Death in the Distillery (24 page)

I thought about Danny and his friends, and the warning
I'd been given, so I did the sensible thing. I lied. "No. I
just wanted to get to the bottom of this blackmail scheme, that's all. I figure his death was an accident." I hoped Seldes wouldn't pursue the question.

I rose. "I'll hold on to the pictures until this is all over.
If what you say is true, if the pictures have nothing to do
with the case, I'll give them to you to destroy."

He smiled gratefully and stood, extending his hand. His
feet tangled in his chair, which clattered to the floor behind
him. He spun, trying to maintain his balance. He threw out
his hand for support against the wall, but his arm crumpled
on him, sending the muscular man sprawling to the floor.

I hurried around the desk, but he had already sat up and
was rubbing his shoulder gingerly. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah." He rose to his feet, continuing to massage
his shoulder. "Blasted shoulder joint," he muttered. "Can't
take any kind of pressure."

Physically, Tom Seldes looked like he could handle any
kind of pressure from anything. "What's wrong with the
shoulder?"

"They call it monkey shoulder," he explained, gesturing
to his shoulder. "After years of turning barley with a
shovel, something happened in the shoulder joint." He held
his arm over his head and brought it forward slowly like
he was swinging a club. "I don't have any strength like
this. I can lift heavy weights, but sometimes, I can barely
close a door."

I clicked my tongue. "Monkey shoulder, huh? Seems like
Jackson mentioned that once."

"It's a pain in the neck." He grew sober. "What now?
You got much more to do to finish up?" He glanced at the
sheet of pictures crushed in his hand.

"Just about finished," I lied again, hoping he believed
me. I knew that as soon as I left, he'd go straight to Beatrice Morrison. I couldn't afford to blow a hole in my
cover story. I reached for the door.

"Mr. Boudreaux. Tony?"

"Yeah." I looked back.

"You believe me?"

I considered his question several seconds. "Yeah. I believe you, Tom."

Another lie. Despite my own feelings, I couldn't afford
to believe him, not completely. He could be the world's
greatest liar. I had to keep digging and fitting pieces in the
puzzle. Sooner or later, it would reveal a picture of the
killer.

He started down the stairs ahead of me. "I'm glad," he
said.

"One thing, Tom. This little conversation of ours. Let's
keep it between us. Neither one of us wants news of these
pictures to get out." I hoped the threat of the pictures would
keep him quiet. "And Mrs. Morrison certainly doesn't need
to know about them. Later, you can do what you want."

He looked up at me a moment, a frown wrinkling his
forehead. Then he nodded and lumbered on down the stairs.
He still reminded me of a gorilla.

And suddenly, I knew how the killer made his escape.
The oak. Christ. How simple. Even Beatrice Morrison
could have pulled it off. Unlikely, but very possible. I remembered the face in the window staring down at us, and
the Band Aid on Jackson's cheek.

And then, just as abruptly, Seldes was back in the picture. Maybe he had lied, and I'd swallowed it. While I had
tentatively eliminated him because the ME techs theorized
the blow was not the damaging blow of a man, I now realized the blow could have been struck by a man with a
bad shoulder, with a monkey shoulder.

Tom Seldes. No power in his swing. His blow would
have the strength of a woman's, and he had the physical
strength to effect the escape. On the other hand, I couldn't
fit his financial position into the jigsaw puzzle of blackmail.

Back in the pickup, I studied my notes. Sometimes, you
have the feeling that you're staring at the answer even
though you can't recognize it. Other times, you just stare.
I just stared.

I laid my notepad on the seat beside me. "Maybe it'll
come to me later," I mumbled, shifting into gear and heading back to Austin.

I was exhausted from lack of sleep, but I pulled into a
convenience store for a six-pack of soft drinks. When I
turned down Travis to my apartment and discovered that
moron neighbor with the Geo had completely blocked my
drive, my temper snapped. I broke into a blistering diatribe
of colorful obscenities that didn't even begin to describe
the offending driver's genealogy and depleted mental capacity.

The nearest parking slot was in the next block. Grumbling, I wedged the pickup into the space and cursed all
the way to his apartment. I pounded on his door. No answer. I pounded again. Still no answer.

Still cursing, I stomped down to my place.

Inside, I pulled the set of numbers from my pocket and
checked my theory. I reread the numbers, 2-91147878969632. I knew the answer to Emmett Patterson's
puzzle. I shook my head and muttered. "Now, all I have to
do is figure out what it is the answer to."

I opened a soft drink and moved into the living room.
The curtains were pulled against the early afternoon sun.
The aquarium was a brightly lit rectangle in the midst of
the shadows engulfing the room. I stared at Oscar as he
continued to swim in circles, never tiring.

"I don't know how you keep it up, Oscar," I muttered, openly admiring the little guy's dogged determination to
keep swimming. "Because, you idiot," I chastised myself,
"if he stops swimming, he dies." I imagined his tiny, pink
fins halting their rapid motion; his penny-sized body sinking slowly to the sand and gravel; and his belly turning up.

No, Oscar would never stop swimming. He couldn't afford to, just like I couldn't afford to waste a minute. I didn't
have time to stand around, guzzle soft drinks, and admire
a Tiger Barb's perseverance. Maybe there was something
Freudian in my decision to take Oscar at the divorce instead
of the TV. Maybe it was because I would soon learn just
how stubborn he could be.

Al Grogan might be the most perceptive investigator at
Blevins' Investigations, but I was the most stubborn. That
trait I picked up early. I was never the best at much of
anything, from football to math, especially math. But I was
good at stubbornness, at determination.

Day after day, I saw my grandfather go out and farm
even when we'd had months of drought. He never quit, and
I discovered if I just kept trying, often I could wear down
those smarter and stronger than me. Not always, but enough
to make it worthwhile.

I hiked my leg over the back of the chair and sat in front
of the computer. Booting it, I pulled up the file I bought
from Dyson. Quickly, I printed a hard copy of the complete
file, then backed it up to another floppy, which I tossed into
the desk drawer.

I took the printout to the couch where I could be comfortable. For the next couple of hours, I studied the printout,
looking for any logical lead that might point me in the right
direction.

I eliminated Morrison and Mary Tucker because I
couldn't believe they had the strength or balance to execute
the escape. Temporarily, I eliminated Runnels because he
was with Morrison when we arrived at the scene. Tom Seldes and Claude Hawkins came up moments later. For any
of the three to effect their escape from the scene and return
so quickly was improbable, but still possible.

That left Cleyhorn and Jackson.

Neither man's financial records indicated blackmail. Of
course, Jackson didn't have the portfolio of Cleyhorn, but
on the other hand, Cleyhorn was a lawyer, and Jackson was
a distiller. Cleyhorn knew the secrets of how to build a
portfolio, even with other people's money, and Jackson had
a wife and two daughters who knew the secrets of spending
money.

I leaned back and stared at the ceiling, trying to come
up with every reason-regardless of how bizarre-that
would have given Patterson the leverage to extort money
from either Cleyhorn or Jackson.

I drew a blank. I forced my brain to concentrate, despite
the fatigue trying to close my eyes.

I gave in to the urge and closed my eyes. Instantly, I fell
asleep.

When I awakened an hour later, I was refreshed. I turned
back to my task, finding just what leverage Patterson used
to extort money from either Cleyhorn or Jackson.

First, Patterson didn't run in the same circles with Jackson or Cleyhorn, so I crossed out social. What was left?

All that was left was business. The distillery. The distillery was the only thing they had in common.

Outside, the sun had dropped behind the hills to the west,
and dusk crept over the city like a silent spider. I reached
for my notebook, then remembered I'd left it on the seat
of my pickup. With a soft curse, I rose from the couch and
headed for the door.

I was still cursing the idiot who'd blocked my driveway
when I reached my pickup in the next block. Quickly, I
retrieved the notebook and headed back.

Just before I came to the end of the block, I spotted a
black Chrysler easing slowly down the street in my direction. I hesitated. The hair on the back of my neck bristled.
The Chrysler stopped in front of my apartment and three
men jumped out, each clutching an automatic with a silencer.

Immediately, I dropped to my knees behind a patch of
rose bushes.

The three goons entered my apartment. I crouched lower
into the roses.

Moments later, they burst out, one carrying a sheath of
papers clutched in his hand. I remained silent, and tried to
play the part of a silent little rose bud.

I didn't recognize any of the three, but they were the
kind you could find at the bottom of any barrel.

I wedged my body deeper into the rose bushes as the
dusk deepened. I knew no one was in my apartment, but
perhaps the bozos had placed a lookout somewhere up or
down the block.

The dark Chrysler had long since disappeared down the
street when I rose from the bushes and hurried back to the
apartment.

Someone had put out the word. Seldes? I didn't think
so.

Rummaging through my desk, I grabbed the floppy containing the files. I searched for the printout, but it was gone.
Then I remembered the sheath of papers one of the goons
clutched in his hand.

Quickly, I inserted the disk in the drive and called up
the file to print. My printer is a laser, seven pages a minute,
but it seemed like an hour before it spit out the fourteen
pages.

I eyed the telephone wistfully. "Don't be an idiot," I
muttered. "It's got to be bugged." I dropped my Colt .38
in my pocket, and prayed I wouldn't have to use it.

After two hours of driving around Austin, doubling back,
speeding up, slowing down, using every trick I knew to
ditch a tail, I turned into an exclusive neighborhood near
Barton Springs and found a side road from which to spot
any tail. Several minutes passed. I breathed easier.

Shifting into gear, I drove through the neighborhood, and
wound through several more additions before pulling onto
Loop 360 which, after a few miles, turned into Highway 71. A few miles farther, I took the 1-35 cutoff to San Antonio.
Fifteen minutes later, after passing all the new commercial
hotels and restaurants springing up, I pulled off 1-35 just
past Leon's Family Steakhouse and parked in the shadows
behind a cheap motel local hookers used as a home base,
with all the essential amenities of two-hour rent and singlesheet beds.

I paid in advance and hastily retreated to my room, a
shabby dump with dirty walls, dirty sheets, and dirty floors.
Using the pillowcase, I wiped a layer of dust off the table
and brushed several cockroach legs from the chair.

Spreading the printout, my notes, and the pictures of Patterson's room on the greasy table, I tried to build a case
against Cleyhorn or Jackson despite the ME technicians'
theory that the blow was likely struck by a woman.

For all practical purposes, I had eliminated the others,
even Tom Seldes with his monkey shoulder. By going after
Cleyhorn or Jackson, I knew I was reaching. And sometimes reaching worked.

Assume Patterson blackmailed Jackson.

Why?

Had the brewer also slept with Beatrice Morrison? If that
was the case, why did Patterson hold back the pictures of
Seldes and Morrison? Why not blackmail both?

I shook my head. That didn't feel right. So what could
it be? I gazed at the drawn blinds on the window. What if
Jackson was being blackmailed for something else? What
did Jackson and Emmett Patterson have in common?

Scribbling hastily, I jotted a list of everyone involved in
the investigation. When I wrote the name, Katherine Voss,
I hesitated, then continued the remainder of the list.

But, I was drawn back to Katherine Voss. I read her
name aloud. She was the only one on the list unaccounted
for. I started playing `what if.'

The ideas began flowing. I picked up my pencil and jotted down my observations. "Okay. Number one, she's been
missing for ten years. Second, she was last seen alive at
Chalk Hills. Third, what if something transpired between her and Jackson that Emmett witnessed?" What could Patterson have held over Jackson's head that was worth over
a quarter-million in blackmail? Illicit sex? No.