There was no sign of a fight other than half of Kiko’s face being splattered on the breakfast nook wall. An answering machine held two messages from a young-sounding woman, in Spanish, asking Kiko to call her, she was better this morning.
The condo itself was sparse; a few pieces of leather furniture, TV with DVD player, a breakfast table, a toaster, and a coffee maker. More like a temporary camp than a home. Whit found a small amount of cocaine in the pantry, double-bagged, tucked behind the cornstarch box. Not a good hiding place. He expected better from Kiko. The outer bag had loosened masking tape on it, as though it had been stuck to the wall and hidden elsewhere. And moved.
Why move it out of the hiding place? To snort. To sell. But then you would hide it again, being careful was part of the job. It bothered him.
Whit tried the redial on the condo’s phone, got a Chinese delivery restaurant down the street. Hung up.
‘Jose’s not here,’ Frank said. ‘Kiko’s right-hand guy.’
‘Probably out mailing resumes,’ Gooch said.
‘So what do we do?’ Frank said. ‘Leave and call the cops?’
‘Are there more drugs here?’ Whit asked.
‘Thanks, I’m cutting back,’ Gooch said.
‘Or cash or records? Anything relating back to them being dealers.’
‘No cash that I found, but I haven’t looked hard,’ Gooch said. ‘Ain’t thinking they got receipts.’
‘Let’s look. Quickly.’
‘What, you’re gonna take the dead guy’s money?’ Frank said.
‘Yes, Frank. Go through his pockets for me,’ Whit said. Frank stood uncertainly over the body, as if deciding whether or not Whit was serious.
Whit searched, carefully, through the closet in the first bedroom. Silk shirts, polos, pressed linen slacks, stylish jackets. Of course, the better to hide a holster under. And expensive shoes, all perfectly polished. Kiko probably threw out a pair at the first scuff. He either packed heavy or planned a long stay in Houston.
He checked the rest of the bedroom. The bed was unmade and rumpled. Underneath the bed was nothing but a dust bunny or two. Whit expected firepower to be hidden under there, but nothing. No notes, no papers of any sort. No PDA, no cell phone.
The other bedroom’s empty,’ Gooch said. ‘All the clothes are gone.’
‘Then Jose took off,’ Frank said.
‘Then odds are Jose killed him,’ Gooch said.
‘Why turn on his boss?’ Whit asked.
‘Why not?’ Gooch said. ‘Jose thinks Eve has the money, decides to take it himself. Kiko’s in the way.’
Whit hated the clarity and simplicity of it, because it put them back at zero. ‘But she doesn’t have it.’
‘Are you absolutely sure, Whit?’ Gooch said quietly.
‘She doesn’t.’
‘Let’s say Bucks delivered the money to Kiko,’ Frank said. ‘Eve got the upper hand, killed him, took off with the money.’
‘No,’ Whit said. ‘She’d call me. She wouldn’t run away from me again.’
Frank said nothing, turned, went back into the den.
Whit went into the bathroom. He glanced through the materials in the cabinet. Nothing unusual. Mouthwash, allergy medicine to deal with the inescapable Houston pollen, shaving kit. He opened the toilet, thinking more coke could be hidden there, that it was the common place in movies but Kiko wouldn’t be that dumb.
Or yes he was. A package lay taped inside, heavily wrapped in plastic.
Carefully, Whit pulled it free, laid the package on the floor. Too thin for a cocaine brick. A DVD in a case, unlabeled.
‘Let’s get out of here, boys,’ Frank said as Whit headed back into the den.
‘Wait a minute.’ Whit slid the disc into the player, set it running. Gooch and Frank watched behind him.
A darkened shot, the camera clearly hidden at a slightly tilted angle. Four men entering a house at night. Bucks one of them. All nicely dressed, young executive types. Two minutes passed. Then Bucks coming out. Carrying a body, dumping it in the trunk of a BMW. Then another. And another, Bucks then getting in the car and roaring away.
‘Our smoking gun,’ Frank said. ‘Thank you, Lord.’
‘If Bucks or Jose killed Kiko, why leave this behind?’ Whit popped the disc from the machine.
‘Bucks didn’t know the disc was here,’ Gooch said. He sat down suddenly, touched his chest, frowned. ‘And what’s it to Jose if Bucks gets caught for murder?’
‘Bucks did know about the film,’ Whit said. ‘Kiko told me he had Bucks in his pocket. This is how he got him there.’
‘Whit.’ Gooch clutched at his chest. ‘Whit, oh, man…’ And he collapsed onto the floor, groaning, eyes rolling into whites, a thin sliver of spit oozing from his mouth.
40
Claudia stood over Whit, holding a cup of steaming coffee in her hand, and he wondered for a second if she would pour it on his head.
‘You look terrible,’ she said quietly. A family was camped in the corner of the intensive care room, and she spoke in a hush.
‘Hello to you too,’ he said.
She handed him the coffee. It was close to six Sunday night, Gooch lying in critical condition for the whole afternoon.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
Claudia sat next to him. He didn’t look at her.
‘Whit.’
‘Yes?’
‘What’s going on?’ she said.
‘Sitting here with a coffee that my friend brought me,’ he said.
‘Don’t,’ she said in a low, harsh whisper. ‘Do you know what I’ve been through?’
‘Does it matter if I know? You’re mad at me before I’ve even opened my mouth.’
‘Walk with me,’ she said. ‘There’s a little garden outside. I’m going to yell at you, and I don’t want to disturb these people.’
‘Visiting time is in another fifteen minutes. I can’t miss it.’
‘Level with me and you won’t,’ she said.
‘I love it when you get all authority figure.’ He walked out past her. She followed him.
The evening was damp, rain having ceased its fall an hour ago, and the wet held the air in a swampy embrace. Whit sat down on the damp stone bench. Claudia stood.
‘I almost got killed last night,’ she said. ‘Did you know that?’
‘No,’ he said, watching her. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Greg Buckman. A shooter came after him. Nearly got me. A man got killed.’
‘But you’re okay.’
‘Yes, I’m okay.’ She sat next to him. He reached for her arm and she stood. ‘And you are so not okay, Whit. Not okay at all to me. You sit here like a stone statue, not answering a single reasonable question over the past three days.’
‘So ask me.’
Start easy, she decided. ‘For God’s sakes, what happened to Gooch?’
‘He had a heart attack.’
‘I don’t mean that, Whit.’ Claudia thought: infinite patience right now. ‘He was full of a cocktail of narcotics, morphine, a whole mess of junk. He’s been beaten.’
‘So much for medical privacy,’ Whit said. ‘Gooch does love to party.’
‘You protecting your mom, Whit?’
‘Claudia. Please go home. I don’t have anything to say.’
‘I nearly got killed trying to help you.’
‘I warned you that Bucks was dangerous. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’
‘He wasn’t half as dangerous as Jose Peron,’ Claudia said. ‘That’s the shooter’s name.’
‘His name is Peron? Like Evita?’
‘Yes. Look at me, Whit.’
Instead he studied his shoes.
‘Whit. I love you, you’re my dear friend. Whatever you’ve done, I’ll help you. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I want you to take Gooch back to Port Leo, soon as he can travel. That’s how you can help me.’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But on the condition you tell me what’s happening.’
‘First tell me everything that happened to you last night. Please,’ he said, taking her hand. She let him, and she told him about finding Robin and Bucks. When she was done he said, ‘Thank God you’re okay.’
Claudia turned his face toward her, looked hard into his eyes. ‘The police found Greg Buckman prowling around a house in River Oaks today. They were already headed there to talk to Frank Polo, who’s the manager of a strip club called the Topaz.’