Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 15 - The Mona Lisa Murders by Kent Conwell Page B

on starting now.’
    ‘You’re taking my time,’ I snapped, irritated at her testy reply.
    ‘Leave if you want to.’
    ‘You know I can’t, that I won’t. Besides, that isn’t what I mean. You say the box contains the ashes of the model for the Mona Lisa. All right. I can understand that. I’m not that dumb. What I don’t understand is why this Nemo dude is willing to kill for them. You understand what I mean? No one kills over a box of ashes. There’s more to it. There has to be!’
    She glared at me, refusing to answer. I looked at Edmund. ‘You understand what I’m saying?’
    He nodded slowly. ‘ Oui , me, I know what you mean.’
    I turned back to Latasha. ‘I’m in this because you’re family. The same reason Octave and Edmund are helping. I don’t want to see you hurt. And I sure don’t want to see me hurt.’ I held up the phone. ‘I know someone who can find out what I want to know. There has to be more involved here than a box full of burned bones.’
    Edmund slid behind the steering wheel. Latasha and I climbed in beside him. He handed me a coil of black wire. ‘You need this. Charger for the phone. Plug it in cigarette lighter.’
     

Chapter Eleven
    Security stopped us four times crossing the small community, but the agents knew Edmund and waved us through.
    During the ride, I called my old friend, Eddie Dyson.
    Over the years, I had developed more than adequate computer skills, but nothing to match Eddie’s. Once Austin’s resident stool pigeon, he had become a computer whiz and wildly successful entrepreneur.
    Instead of sleazy bars and greasy money, he found his niche for snitching in the bright glow of computers and comforting security of credit cards. Any information I couldn’t find, he could. Personally, I figured he hacked into some kind of national database. What kind, I have no idea, but he always came up with information, information that suggested his total disdain of any premise of personal privacy.
    There were only two catches if you dealt with Eddie. First, you never asked him how he did it, and second, he only accepted VISA credit cards for payment.
    I never asked Eddie why just VISA. Seems like any credit card would be sufficient, but considering the value of his service, I never posed the question. As far as I was concerned, if he wanted to be paid in Gambian Dalasis or Yemen Riyals, I’d load up a couple dozen bushels and cart them over to him.
    Failure was not a word in his vocabulary. His services did not come cheap, but he produced, reemphasizing the old axiom that sometimes the end is indeed worth the means.
    I got his voice mail. I requested details on the excavation and reconstruction of the alleged Mona Lisa model, Lisa Gherardini, as well as any information he felt pertinent to my request. Then I asked for anything he could find about Parnchand Nemo.
    In addition to Edmund’s cell number, I gave him my universal e-mail address, adding that I didn’t have access to my regular e-mail.
    Next I called Danny O’Banion in Austin. Rumor was that Danny was the Austin Branch Caporegime for the Southern Mafia. I knew the truth, but I never spoke of it. Besides, the Mafia was not the overt force it had once been although there were still four or five families in New York with widespread branches about.
    Danny and I go back to high school where in the eleventh grade, we managed to get into a few scrapes together. He dropped out of school, and I ended up an English teacher, then an insurance salesman, and finally a private investigator.
    Later, Danny and I ran into each other at an Oklahoma, U.T. football game in Dallas. We laughed some, lied a lot, and emptied his silver flask of excellent Scotch.
    From time to time over the years, Danny gave me a few hints on various cases. I paid him back more than once. One occasion I saved his bosses several million bucks, which made them very happy with him. Another time, I managed to keep his cousin, Bobby Packard, from riding the