Not Forgotten Read online

  I approached Muscle Man and held up my private eye credentials. He didn’t smile or talk. Probably a side effect of the ’roids or the excessive body ink. I pointed to the office door behind him. He shook his head. At least he could communicate. I leaned in close to his ear.

  “I need to see the manager!” I screamed.

  He shrugged as if he couldn’t hear me. This guy was in bad shape. He wasn’t wearing ear plugs, so I guessed that his hearing was shot to hell. I wondered if his pain receptors were gone as well. I sent my right elbow to his throat to test my theory. He was a couple inches taller than me. The move was a natural uppercut. That got his attention. He dropped to the floor clutching his throat. No one seemed to notice. I stepped over him and through the office door.

  Thankfully, the back room was partially soundproof. Only the throbbing continued when I shut the door. A man in his forties looked up from behind a metal desk. His stringy hair was streaked with pink dye and he wore a black T-shirt with a white skull and the name of some music group he thought was important. His earlobes were stretched over black disks the size of silver dollars. I wondered if anyone ever told him that he was appropriating the culture of the Maasai tribe in Africa. He didn’t look like he cared.

  “You’re in the wrong room, asshole,” he said. His voice was thin and cracked like he’d spent years talking over that noise outside.

  “You the manager?” I asked, moving to the side of the desk.

  He shifted in his chair to keep me in front of him. His eyes flicked from my hands to the scars on my forehead. They didn’t seem to bother him. He probably thought the marks were self-inflected or a new form of body art. He reached into his desk.

  “You don’t need that,” I said, slamming my hand on the drawer.

  “What?” he asked, as if he’d gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  “The pistol,” I said and let go of the drawer.

  He took out an ink pen to prove me wrong and set it on the desk.

  “I’m a private investigator.” I held up my credentials.

  “So what? This office is restricted. Piss off.” He stood and looked at the door, expecting help.

  “Your bouncer’s recovering. He didn’t want me to come in either.”

  “Are you on something, man?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t mind a couple of Tylenol. The noise is killing me.”

  “Where’s Gino?”

  “If that’s your bouncer, he’ll be okay in fifteen minutes or so. Don’t worry, I’m not here to rob you. I’m on a case. A murder victim. She came in here the night she died. Having been here for five minutes, I’m not ruling out suicide induced by noise and laser lights.”

  He reached for his cell phone. “I’m calling the cops.” He didn’t think I was funny.

  “Call ’em up. When they get here, I’ll show them the weapon in your desk and the bag of coke.” I had spotted the bag of white powder on the table behind the desk when I first walked in. I grabbed it and held it up to the light. “Nice stash. Probably helps get you through the night in a place like this.”

  “Easy with that, asswipe. What’d you want?”

  “Tapes, my friend. Surveillance tapes from July fourth. The night Marissa Luna was murdered.”

  “I don’t know nothin’,” he sneered.

  I grabbed the black disk in his right ear and pulled it toward his desk. I had reached the limit of my people skills. I needed information. “You sure about that?”

  “Look, a detective came in and took everything from July second through the fifth. I didn’t ask for them back, ’cause I don’t care. Why should I? Talk to the cops.”

  “Wasn’t that easier than being a jerk?”

  “Fuck you. Let go of my ear, man. Jesus.”

  I let him go. His hand went to his ear. He was going to need a bigger disk.

  “Thanks for your time.” I walked out and closed the door.

  Gino was standing up and leaning against the bar. The goth barmaid was handing him a shot of something. I headed for the back door before he could see me.

  I crossed the street and took the steps down to the River Walk. I took my time and checked my watch to gauge how long it would have taken Marissa to walk from the club to where she entered the river. The crowd was heavy on a Saturday night, but nowhere near what it would have been on the Fourth of July. I noticed a dozen airmen from the local base out on twenty-four-hour passes. Their haircuts were so new I could see the razor marks above their ears. The music was from a live mariachi band and didn’t make my teeth rattle. The people were laughing and talking and not taking themselves as seriously as the dance club crowd.

  I squeezed past a group of middle-aged men speaking German and dressed alike in jean shorts and new Texas T-shirts. Each sported an elaborate mustache and beard combination that would put General Custer to shame. The only one who spoke English said they were in town to compete in a facial hair contest. He asked if I would take their picture in front of the Republic of Texas steak house. I obliged.

  It took me ten minutes of leisurely walking to get to the Ben Milam cypress tree, and another four to the Travis Street bridge. The Our Lady of Guadalupe candle still burned for Marissa beside the bundle of plastic roses. The white cross was still standing upright in the Folgers coffee can. Her picture clipped to the side seemed to be urging me to find her killer.

  I studied the parking garage and the buildings rising on both sides of the River Walk, then checked for surveillance cameras under the bridge but didn’t see any. It wasn’t an obvious place to go. There were condos and a few restaurants to the north along with the VFW bar, but most would have been closed by the time she got there on foot. Marissa could have arranged a meeting here at the bridge. There was easy access to the street, so whoever killed her could escape without notice. Maybe she had taken a walk with Danny. This part of the River Walk was well lit but decidedly less crowded than the loop to the south. It seemed a good place to plan a murder and make it look like an accident.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Thirty minutes later, I was sipping a cold Shiner Bock and waiting for Skeeter at the Esquire Tavern. It was near the dance club but far enough away that I didn’t have to feel the music. The crowd was a little older and the setting more laid-back, less concerned about the apocalypse.

  Skeeter didn’t share my love of the Alamo and didn’t care for the River Walk. He called me a tourist for spending time in a place most of the city’s one and a half million inhabitants avoided because of the traffic and lack of parking.

  I looked around at the other patrons. There was a heavyset man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts sipping an oversized frozen margarita. His female companion wore a matching shirt and a pink straw cowboy hat. Both had white skin burnt to a cherry red from overexposure to the South Texas sun and looked like retirees visiting from Minnesota. Three women in the next booth wore white socks under their Birkenstocks, and tie-dyed shirts. A younger, hipster couple in matching skinny jeans were taking selfies in front of a signed team picture of the Spurs basketball team, the new heroes of Alamo City. Maybe Skeeter was right. Downtown was for tourists.

  When he arrived, I signaled him to the booth in the back I’d picked out to avoid being in earshot of the few patrons and the bartender. As usual, everyone in the bar turned to look when he walked in, which reminded me of what he said about my own appearance. I still thought a huge man with a metal hook got more attention than I did.

  “How’d you know I wouldn’t be out partying?” His voice was a deep rumble and sounded like dynamite exploding inside a mine shaft. He filled his side of the booth like a high school kid in a kindergartner’s desk.

  “Because you’re always working.” I watched his belly expand over the edge of the table. “You wanna sit at the bar?”

  Skeeter noticed my focus. “I’m all right,” he said and chuckled. Another explosion in the mine. “Sylvia know where you’re at?”

 
; “I’m supposed to be at the ranch,” I said.

  “This is what happens. You get wrapped up in a case and you forget everything else. You should have called her.”

  “Thank you, Oprah. I can handle my own relationships.”

  “Right. Why can’t I be Dr. Phil?” Skeeter pinched a napkin with his prosthesis, wiped his mouth, and pretended to be sensitive.

  “Because you’re black.”

  “You’re racist.” He loved to pull the fake race card just to watch me react.

  “That’s why I got you off death row. I wanted one more giant black man on the street when I organize my next Klan rally.”

  Skeeter chuckled, and his shoulders shook. He looked like a volcano before an eruption.

  “What’d you find out about Marissa?”

  “Everything her mom told you checks out. She was a good student, focused on graduating, and didn’t drink. Definitely not a suicide.”

  “I agree,” I said, then explained about Danny Allison’s connection to the bracelet.

  “Allison? The Allison?” he asked. I nodded. Skeeter sat up straight and glanced around at the faces of the other patrons.

  “What is it?” I asked. He seemed more nervous than usual.

  “His name keeps popping up around dead people. Sosa and now Marissa.”

  I let what he said sink in for a moment. There was no reason to think the two murders were connected. They had nothing in particular in common except that I was after both killers. “All right,” I said. “One thing at a time. I need help with the security cameras at the dance club.”

  He dropped the napkin and smiled. The mention of an electronic puzzle flipped a switch in his brain. I explained the situation. Skeeter had an immediate answer. He almost seemed disappointed there wasn’t more of a challenge. It turns out he had installed the system two years ago and knew there were backup tapes for all the video on the mainframe. He just needed access to the system.

  I finished my beer, then we waited across the street from the dance club in my pickup until closing time. The manager exited through a side door and walked to the parking garage. I took out my lock-picking tools and selected what I thought I would need to access the building.

  Skeeter put his hand on my arm. “Why did you even call me?” He nodded toward the tools.

  “You said you needed access to the system.”

  He smiled that smile that someone might flash at Grandma when she needed help with the remote control. “I got this,” he said. He opened his laptop with his metal hook and tapped a few keys. “I installed the system, remember? I knew guys like you would be tryin’ to break in with tools like that.” He pressed one last key and smiled. “Let’s go.”

  Something he’d done unlocked the door and disabled the security alarm. Without the throbbing sound, the laser lights, and the horde of post-apocalyptic dancers, the empty room seemed more like an abandoned warehouse than a trendy night club.

  Skeeter led me to a different office where the server and backup tapes were kept. He plugged in his laptop then plopped down in a too-small chair.

  While we waited for the tapes to download, I told him what happened in Kerrville.

  “She just told you the information, even though that’s illegal?”

  “You underestimate how charming I can be for a country boy.”

  “You took Sam, didn’t you?”

  “He had nothing to do with it,” I protested.

  “Right.” Skeeter pulled his laptop in front of him and tapped a few keys. “What do you know about Danny Allison?”

  “He’s rich, spoiled, and just graduated from Texas Tech.”

  “Why’d he buy Marissa an expensive bracelet then kill her?”

  “Because he’s got money to burn,” I said.

  “Sometimes these rich kids don’t get their money until they come of age.” He brought up a database that he shouldn’t have had access to and started reading Danny Allison’s back story.

  “He’s a weekend warrior. Amateur MMA fighter. He joined the Tech boxing club his freshman year. Must be pretty good. He won a few tournaments. He played rugby, so he’s not a complete loner. His grades were average or a little below counting his freshman year. Someone must have given him a pep talk. He did just enough to graduate on the five-year plan. This is interesting…”

  “What?” I was twiddling my thumbs while I watched the gentle giant work.

  “His daddy went to Tech and so did his grandpa.”

  “How did you find all that?”

  He smiled. “All here in the university records. Probably part of the trust agreement.”

  “What’s that?”

  “His family’s filthy rich, but he goes to school in Lubbock. Not exactly the Ivy League. He plays rugby and likes to fight MMA. How many rich kids do you know do that?”

  I saw his point. “He’s not flashing money around like you might expect with the Allison family fortune behind him. He should be doing the Formula One circuit and flying off to ski the Alps in a private jet. Danny boy spends his weekends getting his ass kicked.”

  “Actually, he’s pretty good, judging by his awards,” Skeeter said.

  “He’s twenty-three. Let’s say he doesn’t get paid until he’s twenty-five, and Grandpa placed certain conditions on the first payment,” I said.

  “Like graduate from the family alma mater,” Skeeter said, nodding.

  “And not getting arrested.” I was thinking of Danny standing next to his grandpa in the convention center trying to look sober and respectable.

  “I’ll bet he has to join the family business.” Skeeter turned the laptop so I could see a picture of Danny and Patrick in front of an oil derrick somewhere in South Texas wearing hard hats and matching Oxford shirts.

  “And don’t get some girl pregnant,” I said, thinking he was onto something.

  “Bingo,” Skeeter said and unplugged his laptop. “I got what we need. We gotta go.”

  “What’s the hurry? I thought you installed the system.”

  “I did. I installed a failsafe in case someone like me did what I’m doing.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” I said.

  Skeeter looked at his watch. “We have thirty seconds. The alarm goes off here and at the police station. The building locks down.”

  “Skeeter,” I yelled as we ran for the side door. I could see myself trying to explain this to Detective Peterson and watching him laugh while he shoved me into the back of his Crown Vic.

  A half step from the door, an ear-piercing screech shattered the silence. The annoyance level rivaled the pulsing dance music without the bass. I put my hand on the door. Locked. I turned to Skeeter.

  “Too late,” he said.

  “You couldn’t get us out before the alarm went off?”

  “The download took longer than I thought,” he yelled over the noise.

  Sirens outside wailed above the sound of the alarm. I didn’t want to end up facedown on the parking lot twice in one weekend.

  “I don’t wanna ever see jail again, man,” he shouted. “Get us out of here. I’ll buy the pizza.”

  I motioned for him to follow, and we ran for the emergency fire exit behind the bar. The alarm was already going off, so I didn’t think anyone would notice.

  The front door burst open.

  “Police!”

  We ducked behind the bar and scrambled to the door. I reached up and pushed the red handle. A light above the door began to flash. Skeeter followed me through the door to the alley, and I pushed the door closed. Skeeter leaned all his three hundred pounds against it. We waited ten seconds, then fifteen. Skeeter felt the door move against him.

  “Here they come,” he whispered.

  I added my weight to the door. We felt two sharp bumps, as if whoever was checking the door on the inside put his shoulder into it. I heard a muffled voice. In a few moments they would check the outside perimeter. I motioned Skeeter to follo
w me. We ran down the dark alley to the River Walk and quickly found the stone steps leading to the street level.

  Chapter Twenty

  We watched the dance club surveillance video in fast motion beginning at six o’clock on the evening of July fourth. The stringy-haired manager went through the cash registers, and the muscle-bound bouncer took up his position at the end of the bar. The waitress with the black lipstick wore white. Must have been a phase she was going through or some July fourth social-justice statement I wasn’t aware of. She wiped down the shot glasses and loaded ice in the cooler. We watched the comical, frenetic movements of the young people on the dance floor for half an hour with no sign of Marissa or Danny Allison. It was like watching a National Geographic documentary on some lost tribe. The ritual dance consisted of an up-down movement combined with arms flailing about. The dress code was a mixture of preppy, urban hip, and jeans and boots, the Texas standby. Most of the participants were college age and younger—the only people with enough stamina to withstand the grinding assault to the senses. It went on for hours, fueled by alcohol and open drug use. I started to wonder if Detective Peterson had reviewed the tapes.

  It was three a.m., and we were safely back at my place. After escaping the police response, we had stopped by the twenty-four-hour pizzeria so Skeeter could make good on his promise to buy if I managed to get us out of the dance club without getting arrested. In my experience, we would need food and lots of coffee for the tedious chore of reviewing surveillance tapes.

  The good part about it was that there was no sound, and Skeeter manipulated the images so that we could watch eight camera views at once. Two on the bar, four on the dance floor, and one each on the front door and the back entrance. At nine thirty Marissa and her friend Beth entered from the street side and approached the bar.

  The two young women placed an order with the barmaid. She wasn’t wearing the bracelet, or much jewelry at all. She wore the blue patriotic tank top and the black skirt I recognized from the police report. I watched closely to see if Marissa’s mother had overstated her sobriety. The bartender squirted water in a glass with ice and added lemon. Marissa took a thirsty drink. She poured Beth something with carbonation in a copper mug topped with lime.