Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 09 - Death by Accident by Bill Crider Read Free Book Online Page A

John left.  I thought he was headed home.”
    “And you didn’t see Pep Yeldell that night?”
    “Don’t remember,” Tuffy said.
    They were inside the multi-purpose building that sat near the front of Tuffy’s wrecking yard.  It smelled of oil and the old tires that were stacked high along one wall.  Tuffy was behind a high wooden counter that looked as if it had been built about the time F. D. R. was getting fooled by Hack’s Russians at Yalta.  Behind him, wooden shelves reached all the way to the ceiling.  They were crammed with all sorts of used auto parts:  generators, distributors, carburetors, thermostats, radios, tape players, and hundreds of other grease-and-oil-covered items that Rhodes couldn’t identify.  There was a wooden step ladder leaning against the shelves.
    There was a Pontiac Firebird sitting nearby on the concrete floor.  The fenders were accordioned, and the front bumper was pushed up almost to the passenger compartment.  Rhodes hadn’t worked the wreck, but Ruth had told him about it.  Drinking and driving don’t mix.
    On past the Firebird there was another car with its hood raised high, its engine held above the empty engine compartment on a chain hoist.
    “But you did know Yeldell?” Rhodes said.
    Tuffy shrugged.  “Everybody knew Pep.  He was around out there a lot of the time.”
    “Who was he with?”
    “Different people.”
    “Women?” Rhodes asked.
    “Most of the time.  He was a pretty good-lookin’ guy, you know?  And there are a lot of ladies out there tryin’ to find somebody to have fun with.”
    “He won’t be out there anymore,” Rhodes said.
    Tuffy said, “Why not?”
    “He drowned last night.  Out at the Old Settlers’ Grounds.”
    “What the hell was he doin’ out there?”
    “Swimming.  At least that’s what it looks like he was doing.”
    Tuffy moved a scratch pad out of his way and leaned his forearms on the counter.
    “That’s a damn shame.  Pep was a good ol’ boy.  Knew how to have a good time,” he said.  He looked over at the Firebird, then back at Rhodes.  “Was he by himself out there?”
    “Looks that way,” Rhodes said.
    “You wouldn’t think old Pep’d go out there for a swim by himself.  You sure there wasn’t some woman with him?”
    “I’m not sure of anything at this point,” Rhodes said.  “I’m just trying to find out what I can.”
    That was basically the way Rhodes got things done.  Hack could talk all he wanted to about modern crime detection methods and computers, but Rhodes still believed that talking, listening, and thinking were more likely to get him to a solution than all the computers in the world.  He knew he might be fooling himself, but usually he got results.
    He hadn’t gotten very far with locating John West’s killer, however, as Tuffy reminded him.
    “I don’t see how this is helpin’ you find out who ran over John,” Tuffy said.
    “If he and Yeldell knew each other, there might be some connection between their deaths,” Rhodes said.
    “Hell, they knew each other.  I told you that.  I said that everybody knew Pep, and everybody included John.  They weren’t what you’d call best friends, but they’d drink a beer now and then.”
    “But not the night John got killed.”
    “Not that I remember.  But they could’ve met somewhere else that night.  If John got killed when you say he did, he didn’t go home.  He might’ve gone to some other club, had some more to drink.  Maybe Pep was there.  Why, you think somebody killed Pep?”
    “It could have been an accident,” Rhodes said.
    “I expect so.  Pep wasn’t what you’d call a careful man.  I’ve seen him get in fights, take on two or three guys at a time if he had a drink or two in him.”
    Rhodes didn’t often get called out to The County Line when there was a fight.  The management liked to settle things without resorting to calling the law.  But he’d been there a time or two, when things got out