CHAPTER TWENTY
"Panny"
They met at LaLuz, a Mexican cafe on the north side among the trailer parks and discount tire stores. Panny was a neat little man with a gray Van Dyke. They sat at the patio in the rear and sipped Dos Equis.
"Phil Ruby hired me but I am really working for you. If, as you surmise, the Byrd girl smuggled the pot into your house at Liggett's behest, and she is willing to testify, it would certainly behoove you to pursue her. It is my impression that she suddenly came into some money. But let me ask you this. Why would Professor Liggett, no matter his distaste, go to so much trouble and expense?"
"I don't know," Beadles said.
Academic politics is the most vicious and bitter form of politics, because the stakes are so low.
"Maybe he's insane," Beadles said.
"Maybe there are things Liggett wishes to keep hidden."
Beadles looked at the PI. Was he trying to drum up work? "What am I paying you?"
"Two fifty a day plus expenses."
Beadles took a slug of his beer. "I can't just go on a fishing expedition for everyone involved in this case! God knows what my legal fees are."
"I understand. I may just take a look for my own satisfaction. I believe you were framed, Professor. I came to this country because I believed in truth, justice, and the American way."
"Superman."
"Yes, I watched it as a child in Germany. Do you want me to pursue Miss Byrd? She adds credence to your case by fleeing. The court may very well see things differently."
"No, no, let her go. See if you can find Cerveros."
"Tell me about him."
There wasn't much to tell. Beadles had exchanged pleasantries with the custodian on numerous occasions but Cerveros was not a talkative man. "He said he had a son back on the rez."
"Reservation?"
"I don't know. He said he was Navajo."
Panny made notes in a spiral pad. "The University should have that information."
The PI laid a twenty on the table and rose. "I'll be in touch. Please feel free to contact me if something new comes up."
Beadles shook his hand again. "Thanks for doing this. Looking into Liggett, I mean."
Panny twirled a finger. "Piece of cake." He left through the bar.
Some day laborers fresh off work were laughing at another table. A couple mariachis emerged and set up on a small stage made of moving pallets coverd with plywood. Trumpet and guitar. They weaved a spell of such sadness and beauty that the day laborers fell silent and Beadles found himself weeping uncontrollably.
He used a napkin to wipe his tears fearful that someone had seen him. If they had they gave no sign. This was a place where men came to forget.
He finished his beer and left. His cell rang on the way to his car. The reporter again. He took the call.
"Professor, this is Don Mullaney of the Creighton Sun Courier. Would you answer a few questions regarding Rob Whitfield's death and the accusations that you…"
"I have nothing to say, Mr. Mullaney." He broke the call.
There was a death threat on the home answering machine. "You fucked up Whitfield you motherfucker and now we're gonna fuck you up!" The voice sounded young. Beadles phoned the police and reported it. They told him the threat was probably a prank but that if they persisted, Beadles should bring them the tape and they would try to ascertain from where the calls originated.
"Could be weeks, Mr. Beadles."
He unplugged the phone. Betty had his cell. But she didn't call. And he'd be damned if he called her and got the Big Chill. He dreaded turning on the news. And yet he must.
Beadles sat in the living room and used the remote to turn on the free-standing flat screen television angling out from one corner. He and Betty had had a knock-down drag-out fight over it. She had decreed that under absolutely no conditions would there be a television in the living room.
Beadles won that fight but not without casualties. The cold treatment persisted for a week.
The local CBS affiliate began their five o'clock news. Seven overnight shootings in Chicago led. Beadles remembered J-school. "If it bleeds, it leads." When the segment ended he heaved a sigh of relief. He'd fallen out of the evening news, for the time being.
There was a thump against the front door. Another dead cat? In broad daylight?
Beadles got up and went out on the porch. The afternoon edition of the Sun Courier lay at his feet.
***