CHAPTER 9
Faye Brixton's place was no prize, but Ellen Brixton's was worse, a run-down duplex with filthy white siding and sagging gutters. When Frank rang the doorbell, a young woman opened the door. Mousy brown hair framed her thin face. Her colorless gray eyes regarded him with suspicion.
“Hi, Ellen? I’m Frank Renzi, New Orleans police. I just spoke with your mother and I'd like to ask you a few questions. Can I come in?”
“What kind of questions?” Her wispy voice was barely audible.
“It’s really hot out here. Mind if I come in?”
Her mouth quirked. “Okay," she said, clearly annoyed, "but I have to go to work. If I’m late the manager gets pissed.”
Toddler toys littered a threadbare oval rug in her tiny living room. Ellen had on a white blouse and a short black skirt, her work uniform he assumed. She didn’t invite him to sit down.
“Your mother said your brother fell off a cliff several years ago. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Randy was drunk.” Her voice had an edge to it. “My mother's a drunk, too. As I'm sure you noticed.”
Unhappy, and definitely angry. “How’d you get along with Natalie?”
“We got along okay.”
“Your mother said you were having a picnic the day Randy died.”
“Right, me and Mom and Natalie. And Randy.”
“And Natalie was with Randy when he fell?”
She looked at him, her colorless gray eyes expressionless. “I guess.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Like Natalie said. Randy was drunk and fell off the bluff.”
“Uh-huh. You miss your brother?”
“Not really. Randy was a shit.”
“Where’s your father?”
“Living in Dallas with his girlfriend. I have to go or I’ll be late.”
“Does your mom baby-sit while you work?”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn't leave Tommy with a drunk. I pay the woman next door a big chunk of my pay to watch him. Mom’s useless.”
The Brixton family was beyond dysfunctional. An alcoholic mother. A father living with his girlfriend. And Ellen had no use for her brother. Dead or alive.
“What are you doing in Pecos?” she said, her eyes wary.
“Tex Conroy has been living in New Orleans. Someone shot him.”
“Really?” Her demeanor and body language said she could care less. “Did you talk to the Cat Woman?”
He struggled to keep from laughing. “You mean Mrs. Conroy?”
“Yes. How’s Tex doing?”
“He’s dead.”
“Tex is dead?” She started laughing.
Weird. “You don’t seem too broken up about it.”
“Tex and Randy were buddies. Good riddance to both of them.”
Ellen was angry with her parents, had no use for her brother or Tex. The jury was still out on Natalie. He sure did want to talk to Natalie.
“Did Natalie have any close friends?”
“Yeah, Gabe Rojas. They were friends all through high school.”
“Does he still live in Pecos?”
“I think so. Gabe's married now. But not to Natalie.”
Not to Natalie. What did that mean? He thanked her, went out to his car and dialed information. A minute later he was talking to an office worker at Pecos High School. When he said he needed to see a yearbook, she said he’d better hurry, the office closed in twenty minutes. He got there in ten.
The clerk, a stout woman in a polka dot dress, asked which yearbook he needed. He told her 1995. When he said he might need to take it with him, she frowned. “We don’t let people take our copies out of the building.”
He flashed his ID. “This is a police investigation. I’ll sign for it.”
Seemingly impressed, she bustled into a closet, came back with the 1995 yearbook. “What sort of investigation is it?”
“Sorry. I can’t say.” He smiled. “You know how it is. You watch TV.”
The woman grinned. “I sure do. I love
Law and Order
.”
Sure, where every murder got solved in sixty minutes. He signed for the yearbook, took it to his rental car and studied Natalie Brixton’s photograph. An attractive girl, engaging smile, long dark hair, average features except for her eyes: almond-shaped, angling upward at the corners, hinting at Asian ancestry.
Below the picture was Natalie Brixton's motto:
Freedom and justice for all
.
Was that a quote? He ran through the Pledge of Allegiance in his mind. No, the Pledge ended “with
liberty
and justice for all.”
Justice for all
. He pictured the woman in the security video walking down the hall with her confident long-legged stride. But how would Natalie know Peterson? And why kill him? It didn't make sense.
But she had been with Randy Brixton when he fell off a cliff. Randy's mother and sister didn't seem too unhappy about his death. Didn't seem too upset Tex Conroy was dead, either.
He flipped to the Drama Club page. In 1995 they'd put on a production of
Oklahoma
. In one photo Natalie stood with a group of dancers. She had a great figure and long legs. Like the woman in the hotel security video. But a single attribute did not a positive identification make.
He got on his cell and dialed information. Moments later he dialed the number for G. Rojas. When a woman answered, he asked to speak to Gabriel Rojas. “I’m sorry, he’s at work. Who’s calling please?”
“Detective Frank Renzi, New Orleans Police. When will he be home?”
“He’s usually home for dinner by six-thirty. What’s this about?”
“It can wait till after dinner. Could I stop by around seven-thirty?”
“Eight would be better. Gabe likes to spend time with the boys after dinner.”
“Thank you,” he said. “See you at eight.”
His stomach rumbled. His flight from New Orleans had taken off at 5:25 a.m., arrived in Houston at six-thirty. No food on the plane. His connecting flight put him in Odessa at nine. He'd rented a car and eaten a raisin bagel with his jumbo black coffee while driving to Pecos, had arrived at the little one-horse town at eleven. Since then he'd interviewed Clarisse Conroy, Faye Brixton and Ellen Brixton. No lunch.
Why not have a meal at Longhorn Jacks, where Natalie Brixton had once worked?
_____
The restaurant was crowded so he took a stool at the bar. A young bartender in a white shirt came over and said, “What can I get you?”
“A beer and lunch, but I got a question. I know a woman who worked here ten or twelve years ago. Anyone here now that might have known her?”
“I’ve only been here two years. Lemme ask in the kitchen.” The kid disappeared through a door behind the bar. Moments later he came back. “The busboy might know her. Hank’s been here forever. He just went outside for his smoke break.”
Frank said he'd be back, went outside and circled the building.
A short black man with a white apron tied around his waist leaned against the back wall. A fringe of gray hair encircled his bald pate.
“Hi, Hank? You got a minute?”
“Got a ten minute smoke break,” Hank said, his dark eyes wary.
“Have your smoke. It won’t bother me. Did you know Natalie Brixton when she worked here?”
Hank pulled out a pack of Camels. “You with the police?”
Hank had been around, had made him as a cop even without a uniform. When he lit up Frank noticed thick calluses on his fingers. “I'm a detective with the New Orleans department. And you're a bass player.”
Raised eyebrows and a faint smile. “How’d you figure that?”
“The calluses on your fingers. I played a little jazz trumpet years ago.”
“Good observation.” Hank took a drag on his Camel, blew smoke. “But that’s what they pay you for, right?”
“That and a few other things. You play with a Pecos group?”
“Every Friday and Saturday. Get off work at six, clean up, go play at a little club near the bus station. What you wanna know about Natalie?”
“You remember her?”
“Oh yeah, pretty girl like that? Nice person, Natalie. Where she at now?”
“I don’t know, but I’d like to talk to her.”
Hank’s eyes got wary again. “This about Randy Brixton?”
“Did you know Randy?”
Hank flicked ash off his Camel and looked away. “Not really.”
“How about Tex Conroy?”
“Didn’t know him neither. Knew his daddy though. Chief of Police.”
“I hear rumors about how Randy died. Do you know what happened?”
“Heard the same rumors as you, ain’t gonna add none. Natalie had a tough life, lost her mom when she was ten, lived with the Brixtons eight years.” Hank grimaced. “That family’s screwed up, you ask me.”
“Did Natalie tell you something to make you think so?”
“Told me enough. Told me Randy was an asshole, didn’t have to tell me the mother’s a souse. Ev’body in town knows that. No wonder her husband left. I hear he’s living with some woman in Dallas.”
“You got any idea where Natalie is?”
“Nope. After Randy’s funeral, Natalie gave her notice and quit. You wanna find Natalie, talk to Gabe Rojas. Far’s I know he was her only friend, used to pick her up after work some nights.”
“You know Gabe?”
“Know him by sight. Never talked to him. Good kid though, never in trouble. Last I heard he made it big with them videogames.” Hank took a drag on his Camel and dropped the butt on the ground. “I best be getting back to work. You find Natalie, tell her Hank says hello and wishes her the best.”
“I will. Thanks for your help. What’s the name of the club?"
“The Calico Cat. Got a big sign out front, you can’t miss it.”
Hank returned to the kitchen and Frank reclaimed his seat at the bar. It seemed clear that Hank had no use for the Brixton family, equally clear that he liked Natalie. And Gabe. Her only friend.
He spotted Ellen Brixton lugging a tray of food and drinks into the dining room. He hoped she was getting big tips. A single mom with an alcoholic mother unfit to mind her child? Ellen needed every penny she could get.
_____
Assuming Mrs. Rojas had told her husband an NOPD cop would arrive at eight, he rang their bell at 7:45. Surprise was often a detective's best weapon. The house, a brick-front split-level with a two-car attached garage, looked expensive. Gabe Rojas must be doing okay.
He heard high-pitch squeals and kids' voices approaching. A short man holding a squirming little boy opened the door. “Detective Renzi? My wife said you called. You’ll have to pardon the mess. I was playing hide-and-seek with my boys.” He grinned, his even white teeth contrasting with his burnt-umber skin. “Guess who lost.”
“Daddeeeeee!” squealed the dark-haired, dark-eyed little boy.
“Looks like you’ve got quite a handful there. How old is he?”
“This is Carlos. He’s six and he’s got a twin brother, Jorge.”
Frank followed them into the living room where another toddler, the spitting image of Carlos, was building a Lego airplane amidst Lego pieces strewn over the tawny-brown carpet. “Daddy, it’s not time to go to bed.”
“Yes it is my little friend. Time for both of you to go see Mom.” Gabe Rojas mussed the hair on his boys’ heads and gave them a gentle shove toward the stairs off the foyer.
“Beautiful kids. When my daughter was that age she never thought it was time for bed either.”
“Too many fun things to do,” Rojas said. He was five-four at most, rugged but not overweight, and his face bore an amiable expression. “Would you like a cold drink?”
“No, thanks. I had dinner at Longhorn Jack’s.” No reaction from Rojas.
“Have a seat,” Rojas said, gesturing at a chocolate-brown couch opposite a big-screen TV and an entertainment center. “How can I help you?”
The decor reinforced his impression that Rojas was comfortably well off, which mirrored his assessment of the man: comfortable in his skin as he sat on other end of the couch, relaxed and cooperative. Outwardly anyway.
“I’m investigating a murder that happened in New Orleans last week.”
“Who got murdered?” Rojas said, his dark eyes suddenly full of concern. “Someone from Pecos?”
“Tex Conroy. Did you know him?”
Visibly relieved, Rojas said, “Not well, but I knew him. What happened?”
“Someone shot him." No reaction from Rojas. Strange. "Tex moved to New Orleans five years ago. Do you know if he had any enemies? Anyone that might want him dead?”
A sudden wail came from a distant room. Rojas rose from the couch, went to the hall and called up the stairs, “Everybody okay?”
A woman’s voice called, “We’re fine, Gabe, just a little soap in the eyes.”
Rojas returned to the couch, looking troubled, and not about soap in the eyes. “Tex was in the football clique. Some of them could be ... obnoxious.”
“Randy Brixton was Tex’s friend, right?”