A Song to Die For (32 page)

Franco's trot slowed as he took in the scene. The squad cars belonged to the County Sheriff's Department. As he neared the house, an object came into view above the roof at the end of the cable, the crane's diesel motor revving to lift it over the house. Though covered with muck and algae that dripped onto the roof of the house as the crane lifted it over, Franco could tell that it was a boat. And not just any boat, either, but a battered old woody! His heart raced, and it wasn't from the run.

Jogging by the squad cars, he made out the brand name of the vessel in slime-covered chrome on the side:
Correct Craft.
The hull was bashed in pretty badly. The windshield was shattered. He even made out his own bullet hole. As he trotted on by, he glanced at the name on the mailbox: Biggerstaff. The address was 335 Channel View.

A smaller flatbed awaited the boat, attached to a pickup truck with a D.P.S. paint job. Tarps waited to cover the evidence. A trooper with a camera took numerous photos as the boat swung toward the waiting flatbed.

A Ford Ranger came around the corner ahead of Franco. He knew the truck. It belonged to the Texas Ranger, Johnson. It accelerated alarmingly toward the scene, and then skidded to a halt. The ranger leapt out, leaving his door open and his engine running.

“Goddamnit!” the lawman bellowed. “I said keep it low profile! Get these county vehicles out of here! Turn those strobe lights off!”

The photographer got a couple of good shots of the ranger cussing the deputies up and down, ranting in the front yard of the house in question.

Franco saw the ranger look at him as he jogged by. They both wore sunglasses, like two poker players avoiding eye contact across a table. Franco forced himself to maintain his trot—just a citizen out for a casual jog. But he couldn't resist flipping the hood of the jogging suit up as a shield against the lawman's eyes that he felt drilling into the back of his head. He heard the shutter of the camera clicking more photos as the ranger started cursing again.

Franco turned on the first cross street he came to. Once out of sight, he switched his pace to an all-out sprint and arrived at his rental house winded. He ran right up to the front door and entered. Once inside, he whipped the hood off his head, then the knit cap and sunglasses, his burning lungs appreciating the warm air inside the house. Still panting, he stepped up to the window that faced the street and pulled a crack in the Venetian blinds so he could look outside.

He saw the Ford pickup trolling down the street. He narrowed the crack he had pulled in the Venetian blinds. Had the ranger seen him run this way? His heart pounded. What would he do if good ol' Ranger Johnson came to the front door? The Ford continued to prowl on down the street, and he saw the lawman's eyes searching. Old-school lawman. Hunch follower. He made Franco nervous, and that was rare. But for now, the pickup and the Texas Ranger were gone. No damage done.

Franco headed for the shower. There was work to do. He had to find the owner of 335 Channel View. Biggerstaff. The cops were already ahead of him on that. They had obviously secured a warrant to lift the Correct Craft out of the drink. They were probably interviewing the owner of the house right now. He didn't want to have to call Papa Martini on this. He stripped and stepped into the warm water spraying from the nozzle. By the time he came out of the shower stall, he had a plan.

Wrapped in a towel, Franco picked up the phone and called the information operator for the number to the county courthouse. Dialing the courthouse next, he got a receptionist on the other end, and in his best Texas drawl, said he needed to find the owner of a piece of property. The receptionist connected him with the county tax assessor-collector.

“Yeah, ma'am,” he said. “I'm trying to find my neighbor across the way, Mr. Biggerstaff. I'm keeping an eye on his lake house for him. He doesn't live here full-time. We all watch out for each other over here in Blue Cove. Anyway, I need to find a number on him. It's three thirty-five Channel View. Name's Biggerstaff.”

“Sir, you'll have to come down to the courthouse and pull those records,” the woman said.

“Oh. Well, here's the deal. I'm a disabled World War II vet. I'm in a wheelchair, and it's an ordeal gettin' around. I'd have to call my son up from Austin, and by then, you know, it could be too late to help my neighbor.”

After a pause, the woman said, “Now, why is it you want this information?”

“Oh, I saw some strangers hangin' around his place. I'm the only one who lives full-time on this street. It's all lake houses, you know. Weekenders. So I'm the friendly neighborhood watchman. They count on me. I just want to call Mr. Biggerstaff and ask if these strangers are supposed to be in his weekend house, but I can't find his number anywhere. His name is Biggerstaff. Can't recall his first name.”

The woman sighed. “Okay, let me put you on hold.”

Franco grimaced. That could mean a lot of things. Was she going to get the records, or her supervisor? The sheriff's office might be right next door to the county tax assessor-collector, for all he knew. Maybe she had heard the dispatches on the police scanner all morning long singing out “Channel View Lane.” Maybe he should have made this call from a pay phone. He gritted his teeth, and busied himself by drying off, then found a pen and a scrap of paper, in case the woman actually came through.

“Still there?” the woman finally said.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Three thirty-five Channel View, right?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“That belongs to a Charles Biggerstaff. He lives in Conroe.”

“Oh, yeah, they call him Chuck. Oh, thank you so much, darlin'. Do you have a number for ol' Chuck?”

“Sure. Seven, one, three…”

Franco scribbled as she quoted the exchange. “Thanks again. It's probably nothin', but it doesn't hurt to call, you know what I mean?”

“Yes, sir. You have a good day, now, you hear?”

“Thank you, and you do the same.” He slammed the phone down, held it there for a second, and picked it back up. He dialed the number for Charles Biggerstaff. He doubted that the feds had had time to get a subpoena to bug the phone line, and he knew he might be running out of chances to get to Biggerstaff first, so he was willing to call from the rental house rather than a pay phone somewhere. Anyway, he could bug out of this rental place within minutes if he had to.

The phone rang twice. “
Biggerstaff
,” said a voice on the other end.

“Charles Biggerstaff?”

“
Yeah, who's this?
”

“Mr. Biggerstaff, my name is John Rogers, I'm a lawyer assigned to your case by your insurance company.”

“What case?”

“The boat.”

“I haven't even put in a claim. I didn't even know the boat was wrecked until yesterday.”

“Well, apparently, you're the last one to find out. You're being sued by the family of the deceased. They put in the claim. Have you talked to the police yet?”

“
No. An F.B.I. agent is supposed to be here in about an hour.”

“Special Agent Doolittle?”

“
Yeah.”
He sounded surprised.

“I talked to him already. When he gets there, don't let him in. Don't tell him a thing.”

“
But he's on his way from Austin.”

“Don't talk to him, Mr. Biggerstaff. He doesn't have your best interest at heart. I do. Sir, you could be in real trouble. The girl that was killed on board your boat was from a mob family in Las Vegas. They play hardball. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

The line went silent for several seconds. “
Mob?
”

“The Mafia.”

“
I know what the mob means,”
he said, clearly exasperated.

“So who was driving the boat that night, Mr. Biggerstaff?”

“
I wouldn't know. I haven't been to that lake house in months. I was at a chamber of commerce banquet that night. I have hundreds of witnesses.”

“All right, then, listen carefully. Tell the F.B.I. that your lawyer advised you not to say anything. Tell them we'll set up a meeting with them soon.”

“
That's gonna look funny.”

“I can't help you if you don't cooperate, Mr. Biggerstaff.”

He mumbled a curse at the other end of the line. “
Okay, I won't talk to the agent.”

“You've got good reason. Tell them you're concerned about the Mafia angle. Tell them you need time to confer with your lawyers.”

“
How did the girl's family know to file a claim? How did they find out about the boat before I did?”

“It's the Mafia. They have ways of making people talk.”

“
Shit.”

“Now, Mr. Biggerstaff, I need to know who was driving that boat that night.”

“
I have no way of knowing that. I wasn't there.”

“Remember, everything you tell me is strictly confidential. I'm your lawyer, assigned by your insurance company. The sooner you tell me everything you know about this case, the sooner we can settle this thing, and you can get on with your life. Is there anyone else with access to the house?”

“
Well…”

“Yes?”

“
My son. I haven't spoken to him in years. We had what you might call a falling out. He has a key to the house. But that doesn't mean it was him.”

“Of course not. It probably wasn't. It was probably some kids out for a joy ride in a stolen boat. There's been a rash of that sort of thing on that lake, I'm told. What's your son's name?” Franco waited. He could feel the answer coming.

“Charles The Third.”

He clinched his fist. “And where does Charles live?”

“I have no idea. I told you I haven't spoken to him in years. That boy has always been trouble. Always.”

“Where did he live the last time you spoke to him?”

“Somewhere near Austin. He fancies himself a musician. Lives off his trust fund. Never has worked a solid day in his life. He doesn't go by his real name, either. He uses some stupid stage name. I can't even remember what it is.”

“I'm going to need to know that. Here's what I want you to do, Mr. Biggerstaff. Take down this toll free number: One, eight-hundred … Are you writing this down?”

“
Yeah, yeah … Eight hundred…”

Franco quoted the rest of the Martini family's toll free number, which came in handy for all sorts of things. “You'll get a generic answering machine. I want you to say, ‘Hey, I remembered that guy's nickname I couldn't think of. They call him, blah, blah, blah…' Then hang up. Do you understand? Your phones will probably be bugged by the feds when you turn them down for an interview, so don't let on that it has anything to do with this case. Act like you're just calling an old friend. I need to know your son's stage name as soon as possible so we can find him and establish his alibi.”

“Wouldn't it be better to let the F.B.I. do that?”

“No. Absolutely not. Don't be naive, Mr. Biggerstaff. The cops don't always care if they get the right guy, as long as they get a conviction. If I get to your son first, he
will
have an alibi. Anyway, if the feds finger your son, the mob will find out about it, and your son will be in real danger then. So let our firm handle this. This is what we do.”

“
This is a nightmare.”

“Yes, it is. This is the reason you need me. I will fix this for you, and your insurance company will foot the bill. This is the reason you've paid those premiums all these years.”

Biggerstaff moaned at the other end of the line. “
Okay. So I'll track down Charlie's stage name. Maybe my wife remembers. Then what do you want me to do?”

“Call the information into the toll free number I gave you.”

“I got that! What then?”

“Go out and play a round of golf, or go fishing, or see a movie with your wife.”

“Are you serious?”

“You've done nothing wrong. You're not guilty and you're not worried, so go about your business as usual. Whatever you enjoy in your spare time.”

“
That would be golf.”

“Keep it in the fairway.”

“
All right. Thanks.”

“Don't mention it. I'll be calling you within forty-eight hours to set up a meeting with you. In the meantime, don't talk to anybody other than me.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mr…”

“Rogers. John Rogers. Call that eight hundred number. Otherwise, don't call me, I'll call you.”

“Okay. I'll do it.”

Franco hung up the phone. The gullibility of people sometimes amazed him. He had honed it to a science. Create fear, then offer a way out of it.

His next call: the information operator. How many Charles Biggerstaffs could there be in Austin, Texas? He could taste the end of this ordeal on the tip of his tongue, and it tasted like blood.

 

32

CHAPTER

The groove felt surprisingly good. Creed had thrown his partially finished song, “My Luck Is Gonna Change,” out to the band to finish. Tump and Trusty Joe had jumped all over it, bandying lyrics back and forth like Ping-Pong balls. Then Trusty had suggested changing “the point of view of the listener.”

“What do you mean by that?” Tump had asked.

“Instead of saying ‘Then I saw you standing by the roadside…,' say ‘Then I saw
her
standing by the roadside.…' Makes it less of a love song, and more of a story song.”

Tump had nodded. “So we're not singing
to
her anymore, we're singing
about
her.”