The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(48)
“Sure is. Why are you so bright again?”
Taken aback, I stared at him until he became uncomfortable.
“So, yeah,” he said, changing the subject, “that’s your guy.”
“Wait, you really don’t know who I am?”
“Not a clue, sweet cakes, but we can change that real quick like.” He wriggled his brows, and I laughed softly, trying not to encourage him.
“Well, that’s refreshing. As far as you know, Hector Felix walked out of the bar alive and well.”
“Well is a subjective term, but alive.”
“And the guy the barkeep called? I’m presuming he was called in to clean up a sticky situation.”
“That was the gist I got, but I had to leave right after Hector did. Had a date.” He blew on his nails and polished them on his bright red tropical shirt.
“Okay. The barkeep, what’s his name?”
“Parish. He’s a pretty stand-up guy. Takes good care of the boys, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m sure he does.” If he was that involved with the football players, he could be providing something more than just pizza and beer.
I stepped out of Misery and walked up to Parish just as the deliveryman was finishing up.
“Mr. Parish?” I asked.
“Just Parish.” He eyed me suspiciously. “Parish McCoy.”
I held out my hand. He took it after a bit of hesitation.
“I’m Charley Davidson. I’m a private investigator looking into the homicide of Hector Felix.”
The man paled several shades, but his emotions didn’t scream guilt. They screamed, That man was crazy and threatened to kill me and my family! I could understand his misgivings.
“I’m not looking into the incident here. Not closely, anyway. I know you’re friends with the football players. Do you believe any of them would have cause to come back and kill Mr. Felix?”
“Besides the fact that he threatened their families? Their careers? No. Not at all.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, but I’m more interested in the man you called after.”
The stunned expression on his face told me he could not imagine where I was getting my information from.
“Someone else was there that night, Mr. McCoy. Someone you didn’t see.”
He ran a hand down his face in frustration and stepped back to sit on a cinder block ledge that lined the bottom of his establishment.
“I have no intention of telling the police what happened if the events of that night didn’t play into Mr. Felix’s death, but I need to know for certain. Do you still have the recording?”
“No.” He coughed into a hand, and I could see his whole life flashing before his eyes. Not literally. He just had that kind of stress humming underneath his surface. “No, I erased it.”
Now he was lying. Finally, a bargaining chip. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. McCoy. You let me see the recording, and I won’t involve the police even though my uncle is a detective for APD.”
He paled even further. With shoulders slumping and hands sweating, he led me into his bar, a clean if not outdated watering hole. Then again, maybe disco was coming back.
“Dude, you have to ditch the mirrored jukebox from the ’70s. Otherwise, nice place.”
“Thanks.” He didn’t mean it. I could tell.
We walked to a back room, where he showed me the footage from seven nights ago. Sure enough, Hector Felix was making a grand nuisance of himself. At one point, he got in the barkeep’s face, waving a broken bottle at him, threatening to cut a bitch. Either that or he was telling the barkeep he had a cup itch. Since he didn’t look like he wore athletic gear, ever, I leaned toward the former.
My lipreading kind of rocked.
Then came the gun and the football players, and, sure enough, one of them disarmed Hector with a move that one learned in the military.
“That guy,” I said, pointing at the tall African American with the most incredible biceps I’d ever seen. “What’s his story?”
He shrugged. “Military brat. His father taught him that move, if you’re wondering. He ended up with a full ride because he’s a badass tight end.”
“No shit.” Man, he had an ass. “You sure seem to know a lot about these guys.”
“I don’t have a family. They’re all I got. I treat ’em well. If that’s a crime—”
“Not at all, Mr. McCoy.”
He wasn’t lying, and he truly didn’t believe any of his boys would have gone after Hector after the fight.
“I’ll need their names and any contact information you have on them, just in case. And I’ll need a copy of this recording.” Before he could argue, I brought up another touchy subject. “What about the guy you called to take care of the situation?”
He bit down, not wanting to drag him into it.
“Mr. McCoy, I will keep you out of this if I can, but I do need the whole story.”
“He’s a friend. By the time he got here, I’d closed up shop. I didn’t even tell him why I’d called. I didn’t want him involved if he didn’t have to be.”
“He had no idea who Hector was?”
“No clue. And he couldn’t have killed him, anyway.”