Bite the Moon: A Texas Hill Country Mystery Page 6

  “I asked that you not return, Miz Mullet.”

  I inserted my bookmark, closed the book and lifted my eyes to hers. But I did not utter a word.

  “Miz Mullet, I said that you are no longer welcome at Foster, Travis and Crum.”

  “That’s a shame, Ms. Arbuthnot. But if I can’t have your hospitality, I’ll just have to accept your hostility. I cannot leave until I have seen Mr. Travis.”

  Her nostrils flared so wide I expected to see flames issue forth and singe my eyebrows. “As I have told you before, that is not possible without an appointment. You will have to leave now.”

  I held her gaze for a moment and then leaned back and reopened my book.

  Ms. Arbuthnot did not respond well to being ignored. “Fine. You leave me no other recourse. I will have to call the police.” She spun around and just missed collision with the figure that materialized behind her.

  “That will not be necessary, Ms. Arbuthnot. I will handle the matter from here.”

  Without another word, the ice queen glided to her desk and the interloper turned toward me and stuck out his hand. “Ms. Mullet? Dale Travis.”

  I lurched to my feet, and Jolie Blon bounced from my lap to the floor. I took his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Travis.”

  Pleasure? It was a mouth-drying, palm-sweating moment of panic. There he stood. Each dark brown hair on his head rested in tailored repose; even the wisps of gray at his temples were aligned in perfect symmetry on either side of his face, as if he controlled which ones could change color and when. His eyebrows, thick as wooly caterpillars, hung like a cliff over deep-set, anthracite eyes. His expensive suit appeared to be carved on the broad shoulders of his six-foot, three-inch frame. In my tired, two-day outfit, I felt like a vagrant lost in the piney woods.

  “Follow me, Ms. Mullet,” he said as he turned and headed for the hall.

  Under the frosty gaze of Ms. Arbuthnot, I gathered up my fallen book and portfolio with all the dignity of a demented squirrel stashing nuts. When I stepped through the doorway of Travis’ corner office, my jaw dropped. The view from the lobby was magnificent but this was enough to make an eagle drool. Two walls of glass met at right angles in the corner revealing 180 degrees of sweeping cityscape. At Travis’ request, I slipped into a leather armchair in front of his paperless desk.

  He leaned back in his chair and rested his right ankle on his left knee, revealing the luxury of an ostrich quill boot—hand-tooled, hand-fitted and hand-sewn, no doubt. He steepled his fingers before his face. “Bobby Wiggins?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about Bobby Wiggins, Ms. Mullet?”

  “He’s innocent.”

  “I know that.”

  “He did not kill Rodney Faver.”

  “I know that.”

  “And I am here to help.”

  “Do you know something I should know?” Travis asked.

  “The police are not investigating any other suspects.”

  “I didn’t think they were. They do have a confession.”

  “It’s bogus. Bobby was manipulated into that confession.”

  He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward on his desk resting his weight on his forearms. “You were there?”

  “No. I saw the tape. Well, the part where he confessed, anyway.”

  “Really,” he said with a soft smile. “Tell me about it.”

  I related every word and detail with as much accuracy as I could. At times in my narrative, I doubled back to clarify. When I finished, Travis stood. “Thank you very much, Ms. Mullet. This gives me a lot of insight into how to proceed.”

  I remained seated beneath his look of impatience. “That’s not all.”

  “Yes?”

  “They found the bloody key in Bobby’s pocket.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The closet key,” I explained. “There was blood on it. The same type as Faver’s blood. They’ve sent it off for DNA analysis. It was in Bobby’s pocket.”

  His brow furrowed, sending ripples through the caterpillars above his eyes. His focus turned inward then snapped back to me. “Thank you, Ms. Mullet.”

  I remained seated, refusing to acknowledge his body language that insisted the meeting was over. “I didn’t just come here to tell you what I know, Mr. Travis. I want to help you find out more. I want to investigate the suspects the police are ignoring.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Mullet, but . . .”

  “I’ve started already,” I interrupted. “I’ve made a list of suspects and their possible motives.” I whipped the pad of paper out of my portfolio and slapped it on his gleaming desk.

  Finally, he sat back down. He slid a pair of half-frame reading glasses from the interior pocket of his suit jacket, making noncommittal noises as he read my notes. “I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought, but I’m afraid I do not have the funds to expend on an investigator. I’m providing my services and that of my staff pro bono. Still, it will be a stretch for Thelma Wiggins to find a way to pay for the associated expenses. She doesn’t have the budget for investigative services,” he said, sliding my note pad back across his desk.

  I did not make a move to pick it up. “I’m not looking for a job, Mr. Travis. I’m volunteering my services.” At the sign of a raised eyebrow on the other side of the desk, I continued. “I have not touched a penny of my husband’s life insurance payout. It’s just been sitting there getting a little bigger each year. I can live on that while I work on this case. I can worry about what I’ll live on later after Bobby is home where he belongs.”

  “Your husband Charlie died before your eyes, the victim of a homicide. And here you are, wanting to help an accused murderer?”

  A vision of Charlie and his blood flashed behind my eyes and made me flinch. I refused to lose myself there. I pulled my attention back to Travis. “How did you know that?”

  “Ms. Mullet, you’ve been sitting in my offices for two days—that’s plenty of time for a detailed background check.”

  For a few ticks of the clock I was silent. How naïve of me. It never crossed my mind that while I was dancing with the dragon, he was digging up dirt. “You had no right,” I said.

  “Yes, I did. In fact, I had a right and an obligation. I have a client with diminished capacity sitting in a jail cell for a crime he did not commit. And an ex-cop—or a woman posing as an ex-cop—waltzes into my lobby and takes up residency. DAs have pulled sleazier tricks than that to get the upper hand.”

  I launched to my feet. Red-hot anger sent flames across my face. I came here to help and I was accused of playing games. I slapped the palms of my hands on his desk and leaned into his space. “This is not a trick.”

  “I know that.”

  If he said that one more time, I might explode. Do they have a special class in law school called Effective Irritation? “I’ve known Bobby Wiggins all my life. I know he is not capable of this. I know he does not understand what is going on. I know that there were times in the past when I should have stuck up for him and I didn’t. I owe Bobby, and I want to even the score. And, Mr. Travis, I just want to make a difference. I want to do something that matters.” I felt a growing quiver just below my solar plexus. It flared and burbled like a magical Fourth of July sparkler that kept burning even after a thorough dousing in a bucket of water.

  “Please sit,” Travis murmured. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. His fingers steepled together once again.

  I leaned back and slid into the chair. The silence tickled my nervous urge to start talking. I clenched my jaw to keep my mouth shut.

  His eyes popped open. “You have a bachelor’s degree, right?”

  “A BS in Chemistry. Yes.”

  “And how long were you on the police force?”

  “Three years.”

  “Fine,” he said as he lifted the receiver on his telephone and punched in a speed dial number. “Hi, Kristi, this is Dale Travis. Get me Arnie, please,” he said to the person at the other en
d.

  “Arnie, this is Dale,” he said and paused. “Yes, yes, Arnie, I won’t forget, but right now I’m calling about the Bobby Wiggins case.” A scowl crossed the attorney’s face. “No, Arnie. I am not calling to ask for something for nothing again. I’ve already got someone who will work for nothing.” He rolled his eyes upward as he listened. “Oh, shut up, Arnie. She has all the legal qualifications. I just need her to work under your license.” He shook his head and sighed. “Cut the chauvinistic crap, Arnie. You don’t believe a word you are saying. You’ve told me a thousand times that the best investigators you ever encountered were women.” He put his hand to his forehead. “Yes, Arnie, of course. The best investigators after you.” After another pause, he said, “No, Arnie. She’s here now. I’ll send her right over.” He formed an O with his index finger and thumb and shot it in my direction. “Thank you, Arnie.”

  Hanging up the phone, he turned to me and said, “Okay, we’re all set. Used to be easier. I could just send you out with my authorization. Now I have to have you work under a licensed investigator.” He pulled a business card out of the top left-hand drawer of his desk. “The Agency. I know it sounds so ominous it’s corny but that’s Arnie. I begged him not to use a name that sounded like the CIA, but he was young then and now The Agency is established. So . . .” he shrugged.

  “Did he do the background check on me?” I asked.

  “Of course. I trust him completely. For years, he has saved me from unpleasant surprises in the courtroom. You’d be amazed at the things people think they can hide from their attorney and the court. Secrets never are really secrets.”

  The taciturn Mr. Travis transformed in to Chatty Cathy right before my eyes. He rattled off his list of expectations for reports. Gave me directions to Arnie’s office—just a five-minute walk, he said. And Travis gave me the number for his direct line. Hallelujah! An Arbuthnot bypass.

  He escorted me back to the reception area, talking the whole way. In front of the ice queen’s desk, he thanked me again and gave me a pat on the back before retreating to his office. I gave Ms. Arbuthnot one of my sweetest smiles. She looked as if she was fighting off the urge to spit on my shoes. I wiggled my fingers in her direction and headed down to street level.

  *

  I wound my way down one block, then another, past buildings that blocked the sun but did nothing to suppress the omnipresent, suffocating humidity of Houston. I approached the far shorter, less imposing, building that housed The Agency—less imposing by big-city standards, that is. Picked up and stuck in my downtown, and it would be the most impressive thing for miles.

  The third-floor offices did not provide much of a view—just the exteriors of other buildings and a glimpse of the street below. Unlike the loftier office of Dale Travis, this one was close enough to earth for the honks and screeches of the traffic below to seep through the walls.

  The furniture in the lobby was nondescript Naugahyde—a couple of rips repaired with discreet color-coordinated tape—built to use, not to impress. Behind a desk plate that read “Kristi Nichols,” the woman who greeted me bore no resemblance to Ms. Arbuthnot. She had a wholesome blond-haired, blue-eyed look and exhibited as much enthusiasm and good cheer as a Girl Scout peddling Thin Mints. Her smile beamed even broader as I approached. “You must be Ms. Mullet,” she said.

  “Molly,” I said, returning her smile.

  Her eyes just about disappeared as her smile expanded to an even greater width than I thought possible. “Okay, Molly. Arnie is expecting you.” She wiggled her index finger and added, “Follow me.” I walked behind her, wondering if I had ever in my entire life had that much bounce in my step. I half-expected her to break into a skip or turn a cartwheel as we made our way down the hall.

  Kristi led me to an office with one clear surface—the seat of the visitor’s chair. The L-shaped desk had a computer station on each end. In between, tilting towers of files, loose papers, audiotapes and videotapes fought to maintain their personal space. Behind the desk, Arnie’s broad form overflowed a red secretary’s chair. His eyes riveted to one of the monitors, his pudgy fingers pounded on the keyboard.

  His fingers remained in motion as he glanced at me for a nanosecond. “Got a driver’s license?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Give it to Kristi. Got a conceal-carry permit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give it to Kristi. Kristi, make copies and bring them back.”

  Arnie swiveled to face me, plunged a hand into one of the stacks on his desk and slipped out an unused file folder with the dexterity of an accomplished sleight-of-hand artist. He thrust it in my direction. “Here. Write your name on the tab. And make it legible.”

  I followed instructions and handed back the folder. Kristi bopped back into the room, handed my documents to me and the copies to Arnie. He slid them into the newly labeled folder.

  “Kristi’s got a digital camera. Before you leave, she’ll snap your photo. Have you got any distinguishing body features?”

  I glowed deep red.

  “What?” he asked. “A scar? A piercing? A tattoo?”

  My face burned hotter.

  “Show it to me,” he ordered.

  With great reluctance, I slipped my arm out of the jacket and turned my bicep toward Arnie.

  “What the hell is that supposed to be?”

  “It’s a chemistry thing—a beaker filled with toxic liquid.”

  “Looks more like a pile of crap to me,” Kristi said, then blushed and muttered, “Sorry.”

  “Please put your jacket back on,” Arnie said. “You know you can have those things removed with lasers now, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, at least nobody will have any trouble identifying your body at the morgue.” He laughed as he swiveled in his chair.

  Kristi tittered behind the hand that covered her mouth. I sat stiff and red-faced in the chair.

  Arnie cleared his throat and turned to Krisiti. “Set up user IDs and passwords for all our data source accounts for . . . for . . .” He glanced at the folder in his hand. “For Molly here. Make sure you give her the URLs, too, or it won’t do much good.” Arnie punctuated his remark with a deep laugh that bumped his belly against the edge of a keyboard and rattled it in place.

  Kristi giggled in response. Obviously, someone, at some time, did not get the Internet addresses. From the twinkles in their eyes, I guessed that the mistake was not accidental.

  As Kristi departed, Arnie folded his arms across his upper chest and rested them on the shelf formed by his massive midsection. “Okay, Molly. Here’s the deal. Technically, you work for me as an independent contractor. But you don’t really work for me, you work for Travis. Actually, since nobody is paying you, ‘work’ might be the wrong term. For some reason, you’re busting your butt for free.”

  My mouth opened to respond but Arnie waved me off. “None of my business, girl. That’s between you and Travis. I do not want to get involved. Anyway, to keep the bureaucrats happy up in Moscow on the Colorado . . .” he stopped mid-sentence, his eagle eyes catching the confusion on my face. “Austin, girl. You telling me you haven’t heard that before?”

  I shook my head.

  “Don’t you get it?”

  Again, I shook my head.

  “Oh, Jeez. You know, Moscow—the former capital of the evil empire? The USSR? You know, pinky, commie, weird Austin, the state capital? On the banks of the Colorado River? You know, the river that the locals for some demented reason call Town Lake?”

  The puzzled look stayed firmly planted on my face. Oh, I knew what he meant. I just did not want to admit it. His exasperation was entertaining. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. Ah, sweet surrender.

  After a big sigh, he continued. “Anyway, you need to send in a report every week—send it to Kristi’s e-mail. I don’t want any details—that’s for Travis. Just sketch it out. I talked to four suspects. Staked out the house of another. Bribed a public official. Whatever
. Things get more formal if we develop a more permanent long-term relationship. Like if I actually pay you for doing something. But that’s it for now. Any questions?”

  He paused long enough to finger brush his comb-over off his forehead and back over his bald spot, but not long enough for me to fashion the first word of a question before he was off again.

  “Kristi’s setting up access for you to the most comprehensive privacy-invading tools we have at our disposal. Addresses. Phone numbers. Social Security numbers. Credit reports. Criminal records. You name it, you get it. Don’t share the passwords with anyone.

  “Before you leave, Kristi will give you a disk with a template of the business card. Get your cards right away. Our twenty-four hour number is on there and you’ll need to add your own. If you don’t have a cell phone, get one. I’m always available if you need any professional advice.” He extracted a business card from another monumental mountain of files and flipped it toward me.

  “About that bribing an official remark I made: that was a joke. You do anything illegal, I don’t want to know about it. Any questions?” Without pause he swiveled back to his monitor and the commotion of fingers in motion began anew.

  Kristi tapped a finger on my shoulder and I started with enough violence to jar my teeth. I hate when I do that. She wiggled her index finger and I followed her again.

  She handed me a typed sheet of paper with all the necessary access information, including technical support numbers. Then she went through the instructions for using the programs with all the simplistic detail required for someone who had never booted up a computer in her life. I’m not kidding—she actually told me that if the little lights did not come on, I needed to make sure the computer was plugged in. I was tempted to interrupt, but she seemed to have her spiel memorized, making me fear if I intruded, she’d have to take it again from the top. She wrapped up with a huge synapses jump: “I really did like chemistry class.”