by J. R. Rain
San Antonio was everything I remembered it to be and maybe a little more. And maybe a little rougher. Old streets lined with cypress trees were mixed with bums and vagrants and tourists and drug addicts and bell hops and county workers and more bums and probably gang bangers.
The professional women here were serious and dressed nice and seemed to be heading to places quickly. The not-so-professional women were smoking crack in nooks and alleys along my jog.
Historic buildings were restored beautifully, while others had fallen into disrepair. The city, overall, was surprisingly quiet for a bustling downtown, and for being the US’s seventh-largest city. A steady hum filled the air, but not a lot of honking or angry drivers. Although the city had an edge, it seemed like a subdued edge. Maybe it was just early. Maybe the sharper edges came out later, along with the bad drivers.
I crossed over a bridge, and ran past a row of beautiful, modern-day, stelae-like lampposts, covered in blue and yellow mosaics. Or, rather, I think they were blue and yellow. At any rate, they would have made their Mayan forebears proud. I hung a right down a flight of stairs and soon found myself along the popular River Walk.
I spent the next hour running along the various byways of the river, which meandered through the city in a big loop. I passed other joggers, too, and was thrilled once again to be able to hit my natural stride, no longer hampered by a bum leg. Now, I slipped past other joggers and walkers and moms pushing strollers. Dads pushing strollers, too. I passed an unusual boat with nets spread out to either side. The nets were filled with all sorts of debris. A clever and effective way to clean the river. I also passed police boats cruising the river. I passed tourist boats docked along the river. The tourist boats, I knew, would soon be in full swing once the tourists were done with their free hotel breakfasts.
The River Walk itself was pleasant and relaxing, and it was easy to forget that a rough-and-tumble city lay just one level up, on the street above. I caught snatches of the street above, too, as I ducked under bridges and ran across walkways.
Mostly, I passed exactly 10,000 different Tex-Mex restaurants, many of which were not yet open for business.
When the hour was up, I headed back to the hotel. After all, I had to get ready to meet Freddie Calgary’s biggest fan, or so he called himself.
First, I had dropped Jack off at a bus station in the middle of New Mexico. I had asked if he needed money and Jack had shaken his head. I asked if I would see him again, and he only smiled.
After that, as I drove, I had worked my cell phone and arranged for the meeting with Ruger P. Howard, who had been with Freddie Calgary at the time of his death, and who operated a fan site devoted to the star. Ruger was all too eager to meet with me. Luckily, at a Starbucks.
Killing two birds with one stone.
Or, perhaps, with one scone.
Chapter Forty-three
Actually, I had two. Scones, that is.
We were sitting in the only Starbucks I had seen in this part of town, which was proof we weren’t in Seattle. While I worked on my second scone—which, I think, was Gaelic for asphalt—a lanky guy wearing a beanie cap and skinny jeans and flip-flops strolled in. I had seen Ruger’s website. This was a Ruger if I had ever seen one.
“Ruger,” I said.
“Jim Knighthorse?” he asked as he came over.
“As ever was.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a Gaelic expression.”
“Really?”
“Probably not. Have a seat.”
The tall guy sat. How his skinny jeans didn’t split up to his crotch, I didn’t know, but I was appreciative of their resiliency. His beanie cap looked like it might have needed a washing. Or some disinfecting. Either way, he wasn’t Freddie Calgary—too tall, too thin, too greasy—which was a shame. Would have made my job easier.
I said, “You’re a fan of Freddie Calgary.” It wasn’t a question. It was an opening statement.
“Big fan,” he said.
“Your fan site online says that you are, in fact, his number one fan.”
“I might just be.” He smiled proudly. I wasn’t sure that that was something to be proud of. But say that to his goofy smile, and the far-off look in his eyes.
“How much do you know about him?” I asked.
“Everything there is to know. My website has every known picture. If Fred did it in public, it’s on my website.”
“Is this website lucrative?”
He shrugged. “I make a little side money with Google ads and such, but nothing substantial.”
“So, you do it for love?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You must have been heartbroken when Freddie died.”
“Yes,” he said. “You have no idea.”
Except he didn’t sound heartbroken. I said, “I’m beginning to form one. You were there on the night he died.”
“Yes.”
“How did you and Freddie become friends?”
“At one of the Beverly Hills, Eh? conventions. I was on a panel, discussing all things Freddie Calgary, when he made a surprise appearance, stunning everyone.
“Later, he called me at my hotel suite, said he appreciated my website and all the work I did to organize his photos and such. He said he got a good vibe from me and that maybe we should hang out sometime.”
“Did that make you feel good?”
“You have no idea.”
“Did you think it was strange that he would contact you?”
“No, why?” he asked.
“No reason,” I said. “So, did you and Freddie hang out often?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Some of the excitement in his voice disappeared. “A few times, yes.”
“Did you and Freddie become good friends?”
“I thought so, yes.”
“Lovers?”
“Freddie’s not gay, and that was a rude question.”
“My apologies. How long were you friends with Freddie before he died?”
“About two months.”
“Were you aware he had a heart problem?”
“He told me about it.”
“You were there when he died?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any reason to believe that Freddie Calgary faked his death?”
“No.”
“Did you help him fake his death?”
Ruger stared at me long and hard. “No.”
“Do you want a coffee?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You don’t like coffee?”
“Not really.”
“Are you a tea man?”
“Sometimes.”
“Maybe you were English,” I said, “in a past life.”
“Maybe.”
“For shits and giggles, let’s pretend that Freddie did fake his death. What would be his reasons?”
Ruger tilted his head one way and cracked his neck. It was a nervous gesture, I was certain, although I was hardly a body language expert. Except, of course, when it came to the language of love.
“I suppose,” he started, shrugging, “the usual stuff. He was a very popular and beloved star. He was tabloid fodder. He was hounded wherever he went. He couldn’t go to his mailbox without being ambushed by paparazzi.”
“Did you feel sorry for him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you help him fake his death?”
“You already asked me that.”
“Did I?”
“You did.”
“And what was your answer again?”
“My answer was, no, I did not help him fake his death. I saw his dead body. I watched him die.”
“Am I making you mad?”
“Yes.”
I said, “San Antonio was Freddie’s hometown?”
Ruger took a few long, deep breaths. “Yes. He grew up here before going to Hollywood.”
“There have been recent reports of Freddie being spotted here, in San Antonio. Wha
t do you make of that?”
“An imposter, of course. But people will believe what they want to believe.”
“Do you know who might be posing as Freddie?”
He set his jaw and looked past me, straight on to Crazyland. “No,” he said. “But he needs to stop.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s not Freddie Calgary,” he said, perhaps an octave louder than was necessary. “That’s why.”
“Of course not,” I said. “Where were you last week? Ten days ago, to be exact?”
He pulled out his cell phone and flipped to what might have been a calendar page. “Ten days ago?”
“Yes?”
“That was the 20th?”
“Yes.”
“I was in Los Angeles.”
“At the Freddie Calgary convention.”
“Yes, the BHE5,” he said quickly. “It’s the fifth one.”
“So I gathered. You’ve been to all five?”
“Of course.”
I nodded. “Of course. What was I thinking?”
“You don’t have to be rude, Mr. Knighthorse. I know it’s strange for a grown man to be into a kid’s show. But, you see, it’s where Freddie Calgary got his start, and so, the show is, you know, important to us.”
“Us?” I asked.
“Fred Heads.”
“Right, of course.”
“Are we done here?” he asked.
“Not quite,” I said. “Do you own a gun?”
“A .22 rifle. I use it to hunt. Why?”
“Would you have done anything for Freddie?” I asked. “If he came to you asking for help?”
“I don’t know. I guess it would have depended—”
“Would you have lied for him?”
A shrug. “Maybe.”
“Would you have helped him fake his death?”
“I think it’s time for me to go.”
I grabbed his hand and kept him exactly where he was. “Would you have killed for him?”
He gave me a long, angry look, and then yanked his hand free. He brushed past me, skinny jeans and all.
Chapter Forty-four
Ruger P. Howard had lied to me.
Yes, he did own a .22 rifle, but he also owned something else, and it hadn’t taken Sanchez long to check that for me. I was in my hotel room, sitting back, trying like hell to puzzle out the case—and failing miserably—when Sanchez called me back.
“He’s got a permit to carry a concealed handgun. And since when did I start working for a private dick?”
“Since I decided to let you hang out with me back in college.”
“You have a bad memory, Knighthorse.”
“When it suits me,” I said. “So, what’s he carrying?”
“A Smith & Wesson .38.”
“What was the bullet that killed Clarence Atkins?”
I heard paper shuffling on the other end, then, “A bloodied .38 slug was found embedded in the wall, along with some brain matter.”
“Thanks for the gory detail, and I think this might just be a clue.”
“Still not enough for us to bring him in, Knighthorse.”
“He was in L.A. at the time of Atkins’s death.”
“But the guy doesn’t have a motive.”
“Yeah, I’m a bit sketchy on that part.”
“Keep looking, and be careful, Knighthorse. The guy’s packing some serious heat.”
“And some serious crazy.”
“Just be careful, Jim,” said Sanchez, and clicked off.
I clicked off, too, and thought some more about Freddie Calgary’s number one fan, and, as is often the case when I think too hard, I was soon fast asleep.
My ringing phone awoke me a few hours later, which was a damn shame. In my dream, I had been walking with Cindy and Junior along an open road and into the setting sun.
My ringtone was Verizon’s default ringtone. I didn’t much like the default ringtone, except I didn’t know how to change it. I checked the name on the faceplate: restricted. A cop, or someone else hiding their number.
“Your dime,” I said.
“You sound like you’ve been sleeping,” said Sanchez.
“Jim Knighthorse never rests on the job.”
“Quit screwing around, we’ve got another body.”
“Where?”
“There, in San Antonio. It’s all over the news.”
“What’s all over the news?”
“Someone killed Freddie Calgary.”
I think my mouth dropped open. “Say again?”
“Well, a Freddie Calgary impersonator, out there in San Antonio. Someone shot him.”
“They catch the shooter?”
“No.”
“Where was he shot?”
“On the River Walk. Broad daylight.”
“Good place to die,” I said.
“I’ve made some calls. SAPD are expecting you.”
“But are they expecting my roguish good looks?”
Sanchez hung up.
Chapter Forty-five
“Shot three times in the face,” said the homicide investigator, a detective named Christian Grey. “Not a pretty sight.”
“Any witnesses?” I asked.
“Surprisingly few.”
We were standing outside the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory shop, which was tucked into one corner of the River Walk. The area was now cordoned off with yellow tape. Pedestrians were forced to cross on the opposite side of the narrow river. The body itself had long ago been collected and taken to the medical examiner’s office just down the street. I asked to see it, and the detective shook his head.
“No offense, but you’re just a private dick. I’m not entirely sure why I’m even talking to you.”
“I get that a lot.”
The detective, a middle-age guy with a fresh-shaven face and ruddy cheeks, and the sexiest name on the planet, shrugged. “But someone with L.A. Homicide says you’re here working a case that may or may not be connected.”
I looked at the crime scene. The murder had happened near the chocolate shop, next to a stairway that led up to the street above. I asked what they knew so far. I knew he didn’t want to tell me. He didn’t like talking to private dicks, but if there was a chance I could help his case, well, he was willing to take it.
“Fine. A guy steps out of the shadows, pops the victim. Three times in the face. Practically blows his fucking head off. We’ve got one witness who turned and ran. The shooter was tall, long blond hair, wearing a hat. The shooter runs quickly up the stairs. We find the blond wig, a red jacket and hat on the stairs.”
“Street side?”
He shook his ruddy jowls. “No one reported seeing anything street side. Guy blended right in.”
“What else you got?” I asked.
He studied me some more. In the bright sunshine of midday, his ruddy jowls might have just gotten a little ruddier. “I’ll tell you what else I know, and then you’d better start talking, pal.”
I assured him I would, especially since we were now pals. He gave me the hard stare, then started talking. The imposter was with his girlfriend, who was in the shop getting a caramel apple covered in chocolate and Oreos and God knows what else. I might have mentioned something about that sounding good right, and the detective might have ignored me and continued talking.
“According to the girlfriend, the impostor was being paid to walk around town looking like some dead actor.”
“Freddie Calgary,” I said.
“Yeah, him. Whoever the fuck he is. Some loser who threw his life away.”
“Did she say who paid her boyfriend to dress like Freddie Calgary?”
“No, not yet. But we’ll get it out of her. She was a mess, hysterical. I think she fainted a few times. She’s down at the station now. Okay, now your turn. Who are you and why are you here in our town?”
I did talk, but I didn’t mention Ruger. Not yet. I wanted to check out Ruger for myself, and that’s exactly what I did
next.
Chapter Forty-six
I was sitting outside an apartment building on Houston Street, drumming my fingers and thinking hard, and trying to understand what the hell was going on, when my phone chimed. I had an email.
Oh, goody.
It was an email from Dr. Green’s widow. I scanned it with interest. First off, she had seen the scuffle outside her home and was wondering if I was okay. Second, she had checked her husband’s records, many of which had been sealed in storage. She had found a file regarding Freddie Calgary. She was certain that she should not be giving me this information, but she wanted to help, and she needed answers about her husband’s death, too.
According to the file—written in her husband’s handwriting—the young man was having heart problems. He’d been to Sedona for a spiritual retreat, and had been partying too hard. The good doctor had recommended the young man see a specialist in town, and that’s where the notes ended.
The notes could have been bogus, a paper trail to show that Freddie Calgary could have died of natural causes. I didn’t know. Yet.
I turned off my cell and sat back and stared some more at the brooding building across the street. It didn’t look like much of an apartment building, but it was, and, according to my mostly-accurate proprietary databases, where one Ruger P. Howard presently lived.
Whether or not Ruger was home, I didn’t know, which is why I presently had a supply of water and food in the mini-fridge in the back of the van. I had paid for all-night parking, and I would keep paying until I saw the weirdo. I mean, the suspect.
As I considered the email I had just received, I decided to call perhaps the best investigative mind I knew.
My father.
Taking a deep breath, I swiped my cell phone on, found his number...and made the call.
Chapter Forty-seven
He picked up immediately. “Jim,” he said simply.
