Mystere

by Carolina Mac

  “How about dinner on the weekend?”

  “Possibly. I don’t want you taking a step backwards. I won’t risk it just because I want to see you.”

  “Do you want to see me?” asked Jesse. “Sometimes… it doesn’t seem like it.”

  “That’s where my difficulty lies, Jesse. Separating my feelings for you from my opinion of what’s best for you physically.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You sound like you don’t believe me.”

  “I do. You’re ethical and I respect that. Let me know about dinner. My nights are free.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  He pressed end and Blacky was on the line. “Hey, kiddo.”

  “Got a guy for you to question in the morning. He’s downstairs in holding—one of the gun vendors. A guy named Bertram Donaldson. I think they call him Buster according to Rowdy Butler. We ran into him up in Georgetown.”

  “Oh, yeah? How is Rowdy?”

  “Top of the competition in take down.”

  “Hope I see him compete,” said Jesse. “He’s got a dandy horse.”

  “Lil’s running all the names and tags we picked up. Might be more people to question in the next couple of days. You up for it?”

  “Sure thing. Got to keep busy now that I quit smoking.”

  “Fuck, man, you did it?”

  “Read the book and quit. Bingo.”

  “Gimme the book.”

  “You know it.”

  West Lake Hills.

  BLAINE DROPPED Travis and Pablo off at the agency to pick up wheels, then he and Farrell searched out the address Kamps had come up with for the high-stakes poker game.

  “GPS says this is the place,” said Farrell. “What’s the guy’s name again?”

  “Mark Selecky.”

  “How’d he get all the cash to buy this place?” asked Farrell.

  “He’s a media guy. Owns a couple of TV stations.”

  “Shit, you hate the media people.”

  “You got that right.”

  “I hear dogs,” said Farrell as they stopped at the gate.

  Blaine reached out to press the intercom button and his arm got soaked. “Blaine Blackmore to see Mr. Selecky.”

  The gate swung open and he drove through, following the brick driveway around a curve and ending up in a parking area in front of a four car garage separate from the house.

  The house was built Tudor style, an old English look to it with steep roof angles and lots of climbing vines.

  “Nice house,” said Farrell. “I like this style.”

  They hurried from the truck to the house, so they wouldn’t get soaked, and stood under the little roof above the front door. “This roof should be bigger,” said Farrell as he crowded in closer to the door.

  Blaine rang the bell and Selecky opened the door himself. “Blaine Blackmore-Powell himself on my doorstep. Never thought I’d see the day.” He waved them in with a sweep of his arm. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, sir?”

  “A rumor, sir,” said Blaine. “This is Deputy Donovan and he has a story to tell you.”

  “Come in and sit down. How about a coffee?”

  “Coffee would be great,” said Blaine. “We were out in the rain all morning.”

  “Hang on until I get Heidi started on the coffee.” He flew out of the room and returned just as quickly. The man had a lot of energy. Not too tall, but tanned and athletic looking, Mark Selecky was the picture of success. Blaine could picture him modelling designer suits in GQ or holding up a club after he’d shot a hole in one. Selecky sat down in a wing chair across from Farrell and gave him his full attention. “Okay, go.”

  “This is what I heard on the down low,” said Farrell. “You run a poker game with a healthy buy-in most weekends. It starts on Friday night and sometimes goes through until Sunday. Guests who can afford it come from all over the state and you put them up here at your house while they play.”

  Selecky nodded. “Not illegal to hold a private game.”

  “Us being here has nothing to do with legalities,” said Blaine.

  Selecky looked puzzled. “Okay, what does it have to do with?”

  “Someone is planning to knock off your game,” said Farrell. “Possibly this weekend.”

  “By ‘knock if off’ do you mean rob the players?”

  Farrell nodded. “Uh huh. Take all the money.”

  “Impossible. I have great security. Let me show you.” Selecky took them to the back of the house where he’d converted a massive family room into a high-end poker room with three tables, a bar in the corner of the room, and a long buffet table in front of a wall of windows overlooking the pool area.

  He pointed out all the camera locations and the fencing at the back and sides of the property. “I have guard dogs that run loose on the property while the game is in session. I can’t see how anyone would get inside the fence or if they did, how they’d ever get out with the money.”

  “Our only intention was to make you aware, Mr. Selecky,” said Blaine. “We’re not offering protection, just a heads up.”

  “Good, I’m glad, because a police presence would make my guests uncomfortable. They wouldn’t be able to relax and enjoy themselves like they always do.”

  “Do you have physical security while the game is on?” asked Farrell.

  “Yes, I hire a team of two from Winslow Security and they’ve always been professional.”

  “You seem to have all you bases covered, Mr. Selecky,” said Blaine. “We won’t hold you up any longer.”

  Selecky walked them to the door. “I appreciate you taking the time to come in person, sir.” He shook Blaine’s hand and opened the door.

  Blaine turned and said, “I just had a thought. This sounds like a game Annie might like. Would you have a seat for her this weekend?”

  “Annie Powell plays poker?” Selecky raised an eyebrow.

  “Do bees make honey?” asked Farrell.

  Selecky beamed a smile and showed thirty-two gleaming white teeth. “What an asset she would be to my game. Of course, I’ll reserve a seat for her. Will she be alone?”

  “Umm… she has a bodyguard. Always has,” said Blaine, “but he might be a non-player.”

  “No problem. I’m thrilled she might want to join us. Put a little life into the party.”

  “Have you met my mother?” asked Blaine.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure, but I’ve seen her picture. People say her photographs don’t do her justice.”

  The Blackmore Agency. Austin.

  BLAINE ate dinner with Carm and Farrell, then packed a bag. His flight to New Orleans departed at eight forty. “You can drop me at the airport then drive to the ranch and tell Mom about the game. See who she wants for backup. I think she used Travis in Vegas.”

  Coulter-Ross Ranch. La Grange.

  ON THE WAY to the ranch, Farrell dropped Blaine at the loop at Austin-Bergstrom Airport to catch his flight. “Call if you need me. You shouldn’t be going alone.”

  “We’ve got so much going on, I shouldn’t be going at all. We both know that’s the truth.”

  “Find her fast, bro. I’m worried and I know Hoodoo is.”

  Blaine gave him a wave and disappeared through the glass doors.

  Where in hell could Misty be?

  Farrell pulled through the open gate at Coulter-Ross and felt his gut turn upside down. He missed the ranch and Annie so much, he could barely stand it, but Blacky needed him too much and wanted him living in the city. He was torn.

  He parked beside a truck that looked familiar but not, and as he ran to the door in the rain, he wondered who was here visiting Annie.

  As soon as he ran through the foyer and turned left into the kitchen his question was answered. “Pablo, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Hi, Farrell. I’m having a beer with Annie.”

  “Why?” Farrell took a stance and glared.

  Annie stood up and wrapped her arms around Farrell. “It�
��s okay, honey. Nothing is going on. Pablo is only hanging out and having a beer. It’s all okay.”

  “But why is he having a beer here with you?” Farrell’s face was flushed. “I want an answer.”

  “He likes me and likes hanging out here at the ranch.”

  Farrell pointed a finger at Pablo. “That’s verging on creepy, man. I’m not happy about this.”

  Pablo stood up. “I can see that you’re upset. I’d better leave.” He brushed past Farrell and went out the front door.

  “What the hell is going on, Mom?”

  “Absolutely nothing going on in my life, baby. I have zip going on. I’m alone and lonely and that kid has a crush on me. I coached him on his firearm skills and we had a couple of beers. The end. Please don’t be mad at me.” Tears rolled down her face and she turned away.

  Farrell took her in his arms and rocked her. “I love you so much, Mom. I can’t stand to see you like this. I’m moving home.”

  “Are you?”

  “I have to talk to Blacky first, but I’m thinking about it.”

  “Where is he? Why didn’t he come with you?”

  “I dropped him at the airport. Misty went to New Orleans and he hasn’t heard from her.”

  “Sometimes she does that,” said Annie, “doesn’t she?”

  “I don’t know, but Blaine is going nuts because she hasn’t called. He has to make sure she’s safe.” Farrell strode around the island and opened the Sub-Zero. “I could use a beer. I didn’t come here to fight with Pablo and to upset you, I came for another reason.”

  “Not just to see your Mom?”

  “No, but I should be doing that. When’s Neil finished school?”

  “Another week or so.”

  “I want to be around when Neil’s home.”

  Annie smiled. “That would be great.”

  “Okay, sit down and let me tell you what Blacky wants you to do.” He explained about the game and the rumored robbery plan.

  “This guy, Selecky, knows I’m coming?”

  “Not as an undercover op, but as a rich woman who wants to play in a big game. Blacky made it sound like the game was something that might amuse his mother.”

  “He can be devious.”

  “Devious? That little shit can be downright scary.”

  Annie giggled. “Okay, I’ll do it. It starts on Friday night?”

  “Starts Friday night and goes all weekend, or until you run out of money, I guess.” Farrell downed the last of his beer and got up for another. “Who do you want for backup?”

  “Well, I can’t take Pablo, that’s for sure. I’ll have to take Travis.”

  “Yeah, sorry about Pablo, Mom, but dammit. It makes me so fuckin mad that every guy who sees you wants… never mind. I hate it, that’s all.”

  “I understand, but since Jesse moved home to his own ranch, I’ve been miserable. I guess I was happy somebody wanted to spend time with me.”

  “Aw. I feel so damn bad about you and Jesse. I wish he would get it together.”

  “He never will,” said Annie. “He broke my heart and took my baby, but I’ve accepted it.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Thursday, April 2nd.

  New Orleans.

  BLAINE stayed overnight at the airport Hilton because of the location and the lateness of the hour when he arrived, but this morning he was moving to Misty’s favorite bed and breakfast in hopes she would show up there. Maybe she’d come in late last night and was already back in her room. He could hope.

  After a quick breakfast in the Hilton coffee shop, he checked out and drove into the center of the busy city. The weather in New Orleans was warm and sunny and a little on the humid side. They weren’t getting the heavy rain hitting Texas.

  With the top down on the Mustang he’d rented and the wind in his face, he felt better than he had in a while. His mind was cluttered with a thousand things he should be doing instead of driving around the Big Easy looking for a crazy girl.

  A crazy girl I love.

  His first stop was the house she owned on one of the oldest streets in the city, Saint Gillian. Since there was no driveway, he parked around back in the wide lane behind the house. There was ample room for a garage and an outdoor parking spot, but the whole property was overgrown with weeds and out of control shrubbery. Judging by the number of trees, bushes and flower beds, it had once been a beautiful secluded garden area.

  He locked up the car, then stood and stared at the huge house from the back perspective. A couple of the main floor windows had been broken. “That needs to be fixed right away. Anybody could get inside so easily.”

  Where’s my notepad? I need it.

  Blaine rummaged through his briefcase, found his yellow pad and a pen and began making notes as he walked across what used to be the back garden.

  He stepped up onto a weathered porch that ran along the back of the house. Half the porch was open, with a railing and a couple of ancient wooden benches, and the other half was screened in like a sunroom. He tried the door into the sunroom section and it was locked. Using a pick from the little pack he kept in his back pocket, Blaine had the door open in thirty seconds.

  The sunroom was full of wicker furniture with flowery cushions but the air smelled closed up and a little musty. He moved on to the door that led into the main part of the house and it was also locked. The lock was old and took a little more fiddling to get it to release.

  That door opened directly into the kitchen. A huge room with a massive ceiling fan overhead and high narrow windows facing the side yard. The appliances were white, but old style. The huge sink was porcelain and not so white anymore. A long wooden table sat in the center of the room. Dark wood. A little dusty with lots of knife marks scarring the surface. No chairs—a utility table.

  They didn’t eat in the kitchen.

  A door on his right opened to a set of stairs leading to the basement. He went down, checked it out and there was nothing to see.

  Misty said her father’s ghost wouldn’t let her in. I think that was her imagination.

  Blaine moved on through the rest of the rooms on the main floor. Dusty old furniture. A lot of valuable antiques, and a lot of furniture that was just plain old. Nothing daunting or scary. No clanking of chains except the ones on his Harley boots.

  The stairs creaked with every step as he climbed to the second level. A well-made mahogany staircase in perfect condition. No visible scratches or gouges. Could be gorgeous if it was polished.

  Five bedrooms on the second floor, each one fully furnished with linens still on every bed. All beds made and nothing disturbed. A thick layer of dust on every surface.

  Beside the bathroom door there was a locked door, and presumably it led to the third floor. Blaine tried the lockpick and fiddled with it for ten minutes and he couldn’t get it open. He’d have to use a wizard or take the door off the hinges to get up there.

  “Misty are you here?” he called, and a cold wind blew by him from somewhere. He looked for an open window and saw none.

  “Don’t screw with me, Mr. LeJeune. Where’s Misty?”

  Am I talking to a ghost?

  Blaine retraced his steps, locked up and went back to the car.

  Ranger Headquarters. Austin.

  JESSE arrived at headquarters at nine to interview Bertram Donaldson, one of the gun/knife vendors. Rowdy thought this guy might be the leader of the tribe of gun gypsies that followed the rodeo and siphoned business off the rodeo crowds, but Rowdy was only guessing. Jesse would have to ask the right questions and form his own opinion.

  He walked into room two with two Styrofoam cups of coffee and set one down in front of Mr. Donaldson. “Morning, sir. I’m Ranger Quantrall and I’ll be taping our conversation.” Jesse set up the recorder with name, date, etcetera, and set the interview in motion.

  “I ain’t talking to cops,” said Donaldson. “Y’all are wasting your breath.”

  “Maybe so. Happens a lot.” Jesse tapped the end of his pen on a
page of Donaldson’s jacket. “Say’s here you been arrested six times for assault, twice with a deadly, and you did two years in Huntsville for a domestic assault.”

  “Don’t live with that bitch no more. Nobody could and I’m a better person for it.”

  I bet your wife is better off too.

  “How do you know Kevin Telfer?” Jesse watched Donaldson for a hint of recognition and saw his left eye flicker.

  “Never heard of him. Who’s he?”

  “He’s the man who was found under the bleachers in Round Rock with his throat cut.”

  “Don’t know him.” He raised his eyes to look at the clock on the wall. “Y’all have to get me to my bail hearing.”

  “Uh huh. We’ll get you there. Don’t worry.” Jesse leaned in a little closer. “Where’s the knife?”

  Donaldson’s eyes narrowed. “What knife?”

  “Your knife. You must have one. Two of your previous assaults involved a knife.”

  “Yeah, well I couldn’t carry one when I was on parole, so I guess I broke the habit.”

  “When was your parole over?” asked Jesse.

  “Read for yourself, buddy. You’re the one with the file.”

  Bakery in the French Quarter. New Orleans.

  IT WAS still early when Blaine’s fruitless search of the house was finished. He parked downtown and walked to the bakery where he and Misty had eaten the beignets the last they’d been here. He ordered then showed Misty’s picture to the lady behind the counter.

  “I know Miss LeJeune,” the lady smiled. “She has such beautiful hair, but she ain’t been here.”

  “Thank you,” said Blaine, “when my order is ready, I’m sitting outside.”

  Jackson Square. New Orleans.

  AFTER his coffee break, Blaine moved on to Jackson Square. Most of the tables and tents were open for business when he arrived so he went straight to Miss Zara, Misty’s friend and mentor.

  “Miss Zara, have you seen Misty LeJeune?” They all knew Misty by her maiden name. Blaine had seen Miss Zara, the Tarot reader, once before. A huge black woman with multicolored hair, bright green eyes and dark lipstick.