“What kind of business?” I asked.
“Private business.”
“Okay, get lost.”
“You mean I can go?”
“Until the next time I need to talk to you.”
“Some people might call this harassment.”
I gave him an honest laugh. “Do I look like I give a shit what anybody calls it?”
* * *
I called Tom Waller to fill him in on what I had on Arno. He agreed with me that while we might get an indictment, conviction was doubtful. I told him I was putting any action against the man on hold. For some reason Big Paul as Amanda Twiller’s killer just didn’t gel for me. I know it’s unscientific, but I’ve been at this business long enough to pay attention to my hunches, especially when they told me somebody was innocent. Not that I was worried about any injustice that might be done to Arno. He was a killer several times over, and whatever charge he went down for was merely a matter of bookkeeping. But I wasn’t content just to clear the case.
“How does this tie in with Dennard?” he asked.
“I have no idea. I guess Dennard could have hired Arno to do it, or even done it himself, maybe after getting Doyle to deliver her to him. Then a couple of days later he killed Doyle to shut him up.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I have trouble with it,” I said. “Dennard is smart and a lawyer himself. The Bureau has nothing that would tie him to Sipes or any other skulduggery. The only possible motive I can come up with is to protect his marriage.”
“That’s been behind many a murder,” he said.
“If it was in this case, it was more likely he was trying to protect himself financially from a bad divorce judgment. This state now has alimony, remember?”
“Oh yes. I’m very aware of that.”
“Do you think the grand jury would indict on what we have?”
“Maybe and maybe not,” he said. “I’m still wondering why Sipes’s bail bond company took such a flier on Raynes.”
“Sipes claims Zorn vouched for the kid’s innocence. Why, I don’t know, but it’s not a crime, so…”
“By the way,” he said, “the judge set Dennard’s bond at a half million dollars. Noncapital murder and he’s a substantial citizen.”
“That’s still a stiff bond,” I said. “Has he made any effort to come up with it?”
“Not a bit. MacGregor won’t accept anything but cash or surety from a licensed bonding company. Dennard doesn’t have that kind of liquidity. He could probably come up with the fifteen percent a bail bond company would require, but that’s seventy-five thousand dollars that he wouldn’t get back. It looks like he’s either innocent and confident or guilty and pessimistic. Either way, why waste the money?”
We hung up and I thought for a few moments, then dialed Hotchkiss on his cell phone. He answered on the second ring. “What’s up, Doc?” he said.
“Maybe we ought to find out where Emmet Zorn lived before he came to Sequoya. He’s been here about five years, and I know he did some rodeo promoting before that.”
“No problem. The first thing I’ll do is check the national computer for any minor criminal charges and check the addresses to go with them. Actually, we should have already done that. I’ll get back to you.”
Next I fished Roland DeMour’s card out of my wallet and started dialing. None of his numbers answered, but I left a message on his voice mail asking him to call me. Almost an hour later Maylene buzzed and told me DeMour was on the phone.
“How can I help you?” he asked after I said hello.
“I recall your cousin Camille saying you work organized crime. Is that right?”
“It sure is.”
“If you’ve got a minute I’d like to ask you a few more questions about Paul Arno.”
* * *
Just before noon Linda came in with a report on another case that I needed, and I motioned for her to sit down. Before I could tell her what was on my mind, Hotchkiss called. I lifted the receiver and he started jabbering away without even giving me a chance to say hello. When he finished a couple of minutes later, I said, “Thanks, Hotch,” and hung up.
“What?” Linda asked.
I gave her a coy little smile and raised my finger to my lips to silence her. “Be patient,” I said. “I’ve got to make one more call.”
It took me five minutes and some heavy threats to get patched through to Lester Sipes on his cell phone. Finally he answered. “Hello, Sheriff,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m talking to you, especially in light of the insulting things you said to me when we met in Nacogdoches.”
“I’ll give you one good reason to talk to me. Answer a couple of questions truthfully and I can eliminate you from a list of possible suspects in a murder case. That should be worth a few minutes of your valuable time.”
There came a long pause. “Fine. Speak your piece.”
“I think that one night last week you were scheduled to come up here to Sequoya. I think you were supposed to arrive around midnight. I also think that something happened that prevented you from coming. Am I right?”
“How on earth did you know that?”
“Never mind how,” I said. “It was the night Amanda Twiller was killed, wasn’t it?”
“Yes … yes, it was. But I had some important business associates came into town on the spur of the moment.”
“From South America?” I asked.
“Where they were from doesn’t matter, but I promise you I have several respectable witnesses who will place me here in Houston until well into the next day.”
“I’m sure you do, and I would believe them in a heartbeat. But I’ve got even stronger proof that you were never here that night.”
“And what might that be?”
“You’re still alive,” I said and hung up the phone.
* * *
Linda’s eyes were wide with surprise. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” she asked. Then she answered her own question. “No, never mind. You’ll just say something about my young and tender ears, and I’ll get pissed off all over again.”
I laughed at her. “I want you to hear this, but I don’t want to have to tell it twice. Call Toby and see if he’s interested in eating some barbecue in a half hour. My treat.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It took Toby the better part of an hour to finish his call and get back to town. Linda and I met him at Seabrook’s, and while we were ordering at the counter my cell phone buzzed. I listened for a couple of minutes, then said, “Thanks, my friend. I owe you a big one.”
“What was that?” Linda asked.
“You’re too damn snoopy,” I said.
“Come on, Bo. That call had you grinning like a possum, so what’s the story?”
“Icing on the cake. Let’s sit down and I’ll give you the whole story.”
We managed to get the back corner booth once again. “What’s cooking, boss?” Toby asked as soon as we were seated with our iced tea in hand.
“Arno’s off the hook on the Twiller murder.”
“How so?”
“The problem I’ve had all along with him as the killer was the way the body was dumped in public. That’s just not a mob hit, and Arno’s a mob guy. When they move a victim’s body, they take it out to a gravel pit or somewhere and bury it to make it less conspicuous, not more so. Yet we still had the fact that he was here and went to the trouble to try to establish an alibi. And now I know why. A little while ago I had a phone conversation with a Louisiana State Police organized crime investigator named Roland DeMour that Hotchkiss and I met yesterday down in Lake Charles. I asked him if it was likely that Arno would come all the way up here and do a hit for the kind of money Zorn could pay. He said not unless he was hurting for money pretty bad. He also said there was no reason for him to be hurting since he’s got a couple of rackets going in Lake Charles that are pretty lucrative.”
“If he didn’t do the Twiller killing, then why�
�s he here?” Toby asked.
“I don’t know why he’s staying around, but he came up here in the first place because he was after a bigger fish, one worth the risk.”
“Who?” they both asked.
“Lester Sipes.”
“I don’t get it,” Linda said.
“We’ve assumed all along that Arno was hired to lean on Sipes by the people down in South America. We thought that because we know he’s worked for them at least once in the past. But that wasn’t the case at all. Yesterday I remembered something that Parker Raynes said when I interviewed her at the Sawmill Club the day Amanda Twiller was killed. She told me that Doyle had mentioned to her the evening before that they were leaving the club early that night because Zorn was meeting his partner at midnight. That meant nothing to me at the time, largely because I was focused on Doyle. Then I understood. Charlie Morton has been working with Zorn on selling the Pak-a-Sak, and he’s seen all the paperwork on the place. Up until about six months ago, Sipes was half owner. So I figured he had to be the partner Doyle was talking about. With that in mind, I asked Hotchkiss to run down Zorn’s previous addresses, and guess what? For a couple of years before he moved up here to Sequoya he lived in New Orleans.”
“Which means he could have met Arno,” Toby said.
“He did meet Arno,” I said. “They were busted together in a gambling raid. Minor stuff. Hotch says some guy running a card parlor in the French Quarter got behind in his protection money and they gave him a rap on the knuckles. Eleven guys paid misdemeanor fines, and Zorn and Arno were both on the list.”
“But why was Arno going to whack Sipes?” Linda asked.
“Because he and Zorn were going to sell the coke to that drug dealer up in St. Louis and split almost a million dollars. Arno is a lot more likely than Zorn to have contacts like that, and I bet he was the one who got in touch with the St Louis people in the first place. If you’ll remember, Peet said it was some guy who knew both Zorn and his boss up north.”
“That’s right,” he said.
“Remember how much money we’re talking about here. That’s a half million apiece for each of them, but they knew it wasn’t going to be a good idea to screw Sipes that badly and leave him alive. He’s a little man with a long memory and a short fuse. I just talked to Sipes a little while ago, and he admitted that he’d been planning a trip to Sequoya that night, but something came up that kept him in Houston.”
“But who was that who called when we were standing in line?” Linda asked.
“Sergeant Wolf of the Dallas PD. He visited with a girl named Brandi Springer this morning. She was Arno’s girlfriend down in Lake Charles.”
“And?”
“This gal and her mother are in the process of opening a call girl operation in Dallas, and Wolf was concerned that Big Paul might be backing it financially. But it turns out that Brandi came home to Dallas to get away from the guy. He was trying to get her to marry him, but she was afraid of him and didn’t want any part of it. And he bragged to her a couple of weeks ago that he was working on a project that would bring him enough money to build her a big, fine house.”
“So all this means … what, exactly?” Linda asked.
“It means we’ve eliminated the prime suspect, and I’m happy with that because I never bought him for the Twiller murder anyway. Now we won’t be wasting any more time in that direction. And it means we have a clearer picture of what’s going on with these people. It also means we need to take a closer look at Emmet Zorn.”
“Good,” Linda said. “I don’t like the guy, anyway.”
“Why not?” I asked. “Has he been hitting on you?”
“No, but since he’s hit on every other woman in town under fifty, I think he could have made at least one pass at me just to be polite.”
“Probably the uniform puts him off,” Toby said. “I don’t make him for a cop groupie.”
“Don’t let it worry you,” I said. “You’re way too good for him.”
“Thanks, Bo. Any more compliments you want to throw my way while you’re in such a good mood?”
“You bet,” I said, laughing. “You’re a hell of a peace officer, and so is Toby. I’m proud to have you both on my force.”
“Well, well,” she said. “As long as you’re being so cooperative, I’d still like to know why you can get Gog and Magog to behave when nobody else can.”
“That story’s just not for your young and tender ears,” I said, and quickly moved my legs just as she kicked at my shins under the table.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I got back to the office to find my desk phone ringing. I picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, then said, “Thanks.” Next I called Hotchkiss. He answered on the second beep.
“I know I promised you a day’s notice on busting that bookie I told you about,” I said. “But you seemed awfully eager the last time we talked. What do you have on the burner this afternoon?”
“Nothing terribly important. You want to do it now?”
“You bet. He’s writing at this very instant. They got several big preseason games coming up this weekend, and my snitch says he’s going at it hard.”
“Can you get the warrant this quickly?”
“Hell, I’ve had the warrant for a week.”
“Let’s go then.”
* * *
Linda and two of my other deputies, along with two city cops, got themselves all decked out in face shields and flack gear and did a SWAT team number on the front and rear doors of the house. Quinn obviously wasn’t expecting any problems. We caught him, dumb and happy, working away at his kitchen table like a busy accountant going over his weekly figures. Three cheap cell phones lay on the table alongside his paperwork. He must have thought that by avoiding landlines he would leave less of a paper trail.
Hotchkiss and I watched as Linda cuffed the man, slammed him back down in his little rolling desk chair, and proceeded to stand over him with the stern frown of an avenging angel.
He was a nondescript, pudgy fellow of medium height in his early thirties who would have been utterly unmemorable if the substructure of his face hadn’t still shown the effects of the terrible beating he’d taken a few years earlier. As it was, he looked like something put together by a clumsy child. A bowling pin can be a fearsome weapon.
I motioned my deputies out of the room and stood looking down at Quinn. Finally he snapped, “What?”
“You’ve been a naughty boy,” I said.
“Big deal. A chickenshit gambling charge even if you can make it stick. I’ll be bailed out by sundown.”
“Not this time,” Hotchkiss said.
He looked up at the young agent. “Who the fuck are you?”
Hotchkiss flipped his ID open in Quinn’s face. “FBI. Federal Bureau of Investigation to the uninitiated. Only you’re not uninitiated. You’ve been down this road before.”
“Huh?”
“Federal charges, nitwit. Interstate gambling.”
“Oh, no you don’t. You’ve got no records of my phones.”
Hotchkiss sighed and shook his head, no doubt amazed as I myself had been dozens of times at the monumental stupidity of criminals. “Fool, cell phones leave computer records just like landlines. Besides, the statute has been changed. All we have to do is prove you laid off one single bet on a single out-of-state game and your ass is fried.”
“Aw, shit…”
“Aw, shit,” I said mockingly. “That’s a fitting response if I ever heard one, since you’ve really stepped in it.” I pointed at Hotchkiss. “You need to listen to this young man so you’ll know what the future has in store for you.”
“Right,” Hotchkiss said. “With your prior record, even the greenest assistant on the federal prosecutor’s staff could get you a couple of years in the slammer. Only you won’t draw the greenest guy on the block. The verdict will be guilty, of course, and I’ll make it a personal point to feed plenty of juicy information to the guys doing the presentencing r
eport. You can count on it. So maybe you ought to figure on five to seven, just to be safe.”
“What have you got against me?” Quinn whined, a standard criminal complaint I’d heard a thousand times. Bust them and they think you have targeted them out of some personal vindictiveness. They can never understand that you’re simply doing your job.
“We don’t have a thing against you personally,” I said.
“Bo’s telling you the truth there,” Hotchkiss said cheerfully. “I’ll admit that I don’t like gambling, but you’re nothing special. Just a means to an end for us.”
Quinn rolled his eyes. “Why me?”
“You’re the only bookie in town,” I said.
“So?”
“But you don’t have to be the one left holding the bag.”
“I don’t?”
“Nope,” Hotchkiss said. “There’s another way this whole thing can end. Want to hear it?”
Quinn shrugged morosely. “What have I got to lose?”
“At least five years of your life,” I said. “That prospect would get my attention in a hurry.”
“Okay, okay. No need to rub it in.”
Hotchkiss smiled. “You give us a name and a signed statement and you can walk on the whole deal with nothing more than a fine.”
“What name?”
“The guy you’re laying off bets for,” I said. “Your boss, Weyland.”
“Who?” The man seemed authentically puzzled.
“Sam Weyland, over at Fillmore,” I said.
“Never heard of the guy.”
I gazed at Quinn’s face. He was either a consummate actor or he was telling the truth. “Then who are you working for?” I asked.
“This is my own operation,” he muttered.
“Bullshit,” I said. “You’re dead broke and we know it. Give it up. Who’s backing you?”
It was then that Hotchkiss did something that almost floored me. First he stood and regarded Quinn thoughtfully for a few moments, apparently pondering something. Then he leaned down so his face was only a few inches from Quinn’s and said, “Your boss is Lester Sipes, isn’t he?”
Nights of the Red Moon Page 16
