Harry Bronson Box Set

by L C Hayden

  “We’re thinking that maybe Annie wasn’t really killed. It’s all a fraternity joke type thing. How can we prove she is really dead?”

  Bronson sipped his coffee. “You could demand to see the body.”

  “No, that won’t work. She could be acting and pretend she’s dead when she really isn’t.”

  Okay, so maybe he’d keep the thousand dollars. “You’d be able to tell if she was really dead.”

  “But how?”

  “For one, dead people don’t breathe. If she wasn’t dead, you’d see her chest risin’. She’d have a pulse.”

  The elderly ladies’ faces lit up. “Oh, thank you, Detective Bronson. You’re brilliant. We’ll try that.”

  “You do that,” Bronson said and felt relieved as he watched them walk away.

  His attention quickly shifted from them to the man heading his way. By most people’s standards, Bronson had a large, solid build as though he had been carved from a huge, single piece of granite.

  However, the man approaching towered above Bronson by a good eight inches and was twice as muscular. That kind of body required daily workouts in a gym. Bronson certainly would never want to encounter him on a dark street. Or even a lit one.

  “I understand you wanted to talk to me,” the stranger said. Even though he was as bald as an egg, he had bushy eyebrows that hovered over a pair of fierce black eyes.

  Bronson searched his mind, trying to place the stranger, but nothing popped up. He must have given the stranger a quizzical look as he said, “I’m Joe Simes.”

  That didn’t help any. “Mr. Simes, how can I help you?”

  Simes frowned. “I think, Detective, that you don’t know me by my real name. The name Ms. L’ee gave me is Balthasar.”

  Ah, the faithful servant. “Thanks for clarifyin’ that. You’re right. I never got your real name.”

  “Don’t feel like the Lone Ranger. I think everyone here at the conference knows me as Balthasar. I don’t mind. Makes me feel kind of important.” He looked at Bronson’s cup of coffee. “Any good?”

  “Average, but much better than the one I drink at home. My poor wife—a great little woman—but she makes a lousy cup of coffee.”

  Balthasar smiled as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

  “I spotted a 1956 Chevy in the parkin’ lot. I was hopin’ you could tell me who it belonged to.”

  “Sorry, Detective, I would have no idea.”

  “Can you tell me anything about Tom or Marie O’Day?”

  Balthasar took a sip of coffee. “Nothing that would really matter. They’re faithful conference attendees. Nice folks.”

  “Would you say they’ve attended say, maybe five conferences?”

  “Oh no. This conference has been a yearly event for the past ten years. The O’Days are part of our original attendees. Why do you ask?”

  “No particular reason. They seem so knowledgeable, but now I see why.” Bronson finished his coffee and set the cup down. “Thanks for answerin’ my questions.”

  “No problem.”

  Bronson turned and walked away. He retrieved his pocket notebook and thumbed through its pages until he found what he was looking for.

  According to their application form, this was the O’Days’ first conference.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Just as Sam finished reading the paper and set it down, the cell rang. The caller I.D. told Sam, Belthasar was on the other end. That couldn’t be good news. Belthasar never called. “Is everything okay?”

  “I’m not sure. Bronson just asked me about the O’Days.”

  Damn that Bronson. It was much too soon. “What about them?”

  “He wanted to know how many conferences they’ve attended.”

  Sam’s fingers tapped the dresser with nervous anticipation. “And you told him?”

  “Told him they’ve been attending since the very beginning.”

  Sam felt the stirrings of anger. Why did he have to lie? Sam took in a deep breath before continuing, “Why did you do that?”

  “I thought this way he wouldn’t investigate them. Like you said, he’ll be looking for someone who has never attended before.”

  Sam formed a fist and continuously hit the air. “Don’t ever make the mistake of underestimating Bronson. He acts like he doesn’t know anything, but he’s a brilliant man. Your lie may have done a lot of damage.”

  “What do you want me to do?” When he spoke, his words came out as cold as an Alaskan breeze.

  “Fix it.” Sam matched his cold tone and snapped the cell shut.

  * * * * *

  Belthasar stared at the phone. Sam had never hung up on him or spoken in anger. That only meant that Sam was feeling the pressure. Good. It was about time.

  Belthasar laughed at Sam’s orders. He certainly had no intention of “fixing it.”

  * * * * *

  As soon as Carol stepped into the room, she knew her hubby had emerged himself deep into his work. True, he had been hired as a consultant, but had he found a case to work on? Darn him. Would she have to remind him about his retirement—his promise? Couldn’t he for once stay away from solving cases? She should have known better.

  When he saw her, he immediately closed the pocketsize, spiral notebook and returned it to his shirt pocket. He looked at her and flashed her a you-caught-me-being-a-naughty-little-boy-grin.

  Normally, that would have made Carol smile. This time she didn’t. “What was that?” She pointed to his shirt pocket.

  Bronson’s hand automatically went to touch his shirt pocket as though reassuring himself the notebook had not vanished. “That? That’s my notebook.”

  “I know that.”

  “Oh, sorry. I thought you asked.”

  “I did.”

  “Then?”

  “Harry Bronson, you know exactly what I mean. That’s the notebook you always keep with you when you’re working on a case. You jot down every single detail, and then spend hours reading your notes until something clicks.”

  “Sometimes things don’t click.” He took out the notebook and thumbed through it.

  “Like now?”

  “Like now.”

  Carol sighed and focused her eyes on him. “So you are working on a case.”

  “I’ve been hired as a consultant, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Is that all it is? Your consultant notes?”

  “Mmm.” Bronson opened the notebook and began reading the comments he had written. His eyes glazed as he concentrated on what he was reading.

  Carol sat down on the bed facing her husband. “I met the most fascinating person today—someone from the conference.”

  For a long second, Bronson did not respond. Carol cleared her throat. He looked up at her as though he knew he needed to say something. He scratched his chin. “That’s nice.”

  “Want me to tell you about it?”

  Relief flooded his face. He looked back down at his notes. “Sure.”

  Carol slowly shook her head. She could tell him anything, and he wouldn’t hear a single word. She had hoped that now that he had retired, this wouldn’t happen again. But here he was, deeply involved with his notes, living in a world all of his own. “I met a serial killer today.”

  Without looking up from his notes, Bronson replied, “That’s nice, dear.”

  “We’re going on a killing spree tomorrow.”

  “Good.” He turned the page and frowned. “Hope you enjoy it.”

  Carol jumped up from the bed. “Harry Bronson!” She placed her hands on her hips. One of these days she would definitely have to give him an award for being the Most Frustrating Man.

  Bronson closed his notebook and stuffed it back into his pocket. “What? What did I do now?”

  * * * * *

  Sam had taken a big risk by meeting Carol face-to-face, but things had worked out just fine. Carol hadn’t recognized Sam.

  Sam had expected Bronson not to make the connect
ion. After all, so many years had gone by. Carol, on the other hand, could have easily remembered. Women tend to recall the details and remember faces easier than men did.

  But neither had made the connection. Neither had recognized Sam.

  And that little mistake would cost Carol her life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Word had spread rapidly about “The Meet Your Consultant Party,” and although thirty-three invitations had been issued, Bronson estimated that at least fifty people attended. That made his job harder. Well, that’s the way the cookie crumbles, he thought. But no matter—as long as the right thirty-three attended.

  He walked around, looking at nametags. He paused to talk to several people, working into the conversation the word Dallas. He noted their reactions, recorded their comments.

  An hour later, he had eliminated twenty-one names. Twelve more to go. Not bad. He mingled some more, deleted seven more possibilities. The numbers had reached a figure he could work with.

  He looked around, trying to spot one of the five. From behind him, someone said, “I have a question for you, Detective.”

  Bronson turned to face a distinguished-looking man in his early to mid-forties. He wore a beige turtleneck and a double knit sports coat. Bronson thought he was over dressed for the occasion and wondered what his background was. Bronson looked down at his badge. It read Trent Powers.

  Bronson inwardly smiled. Powers’ name was at the top of his list. “What can I do for you, Mr. Powers?”

  “You’re from Dallas, right?”

  “I am.”

  “So am I.”

  Bronson had known that. Powers was one of the few who not only lived in Dallas but was also the right age. That combination had caused his name to go to the top of the list along with another attendee, Norman Childes. “That so?”

  “Yep. In fact, we’ve met before.”

  Bronson searched his mind, but came out blank. “Have we now?”

  “I’m hurt. You don’t remember me.”

  “In my line of work, I meet a lot of people.”

  Powers nodded. “That’s understandable.” He squinted as though concentrating on what to say next.

  Bronson squinted back.

  Powers’ eyes opened wider in amazement. He shook his head. “There’s one thing that’s bothered me all of these years about you.”

  “Just one? I must be improvin’.”

  Powers didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. He stared at Bronson and after a moment’s pause, he continued, “You’re a big city cop. Dallas’ favorite. You supposedly always solve the crime. But to me, you come across as a small town hick. Why’s that?”

  “Could be because I was born and raised in Van Alstyne. It’s almost a real city now, but while I was grownin’ up, the place consisted of no more than a buildin’ here and a buildin’ there.”

  “So you are a small time hick.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I have another question.”

  “You’re on a roll. Go ahead.”

  “Why haven’t you told anyone you recognized this case?”

  Good thing he played poker. He made sure his features didn’t betray him. “Meanin’?”

  This time Powers did smile, but the smile contained no humor. “Please give me more credit than that. I was there. People here are calling the victim Anne Nare, but you and I know her as Casey Secrist.” His lips drew back, but the sorrowful eyes shattered the intended smile.

  Bronson recognized the smile. It had become a note in his notebook. Trent Powers, a wild, wide-eyed youth. One of the proud members of Alpha Kappa Lambda. “Do you keep up with your fraternity brothers?”

  “You lied. You do remember me.”

  “Seems that way. What can you tell me about your college friends?”

  “Not much. We graduated. We went our separate ways. I see the frat president Sydney Stockwell every once in a while, but we’re not close. Not even friends. Other than that, the only one I know anything about is Ken.”

  “That would be Ken Chalmers, Texas senator.”

  “The one. The only.” Powers temporarily paused. He looked away and grinned as though remembering the good times they had. “I don’t keep in touch though. All I know is what I read in the newspapers.”

  “As much press as he gets, that should keep you busy.”

  Powers actually smiled. A real smile. “He works hard to get all of that press. He’s always been a great leader.”

  “So why wasn’t he your fraternity president?”

  “Stockwell’s father had been the president. He expected his son to follow in his footsteps. We simply followed tradition and elected Stockwell. But all the guys at the frat house knew Ken Chalmers was the real leader. Even Stockwell followed him. But tradition is tradition.”

  “Tradition is good.” Bronson removed his glasses and squeezed his nose bridge. “How’s your writin’ comin’?”

  Powers’ eyebrows arched. “How did you know I like to write?”

  “Someone had to write the script for this convention.”

  Powers nodded. “I see. You think because I recognized the case, I wrote the script?”

  “Makes sense to me.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Detective, but I’m not the author. You and I know you wrote it. But why you’d come all the way over here to solve the crime is beyond me.”

  “Accordin’ to all the press, Casey’s boyfriend killed her. What would make you think the case isn’t solved?”

  Something like panic flew across Trent’s eyes, but just as quickly as it came, it disappeared. “What else am I supposed to think? You’re here and you wrote that script.”

  “Are consultants allowed to write the scripts?”

  Powers shrugged. “Dunno. I’m not familiar with the rules. This is only my first time here.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I received a flyer in the mail advertising the convention. On the back of the flyer there was an announcement about the contest.”

  “What kind of contest would that be?”

  “You fill out your name, address. That kind of stuff. Send that coupon in. It’s probably placed in a box for a drawing. Third place winner receives fifty percent off the conference fee. Second place winner gets a free conference. First place winner gets all expenses paid, including travel allowance.”

  “And you won first place.”

  “First and only time I’ve won anything. Didn’t seem right not to accept. So naturally, I claimed my prize.”

  “Naturally.” Bronson spotted the O’Days. He definitely wanted to talk to them. “So when you heard the case presented on stage, didn’t it strike you as being rather odd?”

  “I knew you were here. I had seen you. I just assumed you wrote it.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “Are you telling me you didn’t write it?”

  “I’m interested in learnin’ more about this contest. You already got your money for travel expanses?”

  “A Southwest ticket to Tucson came in the mail. A private charter met me there and flew me to Safford. The hotel courtesy van was waiting for me. I take all my meals here. My room’s paid for. No exchange of cash. Why do you want to know this?”

  “The charter flight—what’s the name of the company?”

  Powers’ eyes danced around as though attempting to picture the airplane. “Don’t remember. This man had a sign with my name on it. I approached him. He told me to follow him. He led me to a real small plane. A two-seater. I climbed in. Never noticed the name or even if it did have a name.”

  “The pilot—what did he look like?”

  Powers shrugged. “Average, I guess. Brown hair—or maybe light blond. Average size and build. I dunno. He was just an ordinary guy. Again, I ask. Why do you want to know this? What’s going on?”

  “Seems like someone went to a lot of trouble to bring you here.”

  “It was a contest. I won.”

  “Congratulations.”


  “What are you saying? The contest was rigged?”

  “Can’t really say that, can I? First time I’ve heard of the contest.”

  “But you don’t really think it was legitimate?”

  “Didn’t say that.”

  Powers sighed and shook his head. “You’re as frustrating now as you were back then. What is it exactly that you’re trying to say?”

  “I’d watch my back, if I were you.” Provided that you are tellin’ the truth. But if you’re lyin’, I better be the one who should watch my back.

  Powers nodded and walked away.

  Bronson stepped out of the room, whipped out his cell, and punched in the appropriate numbers.

  Mike Hoover at the other end of the line picked up the phone on the fifth ring. “Homicide. Hoover.”

  “Hey, Mike.”

  “Hey, Bronson. I’ve been talking to Paul McKenzie. Frankly, I’m beginning to worry about you. Don’t you think it’s time you contacted the Safford police?”

  “And tell them what? That someone slashed my tire? Yeah, they could get the culprit on vandalism—assumin’ they could find this mysterious S person or whoever did it. Then there’s the notes. They never threatened me. They’ve just shown me how incompetent I’ve been. Nothin’ criminal in that.”

  “Just be careful, buddy. What can I do for you this time?”

  “Damn. Seems every time I call is because I need a favor.”

  “So what’s new? You were never one for chit chat.”

  Bronson cringed. He’d have to work on changing that. “A charter flight in Tucson picked up a passenger by the name of Trent Powers and brought him here to Safford so he could attend the conference.”

  “Trent Powers? Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “He was one of the fraternity officers in the same fraternity house where Casey Secrist was murdered.”

  “That’s where I heard the name before. And you said he’s there at the convention?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “He claims he won an all-paid expanses to the convention.”