much for your
time."
"You're more than welcome, Mr. Boudreaux."
I hesitated. "If you don't mind, Mrs. Simms, I just
thought of one more question about the technician who
serviced the videotapes. By any chance do you happen to
remember what he looked like?"
Her eyes brightened. "Oh, dear me yes. A sweet, fair
complected young man with red hair. He always stopped
and chatted with me when he changed tapes or whatever
it was he did. Red-ah, his name's Red-"
I supplied the name for her, "Tompkins?"
"That's it!" she exclaimed. "Red Tompkins"
Another piece of the puzzle fell into place.
Back in my pickup, I pulled out my cards. I glanced up
and spotted the edge of the drapes in Mrs. Simms' picture
window pulled aside a few inches. She was watching. I
smiled, waved, and then quickly jotted my notes.
I mused over the information I had garnered from Mrs.
Simms. There was no question that she was telling the
truth, and that her testimony had been damning. Packard
barged in; she heard shots; she saw Packard hurrying into
the elevator.
But, if the alleged film was to be believed, someone
else had been present. And she had seen the Asian emerging from the elevator. I discounted his hiding in the storeroom after doing Hastings. Chances are the police would
have searched it as part of the crime scene. But there a
distinct possibility the killer could have darted into the
executive lounge and escaped through a window-if there
was a window.
I glanced at my watch as I made a note to check that possibility. 10:00. Plenty of time to run down Sen. Sam
Bradford and Don Landreth, Hastings' campaign manager.
Bradford was in Washington, which effectively
squelched any interview with him, so I concentrated on Landreth, whom I managed to run down at his ranch outside Marble Falls, fifty or so miles to the west.
Placing a call, I got Landreth's voice mail. I left my
name, number, and a brief explanation of the purpose of
my call. I considered driving over, but if he was not
around I'd have wasted two or three hours that could not
be spared.
My stomach growled, and I realized I had not eaten
since early morning. I glanced around, searching for
someplace to silence the gurgling sounds coming from
my belly.
I stopped at the first light. A maroon car pulled up
behind me. Years and makes are beginning to elude me.
At my age, I can discern a car and a pickup, but that's
about the extent of my expertise.
I drove through McDonald's for fries, a burger, and a
Coke. I ate as I tooled south down Mopac Expressway
toward the Double Eagle Bar and Grill. I hoped to visit
with the bartender who worked the shift when the brief
fight occurred between Hastings and Packard.
The expressway was packed, which was no surprise. I
have no idea how many vehicles race up and down those
lanes everyday, but if I had a penny for each one, I'd be
rich.
I hung in the outside lane at a steady sixty miles an
hour, steering with one hand and eating my fries and
burger with the other as the other drivers zoomed past.
Suddenly, the shriek of metal deafened me, and my
pickup jerked to the right, bounced over the shoulder, and
shot down a thirty-degree grassy incline. I dropped the
burger and grabbed the wheel with both hands, at the
same time slamming on my brakes.
Cars and trucks jammed the access road toward which
I was hurtling. There was no room for me to fit in. I was
about ten seconds away from slamming into the side of an eighteen-wheeler cattle truck. I stomped the brakes
harder and spun the steering wheel to the left, hoping the
pickup wouldn't flip. As the rear end skidded into a oneeighty the Silverado shuddered to a halt mere inches
from the access road as the cattle truck roared past with
an angry blast from his ear-splitting klaxon horn.
I dropped my forehead to the steering wheel and
breathed a short prayer. The door jerked open.
"Hey, buddy. Are you okay? You hurt?"
When I managed to focus my eyes, two
time."
"You're more than welcome, Mr. Boudreaux."
I hesitated. "If you don't mind, Mrs. Simms, I just
thought of one more question about the technician who
serviced the videotapes. By any chance do you happen to
remember what he looked like?"
Her eyes brightened. "Oh, dear me yes. A sweet, fair
complected young man with red hair. He always stopped
and chatted with me when he changed tapes or whatever
it was he did. Red-ah, his name's Red-"
I supplied the name for her, "Tompkins?"
"That's it!" she exclaimed. "Red Tompkins"
Another piece of the puzzle fell into place.
Back in my pickup, I pulled out my cards. I glanced up
and spotted the edge of the drapes in Mrs. Simms' picture
window pulled aside a few inches. She was watching. I
smiled, waved, and then quickly jotted my notes.
I mused over the information I had garnered from Mrs.
Simms. There was no question that she was telling the
truth, and that her testimony had been damning. Packard
barged in; she heard shots; she saw Packard hurrying into
the elevator.
But, if the alleged film was to be believed, someone
else had been present. And she had seen the Asian emerging from the elevator. I discounted his hiding in the storeroom after doing Hastings. Chances are the police would
have searched it as part of the crime scene. But there a
distinct possibility the killer could have darted into the
executive lounge and escaped through a window-if there
was a window.
I glanced at my watch as I made a note to check that possibility. 10:00. Plenty of time to run down Sen. Sam
Bradford and Don Landreth, Hastings' campaign manager.
Bradford was in Washington, which effectively
squelched any interview with him, so I concentrated on Landreth, whom I managed to run down at his ranch outside Marble Falls, fifty or so miles to the west.
Placing a call, I got Landreth's voice mail. I left my
name, number, and a brief explanation of the purpose of
my call. I considered driving over, but if he was not
around I'd have wasted two or three hours that could not
be spared.
My stomach growled, and I realized I had not eaten
since early morning. I glanced around, searching for
someplace to silence the gurgling sounds coming from
my belly.
I stopped at the first light. A maroon car pulled up
behind me. Years and makes are beginning to elude me.
At my age, I can discern a car and a pickup, but that's
about the extent of my expertise.
I drove through McDonald's for fries, a burger, and a
Coke. I ate as I tooled south down Mopac Expressway
toward the Double Eagle Bar and Grill. I hoped to visit
with the bartender who worked the shift when the brief
fight occurred between Hastings and Packard.
The expressway was packed, which was no surprise. I
have no idea how many vehicles race up and down those
lanes everyday, but if I had a penny for each one, I'd be
rich.
I hung in the outside lane at a steady sixty miles an
hour, steering with one hand and eating my fries and
burger with the other as the other drivers zoomed past.
Suddenly, the shriek of metal deafened me, and my
pickup jerked to the right, bounced over the shoulder, and
shot down a thirty-degree grassy incline. I dropped the
burger and grabbed the wheel with both hands, at the
same time slamming on my brakes.
Cars and trucks jammed the access road toward which
I was hurtling. There was no room for me to fit in. I was
about ten seconds away from slamming into the side of an eighteen-wheeler cattle truck. I stomped the brakes
harder and spun the steering wheel to the left, hoping the
pickup wouldn't flip. As the rear end skidded into a oneeighty the Silverado shuddered to a halt mere inches
from the access road as the cattle truck roared past with
an angry blast from his ear-splitting klaxon horn.
I dropped my forehead to the steering wheel and
breathed a short prayer. The door jerked open.
"Hey, buddy. Are you okay? You hurt?"
When I managed to focus my eyes, two
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