Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 01 - Galveston by Kent Conwell Read Free Book Online Page A

But first, I wanted to get into Cheshire’s place before anyone else. With Virgil, at least I’d have someone to keep an eye out.
    The rank, horsy odor grew stronger. Was there a dead rat in the walls? I wrinkled my nose. Sitting up, I saw Virgil massaging his bare foot. That was no dead rat.
    He looked up as I headed for the door. “Let’s go, Virgil. We got some business to tend.” I opened the door so fresh air could blow inside.
     
    In the pickup, I glanced at Virgil. “ You know where 23 rd Street is?”
    He nodded.
    “The Tradewinds. An apartment complex.”
    He gave me a sappy grin. “My cousin owns the place.”
    I looked at him in disbelief. “Another cousin?”
    “We’re a big family.” He grinned.
    A big smile popped out on my face. I’d been trying to figure how we could get into Cheshire’s room, and now all my worries were over.
    I waited in the lobby while Virgil went into the office. Moments later, he returned with the key. “Any problems?”
    He shook his head. “No trouble, but the police just left. Plainclothes guys.”
    “Police?”
    “That’s what Willard said.” When I frowned, he explained. “Willard. My cousin.”
     
    Cheshire’s apartment was middle-of-the-line rental property, about five or six hundred a month. A snack bar separated the living area from a small kitchen. A bedroom opened off one wall. The bath opened into the bedroom. In general, the apartment was fairly neat, something of a surprise since Cheshire was a confirmed bachelor.
    Standing in the open doorway and surveying the apartment, I said. “Your cousin said the police were here?”
    “Yeah. Why?”
    “No reason.” I shrugged and stepped inside. Against one wall sat a yellow vinyl couch with a claw-footed coffee table in front. Two occasional chairs that didn’t match were on either side of the coffee table. Against another wall was a cheap desk on which sat a computer.
    I didn’t doubt someone had searched the room, but I would have given staggering odds it wasn’t the police. I have yet to see a search scene that didn’t look like a bomb had exploded when the police completed their search. Cheshire’s place looked like he’d just stepped out for a pizza.
    Which led me to another puzzling conclusion. If the cops had not searched the place, then who? Abbandando? Maranzano? Or Morrison?
    The reason was obvious even if the identity of the previous searcher wasn’t. Cheshire had information about the smuggled diamonds and someone wanted that information.
    I locked the door behind us, then hesitated. Other than Eddie Dyson’s report, I had no substance, no solid foundation for any of my theories. All I was doing was guessing.
    “What do you want me to do?”
    Virgil’s question jerked me back to the present. “You start in the kitchen. Look for anything, notes, pictures, anything. If it’s got writing on it, I want to see it.”
    He looked at me like I was simple. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
    I started in the living room, searching for telephone numbers, names, dates, any information I could find. Later I would winnow through the chaff and keep the wheat.
    Whoever had been in here earlier must have heard about the impressions left on telephone pads for the pad was slick as the gumbo mud back home. Still, I gave it a shot, but the pencil marks revealed nothing.
    I searched the desk for bills or scribblings, but found none. I booted the computer and went to the history file. It was clean. I nodded in appreciation at someone’s thoroughness. “But, let’s see just how thorough,” I muttered, going five or six steps deep into the operating system.
    Bingo! Someone hadn’t gone far enough back to clean up the files. Back in the temporary Internet files under Windows, there were hundreds of addresses. 
    Quickly scrolling through those for the last six months, I jotted down all the transportation addresses. The fact they were all maritime struck me immediately. I also recorded addresses for