An Unmarked Grave (3 page)

I studied his photo. At twenty-five, Justin Jeremy Chester,
his black hair parted in the middle and hanging down to his
shoulders, was as thin as the proverbial rail. There was a
haunted look in his eyes, as if the poor guy was trying to find
someplace he truly belonged. He had two years of college at
my alma mater, the University of Texas, where his grades
suggested he majored in fraternities and sororities before
flunking out. I chuckled to myself. The proverbial rolling
stone and good-time Charlie.

Curiously enough, one fact didn't fit with the others. After he left home, he never touched the bank account his father had set up for him.

I frowned when Tricia mentioned that fact. She explained.
"Father set up bank accounts for all of us when we were in school, until we were on our own. You know, so we wouldn't
always be asking him for money." She paused and glanced
at her brother and sister. With a glint of defiance in her eyes,
she added, "He kept twenty-five thousand dollars in them.
When an account got down to ten, he built it back up"

When I glanced at Frank and Vanessa, they looked away
as if not wanting to admit they had enjoyed such bounty
from their father.

"One other thing," I added. "It will make my search easier if I can say there is a reward for those who provide us
useful information."

Vanessa looked back around sharply, her eyes blazing.
"Not from my share. I-" She caught herself and looked
up at her brother and sister in defiance. "Let Justin spend
his own money"

So, by tacit agreement, Justin would pay for information
leading to his own discovery with his own money. What a
loving, supportive family!

The process of locating missing persons isn't difficult.
That's why most agencies start their neophyte PIs on it.

To locate a missing person, you start with the most obvious source, the local phone book, and expand from there.
That was my job with Blevins Security when I began a few
years back. At that time, tedium was the name of the process, for many agencies had yet to tinker with computers.

I had a working knowledge of them from my days teaching English at Madison High in Austin. After several months
of building my own database of sources on the computer, I
became a whiz at running down skips and locating missing
persons.

So, that night, when I returned to my apartment on PaytonGin Road, I flipped on my desktop computer. While it ran
through the start-up cycle, I nuked a bowl of milk for A.B.,
my cat, and poured him a bowl of cat nuggets. I couldn't
help noticing he moved gingerly around the apartment. Who
could blame him? With sympathetic reluctance, I'd had him
neutered the day before.

"Sorry, old guy, but it was for the best. You're an inside
cat now."

I started to pop a beer, but my conscience prevailed. I'd
missed my last two AA meetings, so I was feeling guilty.
Instead, I opened a can of Diet Coke.

All of my location sources were in the same folder, so it
was simple to pull up a Web site, input Justin Jeremy Chester,
and click.

Within thirty minutes I had half a dozen leads, all by that
name, all forty years old, and, unfortunately, all scattered to
every corner of the country. To be honest, I didn't figure any
of them would bear fruit, and I was right. Within another few
minutes, I crossed off the last one.

Then I started on Justin's friends, what few the three siblings could remember.

The first few I contacted were of no help whatsoever. A
couple had to stop and think when I mentioned Justin's
name. "Wow!" George Elkins exclaimed. "You know, I'd
forgotten all about old Justin. Jeez, can you imagine?"

Then I called B. B. Cook. The name didn't register with
me until I realized B. B. Cook was Bartholomew Cook, my
insurance agent.

When I identified myself on the telephone, he grew concerned. "Nothing wrong, is there, Tony? Service all
right, huh?"

I laughed and explained why I had called. I guess the
good Lord takes care of inept dummies like me, because
Bartholomew gave me my first lead. It was over a year old,
but he had heard down on Sixth Street that Justin once
bussed tables on the Riverwalk in San Antonio.

A few of my database sources retrieve criminal records
for a nominal fee, so within a few more minutes I discovered that-while nothing serious popped up for the last fifteen years, from the time Justin dropped out of college until
he disappeared-he'd been arrested a few times, although
there were no convictions. I grinned, the cynic in me seeing
the handiwork of a rich father.

At that moment, the phone rang. I recognized the soft,
dulcet tones of Janice Coffman-Morrison, my significant
other.

"Hi, Tony"

"Janice"

We had met a few years earlier when I worked for an insurance company. I helped her out of a little jam, and we began seeing each other. Her Aunt Beatrice Morrison owned
and was CEO of the Chalk Hills Distillery west of Austin.

Over the years, I escorted Janice to many of the soirees
her aunt hosted. For me, a country boy from Church Point,
Louisiana, to whom sitting on a riverbank fishing for gaspergou and shoepick was as close to heaven as I figured I would
ever get, those affairs made me realize that even among the
very rich, there are still levels of social position.

Beatrice Morrison, arguably the richest woman in Texas, commandeered the top level. And those below strove for
her approval.

Janice bubbled, "Aunt Beatrice's annual Winter Ball is in
a couple weeks. You haven't forgotten, have you?"

I chuckled. "Of course not" I knew her well enough to
know another shoe was about to drop.

After a pause, she added, "She wondered if you would
mind preparing a bowl of Cajun gumbo for the affair, about
five gallons"

There it was. I laughed. "You know I will" While Beatrice
Morrison held little love for me, she worshipped the Cajun
dishes I walked on-I mean, whipped up-dishes handed
down by Acadians from the time of their dispersal from
Nova Scotia a couple hundred years back.

"Good"

I changed the subject. "I thought you were leaving town
today"

"I am. Aunt Beatrice and I are taking her private jet to
Dallas for the spring fashion show at Neiman Marcus. Our
wardrobes are so worn and out of style"

To my poor little rich girl, worn meant she had donned an
article of clothing twice, three times at the most. And out of
style meant she had purchased the item at least three months
earlier.

"Well, have fun. Call when you get back"

In Austin, I know which way is north and which way is
south. I've never figured out how or why, but somewhere between Austin and San Antonio, Nature gets cute and switches
directions on me. I always come into San Antonio from the
east, not the north. It's been that way for over twenty years.

Though I'm embarrassed to admit it, when I was a freshman at UT, several of us frat boys decided to head to Laredo
for a weekend. The route cut through San Antonio. I was
driving. It was late. The others were sleeping. When I hit the
loop, my sense of direction turned me east toward Houston.

Fortunately I caught my error a few miles out and looped
back. We made Laredo by morning, but it is most disconcerting to be driving south but feeling you're heading west.

Over the ensuing years, I'd driven to San Antonio enough
to ignore my sense of direction. So midmorning the next day,
without getting lost, I pulled my Silverado pickup into the
parking garage of the Toreador Towers on the Riverwalk.

As always at the Toreador, as soon as I pushed through the
double doors, the ringing strains of the "Toreador's Song"
from Georges Bizet's opera Carmen blared out, ostensibly
calling attention to the newest guest of the hotel.

From various sources I've heard that the "Hispanic"
word toreador was created by the French lyricist, Bizet, for
rhyming purposes. The rationale was that the word torero
was not long enough for a verse in one of the songs in his
opera. True or not, it's a neat piece of trivia to throw out
when you're standing around a bar betting for drinks.

After I checked in, I headed for the Riverwalk, but not
before placing a thin strand of carpet fiber between the
door to my room and the jamb. I know, I know. CIA-type
stuff, but the truth is, often in my line of work, I find some
individuals very opposed to my carrying out my job.

For November, the weather was pleasant, and tourists
strolled the quaint sidewalks.

The San Antonio Riverwalk follows the bed of the old San
Antonio River more or less, wending its serpentine course through the middle of the city. High overhead, automobiles
and buses crowd the streets of the city. Steep flights of stairs
lead from the streets overhead to the sidewalks below.

Flagstone walks twenty feet wide line either side of the
river, which itself is about thirty or so feet in width. Stone
walls, decorated with striking murals portraying the history of the city, shore up the banks, and graceful pedestrian bridges of native stone arch over the river.

Through the heart of the exotic city, plush hotels, the room
rates of which make me cringe, line the walk, their expansive
verandas overlooking the river. Between the five-star hotels
are jammed every imaginable type of restaurant, grill, coffeehouse, pizzeria, cookshack, lunch wagon, and bar.

Often, to carry out a job, PIs create a cover story, a pretext,
but for this job, the truth was best. I was looking for the missing heir of a multimillion-dollar estate. If anyone provided
information helping me locate the individual, they would be
rewarded accordingly.

Rewards always seem to promote interest in a situation. I
don't know if that's an indictment of our current society or
not. All I know is that it works, and I use it every time the
situation is appropriate.

Even for November, the day was warm. By noon I had
visited over thirty bars and restaurants. With a long sigh, I
parked my weary frame in a chair in the shadow of a large
umbrella in front of the Villa hotel and, enjoying the breeze
sweeping along the river, indulged in an ice-cold margarita,
with, I might add, very few thoughts of and absolutely no
regrets about AA.

One of the pleasures of sitting in the shade of the large
umbrellas and sipping a cold drink is the chance to study the people walking by. From giggling girls in short-shorts
to men in business suits, the Riverwalk hosted a smorgasbord of humanity.

Half an hour and another margarita later, I continued my
search.

I hadn't taken ten steps when I jerked to a halt and peered
across the river at a woman on the patio of Beamer's Bourbons. She wore a pale blue sleeveless sheath dress with a
darker belt about her slender waist.

My ex-wife, Diane.

called out to her. When she looked around, I waved. At
first she frowned; then, when she recognized me, she motioned me over.

Diane and I had parted amicably years before. We'd been
high school sweethearts and married right after graduation,
but within a short time the everyday grind of a much-toosoon marriage slowly erased the rosy blush of young love.
Fortunately, we had no children, only an aquarium of exotic
fish.

I got the fish, she got everything else, and we were both
happy. She left Austin, and I lost touch with her. A few
years later I found her in Vicksburg, where I had accompanied my old friend Jack Edney to the reading of his father's
will. Jack, who was a high school coach when I was teaching English, ended up with several million dollars.

The next year, Diane showed up in Austin, and, not wanting to become involved with her again, I introduced her
to Jack. They hit it off and just recently married.

I had my doubts about the marriage. I read somewhere
that the most important thing in a marriage was that one of
the partners should be willing to take orders. And neither Diane nor Jack fit into that category. So the ensuing fireworks
never surprised me.