Buffalo Bayou Blues (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 15)

by George Wier

  “I’ve never done anything to hurt you,” Horner protested. “I’ve never done anything to hurt Jimmy, either. I promise you.”

  “Right now, your words don’t seem like they mean too much.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said to Cottonmouth. I turned to Horner. “Your cooperation could maybe help matters. If we leave right now and you take me to Clark, and if you’re really innocent in all this, then I’ll make sure that you don’t become part of the collateral damage. Because there will be fallout from this. A lot of it.”

  “Well, I...”

  “Come on,” Cottonmouth said. “I’m ready to mop the floor with this little weasel.”

  “You may yet get your chance,” I said. “Particularly if I begin to suspect I’m being lied to.”

  “I’m not—” Horner began, but I cut him off.

  “Shut up. In the meantime, if you take me to Clark, and help me get to the bottom of what happened today, I’ll keep my promise.”

  “Okay, but I get to take Johnny with me. He’ll protect me, whether it’s from Clark and his gang of thugs, or if it’s Willard here.”

  “I’m afraid if it came to a choice between me and you,” Cottonmouth said to Horner, “then Johnny would be on my side. We go way back. Both of us are Fifth Ward.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Horner said. “I’m his boss.”

  “I’ve got no objection to Johnny coming with us,” Cottonmouth said, and chuckled.

  *****

  We got back into the car, with Johnny sitting up front, so both Cottonmouth and I could keep our eyes on him, and Cottonmouth and Horner in the back seat.

  “This thing’s moving a little too quicky for me,” I said, as I started the motor.

  “How do you think I’m being affected?” Horner asked.

  “Shut up, Dale,” Cottonmouth said.

  “I’m going to make a phone call or two before we go anywhere,” I said.

  Johnny nodded. Johnny—either I couldn’t remember his last name, or I hadn’t heard it as yet—was a big man, with as much fat on his massive frame, apparently, as muscle. The top of his head was shaven clean, but he sported a close-cropped goatee that had a few shoots of silver in it. It’s impossible, sometimes, to tell a bald man’s exact age, but I pegged Johnny for his mid-to-late fifties.

  I called Gresham’s number.

  “Gresham,” he answered.

  “You usually work the night shift?” I asked.

  “I work them all, sometimes straight. How can I help you, Mr. Travis?”

  “Okay, I’ve activated my Ranger status. I’ve got Dale Horner in the vehicle with me, and he’s taking me to see if we can find Clark Tanis, who happens to be his stepson.”

  “Well crap. You do like to move things along.”

  “Not time like the present,” I said.

  “How can I help?” he asked.

  “I want to see if you can locate a Last Will and Testament for Mr. Atwell. It might be at his trailer on the Atwell, Inc., property.”

  I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “Hold on a second, Detective Gresham,” I said. Then, “What?”

  “If someone goes in that trailer, they may want to watch out for Peanut,” Horner said.

  “Who the hell is Peanut?” I asked.

  “Peanut is Jimmy’s pitbull. The dog will have whoever goes in there for lunch.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Then into the phone, “Make sure the officers are aware of a pitbull dog by the name of Peanut. You may want to take along an Animal Control Officer, just in case the dog needs subduing.”

  “Okay. I’m writing that down. Why are we looking for Mr. Atwell’s will?”

  “Possible motive, I’d say. I want to know to whom everything goes, now that he’s dead.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “I’ll let you know. Also, we may be bringing Mr. Tanis in. Where should I take him?”

  “I’ll want to talk to him. I have a warrant out for him now. And Mrs. Horner wasn’t home.”

  “She’s supposedly on the yacht at the Atwell pier. And tell your officers there are a couple of security bozos on the place.” Then to Horner, I asked, “What are their names, again?”

  “Oh. That would be Weller and Price,” Horner stated. “And they’re not bozos. They are the best security men money can buy.”

  “Horner says the two bozos are Weller and Price. I didn’t like the cut of their jib. If they give your people any trouble, pull their licenses and put them under arrest for hindering an investigation.”

  “Okay. Is that it?”

  “That’s for starters,” I said. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find out.”

  I hung up.

  “Shit,” Horner said.

  “You can say that again,” Johnny said. “Mr. Horner, you gonna pay me hazard pay tonight?”

  “Only if there are any hazards, and you prove yourself worth it.”

  *****

  Moving through Houston again, this time following Horner’s back seat directions, I glanced at the time. It was nearing the 10:00 o’clock hour.

  I called Jessica.

  “Where are you?”

  “On the way to go talk to the guy who owned the van from which the shots were fired. Maybe to bring him in.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “Listen. I know this may sound like I’m asking you to join a conspiracy or something, but I don’t want either of you telling your mother about what’s been happening.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “You already told her, didn’t you?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Well crap. Does she know about the shooting?”

  “No, dad. Of course not. I’m not brave enough to tell her about that, and neither is Jennifer. I just told her that you put us up at the hotel, and that you were going out to take care of business. She agreed that because Jennifer is along, I couldn’t help not being able to go with you and watch your back. So, don’t get yourself shot or anything, because that would be majorly uncool of you. It would really tick me off.”

  “I plan on that not happening,” I said. “And good on withholding the pertinent information.”

  “We’re bloody pirates,” she said. “We sail anywhere and we can shoot people.”

  “More like Robin Hood, but I get your point. I’ll be in when you see me coming. Tell Jennifer I love her.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you before one.”

  “Whatever,” I said, and hung up.

  *****

  The trailer park where Clark Tanis lived was, according to Dale Horner, his step-father, off of South Telephone Road south of Hobby Airport.

  I personally knew Bill Hobby, a frequent visitor to Austin, and one of my former partner’s clients. Bill was the former Lieutenant Governor of the State from back in the day, and his father had been a Governor before him. The airport, constructed in the 1960s, had been named for the elder Hobby. I thought of Bill as we moved south of downtown and into the night, with the airport disappearing behind my left shoulder, and wondered how the fellow was getting along.

  I turned us off of Telephone Road at Dale’s instruction to find a sea of red and blue lights—the cavalry had gotten there first.

  We were stopped by a policeman, so I rolled my window down.

  “Can’t come in here, sir,” the cop said. “There’s a standoff going on. Weapons have been fired.”

  “Shit,” Dale said from the back seat. The cop leaned forward and peered into the vehicle at us.

  “Bill Travis,” I said. “Texas Rangers. Is Detective Gresham here?”

  “He’s over there,” the policeman pointed.

  “Where’s Tanis?”

  “Holed-up in his trailer. He’s got a gun to a woman’s head, he says. He says he wants a monster truck, ten thousand dollars in twenty-dollar bills, and a plane waiting to take him to Honduras.”

  I laughed and the cop went from somber to grin
ning, quick as a wink.

  “I suppose, then,” I said, “that this is some kind of hostage negotiation situation. Bullhorn and everything?”

  “No bullhorn yet. A lot of shouting back and forth. I think the detective’s voice is starting to wear out. I predict the bullhorn to show up any minute. SWAT hasn’t been called in yet, but that’s next. This circus is just getting started.”

  “All right,” I said. “Carry on, officer.”

  He nodded and I drove us on past and parked behind one of the dozen cruisers that had taken over the trailer park.

  I looked to see a small trailer ahead pinned in place by multiple headlights. There were cops out behind their cruisers with guns drawn, waiting.

  “Cottonmouth, you and Johnny stay here. No sense in everybody getting shot at. If shooting starts, get as low in this thing as you can, or else get out and hit the pavement. I’m taking Dale with me.”

  “Why me?” he asked, enough cringe in his voice to assure me he was factually afraid.

  “Because, you’re his stepfather. You have some responsibility here, and you may be able to talk to him.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve never been able to get through to him.”

  “We’ll see,” I said, opened my door and got out.

  The first thing I smelled was wisteria blossoms. Go figure—wisteria in a trailer park.

  I realized that Horner had yet to get out, so I opened the door for him.

  “Come on,” I said. “All the trouble is this way.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A s we walked up to where Detective Gresham was hunched down behind a squad car, it started to rain.

  At first I didn’t recognize what had struck me on the crown of the head—I thought at first that it had to be an acorn or perhaps bird droppings, but then another one struck my forehead right where my hair naturally parts, and I knew. The drops were fat, and they were about to come pouring down in a deluge.

  “Crap,” Gresham said, then looked up at saw me and Dale Horner. “Travis, I was hoping to beat you to the punch, but he’s got his girlfriend in there and she’s screaming that he has a gun to her head.”

  “What’s going on out there?” a voice shouted from the trailer, which was no more than fifteen feet away.

  Gresham raised up and raised his voice. “Just talking with someone. Everything’s calm.”

  “No it ain’t,” the voice said. “You people better back away, or I swear to God she’s going to die.”

  “Do what he says!” a woman shrieked. “For the love of God, please do it.” And then she broke down into sobs.

  “Well shit,” Gresham cursed under his breath. He looked up and got hit in the eye with a raindrop. “Why me? Why today?”

  “Makes you appreciate the sunshiny, easy days,” I said. “You want me to talk to him?”

  He looked down and pursed his lips for a second, even as the rain began to come down in sheets, then back up at me. He had to raise his hand up over his face to keep the rain out of his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m not getting anywhere with him, and if S.W.A.T. gets here and this thing gets handed off to somebody else, well, I think we’re going to end up with somebody dead.”

  “Probably. Okay, give me an introduction, would you? And leave out the Texas Rangers part.”

  “I hear you talking out there!” Tanis shouted in a sing-song voice. “But I can’t hear what you’re saying! Hope you’re liking the rain!”

  “Clark,” Gresham said, “a friend of mine wants to talk to you.”

  “Whatever! Where’s that monster truck? Huh? That’s what I want to know.”

  Gresham shrugged. “Your turn. I’m getting inside a car.”

  I nodded to him.

  “Hey, Clark?” I called.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m Bill Travis. Did you shoot up the front of the Nite Wing today? You and maybe some friends of yours?”

  “What’s it to you?” he asked.

  “Well, if you did, then you need to know that you murdered your goddamned grandfather.”

  There was a pause. Then, “What?”

  “You heard me!” I shouted over the torrent of pouring rain. “You shot out the windows and hit your grandfather! He’s dead! Maybe you killed him!”

  “Shit, Bill,” Horner said, not overly loudly. “That’s pretty rough.”

  “It’s the truth,” I replied.

  “So here’s the deal!” I continued to Clark Tanis. “You’re not the only one in this pile of shit. Your mother is now in it with you! The only way to save the only person on this Earth that gives a rat’s ass about your sorry hide is to walk out of there, preferably without your weapon! Otherwise, I promise you, I’ll make sure she spends the rest of her sorry life in prison.”

  It began quietly, just beneath the rain. I wasn’t sure what the sound was at first, but then it grew in intensity. Finally, I recognized it—the sound of a man crying. I had gotten to him.

  “I’m...coming...out...I’m coming....”

  After a moment the door to the trailer popped all the way open and a young, skinny man with no shirt on stood there in his bare feet. He had his hands up and over his eyes, shielding them from the glare of the multiple headlights. Tears streamed down his face. He tried to find the edge of the door by feel with the tip of his toe, missed, then tried again. One bare foot came down onto the first step. There was only one more to go.

  “I didn’t mean...” he cried. “I swear...I didn’t mean...”

  And then he shocked everyone there in the trailer park by folding in upon himself like a closing pop-up book and fell out of the doorway and slapped down hard into the mud.

  *****

  The S.W.A.T. van arrived, but then turned around and left. The party was pretty much over, and Clark Tanis was in custody.

  He sat in the back of a police cruiser, handcuffed. His girlfriend and former hostage was also being handcuffed and struggling with the officers. As soon as Clark hit the mud, she had come out, angry as a wet hen for our having somehow caused his condition. She’d been ready to take on all comers, and was promptly subdued by half a dozen officers.

  Detective Gresham and I, along with Dale Horner, stepped inside the trailer.

  It smelled of sweaty gym socks and mildew. The sink was full of dirty dishes and discarded fast food bags and boxes were everywhere to be seen. Additionally, neither Clark nor his live-in girlfriend believed in doing the laundry. It was impossible to tell the color of the carpet without pushing dirty clothing to the side.

  “There’s the gun,” Gresham pointed.

  I bent and examined it without picking it up. “Expensive one,” I said. “Smith & Wesson, snub-nose .38. Very nice. My daughter would approve.”

  “Your daughter all about the guns?” Dale asked.

  “Yeah. Apparently, it runs in the family. She knows twice as much about guns and ammunition as I’ll ever know.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Gresham said. “Uh, no offense.”

  “What the hell is that over there?” Horner asked.

  Gresham and I looked to see a small alcove in the twelve-by-twenty foot trailer. The desk was covered with newspapers, but a couple of copper wires with the plastic wrapping removed stuck out from underneath them.

  I walked over, lifted the top sheet of newspaper—the Houston Chronicle—and swore.

  “What is it?” Gresham asked.

  “The makings of a bomb,” I said, “or what’s left over after one has been made.”

  “Shit. Let me see.”

  I stood back and pointed. “Stripped and crimped wires, discarded battery wrapper—looks like a nine volt. Back there; a box for a walkie talkie and one partially disassembled walkie talkie. I thought Radio Shack went out of business?”

  “Not all of them,” Gresham said. “They downsized. You can still get walkie talkies at any hobby store, or survivalist store, for that matter.”

  “Huh. Make’s me wonder what the bomb was made out of. The fact t
hat it’s electrical in nature, and triggered by walkie talkie...” I trailed off because the magnitude of it hit me. There was only one thing I knew of that was most easily set off by electricity in any form, and that was prima cord. And it was nasty stuff.

  “Wait,” Gresham said. “It could be anything. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  He was technically correct about that. There existed a host of other things that could be rigged to detonate electrically with the keying of a walkie talkie, including regular dynamite, gelignite and C4. While I wasn’t exactly the explosives expert in our little family—that designation was Hank Sterling’s, solely—I did know that the first two of those, dynamite and gelignite, had been invented way back to the 19th Century by Alfred Nobel, the Peace Prize of the same name somewhat ironically notwithstanding.

  “Naw,” I said. “I think it’s prima cord. He’s going to bomb someone or something tonight.”

  Gresham nodded. I turned to look at Dale Horner, and saw that the man’s face was white.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You know something.”

  “I don’t. But I’m...now worried about my wife.”

  “He wouldn’t kill his mother,” I said. “His mother was how I got him to surrender.”

  “Yes, but there’s some...there’s some things you don’t know.”

  “And just what the hell is that?” Gresham asked.

  “Gingie and I, we’ve been separated for the last six months. She’s been living in the house in River Oaks. I’ve been living on the yacht. I’ve been doing my best to patch things up with her. I made arrangements for her to wait for me on the yacht today. I swore her to secrecy on it too, because Clark hates me and he’d do anything to keep us apart.”

  “Does he hate you enough to want to blow you sky high?” I asked.

  Horner nodded.

  “Oh shit,” he said. “I’ve got to call Gingie. I’ve got to call her right now!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  W hile Horner and Gresham stood in the doorway to the trailer, I ran out in the rain and tapped on the glass of the driver’s door of the police cruiser. The window came down about an inch.