Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder by Kent Conwell Page B

out again. “Stewart! It’s me! Tony!”
    No answer except the thrumming of the rain on the pavement. Slowly, I made my way back to the bar, oblivious to the
rain.

     

Carrie Cochran had vanished. Two couples sat at the table I
had occupied less than five minutes earlier. I gestured to the
bartender. “That woman I was with. You see her leave?”
    His round face was slick with sweat. Brow furrowed, he studied me a moment. “Hey, you that guy who run out of here a few
minutes ago, causing all the commotion?”
    I shook my head. “I can explain. But not now. I got to find
the woman I was with. Cochran. Carrie Cochran. You know
her?”
    He jabbed a sausage-like finger at me. The veins in his neck
puffed out. “This is a high-class joint, buddy. We don’t like no
disturbances in here. Not unless you wanta get your rear
kicked, you hear me?”
    I held my temper. I wasn’t going to find out a thing from this
jerk except how fast he could come over the bar. I stepped back
and held up my hand. “Sorry, bud. No problem.”
    He jerked his head toward the door. “Beat it “
    I beat it, hugging the buildings as I made my way back up the
hill to my pickup, cursing myself for leaving Carrie Cochran.
She had been ready to give me a name.

    The truck fired up. I flipped on the heat, making a mental
note to look up Carrie Cochran out at the Marquee Club.
    Within a couple of minutes, a blast of hot air filled the cab. I
glanced in the direction Stewart had disappeared. What was he
up to? Worry nagged at me.
    Slowly, I drove the streets, hoping to spot Stewart, if indeed
it had been Stewart I saw. On impulse, I headed for his place on
Festival Beach Street.
    Ahead, at the underpass of Seventh Street and 1-10, red and
blue strobes flashed, and the halogen beams of the police cruiser lit the wet street with a silver glow. Beyond the cruiser, a
large sedan, both front doors open and the interior lights on, sat
in the middle of the road.
    Dark silhouettes scurried in and out of the headlights, hovering over an object lying in the street. I gripped the steering
wheel tighter, fighting back the surge of fear squeezing off my
breath. Could it be Stewart?
    The sleet bouncing off his yellow poncho, an officer
detoured traffic down the access road to the next underpass. I
pulled over to the curb and parked.
    A second cop stopped me as I approached the small crowd
around the body sprawled in the street. “Sorry, buddy. Move on
unless you got business here.”
    “Look, officer. I’m looking for my cousin. That might be
him.”
    He shook his head. “Naw. It’s an old broad.”
    I glanced over his shoulder just as one of the silhouettes
moved, giving me a clear view of the inert body. It was Carrie
Cochran. I closed my eyes. I muttered, “Is she dead?”
    “Just about. Busted up good.” He started to say more, but the
investigating officer called him. He motioned me back to my
pickup. “Go along now, buddy. We got enough traffic jamming
up around here now.”
    I waited in my truck until the EMS team arrived. I noted the company, and then swung by the address Stewart had given me.
His Pontiac was not in sight, and no one answered the phone.
Worried sick, I headed home, crossing my fingers that Stewart
was all right and that Carrie Cochran would live.

    I stopped off to pick up a bag of kitten nuggets and a litterbox.
    As soon as I closed the door behind me, I called Stewart
again. To my surprise, he answered on the second ring. “Are
you all right?” I asked.
    He hesitated. “Something wrong, Tony?”
    Now I was puzzled. The young man I had spotted in front of
Borgia’s looked like Stewart, but I must have been mistaken.
“No. I thought I saw you earlier. I guess I was wrong.”
    “Hey, bro. I’m good. Just got in. Busy day.”
    “And you weren’t down on Sixth Street?”
    “Oh, yeah, yeah, man. I was. Got some bad food or something. Heaved my guts all over the sidewalk. I’m fine