Blackmail Murders (eBook)

1.

My cellphone, resting on the bedroom night stand, rang. I picked it up; it said 7:00 am. Wife Carla purred. “Don’t answer it. Whoever is calling will do it again even earlier next time if you answer.” The ID on the screen said that the caller was Nathan Livingston. My richest client. I let it go to voicemail lest I engage Carla’s ire. Since I normally get up by 7:15 anyway, the call had me awake. I stumbled into the kitchen for coffee.

After getting fortified by strong coffee, I listened to the voicemail. Livingston was a good client—not my best, but his aura in Blanco County had spread far and wide. His ranch south of town off the Old Kendalia Road not only encompassed eighteen hundred acres, but contained infrastructure to die for. His main house had to be over ten thousand square feet, and the ranch had all the usual toys—an outdoor pool, an indoor pool, a game room with a big bar, stables with purebred horses, and on and on. Even an airstrip, no longer used.

I’d learned some time ago that great wealth creates more pain than happiness. And money doesn’t bring good health. Livingston is suffering from a multitude of health issues, and at seventy-nine, he’d been diagnosed with advanced heart failure. Sure, there are meds for that, but they only allay symptoms. They don’t cure the malady.

I hit the play button on my phone. “John, I don’t want to leave a detailed message on your phone, but I do want to see you right away about a major issue I’m dealing with. Quite a project for you, and I think that you should call in your policeman buddy, Larry Wagner, to help you out on this. I read about him when the two of you solved the prescription drug ring murders. Get him up here and then the two of you need to come out to my place and sit down with me.”

I didn’t know what to think of the call. The last thing I’d handled for Nathan had to do with his estate planning issues. He’d hired a top-drawer, high-end estate planner in Houston, who’d fashioned a marvelously complicated plan to deal with his money when he died. While his wife would be very well taken care of after he passed, the bulk of the estate would go into long-lived trusts to take care of several generations of heirs as well as pass millions to his favorite charities. I’d reluctantly agreed to be the executor of his estate, since he said there was no one else he trusted.

I called Larry. Brightened my day. We’d not worked together since the cold case that we were able to solve three years ago. Larry and his wife, Candy, had not visited us for a year or so. As always, Larry talked a mile a minute. He’s unfailingly upbeat, and I’d never seen him down. Not that he hadn’t had to put up with adversity. His first wife had died at 50 of breast cancer, and he’d raised his two teenagers by himself after that. A difficult time for him, but his boys were close to him emotionally if not geographically.

And Larry carried his age well. Same age as Nathan but without the health problems and wealth. Still thin except for the small paunch we all carry after sixty. Wavy white hair in abundance, and like all elderly his ears and nose had become more prominent over the years.

I understood why Nathan wanted Larry involved; he’d been the chief detective for the Houston police department until he retired fifteen years ago. He was still sharp, and I knew he could help me on whatever project Nathan had in mind for us.

When I related the mysterious call, he quickly replied, “I’ll drop everything and come right up. Can I stay in the guest house? Truth is I’m bored to death watching TV all day and shuttling Candy around to shops she wants to go to. The only good thing is that she rarely buys anything. I should be up there by five.”

I called Livingston to tell him that I’d received his message and that Larry and I could meet him the next day. After a little negotiation on time, we set ten for the meeting at his house. Anything earlier would have disrupted my day as well as Larry’s. Besides, I didn’t want to hear about the “Project” on an empty stomach.

Larry typically arrived right before dinner, but I’d anticipated that and helped Carla prepare for four. Candy tagged along, expecting their car to be free tomorrow to head to Wimberley on a shopping tour. Candy’s the opposite of Larry’s first wife. She’s plump, attractive and gregarious. Her hair is obviously dyed blonde, but the blonde accentuated her big blue eyes. Just the thing Larry needs. I grilled steaks, and the wine was plentiful. The dinner was delightful. As usual the women talked between themselves, and Larry and I spent time catching up.

“What’s the project Livingston has for us?” Larry queried.

“I haven’t a clue. Nathan refused to reveal any details on the phone. He’s a bit paranoid that people may be listening in on his phone conversations.” We adjourned early to let Larry and Candy settle in at the guest house.

The next day I picked Larry up and we headed through Blanco to the old Kendalia Road. The weather was almost foggy. Cloudy and misty as the seasons changed in March from winter to spring. Still a beautiful drive. About five miles in, on the right, we could see a concrete landing strip. The ultimate ranch amenity. Another mile on, a nice but less than grand entrance appeared, made of the large limestone blocks that have become fashionable. The blocks are about three feet long, eighteen inches square and must weigh five hundred pounds each, so when stacked they don’t need any mortar to hold them down.

I announced our arrival to the squawk box at the gate, and the feminine voice on the box replied that they were expecting us. The iron gate swung open, and about a third of a mile further on, we drove up to a large house on a hill. As we parked by the front door, a young Hispanic woman came out to greet us.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, smiling. “I’m Hilda. Please follow me.” I guess it’s my age, but Hilda looked to be no more than twenty. Pretty young woman. I mused that once you’re over sixty, everyone looks young. As we turned to follow her, a young white guy burst out of the entrance door. Dark hair, about thirty, slender build. Totally average except for an aging baby face.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he said.

I guess I looked stunned but said, “We’re here to see Nathan at his invitation. I’m one of his lawyers.”

“What does he want to see you about?”

“I haven’t any idea. He asked that we meet. Who are you?”

“I’m Joseph Livingston, his son.”

“Good to meet you. We need to move on since it’s about ten.”

Joseph grumbled and stepped aside. Silent. Must have been miffed by not being in the know.

Guided by Hilda, we went through the tall wooden entrance double door, turned right, and went down a long corridor, noting a grand hall living area, a pool room and several nooks, as well as a spacious dining room. The entire house had been built for entertainment. As the corridor turned left, we entered a bright sun room filled with plants and outdoor furniture. In the middle of the room, a comfortable-looking seating area attracted our eyes. With the cloudy weather, the room was dark. Not a light on. In the middle of the seating area, an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair looked us over carefully.

Livingston looked different than the last time I saw him. Now he was a feeble old man. His skin was mottled and white, and his face was drawn and narrow, reflecting a significant loss of weight. Emaciated, probably due to his age and confinement in a wheelchair. He had a small blanket covering his legs, even though it was probably eighty-five degrees in the room. I wondered what this shell of a man, with big brown eyes and an expansive forehead, had looked like fifty years ago.

“Greetings, gentlemen. Good to see you again, John. You must be Larry Wagner,” he said, looking intently at Larry. “I’m Nathan Livingston.” His voice crackled weakly. “Hilda, thank you. You can go. Tell Clara that I will be ready for lunch with her right at noon.”

“Yes, sir.” Hilda quickly retreated and closed the door. There was a pause as Larry and I sat down in high-backed chairs facing Livingston’s wheelchair.

“First off, gentlemen, anything I say in our conversations I need you to keep confidential. John, I know that we have attorney-client privilege. If Larry works for you, will the confidentiality obligation remain?”

“It should, but you never know what a court will do, so keeping information to essentials is always best.”

“So be it. Larry, you’re wondering about me and the way I look. You see before you the results of a long and wild life. I’ve always worked hard and played hard. Both to excess, and both fueled by booze and tobacco. Had a good run but the consequences have arrived. Like Willie Nelson said, if I’d known I was going to last this long, I would have taken better care of myself. I’ve got degenerative heart disease and COPD, and my doctors claim I have at most eight months to live. My wife Clara has been with me for thirty-five years and is tough, tolerant and smart. She’s deeply religious and has a strict moral code, especially about that commandment dealing with adultery. That’s part of the problem.

“To get directly to the point, I’ve been blackmailed. So that you know, I’m worth about eight hundred million. It was not the size of the blackmail payments that bothered me. Small blackmail payments didn’t bother me.” Nathan stopped talking, breathed deeply and furrowed his brow. “By the way, the...