The widower’s two step tn-2
Rick Riordan
The widower’s two step
( Tres Navarre - 2 )
Rick Riordan
Rick Riordan
The widower’s two step
1
"Could you please tell your kid to be quiet?" The guy standing in front of my park bench looked like he'd stepped off a Fleetwood Mac album cover, circa 1976. He had that Lindsey Buckingham funhousemirror kind of body-unnaturally tall, bulbous in the wrong places. He had the 'Fro and the beard and the loosefitting black martial arts pyjamas that just screamed mod.
He was also blocking my camera angle on the blue '68 Cougar across San Pedro Park, eighty yards away.
"Well?" Lindsey wiped his forehead. He'd walked over from his tai chi group and sounded out of breath, like he'd been working the moves too hard.
I checked my watch. If the lady in the Cougar was going to meet somebody, it should've happened by now.
I looked at the tai chi guy.
"What kid?"
A few feet to my left, Jem made another pass on the swing set, strafing Lindsey Buckingham's students as he came down. He made airplane sounds at the top of his lungs, which was a lot of lungs for a fouryearold, then pointed his toes like machinegun barrels and started firing.
I guess maybe it was hard for Lindsey's folks to concentrate. One of them, a short ovoid woman in pink sweats, was trying to squat for Snake Creeps Down. She ended up rolling on her rump like she'd been shot.
Lindsey Buckingham rubbed the back of his neck and glared at me. "The kid on the swings, dumbass."
I shrugged. "It's a playground. He's playing."
"It's seventythirty in the morning. We're practicing here."
I looked over at Lindsey's students. The pink ovoid woman was just getting up. Next to her a little Latina lady was doing her moves nervously, pushing the air with her palms and keeping her eyes tightly shut as if she was afraid of what she might touch. Two other students, both middleaged Anglo guys with potbellies and pony tails, lumbered through the routine as best they could, frowning, sweating a lot. It didn't look like anybody was achieving inner tranquillity.
"You should tell them to keep their feet at fortyfive degrees," I suggested. "That's an unbalanced stance, parallel footing like that."
Lindsey opened his mouth like he was about to say something. He made a little cough in the back of his throat.
"Excuse me. I didn't know I was talking to a master."
"Tres Navarre," I said. "I usually wear a Tshirt, says 'Master.' It's in the wash."
I looked past him, watching the Cougar. The lady in the driver's seat hadn't moved.
Nobody else was in the San Antonio College parking lot.
The sun was just starting to come up over the white dome of the campus planetarium, but the night cool had already burned out of the air. It was going to be another ninetydegree day. Smells from the breakfast taqueria down on Ellsworth were starting to drift through the park-chorizo and eggs and coffee.
On the swing set Jem came down for another run.
"Eeeeoooooowwww," he shouted, then he made with the machine guns.
Lindsey Buckingham glared at me. He didn't move out of the way.
"You're blocking my view of the parking lot," I told him.
"Oh, pardon me."
I waited. "Are you going to move?"
"Are you going to shut your kid up?"
Some mornings. It's not bad enough it's October in Texas and you're still waiting for the first cold front to come through. It's not bad enough your boss sends her fouryearold with you on surveillance. You've got to have Lindsey Buckingham in your face, too.
"Look," I told him, "see this backpack? There's a Sanyo TLS900 in there-pinhole lens, clear resolution from two hundred yards, but it can't see through idiots. In a minute, if you move, I might get some nice footage of Miss Kearnes meeting somebody she's not supposed to be meeting. My client will pay me good money. If you don't move I'll get some nice footage of your crotch. That's how it works."
Lindsey scratched some sweat droplets out of his beard. He looked at the backpack.
He looked at me.
"Bullshit."
Jem kept swinging higher and shouting louder. His skinny brown legs were pinched into an hourglass shape by the swing. When he got to the top he went weightless, silky black hair sticking up like a sea urchin, his eyes wide, his smile way too big for his face.
Then he got a look of evil determination and came swooping down on the tai chi students again, machine guns blazing. The OshKosh B'Gosh Luftwaffe.
"Don't suppose you guys could move your class," I suggested. "Nice place over there by the creek."
Lindsey looked indignant. " 'What is firmly established cannot be uprooted.' "
I would've been okay if he hadn't quoted Laotzu. That tends to irritate me. I sighed and got up from the bench.
Lindsey must've been about six feet five. Standing straight I was eye level with his Adam's apple. His breath smelled like an Indian blanket.
"Let's push hands for it, then," I said. "You know how to push hands?"
He snorted. "You're kidding."
"I go down, I move. You go down, you move. Ready?"
He didn't look particularly nervous. I smiled up at him. Then I pushed.
You see the way most guys push each other-hitting the top of each other's chest like bullies do it on television. Stupid. In tai chi the push is called liu, "uproot." You sink down, get the opponent under the rib cage, then make like you're prying a big tree out of the ground. Simple.
When Lindsey Buckingham went airborne he made a sound like a hard note on a tenor sax. He flew up about two feet and back about six. He landed hard, sitting down in front of his students.
On the swing, Jem cut the machine guns midstrafe and started giggling. The ponytail guys stopped doing their routine and stared at me.
The lady in the pink sweats said, "Oh, dear."
"Learn to roll," I told them. "It hurts otherwise."
Lindsey got to his feet slowly. He had grass in his hair. His underwear was showing.
Standing doubled over he was just about eye level with me.
"God damn it," he said.
Lindsey's face turned the colour of a pomegranate. His fists balled up and they kept bobbing up and down, like he was trying to decide whether or not to hit me.
"I think this is where you say, 'You have dishonoured our school,' " I suggested. "Then we all bring out the nunchakus."
Jem must've liked that idea. He slowed down his swing just enough to jump off, then ran over and hung on my left arm with his whole weight. He smiled up at me, ready for the fight.
Lindsey's students looked uncomfortable, like maybe they'd forgotten the nunchaku routine.
Whatever Lindsey was going to say, it was interrupted by two sharp cracks from somewhere behind me, like dry boards breaking. The sound echoed thinly off the walls of the SAC buildings.
Everybody looked around, squinting into the sun.
When I finally focused on the '68 blue Cougar I was supposed to be watching, I could see a thin curl of smoke trailing up from the driver's side window.
Nobody was around the Cougar. The lady in the driver's seat still hadn't moved, her head reclined against the backrest like she was taking a nap. I had a feeling she wasn't going to start moving anytime soon. I had a feeling my client wasn't going to pay me good money.
"Jesus," said Lindsey Buckingham.
None of his students seemed to get what had happened. The potbellied guys looked confused. The ovoid lady in the pink sweats came up to me, a little fearful, and asked me if I taught tai chi.
Jem was still hanging on my arm, smiling obliviously. He looked down at his Crayoladesigned Swatch and did s
ome time calculations faster than most adults could.
"Ten hours, Tres," he told me, happy. "Ten hours ten hours ten hours."
Jem kept count of that for me-how many hours I had left as an apprentice for his mother, before I could qualify for my own P.I. license. I had told him we'd have a party when it got to zero.
I looked back at the blue Cougar with the little trail of smoke curling up out of the window from Miss Kearnes' head.
"Better make it thirteen, Bubba. I don't think this morning's going to count."
Jem laughed like it was all the same to him.
2
"What is it with you?" Detective Schaeffer asked me. Then he asked Julie Kearnes,
"What is it with this guy?"
Julie Kearnes had no comment. She was reclining in the driver's seat of the Cougar, her right hand on a battered brown fiddle case in the passenger's seat, her left hand clenching the recently fired pearlhandled. 22 Lady smith in her lap.
From this angle Julie looked good. Her greying amber hair was pulled back in a butterfly clasp. Her lacy white sundress showed off the silver earrings, the tan freckled skin that was going only slightly flabby under her chin, around her upper arms. For a woman on the wrong side of fifty she looked great. The entrance wound was nothing-a black dime stuck to her temple.
Her face was turned away from me but it looked like she had the same politely distressed expression she'd given me yesterday morning when we'd first met-a little smile, friendly but hesitant, some tightness in the wrinkles around her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she'd told me, "I'm afraid-surely there's been some mistake."
Ray Lozano, the medical examiner, looked in the shotgun window for a few seconds, then started talking to the evidence tech in Spanish. Ray told him to get all the pictures he wanted before they moved the body because the backrest was the only thing holding that side of her face together.
"You want to use English here?" Schaeffer said, cranky.
Ray Lozano and the tech ignored him.
Nobody bothered turning off the country and western music that was playing on Julie Kearnes' cassette deck. Fiddle, standup bass, tight harmonies. Peppy music for a murder.
It was only eightthirty but we were already getting a pretty good crowd around the parking lot. A KENSTV mobile unit had set up at the end of the block. A few dozen SAC students in flipflops and shorts and Tshirts were hanging out on the grass outside the yellow tape. They didn't look too interested in getting to their morning classes. The 7Eleven across San Pedro was doing a brisk business in Big Gulps to the cops and press and spectators.
"Tailing a goddamn musician." Schaeffer poured himself some Red Zinger from his thermos. Ninety degrees and he was drinking hot tea. "Why is it you can't even do that without somebody getting dead, Navarre?"
I put my palms up.
Schaeffer looked at Julie Kearnes. "You can't hang around this guy, honey. You see what it gets you?"
Schaeffer does that. He says it's either talk to the corpses or take up hard liquor. He says he's already got the lecture picked out he's going to give my corpse when he comes across it. He's fatherly that way.
I looked across the parking lot to check on Jem. He was sitting in my orange VW convertible showing one of the SAPD guys his magic trick, the one with the three metal hoops. The officer looked confused.
"Who's the kid?" Schaeffer asked.
"Jem Manos."
"As in the Erainya Manos Agency?"
" 'Your fullservice Greek detective.' "
Schaeffer's face went sour. He nodded like Erainya's name in this case explained everything.
"The Dragon Lady ever hear of day care?"
"Doesn't believe in it," I said. "Kid could catch germs."
Schaeffer shook his head. "So let me get this straight. Your client is a country singer.
She prepares a demo tape for a record label, the tape turns up missing, the agent suspects a disgruntled band member who would've been cut out of the record deal, the agent's lawyer gets the brilliant idea of hiring you to track down the tape. Is that about it?"
"The singer is Miranda Daniels," I said. "She's been in Texas Monthly. I can get you an autograph if you want."
Schaeffer managed to contain his excitement. "Just explain to me how we got a fiddle player dead in the SAC parking lot seventhirty Monday morning."
"Daniels' agent figured Kearnes was the most likely suspect to steal the tape. She had access to the studio. She'd had some pretty serious disagreements with Daniels over career plans. The agency thought Kearnes might've stolen the tape at someone else's prompting, somebody who stood to gain from Miranda Daniels remaining a local act.
As near as I could tell that wasn't the case. Kearnes didn't have the tape. Didn't mention it to anybody over the last week."
"This is not explaining the dead body."
"What can I tell you? Yesterday I finally talked to Kearnes, told her straight what she was being accused of. She denied knowing anything but seemed pretty shaken up.
Then when she bolted out the door this morning I figured maybe I'd been mistaken about her innocence.
Maybe I'd stirred things up and she'd arranged to meet with whoever'd asked her to steal the tape."
Ray Lozano moved Julie's fiddle case off the passenger seat. He sat next to her. He began picking fragments out of her hair with tweezers.
"Stirring things up," Schaeffer repeated. "Nice fucking method."
One of the campus cops came over. He was a heavy guy, a former boxer maybe, but you could tell he hadn't dealt with homicides before. He approached Julie Kearnes the way most people do the first time they see a corpse-like an acrophobic sneaking up to the railing of a balcony. He nodded at Schaeffer, then looked sideways at Julie.
"They want to know about how much longer it'll be." He said it apologetically, like they were being unreasonable. "She committed suicide in the bursar's parking space."
"What suicide?" Schaeffer said.
The big guy frowned. He looked down uncertainly at the gun in Julie's hand, then the little hole in her head.
Schaeffer sighed, looked at me.
"She was shot from a distance," I explained. "You shoot yourself pointblank the wound splits like a star. Plus the entrance and exit wounds here are angled down and the calibre of the gun is probably wrong. The shooter was up there somewhere." I pointed to the top of a campus building where there was a series of big metal airconditioning units making steam. "She was carrying the. 22 for protection. Fired it when she was hit because of a cadaveric spasm. The bullet's probably embedded in the dashboard."
Schaeffer listened to my explanation, then waved his free hand in a soso gesture.
"Make yourself useful," he told the campus cop. "Go tell the bursar to park it on the street."
The big man walked away a lot faster than he'd walked up.
A crime scene unit detective came over and pulled Schaeffer aside. They talked. The CSU guy showed Schaeffer some ID and business cards from the dead woman's wallet. Schaeffer took one of the cards and scowled at it.
When Schaeffer came back to me he was quiet, drinking Red Zinger. His eyes over the thermos cup were the same colour as the tea, reddish brown, just about as watery.
He handed the card to me. "Your boss?"
The words LES SAINTPIERRE TALENT were printed maroon on gray. Cantered underneath in smaller type it said: MILO CHAVEZ, ASSOCIATE. I stared at the name
"Milo Chavez." It did not invoke feelings of goodwill.
"My boss."
"I don't suppose you came across any reasons why somebody would want to kill this lady. And don't tell me the fucking demo tape was that good."
"No," I agreed. "It was not."
"You look for large debts, irate boyfriends-the kind of background work real P.I. s do when they're not minding threeyearolds?"
I tried to look offended. "Jem's a mature fouranda half."
"Uhhuh. Why meet somebody here? Why drive the seventyfive miles from Austin to San
Antonio and park at a junior college?"
"I don't know."
Schaeffer tried to read my face. "You want to give me anything else?"
"Not especially. Not until I talk to my client."
"Maybe I should let you make that call from a holding cell."
"If you want."
Schaeffer dug a red handkerchief the size of Amarillo out of his pants pocket and started blowing his nose. He took his time doing it. Nobody blows his nose as often and as meticulously as Schaeffer. I think it's how he meditates.
"I don't know how Erainya got you this case, Navarre, but you should shoot her for it."
The Widower's Two it Step 11
"Actually I know the agent's assistant, Milo Chavez. I was doing Chavez a favour."
Ray Lozano was talking with the paramedics about how to move the corpse. The crowd of college kids outside the police tape was getting bigger. Two more uniforms were leaning on the side of my VW now, watching Jem put his magic rings together.
The cowboy fiddle tunes were swinging right along on Miss Kearnes' cassette deck.
Schaeffer finally put his handkerchief away and looked down at Julie Kearnes, still clenching, her. 22 like she was afraid it might jump out of her lap.
"Hell of a favour," Schaeffer told me.
All the way back to the North Side I had to give Jem a lecture about not taking bets on magic tricks from the nice policemen.
Jem nodded like he was listening. Then he told me he could do six rings at a time and did I want to bet?
"No thanks, Bubba."
Jem just smiled at me and pocketed his three new quarters in his OshKosh overalls.
It would've been faster to take McAllister Freeway back to Erainya's office, but I headed up San Pedro instead. Going north on the highway, twenty feet off the ground the whole way, all you see are the hills and the Olmos Basin, a few million live oaks, an occasional cathedral spire, and the tops of some Olmos Park mansions. Clean and forested, like there's no city at all under there. San Pedro is more honest.
For about two miles north of SAC, San Pedro is the dividing line between Monte Vista and the beginning of the West Side. On the right are the old Spanish mansions, The Widower's Two it Step 13 huge acacia and magnolia trees, shaded lawns with Latino gardeners tending the roses, Cadillacs in the wraparound flagstone drives. On the left are the boardedup apartment blocks, the occasional momandpop ice house selling fresh watermelons and Spanish newspapers, the tworoom houses with kids in Goodwill clothes peering out the screen doors.
