Chapter 18
The setting sun reflected from the gleaming glass of the Shelby Building like a melting glob of rose-gold. As buildings went, it was an architect's ten-story uninspiration consisting of steel and glass surmounted with several radio antennas, each decorated by blinking red lights. The structure stood midstreet, just above the economic meridian that split Shelby between the haves, and have-nots. The latter had their own reflection on the building. It girdled the sun's glow with splashes of blue neon: a nice color from a nice sign advertising live nude dancing, and cut-rate pornography.
I found a spot in the adjacent parking ramp and took the stairs to ground level. On the street out front, a cop had pulled over a male bicyclist and was handcuffing him. The offender was offering a determined objection that the truth did not always meet the eye. In his case, however, that defense would not likely serve. He was completely naked. As I walked past, I could not decide whether the cyclist had abandoned outer and under wear in an effort to brag about what he had, or if he was hoping for an offer from someone extremely desperate. I decided upon the latter and hurried inside through the Shelby's glitzy front entrance.
According to the directory in the lobby, attorney Randolph Widgeons had offices on the third floor. I caught the elevator behind a group of nuns, and went up. As a faction, they were vociferous in their derision of the bicyclist. Each made statements of disgust. Each shivered with revulsion at the memory of his nudity. And from the pink cheeks, shining eyes and lilt in their voices, none had ever enjoyed herself quite so much.
I got off on Widgeons' floor and trailed the door numbers to his office. A stout woman with purple hair and smeared pink lipstick was working behind a glass-topped reception desk. A bowl of floating yellow rose blossoms sat at one front corner of her domain and large box of pink tissues occupied the other. In between was an intercom box owing its existence to the god of silver plastic.
When she heard my name, her big brown eyes flickered slightly with recognition. Then she quickly explained that Mr. Widgeons was with a client but would be available shortly. She casually added that she would let him know I was waiting and that I should take a seat. As she spoke, her stare never wavered from the computer terminal. Her fat fingers never missed a tap as they danced across the keyboard like stubby pink sausages.
The receptionist's unwavering dedication to duty offered my mind’s eye an unfortunate picture of her having sex. She had it all down pat—making each efficient movement according to prewritten instructions, as she ignored the terrified man. She was mechanically thrashing. He was praying for premature ejaculation. And, the bed was straining at all its supports. Life was good at my age—when one lived alone.
The reception area's thick gray carpet was dotted with wrinkled leather chairs that looked like hovering black prunes. I sat in one, taking note of the sign on the wall opposite, which declared that smoking was forbidden. I girded my addiction, crossed my legs, and tried to appear calm as I listened to hidden speakers in the ceiling play taped music. I could not decide if it was gospel gone-country, country gone-pop or simply a bad collection of elevator noise. Nevertheless, the bobbing head of Widgeons' dedicated receptionist indicated she was a devout listener.
Several paintings adorned the white stucco walls. I was reasonably certain each had been purchased to offer a calming influence on potential clients, but my interest in prancing ponies and grazing cattle was limited. When faced with a long wait without comfort of nicotine, I preferred nubile naked brunettes sprawled wantonly upon black satin sheets and giving the viewer a come-hither stare. That artistic genre did nothing in the way of calming my frayed nerves. However, it did make my cravings more tolerable by focusing bodily needs upon other areas.
It took nearly a half hour of ankle scratching and leg crossing before the intercom buzzer sounded. From within its bowels came a rather high-pitched muffled voice letting the receptionist know Widgeons was again available. Ms. Purple-hair called out my name, jabbed a chubby thumb over one shoulder toward an unmarked door, and then announced that Mr. Widgeons was waiting. I thanked whatever God was listening before quickly getting up and moving.
As I entered, Randolph Widgeons was staring out one of the many windows in his oval office. He was a mousy little man with thinning blond hair and a drooping brown moustache—the latter temporarily framed by a chin brace. His double-breasted blue suit was cut in the current fashion and looked expensive. His leather shoes glinted like black gold. He wore a crimson bow tie resting upon the collar-points of a white silk shirt. And there were ample amounts of gold on his wrists and fingers.
At first glance, Widgeons looked to be in his early twenties. However, the crows-feet at the corner of each eye belied that impression. Still, he was the successful type most young women would greedily bring home to meet mommy.
"How can I help you Mr. –?"
After identifying myself, I explained my reason for wanting his time. Then I walked over and we shook hands.
Beyond him was a huge aluminum desk cast in abstract form with a smoked-glass inset. Under it were nearly a dozen color-coded heat-sensing switches. The two customer chairs in front of it were just as abstract. Both offered half a back cushion and hard metal for weary bottoms. I decided it was a time saving method to keep his clients talking.
"Leon Huggins doesn't like you much," he told me. Then as a laugh caught him by surprise, he moaned and touched the base of the brace. "Me, he likes even less. Take a seat."
"Are you still representing him?" I asked.
Widgeons winced, again. "Until the court reassigns his case. Under the circumstances, I cannot serve his needs." He paused and gave me a suspicious look. "No offense, but private investigators are not known as bleeding-heart types. Moreover, from the look of your suit you can't afford to hang around McAllen on an empty promise to pay. So, why bother with Leon Huggins?"
"Stubbornness, mostly. No, that's not true. I feel sorry for the poor bastard. I take it you were roped into his defense to meet your pro-bono requirements?"
Randolph went over to his desk and sat down in the high-backed, black leather chair behind it. Then he leaned back touching the fingertips of both hands together to form a steeple. "It's mandated we members of the bar donate a certain number of hours each year. But this is not one of those situations."
I tried out one of the customer chairs before asking, "Who's footing the bill?"
The steeple became two waving palms. "You know I cannot tell you that."
I glanced around at a room filled with items from a modernist's dream. One wall was occupied by a sophisticated stereo system, another was dedicated to the world of expensive television. On the ceiling a huge glass panel gave an ongoing ticker-tape display as the stock market, ebbed, and flowed.
"I met with Leon this morning," I told Widgeons. "He said you took offense to something and that's what started the slugfest."
"Hardly a slugfest." Widgeons shrugged painfully. He leaned forward, extending his arms and letting his palms pat the top of his desk. "He swung and I went out. Nevertheless, the short and long is I lost my temper, he lost his, and I'm not about to risk that again. I'm not considering charges against him if that's your concern."
I shook my head. "Captain Delaney's hustling Leon to the executioner. That's worry enough."
His eyes brightened and the patting stopped. "You don't like Delaney?"
"He's got a vested interest in Leon's funeral."
"Our local police legend plans to retire this year and making an example of Leon will let the old boy go out with laurels. What makes you such an adamant loather of our infamous crime fighter?"
"Probably the same as anyone else who knows him. Is there a chance I can induce you to remain as Leon's defense counsel?"
Widgeons wagged his head. "Too much misery and too little reward. My jaw's still in one piece but it's cracked. I've got several thousand in dental-caps to replace, and right now I've got all I can do to bear the pai
n without tears."
"I can make it worth your time to reconsider."
He leaned back still wagging his head, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "With respect, Mr. Bishop. And you couldn't earn enough in ten lifetimes to change my mind."
"I'm not talking money, Widgeons—although if you clear Leon of this mess he'll be worth millions. What I'm offering is a political leg up."
He pursed his lips and made another steeple with his fingers. "You've got connections to political row all the way down here?"
"My connections run a little lower down. I've got dirt on Woods—enough to put him out of politics and into prison for the next century."
Widgeons leaned forward on his forearms, suddenly interested. "What dirt?"
"Is it Bascomb you're working for?"
He snapped his fingers impatiently. "What dirt?"
"The kind that leaves a gap in the political machine for a smart young lawyer to fill. Who's calling the shots on Leon's defense? You, or the money-man?"
"How I handle Leon's defense is up to me. What makes you think I'd want to be mayor, Bishop?"
"It's the first step to the governor's office and from there a shot at the Senate, or the Presidency. You're too good to settle for the legal fees garnered in this burg. So the only reason you're still around is the intent to take on Woods when the time was right."
He folded her hands and winced. "I'd intended to do so this year. But, I couldn't free enough time to campaign."
"Leon didn't kill Eli. And there's enough behind what's really going on to make headlines worldwide. By the time the dust settles on this, you'll be a national hero. Still not interested?"
Widgeons fiddled with his tie indecisively. "I read the arrest report and the autopsy findings, Mr. Bishop. Leon recanting his confession will have little impact."
"It might, if the right lawyer was handling his case."
He pointed to his jaw. "This is just a sample of Leon's work. Did you know he nearly beat his brother to death six months ago? Eli was in the hospital for three weeks. The old bastard nearly died."
I nodded. "So, I've been told—repeatedly. But Leon wasn't charged."
"The point is, he's capable of extreme violence with little or no provocation. I'm not interested in taking up residence in a hospital ward."
"With his fists he's a problem. But, Eli was shot, the gun pressed to the back of his head execution style. Leon wouldn't kill his brother that way."
"That's debatable."
"I'd say it was a certainty. Why would Leon use a gun when his fists could just as easily handle the task?"
Widgeons tugged at the lobe of one ear. "According to the police report, Leon and you discovered Eli's body. Was he late picking you up at the airport?"
I shook my head. "My flight was twenty minutes early and Leon was waiting for me. It took us at least an hour to get from the airport to Eli's place, and he was not holding back the horses. That means it took Leon at least that long to get to the airport. When I got to Eli, rigor mortis had not set in. The old boy was limp as a freshly killed goose, his skin temp near normal."
Widgeons got to his feet and strolled back to the window. "Eli's body was pumped full of cocaine. He could walk but not too fast. Standing was possible but not in a high wind. According to the coroner, the drug delayed rigor mortis by at least an hour—perhaps longer. What does that do to your theory?"
I heard my own teeth grit. "I think your coroner needs some remedial training. Regardless, Leon's not a gun handler."
The attorney leaned toward the glass as if he were a sun-starved vine. "How many of the murders you investigated for Dallas P-D resulted from a tool found by the killer at the scene?"
My teeth gritted, again. "Even if Eli pulled the gun, Leon would have simply disarmed his brother. Assuming he did kill Eli, Leon would have used the tools a boxer knows best, his fists. The initial hour after the average first-time killer has transgressed is one of extreme agitation. They are usually terrified to the point of vomiting. Eye-contact is extremely difficult, if at all possible. Conversations are usually disconnected because their brain is running full tilt trying to evaluate the likelihood of arrest. When I first talked with Leon, he was as calm as well-laid whore. No way had he murdered his brother."
Widgeons turned around and gave me a quick smile that made him wince, again. "The prosecution will see it this way. Leon kills Eli and runs. While making his escape, he remembers you are coming. Who better to discover the body than the P-I hired to protect Eli? He drives to the airport and awaits your arrival. Was Leon supposed to me you?"
"No. My expectation was that Eli would be there. Still, waiting for me at the airport just to make sure I discovered the body takes someone with cold calculating style. Leon's hot headed."
"Why should he be worried? Eli's not going anywhere. If an innocent happens upon the corpse before you two get there, so much the better. No matter how the discovery pans out, he's got you as his alibi."
"What were the results of the acid bath tests on Leon's hands?"
"No nitrate residue. He could have worn gloves."
"His clothes were checked as well?"
"Those results came back as inconclusive. Nitrates were found but not to the level expected. Regardless, we still have the confession."
"He was nearly out of his mind with grief. He was desperately trying to protect someone."
"He did a small part in a local theatre production."
"Leon doesn't have the smarts to handle an acting job. And I've got a local director who can attest to that."
Widgeons came over and stared down at me. "Leon merely played the mournful brother. That kind of routine does not require brain-trust material, or acting skills."
"It does require analytical thought, which Leon lacks."
"Leon's not as stupid as he lets on, Bishop. I've known him since I was in grade school. He taught boxing for the park system. I was flyweight champion for the city, despite my recent fisticuff failing. That meant a lot of time in the ring with him. Leon's steady, he is quick and he has organization skills. He sets up his plan, follows a course of action, and does not waver until its completion."
"In the ring, I agree. I saw him box during his prime. But, it's been a lot of years since then—a lot of booze. And murder is a far stretch from toe-to-toe swinging. Unless a killer's done the deed several times before, he's going to demonstrate some level of panic—which I did not observe in Leon."
Widgeons threw his arms up in despair and walked away. "Leon confessed. Why confess if he's not guilty? The man's going to get lethal injection, not do a short stint on the work-farm."
"Which blows still more of your theory to hell, Widgeons. Why go to all that trouble of establishing an alibi with me and then confess? I've investigated over one hundred homicides. Not once did any suspect do that."
He threw his hands to his hips. "Because Leon discovered his wife had been there. Leon feared she would fall under suspicion and a confession was the only way to protect her. Was that not your initial surmise?"
I nodded and shifted in the chair, uncomfortably. "He's not protecting Moira. I think he was protecting his stepdaughter, Betsy. And, yes, she had been there—how he learned that I don't know."
The attorney toyed with his moustache as he walked back to his chair. "Wife or daughter, where's the difference? Go back to Dallas before you waste more of your time, and mine."
"The difference is right here." I set the guns I had taken from Moira and Betsy on his desk. "Can you get these to an independent ballistics expert? And then get the results delivered to Bascomb so he can have his team compare the data from these guns with the bullet taken from Eli's brain?"
He stared at the weapons as if they were something from outer space. "Leon had these?"
I shook my head. "Novelties picked up in my travels. But I think they make good candidates for the murder weapon." Then I touched the revolver I had taken from B
etsy. "This one I'd bet a year's pay is it."
"Where did you get them?"
"You in or out, Widgeons?"
He scratched his nose thoughtfully. "In. But I want your assertion that you don't know for a fact that either of these weapons was used on Eli."
"My theory is solely based upon the caliber, from whom I took it and the circumstances around the individual's possession of it."
He took out a pen and tapped the revolver. "Who gave you this?"
"Who's paying for Leon's defense?"
His smile didn't hide his grinding teeth. "It'll take a couple of days. And if Bascomb finds a match in one of these, he's not going to be patient as to how I came by them. You're not my client, so I have no obligation to protect you."
I nodded. "Point him my way and then kick his ass to hurry the sorry son-of-a-bitch along."
Widgeons folded his hands and leaned forward resting his forearms upon the desktop. "You said something about dirt."
"For starters, Leon's brother was running a major cocaine import operation. He supplied the Portello crime family. Delaney and Mayor Woods were Eli's partners."
Widgeons' mouth dropped open in utter surprise. "You can't be serious."
"I can prove some of it now. I'll expect to have it all by week's end. You might take a look at the drug-processing lab in Eli's basement. It's been emptied but any honest forensic tech could validate my claim on the cocaine."
"That was not in the police report."
"It probably is now. I've made Delaney a nervous man."
"Illicit drugs put a whole new complexion on Eli's murder."
"Add that to the fact Dominic Portello was a steady visitor to Eli's home, and you're nearly home free. Factor in that Dominic is a regular playmate of Nadine Woods who was also a playmate of Eli's, and who might be the sometime sex-toy of one big Irish cop, and you can coast your way to an acquittal."
Widgeons stood, suddenly agitated. "The bastard! I can't tell you how many times I've driven by that mansion of Woods and wondered how a nearly illiterate low-life could finagle it."
"What can you tell me about Eli?"
"I did some contract work for him a few years back—nothing since. Are you sure about the Portellos' connection to Woods? I can't afford a screw-up on that."
"I'm sure. Nadine's gets hot flashes each time Dom trails his cigarette across her tummy. What was the contract for?"
Widgeons shoved his hands into his pockets and went back to the window. "It was a loan agreement. Technically, I cannot divulge its details."
"Was Philip Woods the borrower?"
He gave me a surprised over-the-shoulder glance before saying, "Him, or somebody else."
"What was the money for?"
"It wasn't discussed in my presence. I assumed to bail out the borrower from overextended investments. The local economy had taken a tumble. It took so long to come back I nearly had to fold my practice and sign on with another law firm."
"Who precipitated the contract?"
Widgeons tugged at one ear, as he thought. "I can't say with any certainty. Eli arrived one morning, laid out the details for the contract, and then a week later he and the borrower executed the document. The interest rate was high but not usurious."
"Eli took a list of holdings as security?"
"An addendum to the contract delineated each as to type and value. As I recall Mr. Huggins wanted everything the borrower owned. I got the impression he was hoping the contract would be dishonored."
"Did this borrower say why he was willing to take such a risk?"
He shook his head. "I think it was either borrow from Eli, or go under. I suspect he would have signed a contract with Satan to stay afloat."
"What properties?"
Widgeons pursed his lips in thought and then said, "Real estate holdings, mostly. There were several local retail outlets, as well."
"The real-estate was the borrower's home?"
"No. It amounted to rental property in McAllen—mostly four-plexes. And there was also a large tract of land along the border, in Mexico—not worth much at the time. Eli was most specific about that parcel being among the assets pledged."
"River front, is it?"
"The land is desert. It became some sort of mining operation, as I recall. I'm not sure if the land was being mined or if it was simply the offices for the firm."
"Mining for what?"
He raised his shoulders and then let them slump.
"How long before the liens were released?"
Widgeons returned to his chair. "I didn't handle that. Nevertheless, by a coincidence, I was having a discussion with a legal friend and he mentioned filing the releases. That was about three months later."
"How large a loan had Eli advanced?"
"In round numbers, a million."
"Where is this mine?"
"Near Renosa."
"I'd like to take a look at that property. Do you know how to get to it?"
"I can put you in touch with somebody who would know. We used a Mexican attorney to register the lien on that property. How does an old loan agreement fit into Eli's murder?"
"If my suspicions are right, it's the core of the smuggling operation and was likely the reason Eli was killed. My suspect list is a short one and it's changed frequently. But right now I think a pair of Mexicans did the actual killing. I also think they were hired by Delaney—who probably conspired with Woods. Then the plan was to put the hit on Betsy's doorstep."
Widgeons grinned and squirmed in his chair, as if vibrations of the best kind were suddenly emanating from it. "Self-righteous Philip Woods smuggling drugs and paying for a hit—assuming you're correct, of course. It's like finding out the pope had a sex change. It doesn't really impact anything directly. But you begin questioning and remembering."
"How did Delaney hook up with Eli?"
Widgeons leaned forward as if suddenly relishing my company. "That happened rather sudden. It was about ten years ago Woods was enjoying his first term as Mayor and was trying his best to get Delaney kicked of the force. There was a lot of talk about that. Then it got real quiet from the Woods end of the world. After that, Eli and Delaney were fast friends."
"Delaney bought his way in?"
"That would be my guess, but where he got the money I can't say. He was always a nickel short when I saw him." Widgeons grinned at me. "I'm beginning to like you, Mr. Bishop."
"I prefer long engagements and candlelit dinners."
Widgeons laughed.
"Then you're set to continue with Leon?"
"Unless he wants me off the case. The only way I can get him off is for you to come up with the real killer's name—and enough proof to convince a jury. Without that, I'll be able to blow smoke fast and furious over the drug connection. But an acquittal would be iffy at best. This is the Bible-belt. Lots of folks take a dim view of prizefighters down here. Getting a Texas jury to ignore that is as tough as getting a cowboy to pay taxes. Maybe it gets done in the end, but he's not happy about it."
I stood and thanked him. "Who do I speak to in Renosa?"
"Pedro Martinez. His office at that time was right on the main strip above a pharmacy—probably still is. I'll phone that you'll be paying him a call in the near future."
I left Widgeons to his gloating and headed south.