A Song to Die For (15 page)

“Duke Bible,” the diver said, shaking Hooley's hand.

“Find anything?”

“Visibility was poor. It was slow going. We didn't find anything useful out by that submerged cypress snag, other than a few shards of glass. Bagged 'em up for you.” He jutted his thumb at a cardboard box in the back of the truck that presumably held the scant evidence. “There was a bunch of other crap down there that I didn't bother collecting.”

“Like what?” Hooley said.

“An old tire. A cinder block with some broken trotline tied to it.”

The ranger nodded. “Typical fishermen stuff.”

“Exactly.”

“Where did you find the pieces of glass?”

“The sketch in my report will show you exactly where, but generally, it seems to support your theory that a boat may have left this dock at high speed, hit the snag, and thrown the victim through the windshield just beyond the snag.”

Hooley glanced at his Rolex. “Find anything around the docks?”

Bible grabbed a towel and polished the glass on his diving mask. “A history of the beer bottling industry, rusty pocket knives, fishing weights, about ten dollars in change, and…” He carefully set his mask aside and reached into the cardboard box. “… two shell casings.” He lifted a plastic sandwich baggie into view, containing the brass shells.

Hooley removed his sunglasses as he took the baggie. “Twenty-two caliber,” he muttered. “They don't look like they've been in the lake very long.”

“Not more than a few days. They were on top of the muck.”

“Good work, Duke. Where'd you find 'em?”

“End of the pier. A little bon voyage salute?”

“Hell of a send-off, huh?” Ranger Johnson collected the evidence and turned back toward his truck. As he walked toward the parking lot, he happened to see that The Crew's Inn had opened for business. Maybe he and F.B.I. Agent Doolittle should have an off-duty beer there this evening. Hell, why not?

*   *   *

He found Doc Brewster in the morgue at 11:17.

“We've got to stop meeting like this,” Brewster said, no humor in his voice as he slid the drawer open to reveal the lifeless body of Celinda Morales. “I wanted to be a small-town doctor until this job came up. Days like this, I wish I was delivering babies.”

Hooley could only nod his understanding. “What did you find?”

“Two twenty-two-caliber bullets through the heart. Instant death. The bullets were still in her body. They're being cataloged as evidence. She had powder burns on her clothing and flesh. The muzzle must have been pressed right up against her chest.” He made a pistol of his index finger and thumb and pressed it against his own chest as a visual aide. “The shooter angled slightly down. No signs of a struggle.”

“Sounds like a professional hit.”

“Nothing like the death of the other girl. If that was a hit, it was botched. This one was textbook.” Brewster habitually removed his glasses to polish them on his lab coat. “You think the same killer was responsible?”

Hooley nodded as he slowly shoved the drawer closed. “The girls knew each other. Lived in the same sorority house at UT.”

“But what about the different MO?”

“Good question. In Rosa's case, she was on the run from her killer. She knew she was in trouble. On her way to Austin, she stopped and called her friend Celinda. Phone records all but prove that. I'm not sure what happened on the lake yet, but I'm sure it wasn't an accident. After murdering Rosa, her killer found out she had made a phone call to Celinda, and decided to make sure Celinda would never talk about that phone call. Celinda never saw it coming, so the hit came off clean. The weapon was a twenty-two with Celinda. The divers found two twenty-two casings at the boat dock near where Rosa died.”

Doc Brewster gestured toward the door and began to walk that way. “But there were no casings found in Celinda's apartment.”

“Right. Either the killer picked them up, or he used a different twenty-two. Maybe a revolver.”

They walked out of the cold morgue, into the hallway. “Two young women. So, who's next?”

“I've got the same gut feelin' eatin' at me, Doc. I ain't gonna sleep good till I catch this trigger-happy son-of-a-bitch.”

*   *   *

Hooley went to Matt's El Rancho for lunch, and ordered up a plate of beef enchiladas. He couldn't finish the whole order. Matt, the restaurant owner and a former prizefighter of some renown, stopped by Hooley's table to shoot the breeze and seemed insulted that Hooley had not eaten his whole meal.

“It ain't the food, Matt. I just got through looking at a dead body this morning.”

“Good way to get down to your fighting weight. I never thought about that one.”

Hooley got Matt to tell some boxing stories to take his mind off the case for a while, then he glanced at his watch and realized he needed to haul ass to the airport and meet the F.B.I. agent who was flying in to assist with the case. This Special Agent Doolittle probably thought he was flying in to take over, but Hooley wasn't about to let that happen.

*   *   *

He got to Austin-Mueller Airport at the stroke of one o'clock. He parked and strolled inside to find that the flight from Vegas had arrived. Apparently, more than one flight had just arrived because it looked as if somebody had opened a gate and released all humanity on him. He stood at the entrance to the terminal, the only way out, figuring any fed worth his salt would be able to spot a six-foot-four Ranger wearing a Resistol and a sidearm.

Several of the disembarking passengers took note of him. He had been on TV in connection with several different high-profile cases in the last few years. He had to admit that he didn't mind the celebrity. He just didn't feel worthy of it right now. One young man approached him and asked if he was “that Ranger.”

“I reckon I am. One of 'em anyway.”

“Saw you on the tube.”

He saw a young black man approaching him next. A businessman, he guessed, dressed in a sharp black suit, carrying luggage.

“Are you Captain Johnson?” the young black man asked.

“Yes, I am,” he replied, impressed that this one actually knew his name.

“Special Agent Mel Doolittle, F.B.I.” The sharp-dressed agent extended his hand.

Hooley just stared, dumbfounded.

“Oh…” said Special Agent Doolittle. “I see they forgot to mention the pigmentation situation.” He smiled, as if amused by Hooley's surprise.

Hooley stared at the young black man's hand, extended toward him, the palm slightly turned up, waiting. Doolittle remained patient; his hand never wavering, demanding attention. Finally Hooley grasped the man's hand, found the handshake firm and confident.

“Captain Hooley Johnson. Texas Rangers.” He nodded his Resistol toward the exit. “This way.”

Special Agent Mel Doolittle fell in beside the ranger. “Where'd you get a name like Hooley?”

“Short for Julio.” He looked over Doolittle's bags: a suitcase, a briefcase, and some kind of black leather case about the size of a cinder block.

“I see.” They covered several long strides. “Where'd you get a name like Julio?”

“My mother named me after my father,” he growled, “but I never knew that sorry son-of-a-bitch.”

“Julio? Was your father Mexican-American?” the agent said in a small-talk sort of voice.

Inquisitive runt, Hooley thought. “That's an insult to Mexican people everywhere. He was white trash. I was raised by my grandfather. My mother's father. He was a good man.”

“Already we've got something in common. I'm very close to my grandfather, and I never knew my father, either.”

Hooley led the way to the parking lot. “Might be the last thing we have in common, but it's something, I guess.” He regretted his surly tone, and tried to soften it. “So, your daddy run off, too?”

“No, he was a cop in Chicago. Killed in the line of duty when I was still in diapers.”

Hooley led the way toward the truck in the parking lot. “Mel. Short for Melvin?”

“No, my parents named me after Melenik the First, king of Ethiopia, son of Solomon and Sheba.”

Hooley jutted his thumb at the bed of the truck, and Doolittle threw his suitcase in. “Hop in, your majesty.”

As Hooley started the truck, Special Agent Mel Doolittle jumped in the passenger side with his briefcase and the leather-covered cinder block. He slammed the door so hard that Hooley flinched. Hooley lightly pulled his door closed. He glanced and saw Doolittle looking for seat belts, but they were all lost down the crack of the bench seat.

“I'll want to see both crime scenes,” Agent Doolittle announced. “Then you can take me to D.P.S. headquarters and show me what kind of evidence you've got.”

Hooley jammed the truck into reverse gear, but left his foot on the clutch. “Slow down, hot rod. You just landed and you're on my stompin' grounds now. Of course I'll take you to the crime scenes. On the way, you can tell me what
you
know that I
don't
know.”

“Of course,” Doolittle said, opening his brief case. “Fair enough.”

Hooley backed out of the parking space as Doolittle began.

“Let's start with the late Rob Martini, brother of mob boss Paulo ‘Papa' Martini.”

“Rosa's father?”

“Yes, Rosabella's father.”

“Her friends called her Rosa. So, what do you have on Rob Martini?”

“Compared to Paulo, he was pretty clean. He ran a few nice restaurants. He died in his sleep a couple years ago of a stroke. No telling what kind of information he took to his grave. Rosabella, a.k.a. ‘Rosa,' Martini was adopted. The rumor in the family was that her parents bought her from an illegal immigrant, a Mexican hotel maid, but they always told Rosa she had come from Italy.”

Hooley was turning right onto Airport Boulevard. “But she knew she was adopted?”

“She found out, but apparently never knew she was non-Italian. Rosa was clean. Her father shielded her from the organized crime side of the family.”

Hooley heard himself sigh with relief. He wanted her to have been a good girl. “And then what happened? Did she get crossways with the family somehow?”

“That's what I came here to find out. At this point, it's all speculation.”

“Don't hold out on me, Mel. I can speculate with the best of 'em.”

The young F.B.I. agent let out a sigh of frustration. “I'd prefer you refer to me as Special Agent Doolittle at this point, Captain Johnson.”

Hooley shrugged as he merged onto southbound I-35 and stomped on the foot-feed. “Suit yourself, but if some shooter's about to blow your head off, it would be a lot easier for me to just holler, ‘Mel!'”

Doolittle winced as Hooley swerved into traffic, garnering horn blasts and finger salutes from other drivers. “Okay …
Hooley
 … I see your point. Here's the speculation: We have reports from the Las Vegas Police that Rosa visited the police station less than twenty-four hours before her death. We're trying to get video from some surveillance cameras, but the police are stalling.”

“Stalling?”

“Rosa used to date a local cop. A Lieutenant Jake Harbaugh. Maybe the locals are protecting him. We don't know yet.”

“This Hairball dirty?”

“
Harbaugh
. We don't know. He's been spotted with Franco Martini a couple of times.”

“Franco? Now, who the hell is Franco?”

“Rosa's cousin. Adopted cousin, that is.”

Hooley visualized the branches of the Martini family tree: “Rosa's adopted father's brother's son?”

“You got it. Franco is Papa Martini's son, right-hand man, and reputed muscle, suspected of several mob hits.”

“With a twenty-two pistol?”

“That's his usual MO. He likes a semiauto with a silencer.”

As Hooley sped down the freeway, weaving in and out of traffic, Mel Doolittle continued to brief him on Franco's rumored hits until he crossed the Colorado River, which was also Town Lake, and exited onto Riverside Drive.

“I guess you know what my next question is,” Hooley said, testing the agent.

“Where was Franco when Rosa died?”

“And Celinda.”

“We don't know. We try to keep Franco under almost constant surveillance, but he and Papa Martini had gone off to the mountain retreat that they call ‘the ranch,' and we don't have any way to watch them there without blowing our cover.”

“So he has no alibi.”

“I'm sure he'll claim he was at the ranch, but we can't verify that.”

Hooley noticed that Mel was opening the leather case shaped like a cinder block. “Just out of curiosity, what does Franco drive?”

“He has a hell of a car collection. His favorite seems to be his Shelby GT.”

“No shit? I met Carol Shelby. Hell of a guy.”

Mel opened the lid on the leather case. “Carol Shelby?”

“The designer of the Shelby GT. Race car driver. Carol Shelby. You never heard of him?”

Mel shook his head and pulled a telephone receiver out of the leather box, attached by a spiraled cord. “I don't follow automobile racing.”

“You into basketball? How about that Lew Alcinder? What does he call himself now?”

“Kareem something? I don't know; I don't have time for basketball. Too many games to watch.” Mel was pushing buttons inside the leather case, and listening to the telephone receiver.

“Football?”

“No, I'm a track and field man. I barely missed the cut for the Olympic Decathlon when I was in college at Delaware State.” He thumped the telephone receiver on the dashboard and listened to it again.

“Easy on my dashboard, hot rod. What the hell is that thing you've got there?”

“The latest thing we're testing,” Mel said. “It's a portable telephone.”