If I Had A Nickel (Roy Ballard Mysteries Book 3)

by Ben Rehder

  “Mia,” I said gently. “It’s also known as lying.”

  Now she wiped a tear that had begun to run down her cheek. I reached out and clasped her other hand. It was warm and soft and I could have held it forever.

  “I’m sorry he said those stupid things,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Not your fault.”

  “Make me a promise.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t stop taking me on canoe rides, okay?”

  Mia went to meet Garlen, so I had some time on my own.

  I checked Leo Pitts’s location and saw that he was parked in front of a house in Westlake Hills. Google Maps in satellite mode revealed that the house had a pool, so I drove in that direction. Before I could get there, Pitts was on the move again, heading east on Bee Caves Road, then going south on Loop 1.

  A few minutes later, I had his truck in sight, but I stayed at least fifty yards back. He eased into the left lane and took the exit to Loop 360 South, then exited onto Ben White, and turned south on Manchaca. Déjà vu. Shortly after that, he turned on Stassney.

  Yep. Returning to his rental unit. Two days had passed and perhaps he’d decided the cops weren’t going to search his house after all.

  He pulled into the storage facility, so I drove past and found a convenient parking lot where I could wait.

  I texted Kiersten. We still on for tonight?

  She replied: Absolutely. What r we doing?

  I replied: Full contact badminton?

  She replied: Full contact something ;)

  I liked the way she thought.

  Seven minutes later, Pitts got back on the road and drove less than one mile to a pizza place on Slaughter Lane. Lunchtime for the busy pool cleaner and small-time drug dealer. After he entered the restaurant, I waited three full minutes before parking the van right beside his truck. I got out and removed the GPS unit. Then I went inside, sat down at Pitts’s table, and said, “Hey, Leo.”

  “Jesus, fuck,” he said with a mouth full of pepperoni pizza. The place had an all-you-can-eat buffet for $6.99, so you didn’t have to wait. Pitts had five slices on a plate in front of him. He was seated in a corner, and there weren’t many customers, so we had some privacy.

  “You’ve always had a way with words,” I said. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You really should eat some salad, too,” I said. “Your digestive tract will thank you.”

  “Look, man,” he said. “I’m seriously starting to wonder what you’re trying to accomplish. Why do you keep showing up?”

  “The same reason your syphilis keeps showing up. You deserve it.”

  “That stuff about the cops was bullshit,” he said.

  “Well, yeah, maybe a little. Sorry about that. But we need to talk about something else.”

  “We don’t need to talk about shit. Time for you to hit the road.”

  “Leo, don’t be like that. I’m about to do you another favor. A real favor this time. Here’s the situation. Just a few minutes ago, you went to your storage locker on Stassney, and it kind of freaked you out when the lock wouldn’t open. Am I right?”

  His eyes widened. Then he glared at me, knowing this conversation wasn’t going to lead anywhere good.

  “So you cut the lock off,” I said, “and you were relieved to find that your stash was still inside, safe and sound. So then you decided the lock had simply malfunctioned. Still with me?”

  “You aren’t some damn insurance investigator,” he whispered.

  “Hey, believe whatever you want,” I said. “Anyway, you took the stash from the unit—because you figured if the cops were going to search your house, they would’ve done it already—and now, the stash is outside in your truck. Just sitting there. Probably locked in your tool chest.”

  I gave that a moment to sink in. He looked ready to bolt.

  “Now think about this hypothetical situation,” I said. “Imagine that there are cops outside waiting for you. They might even have a drug dog ready to sniff your truck. If the dog alerts, well, you are seriously screwed, my friend.”

  “Are you a cop?” he asked.

  Perfect.

  “Nope. I am definitely not a cop,” I said. “Representing yourself as a cop is a serious crime.”

  “I think you’re a cop and you’re trying to get something from me.”

  “I’m not a cop, but I do want something from you.”

  “What?”

  “Information.”

  “About what?”

  I could tell the pressure was getting to him. He was jumpy as hell. By now, he was under the impression I was a police investigator of some kind, and that I might bust him, or I might let him skate, if he’d cooperate.

  So I said, “I’m not convinced you’ve told me everything about that coin I bought from you on eBay.”

  “Ah, man. Really? Are we on that again?”

  “Well, see, it’s kind of important, considering that the thief might’ve killed Alex Dunn.”

  “I got nothing to do with any of that. Cole gave me that nickel because he owed me some money. End of story. Then I sold it to you.”

  “Did Cole tell you where he got the coin?”

  “No, but he said they were worth some money, and he was right. I didn’t give a damn where he got them.”

  Wait a second.

  “Them?” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “You got more than one hobo nickel from Cole?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  Good god, it was irritating speaking to someone like Leo. How could he not have mentioned this until now?

  “How many?”

  “Probably six or seven.”

  A fly landed on Pitts’s pizza. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Where are the others?” I asked.

  “I sold them, too.”

  “When?”

  “Whenever I got ’em.”

  “Which was when? When did you get these other coins?”

  “Different times, man. He gave them to me one at a time.”

  “Over the course of how long?” I asked. “When did you get the first one?”

  “Jeez, I don’t know. Maybe two years ago.”

  “Where did you sell them?” I asked.

  “On eBay.”

  “But I checked your sales history. That was the only one you’d sold.”

  “Nah, man, I had a different account, but my feedback rating got too low, so I opened another one.”

  Damn. Why hadn’t that occurred to me?

  “And you never had any idea that Cole got the coins from his dad?”

  “Nope.”

  Pitts picked up his half-eaten piece of pizza and prepared to take a bite, looking at me like, Are we done?

  I was running out of questions. Then I thought of one.

  “You know Alicia Potter?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “What was the relationship between Cole and Alicia?”

  “She used to be his stepmom, and after the divorce, they’d hook up now and then.”

  “Hook up, meaning they slept together?”

  He grinned, like he thought I was naïve. “Yeah, man. That’s what I mean.”

  “Did you hang out with her and Cole?”

  “Nope.”

  “Is she a user?”

  “Man, I got no idea. Why don’t you ask her?”

  Until now, I’d trusted every answer he’d given me. But he seemed evasive on that one, based on the way he looked down at his pizza when he replied. I decided not to pressure him. I already suspected that Alicia Potter used heroin. He might be able to confirm it for me, but I didn’t see as how that would get me anywhere.

  “I’m not a cop,” I said. “I investigate insurance fraud. Just so we’re clear.”

  He looked at me, still skeptical.

  I got up and left.

  As I drove, I realized I had no idea whether any of this new information was useful.

&n
bsp; Perhaps Cole Dunn had routinely stolen coins from his father—a coin here, a coin there—before Alex Dunn limited contact. It was possible Alex Dunn knew what was happening and declined to press charges. That would be typical for a parent dealing with a child who was a drug addict. It isn’t easy to practice tough love. Refusing to give a son money is one thing, but pressing felony charges is something else entirely.

  I wondered if Cole had been recorded anytime recently by Alex Dunn’s security cameras. Did he still have a key to his father’s place? Could he come and go when the house was empty?

  Square one. Again.

  Time to get serious.

  I went back to my apartment and took a nap.

  When I woke up, I saw that Alicia Potter had answered my second Facebook message. Finally. Maybe this would lead to some real progress.

  I know nothing about the missing coin collection and I have no interest in answering any questions. I am in grief over Alex’s death. Please do not contact me again. If you do, you will hear from my attorneys.

  Yikes. In that case, I figured it was probably better not to ask if she was grieving over Cole, too, considering that he had been her regular sleeping buddy.

  A couple of hours later, I texted Mia: Everything okay?

  She didn’t reply.

  I texted Kiersten: Pick you up at 7?

  Ten minutes later, she said: K. How about seafood? There’s a good place two blocks away.

  I wasn’t a big fan of seafood. Sounds great.

  I took a shower, came out, and found a reply from Mia: Yes thx. Lets talk tmw.

  I sent her a thumbs-up.

  I shaved, spritzed a little cologne in strategic places, got dressed, went outside, and as I was walking toward the van, I saw Garlen Gieger striding across the parking lot toward me, looking like he’d caught me spreading rumors about his sister.

  22

  I’d already been punched once recently, by a weaselly little dope dealer, and I wasn’t in the mood to get punched again, especially by some guy who’d been jerking Mia around.

  I stood my ground and waited.

  He marched right up to me, and I swiveled to face him with my left shoulder, ready to raise my arms in a boxer’s stance, but he stopped short and said, “What the fuck did you do?”

  “Care to narrow that down?”

  He was plainly agitated. His face was a vibrant red. I couldn’t tell if he had been drinking again. Possibly.

  “You ruined everything,” he said. “You understand that?”

  “You did that on your own, Garlen,” I said.

  We were standing in an open area of the parking lot, not far from a row of parked cars. I didn’t see any other residents in the area.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Garlen said.

  “You lied to her,” I said. “Always a bad idea.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Sure it is. She’s my friend and partner.”

  “And you want it to be more than that, don’t you? That’s the real issue here, huh?”

  “You need to be on your way,” I said. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “I’m gonna kick your ass.” His fists were balled up.

  “Well, please hurry, because I have a date.”

  “Funny guy.”

  “I think perhaps humor is not your strong suit.”

  His body language—the way he was trying so hard to look like he was not about to throw a punch—told me he was contemplating throwing a punch. The truth was, guys like Garlen rarely had the nerve to take it past the mouthing-off stage. If they did get physical, they lacked the skills to do much damage, unless their opponent was equally unskilled. And, unlike the situation with Leo Pitts, I was fully prepared this time.

  Garlen said, “You’re thrilled about this, aren’t you?”

  I said, “Look—either be on your way or take a swing. Make a decision. Doesn’t matter to me.”

  His face contorted in anger, and then he did take a swing. A big, looping, clumsy right cross that wouldn’t have fooled my grandmother. I ducked under it and his momentum carried him around so hard, he almost lost his footing.

  “You’re telegraphing your punches,” I said. “Do that against someone who knows how to fight and they’ll tear you apart.”

  He had both fists up now, and he was breathing rapidly. As I’d suspected, he didn’t know what he was doing. I’m no Sugar Ray Leonard, but I’d trained enough that Garlen would not be a great concern.

  He shot out a jab—or his idea of a jab—but I leaned left and avoided it.

  I knew what would come next. He’d lose his patience and rush me, wanting to wrap me up and take me to the ground, where he might have a small advantage. So I had to keep him off balance. I feinted left, then moved right, and he almost tripped over his own feet.

  “Garlen, seriously, you need to take off,” I said. “This is ridiculous. We’re grown men fighting in a parking lot. You think this is the way to win Mia back?”

  But his anger was too much. He couldn’t stop now.

  He lurched forward, wanting to grab me, but I stepped to my right and backward.

  He edged closer and faked a punch, then grinned when I flinched.

  He said, “What’s the matter, Roy? Worried I might—”

  I slipped inside and popped him with a hard left jab to the nose. When his hands went up to protect his face, I drove a left hook into his exposed ribs. I held back—I didn’t want to break anything—but it was more than enough. He backed away, covering his nose with one hand and clutching his side with the other.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. Blood was dripping onto his expensive polo shirt.

  I lowered my hands but kept my distance.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said. He removed his hand from his nose to gauge the blood flow. Nothing serious.

  “If you get some ice on it, it won’t swell too bad,” I said. “Maybe take a couple of Advil.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Look, Garlen,” I said, “it wasn’t anything personal. I don’t even know you. But if you knew someone was jerking Mia around, wouldn’t you tell her?”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and pressed it to his nose.

  I waited. I didn’t want to leave him there until I was positive he would be okay.

  After another half-minute, he glared at me, then turned around and walked away.

  Despite the ugly incident with Garlen, Kiersten and I had nice evening. Turned out the seafood place also served an outstanding ribeye steak, a tasty cheesecake, and a fine glass of Irish whiskey, which helped settle my nerves, because even a small scuffle in a parking lot releases adrenaline.

  After dinner, Kiersten and I went back to her condo and put all those calories to good use.

  At midnight, as we were side by side in bed catching our breath, Kiersten said, “It’s almost like you’ve done that before.”

  “Once or twice,” I said. “But it was in prison and I don’t like to talk about it.”

  “I guess your cellmate taught you a few tricks,” she said.

  “We still exchange Christmas cards.”

  We lay in silence for a moment. Her bed faced a wall of windows, and the blinds were open to reveal a blanket of lights south to the river. Stunning. It could’ve been a postcard.

  “Thought any more about that house?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Haven’t decided. It’s the only one I’ve looked at. Don’t want to rush.”

  “I can tell you this much—that’s a good price. Someone will grab it quick.”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “I can hook you up with another realtor in my office, if you want,” she said.

  “Is it really against the code of ethics for you to represent me?”

  “Well, technically, no, but I think it’s probably for the best.”

  She had music playing softly—some satellite channel featuring soft-pop hits from the ’70s and ’80
s. Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain” at the moment.

  “This song is about me, by the way,” I said.

  “I bet you think so,” she said.

  After another pause, I said, “That house is appealing because it’s close to my partner’s house, but that’s also one reason I’m hesitating.”

  “I get that with younger clients and their parents. They want to be close to mom and dad, but not too close. What’s your partner’s name again? Mia?”

  “Right.”

  “Afraid she’ll get on your nerves?”

  “Ha. No. The other way around.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” she said.

  I had wondered whether I might hear from Mia over the course of the evening, but I hadn’t. I assumed that meant Garlen hadn’t told her about our bout in the parking lot. I couldn’t blame him. I wasn’t so sure I was going to tell Mia about it myself. If she’d broken up with Garlen and they remained broken up, there was no need for her to know. But if she showed signs of getting back together with him, I would tell her, because, quite frankly, his behavior concerned me. Did he drive drunk with her in the car? Did he get belligerent with her?

  “The lease on my apartment is up in four months,” I said. “I’m thinking about giving them notice that I’ll be leaving, just because it will force me to do something. Plus, I hate the damn place.”

  “You should do that, Roy. You really should. Even if you don’t buy that listing in Tarrytown. You could always go month to month if you haven’t found a place by the time your lease ends.”

  More silence. It was so nice to just lie there. I knew I’d probably doze off soon.

  “Maybe I should just buy Max Dunn’s place,” I said. “And take up yachting or something.”

  “Got a spare three million lying around?” Kiersten asked.

  “Is that what he’s asking?”

  “Yep. Between you and me, it’s overpriced. I’ve tried to get him down to two-five, but he won’t budge, despite the fact that we haven’t had a single offer.”

  I wondered if she knew about Max Dunn’s financial difficulties. Did it matter? I also wondered if she was breaching the code of ethics by telling me this stuff. Did it matter?

  “How long has it been on the market?” I asked.

  “About four months,” she said. “Ever since his wife asked for a separation.”