Hangman's Root (24 page)

Laurel gave a short laugh. "China, you are so full of shit. What are you afraid of? And it's still going to cost me twenty dollars, whatever you said yes to."

"It's your own fault," I said heartlessly. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to bet?"

"If you don't hurry," Laurel said, "you'll be late for lunch."

I came up empty on the other two phone calls. The Whiz was in a pretrial hearing and wouldn't be available until midafter-noon. Beulah's line was busy. I wasn't in any mood to wait. I'd call her from New Braunfels.

44 4

Like Pecan Springs, New Braunfels was founded by Germans, about six thousand of them, in the eighteen-forties. The settlement beside the Comal Springs was established by Prince Carl zu Solms-Braunfels, who named the place after his hometown. The local Indians—Lipon, Tonkawa, Karankawa, and Waco—were not too pleased to see the first oxcart-load of settlers show up on Good Friday, 1845. They made things pretty miserable for a while, but the Germans persevered. Their tradition still dominates the community, as you can see from the newspaper (the Herald-Zeitung), the names of local establishments (the Faust Hotel, Krause's Cafe, and the Schlitterbahn, a made-up German word that means "slippery road" and refers to the seventeen wa-terslides and seven inner-tube chutes in the water park). And the food. Wursts of every kind abound, and sauerkraut and sauer-braten and strudel and schnapps.

The address I was looking for was off Seguin, on a street of

shops and small businesses housed in remodeled, gentrified houses, some of which were also residences. The place turned out to be an office with a large wood-framed sign on the lawn that said "Jim Long Associates, MSA, CPA, CFE. Business * Individual * Tax Planning & Tax Returns * Accounting & Audit-ing."

Ruby's Honda was parked across the street, and Ruby was sitting in it. When she saw me pull up, she got out of her car and came to my window. She was wearing a thirties costume: narrow black skirt that came almost to her ankles, long-sleeved hip-length white blouse with several strands of pearls, and black floppy-brimmed straw hat with a huge orange rose on it. The hair that showed under the hat was such a vibrant copper that it looked as if she had put on her hat to snuff out a blazing fire.

I opened the door and got out, blinking. "What have you done to your hair?"

She jammed her hat down on her head. "Is something wrong with it?"

"It's very red." At the look on her face, I repented. "But on you, very red is good. Gives you a little extra whoomf." As if she needed it.

"I hennaed it last night," she said. "With paprika and cinnamon."

"You're kidding."

"Scout's honor." She held up three fingers.

I stood on tiptoes to sniff. "You're right. Definitely cinnamon. You smell like apple pie."

"Next time I'm going to try nutmeg and allspice." She turned to glance over her shoulder. "I'm glad you got here," she added. "He says he's got something important to say. But I get the feeling he's afraid to incriminate himself. I think he wants us to help him cut a deal."

"He who?" Ruby has a way of beginning in the middle, leaving me fishing for loose ends.

"Jim Long. He used to work in the grant accounting office at CTSU." She motioned with her head. "Come on. He knows we're here. I saw him peeking out the window a minute ago."

I locked the car. "Hold on a sec," I said. I've always hated going into an interview blind. "Give me some background."

"I phoned my friend who knows about greyhounds," Ruby said patiently. "When I mentioned New Braunfels, she knew right away who I was looking for. The guy adopted two greyhounds through their placement program—dogs retired from the racetrack."

"Good work," I said. "V.I. Warshawski would be proud of you. So you phoned Jim Long."

She nodded. "I said I was working for Justine Wyzinski on behalf of Dr. Dorothy Riddle, digging up background information regarding the unfortunate demise of Dr. Miles Harwick blah blah. I said it had come to our attention that he and Dr. Harwick had dealings some years ago blah blah and did he have any ideas regarding Dr. Harwick's passing."

The blind at the front window twitched. Someone was looking out. "And Long said?"

"He said he'd been waiting for somebody to get in touch with him and he didn't know why it hadn't happened sooner. He sounded like he had a cork in him and he was about ready to pop." She looked down at me, squinting. Even in her flats. Ruby is head and shoulders above me. "But he said he couldn't talk to us without getting something in return. Like maybe he was angling for immunity."

"Only the DA. can give him that," I said. "Anyway, we don't know whether he's actually got anything worth trading." I didn't want to tell her that we were beating a dead horse, that Harwick's murder had already been solved, and that her long-lost daughter and her daughter's stepbrother were implicated. I straightened up. "But we won't know whether he's got anything

important or not until we've talked to him. Let's go hear what he has to say."

The front door displayed a "Welcome—Come In" sign. It opened onto a small reception area that was supposed to look like a garden room, with a white tile floor, green rugs, and green-and-white bamboo wallcovering. The cushions on the white wicker chairs and loveseat were covered with a matching bamboo print, and large potted plants were placed strategically in the corners and on the tables. A receptionist's desk was empty, but the wall behind it was crowded with framed diplomas and numerous certificates attesting to the competence and professional training of James L. Long and two associates. I noticed that the business had earned a Chamber of Commerce citation for assisting with the Christmas Fund Drive and a Friends of the River certificate for picking up litter along the Comal River. Jim Long was obviously an upstanding citizen of the New Braunfels community.

The door to my right was open, and I could see a man in a brown sports jacket and white shirt hunched over a computer printout. When he saw us, he stood up, straightened his tie, and came to the office door.

"Hi," he said, as if he were surprised. "Didn't see you come up the walk." He stepped forward and thrust out his hand with a heartiness that barely disguised the underlying anxiety. "Name's Jim Long. Something I can help you ladies with?"

"I'm the one who called, Mr. Long," Ruby said. "About Miles Harwick." She introduced herself and me.

"Oh, yeah, sure," he said. Studiedly casual, he went to the front door, flipped the lock, and switched the sign to the "Closed for Lunch" side. "No point in being interrupted by walk-ins," he said, and led us into his office. "Have a seat." He gestured at two straight chairs in front of his desk and closed the office door, too. Whatever Jim Long had to say, he didn't want it overheard.

The waiting-area garden theme was only minimally extended

to the small office we had entered: a faded jade plant sat on a stand in the corner, its leaves pale green and shriveled. The desk was empty except for the computer printout, an engraved citation from the Lion's Club for "Honesty and Integrity," and a gold-framed studio photograph of a blond, sweet-faced woman and three small girls in white dresses, triplets from the look of them, posed in front of a drape with a gold cross on it. Beside the desk was a computer and a calculator and a plaster-of-Paris plaque bearing the impression of three small hands. The file cabinet in the corner was topped with a papier-mache sculpture painted in awful shades of grape and green, obviously the earnest work of the small hands in the plaque, and several children's drawings were taped to the wall. Jim Long was the most family-oriented accountant I'd ever met.

Long himself was neat and plain, with the exception of the tie. Burnt orange is a color that only Texas Exes wear without embarrassment. Given the rest of him, I guessed that Long wore it because it was good for business. His brown hair, clipped short above the ears and combed back with precision, matched his mustache, and his brown eyes were wary behind gold-framed glasses. His brown jacket concealed his slightness, but even so his shoulders were sloping and his chest concave. It was the shape of a man who hunched over numbers all day long and whose idea of exercise was a Saturday at the Schlitterbahn with the wife and kids. His pained expression—tight mouth, knotted jaw, furrowed forehead—suggested a chronic distress somewhere in his innards. I knew I was right when he opened a drawer, took out a role of antacid tablets, and put one in his mouth. He leaned back carefully and put his hands flat on the desk. He didn't relax.

"Ms. Wilcox and I are conducting an investigation," I said, "on behalf of the woman who has been charged with the death of Miles Harwick. Are you familiar with the circumstances.^"

"I read about it in the Herald-Zeitung, " he said. "But I don't understand the connection between Harwick and the Riddle woman. What did she have to do with it?"

Ruby looked at him from under the brim of her black hat. "We don't believe she had anything to do with it," she said firmly. "You have been mentioned, however, as having certain information about Dr. Harwick. If that is the case, you might be able to help us clear Dr. Riddle." She glanced pointedly at the Lion's Club award for honesty and integrity. "I'm sure a man of your standing wouldn't allow an innocent woman to be convicted for a murder she didn't commit." Zing.

I gave Ruby an approving glance. I couldn't have put it better myself.

Long shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I don't know about information, exactly," he said, speaking in the wary tone he might have used if we were discussing an IRS audit. "There's a slight problem. You see, I'm worried about. . . That is, we ... " His tongue darted out and licked the lower edge of his mustache. "Excuse me," he muttered, and got up and opened the window behind him. Then he must have remembered that he wanted privacy. He closed it again.

When he sat down again, I felt I needed to help things along. "If there is a problem with your speaking out," I said delicately, "we might be able to intercede on your behalf with the district attorney." I couldn't imagine what he was concealing, but I was betting that it wasn't as immoral or as illegal as he imagined.

"Well, I don't know if that's what I . . . " His forehead furrowed and he reached for another antacid. "But maybe I do," he said. "I've been thinking a lot, ever since I read in the paper about. ..." His voice trailed off.

I waited. After a minute I said, reassuringly, "I can't anticipate the prosecution's decision in this matter, of course, but I can tell you that crimes of lesser significance are often overlooked in or-

der to resolve more heinous crimes." Lawyer's gobbledygook. I hate to talk that way, but some people feel a certain reassurance when they hear polysyllabic words and long sentences. It sounds as if there may indeed be order and justice in the land, and the speaker knows where to locate it.

"I think she's saying," Ruby translated helpfully, "that we might be able to help you cut a deal."

Long winced. "Well, I suppose I really ought to ... " His glance went to the photograph on his desk and clung to it, as if it were a lifeline and he were a drowning man. "But I can't do that until I know that..."

T)\dvitanybody in this case finish their sentences? "Mr. Long," I said crisply, "I am afraid that it is not possible to assess the value of your information before we know what it is."

"She means," Ruby interpreted, "that nobody's going to make a deal until they hear what you have to offer."

It was the old one-two punch. But it was apparently what Long needed. He straightened his shoulders and firmed his jaw, as if he were preparing to finish almost all his sentences. "I guess I'd better explain the situation to you," he said. "But I will need your guarantee of confidentiality."

I shook my head. "I'm sorry," I said. "We are not in a position to give that guarantee. However, we will attempt to ensure that your interests are protected, insofar as we are able." Whatever he was hiding, it couldn't be that bad. He was an accountant—had he cheated Harwick out of some money? Had he and Harwick been involved in a scheme to cheat somebody else out of some money? Had there been some sort of tax fraud?

He pushed his glasses up on his forehead, rubbed his eyes, and pulled his glasses down again. His lips were pressed tight together.

"In other words," Ruby said gently, "you'll just have to trust us to do what we can for you." Her voice became softer, more

persuasive. "You do need to get this matter resolved, Mr. Long. You said on the phone that youVe been expecting someone to call. Hasn't this difficult situation gone on quite long enough.^ It must be very painful for you." Her eyes lingered on the photograph. "And for those you love. We found you. Others will, too. They might not be quite as sympathetic."

Long leaned on his elbows and lifted his clasped hands, making a prayerful tent of his fingers in front of his face and running his forefingers down his nose, his mouth, his chin, and back up again. After making that tour several times with his eyes shut, he opened them and said, "Okay. I'll come clean." He dropped his hands and sat back. "Harwick and I were involved in an embezzlement scheme."

"When?" I asked.

"Ten years ago," he said. "When I was at CTSU. I used my part of the money to set up this business."

"If embezzlement is all there is to it," I said, "I think the D.A. will be interested in a deal."

Ruby gave me an eyebrows-cocked look, and I gave it back. I'd tell her later that I could speak with such confidence because the statute of limitations had run out. The Code of Criminal Procedure lumps embezzlement with theft. If you are a public servant and you steal government property, they've got ten years to catch you. After that, according to Article 12.01, you're in the clear. Depending on the exact date of the crime. Long was probably already home free. But even if he could still be prosecuted, the D.A. was likely to make a deal.

"That's all there is to it," Long said. "I had nothing to do with Harwick's death." His mouth quivered and his voice went up a notch. "You do believe me, don't you.^"

"Yes," I said, and fielded another glance from Ruby. This time I didn't return it. I could believe Long because I knew who actually did kill Harwick.