Dead On:
A Deacon Bishop Mystery
Michael W. Paulson
BooksForABuck.com
2006
Dead On:
A Deacon Bishop Mystery
Copyright 2006 by Michael W. Paulson, all rights reserved. The characters, places, and events in this book are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is coincidental.
Published by BooksForABuck.com. Cover copyright 2006 by Karen Leabo, all rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-60215-010-2
Chapter 1
He was standing in McAllen's air terminal; slack-jawed and dewy-eyed, holding a cardboard sign with my name scrawled in red crayon. Behind him, a loudspeaker droned a speech from the mayor, Philip Woods. His honor was up for reelection and promising to get tough on crime, no matter the cost, or implications. It was a promise each voter could cling to in hopes of a better, safer tomorrow. It was also a promise the Mayor would have trouble keeping. Because in Texas, when it came to crime, implications always run deeper than expected.
I stopped in front of the sign-holder and jabbed the cardboard with my finger. In response, his wet brown eyes flickered into focus. They drifted from my face to my shoulders to my shoes, and then back to my face; as if not certain I was real.
"You the detective?" he asked, dully. His face was like a vacant lot. His softly spoken words coming slow and painfully, like work from a man shortchanged for his labors. "You Deacon Bishop?"
I could smell gin on his breath and the rancid sweat clinging to his oozing pores. "Naw," I replied, fanning the air in front of my face. "I flew here from Dallas because I have this thing for cardboard."
My presence in McAllen related to a request from Eli Huggins; a businessman reputedly rich enough to start his own country. The poor soul in front of me looked like he would have trouble buying a cup of coffee without getting a donation.
"I hope to god you're not Eli Huggins!" I blurted, as the memory of his expense check bounced around in my head.
"Eli's my brother," the sign-holder said. He let the cardboard slip from his big fingers, to the floor. "I'm, Leon."
Leon Huggins was well past middle age, short and wiry. What I could see of his body had a lot of hair; gray on his head and three-day beard, black on the backs of his hands and arms. His sunburned face was crisscrossed with deep crags. He had old scars above his eyes, along the ridgeline of his cheeks, and across the bridge of his flattened nose; markers, prizefighters got for winning second place.
"Eli sent me," he continued, rubbing his flattened knuckles. "He's waitin' on you back home."
A dim light came on in my head as I eyed Leon's dirty T-shirt, big hands and baggy jeans. "Leon Huggins," I grunted. "Boxer, welterweight. Maybe twenty or twenty-five years back, right? A real contender."
His bushy gray eyebrows shot up forcing the skin above into deep furrows. Then he grinned at me showing a mouthful of decay-blackened teeth. "You got a memory, Mister."
"I laid five hundred clams on your last bout, Sweets," I gritted. "You took a dive to a nobody by the name of Johnny Paean. Five hundred was a chunk of change, back then! And, it took a lot of sweat to get. That's the reason for memory."
The boxer's grin twisted into a savage growl, "Never tanked, no how."
I jabbed my forefinger into the middle of his hard chest. "Naw," I gritted. "You kissed the mat 'cause it felt good."
He stiffened toward me like a pit-bull ready to charge; his hands clenched into meaty clubs; his voice hissing, "Best keep shut, Mister."
I had lost bets that size a hundred times or more over the years, without batting an eye. Nevertheless, that particular wager was now a red-hot poker twisting my guts: one that would not quit until I got satisfaction.
"Third round," I remembered. "Paean tossed a jab followed by a half-hearted combination. You took the blows and folded like a limp dick."
"Ain't gonna' tell you again."
I coiled my fingers and set myself. "I'll settle for a piece of your hide."
A black scowl contorted the boxer's face. He muttered a curse and quickly cocked one arm, ready to swing. I gave him a hard stare, and waited. Seconds ticked. Eyes locked. Breathing stopped. Finally, Leon relaxed and let his arms drop to his sides. I started breathing, again--disappointed and relieved.
"Memory ain't good," he grunted. Leon shook his shoulders back to relax the muscles, and then retreated a step. "Not clear on what's what some times. And that goes back some. Maybe I got things crossed. Maybe you did, too."
I splay my fingers to get the blood flowing back into them. "Not, likely Sweets."
His stubbly chin drooped to his chest as if he were a small boy caught dipping into a cookie jar. Then, he stuffed his big hands into his jeans-pockets and stared down at his ragged running shoes, completely defeated.
A wave of pity swept over me and I felt very small and petty. "I'll get my grip," I muttered, and headed for the luggage carousel.
Twenty minutes later, I was on the parking ramp's top deck, gasping hot air as I followed Leon across the sizzling concrete. "Eli was supposed to get me," I called to his back. "What happened?"
"Truck's over yonder, Mister," Leon said, with forced politeness. "You'll see Eli soon 'nough."
I trailed along feeling like a Popsicle tied to the business end of a blowtorch. "I hope to god the air in your truck's working. It must be a hundred in the shade."
"Hundred-ten!" Leon said proudly over his shoulder, as if he were responsible for the heat. "Them temps make my bones feel young." Then he tossed me an apologetic backward glance before adding, "Truck got no air but windows, Mister."
Under my breath I sighed, "It probably doesn't come with a low-moral, blonde either."
He stopped behind a 40's vintage pickup and gave me a feeble grin. The pearl-black paint on the old truck glistened like molten tar. And the chrome glinted like it had been dusted with diamonds.
"Ain't she somethin'?" Leon asked. One of his big hands reached out and stroked a fender like it was a woman's thigh. "All I got. Only thing's really mine."
He walked the length of the vehicle and back, staring at it as if the truck were alive and awaiting his attentions. I watched and wilted, still worrying about Eli's check.
"Twenty-five coats," he continued. "Me and my daughter Betsy polished her up, in between. Glows like love, don't she? I call her Moira--after my wife."
I wiped the sweat from my face with a handkerchief. Then I grimaced as a gust of wind brought his stench to my nose. "Married a mouth-breather, did you?"
Leon rubbed at an invisible spec of dust on the truck's chrome license-plate holder. Then, slowly, his eyes rose to meet mine. "You're clear on Johnny Paean," he said quietly. He nodded as if reaffirming the long-past transgression. "Tanked, all right: deep as it'd go." He spat on the concrete, as if the admission had fouled his mouth. "Weren't my call. Never's, my call! Not, then. Not, now."
I set my suitcase into the truck-bed, took off my suit-coat and draped the sweat-dampened garment over one arm. "Even the Pope has options, Leon."
He gave me a grin. "I'm good for the five-hundred, Mister. You'll see."
I let my gaze wander over the poor slob. If he had two quarters in his pockets, they belonged to somebody else. "How much did you get for throwing that fight?"
His grin faded. Then he moved to the driver's door and opened it. "Nothin'," he murmured. "I never got nothin'. Eli's got them angles."
He crawled into the truck's cab and settled behind the steering wheel. I got in on the rider's side and immediately wished I was somewhere else. The pickup smelled of gasoline, and Leon. I rolled down the side window and prayed for a clean, cool breeze.
Chapter 2
Nearly an hour later Leon pulled the truck to a stop in front of a white, stone archway somewhere out in the boonies. Running away on either side were horizons of gleaming razor wire; the kind correctional facilities used to deter inmate escape. Between the risers, yellow wrought-iron gates stood open. Beyond, a narrow strip of blacktop rippled across a neatly trimmed lawn like an old belt. A quarter-mile along it, a red tile roof rose amidst a grove of trees.
I wiped the sweat from my brow. "What? No tower guards to plink off passersby?"
At that moment, I was simmering in a pool of my own sweat. In fact, everything I had on was soaked and creeping for higher ground.
Leon swallowed thickly. "Somethin's wrong, Mister."
A chill suddenly darted down my spine and I glanced about. However, there was only heat, dust and scrub brush for miles. "For Christ's sake, give me a hint, Leon."
A dribble of perspiration tracked down the length of his flat nose until it dangled from the tip, like a foul smelling dewdrop. "Them gates got rules," he said with respect. Then, he tapped the windshield and pointed at the arch. "Them gates is locked 'less Eli says unlock."
"Maybe, your brother took a drive."
Leon shifted on the seat as if his backside was dodging a vagrant spring. "'Lectric," he explained. "Radio-box control." He dug a garage-door style transmitter out of his pants pocket and held it up. "Eli's got one, too. Somethin's wrong, all right. Eli don't cotton to open gates."
A twitching at the nape of my neck suggested I take Leon's case of nerves, as gospel. "Did Eli give you the package I shipped?"
"There," Leon grunted, and pointed to the truck's glove box.
I opened the compartment. Inside were a lock-pick kit and my Mauser pistol. I took out the gun, checked the clip, jerked back the slide and let it fly forward to load one round into the chamber. Then I set the safety, lowered the hammer and shoved it into my shoulder holster. The probability of running into lethal trouble on a hot afternoon at a millionaire's estate in South Texas was well off the scale. So was meeting Leon Huggins.
The boxer glanced at me and shivered. "Don't cotton to guns, Mister."
I pointed toward the rooftop and growled, "Just drive, Leon."
We roared through the arch, took a curve on two wheels, and then caught air over a sharp rise. The lawn sprinklers sputtered streams of liquid silver onto brown grass, and steaming asphalt. The truck skidded on the wet. I let go a curse, and then quickly said a prayer. Leon was quiet, wide-eyed and lead-footed.
The roof we headed for belonged to a Spanish style mansion the size of a football field. It had three levels of white stucco with black wrought-iron ornamentation on the windows. It nestled among flapping banana palms, tall cottonwoods and twisted eucalyptus trees, like a gigantic cupcake.
"How many servants?" I asked, as he pumped the brakes.
"I do, for Eli!" he growled. "No need for nobody else."
"You traded your jockstrap for a feather-duster?"
Leon flushed crimson. "Cleanin' woman comes in for that."
The asphalt formed a nice neat drive-around in front of a wide flagstone walkway. The latter wound between two concrete benches up three rows of white stone steps to a pair of red steel doors, one of which was ajar. There were no other vehicles in sight. Leon stopped the truck, and shut off the engine.
"I don't see a car," I said. "You're sure Eli didn't go somewhere?"
"Parkin's underground."
"Let's go!"
He shook his head. "No pass-card."
"Your brother won't let you into his garage?"
"Eli don't cotton to nobody goin' down there but special friends."
"What do these special friends do for him, you don't?"
Leon's chin dipped before offering a shrug in reply.
"Your brother was shy on details," I grumbled. "What kind of trouble's Eli in?"
"Not sure," Leon muttered. "Maybe shakedown. Maybe somethin' else. Tried to tell Eli I handle problems. He says, stay clear. So, I stay clear."
"You said shakedown. Who might be doing the shaking?"
The boxer spat out the truck's side window. "Not sure, Mister," Leon replied. "Cop, maybe. Big bastard. Tough. Not, too tough for me. Maybe them others. Maybe no shakedown at all. Maybe something else."
My mouth went dry. There was nothing I liked better than dealing with a dirty cop--except swimming naked with hungry sharks. "This cop have a name?" I asked.
"Shawn Delaney. Don't like him much. He don't like me, either. You know him, Mister?"
I shook my head. "I guess that explains why Eli was nervous as a transvestite in a nunnery, when he called. What was your brother's schedule for today?"
Leon stuck an index finger into one hairy ear and rotated the digit like a plumber cranking a closet-auger. "Meetin'. Big meetin' come up all sudden-like. That's why he sent me to get you."
"Meeting with who?"
The boxer's fingers coiled and then recoiled around the black steering wheel as if he were milking the life out of it. "Eli don't say and I don't ask." Then he murmured in a worried voice, "Somethin's wrong all right. Somethin's terrible wrong."
I crawled from the truck like a soggy bagel and grimaced up at the searing sun. It hung over my head like the thrusters of a rocket engine running at full throttle. "I'm going to take a look around, Leon. I'm the nervous type, so stay put, understand? If you come up on my blind side, I'm liable to get impulsive and blow your damn head off. That'd be a relief to my nose, but it might ruin your day."
Leon chewed his lower lip, and nodded.
I let my eyes drift. Drawn drapes sealed the mansion's windows in navy blue. An overgrown Spirea hedge twisted along the North side of the house like a pink and green dragon. Here and there a dandelion danced among the grass blades like a yellow-faced clown. Nothing seemed out of place except for the open door at the top of the flagstones.
"Eli's dead," Leon sobbed. "He'd be out by now if he was alive."
I looked over at the boxer through the truck's side window. Sweat was dredging a path through grime and oil across his face, making him look like a weeping clown. During all my years investigating homicides with Dallas P-D, not once had a devoted relative expressed the belief that a missing loved one was dead before the body was found. The not so devoted often did, mostly out of hope that tears would sell innocence over guilt. I took out my pistol, clicked off the Mauser's safety and then rubbernecked toward the flagstone.
When I started up the steps, I noticed something that looked like a dark blue bag behind the hedge. At one end of the bag was a pair of brown shoes poking through the shrubbery, the pointed tips tilting toward the sun like shiny leather arrows.
At that moment, I realized Eli's check was the least of my worries.
Behind me, the truck door slammed. I whirled toward it taking aim at the sound only to see Leon racing toward the hedge.
"Eli!" he bellowed. "Eli!"
By the time I reached the shoes Leon was kneeling beside a gaunt, ashen-faced corpse. The dead man was dressed in an expensive suit. His starched white shirt was crisply pressed. His red silk tie was knotted perfection. And his dyed black hair was trimmed, greased and combed straight back over his round head, in Valentino style. Even his nails had been done to the nines, manicured and polished with clear lacquer. The only flaws were grass-stained knees on his pants and the deceased's unseeing eyes staring up at me as if I had solved all the worlds' problems. Somebody had--at least for Eli Huggins.
"They got Eli," Leon wailed. Then the boxer's fists pummeled the ground, in frustration. "They got, my brother."
I squatted next to the corpse and touched the back of Eli's neck. His skin felt cooler than the surrounding air. I turned his head and saw a small-bore bullet wound at the back; it still dribbled blood. I lifted one of the dead man's arms and let if flop back to the grass. There was no way for me to be absolutely certain when the killing had taken place, but rigor mortis had not set in. That meant the millionaire had been dead less than an hour, which gave Leon an alibi.
"Who, Leon?" I asked.
The boxer gently stroked his brother's pale face. "Maybe, Delaney," he muttered. "Maybe, them others. Ghosts, maybe. I dunno."
"What others?"
"Big-shots. Come from out of town. I told Eli they was no good. But he don't listen--he never listens to me."
"Names, Leon. I need names."
The boxer's face, hardened as he looked into my eyes. "I don't know no names, Mister. All I know is Eli's dead."
"You must have heard Eli mention somebody."
Leon lolled his head back clenching his eyes shut against the sun as he tried to think. After what seemed like several minutes he let his chin flop forward. "One of them was called Port-something, maybe: a black-haired bastard. He don't cotton to me so Eli don't let me hang 'round, when he come."
A bad taste flooded my mouth. "Portello? Dominic Portello?"
Leon nodded his eyes wide with sudden hope. "That's the fella.' You know him, Mister?"
I nodded, grimly. The Portello crime family controlled the illicit drug trade across all of Texas and several states north. If Eli Huggins was receiving visits from Dominic, I had no doubts as to how the dead man had made his millions.
I tilted Eli's head to take a closer look at the bullet wound. Scorched hair from the muzzle-blast surrounded the opening. This meant the killer had pressed the gun against Eli's skull before firing. From the size of the hole, I estimated the murder weapon's bore to be .32 caliber. I laid the dead man's head back against the grass. There was no exit wound, which meant the gun had been an older, low-velocity model. If Dominic Portello ordered this hit, it was not his style. A Portello contract meant no body--ever.
Leon stared at me as if I were God's messenger. "It was him, what done Eli? Portello?"
I shook my head. "Not their style, Leon."
As soon as I heard my own words, I knew I had made a mistake. The boxer leaped to his feet; rage spreading across his face like fire through a sawmill.
"Kill the son-of-a-bitchin' Delaney!"
I sprang up and grabbed Leon's arm. "We don't know Delaney did this."
The boxer spine went headstone-rigid. Then he caught my jaw with a sharp left cross. The unexpected blow rocked me back on my heels, nearly dropping me. It took several seconds to regather my senses. By then Leon was in a dead run for the truck. I gave chase and tackled him by the pickup's rear tires. I was a decade younger and fifty pounds heavier. On Leon's side were experience, fury and determination.
For the next five minutes, we shared agonizing moments. Some included rolling on the asphalt amidst swinging fists. Some included standing upright and trading punches. My part of the experience involved lessons in pain and humility. Finally, Leon hooked me in the ribs and turned. I could not take it any longer so I infused a calming influence over his retreat by introducing the Mauser's butt to the back of the boxer's head. He let out an angry groan and then his knees buckled; dropping him like a dirty, hairy bag to the blacktop.
After depositing the unconscious man in the shade, I limped to his truck, slipped on my suit coat and then grabbed the ignition keys. After which, with gun still in hand, I headed inside the mansion.
Chapter 3
Black marble floors took me across an oval foyer down a cool dark hallway past a rambling collection of mismatched rooms each furnished with disconnected ruins, and into a spacious modern living area. The latter was a lofty affair with an open-beamed ceiling, skylights and hanging plants. Persian rugs, and French furniture dotted a polished oak floor. Light earthy tones decorated the walls along with numerous pieces of abstract art. Glass panels partitioned one side from floor to ceiling against a large flower garden in the back yard. Red, yellow and purple Gladiola blooms dominated the outdoor scene. In front of one a ruby-throated hummingbird dove into the blooms. Then after putting its wings into reverse, it made a fast forward arc and disappeared. In my minds eye, I pictured Eli sitting here staring out at buzzing bees and flitting hummingbirds, while counting his ill-gotten gains. I rubbed the swelling bruises on my face and enviously wondered what it was like to be so rich.
A long, low, glass table stood in front of a floral davenport. On its dusty surface, three crystal tumblers nuzzled each other. Bright red lipstick of slightly different hues smeared two of the rims. Behind the glasses rested a sconce shaped ashtray. Within it mounds of tobacco ash competed for presence with a dozen red-smeared cigarette butts. I picked up two of these and compared the lip prints, and coloring. The reds were slightly different in shade like on the glasses. The imprints had been made by two pairs of painted lips, one of which had a small sickle-shaped scar. I took the plane-ticket envelope from my pocket and dropped the butts into it. Then I stuffed it out of sight before glancing around. The floor needed polishing and the windows were long overdue for a little muscle behind a rag. Whatever Eli's cleaning woman provided it had little to do with her chosen profession.
A cream-colored telephone on a small glass end table, beckoned. As I picked up the receiver I heard the thump-thumping of running feet coming from the front entrance. My hand gave the phone a white-knuckled squeeze as Leon came into view and I reached for my gun. He stopped short when he saw me. From the look of death in the boxer's eyes I knew what he had planned, and cursed myself for not handcuffing him to the pickup's rear axel.
"Keys," he growled.
I shook my head. "Killing Delaney will just get you hanged, Leon." We didn't hang people in Texas any more, we gave them lethal injections. The end result was the same, though.
The boxer tucked his chin and came for me. I cocked the Mauser and tilted the barrel toward his chest. Despite his age and lack of condition, he was as tough as week-old stew meat. And I was not looking forward to another slugfest.
"Keys," he growled again, still moving.
I discretely set the gun's safety and hoped he would not call my bluff. "Careful, Leon." I snugged my finger around the gun's trigger. "Even on your best day you couldn't beat what's pointed at you."
His wet eyes focused on the weapon's muzzle, and he stopped. Leon looked from the gun, to me and then back to the gun. I could almost hear him thinking as the seconds ticked past like minutes. He was weighing his situation and not finding many options.
"Have a seat and let me handle this," I told him. "The law will deal with whoever killed Eli."
He uttered a sigh of resignation and backed up a step.
"No good calling no cops," he said, softly. He offered me a sour grin. "Ain't nobody gonna' do for Eli, none. Cops're all gettin' the nod from Delaney. J.D.'s all right. But, there's just J.D. and he ain't no cop."
I set down the telephone receiver and let the blood flow back into my hand. "Who's the woman?" I asked, and holstered the Mauser.
Leon gave me a blank stare. "Woman?"
"You remember women, Leon. They're soft, nice to fondle and prefer men who bathe."
"Ain't nobody here but you and me, Mister."
I jabbed a finger toward the ashtray and glasses. "Are you telling me, Eli wears lipstick?"
Leon's eyes bulged. For many seconds he said nothing, staring at the coffee table. Finally, the boxer moved over to it and looked down at the ashtray, as if the butts were demons in need of slaying.
"She must have a name, Leon?" I persisted.
"Cleaning lady," he muttered, making a sloppy effort to cover up. He dragged one hairy forearm across his sweaty face and managed a plastic grin. "Lazy bitch ain't good for nothin'. Just sits and drinks and smokes. I told Eli, fire her. But he don't listen to me--he never listens to me."
"Where can I find this cleaning woman?"
The boxer's eyes drifted back to the ashtray. Anxiously, his hands went into his pants-pockets, back out, then back in.
"I just want to talk to her, Leon," I prompted. "She might've seen something."
His breath began to gasp like a frightened bull standing on the killing grid. I watched and waited for an explosion.
"Look," he finally bellowed, shaking a threatening finger at me. "Eli don't cotton to me stickin' my nose. And, the same for you."
"Eli's dead, Leon! Now, what's her name?"
Leon looked from the ashtray to me, and then back to the ashtray. It was as if his befuddled brain was struggling to conjure up a rational response.
"Try moving your mouth, Leon," I urged. "That's how it works. You move your mouth, and I hear the words."
"Don't know," he mumbled. He dragged his palms across the back of his grimy neck as if it ached. Then he backed away from the table moaning, "Don't remember. Gotta' think."
"You're lying, Leon."
The boxer shook his head as if he were a child, throwing a tantrum. "No. No. No!"
I picked up the telephone receiver, again. "If she was here when it happened, she could be in danger."
The boxer's beefy hands grabbed at his head as if he was trying to rip it off. "Leave her be, Mister!" he raged. "She's not in this. She didn't do nothin'. She don't know nothin'."
"That's not for you to decide," I said, and dialed 911.
With a frustrated sob, Leon staggered out of the room.
Chapter 4
While waiting for the police, I searched the mansion's upper levels. Three huge bedrooms occupied the top floor. Two shared a common bath, across the back of the house. They were adorned with matching twin beds, a desk, a bureau and an armoire, all in Spanish style. The common bath contained new towels and neatly wrapped bars of soap; the kind found in expensive hotels. The white porcelain sinks and tub were clean and dry. Moreover, the air had a closed, musty smell that meant the bath had not been used in some time. I moved on.
An expansive master bedroom suite ambled across the front of the mansion. It was expensively furnished in French provincial with a highboy, a dressing table and chair, a fainting chaise, several wingbacks as well as a finely chiseled four-poster bed. The latter's sheets were blue silk, stained and rumpled from recent use.
I went over to the bed and examined the pillowcases. These were streaked with red lipstick and makeup in at least two distinct shades. Each was dappled with several blonde hairs of equally dissimilar hues. I leaned over and sniffed one pillow. It held the faint scents of Shalimar and lavender. I raised my eyes as something shiny overhead caught my attention. Attached to the ceiling, was a mattress-sized mirror. Whatever else Eli may have been, he was a man who knew how to enjoy himself on his back.
Louvered white doors to my left concealed a walk-in closet. Within, tailored suits hung in a long row on one side to form a rainbow display in wool's, silks and tweeds. Opposite were built-in cabinets loaded with stacks of laundered shirts, crisply starched and neatly folded, awaiting their owner's selection. And on the closet's marble floor, steel racks supported dozens of custom-made boots, and shoes. Enviously I eyed a pair of black and white brogues. Eli's premature death would come as a terrible shock to his clothiers.
Across the room, sliding glass opened onto a tree-shaded balcony. I headed over and went out, again facing the sun's intense heat. Four white, wicker, chairs and an umbrella table cuddled a black wrought-iron railing. On the tabletop, a sterling coffee service for two glinted back at sun. Coffee dregs curdled in the bottoms of each cup. The lip of one was smeared with red lipstick. Between the full ashtray and dirty glasses on the main floor, the pillowcases on the bed, and the coffee service before me, I was getting a clearer picture of that cleaning woman. Perhaps not to the level Eli had enjoyed in the mirror above his bed, but close.
I went over to the railing and stared toward the front of the mansion. From that vantage point, I could see the hedge by which Eli's body lay, as well as the entire length of the asphalt approach-road. I could not see the body itself. If the cleaning woman had been out here when Eli's killer arrived, she would have seen the car. She also may have left in it--whether the choice had been hers was up for grabs.
White scuffmarks on the lower rung of the railing caught my attention: possibly from shoe polish. Within arms-reach of the railing was a tall eucalyptus tree. Several branches were freshly broken, as if someone had taken a desperate escape route to the ground. My mind's eye gave me a picture of a naked woman scrambling down the trunk, her unused vacuum strapped defiantly to her bare back. I made a mental note to check on cleaning services when I returned home.
On the second floor, loud snoring lured me past a ballroom and a music room to a rich man's rendition of a snooker parlor; replete with half a dozen maroon Harvard chairs. The boxer occupying one was now a man with few worries. One of his arms cuddled an empty fifth of scotch like it was a newborn baby, the other draped over his eyes. Near his feet was a well-supplied liquor cart. With his brother's death, Leon had become a man of quiet leisure.
Chapter 5
A wailing Police siren drew me back to the main floor. I opened the front entrance in time to see a plainclothesman get out of a cruiser, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. He was about sixty years of age, tall, well muscled and broad-shouldered. White hair beetled beneath the brim of a new black Stetson. His suit was tailor-made gray. Hand-made Italian boots gleamed like polished onyx on his big feet. A large Emerald ring glistened on one pinky. Although I had never seen the man before I hazarded a guess his name might be Shawn Delaney.
"I hope my call didn't interrupt anything extorting."
He jerked toward my voice like a vicious dog at the end of its tether. "Captain Delaney, Police," he grunted. Then he took off his sunglasses and stuffed them into his suit's inside pocket.
Delaney had an unforgettable face. It was long, leathery and wrinkled, with steel blue eyes burning from the bowels of two dark sockets. A tiny purple pouch sagged beneath each, like a wrinkled saddlebag. His square jaw supported a wide slit of red mouth from which a toothpick jutted. Between the sockets and the slit was a huge carrot nose and shiny high cheekbones. The former had been savagely broken at some time. And deep scars twisted across one of the latter. These continued their swathe up over one eyebrow, and then down the side of the cheek directly beneath. The savage trail ended on the slope of his neck just below the bobbed remains of one ear. The whitish scars were jagged, deep and wide. The kind a broken bottle gives when held by unfriendly hands.
I made an obvious check of my watch before chiding, "Thirty minute response on a homicide. That's gotta' be a world record, Delaney. Lunch break? Or, winning at pinochle?"
The big man let his cold eyes slide over my like the sharp edge of a straight razor. Then, he asked, "Who might you be, Old Son?"
I told him, and where I was from. Then I jabbed a thumb towards the Spirea hedge. "Eli Huggins, the deceased. He's in no hurry, Delaney. But I can't wait to see you in action."
The big cop glanced toward the shoes, and then returned his stare to me. He was clearly in no rush to see the body. Perhaps because he knew exactly what he would find.
"Weak stomach?" I taunted. "Or simply not sure what comes next. If you need help give me a shout. I've handled these things hundreds of times."
Delaney put his hands at his hips, leaned back and twisted to stretch the kinks out of his back. It looked like it felt good so I mimicked him.
He made a self-conscious clearing sound in his throat before asking, "What's your business here, Bishop?"
I cleared my throat, too. "Eli hired me to stop a dirty Irish cop's extortion racket. Some kind of low-life, huh? Collecting his pay from the taxpayers while shaking them down."
Delaney lolled the toothpick with a pasty-white tongue, letting his eyes give me another scraping. "Do tell."
I grinned. "Back where I come from we neuter those types."
"This dirty Irish cop have a name?"
"Shawn Delaney was what Eli told me. Relative of yours?"
His grin died. "You sound like a man with a problem, Mr. Bishop. Problems often get a man into trouble."
I set my right fist in the palm of my left hand with a smack. "Nothing I can't handle, Delaney. But, if I need help I can always call on J-D."
His mouth gaped in surprise. "You know J-D?"
I shrugged. "Friend of a friend."
The uniformed driver got out of the cruiser and quickly moved over to where Delaney stood. He was a young man with pale blond hair and a boyish freckled face. His uniform was freshly issued, because none of the creases had been ironed over. And the service pistol holstered around his narrow middle was shiny-new. He stood at attention directly behind his superior. At any moment, I half expected the kid to bend over and kiss Delaney's ass.
"Telepathy?" I asked Delaney.
He gave me a quizzical look and said, "Come again?"
"Usual procedure is to secure a murder scene immediately. I thought you might be using telepathy to handle that."
Delaney spat out the toothpick. "Stay put, Old Son. You and me got some talkin' to do."
He barked at the uniform and the two of them went over to Eli's corpse. I strolled down to the cruiser and peered inside. It was better equipped than those in which I had spent my police career. Multiple two-ways buzzed with coded calls, mostly traffic. It had a video-recording unit, radar, and a computer system for instant readout. The latter connected the cruiser directly to the TCI and NCI databases. In the cruiser's ashtray a fat, gold holder contained the distinctive remains of a Cuban cigar. If Delaney was an honest cop McAllen was law-enforcement heaven--at least in terms of pay.
The big cop's cursing captured my interest and I went over to one of the concrete benches framing the mansion's staircase. There, I propped one foot in his direction and watched the Irishman's technique. He had gotten Eli's blood on his tailored slacks, and was not happy about the dead man's lack of consideration. Corpses have a way of getting back at their killers. Sometimes by leading homicide investigators to the assassin's door, sometimes by staining a pair of slacks, sometimes both.
By the time I had finished a smoke the uniform was back inside the cruiser. From where I watched, he looked sick, and scared. His voice quaked as he used one of the two-ways to request a forensic team. And he had barely finished speaking when he jumped out of the car to revisit his supper. I returned my gaze to Delaney more out of empathy for the young cop than interest. The first murder scene was always hard on one's digestion.
While I continued to gaze, the big cop clumsily shuffled through Eli's pockets. Dig and look. Dig and look. Suddenly, he stopped and fumbled something into his own suit. Then, he rose with obvious satisfaction and strolled over to where I waited.
"Short on evidence bags?" I taunted.
A line of moisture had formed across his upper lip, while more dripped below his sideburns. "Come again?"
I pointed to his coat pocket. "You put something folded and green in there. I thought you might be low on forensic supplies."
Delaney's teeth glinted at me like old ivory as he asked, "You carryin', Old Son?"
I nodded, drew my suit coat aside and showed him the holstered Mauser. "A State permit goes with it."
He snapped his fingers and I handed him my weapon. He pulled out the clip, counted the rounds, and then smelled the breach.
"Let's see that so called license," he grunted.
I handed it to him and Delaney made appropriate entries into a notebook regarding my identity, address and license issue-date. Then, he returned my property before saying, "Guns get a man into trouble. You looking for trouble, Old Son?"
I grinned. "A low-life corn-beef and cabbage chewing hustler like you is worried about me, Delaney? I'm touched."
"What's your story on this?"
I told him how Leon had met me at the airport and we had driven back here.
"That's all there was?" he asked.
I nodded. "Of what I saw."
Delaney propped one foot on the bench and rested a forearm on his raised leg. "Then if I was you, Old Son," he said, jabbing the air in front of my nose with a thick finger, "I'd haul my ass out'a here. If there's anything else, I'll be in touch."
I wagged my head. "I'll stick around awhile and see what pops. Last time I did that Dominic Portello came close enough to smell the garlic. You know Dominic, Delaney? He likes dirty cops in a big way."
His chin took a momentary dip and he chuckled grimly. "You're just punchin' all my buttons, ain't ya?"
I moved my foot on the bench, making sure I scuffed his shiny Italian boot. "The Portellos and I go way back, Delaney. They won't like hearing how you've been puttin' the arm on one of their people."
He glanced back toward Eli's body and asked in feigned surprise, "You tellin' me old Eli was runnin' dope, or somethin'?"
"Two weeks from now they'll be a replacement for Eli. And you'll be boxed in concrete. That answer your question?"
He jerked upright, letting his marked boot hit the concrete with a loud thud; his cheeks pink with fermenting rage. "I'm beginning to take a real dislike to you, Bishop."
I closed the distance between us until we were toe-to-toe. "What was the deal, Delaney? You wanted to cut in and Eli balked?"
Delaney backed pedaled a step. And from the look on his face I could tell my remarks had hit a soft spot somewhere.
"You been real busy, Old Son!" he gritted. "I see I'm gonna' have to keep an eye on you."
I blew him a kiss. "Only if you're really serious about us."
He pinked, again. This time he unbuttoned his suit coat. "Where's the Pug?"
I nodded toward the front door. "Leon's waiting for you. He's got the idea you killed Eli."
Delaney took out a wear-worn revolver and checked the rounds in its cylinder. "Drunk?"
"Don't worry, Delaney. I'll be right behind you making sure nothing goes wrong."
A gust of wind rippled across the big cops shoulders bringing the pungent scent of Jade-East.
"You threatening me, Old Son?" he grinned.
"Right down to your big feet."
Delaney pursed his thin lips a moment. "Leon gets mean when he drinks, killin' mean. And Eli was not on the best of terms with the pug. That stepdaughter of Leon's. Nice lookin' young piece who likes nice things and ain't fussy how she get's 'em. You hear where I'm comin' from, Bishop?"
I had and did not like the sound of it. What was worse, I was no longer certain Delaney was behind Eli's killing. However, I was far from convinced that Leon had done it. The cop holstered his weapon and moved past me, into the house. I purposely crowded him from behind.
We found Leon staggering around the living room carrying a full fifth of scotch. A booze-flush colored the grime on the boxer's face. When he spotted us, Leon let go a roar of gravelly laughter before stopping in front of a vacant-eyed television.
"Time to talk, Pug," Delaney said, as he faced the boxer. "No trouble, understand?"
"Too goddamn late, Delaney!" Leon slurred and waved the booze bottle like it was a banner. Then, he leered at us like a one-eyed cat that had just cleared out a fishbowl. "Killed your money-machine, didn't I?"
The boxer's surprise confession left me stunned and silent for a moment. Finally I blurted, "The only thing Leon's ever killed is a bet."
Leon shook the bottle at me and shouted, "You keep shut, Mister."
I looked down at the coffee table. The ashtray had been emptied and wiped clean; the glasses were gone. While I had been outside entertaining myself with Delaney, Leon had been cleaning up. Leon, or someone else.
Delaney's eyes darted in my direction, then he asked Leon in a surprised voice, "You sayin' you did that out there, Pug?"
Leon cackled before staggering forward like a rubber man. "Shot the bastard. Blew my brother to hell, where he belongs."
"Where's the gun, Pug?" Delaney asked, clearly as confused as I.
"Don't be a fool, Delaney," I chided. "There's more to this than anything between Eli and Leon."
Leon took a long swig from the fifth, and then collapsed to one knee. "For me to know and you to find out, Copper," he giggled, after getting his feet back under himself. Then, his eyes focused upon me as he tugged at his baggy denims, like a man getting ready to wade high water. "Don't nobody need you 'round here, Mister. Best get goin'."
"Whatever you've got in mind, Leon, it won't work," I countered.
Delaney took out his handcuffs, and moved toward Leon. "Set the bottle down, Pug," he said. "After that, we'll do it by the numbers."
The front door banging stopping Delaney's advance. Heavy footsteps pounded across the foyer. A moment later a tall, thick, redheaded man stormed into the room. His face was crimson and streaming with sweat. There were gray splotches in the hair at his temples and a glistening bald spot, on his skull's crown.
"I heard the goddamn call, Delaney," the redhead boomed. His voice was low enough to give purgatory a flushing. "I came here and found your driver sitting in his own puke and one of our leading citizen's laying out on the lawn as vulture bait. What the hell's going on?"
The big cop nodded toward Leon. "Pug, here, went off the deep end, J-D," he casually explained. "Admitted to it straight off. I warned you it was comin'."
"Good as hanged, J-D," Leon slurred, happily.
The big redhead grimaced at Leon, in disgust. "Why?
Leon grabbed two angry handfuls of empty air, took a swing at something invisible, missed and tumbled to his knees. "Told you why, J-D," he screamed as he clawed his way up the side of a chair. "Told you what he's doin' to Betsy. Told you make it stop."