When he said the last part I caught a whiff of the mint gum he was chewing. It triggered some weird mnemonic signal in my head and I remembered the last time I had seen Charlie Wesson, so many years ago. Right after a baseball game, with my graduation only a few weeks past, I’d stumbled into the locker room immediately after Charlie had dropped an easy pop fly. His father had been there, alone with him. I smelled the mint of the gum that Ketch Wesson always seemed to chew, saw the sinews in his jaws working. He’d had ahold of Charlie’s arm and the only thing I heard before he noticed me was something about “the best part of the Wesson genes musta spilled out of your mama, you dumb piece of shit.” Charlie had looked at me with mournful eyes, way beyond fear and embarrassment, more of a despondent acceptance of what was to come. Ketch saw me and said to get the hell out. I did, retreating quickly down the hallway to the sound of a fist hitting flesh.
That had been the last time I’d seen Charlie Wesson alive.
Jessup was still talking, rattling on about how I needed to get my ass home. Then because I smelled his gum and I remembered Charlie’s eyes, right before his father hit him, I did a stupid thing. I pushed Sergeant Jessup out of my way, and headed for my car.
The next thing I knew I was facedown on the hood of the Crown Victoria. I resisted the urge to fight back, as that would make a small mistake much bigger. I heard the door of my truck slam shut, and then two or three sets of feet running toward me; one of them obviously had to be Nolan.
“Lee Henry Oswald.” Jessup’s voice was harsh in my ear. “You’re one dumb son of a bitch. You are under arrest for assaulting an officer.” The cold metal of the handcuffs bit into my wrist. The hood of the car was hot like a branding iron against my cheek. Rough hands patted me down and found the Browning on my hip, clanking it on the top of the car. “Hope you got a license for that. What else you carrying?”
My voice was muffled. “I’m legal for the piece. There’s a thirty-two on my right ankle.”
Jessup found the backup pistol and pitched it next to the Browning, dragging me toward the back of the unit. He stopped when he saw Nolan O’Connor standing there, holding a San Antonio PD shield. The fat cop with the bad clothes stood behind her with his hands raised in a questioning gesture. “Says she’s on the job, Sarge. Homicide, Bexar County.”
Jessup hesitated, hanging on to me by one elbow.
“You know, Sergeant, there’s nothing that would give me more pleasure than seeing his butt thrown in jail,” Nolan said. “But there’s a lot of people counting on this loser, and I need him on the street.”
“You’re a long way from the Alamo, aren’t you, honey?” Jessup tightened his grip on my arm.
Something sparked in Nolan’s eye, but she kept her cool. “Sarge? I’m reaching out to you here. A favor. I’m sure he’s sorry. Aren’t you sorry, Hank?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. Really sorry. Don’t know what came over me.” I tried to sound like I meant it.
“Let it go, Sarge,” Fat Cop Bad Clothes said. “We got a full plate today.”
Nobody said anything for a few moments. Finally Jessup sighed and said, “Fuck it.” He unlocked the cuffs. I stepped away from him and moved to retrieve my weapons, rubbing my wrists as I went.
Jessup put his bracelets back on his belt and turned to me. “That’s a professional courtesy. For the little lady. Next time you won’t be so lucky. Stay the hell out of this part of town.”
I ignored him and headed for my truck, Nolan walking by my side. We’d gotten halfway there when Jessup called out to me. “Man named Carl Albach turned up in the hospital yesterday. Brain trauma, they say. In a coma, and the doctors don’t think he’ll wake up. For some reason his … associates are damn upset about the whole thing. You wouldn’t know anything about that, wouldya, Mr. Private Eye?”
I didn’t say anything, just shook my head. He stared at me for what seemed like a long time, then turned and walked into the house.
Nolan and I returned to my truck and stood there in the heat and mosquitoes, watching the slow procession of cars and uniformed personnel peculiar to a young man passing on under violent circumstances. Medical examiner, crime scene investigators, photographers; all came and went, each a part of the equation needed to determine that Charlie Wesson had gotten so euphoric from a load of heroin that he decided to blow his brains out. I should have left and gone to track down Fagen Strathmore, but for some reason I remained. Maybe I wanted to bring Charlie home in some way. Maybe I wanted to honor his passing, however ignominious it may have been. After a while, Nolan got in the truck and turned it on. I could see her fiddling with the air-conditioning. I stayed where I was, heedless of the sun and the sweat oozing down my body.
An hour passed and they brought the body out, a black plastic capsule of Charlie Wesson’s earthly remains. As the medical examiner’s people wheeled him over the uneven terrain of the front yard, a blue Lexus pulled up. It was eight or nine years old, but spotless, wheels and chrome gleaming, even in the overcast light. A black man in gray pinstripe suit pants and a cream-colored dress shirt unfolded himself and emerged from the car. His skin was the color of one of those four-dollar coffee drinks that’s half milk, half java. He was NBA tall, athletic but thin, with short hair and a cell phone stuck to one ear. He didn’t so much walk as he stalked, his movements conveying frantic energy barely contained. The day did not have enough hours for this man.
He hung up the phone and approached one of the uniformed officers. They talked until the cop waved him off. He then tried to enter the small house but was rebuffed by another officer. He and the uniform engaged in a conversation, with a lot of hand-waving and pointing. The officer shrugged his shoulders. The tall man didn’t say anything more, just huffed off.
At that point, he seemed to notice me and walked toward the truck. On the way he paused for two phone calls. The first one stopped him in the middle of the dirty front yard, talking animatedly into the tiny speaker, gesturing at the other party. The second one forced him to retrieve some papers from his car. He spread a file on the roof and talked, occasionally consulting something on a page.
After five or six minutes he ended that call and headed toward me. “Hey. You got any idea what the hell’s going on here?” He jerked a thumb toward the police congregated at the front door. His voice was friendly, with an us-against-them tone.
“Man died.” My voice was not so friendly.
“I figured that. You know who it is?”
“Yeah.” I turned from the scene and faced the man as the attendants slammed shut the ambulance. “Why do you care?”
The man held out his hand. “My name’s Aaron Young. I own the property.” His voice changed; curious morphed into smooth and forceful. Velvety yet powerful at the same time. I turned and met his gaze. His entire attention was focused on me, as if every word I might utter would be the most important thing spoken on the planet on this day. The eyes sparkled with intelligence and something else: determination, grit, or just regular stubbornness. I’d seen the look before, in faces of powerful people: politicians, master salesmen, generals, entrepreneurs. I shook his hand but didn’t say anything. The fingers that engulfed mine were thin, long, and too skinny in proportion to the rest of him. I told him my first name.
“What’s your function in all this, Hank? Why are you here?” Sincerity smothered his voice. The scene in front of us, the dead body in a condemned crack house, was a million miles away.
I debated what to tell him, finally settling on a variation of the truth. “I’m a repairman.”
Aaron said mmm and stroked his chin. “That’s interesting, Hank. I am always in need of repair work. What is it that you fix?” Rapport Building 101. Use the person’s name a lot and talk about his interests. Even as I recognized the technique, I realized how good he was, how smooth.
I watched as Cloyd the Cop came out onto the porch, cleared his throat, and spit into the dirt. “People mostly. I fix people and their problems.”
Aaron
laughed. “I need that kind of repair work from time to time. But I was referring to a handyman sort of fix-it guy.” His tone became serious. “So who’s the guy in the house?” He turned back to watch the actions at the ramshackle dwelling. We stood shoulder to shoulder.
“The man who died on your property was named Charlie Wesson. That mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it?”
“Not really, not unless you’re in the drug business.”
The anger in Aaron Young’s voice stopped birds from flying overhead and killed what little grass remained below our feet. “Since I don’t know you, Hank, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, or that you didn’t really mean it. Drugs are not something I take lightly. I have seen the damage they have done in this community, even in my own family.”
It was an Oscar-winning performance, or he really didn’t like dope. “When’d you buy it?” I said.
“We closed on the last two houses in the block a month ago.” His voice returned to normal.
The ambulance pulled away, no sirens. The mosquitoes were worse now but the heat had begun to dissipate a little. A knot of police officers huddled around the unmarked Crown Victoria, listening to Sergeant Jessup. “And you bought all those houses because you don’t like drugs? What about the New Caanan church and apartments?” I pointed to the sign.
Aaron tugged open his tie, a thin film of sweat now visible on his forehead. “The houses are to be demolished in the next week or two. After that we break ground on the apartments, then the church.”
“Why the apartments first?”
“We got funding for them, based on the rent we’ll receive. There’s a tremendous need for quality, affordable homes in this area. The rent will also help fund the church.”
I watched the police start to disperse, heading to investigate other crimes and misdemeanors. “And what’s your function in all of this?”
“I put the deal together, negotiated financing, hired the contractor, arranged for the church’s participation. That sort of thing.”
I turned and looked at him. “And you did all this because you don’t like drugs?”
He smiled, the quickest of grins that was replaced with a dead-pan expression. “Well, there’s a little profit in the deal for me too.” He handed me a card. “I have to be at a meeting, gotta run. Time kills deals, you know.” He waved and walked back to his Lexus.
I twirled the business card in my fingers like it was a tarot with all the answers. Jessup and his partner walked by. They ignored me and got in their unmarked car to leave. The last police unit idled in front of the house, two officers fiddling with paperwork. Except for the autopsy, that was it; the last sad chapter of Charlie Wesson’s dismal life. Dead, sitting on a toilet, in a filthy house about to fall down.
I got in the truck and soaked up the air-conditioning.
Nolan leaned against the door, staring out the front window. “It’s a good thing that cop didn’t look too closely at my badge.” She held it up for me to see. Blue letters, stamped at an angle across her picture, read, “NOT IN SERVICE.”
“Thanks for doing that.” I found a paper towel in the glove compartment and mopped sweat off my face. “That saved a lot of hassle.”
“Not to mention an assault charge.” She paused for a moment and then said, “What the hell got to you; it’s just another case, isn’t it?”
I pulled out into the late afternoon traffic, heading for the office. “Forget about it. You wouldn’t understand; I’m not sure that I do.”
“That’s classic. The macho PI bullshit; keep it bottled up until you explode.” She adjusted the AC vents on her side. “Got a psychotic, alcoholic ex-husband who had that problem. Except for when he was drunk, it was like talking to a lump of coal. Then it was dodging fists and praying you could keep your cool so you don’t smoke him with your service piece. The night before I filed for divorce, he’s passed out on the bed, buck naked. I’d had enough so I got a tube of that miracle glue shit and proceeded to glue both his hands to his dick.”
In spite of myself, I was laughing. “So what happened?”
“The dumb sonuvabitch had the nerve to send me the bill from the urologist.”
I was still chuckling when I dropped her off at the office, twenty minutes later. I stayed in the truck. Nolan got out and leaned back through the door, placing one hand on my forearm. Her touch was smooth and cool.
“You sure you don’t want me to go with you?”
I shook my head.
“You couldn’t have prevented it. Guy was a walking morgue ticket, looking for a place to happen.”
I didn’t reply.
“Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
I nodded and grunted, an affirmative that didn’t sound very believable.
“Call if you need anything.” Nolan patted my arm, a single lock of hair free from her ponytail, partially obscuring one of her blue eyes. The shadows from the trees over the driveway dappled the sunlight on her skin, giving her face the depth and complexity of an Impressionist painting. I felt a tickle in the pit of my stomach, the first feeble outriders of desire beginning their march toward my libido. But she was Ernie’s niece and I squashed anything approaching lust or feeling with the knowledge of what I had to do next.
I put the truck in drive. Nolan said good-bye again and shut the door. I made a quick stop at the hospital and then on to the visit I dreaded—Charlie’s sister.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Vera Drinkwater lived on a street in northwest Dallas named after a Disney character, not too far from where we’d both grown up. When my family moved there from central Texas, the area had had a certain suburban seventies-style quaintness to it, sort of Norman Rockwell meets the Brady Bunch.
But the intervening years had bleached the charm from the squat two- and three-bedroom ranch-style homes lining the streets. The peeling paint, gap-toothed shutters, and weed-infested lawns combined with the cars on blocks and omnipresent sirens to drain any nostalgic enchantment I might have felt. The 7-Eleven where I used to ride my bike and buy Slurpees was now an adult video store. The next right was the turn for Vera’s.
Her house was two blocks down, on a corner. Half a dozen cars were parked in front. In the yard of the house next door, a group of Indians milled about, chatting quietly, the women a riot of color in their richly pigmented saris. I parked across the street, got out, and smelled something exotic and spicy simmering on a stovetop nearby.
The front door to Vera’s lay open and I walked in. Five or six blue-haired, polyester-clad women sat on a purple, crushed-velvet sectional sofa, sipping coffee and eating pound cake. Hook rugs and needle-pointed pictures of dogs and cats covered the wood-paneled walls in the living room. The whole place smelled like pine disinfectant and cinnamon potpourri. I stifled the urge to sneeze.
A pudgy woman wearing a lime green pantsuit and white pumps, evidently the head blue hair, stood when I entered. “Duane and his … friend are in the garage. Just go through the kitchen.” She jerked a thumb to the back and sneered, leaving no doubt her opinion of Duane and his acquaintances.
“Who’s Duane?”
“Vera’s husband.” The woman frowned and looked at her people sitting on the couch, then back at me. “Who are you?”
“A friend of Vera’s.” I smiled and tried to look nonthreatening. “Where is she?”
Heads came together followed by a clucking of tongues and clanking of coffee cups. Blue hair number one replied for the group: “Vera’s in her bedroom, on the phone.”
“Do you think you could tell her I’m here?”
The woman smiled for half a second. “I-I-I’ll get her.” She disappeared down a hallway.
The sister of the deceased emerged a few moments later, looking like six miles of bad country roads. Her face was red and puffy, and the faded blue jeans and threadbare Dallas Mavericks sweatshirt she wore looked a couple of sizes too big.
“Hi, Hank. Thanks for coming.” She sniffled once. “Let’s g
o in the back and talk.”
We disappeared through a doorway, away from the whispering of elderly women.
The kitchen was mercifully empty. Casserole dishes covered every square inch of the avocado green Formica countertops. Vera went to the sink and filled a glass with tap water. She drank it in one gulp and then apparently remembered me. “I’m sorry, Hank. You want anything to drink?” I said no.
She downed another glass of water. “The women out there. One’s my great-aunt. She’s about the only family I got left. The others are from the church.” She sighed. “They’ve been a big help.”
“I didn’t know you were married.”
Vera opened a cabinet and got out a carton of cigarettes. She removed a pack and pounded the top of it against her palm. “Oh, Duane. Yeah, we’ve been together about three years now.” Her tone was on the edge of condescending, between despair and hostility, at the mention of her spouse.
I nodded. “What’s Duane’s function in life?”
“He’s a personal trainer.” She lit a cigarette. “At Rudy’s Gym over on Hall Street.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the garage, with a lifting buddy.” She blew a plume of smoke into the air. “It’s one of the nights they work out. They’ve got all the weights set up here so they decided to go ahead. What the hell, it wasn’t his brother that died.” The tone of her voice didn’t bode well for Duane’s continued marital bliss.
Still River Page 9
