suspicion. "Maybe"
My hopes surged. Maybe meant yes. I continued,
"Years back, he worked as an assistant campaign manager
for Albert Hastings. I had a couple questions he might be
able to answer for me"
She pursed her lips. "You the cops?"
"No, Ma'am." Briefly, I explained what I was doing.
"Eric worked with Don Landreth, but-"
"Why don't you ask Landreth then?" she demanded.
I grimaced. "He died yesterday."
The announcement cut through the defensive posture
she had put up. Her eyes grew wide in disbelief, and she
pressed one hand against her lips. Tears welled in her
eyes. She gasped. "D-Don? Don Landreth is dead?" her
voice trembled.
"Yes, Ma'am. I had an appointment to visit with him
yesterday about 5:00. I learned about his passing when I
reached Marble Falls" I hoped she wouldn't ask how he
died.
Her tears overflowed onto her weathered cheeks. She
wiped her eyes with the tips of her fingers. "He was a good
man. I'm sorry for him. He helped us over some hard
times after that no-good husband of mine deserted us"
"Eric Lavern is your husband?"
"Was," she snapped.
"I see. Can you tell me where he is?"
She shook her head slowly. Bitterly, she replied, "He
left me and kids six or seven years ago. I divorced him.
`He needed more in life than we could offer' he told me,
and then he left" Her eyes narrowed, and she used several very descriptive and uncomplimentary expletives to
describe Eric and his ancestry.
Disappointment flooded over me.
She continued, "I haven't seen him since he left, but
last year, a friend claimed she saw him working the bar at
Frio's on Sixth Street. You might ask down there" She
paused. "Is he in some kind of trouble?"
I could hear a trace of hope in her voice. I replied, "I
don't know."
A slow, bitter smile played over her thin lips. "I hope so. I hope he hurts like we hurt" Her words trembled with
anger.
For a moment, I hesitated. "Ms. Lavern, I hate to
dredge up old memories, but do you happen to have a picture of Eric?"
For a moment, I thought she would refuse. "I'll be right
back"
When she returned, she slipped an 8x10 photograph
between the screen door and the doorjamb. "Here. I don't
want it"
"Thanks" I looked at the picture, and at that moment,
I truly knew the depth of the hatred she carried for Eric
Lavern. She had given me their wedding picture.
When I climbed back in the pickup, I winked at Janice.
"We got lucky. Now it's Sixth Street.
With a curl of her lips, she said, "Sixth Street? Isn't
that were all the saloons and bordellos are?"
I leaned over and touched my lips to hers. "Welcome to
the life of a detective, Mrs. Charles"
Back on the 1-35, we slipped into a lane of traffic and
followed the leader. Keeping her eyes on the road ahead,
Janice asked, "So, how do we stand after three and a half
days?"
"A lot of he said-she said stuff, but nothing really substantial" I hadn't told her about the warning message or
the sideswipe or the death of Don Landreth. "Most of
what we have indicates Hastings deserved what he got,
but there's nothing to prove Bobby didn't pull the trigger."
She looked around. "So, we aren't doing so well, huh?"
I didn't want to admit to her terse assessment, but in all
honesty, she very succinctly summed up where we stood.
At 10:00 A.M., Sixth Street was just opening its eyes in
snippets and snatches, in patches and parcels. The street
awakened like a drunk with only two hours sleep, reluctant and recalcitrant.
Proprietors with bloodshot eyes growled, some quickly
downing a slug of the hair of the dog to ease a searing
headache. We went straight to Frio's, but the owner had
never heard of Eric Lavern.
So, we started up one side of the seven-block district,
hitting every bistro and bar, every club and cabaret, every
tattoo parlor and tavern. Sixth Street doesn't cater to cops,
PIs, or insurance adjusters, so our cover story was that
Eric Lavern was a cousin we hadn't seen in years. His
My hopes surged. Maybe meant yes. I continued,
"Years back, he worked as an assistant campaign manager
for Albert Hastings. I had a couple questions he might be
able to answer for me"
She pursed her lips. "You the cops?"
"No, Ma'am." Briefly, I explained what I was doing.
"Eric worked with Don Landreth, but-"
"Why don't you ask Landreth then?" she demanded.
I grimaced. "He died yesterday."
The announcement cut through the defensive posture
she had put up. Her eyes grew wide in disbelief, and she
pressed one hand against her lips. Tears welled in her
eyes. She gasped. "D-Don? Don Landreth is dead?" her
voice trembled.
"Yes, Ma'am. I had an appointment to visit with him
yesterday about 5:00. I learned about his passing when I
reached Marble Falls" I hoped she wouldn't ask how he
died.
Her tears overflowed onto her weathered cheeks. She
wiped her eyes with the tips of her fingers. "He was a good
man. I'm sorry for him. He helped us over some hard
times after that no-good husband of mine deserted us"
"Eric Lavern is your husband?"
"Was," she snapped.
"I see. Can you tell me where he is?"
She shook her head slowly. Bitterly, she replied, "He
left me and kids six or seven years ago. I divorced him.
`He needed more in life than we could offer' he told me,
and then he left" Her eyes narrowed, and she used several very descriptive and uncomplimentary expletives to
describe Eric and his ancestry.
Disappointment flooded over me.
She continued, "I haven't seen him since he left, but
last year, a friend claimed she saw him working the bar at
Frio's on Sixth Street. You might ask down there" She
paused. "Is he in some kind of trouble?"
I could hear a trace of hope in her voice. I replied, "I
don't know."
A slow, bitter smile played over her thin lips. "I hope so. I hope he hurts like we hurt" Her words trembled with
anger.
For a moment, I hesitated. "Ms. Lavern, I hate to
dredge up old memories, but do you happen to have a picture of Eric?"
For a moment, I thought she would refuse. "I'll be right
back"
When she returned, she slipped an 8x10 photograph
between the screen door and the doorjamb. "Here. I don't
want it"
"Thanks" I looked at the picture, and at that moment,
I truly knew the depth of the hatred she carried for Eric
Lavern. She had given me their wedding picture.
When I climbed back in the pickup, I winked at Janice.
"We got lucky. Now it's Sixth Street.
With a curl of her lips, she said, "Sixth Street? Isn't
that were all the saloons and bordellos are?"
I leaned over and touched my lips to hers. "Welcome to
the life of a detective, Mrs. Charles"
Back on the 1-35, we slipped into a lane of traffic and
followed the leader. Keeping her eyes on the road ahead,
Janice asked, "So, how do we stand after three and a half
days?"
"A lot of he said-she said stuff, but nothing really substantial" I hadn't told her about the warning message or
the sideswipe or the death of Don Landreth. "Most of
what we have indicates Hastings deserved what he got,
but there's nothing to prove Bobby didn't pull the trigger."
She looked around. "So, we aren't doing so well, huh?"
I didn't want to admit to her terse assessment, but in all
honesty, she very succinctly summed up where we stood.
At 10:00 A.M., Sixth Street was just opening its eyes in
snippets and snatches, in patches and parcels. The street
awakened like a drunk with only two hours sleep, reluctant and recalcitrant.
Proprietors with bloodshot eyes growled, some quickly
downing a slug of the hair of the dog to ease a searing
headache. We went straight to Frio's, but the owner had
never heard of Eric Lavern.
So, we started up one side of the seven-block district,
hitting every bistro and bar, every club and cabaret, every
tattoo parlor and tavern. Sixth Street doesn't cater to cops,
PIs, or insurance adjusters, so our cover story was that
Eric Lavern was a cousin we hadn't seen in years. His
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