Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(11)

"But if it was?"

Carl exhaled into my ear. "You remember Drapiewski? Larry Drapiewski? Made deputy lieutenant about a year ago."

"What about for SAPD?"

He had a coughing fit for a minute, then cleared his throat.

“I’d try Kingston in Criminal Investigations, if he’s still there. He was always in debt to jack for one favor or another. There was an FBI review of the case a few years back too. I can’t help you there."

I remembered neither Drapiewski nor Kingston, but it was a place to start.

“Thanks, Carl. "

“Yeah well, sorry I can’t help much. I thought you were my son calling from Austin. He ain’t called in over a month, you know. For a minute there, you sounded like him."

"Take care of yourself, Carl."

“Nice way to spend an afternoon," he said. "You kept me talking all the way up to 60 Minutes."

I hung up. I couldn’t help picturing Carl Kelley, sitting in some house alone, a cigarette in his withered hand, living for television shows and a phone call from Austin that never came. I sat for a minute, Robert Johnson instantly on my lap, and we watched Buckner talk about spiritual healing. Then I turned off the set.

9

"Little Tres?" Larry Drapiewski laughed. "Jesus, E not the same seven-year-old kid who used to sit on my desk and eat the custard out of the middle of my donuts."

As soon as he said that I had a vague memory of Drapiewski—a large man, flat-topped red hair, friendly smile, a sweating face that looked like the Martian landscape. His big hands always full of food.

"Yeah," I said, "only twenty years and a lot of donuts later nobody calls me ‘little'."

"Join the club," the lieutenant said. "So what’s on your mind?"

When I told him why I was calling he was quiet for an uncomfortable amount of time. An oscillating fan on his desk hummed back and forth into the receiver.

“You understand everybody has looked at this," Larry said. "Half the departments in town, the county, the FBI. Everybody wanted a piece of this. You want to find something that nobody’s caught before, it isn’t going to happen."

“Does that mean you won’t help?"

"I didn’t say that."

I heard papers being moved around on the other end of the line. Finally Larry swore under his breath.

"Where’s a pen?" he asked somebody. Then to me: "Let me have your number, Tres."

I gave it to him.

"Okay," he said. "Give me a couple of days."

"Thanks, Larry."

"And, Tres—this is a personal favor. Let’s just keep it personal."

“You got it."

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, I owed your dad a lot. It’s just that the Sheriff is sensitive to taxpayer dollars being used on, let’s say, nonessential work. It also doesn’t help if it’s about one of his predecessors who beat him in three straight elections, you know what I mean?"

I checked with SAPD next. After a few minutes of being transferred from line to line, I finally got Detective Schaeffer, who sounded like he’d just woken up from a nap. He told me Ian Kingston, formerly with Criminal Investigations, had moved to Seattle two years ago and was presently overseeing a large private security firm. Kingston’s ex-partner, David Epcar, was presently overseeing a small burial plot in the Sunset Cemetery.

“Wonderful," I said.

Schaeffer yawned so loud it sounded like somebody was vacuuming his mouth.

"What was your name again?" he asked.

I told him.

“Like in Jackson Navarre, the county sheriff that got killed?"

"Yeah."

He grunted, evidently sitting up in his chair.

"That was the biggest pain in the ass we’ve had since Judge Woods took a hit," he said. "Fucking circus."

It wasn’t exactly a show of sympathetic interest.

Seeing as I was out of other options, however, and had to say something before the detective fell back asleep, I decided to give Schaeffer my best song and dance.

Much to my surprise, he didn’t hang up on me.

“Huh. Call me back in a week or so, Navarre. If I get a chance to look at the files, maybe you can ask me some questions."

“That’s mighty white of you, Detective."

I think he was snoring before his receiver hit the cradle.

By sunset it still wasn’t cool enough to run without getting heat stroke. I settled for fifty push—ups and stomach crunches in the living room, then held horse stance and bow stance for ten minutes each. Robert Johnson lounged across the cool Linoleum in the kitchen and watched. Afterward I lay flat on my back with my muscles burning, letting the air conditioner dry the sweat off my body and listening to the dying hum of the cicadas outside. Robert Johnson crawled onto my chest and sat there looking down at me, his eyes half-closed.

“Good workout?" I asked.

He yawned.

I unpacked a few boxes, drank a few beers, watched the fireflies floating around in Gary Hales’s backyard at dusk. I tried to convince myself I wasn’t fighting any kind of compulsion to call Lillian. Give her some time.

No problem. It was just a coincidence that I kept staring at the phone.