Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 Read online

  But what could I do with the gold?

  I unlocked the car, slipped inside, and gasped at the pocket of heat trapped within. But I didn’t roll down the windows. I started the car, put the air-conditioning on high, and eased down the parking-garage ramp.

  Where to go? What to do?

  After I had paid and zipped the window shut again, I paused and glanced at the rental car map on the seat. Okay. It was a straight shot to the airport on 281 North. I’d find the lockers, indigenous to all major airports, and stash the case. I’d mail the key to Emily.

  It was damned hot in the car, but that didn’t account for the sweat beading my face.

  The Bible urges us to be kind to strangers because we thereby often entertain angels unaware. I was totally absorbed, fighting panic, frantic to be free of the gold. A troupe of angelic strangers could have perched on the car hood and I would scarcely have glanced. So an angel’s wing brushed my shoulder. How else can I explain the impulse that made me check the rearview mirror as I drove up Commerce? But look I did. I looked and saw a gray Jaguar in the next lane and the gleam of copper-red hair. So I jockeyed lanes and instead of heading for the expressway, I drove straight to Santa Rosa and turned left. I pulled into the parking lot at Nueva and Santa Rosa and looked across the street at the blue-and-white-tiled facade of the San Antonio Police Department.

  The gray Jaguar kept right on going.

  I waited until the Jaguar was past and hurried across the street and up the low steps. It was an odd sensation to walk past the smudged glass doors carrying a trophy sought by police on every continent. If I’d been bluffing before, I was now gambling high, wide and handsome. I stopped at the pay phone, dialed La Mariposa.

  Tom Garza answered.

  “Tom, this is Mrs. Collins. Please take this number”—I read off the pay phone number—“to Rick in the auction room. Tell him to call immediately and to do so where he cannot be overheard. Tom, this is urgent.” I hung up. I didn’t want to answer questions, I didn’t want to talk any longer. I wanted Rick. I stood close to the wall on the interior side of the phone. If Kenny King dared to follow me inside, I’d have to make some tough decisions the minute I saw him.

  By my watch, it took four minutes for the phone to ring. By my nerves, it was a millennium, and all the while I watched through the smudged glass for that moon face and powerful body. At the first buzz, I grabbed the receiver. “Rick? I have the materials we discussed earlier, obtained from Mr. King. But he’s not giving up. He’s following me. I’m in the lobby of the police department on Nueva. Send somebody absolutely unconnected with Tesoros and La Mariposa with a big purse or gym bag. Not you. Not Iris. And fast.”

  I hung up, wiped my face and pushed through the second set of doors into the main lobby. Fortunately, the traffic in and out is fairly heavy and constant. I took up a post by the entrance to Sex Crimes/Homicide and tried to look inquiring and impatient, occasionally checking my watch.

  I didn’t imagine Rick was thrilled at the prospect of taking charge of the gold again, but nine minutes later a tall, slender girl in a T-shirt, shorts, and athletic shoes strode purposefully into the lobby, glanced around. When her eyes slid over me, she gave an infinitesimal nod.

  I waggled a hand and walked into the waiting room where I’d spent so much time yesterday. She followed. Once out of sight of the main lobby, I greeted her, my back to the counter and the long-faced receptionist, my eyes on the doorway into the main lobby. She came close, opened her gym bag. I pushed in the fake alligator case. It took a half minute, neither of us spoke, no one saw.

  I stayed in the reception area, sat on the uncomfortable bench. The receptionist looked at me incuriously. I had to decide what to do. I knew what I wished I could do. I wished I could walk up to the receptionist, demand to see Detective Borroel. I wanted to tell him this was his job, not mine. But I’d already made one decision when I handed off the gold. I was going to try and keep faith with Rick. I wouldn’t have the tag on Tony Garza except for Rick. But how could Tony be revealed as Schmidt’s murderer without any reference to the stolen gold? I held fast to the fact that it didn’t matter what had been hidden in the wardrobe; all that mattered was the confrontation between Tony and Ed that ended in Ed’s death. But every piece of physical evidence pointed to Manuel. Somehow I had to lead the police to Tony instead. If only Manuel had not looked down from his balcony that night…

  I was no longer aware of the hard wood of the bench or the fatigue after my horrific encounter with Kenny King. I sat still and tense, the beginnings of an idea in my mind.

  Manuel looking down from his balcony…

  What Manuel saw didn’t really matter. He obviously saw enough to bring him downstairs. If Tony could be persuaded that Manuel saw him and that somehow Manuel was going to be able to describe that moment Tony would be forced to act. I glanced at my watch. Almost four. The party at Frank and Isabel’s home in the King William district, the party to which I’d been so gaily invited, would not begin until eight. With luck and hard effort, there should be time enough.

  I grabbed my notebook from my purse, flipped it open, began to write:

  Maria Elena—Do whatever you must to ensure that you and Manuel are present at the party tonight. Promise Borroel you will take personal responsibility for Manuel, stress that he is in no way a danger to anyone. Come to my room immediately upon your return home. Make sure that no one—I underlined the last two words—sees you. There is a chance we can resolve everything tonight. Henrietta Collins.

  I folded the note, addressed it to Maria Elena Garza.

  But still I sat on the hard bench, knowing that once Maria Elena received it, there would be set in motion a chain of events that had to end in sadness, that could end in horror. I wasn’t certain that I would take this gamble if I were Maria Elena. It was a choice only she could make. Was it a choice I should offer her?

  Was there an alternative? What if I told Borroel about the gold? But that wouldn’t make any difference. The result was still the same: Tony Garza identified as the conspirator with Ed Schmidt was no proof at all that it was Tony who battered Schmidt to death. Borroel could still argue that the evidence proved Manuel committed the murder, that the gold didn’t matter. He would, of course, be pleased to be the police officer responsible for returning the gold to Mexico. That would be a plume in his hat. But I was afraid it would make no difference at all in his judgment about the murder. So, if it wouldn’t help to link the gold to Tesoros, there was no reason not to try and protect the store. As for the gold, with luck and planning, we should be able to return it to the museum without a hint it had ever been in the United States, much less at Tesoros in San Antonio. The gold mattered, but it didn’t matter as much as Manuel. And the gold didn’t exonerate Manuel. The only possible way to prove Manuel’s innocence was to prove Tony’s guilt.

  What if I proposed my plan to both Borroel and Maria Elena? Whatever happened, Maria Elena had to make the final decision. Would Borroel cooperate, help us create a short span of time in which the murderer would reveal himself?

  I recalled the detective’s dismissive gaze, his barely repressed irritation. He was smart, tough, and convinced he had his murderer. I suspected he would warn us against any such endeavor. In fact, instead of providing undercover men to watch over and protect Manuel, he might even arrest Manuel immediately, effectively making a trap impossible, or he might send a police officer to the party to be in public attendance upon Manuel, equally effective at scotching any effort to draw a move from the murderer.

  But wasn’t it too dangerous to expose Manuel’s life to a man who could grab an unseen moment and kill so cleverly that Julian Worth’s death was officially accepted as an accident?

  I looked down at the folded note. That’s what the murderer would have to do with Manuel. Manuel’s death would of necessity have to appear to be either an accident or a suicide. If the latter could be arranged, so much the better. The murder of Ed Schmidt would be closed and the murderer
safe forever.

  Accident, suicide. I suppressed a shudder. Tony Garza was quick and ruthless. Would Maria Elena and I be any match for him? Our only chance was to create an atmosphere of utter urgency and contain the possibility of murder to a short span of time.

  Could we do it? Dare we do it?

  Manuel, so defenseless, so unable to help us in protecting himself. To put him in danger was terrifying. How could I even suggest to Maria Elena that she place the life of this cherished child in peril?

  I opened the note, reread the words. I don’t know if I have ever felt such a grave sense of responsibility. I wished I’d never envisioned this possibility. Then I wouldn’t have to decide whether to seek out Maria Elena. But once I foresaw a way to save Manuel, how could I refuse to offer it to his mother? It might be the only way in the world to save him from prison.

  I opened my purse, reached for my cell phone. I held it, not wanting to call, feeling I must call.

  The door near the counter opened. A young man in a dark suit held it open for Maria Elena and Manuel. Dear Lord, they’d been here all these hours, all day. I guessed the young man was Manuel’s lawyer and likely one of the extended family. His face was carefully composed, lawyers always keep their cards hidden, but a muscle ridged in his jaw. Maria Elena looked a decade older than when we’d first met, her dark eyes haunted and stricken, her mouth drooping, her creamy complexion tinged with gray. She held tight to Manuel’s arm. He shambled alongside her, staring down at the floor, his shoulders drawn tight. Oh, God, he was so frightened, so bewildered, even with his mother at his side. And what would happen if they took him away from Maria Elena?

  Fate. Karma. The brush of an angel’s wings. None of these or all, I didn’t know, could never know. But I was here at this moment as this despairing woman walked near.

  I gave one last quick glance toward the greater lobby, then stood and moved in front of Maria Elena. I stood with my back to the lobby, though surely Kenny King was now far away from here. I reached out, embraced Maria Elena and tucked the note into her hand.

  Her eyes shot toward my face, her fingers squeezed around the paper, and then she was past.

  I gazed after the three of them and knew exactly how Caesar must have felt when he stood at the Rubicon.

  I brewed coffee in the small coffeemaker and sat in the comfortable chair near the open french door. Shadows slipped across the river as the sun sank behind the buildings. I sipped the coffee and waited in an odd state of relaxation. I’d done all I could do.

  Yes, I was ostensibly relaxed, but my thoughts darted from one challenge to the next, should Maria Elena say yes. I needed a clear description of Frank and Isabel’s house and grounds. Where could an accident occur? Not even gambling Tony would choose the circular staircase for another accident. No, an accident would have to be natural, an outgrowth of the surroundings. I picked up a map of San Antonio, located Isabel and Frank’s house on King William Street. Its backyard sloped to the river. How deep was the river there? Could Manuel swim?

  An accident. That was my bet. My hope. A suicide? An overdose of some kind, but surely Manuel had no access to drugs of any kind and would not be likely to have enough knowledge to use them. A hanging? I felt a curl of horror. Yes, that was possible, and the police might believe it within Manuel’s capabilities. I doubted it. I didn’t think Manuel would understand suicide. I didn’t believe that he would imagine ending his life no matter how frightened and despairing he might be. But if a hanging occurred, wouldn’t Borroel be quick to see it as the simple solution for a difficult case? No matter how much Maria Elena might object, the truth was, of course, that such a death could be suicide. No one could ever prove differently.

  I finished the coffee, pressed my fingers against my temples. Water. Rope. What else?

  The door to my room opened and Maria Elena slipped inside. There was a faint flush on her cheeks and hope in her eyes.

  I rose and once again we embraced, two old women who knew how precious and fragile life was. When we drew apart, her hands still gripped my arms.

  “What can we do?” Her voice was strong, lifted by the promise of action.

  “I’m going to offer you a terrible choice.” I drew her toward the chair, I sat on the edge of the bed. Her eyes never left my face. I knew she saw there the fear and uncertainty in my heart. “You understand that whoever killed Ed Schmidt and pushed Julian Worth down the circular stairs—”

  Maria Elena’s hand rose to her throat.

  “—is one of the family.” I did not need to list the names for her. She knew those names only too well. “Julian Worth came to Tesoros yesterday to try and discover who took the stolen goods from Ed Schmidt. He went from person to person, making it clear his silence was for sale. But Ed Schmidt’s murderer wasn’t buying and he wasn’t going to take any chances that Worth might talk to the police. He moved quickly. Worth came to the store and he was dead within the hour. So we are dealing with someone who is frightened, who thinks fast, and who is very dangerous.” No, I did not want to tell her that her beloved second son was the murderer. Call it cowardice, call it foolishness, but in my own mind, I called it caution. In a moment, Maria Elena must deal with a heart-stopping decision. I refused to subject her to more stress than I must at this moment. She would have to deal with a hideous truth soon enough. But not at this moment. “Now let me tell you how I think Manuel got involved Monday night…”

  When I finished, she slowly nodded. “It could be so. He often does wander about the apartment during the night. I’ve never known him to go downstairs, but yes, he could certainly have done so. And if he saw such a dreadful thing…”

  Now came the hard part, the idea that could save Manuel or end his life. How much courage did Maria Elena have? “This murderer”—it was hard to speak—“can be stampeded into action. Here’s what I think we should do…”

  When I finished, she pressed her hands against her face. I heard a soft murmur. “Mary, Mother of God, help me, please help me.”

  Finally, her hands fell. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Manuel,” she said brokenly, “it will kill him if they put him in prison. My nephew, William, talked to me of many things, of plea bargains and getting the charge reduced to manslaughter.” One hand grasped the silver cross at her throat. “William said they would be kind to Manuel, that he would go to a place for people who are not responsible. But I know that he would wither away and die sitting in a locked room, not understanding, frightened, alone. And he is innocent!” Anger blazed now in those tear-filled eyes. She struck one hand against the chair arm. “He is innocent. This should not happen. It must not happen. But”—and now her voice quavered—“how can we keep him safe?”

  fourteen

  RICK hunched over the little writing table, his lanky legs tucked awkwardly beneath it. He stared at the sheet of paper, then made swift sure strokes with his pen. He tapped the drawing. “Uncle Frank’s backyard runs all the way to the River Walk. Uncle Manuel worms his way through the honeysuckle to the walk. Along that part of the walk, there’s a concrete embankment. Uncle Manuel likes to sit on the ledge and look down at the water. But in Uncle Frank’s backyard, there’s also a duck pond ringed by willows. You can’t see the pond from the patio, and that’s where the party will be. None of the guests would be likely to wander that far. There aren’t any lights there.” He looked at me somberly. “Everyone in the family knows about the pond. Uncle Manuel loves it. Whenever there’s a party, he climbs up in the big magnolia at the edge of the patio to watch the dancing and the mariachis, but eventually he always goes to the pond. He thinks it’s his secret place.”

  Manuel’s secret place. “How deep is it?”

  “Six feet, maybe. When we were little kids, nobody could play near it without a grown-up along. Mother wanted them to fill it in. Once my little cousin, Rosa, fell in. It was scary—reeds and everything. As for the river, it’s only about five feet deep along that stretch. But if somebody pushed Uncle Manuel off the ledge, it�
��s a drop of maybe ten feet. He can’t swim and he’s phobic about being in water. He’d panic and thrash and flail.” He took a deep breath. “It doesn’t take too many gulps to drown.”

  One hard shove, just like the stairs.

  I stared at the irregular circle Rick had drawn to represent the pond and the hatch marks for the willows. The pond was far from the lights. Loud music would muffle any cries.

  I gripped the edge of the table. “Oh, God, Rick, can we protect him? Can we? What if it isn’t the pond? What’s if it’s the river? What if somebody gets a rope and hangs him?” My mind skittered like a mouse helplessly darting from a cat’s paw. “The house is two-story, isn’t it? But it wouldn’t do to push him down those stairs. The steps wouldn’t be metal and he isn’t old. And there wouldn’t be time—not the way we’ve planned it—for the murderer to do anything but spur-of-the-moment. There’d be no chance for poison.” I looked at him beseechingly. “Even household poisons would be too uncertain. Rick—”

  He reached out, gripped my hands. “Don’t be frightened. Look, we’re smart—”

  Were we? Wasn’t this a gamble with the devil?

  “—what can anybody do without advance planning? Remember, this is going to come as a hell of a shock to the murderer. The pressure’s on. The only chance to get Manuel will be at the party, and it will have to look like an accident. There’s the river, the pond, maybe a tree and a rope, but you can be damn sure we’ll check Uncle Frank’s garage, make certain there are no ropes. And nobody carries poison around, especially not stuff that works in minutes. We’ll handle it.” He gave my hands a final reassuring squeeze, picked up his pen.

  But Rick was young, and youth is so certain. Age knows nothing is certain. Except death. I realized I was tired and upset, yet I still knew this was not only our best chance to save Manuel, it was quite likely our only chance.