TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCERPT FROM HARRY HUNSICKER’S
NEXT LEE HENRY OSWALD MYSTERY
AVAILABLE IN HARDCOVER FROM ST. MARTIN’S MINOTAUR
My workload came from one of several distinct groups, a pattern I figured was typical for any moderately successful private investigator in a major metropolitan area.
Most PIs thought of the first group as their best clients. The business was steady and they paid well and on time. They were lawyers in all their various shades and flavors. What could be more recession-proof than litigation and the ancillary investigations required?
Next came the people missing something of value. An inheritance. A loved one. A spouses’s sexual attention. The company’s checkbook. Et cetera. This was a diverse group and paid in a diverse manner. Still, work was work.
Finally, there was the miscellaneous category. These were the people who walked on the dark side of the street. The half-bent cops. The occasional call girl with a dead politician stinking up a hotel room somewhere.
And my personal favorites: the dimwit wise guys who had screwed, stolen or ingested something that didn’t exactly belong to them and needed help, off-the-books and pronto. If they didn’t try to kill you, this group always paid, no questions asked.
The tires of my Chevy Tahoe crunched on the gravel parking lot as I came to a stop in front of a stone-and-brick building nestled under two
old hackberry trees. I slid the gear shift into PARK, turned off the ignition and listened to the motor tick. Two guys who looked like out-of-work musicians or maybe the creative team at a small ad agency sat at a picnic table and watched me as they drank from long-neck bottles of beer. I watched back for a moment and then opened the door of my truck, steeling myself against the wave of heat and humidity typical of mid-September in Texas.
My concern was that the person who had requested this meeting didn’t fall into any of the usual categories, or so it seemed based on our initial, cryptic phone conversation. He’d said his name was Lucas Linville and he was: (a) a preacher; (b) of the Baptist persuasion; and (c) wanting to meet in a drinking establishment. If that wasn’t enough to give a body pause, I didn’t know what was.
I walked across the gravel and dirt yard in front of Lee Harvey’s, a bar located a few blocks south of the new Dallas police headquarters in a part of town a friend of mine refers to as the corner of Gun and Knife Streets. I pushed open the front door and welcomed the dim light as a relief from the afternoon sun. The air-conditioning was set somewhere between the Arctic Circle and Iceland. The place smelled like beer and burgers and stale smoke.
Originally a house a century or so back, the bar occupied what had once been the living/dining area. It split the room in two, running parallel to the front wall, and had seating on either side. The bedrooms were to the left and had been converted into one big area which now contained a pool table. The kitchen was to the right.
I picked a stool on the opposite side, facing the front door. Nothing behind me except empty room. No other access points. The guy next to me had a portable oxygen tank slung over his shoulder, a cigarette in one hand and draft beer in the other. He was dressed in a rumpled tuxedo, no tie. He looked to be somewhere between fifty and ninety years old, give or take.
I nodded hello to the bartender, a guy I sort of knew from previous
visits, and ordered a Shiner Bock. Across the room the front door opened, and I squinted against the sunlight as the man I took to be Lucas Linville entered.
Five-eight or -nine. Skinny. Late fifties. The pink bow tie was the giveaway, the article of clothing he had mentioned he would be wearing. It was tied tightly around the neck of a beige dress shirt underneath a brown suit. Even from across the room, I could see the outfit was worn at the edges.
He blinked a couple of times against the gloom of the place and then walked to the bar, leaned in and whispered something to the guy who had just served me a beer. The bartender cut a glance my way without breaking his conversation with Linville.
I nodded.
He pointed to me with an ashtray he’d been polishing.
Linville took a moment to examine his surroundings and then walked around the bar past Mr. Emphysema and took the empty stool next to me. He stuck out a hand and introduced himself. His breath smelled like Wrigley Doublemint chewing gum, and I caught the faint aroma of drugstore aftershave on my hand where it had pressed against his palm.
Before I could say much of anything other than my name, Linville ordered a shot of Jim Beam with a Budweiser chaser and said, “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
I didn’t reply for a moment as I watched the bartender serve up my newest favorite concoction: a Baptist Boilermaker. Might have to start going to church.
“I know my way around town pretty well,” I said. A few blocks away a bullet had punched a hole through the side of my new Hugo Boss leather jacket a couple of winters ago. I was still pissed about it.
“I have a small ministry not far from here.” He downed the glass of whiskey in one gulp, followed it up with a swig of beer. “This is a troubled part of town, wouldn’t you say?”
“No offense.” I looked at my watch. “But I didn’t come here to talk about urban blight.”
Linville leaned back and stared at me, a blank expression on his face. “You find stuff for people, right?”
“Sometimes.” Category Two. People missing something. I felt a little better. “Depends on what it is.”
“A file was stolen from my office yesterday.”
I nodded but didn’t say anything.
“My ministry helps the people on the fringes.” He steepled his fingers underneath his scrawny chin. “Drug addicts. Prostitutes. What society thinks of as the gutter.”
He paused for a drink of beer. “Sometimes the people who find themselves on the bottom started out on top.”
“Debutantes turned street walkers, next on Jerry Springer.” I’d been hired once to find the daughter of a social bigwig. It turned out a busboy at the country club had introduced the flaxen-haired lass to the joys of injectable methamphetamines. The situation turned out poorly for all concerned.
Linville nodded. “Yeah. More or less.”
“What was in the file?”
“Records on a former employee of mine, a young man named Reese.” Linville tugged on an earlobe as he talked. “Came from a prominent family. Dad was a lawyer. Mother was involved with all those charity balls. He could have done anything, been anything he wanted.”
“What was Reese’s problem?”
“He had trouble with opiates, and cocaine too. Ended up on the streets in a bad way until I gave him a job.” Linville clinked the empty shot glass against his beer bottle and asked the bartender for another Jim Beam. “His family has been more than generous to my ministry.”
“When did he quit working for you?”
The older man frowned and ran his index finger around the rim of his beer can. “Four or five months ago.”
“It’s an employment file,” I said. “So that means it has his last name.”
“Yes.” He lowered his voice and looked around the room. “Reese Cunningham.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar. It conjured up an image of yacht clubs and cotillion dances. I said, “And Mumsy and Daddy won’t be too eager to fund your operation if it gets out that their precious angel was a homeless addict.”
“Certain segments of society care about appearances at all costs.” He downed his second shot.
“When did you notice it missing?”
“Yesterday, right after lunch.”
“Anything else gone?”
He shook his head.
“Who had access—” I stopped and mentally slapped myself on the forehead. The people he ministered to were not exactly pillars of the community.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Linville’s eyes glowed with alcohol, watery yet intense. “Only one other person had keys to my office.”
“What’s his name?” I got out a pen and grabbed a cocktail napkin from a pile by the beer taps.
“How do you know it was a he?”
I sighed. “Okay. What was her name?”
“Oh, never mind. He was my assistant.” Linville rubbed the bridge of his nose, his voice now sounding distant. “Carlos. He didn’t come to work today.”
“Last name?”
“Jimenez.”
The old guy on the other side of me erupted into a fit of coughing, his chest cavity sounding like a tin can full of gravel. When his wheezing subsided I said, “How long has he worked for you?”
“Must be six months now.” Linville drained his beer. “Started as a court-ordered DWI thing. He’s been clean ever since.”
I fanned away a cloud of smoke from Mr. Emphysema’s fresh cigarette. “Where does Carlos live?”
“A boarding house. In Oak Cliff.” Linville grabbed my pen and scribbled something on the cocktail napkin. His hand trembled as he slid the paper in my direction.
I put the information in my pocket but didn’t say anything.
“Discretion is—” Linville covered his mouth with one hand and hiccoughed. “Uh … imperative. That’s why I didn’t call the police.”
I mentioned my fee. He produced an already-made-out check. The amount was for a week’s worth of my time, a sum of money incongruous with the man’s shabby appearance. He described Carlos. Overweight, Hispanic. Mid-twenties. A tattoo of the Virgin Mary on his left arm.
A shaft of sunlight penetrated the darkened room as the front door opened and two people entered. Mr. Emphysema coughed a couple of times and spat something on the floor. He ordered an Absolut Martini, one hundred proof, straight up. I debated taking up smoking again.
“One more question for now,” I said. “Why haven’t you tried to track down Carlos yourself ?”
“My work demands a lot of time. And …” Linville stood and looked at two men who had just entered. “I believe certain people mean me harm.”
I stood also. The two newcomers flanked out, their attention plainly focused on Linville and me. Their hands were balled into fists. Everything about their demeanor screamed attack.
“Oh dear.” Linville’s face drained of color. “Now I’ve got you involved.”
The larger of the two produced a semi-automatic pistol from a pocket. He started toward us.