Harry Bronson Box Set

by L C Hayden

  He attempted to smile but all he succeeded in doing was to make his lips tremble. He looked around him as though making sure no one, except the audience, could hear him. “I’m Henry Allegri, and it’s true. I’m the one who took Annie to the fraternity party. She was really looking forward to it.” He paused as though remembering Annie. A small, sad smile spread across his lips. “You see, Annie had always been sheltered. This was to be her first real party, and look what happened.” He looked up at the ceiling and his lips trembled. “Knowing she was so innocent, so pure, I should have watched her more carefully. I guess she bought some drugs, and they were bad or too much for her. She died that night. I should have stayed by her side all night.” He lowered his head, shook it, and stepped back.

  Bronson saw a group of over-grown boys climb up onto the stage. He knew these would be the fraternity pledges and members, and he knew exactly what they would say.

  The one in the center picked himself to be the group’s voice. “Hey! We’re from Alpha Kappa Lambda.” The guys behind him hooted and hollered their support. They moved their arms up and down as though lifting weights. The leader quieted them, and then turned to the audience. “We all liked Annie and felt sorry for that jerk of a boyfriend of hers. All Allegri wanted was to be inducted, but we don’t take people like him, you know what I mean?” The group behind him made gestures that indicated Henry Allegri was either gay or a looser.

  The leader continued, “No way we’d let him in, so he promises us Annie if we induct him. Now Annie—she was a real looker and a bit on the innocent side. That made her real appealing. Some of the guys claimed they already scored with Annie, so by the time Annie and Henry got to the party, we all know her. So Henry sticks to her all night, you know, like glue. Wants to make sure he gets inducted first.

  “Man, was he pissed when he found out he didn’t make it. He was in the middle of having a conniption fit when some chick screamed. She pointed to Annie, there on the floor. Dead. Poor Annie.” The fraternity men lowered and shook their heads and stepped back.

  Bronson tensed, like a lamb in a den of lions. He forced himself to take deep breaths and watched a middle-aged man take center stage.

  “Reid is the name. Fred Reid. I’m the detective in charge of the case. I’m a bit tense. I just got promoted. My accomplishments in the field of patrol are legendary, so I was booted up. So here I am. It’s my first case, and I’ve got to make it count. I solve it and I’ll probably be up for another promotion. So I’ll do my best to capture the sick bastard who did this to a pure, innocent girl. Drugs have no place in my city. That’s a guarantee.”

  The curtain closed and thunderous applause broke out around Bronson. L’ee hobbled toward the podium and began to explain the rules of the game.

  Bronson stopped listening. He leaned back on his chair and kept his gaze glued on the curtain as though he could find the answers written within the folds of the material.

  His mind roared as shock gave way to certainty, for the story Bronson had just heard was Casey’s story. The only difference between the actual case and the one that had just been presented was that the names had been changed. Otherwise, everything else matched. This had been his first assignment.

  His first failure.

  Bronson had always felt that Moises—Casey’s boyfriend who had been found guilty of her murder—had been telling the truth about his innocence. Unfortunately, Moises was no longer around to defend himself. He had been conveniently killed in a prison riot. That had prompted Bronson to reopen the case, but those higher up in command had demanded that Bronson drop it. Case was closed and sealed. Forever to be forgotten.

  But not by him, and obviously not by whoever was playing this game with him.

  Now, more than ever, Bronson felt the need to clear the dead man’s reputation and discover S’s identity. Bronson became a man possessed and the determination he felt became a red-hot poker inside him, burning him and turning his blood to steam.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bronson watched as a group of conference attendees gathered around L’ee. These were probably the novices, the ones who weren’t here last year. Bronson memorized their faces.

  “So what do you think?”

  Bronson turned toward the source of the voice. “I found it a fascinating case. Katherine, isn’t it?” Bronson remembered how this little Texas tornado had planted the seed in each of the attendees’ brains that he had killed Max in order to obtain this position. Was she part of S’s game?

  “It is.” When Bronson frowned, she added, “Katherine. You asked if that’s my name. It is.”

  “Ah.” He looked at her. “What about you, ma’am? What did you think of the case?”

  “Best we’ve had.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “The setting. Naturally. Texas. Can’t get better than that.”

  “The previous games—”

  Katherine rolled her eyes. “Investigations.”

  “Yes, of course, investigations. Have any of them ever been set in Texas?”

  Katherine shook her head. “Not that I can remember. Far as I know, they all have been set here in Arizona.”

  “Then why the change this year?”

  Katherine shrugged. “Beats me. Guess you’ll have to talk to the organizers about that.”

  “And they are?”

  “You’ll want the head-honcho. That’ll be Ms. L’ee, of course.” Katherine squinted as though formulating an idea. “It just dawned on me. You’re from Dallas, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “I wonder if that’s a hint. Do you think it’s possible that the detective on the script had something to do with Annie’s death?”

  In this case, anything is possible. “It is an interestin’ theory.”

  “Yeah, no shit. I think I’m going to follow up on that. See ya, sweetie.” She winked, turned, and walked away.

  Sweetie? First she accuses me of murder and now she’s flirting with me? Amazing. Bronson kept his gaze glued on Katherine until she disappeared into the crowd. When he could no longer see her, Bronson turned his attention to the group surrounding L’ee. He recorded brief descriptions and approximate ages. When the last of the stragglers left, he approached L’ee.

  L’ee’s wide smile bordered on the seductive side. “Detective, good to see you.” Her eyes danced with good cheer.

  “Likewise, ma’am.”

  L’ee tilted her head, ever so slightly. For the moment, Bronson forgot she carried a couple of hundred pounds extra. “You’re going to have your hands full with this group,” she said. “They’re so inquisitive.”

  “Reckon that’s the nature of the game.”

  “Investigation, please, Detective. You want to turn this group against you real fast, you call it a game.”

  Turn the group against me? Wasn’t it too late for that? “Pardon me, ma’am, I meant to say investigation.”

  L’ee nodded and through the layers of excess fat, Bronson saw a beautiful shining face. The image lasted but a second, like a camera snapping a picture.

  “Now that the investigation is officially on, do you have any last minute questions?”

  “I do. I’d like to know where the scenarios for these conventions come from.”

  L’ee turned to stare at Bronson. “Most unusual question. Max never asked that.”

  “What can I say? Inquiring minds want to know.”

  L’ee smiled and shook her head. “Six to eight months before each convention is held, we begin to receive manuscripts. We read them, choose the best one, and that’s the one that’s presented.”

  “And who authored this year’s winner?”

  L’ee shrugged. “So that there’s no favoritism shown, all manuscripts are sent anonymously. No one, except for the author himself or herself, knows who wrote it.”

  “Is there any way to find out?”

  “Of course. We always acknowledge the creator. At the end of the conference, when the awards are presented, we a
sk the author to come up to the stage and receive his or her award.”

  “Wouldn’t that put the author at an advantage when solvin’ the crime?”

  “Not really. The author simply takes himself out of the race.”

  “So to find him, all I have to do is find the one participant who isn’t participatin’.”

  “Basically, yes, but it’s not that simple.”

  “And why not?”

  “The author pretends to be participating, but doesn’t offer any hints or clues. In fact, he’ll often set up red herrings for his group and others. If nobody solves the puzzle, the author walks away with the trophy.”

  Bronson inwardly frowned. He didn’t want to wait until the conference was over to find out who authored the script. He had never been good at waiting. In fact, he hated playing the waiting game. . .huh, investigation. “What about the attendees? Do you have a list of all of the attendees?”

  “Yes, of course. Everyone here has to register and pay before he can attend. Why would you want such a list?”

  “Actually, I’d rather see their applications.”

  L’ee’s eyebrows furrowed. “What in the world for?”

  “One, it keeps me busy. Two, I’ll know a bit about the participants, and I’ll know how much I can B. S. them.”

  L’ee’s face brightened and her eyes shined with mirth. “Ooooh, Detective Bronson, you’re good. You’re really going to provide these people with a challenge.”

  Her teasing manner amused Bronson. This woman truly had charm. “So that means you’re goin’ to let me see the applications?”

  L’ee considered her answer for a moment. “I suppose there’s no harm in showing them to you. There’s nothing really private there, except maybe for their addresses and phone numbers.”

  “I promise, ma’am, that I won’t visit them or make any obscene calls.” He raised his two fingers showing her the Boy Scout’s pledge.

  L’ee smiled. “The Cactus Room is my temporary office while I’m here at the convention. You’ll find a green file box there. That’s where all the applications are. Help yourself.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. That green box—it has all the applications?”

  “Even mine.”

  “But not mine.”

  L’ee’s eyebrows arched. “You’re absolutely right. You should have filled one out. Maybe you can do that while you’re there?”

  “No problem, ma’am. Is that unusual—that I didn’t fill one out?”

  “Why of course. Everyone needs to have one. That’s what keeps our records straight.”

  “Ah, paper work. Don’t you just love it?”

  “It’s not my favorite.”

  “Nor anybody else’s.” Bronson tilted his head toward the exit sign. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I think I’ll head toward the Cactus Room.”

  “You do that. Don’t forget to fill out that application form and to make yourself available to our attendees.”

  That, he planned to do.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two items in the applications intrigued Bronson. One blank asked for the number of previous conferences the person had attended. Those that listed three or less, Bronson earmarked.

  Going strictly by probability, chances were that whoever was playing this elaborate game with him was not the usual attendee. This was probably his first conference, or his second. Possibly his third.

  The other point of interest centered on the applicant’s birth date. The application clearly stated that filling in this information was strictly optional. Those who did fill it in would receive a birthday card on their birthday.

  Fortunately for Bronson, most applicants not only gave their birth dates, they also gave their birth year. Those who were thirty-eight years or younger, Bronson eliminated as he felt sure the culprit would have to be someone at least in his forties.

  Based on the addresses given, Bronson eliminated three more applicants. One stated that she lived in Gallup-—had always lived in Gallup—and had only heard about this conference last year.

  Another made a similar claim about Phoenix. The third one was a local Safford resident—“born and raised in this God-fearing Mormon town.”

  That left Bronson with thirty-three possibilities.

  Bronson rubbed his forehead. Thirty-three. Somehow he’d have to narrow that list. He tapped his fingers on the application forms. That reminded him, he needed to fill one out.

  As he did, he knew something bothered him about it. He took out his notebook and wrote down the word application.

  Then he copied the names, addresses, and phone numbers of his top thirty-three suspects. He had just finished returning the applications to their original file box when his cell rang.

  Bronson looked at the caller I.D. and quickly answered, “Hey, Buddy.”

  “Hey yourself,” Mike answered.

  Bronson looked at his watch. He had been locked up with the applications for over two hours. He felt sure L’ee wouldn’t like that. “What did you find?”

  “What? No hello? How are you? How are things in the Dallas police department? Are things still as messed up as they were when we shared desks? Whatever happened to manners? Small chit-chat, that kind of thing?”

  “Sorry, my mind isn’t functionin’ right.”

  “Did it ever?”

  “Always did. You’re thinkin’ of your mind.”

  “At least you’re admitting that I have a mind.”

  “That’s somethin’.”

  “Yeah, and I guess I’ll have to settle for that.” Mike cleared his throat. “The car you’re looking for, it’s a 1956 Chevy?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “It’s registered to Jackie Lucio. I anticipated your next request, so I gave Paul her name. He’s looking her up.”

  “Paul? Over at the lab? That Paul?”

  “Yeah, Paul McKenzie. That Paul. Is there another?”

  For a moment, Bronson fell speechless. “Why Paul?”

  “He’s always had a love affair with computers, but lately, he’s really gotten involved with them. I swear, that guy lives and breathes computers. Anyway, he offered to do it. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Nah, not at all. I’ll give Paul a buzz, but before I do, did the registration form say anythin’ about either Tom or Marie O’Day?”

  “Not that I remember. Want me to check out the names for you?”

  “I’m goin’ to talk to Paul. I’ll see if he wants to do it.”

  “Oh, he will. He’ll jump at the opportunity, and he’ll probably do it a lot faster than I will.”

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  “Hey, don’t you get mushy on me just cuz you retired.”

  Bronson smiled and imagined Mike smiling, too. “I owe you.”

  “Big time.”

  Even though his ex-partner couldn’t see him, Bronson nodded. He knew that before this was over, he would owe a lot of people, especially Mike Hoover and Paul McKenzie.

  Bronson thanked his old friend, hung up, retrieved the spiral notebook he carried in his shirt pocket, and added the name Jackie Lucio to the list. Next, he called Paul McKenzie. “Hey, Paul. I hear tell you’re into computers,” Bronson said once Paul had answered the phone.

  “Oh yeah. Gives me something to do and keeps me off the streets.”

  “So does workin’ in the lab.”

  “True, true, but computers provide a way to spend my time in a relaxed atmosphere.”

  “Even when it’s work related?”

  “Specially when it’s work related, which reminds me. You needed information on Jackie Lucio, owner of a 1956 classic?”

  “I do.”

  “You don’t mind me asking, what did you get yourself into? This is a sweet little old lady, eighty-seven to be precise. Got one speeding ticket when she was in her twenties and a parking violation in her fifties. That’s the extent of her criminal record. What could you possibly want with her?”

  “I’m goin’ to see if I
can make myself an heir and inherit that beauty of a car.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so. Isn’t this the same Bronson who drove a broken-down white seventies Ford his entire career?”

  “Now you know why I want the Chevy.” Bronson heard Paul chuckle. “You did the ten-twenty-nine?”

  “If the car’s stolen, no one reported it. Is that it? You’re looking into a possible stolen vehicle?”

  “To be truthful, I’m not quite sure what I’m lookin’ for. I’m just coverin’ all possible loose ends. Which leads me to the next question. Am I out of favors?”

  “Hell, no. The more favors I do for you, the more you’ll owe me.”

  “Great.”

  “So what’s up?”

  Bronson retrieved his notebook and quickly scanned his notes. “There’s a middle-aged couple from Scottsdale, Arizona. They go by the names of Tom and Marie O’Day. See what you can find and get back to me as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bronson pictured Paul saluting. “Sorry, didn’t mean to order you around.”

  Paul chuckled. “I’m just kidding, but it sure would be helpful if you gave me a bit more information.”

  Bronson retrieved his spiral notebook and thumbed through it until he found the page marked O’Days. “Lucky you, I got their address and their birth date and year.”

  “That’ll make a good beginning. Let me have the info.”

  Bronson read off the information, thanked him, and hung up. He opened the door wide enough to look down the hall. He certainly didn’t want to bump into L’ee. He should have been out there mingling with the crowd instead of being locked up in the room, but since when had he done what he was supposed to? Why start now?

  Fortunately, the hallway looked deserted. He stepped out.

  “There you are.”

  Bronson turned to face two elderly ladies. He waited for them to join him.

  Even before they reached him, the one to the right spoke up. “You know how they told us that drugs caused Annie Nare’s death?”

  Bronson nodded.

  “Is that possible?”

  Bronson thought about the question. He realized he didn’t understand it. “Is what possible?”