tex is dead?” She started laughing.
Weird. “You don’t seem too broken up about it.”
“Tex and Randy were buddies. Good riddance to both of them.”
Ellen was angry with her parents, had no use for her brother or Tex. The jury was still out on Natalie. He sure did want to talk to Natalie.
“Did Natalie have any close friends?”
“Yeah, Gabe Rojas. They were friends all through high school.”
“Does he still live in Pecos?”
“I think so. Gabe's married now. But not to Natalie.”
Not to Natalie. What did that mean? He thanked her, went out to his car and dialed information. A minute later he was talking to an office worker at Pecos High School. When he said he needed to see a yearbook, she said he’d better hurry, the office closed in twenty minutes. He got there in ten.
The clerk, a stout woman in a polka dot dress, asked which yearbook he needed. He told her 1995. When he said he might need to take it with him, she frowned. “We don’t let people take our copies out of the building.”
He flashed
his ID. “This is a police investigation. I’ll sign for it.”
Seemingly impressed, she bustled into a closet, came back with the 1995 yearbook. “What sort of investigation is it?”
“Sorry. I can’t say.” He smiled. “You know how it is. You watch TV.”
The woman grinned. “I sure do. I love Law and Order.”
Sure, where every murder got solved in sixty minutes. He signed for the yearbook, took it to his rental car and studied Natalie Brixton’s photograph. An attractive girl, engaging smile, long dark hair, average features except for her eyes: almond-shaped, angling upward at the corners, hinting at Asian ancestry.
Below the picture was Natalie Brixton's motto: Freedom and justice for all.
Was that a quote? He ran through the Pledge of Allegiance in his mind. No, the Pledge ended “with liberty and justice for all.”
Justice for all. He pictured the woman in the security video walking down the hall with her confident long-legged stride. But how would Natalie know Peterson? And why kill him? It didn't make sense.
But she had been with Randy Brixton when he fell off a cliff. Randy's mother and sister didn't seem too unhappy about his death. Didn't seem too upset Tex Conroy was dead, either.
He flipped to the Drama Club page. In 1995 they'd put on a production of Oklahoma. In one photo Natalie stood with a group of dancers. She had a great figure and long legs. Like the woman in the hotel security video. But a single attribute did not a positive identification make.
He got on his cell and dialed information. Moments later he dialed the number for G. Rojas. When a woman answered, he asked to speak to Gabriel Rojas. “I’m sorry, he’s at work. Who’s calling please?”
“Detective Frank Renzi, New Orleans Police. When will he be home?”
“He’s usually home for dinner by six-thirty. What’s this about?”
“It can wait till after dinner. Could I stop by around seven-thirty?”
“Eight would be better. Gabe likes to spend time with the boys after dinner.”
“Thank you,” he said. “See you at eight.”
His stomach rumbled. His flight from New Orleans had taken off at 5:25 a.m., arrived in Houston at six-thirty. No food on the plane. His connecting flight put him in Odessa at nine. He'd rented a car and eaten a raisin bagel with his jumbo black coffee while driving to Pecos, had arrived at the little one-horse town at eleven. Since then he'd interviewed Clarisse Conroy, Faye Brixton and Ellen Brixton. No lunch.
