Harry Bronson Box Set

by L C Hayden

  If they were from Dallas like this Bronson guy, the department would have a fancy digital camera, one of those that did everything except take the picture without human assistance. They also would have the money to train Louise on proper procedures.

  But this wasn’t Dallas, and he wasn’t Bronson. He was a county sheriff and the camera wasn’t the best technology had to offer, but at least they had a camera and a photographer. Quaid turned to Louise. “Get several pictures from each angle. Get some of the glass on the floor. Maybe even some room layout pictures.”

  She eagerly nodded and got to work.

  “As of now, the bar is closed,” Quaid said loud enough so everyone could hear him. He heard several moans and groans as a response. What? Did these people really think they’d still be able to buy drinks?

  He waited until Louise had taken several pictures of the glass. He squatted and recognized the faint odor of almonds. Cause of death, poison. Self-inflicted or murder? Quaid made mental notes. He picked up the glass by its lip and dropped it in a plastic bag. He recorded all of the important information and tagged the bag.

  A toxicology screen would confirm his suspicions and a fingerprint analysis would hopefully reveal the culprit. Case closed. How’s that, coming from a county sheriff, eh, Bronson?

  Quaid approached the bartender who stood with his arms crossed absorbing all the commotion around him. “You’re the bartender on duty?”

  The youth opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out. He nodded.

  “What can you tell me?”

  “N…not. . .much. I. . .I swear. I didn’t do nothing. The dude asked for this drink.”

  “What kind of drink?”

  The bartender shrugged. “Normal drink. Rum and Coke. I fixed it just like I did all the others. Nothing special. Just Rum and Coke.”

  “And you served others from the same container?”

  “Before and after.”

  “Anybody sit with him, talk to him?”

  “Yeah, for a while I saw him and some other dude talking.”

  “Can you describe this ‘dude?’”

  “Yeah, he was big.”

  “How big?”

  “You know, big. Muscular. Not fat. Trim, for a guy his age.”

  “How old?”

  “Oh, dunno. Not old, old. Just old. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Who do I ask?”

  “That guy who was talking to the dead guy. I remember him because he kept asking for coffee. You know who I mean. He started to give you all of this lip, so you finally sent him to jail, I guess.”

  The edge of Quaid’s nerves stood at attention. “You mean Bronson?”

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  Bronson. Bronson, again.

  Damn!

  * * * * *

  Sam’s stomach tightened into a hard knot. If Sam could look in a mirror, it would most likely reveal a ghostly complexion. But that was all right. Everyone around Sam looked and felt the same way.

  No one would notice anything different, but one hell of a difference existed. Trent lay dead, the victim of a poisoned drink. All according to plan. The only glitch was that Sam hadn’t done it. Yet someone had, just according to the plan. A plan no one other than Sam knew existed.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Bronson considered asking the youthful-looking black deputy for a cup of coffee. But as amazing as he found it, the idea did not appeal to him. Right now, coffee would agitate his already jittery nerves.

  Now he knew how those guys he left sitting in the interrogation room felt, but dang it, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. He slumped in the chair, interlocked his fingers in front of his chest, and closed his eyes.

  He figured he must have slept because when he opened his eyes again, almost two hours had passed. He scanned the room. No Sheriff Quaid. How much longer, he wondered.

  He looked around the small, crowded room. Not much to keep him entertained. He stood up and his nervous escort panicked. “Uh, sir. . .”

  Bronson looked at him, smiled, and headed toward the door.

  “Sir, uh, you can’t. . .”

  Just as Bronson reached for the doorknob, his cell went off. He looked at the caller I.D. Mike Hoover. Bronson turned to the deputy. “Do you mind? I have to take this call.”

  The deputy shifted positions. He looked at the closed door and back at Bronson. “No, of course not.” He stood in front of the door, crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

  Bronson rolled his eyes. So much for privacy. He shrugged and answered the phone. “Hey, Mike.”

  “Hey, Bronson.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got the information this fast.”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you that, but I do have the information. Like I told you, Dave was just itching to get out of the office. He went to the airport. From the flight plan, he found the name of the charter. Logan’s Air Taxi. Dave talked to the pilot and the owner, which luckily for him turned out to be the same person, is a guy by the name of Eddie Logan. Turns out Logan remembers Trent quite well. Logan said that some guy who claimed to be Trent’s brother walked into his office.”

  “Trent’s brother?” Bronson didn’t know Trent had a brother.

  “Yeah, his brother. He tells Logan that Trent is arriving on a Southwest plane, Flight 608 from Dallas. He asked Logan to pick him up and take him to Safford. He paid cash and other than a receipt, there’s no paper work on the brother.”

  “What about a description? Can Logan identify him?”

  “No, not really. Logan said he was—and I’m quoting—‘an ordinary looking man. He’s not too tall or too short.’ Couldn’t remember the color of hair or eyes. Far as he knew, there were no distinguishing marks. Dave couldn’t get anything else out of him.”

  “Give me the brother’s name and contact information and I’ll follow up.”

  “As usual, I’m one step ahead of you. I checked the brother out. Trent is an only child.”

  Bronson closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Another dead end. “Thanks to you and your brother-in-law for all the work both of you did.”

  “I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Dave said he was going to spend some time in the airport. He’ll talk to the employees and see if any of them remembers anything. If something develops, I’ll call you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Stay safe.”

  “I am. In fact, I’m in the sheriff’s office. How much safer can I be?”

  “Good. I see you decided to take my advice after all.”

  “Not quite. Seems like someone poisoned Trent Powers. I think the sheriff thinks I had something to do with that.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Wish I were.”

  “Do you need for me to go down there?”

  “Nah, buddy. Nothing you can do.” He saw the front door open and Quaid stepped in. He looked tired and angry. Not good for either of them. “I’ll call you later. The sheriff is here.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always.” He returned the phone to his pocket. He looked up as Quaid entered his office.

  He signaled for Bronson to follow him. “You’re next.”

  Bronson felt he should salute him and come to attention. “Yes, sir.”

  Quaid flashed him a whimsical look. He led him to a metal desk Bronson assumed belonged to Quaid. He pointed to a chair. “Sit down. Care for a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thanks. It’s past my bedtime. It’ll keep me up.” Bronson heard himself utter those words. Amazing. He thought he’d never say them.

  “Suit yourself.”

  Bronson sat in front of the desk, facing Quaid. Once Bronson sat down, the young deputy departed.

  Quaid waited until he was out of hearing range before he turned his attention to Bronson. “Tell me what you know.”

  Here we go. Bronson took a deep breath. “First case I ever worked on—”

  Quaid slapped the desk
with the palm of his hand. “Are you trying to be funny? Let’s begin at the beginning of the current case.”

  “I am, but it has its beginnings in my first case.”

  Quaid slowly nodded. “Yeah? This is going to be interesting.” He leaned forward. “Tell me about your first case.”

  “A young college girl got killed while attending a fraternity party. At first it looked like a simple overdose, but eventually her boyfriend was indicted for her murder. He slipped her some liquid ecstasy. Seems that he wanted to pacify her so that she’d offer little or no physical resistance to having sex. However, I’ve always felt that we sent the wrong person to prison.”

  Quaid’s eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second before widening. “Damn! Isn’t that the same case that mystery group is supposed to be solving?”

  “Right.”

  “And you say the boyfriend didn’t do it?”

  “That’s my feelin’.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “A week after he was incarcerated, he was conveniently killed in a prison accident.”

  Quaid frowned. “You think someone caused this accident to happen?”

  “Just maybe.”

  “You said this was your first case.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then you’ve had a lot of time to research it. What have you come up with?”

  “Not much. Early in the case, I was pulled out. Told the case had been solved. Drop it, forget it, don’t ever mention it.”

  “And you did.”

  “The opposite. Eventually it forced me to retire. Seems I had a problem followin’ policy.”

  “And now that you’re retired?”

  “Now I can work on it in an unofficial capacity. Records have always been closed so it won’t be too different workin’ on it now.”

  “So you created this little skit to open up the case.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but I did not write that skit.”

  “If not you, then who?”

  “There’s one person who knew about the case. He was, in fact, one of the fraternity officers. Same fraternity that hosted the party where Casey died.”

  “And that is?”

  “Trent Powers.”

  “The deceased.”

  “Yes. Prior to his death, he told me that he was there because he won some kind of a contest. I never had a real chance to follow up on that, but the little that I did showed it to be bogus. But apparently he received an all paid conference. He arrived in Tucson on a Southwest flight. The tickets were mailed to him. Once in Tucson, he flew out on a charter flight, Logan’s Air Taxi. Supposedly Trent’s brother made all the arrangements. It turns out Trent has no brothers or sisters. Contact information on that is Dave—sorry, I don’t have the last name—a detective in Tucson. You can also contact Detective Michael Hoover in Dallas. He can hook you up to Dave.” Bronson wrote down Hoover’s office phone number and handed Quaid the paper.

  Quaid glanced at the paper and put it under the phone. He drummed the table with his fingers. “You figure Trent wrote the skit?”

  Bronson shrugged. “I confronted him about it. He denied writing it.”

  “So what do you make of that?”

  “He knew somethin’. That’s for sure. He made it a point to walk toward me. As our paths crossed, he very discreetly asked me to meet him in the bar in ten minutes.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “Nothin’. He was killed before he could tell me whatever he had to say.”

  “How convenient.” Quaid bit his lower lip as he thoughtfully looked at Bronson. “Any witnesses that can confirm your story?”

  A warning bell rang inside Bronson. “None that I know of. Like I said, he didn’t want anybody to know he wanted to talk.”

  “So it’s all on your say so.”

  Bronson nodded. “Get to the point, sheriff.”

  “Do you realize, Mr. Bronson, that in the skit, there’s a detective assigned to the case?”

  Bronson once again nodded. He was getting real good at that. “I am familiar with the skit.”

  “I assume each character in the skit has its real life counterpart.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Quaid thumbed through his notes. “The detective in the skit is Fred Reid. Tell me who Fred Reid is supposed to represent in real life?”

  For a while Bronson remained quiet. Somewhere along the conversation Quaid had switched from being his supporter to being his adversary. He wondered how much he should tell him.

  “Didn’t you hear my question, Mr. Bronson? Who is Fred Reid’s equivalent?”

  “That’d be me.”

  “A hot-shot detective. Brand new to the division. He’s got to prove to everyone on the force he can solve each case. Would that sum you up pretty well?”

  “Hot-shot? Not really. Never cared for the limelight. Eager? Yeah, maybe so. What are you drivin’ at?”

  “You may be interested, Mr. Bronson, in some of the attendees’ findings. Several have found that the girl did indeed overdose. Drugs killed her, but she willing took them. Now here comes this hot-shot detective. He’s assigned to his first case which turns into a no case. So what does hot-shot detective do? He creates a case. You know, plant a little evidence here, a little there. He solves the case. Instant hot-shot status. What do you think?”

  “I think you didn’t think this through. If Hot-Shot Detective framed Poor Boyfriend, why would Hot-Shot Detective be trying to prove him innocent after so many years? Seems to me Hot-Shot Detective would want to keep the case closed.”

  Quaid pointed at Bronson. “You know, you may have a point.”

  Great, Bronson thought. Just as I get him maybe convinced that I’m not the bad guy, then I hit him with a double whammy. “There’s something else,” Bronson said. “Better hear it from me than from anyone else.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “There’s a rumor going around the conference that I caused Max Iles’ accident.”

  “Who’s Max Illes and what accident did you cause?”

  “I didn’t cause any accident and I have no idea why the rumor got started. But Max was the previous consultant.”

  “Was? Like he’s dead?”

  “Max was the victim of a fatal hit-and-run accident. His death, of course, vacated his position, and I was offered the job.”

  “Who offered you the job?”

  “Wayne Weeks, Events Coordinator at the Lodge.”

  “And how did he get your name?”

  “He was looking for someone to fill the position. He glanced down and saw the Dallas newspaper, opened to the article about me.”

  “A Dallas newspaper? Where did he get a Dallas paper?”

  “Weeks explained that the Lodge is a motel. People carry newspapers from all over the country. They read them. They leave them behind.”

  “Logical, but also highly coincidental. Tell me, Mr. Bronson, how do you feel about coincidences?”

  Never believed in them. “Once in a while, they could pop up.”

  “Yeah? You really think so? I don’t, so let me give you a word of advice. You better watch your back and your front, cuz I’m going to be watching every step you take.”

  Great. Just what I need. The good guys and the bad guys are now both after me.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Bronson stepped out of the back office room and into the entryway. Carol stood up and hugged her husband. He kissed her forehead. “How long have you been here?”

  “Came over just as soon as Gerri told me what happened. Been here for over two hours.” She looked at her watch. “Almost three. What’s going on?”

  “They just had some questions, that’s all.”

  “They told me they weren’t holding you. Were they?”

  Bronson wrapped his arm around her and led her out. “Technically, no, but I couldn’t just walk out either.”

  “You have some explaining to do.”

  �
��Let’s get a cup of coffee and I’ll fill you in.”

  “Must it be coffee?”

  “I’ve earned it.”

  * * * * *

  Carol sat silently through her husband’s narration. When he finished, he emptied his cup and stared at Carol. At this moment he wouldn’t blame her if she clobbered him.

  Carol took in a deep breath. “Oh, Harry Bronson, what am I going to do with you?”

  “Forgive me and love me?”

  “That I can do. This time you really are innocent. You didn’t go looking for a case. It’s just like you said. It came looking for you.”

  Bronson felt the air being sucked out of him. “But?”

  “But nothing. We’ve had this conversation before. I know for sure now that I’m joining forces with you. I’ll mingle. See what information I can get.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.”

  “Try and stop me, Harry Bronson.”

  “Aeyee.” Bronson hit his forehead with the palm of his hand.

  * * * * *

  Bronson had spent the last two hours reading over his notes. He made charts, added notations, drew diagrams, floor plans, and studied the results some more.

  His first priority involved providing Carol with a number of harmless activities that seemed to be important, yet remained relatively safe. For this, he’d call Gerri who in turn would call other people whom she knew would be safe. Together, they could go out “investigating.” There was safety in numbers. Bronson liked that.

  Next thing on his agenda involved paying Dolly Secrist another visit. He picked up the phone to let her know he was coming.

  * * * * *

  As soon as Dolly swung the door open, the aroma of a freshly baked apple pie tickled Bronson’s nostrils. “Evenin’, ma’am.”

  Dolly smiled and stepped aside so Bronson could step in. “Detective Bronson, it’s always so good to see you.”

  “Pleasure is all mine.” He sniffed the air like a hound following a scent. “Might that be apple pie?”

  “Freshly baked.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “I even got some coffee brewing for you.”

  Now, here’s a woman who knows how to please her guests. Aloud he said, “Lead the way, then.”