A Song to Die For (27 page)

“Yeah, hell of a long drive. What do you want me to do with this?”

Franco looked over his shoulder and saw Harbaugh holding the briefcase in one hand, a beer in the other. “Oh, put it on the table. Take a load off.”

Harbaugh sat at the table. “You always wear rubber gloves to wash the dishes?”

Franco chuckled. “Usually, I don't have to wash the damn dishes. I got people to do that. The soap irritates my skin. Hey, I'm a tough guy, but I got tender skin. What can I say?” He heard the sound of Harbaugh guzzling beer from the bottle.

“So, Franco, are we okay?”

Franco looked over his shoulder. “What? Give me a break. I was in a shitty mood on the phone yesterday. Stuck here in Texas? You'd be pissed, too. Don't worry about it.”

“So, we're going fishing?”

“We gotta find the boat that took your ex-girlfriend out onto the lake. I don't want to look like some goombah from Vegas, out for a cruise, you know what I mean? People fish on this lake. But I don't know shit from fishing, so you're gonna show me.”

“Crappy weather for it.”

“It'll blow over. You know what's in the case?”

“No.”

“You didn't look?”

“It wasn't none of my business.”

“Go ahead and open it. The combination is twenty-two fifty.” In a moment, Franco heard the latches open. His heart started beating harder. He took a couple deep breaths to calm himself.

“Whoa. Lotsa cash.”

“Yeah. How about the piece?”

“It's in here.”

“Good. I had to ditch my last one. Pick it up. Check it out for me.” Franco watched the reflection in the window as Harbaugh lifted the twenty-two autoloader out of the briefcase, his big hand wrapping around the small grip, his trigger finger slipping into the guard. Franco could see that there was no ammo clip in it. “Put the mag in.”

Harbaugh picked up the magazine and shoved it into the bottom of the grip.

“What do you think?”

Harbaugh shrugged. “It's a twenty-two.”

Franco chuckled. “Yeah, you cops like your hand cannons, don't you?” He grabbed a towel to dry the gloves he was wearing. His heart pounded again.

“A pop gun like this wouldn't spook a perp much.”

“When I use my piece, it's not to spook somebody. I rely on silence. And what I lack in fire power, I make up for with accuracy.”

Harbaugh nodded. “Then this is a good piece for what you do. Baretta. Got a silencer on it.”

Franco turned. “No shit? Baretta?” He reached for the handgun. Harbaugh handed it to him. Franco jacked a round into the chamber, pretended to flip the safety on. “I carry mine cocked and locked. You?”

“It's the only way.”

“People say it's dangerous.” Franco shrugged.

Harbaugh snorted. He was beginning to relax. “I wouldn't carry a piece that wasn't dangerous.”

“Exactly.” Franco was looking down the gun sight, aiming the pistol at nothing in particular across the kitchen. “By the way, the cash is for you. For keeping your mouth shut.”

“No shit!” Harbaugh said. He reached for a stack of bills.

Franco swung the silencer up next to Harbaugh's temple and pulled the trigger. The big cop's head jerked away from the impact of the bullet, a compact stream of blood gushed from the entry wound, like water from a drinking fountain. Harbaugh's whole body went limp and he fell sideways out of the chair, bumping his chin against the kitchen table as he crumpled to the floor.

Franco stood over him, panting, resisting another shot. Very few suicides got off a second round. But the big man was still breathing. “Come on, die, damn it!” Franco growled. He noticed that Harbaugh's jacket had fallen away from his hip to reveal his service piece in the holster—a nine millimeter.

It took a minute for the big man to bleed out and stop breathing. Franco used that time to collect himself. He placed the Baretta on the floor, next to the corpse's hand. Harbaugh's prints were already on it, as planned. He pulled the blood-spattered rubber gloves off inside-out and placed them carefully in a plastic trash bag. He then pulled on a new pair of rubber gloves. He had spent all day wiping his fingerprints away all over the house, and wasn't about to leave any fresh ones now. He took the credit card he had used to rent the house from his pocket and slipped it into the outside pocket of Harbaugh's blazer.

Reaching carefully into the briefcase, he opened the inside pocket and removed the envelope Papa Martini had hidden there. He opened the envelope and looked at the typewritten suicide note, prepared by another cop on the family payroll, using the typewriter in Harbaugh's own office:

I, Jake Harbaugh, am responsible for the deaths of Rosa Martini and Celinda Valenzuela. I killed them both. I sank the boat I used to murder Rosa. It will never be found. I could not tolerate Rosa's rejection. Celinda knew too much. I thought I could live with what I have done, but I cannot. I don't expect to see Rosa in heaven. I am sure I am going to hell.

Smirking at the last touch, Franco placed the note at the far end of the kitchen table where he saw no blood. It wouldn't make sense to put it on top of the blood. Now he had to watch where he stepped as he vacated the kitchen. He didn't want to leave any bloody footprints for the cops to wonder about. He withdrew carefully, taking the trash bag with the bloody gloves, leaving the dishwater in the sink, turning off lights as he left.

He opened the garage door and backed his Shelby out, then got out to close the garage door again. The rain would wash away his tire tracks. Perfect. Textbook. He drove thirty minutes to the other side of the lake where he had rented a second lake house, using a different credit card, also untraceable. He had crumpled newspaper and kindling waiting in the fireplace under a few bigger logs. He started the fire and burned the clothing he had been wearing during the hit, including the bloody gloves.

Tomorrow, the cleaning company would find the dead body. The cops would probably close the case, even if they didn't buy the suicide. It was just too convenient. They didn't really want to tangle with the mob. The schmuck who owned the boat would be confused, but relieved. He would come out of hiding. The cops would quit looking for him. But Franco would not.

 

26

CHAPTER

Hooley walked through the back door of his house, flipped the light switch on, and hung his Resistol on the deer antlers beside the door. He went straight to the bar and poured a tumbler nearly full with straight bourbon. Good ol' Jim Beam. Decent whiskey, affordable price. He took a sip, then pulled his boots off with the bootjack on the floor.

Long day. He had spent much of it sifting through dead-end leads on the antique boat. Dozens of citizens—some well-meaning, some nuttier than fruitcakes, some just pathetically lonely—had called in tips on antique boat owners. None of the tips had proven useful. Hooley had also been searching Texas Parks and Wildlife boat registration records, antique boat clubs, title searches. He had turned up absolutely nothing. His assistant, Lucille, was looking, too, in her spare time at the department, but had also come up with zilch. His brain was numb and his eyes ached from poring through records, files, and newspaper articles on microfilm. He was beginning to doubt whether there was even a needle in the haystack he was searching.

He sat down in his La-Z-Boy recliner and levered the footrest to full extension. This would probably be another night of sleeping in the recliner, he thought. He was already exhausted, and the whiskey would only send him over the edge into fitful slumber.

Glancing at the clock, he saw the ten o'clock news had been on for five or six minutes already. He reached for his remote and clicked the television on. At least he could catch the weather. Sports didn't interest him much this time of year. Football season was over, and baseball hadn't begun. Basketball? Not his game.

As the picture faded in, he saw the gorgeous blond newscaster staring into the camera, her blue eyes and red lips glistening. Could you just imagine? He took a gulp of whiskey, felt the welcome warmth plunging into his empty stomach. He grabbed a Swisher Sweet cigar and lit it. Well, that was one good thing about his divorce. He could smoke a damn cigar in his house if he wanted.

What was she talking about? She was smiling, so it had to be a light story of some kind. He turned the volume up with the remote.

“… our news office has been deluged with calls about our exclusive coverage of the comeback of legendary country music singer Luster Burnett, who came out of retirement to perform at an Austin-area location last night…”

Hooley smirked. Be damned! Luster Burnett! He was still alive? He watched the film of the band playing at some honky-tonk. That was Luster Burnett? He scarcely recognized the man from the old days. Sounded as if he could still sing. He wasn't so sure about the crappy band playing in the background. He took another swallow. He always liked that song, though he couldn't remember the title of it right now. Come to think of it, he had heard three or four Luster Burnett oldies on the radio today. Now he understood why.

The commercial break came. He turned the volume back down. It was that idiotic commercial with the dancing cigarette pack singing “…
taste me, taste me, come on and taste me…”
He turned the volume back up when the Ford pickup truck ad came on. He sure would like to have a new one, but knew he couldn't afford it. The judge had given Hooley's wife half the house, so he had a mortgage again, though he had already paid the house off once. There wasn't enough left over for a new truck payment, that was for sure.

Blondie was back, her fun-story face gone now, her eyes all serious-looking. She was covering the fatal car wreck on twenty-two-twenty-two. Hooley had heard that chatter on the radio today. Another bad one on that stretch of road. “
Jim,”
she said, having wrapped up the gory details.

The camera went to Jim: “
The Lower Colorado River Authority will begin lowering the water level on Lake L.B.J. tomorrow to repair the hydroelectric generating station in Wirtz Dam. The lake level will remain down for two weeks. An L.C.R.A. spokesman said this would give residents around the lake an unexpected opportunity to repair and maintain docks, boathouses, and other structures normally underwater
…”

Hooley shot out of his La-Z-Boy, sloshing whiskey. Why the hell hadn't somebody called him? Didn't they know he was looking for a boat, possibly sunk in that lake? He charged over to the phone as he dug for his wallet in his hip pocket. He produced Mel Doolittle's card, his home phone number handwritten on the back.

Three rings. The answering machine kicked in. Hooley hung up. The number for that cotton-picking portable spy phone was also scrawled on the back of the card. What the hell. Worth a try. One ring, and Mel picked up.

“
Doolittle
.”

“You ready to go fishin' again?”

“
Hooley?
”

“In living color. Get on the first flight to Austin tomorrow. They're lowering the lake level.”

“For us?”

“Yeah, I told 'em to,” he said, the sarcasm thick in his voice. “No, they have to fix hydrogenerators in the dam. Can you get here early?”

“Yeah, sure. I'm on stakeout, but I'll turn it over to my partner.”

“Oh, yeah, your partner. Tell Samantha I said howdy.”

“Right. I will.”

“Anything developing in Vegas?”

“Maybe. A couple of key people have disappeared.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“I'll tell you
whom
tomorrow.”

“I'll pick you up at the airport. First flight from Vegas. Hey, are you really on your spy phone right now?”

“Yeah, it works great here in the civilized world.”

“I'll be damned. See you at the airport. With any luck, we can bust this case wide open tomorrow.”

 

27

CHAPTER

Creed pulled his Good Times van into the usual Jollyville location for the floating poker game—a house on the edge of town, secluded in a creek valley, hidden by thick cedars and oaks. The pasture used as a parking lot was not even half full, as they had arrived rather early—around midnight.

As he got out of the van, along with Luster and Tump, he grabbed the purple velvet Crown Royal bag that held his poker chips from last week. The three of them ambled up to the door, where a burly youth stood guard—not the same one who had gotten his scalp creased last week, but a tougher-looking rascal.

“Did you get the password for this week?” Creed asked.

“Yeah, I called Gordy the day after the shootout.”

“Shootout?” Tump said, the concern obvious in his voice.

As they stepped up to the doorman, Luster said, “We don't need no stinking badges.”

The young man frowned. “Gordy's been expecting you. Wait here.” He stepped inside and locked the door.

“What the hell's going on?” Creed said. “They owe us money.” He rattled the chips in the Crown Royal bag.

“I'm sure we'll sort it out with Gordy. Don't lose your temper till I tell you to.”

In a moment, Gordy came to the door and stepped outside with the guard. All smiles, he shook Luster's hand. “Good to see you, my friend.”

“Good to see you, too, Gordy. It would be even better to see you cashing in my chips from last week.”

“Can't do that,” Gordy said.

“Why the hell not?”

Gordy shrugged nonchalantly. “I listen to the radio. I watch the TV. I seen you boys on the news. Run on to a little bad luck with the I.R.S., I understand.”

“What's that got to do with poker?”

“You're over ten grand in the hole with me, friend.”