The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(54)

"Accounting work," I repeated. "Hector Mara. The bald veterano with the snakes tattooed on his arms. He's your accountant."

Del licked his lips. "Sometimes — you know. We deal mostly in cash. It's a hassle to just drop it in the bank."

"Mara launders money for you through his salvage yard."

"I didn't say that."

Del had developed this cute little tic in his right cheek that was doing a 2/4 beat — DUM-duh, DUM-duh. It made me laugh.

"You know Ozzie Gerson, Del?"

The tic kept up its little rhythm.

"Deputy," he mumbled. "Used to give my dad a hard time."

"Ozzie Gerson told me you weren't smart enough to find your way off a carousel, much less run he**in out of your company. Was he right?"

His face slackened to putty. "Wait a goddamn minute. You got no right to talk about me that way. Ozzie Gerson..."

His voice trailed off. He sat there on the visitor's side of his desk, suddenly staring at nothing. His shirt was mis-buttoned, longer on one side than the other — probably from his armed restroom encounter with Rita. Looking at Del Brandon, I felt tired.

"Forget it," I told him. "Let's talk about your brother. You and he had been arguing over the company, right? Watch your muzzle, Del."

Del managed to focus on his .38, which had been slowly tilting its little black eye up toward my forehead. Del frowned, like he was wondering where the gun had come from. He clunked it on the desk.

"Aaron and me always argued," he told me. "Doesn't mean I shot him. You can ask the police — I got an alibi."

I whistled. "An alibi."

Del didn't seem to catch the sarcasm, if indeed sarcasm was something Del ever caught. With some effort, he hauled himself out of the chair. He drifted over to the file cabinet, rummaged around until he came up with a bottle of Chivas Regal, still in the little purple sack. Then he came back over and sat down.

"Stuff gives me gas like you wouldn't believe," he grumbled. He uncapped the bottle and took a long hit.

I braced myself.

Del's eyes watered immediately. He tried to rub his nose off his face, then blinked at me through the tears.

"You want to know about Aaron?" Del sloshed his bottle around, pointing at things in the office. "Aaron never wanted this damn company. Growing up, me and him, Aaron could always figure the numbers faster. He could've worked the deals, no problem. If he'd shown even a little interest, Dad would've handed him the whole company, shut me out. I'm sure of that. But God forbid Professor Aaron should ever get his collegiate hands dirty. Never wanted to touch the business. Me, I had a hard time learning the ropes. Dad used to beat the shit out of me when I'd screw something up. 'Why can't you think on your feet like Aaron?' Then he'd get pissed off that Aaron wasn't around, and he'd beat the shit out of me some more for that. I took thirty years of that kind of crap for Aaron and me both, because I was the one who was always in the office. So you tell me — who deserved this company?"

"You, Del," I sympathized. "Obviously you."

"Damn right." Del took another swig of liquor. "Even then Dad didn't leave me the whole business. Couldn't bring himself to cut out Golden Boy completely. RideWorks was split sixty-forty, with me named president. But there were ways to get around that."

"Such as?"

As if to demonstrate, Del shifted in his chair, grimaced, then glared accusingly at his Chivas bottle. Brandon: the very name connotes charm and grace.

"You were saying?" I prompted.

"What?"

"How you got the whole company for yourself."

"Oh. Yeah. According to Dad's will, I was supposed to turn over Aaron's share of the profits when the profits showed up. Only I made sure none ever did on the books. After a few years of that, I finally got Aaron's approval to sell. I sold RideWorks to a paper corporation, mine, gave my brother half the selling price — about twenty dollars. Then I bought the company back from myself and kept operating it."

"Cute. Who helped you think up that trick?"

Del shrugged. "Like I told you, Aaron wasn't interested in the business. He didn't deserve it. Me, all I ever wanted was to run this company. I love the rides. A good one, well made—" He shook his head in admiration. "It's the most beautiful thing you'll ever see. Some of the old classic carousels I've been restoring for this society downtown — I'm telling you."

Del picked at the knee of his pants. His face suddenly reminded me of a little boy with the same sad, vacant expression, sitting cross-legged at the entrance of a sheet cave, digging at his knee with a toy ray gun. I didn't like seeing the family resemblance.

"Aaron ever threaten to take the company back?" I asked.

"Nothing that would've stood up in court. You think I was worried enough to kill him over something like that, you're crazy."

"How about Sandra Mara? Were you worried enough to kill her?"

A little color seeped back into Del's cheeks. "What is your thing with Sandra Mara?"

"My thing with her is simple, Del. I've spent a long time doing missing persons cases. I pay attention to the people who aren't around. They're usually the most interesting."