Free Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder by Kent Conwell

“Jolly residence.”
    “Clarence Jolly?” I heard a muffled voice in the background.
    “Yes, but he isn’t in,” she replied curtly. “Would you care to
leave a message?”
    I could visualize a pinch-lipped shrew in a maid’s uniform
taking orders from the voice in the background. I wasn’t going
to get anywhere with her by normal channels. So, I decided to
stir up some excitement in Amarillo. “Yes. Tell him this is Ed
George of George’s Wrecking Yard in Austin. I got Jolly’s
Mercedes down here and I want to know where to send the bill.
He owes two thousand bucks for storage.”
    There was a moment of silence at the other end, and then I
heard muffled voices. I grinned, imagining the scene. Clarence
Jolly was probably gaping at her in disbelief.
    Abruptly, a belligerent voice came over the line. “What do
you think you’re talking about, buddy? I sold that Mercedes.”
    “You Clarence Jolly?”
    “Yeah. But I don’t own that Mercedes.”
    I continued my lie. “Sorry, bud. According to the up-to-date
registry, you own it. We got it in storage and you owe two grand
on it. “
    He muttered a curse. “Look … who are you?”
    “Ed George. I own George’s Wrecking and Towing down
here in Austin. Cops had me haul this black Mercedes E-Fiftyfive AMG off the street. I want to know who’s paying for it.
You’re listed as the owner.”

    His voice became placating. “Look, Mr. George. I sold that
car three weeks ago to a guy out of Boulder, Colorado. His
name was Nelson Villafono. Some kind of Greek, I guess. I
don’t even know what Villafono is, but he wrote me a check on
a Boulder bank. It cleared without a problem. After it did, I
signed the title over to him. He’s the one you need to get hold
of. I don’t want to get involved in this. It ain’t none of my business now.”
    “Don’t know if I can keep you out of it or not, Mr. Jolly.
Somebody’s got to pay the fee. Can you tell me anything about
him so I can track him down?”
    “I don’t know much about him. He hung around here a few
days. Said he had some business to take care of. He even paid
for my call to his bank.”
    “Where’d he stay? Any idea?”
    “No. Wait a minute. Yeah, yeah. He said something about
staying at the Ranchmans’ Motel out on Highway Sixty, the
Pampa highway. They might be able to tell you where he was
headed.” He hesitated, then gave an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry.
You already know that. You got his car. He must’ve gone to
Austin from here.”
    I thanked Clarence Jolly and hung up. For several moments I
stared at the receiver trying to focus my thoughts. I had a couple of options with Nelson Villafono or Vanderweg or whatever.
The fastest would be to check the arrest records in Boulder. I jotted a reminder in my notebook, and then headed for the door.
    Before I visited Perry Jacobs again, I wanted to see George
Holderman’s desk pad, which was being held in the evidence
room at Safford Police Station. If Jacobs was telling the truth
about the letter or reprimand, maybe I could find some mention
of it on the pad.
    The wind had dropped, but the sky remained cloudy, keeping
the temperature in the low forties.

    That George Holderman was a meticulous person was evident. My own desk pad was a collage of indecipherable doodles, upside down notes, scribbled reminders, vague questions,
and some drawings that could be labeled marginally obscene.
Holderman’s notes were in precise hand and confined to the
respective boxes. As each obligation was met, he placed a
checkmark beside it. Once all obligations for the day were met,
a neat X crossed off the box.
    The last box X’ed out was Monday, November 10, 2004.
November 11 was the night he was murdered, and one of
the notations in the box was to see PJ. In parentheses beside
the note was written a name and business, AW, CR Real
Estate.
    PJ? AW? CR? I skimmed the previous days. Some names
were written, some abbreviated. PJ?