Chapter 15
A strong southerly wind provided unusually warm weather for February. Bill pulled off his sweater and threw it into the back seat of his '97 Nissan 300ZX. He took a deep breath as he looked over the SMU campus and then pulled out a small note pad. After finding Professor Swensen's room and building number he began walking toward where he thought it would be.
As he walked toward his destination he wondered if he'd been a little rash in accepting this assignment. Although he felt like he knew what he was doing, he was worried about failing. Matt was depending on him, and as the minutes began to tick, the pressure began to build inside him. When he got to Professor Swensen's office he knocked on the door and waited. When the door opened Professor Swensen was there smiling. They exchanged greetings and then Bill took a seat in a big overstuffed chair.
The room was cluttered with books, magazines, papers and used Styrofoam cups. The walls were adorned with diplomas, photographs of family and friends, and an original G. Harvey depicting downtown Dallas in the 30s. Professor Swensen poured them each a cup of coffee.
"Well, how is Matt doing?"
"Not too bad. Actually, I'm more worried about Lynn. She's not taking this well."
"I can understand. One moment she and Matt are on the top of the world and the next they're fighting for their lives."
Professor Swensen shook his head and gave Bill a somber look. “This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have tried to sell my conspiracy theory to Lynn. I’ll die if something happens to Matt.”
“Don’t worry about him. Nobody’s going to touch him.”
Professor Swensen smiled. “I’m glad they hired you as a bodyguard. I’ll sleep better now. . . . So, how can I help you?”
"I need to figure out who was following you at the Stonebriar Centre. Can you describe the two men?"
"Well, one of them was short, maybe five foot two. He had dark brown hair and a pot belly. . . . Let me see. . . . He was wearing a badly wrinkled grey suit with a red tie.”
“And the other guy?”
“Much taller. He was maybe six feet, muscular with blond hair and one earring. He looked European—German, Austrian maybe.”
“Okay. They may still be lurking about so I’ll keep an eye out for them. If you see them, call me.”
"I will. Good luck."
Bill went back to his car and drove to the Addison police station. He went inside and asked the receptionist for Sergeant Showalter. After a minute a robust man with grey hair appeared. "Bill, how the hell are you?" The two shook hands and then embraced.
"I'm fine."
"What are you doing in this part of the woods?"
"I need your help on something."
"What's that?"
"You know that lady and her son who were executed over at the Hotel Continental the other day?"
"Yes, what about it?"
"I'd like to know if anyone has contacted you about them."
"Why?"
"It's a long story, but the bottom line is they’ve been misidentified. Somebody is trying to cover up their identity and I’d like to find out who it is.”
"Okay, we can take a look at the case file. Maybe there will be some notes in there."
"Thanks, I really appreciate it."
Sergeant Showalter turned and headed down a hallway with Bill at his heels. They turned left at the end of the hall and then down a flight of stairs. Finally they came to a chain link cage manned by a young police officer.
"Morning, Jake. I need to go inside a minute."
"Who's that with you?" Jake asked.
"This is Bill Ross from the Mesquite PD. He needs to look at a file."
"Okay, sign in, please."
Showalter and Bill signed in and then made their way to the cabinet where the file was supposed to be. Once they located it, they pulled it out and set it on a work desk.
"Let's see," Showalter said. “There is a note that two FBI agents, Shane and Radliff, reviewed the file.”
“That figures.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, the bodies were identified by Raymond Small, Lois Small’s brother.”
"That’s interesting. She told Professor Swensen she didn’t have any relatives," Bill said.
Bill left the Addison Police Station and went directly to the address in the file for Raymond Small, D.D.S. He called ahead on his mobile phone to see if he could have five minutes of the Doctor’s time. He lied and said he was working for the Mesquite Police department to be sure he got the appointment. When he checked-in with the receptionist, he was escorted to Dr. Small’s office. After a moment, Dr. Small entered the room.
"Detective Ross?"
"Hi, Dr. Small. Thanks for seeing me."
"No problem. What can I help you with?"
"I was just over at the Addison Police Department and they said you identified the bodies of Martha and Michael Small and I was wondering what your relationship was to them?"
Dr. Small swallowed hard. "Martha Small was my ex-wife and Michael was her son by a former marriage. I hadn’t seen them in ten years."
“Hmm. Did she ever go by another name?”
“Well, her maiden name was Clayburn. She was from the Midwest—Indianapolis.”
Bill pulled a photograph of Martha out of his pocket and showed it to the doctor. “Is this your ex-wife?”
He took the photograph and studied it a moment as if he were in deep thought. Then he blinked, twisted his head slightly and said, “Right. That’s her.”
“Why do you suppose she was gunned down like that?”
He shook his head. “Like I said, I hadn’t seen her in years. I don’t know what she got involved in.”
“Did she ever live in Houston?”
“Not to my knowledge. But, like I said, I didn’t keep tabs on her.”
“Does the name Simonton mean anything to you?”
“No. Sorry.”
“How did the Addison police know to contact you?”
“Ah, well . . . I think they found one of my cards in her wallet.”
“Oh. Have you been at this office 10 years?”
“Listen, I’d love to chat with you, but I’ve got another appointment.”
“Sure, you’ve been very helpful. Thanks for your time.”
Bill wasn’t convinced of Dr. Small’s veracity. He seemed uncomfortable and tentative with his answers. Either he or Martha Simonton had been lying. He didn’t think it was Martha, however, since she had been killed for giving information to Matt. But how would he prove that Martha Small was Martha Simonton? He suspected if he called down to Midwest Bank they’d deny ever knowing her. He decided to call a friend at the Texas Workforce Commission.
"Yes, Martha Simonton. She works for Midwest Bank."
"Good. I didn’t see how they could erase her from all the government databases, but for a minute—"
"You say she’s dead?"
"Right. She died two weeks ago."
"Well, according to the last payroll report she got a paycheck last Friday."
"You’re kidding? Do you have an address on her?"
"Of course.”
Bill went back to his car and began flipping through his notebook, his mind racing, trying to analyze the new information he had obtained. Finally, he put the key in the ignition and started the car. He decided a trip to Houston would be wise. He called Matt to be sure he wasn’t needed in the next twenty-four hours and then headed toward I-45.
The Villa Capri apartments, located off Westheimer near the Galleria, were old but well maintained. Bill suspected the land was worth much more than the apartments themselves due to their prime location. He walked up to Martha’s second floor apartment and peered inside the window. It didn't look like anyone had disturbed the place yet, so Bill picked the lock and went inside.
The large two-bedroom apartment was clean and neat. The pantry and refrigerator were well stocked although the milk was rancid. A big screen TV was set up aga
inst the wall. It appeared watching videos was Michael and Martha's primary entertainment. Bill put on latex gloves and began to search the place. He dug through the cabinets, through drawers, and inside the closet. After thirty minutes he had found nothing unusual. He went over to the sofa and sat down to think. Where would she keep something she didn’t want anyone to see?
He started looking in less obvious places; he looked for loose boards, felt for lumps in pillows, and examined the mattresses for holes or fresh stitching. He pulled up carpeting, examined under drawers, and looked inside the toilet tanks. When he was about to give up, he noticed an urn on the mantel. It appeared to contain someone’s ashes. Picking it up he wondered. After carefully removing the seal, he peered inside. Not wanting to disturb the ashes too much, he found a long fireplace match and dug around them. The match cut through the ashes with some difficulty. He felt a ridge at the bottom of the urn that made him feel compelled to empty it out for closer examination. A wave of guilt gripped him as he contemplated pouring the ashes into a bowl.
He held the urn in one hand and started opening cabinets looking for a bowl. Loud knocking at the door startled him. He dropped the urn and it smashed on the floor. A cloud of dust lifted from the pile. His heart began to pound as he looked toward the front door. The intruder knocked again, louder this time. He looked down at the mess beneath his feat. There was a key scotch taped to the bottom of the urn. He picked it up and tore it from the piece of porcelain. He examined it. It was a key to a safety deposit box.
After the knocking stopped, he opened the door and peered out. He saw a young woman starting to leave on a bicycle. His curiosity got the best of him.
He yelled, "Sorry, miss. I was on the phone and couldn’t get to the door quickly enough"
The young brunette nodded and smiled. "Who are you?” She asked.
“Oh, I’m . . . Martha’s ex-husband. I’m supposed to meet her here. She told me about a key under the mat so I let myself in.”
“Oh, do you know where Michael is?”
“No, I haven’t seen him. Maybe he’ll be with his mother.”
Bill stared at the young lady, thought for a moment and then said, "What’s your name? I’ll tell him you dropped by."
The girl frowned and replied, "Julia."
“Okay, is there a message?”
"Yes, tell him he’s a son of a bitch for standing me up Saturday. He promised to go to a wedding with me, but he didn’t show. He knows how much I hate to go to those things alone. Damn him!"
"I've got some bad news."
"Huh? What?"
"Michael. . . . I’m sorry, but . . . Michael is dead."
Julia's face dropped. She didn't respond. She just stared at Ross, her eyes glazed. Then she began to weep. "How did it happen?"
"He was murdered."
"Murdered?! But who—"
"Hit men. They were after his mother. She had some evidence against the people she worked for and was prepared to turn it over to . . . well, I can’t tell you anymore, but anyway, they had her killed."
"I knew something weird was going on with him when he told me he had to be with his mother whenever she went out. He took her to work, picked her up. It was really bizarre. I thought maybe he was just a momma’s boy but the fear in his eyes told me otherwise."
"How long have you known him?"
"Just a few months. . . . Damn it! Why did he have to die? I really liked him."
"I know. It's really terrible. Maybe you can help me nail his killers."
"How?"
"Michael's mother had some evidence on the people who murdered her. I've got to figure out where she hid it."
"You got me. I'm clueless."
"How often did you see Michael?"
"Every Monday and Thursday. We'd meet at the laundromat. Once in a while we’d get together on the weekends if Michael could get away."
"Did you ever meet his mother?"
"No, he wouldn't let me. He said she had a bitter divorce and didn't trust anyone. She didn't want him to date until he was older."
"Did Michael tell you anything about his mother's past other than the divorce?"
"Oh, just that she was a secretary for some big shot at a bank, but that's about it."
Bill wondered how he was going to keep Julia quiet about his visit to Martha’s apartment. He pulled out his Mesquite police officer’s badge and showed it to Julia. "Listen, Julia. As you can see, I’m kind of out of my jurisdiction here, so please don’t tell anyone about this conversation or that you saw me today. I’m trying to find out who killed Michael, but I don’t want anyone to find out about my investigation. Only the killer and I know that Michael and his mother are dead. Officially they are both still alive.”
Julia nodded. “I totally understand,” she said. “If I can help, please let me know.”
Bill smiled and gave her a card. She stuck it in her purse and left down the stairs. Bill went inside and resumed his search. This time he looked for bank statements. He needed to know where Martha might have a safety deposit box. He found a checkbook for Bank One. After jotting down the address he looked at the broken urn and the ashes scattered all over the carpet. He went to the kitchen and found a broom and a dust pan. After sweeping up the broken porcelain and ashes, he put them in a paper bag. He took the bag with him as he left the apartment.
On the way to Bank One he stopped at a public park. There was a pond with a water fountain and ducks swimming around. He stopped and took the bag with him into the park. He found a trash can, carefully picked out the broken porcelain pieces, and discarded them. Then he went to the pond and scattered the ashes over the water. He gave the sign of the cross and dropped the paper bag in the trash on the way back to his car.
At Bank One he stood a moment in the lobby, wondering how he could get away with getting access to the safety deposit box. He had the key but he didn’t know who was authorized to enter the box. His only hope would be that Michael was on the signature card. Although he was ten years older than Michael, that might be overlooked. He had looked through a bank statement and knew that Michael wrote checks on the account. Michael’s signature was a series of unreadable swirls that could easily be forged. He thought he could pull it off, but wondered about the consequences if he failed. He took a deep breath and proceeded to the vault.
In front of the vault there were a table and a sign-in book. He went up to it and signed in. Seeing him at the table, a young lady came over and said, “Do you need to get into your box?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He noticed her name tag read, Ms. Reed.
“All right, what’s the number?”
Bill looked at the key. The number 239 was chiseled into the face of the key. He said, “239.”
She nodded and went over to a desk with a file box on it. After flipping through the signature cards she stopped and studied one of them, comparing signatures. Bill held his breath. She frowned and shook her head. Bill’s heart plummeted. She closed the lid of the file and walked back to where he was standing.
She smiled. “You must be a doctor or something. I couldn’t read your signature if my life depended on it.”
Bill laughed. “I know. That’s what everyone tells me.”
Ms. Reed escorted Bill to a private cubicle, took his key and returned with a box. She left him alone. He opened the box slowly and studied the contents.
Plastic Gods, A Rich Coleman Novel Vol 2 Page 25
