Not Forgotten Page 5

  “You were wearing a tuxedo, which is probably ruined, and not a helmet and body armor. Do you have to pretend you’re a badass all the time?” She moved closer to me and let me explore under her robe.

  “Who’s pretending?” I asked.

  “Can you ever be serious?”

  “I’m compensating for my lack of emotion,” I said, suppressing a smirk.

  “This is a good example of why you should go back to law school.”

  “Because I lack emotions?”

  “Stop!” she said, exasperated.

  “Sosa was a lawyer. Look what it got him,” I said, pulling her robe further open.

  “You know what I mean.” She took my hands, halting my exploration. “You should have quit after Skeeter’s case. Now this? You can’t pretend it’s safe being a private investigator.”

  “Driving a car in the city isn’t safe either, but it’s necessary.”

  “Nick, please. Stop the private eye thing. Let the police solve crimes. No more getting shot at. You don’t have anything to prove.”

  “The police don’t always get the job done.” I finished my beer.

  “So now you’re the Caped Crusader?”

  “Every city needs one,” I said.

  She usually laughed at my jokes. She wasn’t smiling. “You’re not in a comic book. Your client’s in a real hospital.”

  “And that’s why I can’t quit.”

  “Stop. Please? Go back to school.” She let her robe slip from her shoulders. It wasn’t the first time she had given me a not-so-subtle hint that the future of our relationship hinged on whether I continued as a private investigator or went back to law school. Her huge brown eyes and glistening bare skin were hard to argue against.

  “It’s late. We can argue then have make-up sex or have make-up sex and argue tomorrow.” I buried my head between her round breasts. She put both arms around my neck. “I’m ready to show some emotion,” I said.

  “What am I gonna do with you?” She laughed.

  “I’ve an idea.” I lifted her by her narrow waist and carried her down the hall. Sexual chemistry had never been our problem.

  We were both naked before we landed on her king-sized bed.

  Chapter Seven

  Sam and I crossed the river on the Navarro Bridge and jogged south toward Market Street. I was hoping detective Peterson’s team would be finished so I could take a look at the crime scene without bullets flying over my head or him asking stupid questions. Once CSI was finished, there was no law against taking a look.

  I left Sylvia sleeping and mumbling something about being careful. For her, being careful meant staying home. For me, it meant finding out what the hell was going on. Being warned off the case didn’t stop me from wanting to know who took a shot at Javier Sosa. I didn’t believe that the tree huggers would hire a hit man to take out Sosa. There may be a list of enemies that wanted him dead in Mexico, but why risk killing him in Texas? The murder rates in Mexico were five times higher. No one would bat an eye if he got shot south of the border. Downtown San Antonio was different.

  A freight train blew its whistle and clacked along the downtown tracks. No one seemed to be listening. Even the white-winged doves had turned in for the night. This section of river had been inhabited for centuries by native tribes, then the Spanish, and finally new European immigrants. I wondered if one group was more civilized than the other or if the advance of civilization was just an illusion. Sure, people used Uber instead of wagons and had air conditioning, but they were still killing each other.

  My encounter with Detective Peterson didn’t leave me with much confidence he could solve the case on his own. His partner, Ochoa, seemed a bit more intelligent, but she was a rookie investigator and would have to follow Peterson’s lead. I didn’t make a habit of interfering with police investigations, but this was personal. Someone had taken out my client and stuck around to fire a few shots at me. It was in my best interest to find out who did it.

  Sam and I entered the parking garage across the street from Sosa’s hotel. The crime investigation team was gone and had left behind a few broken strips of yellow caution tape. We slipped past the ticket booth and walked up to the fourth floor. Sam sniffed a crumpled orange-and-white Whataburger bag for signs of food. I picked it up and tossed it in the trash, doing my civic duty.

  I checked the angle and found a perfect view of the hotel entrance across the street. Crouching down, I put my hands in position on the concrete ledge as if I were holding a rifle. The shooter pulled the trigger from that spot. He had chosen well for the first shot, but he had not anticipated the cover created by the limo and the other cars on the street. As soon as Sosa went down, he would have been out of sight for the follow-up shot that hit the steps over our heads. The street was deserted now and so was the entrance to the hotel. No cars parked on the street. I visualized the height of a parked limo and saw where the second bullet had hit.

  I moved farther down, recreating the sequence of events. Once Sosa left in the limo, I guessed the shooter changed position to gain a better angle. I found another place that offered a clear view of the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street.

  Sam watched me with interest, then started to sniff the parking spots. He wasn’t a trained police dog, but he had that Labrador knack for always wanting to be helpful. If I looked for something, he would look too. If I was angry, he would bark. If I was happy, he would lick my hand. The parking garage seemed to be swept clean. Sam wasn’t so sure. He kept looking. Either Detective Peterson’s team had done a thorough search or, more likely, there had been nothing to find. The shooter was a professional.

  Sam whined, and I turned to see him scratching at something stuck between the curb and a concrete tire barrier. I reached down to scratch his ears. When he didn’t give up, I took a closer look. Stuck in the crack was a spent rifle casing. It was directly behind where I guessed the last shot would have come from. At that point in the attack, I was running across the street. The shooter wouldn’t have had time to look for the missing brass. He must have ejected the spent round, which took an unlucky bounce, and jumped into his car while I ran to the garage entrance. Maybe he hadn’t counted on my return fire bringing a quick police response.

  I took a picture of the location with my cell phone, then snapped a few extra photos of the parking garage. Sam posed next to his find. The police had been here, searched the place, and cleared the crime scene. I was doing my civic duty. I found a spent popsicle stick and used it to lift the casing from its hiding place. It was a Winchester .308. Whoever used this had picked a lethal round. I was sure the shooter used a suppressor. If he hadn’t, the explosion from the .308 round would have echoed off the walls of the Alamo and caused panic in the tourists along the River Walk. It didn’t explain why it was Hollywood quiet. There were no clues on the brass. I got out a poop baggie I carried to clean up after Sam—a yellow plastic baggie with the image of a dog doing his business. I couldn’t wait to see the look on Detective Peterson’s face when I showed it to him.

  “Good work, Sam,” I said.

  He tilted his head, disappointed that I didn’t offer him more of a reward. I slipped the bag in my pocket and looked at my watch. It was four fifteen. Sam and I walked down to the ground floor and took a route home that crossed the Alamo Plaza. The lights were still shining on the adobe bricks of the old mission, a constant reminder that sometimes you had to fight even though the odds were not in your favor.

  We paused briefly at the cenotaph to pay our respects. The massive marble monument depicted the names and faces of the men who died in the Battle of the Alamo. It was known as The Spirit of Sacrifice and was dedicated in 1936 on the one hundredth anniversary of the fight that took place across the street. Full-sized statues of Davy Crockett and William Travis stared down at us.

  I read part of the inscription chiseled in stone: Erected in memory of the heroes who sacrificed their lives… They chose never to surrender
nor retreat. I remembered my brothers-in-arms who hadn’t made it back from Afghanistan. There was no monument honoring the sacrifice they made, but their names were etched in my memory and their faces haunted my dreams.

  Sam took a dump. Luckily, I had an extra yellow poop bag. I’m sure he didn’t mean any disrespect.

  Chapter Eight

  Avery insistent knocking interrupted my plans to sleep till noon. The remnants of a familiar nightmare stuck to my skin like sweat from the South Texas heat. In the dream, I was trapped in a Humvee while my platoon took on an enemy ambush. An IED had crushed the dashboard against my thighs and blown out the windshield. When the firefight was over, I was the only one left alive. The dream always left me feeling guilty and helpless. Not a good way to start the day.

  Sam sensed my distress and licked my face.

  “Easy, buddy. I’m okay. I’m awake,” I told him as I moved to an upright position. The knocking continued.

  The digital clock read seven thirty a.m. I didn’t want to deal with anyone displaying those knocking skills after only three hours of sleep. I rolled over and tried to wait them out. Maybe whoever it was would go away. Sam wasn’t having any of it. Sometimes I wished I were a cat lover like my next-door neighbor. Cats didn’t care about your friends or enemies and weren’t concerned about visitors. A Lab needed to be a part of everything. Sam tore the pillow out of my hand, then pounced on my chest. It was going to be a long day. I found my shorts and a T-shirt and made my way downstairs.

  Sam barked a few times and went to the window to alert the visitor that I was awake and on my final approach. I peered through the peephole to determine the threat level of the caller. I kept a Mossberg 12-gauge pump-action shotgun leaning against the doorframe for anyone not spreading good cheer.

  The visitor was an earnest and determined-looking woman. She was late forties or early fifties judging by the hint of gray around her forehead and the lines around her eyes that were partially covered by makeup. Her attire was modest—a white blouse over a denim skirt that extended to just above her knees. She wore sturdy tennis shoes that had covered their share of dirty pavement, and around her neck was a large silver cross.

  Sam barked again. He was focused on the yard, where a younger version of the woman bounced a tennis ball on the sidewalk. The girl looked to be about eleven or twelve—in the preteen stage where she dabbled with makeup and hair products but wasn’t afraid to play with a ball or a dog. Sam spotted this trait instantly.

  I left the shotgun on the peg and opened the door. Sam ripped through my legs and into the yard. My visitor turned to watch him plant himself in front of the girl and her tennis ball.

  “Is he friendly?” the woman asked, taking a defensive step toward the young girl.

  “He’s never met a young person he didn’t like,” I assured her.

  The girl knew what he wanted and flicked the ball into the pecan leaves mixed with overgrown grass. Sam had the ball in his mouth before it took a second bounce. No matter how this encounter went, Sam had found a friend.

  Relieved, the woman turned back to me and extended her hand. “Mr. Fischer?” She had the strong grip of someone who worked with her hands.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “My name is Araceli Luna. Lola Davis suggested I contact you. It’s about my daughter, Mr. Fischer. She was murdered. I want you to find out who did it.”

  Out of habit, I quickly scanned up and down the street for anything unusual—occupied vehicles or people loitering at the bus stop on the corner. I didn’t see anything out of place, only the usual rising steam from the dew on the grass and the steady hum of cicadas. Rose Gustafson waved at me from her front flowerbed. She wore white rubber shrimp boots and a pair of leather gloves. Her gray hair was braided and coiled on top of her head like an aging Viking princess. The pile of brush by her gate was a sign she’d been working since dawn, taking advantage of the relative cool.

  “Would you like to come inside?” I offered.

  She glanced at the young girl still playing ball with Sam and said something in rapid-fire Spanish. The girl presented herself to me and extended her hand.

  “This is my youngest daughter,” she said.

  “My name is Leticia Luna, Mr. Fischer,” the girl said. She suddenly noticed my scars and stared.

  “Leticia!” her mother scolded. “I’m sorry,” she said to me.

  “It’s okay.” I knelt in front of Leticia and smiled. “I was hurt overseas by a roadside bomb. Glass cut my face. I was in the military.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “It’s all healed,” I said. That seemed to satisfy her curiosity. It was healed, on the outside. The rest I was still working on. Sam barked, irritated that I had interrupted his play.

  “May I play with your dog?” she asked.

  “He wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said. “His name is Sam.”

  I left Sam and Leticia in the yard, led Araceli Luna into the living room, and excused myself while I started the coffee maker and wiped dust from two mismatched mugs. I wanted to be fully awake when Mrs. Luna gave me the details. It wasn’t every day someone dropped by before seven to offer me a murder case.

  While the coffee maker did its thing, I took the opportunity to study Mrs. Luna. She paced my living room nervously while examining my collection of family photos. She seemed anxious to tell her story. It was a good sign that she was on the level. I got at least two calls a week from someone who wanted me to harass a business associate for screwing them over or a disgruntled worker wanting to stick it to their ex-boss.

  She said Skeeter’s mother had recommended me. That meant her being here was set in motion yesterday or even the day before. She stopped in front of the pictures of my father. There was one of him in his highway patrol uniform and one of him with his cowboy hat and sheriff’s badge. There was an older picture of him in a Marine uniform, and a triangular mahogany display case with his burial flag.

  “Was this your father?” she called to me. People had a hard time believing we were related.

  “Yeah,” I said, filling two mugs with coffee.

  I motioned Mrs. Luna into one of two matching overstuffed leather chairs. I placed the mugs on a small carved coffee table from Mexico that I’d inherited from Great-Grandpa. The only other furniture in the room was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase stuffed with my eclectic collection of Texas history, case law, and my complete collection of Tony Hillerman mysteries.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

  Her hands trembled. “Thank you, Mr. Fischer. It’s been over two months. The pain never goes away. They told me to forget, but I see her face every day.” She gestured toward the flag on the mantel. “You know what it’s like to lose someone close.”

  “I was sixteen when he died, but I do understand,” I said. “What did Lola Davis tell you about me?”

  “That you were the one to call if there was no one else to turn to.”

  “Why do you feel that way?”

  “The police have done nothing. They said it was an accident. She was found in the San Antonio River. On the River Walk. It was the day after the Fourth of July. They said she was drunk. My daughter never drank.”

  She took a deep breath. Her hands stopped shaking. She took a sip from the coffee cup. I let her collect herself in silence. It dawned on me who her daughter was. The story had made the national news because she was found by a little boy wearing a coonskin cap. As usual, there was no follow-up story. The novelty had worn off. The little boy was the hook for the national news, and he had gone back to Germany with his souvenirs and a story to tell. The dead woman was forgotten. No one cared about her except her mother.

  “Did Mrs. Davis tell you that I do private investigation for a living?” I didn’t want to come off as an asshole, but I couldn’t afford to run a charity. I had a mortgage on my fixer-upper and was trying to build a business.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she insisted
.

  “I get five thousand to cover my expenses and another five if I get results. That does not include thirty dollars an hour plus mileage. You don’t have to worry. I keep meticulous records, and I’ll send you an invoice at the end of each week. This kind of investigation could take some time.”

  She reached in her purse and took out a new bank envelope. “I pay now?” she asked, offering me the envelope. “There’s five thousand.”

  I checked the envelope and found a stack of hundred-dollar bills. Lola must have mentioned an amount. This bundle was probably at least a month’s paycheck. I wondered how far in advance she had planned this meeting and who else she had told about it.

  “I can get the rest when you find the truth.”

  I had no doubt she would get more money and that all of it would come from sweat and hard work.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Luna,” I said, and handed the envelope back to her.

  “It’s not enough?” She looked surprised and hurt.

  Five thousand dollars would come in handy, but I didn’t take money unless I knew I could make a difference. The PI business was built on reputation and referrals. I had decided from the beginning to pick and choose my cases carefully.

  “The money’s fine.” I waited for her to take in a deep breath. “First, I need to know what happened. I won’t take your money unless I think I can help you.”

  She took a sip of coffee.

  I stood up. “Give me a moment.” I walked back to the kitchen for a coffee refill. “Would you like anything else to drink?” I called to her.

  “No, gracias,” she said.

  I stopped by the front window on my way back into the living room to check on Sam and her daughter. Sam was crouched at her heel. Leticia pointed into the yard. Sam would keep her occupied as long as she was willing to throw the ball. I studied the street again. A black Ford Super Duty pickup drove slowly past my yard. The heavy dew was gone, replaced by heat waves off the pavement. White-winged doves joined the cicadas, adding their slightly mournful notes to the clash of neighborhood noise. Rose was still working on her pyracantha and keeping a sharp eye on the neighborhood.