CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

On the way back to Sequoya I called the office and put out a statewide hold and alert bulletin on Paul Arno. I also instructed them to call the Dallas PD and see if they had anything on Arno’s girlfriend. We pulled into Nacogdoches in time to eat a late supper at a barbecue joint on the north side of town. I got home a little after nine to find Carla stretched out on the sofa in the den wearing a pair of loose white cotton shorts and a halter top, reading a book.

“I walked over,” she said. “I thought you might want me to fix you something to eat.”

I shook my head. “I done et, but I could use a drink. How about you?”

“Sure, and if you’re too tired from your trip, we can just snuggle. I like that too.”

“Let’s have that drink and see what happens, okay?”

“That’s fine.”

In the kitchen I poured us each a healthy dollop of V.O. over ice. Carla downed half of hers with one quick pull.

“Just snuggle, huh?” I asked, sipping at my glass.

“If that’s all you’re up for, Bo.”

“No unreasonable demands, you say?”

She shook her head and grinned. “Never.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re too perfect. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“I’m not wearing shoes,” she said and drained her glass.

“You don’t appear to be wearing much else, either.”

Her laughter was like a tinkling silver bell as she set her glass down and drifted toward me, a knowing smile on her face, a smile that was as old as sin itself.

*   *   *

As always, Carla was gone when I woke up the next morning. She slept less than any woman I ever knew and seemed to have an alarm clock inside her head.

The first thing I did when I got to the office was look over the sheet from the night before. To my relief, it had been a quiet evening. No major eruptions at any of the clubs, and only one domestic dispute. But Arno hadn’t turned up. A quick check revealed that he was still registered at the Eight Ball Motel on the south side of town, but had not been in his room all night. I was deep into the usual paperwork when Maylene buzzed to tell me that a Sergeant Wolf of the Dallas Police Department Vice Division was on the phone for me.

I picked up the receiver. “Bo Handel here,” I said.

“Hello, Sheriff. When I got to work this morning, I found a note telling me to call you. I understand you’re inquiring about Brandi Springer.”

“Right. It’s a murder investigation or I wouldn’t have bothered you folks.”

“No problem. Just what do you need to know about her?”

“Give me all you got. The whole ball of wax.”

“That would take a week. This girl comes from a family of hoodlums. Her dad was an oldtime Dallas gambler named Claude Springer who owned a domino hall down on the east end of Elm Street and ran a sports book out of the back room. Her mother is a former call girl who pimped Brandi out to some rich perverts when she was about thirteen. Her brother is in federal prison for mail fraud. Her father’s brother was a hired goon for Cat Noble back when he was fighting Benny Binion for control of the Dallas gambling rackets. And it goes on and on.”

“What’s the girl like herself?” I asked.

“Twenty-five years old. Beautiful, sexy, and dumb as a bag of rocks. She just sits there filing her nails and waiting for something to happen. With a body like hers, something always does. I’ve handled her three times, twice for prostitution and once for misdemeanor larceny. How does she tie in with your murder?”

“The main suspect so far is a New Orleans hit man named Paul Arno. She’s supposed to be his girlfriend.”

“Never heard of him,” he said. “Is he Mafia?”

“Kinda-sorta. The Feds say he’s not actually a made guy, but he works for the New Orleans outfit from time to time. He freelances too, and he has his own rackets going. Anyhow, the girl is supposed to be in Dallas visiting her family right now.”

“Oh, she’s here all right. But she’s not visiting. She’s come home to stay.”

“How did you happen to know that?” I asked.

“Informants,” he said with a laugh. “How else do you find out anything in this business? She and her mother are setting up to run an outcall massage service out of the old man’s domino parlor. He got crosswise with another bookie a couple of years ago and wound up with a twenty-two hollow-point right in the center of the forehead, but the family still owns the building. They’ve signed on a few local girls, all hookers. I’ve been meaning to get by there and jerk their chains a little just to let the old lady know we haven’t forgotten about her. I’ll put that on the front burner this morning.”

“That’s an awful big favor on your part,” I said.

“No favor to it. It could be that Arno is financing the operation, and if a guy like him is moving into Dallas I need to know about it. Anything specific you want me to ask her?”

“Anything about Arno you can pry out of her. It’s been my experience that these old boys like to brag to their women. Pillow talk, whatever he’s been up to or what he’s planning. His hopes and dreams.”

“Oh, I can tell you all about his hopes and dreams, and I’ve never even met the man. Silk suits, flashy cars, and big-titted women. And that’s about as far as it goes. But I’ll do my best and get back to you.”

“Thanks a bunch, my friend. I do appreciate it. Let me give you my cell number too.”

*   *   *

I was about ten minutes back into my paperwork when I got a call from Billy Don Smith telling me that Arno was having lunch at the Caravan.

“Did he just get there?” I asked.

“No, I saw his car and checked the place out. He’s eating. Do you want me to arrest him now?”

“No, just keep an eye on him. I’m on my way.”

*   *   *

When I pulled up in front of the restaurant I saw Billy Don waiting outside. I stepped from my car and walked over to where he stood.

“He’s just now paying his check,” Billy Don said. “If we wait a couple of minutes we can take him out here and avoid disturbing folks inside.”

I nodded agreement. Soon Big Paul came through the door, bouncing along on the balls of his feet like a prizefighter. He was wearing a black nylon wind suit and a pair of designer running shoes that would have probably cost a mill foreman a week’s pay. He saw me and hesitated for half a step, then started to walk on past.

“Hold it,” I said.

“You talking to me?”

“You know I am,” I said. I was standing with my hand on my .45 and my body quartered away from his. “A bad attitude could get you killed this morning, Arno. We don’t fool around when we have reason to think a man is carrying a weapon, and that permit of yours makes me think you may be.”

“My piece is in the car,” he said.

“Good. Turn around, spread your legs, and put your hands on the wall.”

He complied, but he wasn’t happy about it. “This is embarrassing,” he said.

“Maybe so,” I said. “But it’s better than having an old man sitting in the middle of your back whipping on your head with a slapjack, now isn’t it?”

Billy Don searched him, and we cuffed him and loaded him in the back of my cruiser. Ten minutes later he was seated in front of my desk and I was taking my own good time about getting down to business. I signed a few letters Maylene had left on my desk while I was out, and then I made a couple of phone calls I didn’t really need to make and jotted down some notes about things I didn’t need to remember. Big Paul was getting impatient. “You know, I got things to do today,” he said.

“Well, you may not get them done, then,” I said without looking up. “It appears to me that your ass may be headed for jail.”

“Jail? What for?”

“Murder.”

“Who?” he asked.

“A woman named Amanda Twiller.”

“For the love o’ Mike. You can’t really think I had anything to do with that.”

“I’m a lot closer to thinking it since your alibi caved in. Willie Day gave you up.”

“Who?”

“Willie Day,” I said. “That young computer wizard at the South Winds Motor Hotel in Lake Charles. He’s in jail in Bermuda. Altering a motel or hotel record is a federal offense, you know. The cops down there put the screws to him yesterday, and he cracked like an egg. They’ve got signed and notarized statements and everything.”

“That slimy little shit…”

“How much did you pay him?”

“Three bills. And he rolls over on me.”

“Three hundred?”

“Yeah, the twerp.”

I laughed out loud. “That kind of bonus money will sure buy him a lot of daiquiris lying around down there on the beach,” I said.

“Beach?” he asked stupidly. “I thought you said the cops had him.”

“I was lying.”

“Shit…”

“If you weren’t involved in the Twiller murder, why did you go to all the trouble to set up an alibi?”

“I’m not saying nothing more without a lawyer.”

“You know, I could go upstairs right now and get a warrant and charge you with this killing. This time you’d stay jugged because murder for hire is not a bondable offense. I think we have enough to get an indictment. I doubt that we could prove it in court, but we can cause you some very expensive trouble. But truth of the matter is that I really don’t think you did it. So if you could just give me something to hang my hat on…”

“Like I said, I’m not talking without a lawyer.”

“You should have dummied up and asked for an attorney when I first mentioned Willie Day. But like a fool, you showed your hand. Now when you could tell me something that would help you, you’ve got nothing to say.”

“So?”

“So I think you’re just about the stupidest son of a bitch I’ve met this whole year.”

He didn’t like hearing that. His eyes were full of fire, but he knew there was no percentage in getting tough. “I still got nothing to say,” he said sullenly.

“Are you planning on leaving town anytime soon?”

“I’ve got business here that will keep me around for a few days.”

“What kind of business?” I asked.

“Private business.”

“Okay, get lost.”

“You mean I can go?”

“Until the next time I need to talk to you.”

“Some people might call this harassment.”

I gave him an honest laugh. “Do I look like I give a shit what anybody calls it?”

*   *   *

I called Tom Waller to fill him in on what I had on Arno. He agreed with me that while we might get an indictment, conviction was doubtful. I told him I was putting any action against the man on hold. For some reason Big Paul as Amanda Twiller’s killer just didn’t gel for me. I know it’s unscientific, but I’ve been at this business long enough to pay attention to my hunches, especially when they told me somebody was innocent. Not that I was worried about any injustice that might be done to Arno. He was a killer several times over, and whatever charge he went down for was merely a matter of bookkeeping. But I wasn’t content just to clear the case.

“How does this tie in with Dennard?” he asked.

“I have no idea. I guess Dennard could have hired Arno to do it, or even done it himself, maybe after getting Doyle to deliver her to him. Then a couple of days later he killed Doyle to shut him up.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I have trouble with it,” I said. “Dennard is smart and a lawyer himself. The Bureau has nothing that would tie him to Sipes or any other skulduggery. The only possible motive I can come up with is to protect his marriage.”

“That’s been behind many a murder,” he said.

“If it was in this case, it was more likely he was trying to protect himself financially from a bad divorce judgment. This state now has alimony, remember?”

“Oh yes. I’m very aware of that.”

“Do you think the grand jury would indict on what we have?”

“Maybe and maybe not,” he said. “I’m still wondering why Sipes’s bail bond company took such a flier on Raynes.”

“Sipes claims Zorn vouched for the kid’s innocence. Why, I don’t know, but it’s not a crime, so…”

“By the way,” he said, “the judge set Dennard’s bond at a half million dollars. Noncapital murder and he’s a substantial citizen.”

“That’s still a stiff bond,” I said. “Has he made any effort to come up with it?”

“Not a bit. MacGregor won’t accept anything but cash or surety from a licensed bonding company. Dennard doesn’t have that kind of liquidity. He could probably come up with the fifteen percent a bail bond company would require, but that’s seventy-five thousand dollars that he wouldn’t get back. It looks like he’s either innocent and confident or guilty and pessimistic. Either way, why waste the money?”

We hung up and I thought for a few moments, then dialed Hotchkiss on his cell phone. He answered on the second ring. “What’s up, Doc?” he said.

“Maybe we ought to find out where Emmet Zorn lived before he came to Sequoya. He’s been here about five years, and I know he did some rodeo promoting before that.”

“No problem. The first thing I’ll do is check the national computer for any minor criminal charges and check the addresses to go with them. Actually, we should have already done that. I’ll get back to you.”

Next I fished Roland DeMour’s card out of my wallet and started dialing. None of his numbers answered, but I left a message on his voice mail asking him to call me. Almost an hour later Maylene buzzed and told me DeMour was on the phone.

“How can I help you?” he asked after I said hello.

“I recall your cousin Camille saying you work organized crime. Is that right?”

“It sure is.”

“If you’ve got a minute I’d like to ask you a few more questions about Paul Arno.”

*   *   *

Just before noon Linda came in with a report on another case that I needed, and I motioned for her to sit down. Before I could tell her what was on my mind, Hotchkiss called. I lifted the receiver and he started jabbering away without even giving me a chance to say hello. When he finished a couple of minutes later, I said, “Thanks, Hotch,” and hung up.

“What?” Linda asked.

I gave her a coy little smile and raised my finger to my lips to silence her. “Be patient,” I said. “I’ve got to make one more call.”

It took me five minutes and some heavy threats to get patched through to Lester Sipes on his cell phone. Finally he answered. “Hello, Sheriff,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m talking to you, especially in light of the insulting things you said to me when we met in Nacogdoches.”

“I’ll give you one good reason to talk to me. Answer a couple of questions truthfully and I can eliminate you from a list of possible suspects in a murder case. That should be worth a few minutes of your valuable time.”

There came a long pause. “Fine. Speak your piece.”

“I think that one night last week you were scheduled to come up here to Sequoya. I think you were supposed to arrive around midnight. I also think that something happened that prevented you from coming. Am I right?”

“How on earth did you know that?”

“Never mind how,” I said. “It was the night Amanda Twiller was killed, wasn’t it?”

“Yes … yes, it was. But I had some important business associates came into town on the spur of the moment.”

“From South America?” I asked.

“Where they were from doesn’t matter, but I promise you I have several respectable witnesses who will place me here in Houston until well into the next day.”

“I’m sure you do, and I would believe them in a heartbeat. But I’ve got even stronger proof that you were never here that night.”

“And what might that be?”

“You’re still alive,” I said and hung up the phone.

*   *   *

Linda’s eyes were wide with surprise. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” she asked. Then she answered her own question. “No, never mind. You’ll just say something about my young and tender ears, and I’ll get pissed off all over again.”

I laughed at her. “I want you to hear this, but I don’t want to have to tell it twice. Call Toby and see if he’s interested in eating some barbecue in a half hour. My treat.”