Death in the Distillery (22 page)

By the time I finished my third cup of coffee, I decided
that Danny O'Banion or his bosses had, for whatever reason, contacted Marty. Only the threat of being altered into
a biodegradable substance would make Marty give up the
four hundred a day Beatrice Morrison was paying.

I muttered to the pictures on the snack bar. "But why?"

The simple conclusion was that someone wanted me to
stay away from the distillery. I shook my head. It didn't
make sense. Danny must have passed the word that I was
backing off the murder angle.

So why put the muscle on Marty?

Suddenly, my brain took one of those all too infrequent
giant leaps. Someone put the muscle on Marty because they
thought I was snooping too much. Which meant there was
something out there that they-whoever they were-didn't
want anyone to find.

And that meant I was on the right trail. A charge of
adrenaline surged through my veins. I leaned back on the
barstool and stared at the ceiling. "Okay, Marty, you got
it. I'll be in bright and early Monday morning. But, this is
Saturday, and I've got today and tomorrow, two days."

A sharp knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. It
was Joe Ray. He pushed inside, carrying a small bag. "I got the stuff. I didn't call. I just came on over after my
shift."

My heart thudded against my chest. Now we would see
if the bat was the murder weapon. I nodded to the snack
bar. "Get some coffee. I'll get the bat."

Moments later I laid the bat on the snack bar. Joe Ray
pulled out a can of luminol and sprayed a liberal coat of
the liquid on the bat. He plugged in the hand-held ultraviolet light. "Okay. Close the blinds and turn out the
lights."

My hands trembled with excitement. If the bat was the
murder weapon, that would point to Claude as the killer. I
grimaced. There was no way I could figure him being the
perp. No way. But, I had to know. I snapped off the kitchen
light and turned to the snack bar, expecting to see a bright
yellow fluorescent glow.

Nothing.

I glanced at Joe Ray. "Is it dark enough in here?"

"Yeah, it's dark enough. See for yourself. No blood on
this baby, Tony." He hesitated, chuckled. "I guess I should
have said, don't see for yourself."

With a mixture of disappointment and relief, I flipped
the light switch. "Thanks anyway, Joe Ray."

He shrugged and placed the items in his bag. "What's it
all about?" He poured some coffee.

I grinned crookedly. "A long story, and it's one of those
you don't need to know. A case of better off not knowing."

He arched an eyebrow and sipped his coffee. "Then,
don't tell me."

"Thanks. I owe you."

I stood at the door as Joe Ray drove away. I hesitated,
glancing up and down the street. I blinked and looked
again. Then I stepped out on the small porch and peered
up and down the street again.

Huey was nowhere around.

One of my favorite lines in Julius Caesar is Brutus' observation, "There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the
voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries."

To translate 17th century dialogue to the vernacular of
the 20th century, jump when you get the chance.

1 -jumped.

Grabbing my notes, the snapshots, and my scribbling, I
hurried outside and hopped in my pickup. The tires
squealed as I sped south on Travis, taking the first corner
on two wheels, expecting at any moment to see the leering
front end of the black Lexus pulling in behind me. I took
the next four corners the same way until I crossed 360 and
hit Bee Tree Road.

Once on the winding road through the limestone hills
outside of Austin, I breathed easier. Traffic was light, but
I kept a close watch on the rear. No sign of the Lexus,
which puzzled me. Huey was too faithful to blow his job.
Using my questionable powers of deduction, I decided
Danny, after laying down the law to Marty, had pulled
Huey off the job.

The only sign of life at Chalk Hills was a scattering of
doves, a circling red-tailed hawk, and a few darting sparrows. I drove straight to Patterson's cabin, noticing that
same calico cat grooming herself on the stack of firewood
against his house.

Without looking left or right, I entered the cabin, flipped
on the light, and locked the door behind me. I didn't want
to be disturbed. Quickly, I slid the gun cabinet from the
wall and gave the dial a spin.

"All right," I whispered. "Let's see if you got it right
now, Tony. Right four, then left two." Quickly I dialed in
the remaining numbers-one, two, one, and zero.

Nothing.

I dialed again, this time starting left.

Still nothing.

I sat back on my haunches and stared at the dial and then
at the numbers on the scrap of paper. A sense of frustration welled in my chest. This had to be the combination. "Uh,
oh." I spotted another combination in the set of numbers.
The one, two, one, zero could be twelve and ten.

My heart thudded in my chest. I licked my dry lips, gave
the dial a spin and then started right four, left two, right
twelve, left ten. I thought I heard a click, but my heart was
beating so loud, I couldn't be sure.

Gingerly, I tugged at the handle.

The top came off.

I suppressed a shout of triumph.

Suddenly, someone knocked on the door.

Christ! I glanced at the door, then peered into the safe.
There was a single envelope. Quickly, I stuffed it in my
shirt pocket, dropped the lid back on the safe, and slid the
gun cabinet against the wall as the knocking started again.

"Hey! What's going on in there? Open the door!" I recognized David Runnels' gravelly voice.

"Just a minute!" I shouted, hurrying to the door. I made
a show of studying the knob when I opened the door.
"Look at that. It locked itself. Wonder how that happened?"

Runnels remained in the open doorway. He frowned.
"What's going on?"

"Oh, hi. What's up?" I played the innocent.

"What was the door locked for?" He eyed me suspiciously, then glanced at my chest.

"Beats me." I shrugged. "I came out to look around one
more time before I give Mrs. Morrison my last report. The
door locked on me." I looked around the room, hoping my
nonchalance would temper his suspicion. "You might need
to check it."

From the corner of my eye, I saw him studying the room.

I turned to him. "Did you need something from me, Mr.
Runnels?"

He looked at my chest again, then met my eyes. "Huh?
Oh, no. I saw you come in, and I just wondered what was
going on."

I glanced down. My heart pounded when I spotted the
envelope sticking out of my shirt pocket. I tried to ignore it. "Good. Saves me coming over to see you. I had another
question. About last Sunday." I pulled my notebook from
my shirt pocket and casually shoved the envelope snugly
into my pocket. "You said you stepped outside just as the
tractor passed the tree. I think you said that it was a few
seconds later that you spotted Patterson. Right?"

He shrugged and cleared his throat. "Yeah. When I
stepped outside, the tractor was going past the tree. Like I
told you, I didn't see nothing else for a few seconds, and
then this dark pile sort of squirted out from the discs."

I held my breath, hoping he had seen someone dangling
from the tree or racing to the distillery. "You see anyone
else out there? Maybe hanging from the tree."

"Hanging from the tree? What the Sam Hill for?"

"I'm just asking. Did you?"

"No. Not a soul. Why?"

I grimaced. I was missing something. "You sure you saw
no-one-running to the distillery?"

His forehead wrinkled in a frown. "I told you. I didn't
see nobody. You want me to write it down for you on that
little notebook? What else do you want?"

"One more question. Did you go back into the barn before Mrs. Morrison showed up?"

He frowned. "No. I stood where I was, and when I saw
Mrs. Morrison come out of the distillery, I went to meet
her."

I tried not to frown. "Thanks, Mr. Runnels." He remained fixed in the doorway. I turned sideways and edged
past him. "Excuse me. I'm finished here. I've seen all I
need to see."

Back in the pickup, I rethought my theory of the murder.
If Patterson was murdered-and at that moment I was willing to bet every cent I had that he was-how did the killer
vanish? From the time the poor slob fell from the tractor
until the discs passed over him couldn't have taken more
than twenty seconds.

Runnels saw the tractor just as it passed the tree. A few seconds later, he spotted Patterson. And then he saw Morrison come out of the distillery. The killer had nowhere to
run. Morrison on one side, Runnels on the other. So how
did the killer simply vanish?

With a shake of my head, I shifted the truck into gear
and headed back to Austin. As I topped the hill above the
distillery, I glanced back. Runnels stood outside the maintenance barn watching after me.

In my disappointment, I'd forgotten the envelope. Now,
I yanked it from my pocket and fumbled to open it while
trying to stay on the narrow road. I ran onto the shoulder
three times, but finally, I ripped the end from the envelope.
Several snapshots fell into my lap and spilled to the floorboard.

I muttered a curse and slid the truck to a halt on the
graveled shoulder. Quickly, I retrieved the snapshots.

My eyes bulged. "I don't believe it," I muttered, my
numbed brain trying to absorb the reality of the images.

Slowly, I viewed the others, five in all. All framed the
same two individuals-Beatrice Morrison and Thomas Seldes-naked as the day they were born, and in a variety of
positions.

The rackhouse supervisor and the owner of the distillery.
I shook my head. Unbelievable. The pictures were oldnine years, according to the date on the back.

Suddenly, everything fell into place. Now, I had a motive, a dandy motive. But, who was Patterson blackmailing,
Morrison or Seldes? I shook my head. It had to be Seldes.

But what could have set the muscular man off? What
reason could he have had for going ballistic and killing
Patterson? I hesitated. There was a flaw in my theory. And
not a tiny one either.

When the victim killed his blackmailer, he either had the
incriminating documents in his hand, or knew how to put
his hands on them. Had Seldes destroyed what he thought
was the only set of pictures, not realizing Patterson had
another set? That was the only logical explanation. On the other hand, surely Patterson was smart enough to warn Seldes there were extra copies.

I slid the snapshots back into the envelope, but they
jammed on something.

I peered inside. There was another scrap of folded paper.
I opened it and exploded in curses. "You dirty, no-goodEmmett Patterson, you-" The words stuck in my throat.
I stared at another set of cryptic numbers: 2-91147878969632.

I jammed the paper back into the envelope with the pictures. "Not now," I growled. "I don't have the time for
another stinking puzzle."

Shifting into gear and turning on the air conditionerwhich decided to function-I pulled back on the road, trying to build a case against Thomas Seldes. But the new set
of numbers played mind games with me.

Regardless of the incriminating pictures, there were two
pieces of evidence contradicting my theory. First, the assumed blow to Patterson's head was, according to the ME
technicians, most likely delivered by a woman. And second, why would Seldes have murdered Patterson without
the absolute certainty that he had all the damaging pictures
in his possession?

I chewed on my lip. My nice little theory suffered from
a few holes. But not as many as Eddie Dyson punched in
it when I reached home.

When Eddie Dyson said fast, he meant fast.

In a fourteen page attachment to my e-mail, Eddie provided a detailed financial history of those names I had given
him; not only balances in accounts, but for those participating, a history of market trading for the last two years.

I ran down the screen to Emmett Patterson.

I studied his banking history. He had opened his account
nine years before, in 1989. He religiously deposited his
weekly paychecks in the amount of $374.91. In addition,
for the first two years, there were also regular cash deposits in the amount of $500 a month, obviously his blackmail
payoff.

The paychecks increased in total about ten percent a
year. Not so the blackmail payoffs. They jumped from $500
to $1,000, then $2,000. For the last three years, he had been
depositing $5,000 a month, a total of $240,000. I shook my
head. A consummate example of pure, unadulterated greed.

Fumbling, I pulled out the snapshots and checked the
date on the back again: 1989. Nine years.

Bingo.

Another strike against Thomas Seldes.

I searched the attachment for Seldes' banking history. I
expected to see a bare bank balance. To my surprise, Seldes
had a twenty-thousand-dollar balance, plus mutuals and
stocks worth another four hundred thousand. Going on half
a million. And none of Patterson's deposits matched any
of Seldes' withdrawals. I winced. That was the bank account of a blackmail victim? Not quite.

Unless, Seldes got his money elsewhere. Maybe Beatrice
Morrison?

I shook my head. That didn't feel right. I swallowed the
sudden tightness in my throat. Was I wrong? Had I screwed
up again?

Morrison's account gave no indication of monthly payouts of $5,000 over the last two years. Of course, I hadn't
expected any. Someone in her position had no problems in
laundering funds in whatever manner or amount she chose.

Hawkins and Tucker lived from paycheck to paycheck.

Jackson, to my surprise, had less than five thousand in
his account, but another twelve in savings, forty-three in
CDs, and almost thirty in various stocks. I studied his situation, trying to match Patterson's deposits to Alonzo Jackson's withdrawals. Nothing matched.