Free Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 01 - Galveston by Kent Conwell

case against me?
    But what really puzzled me was the true motivation behind District Attorney George Briggs’ crusade to bury me for a lifetime behind the walls of Huntsville Prison.
     I remember one spring when I was a youngster. Grandpa and I were hunting deer along the spongy banks of a black-water bayou when a feral sow burst out of a thicket with the sincerest of intentions to slice us into sides of bacon and then stomp us into small patches of grease.
    Grandpa put a 30-30 slug between her eyes, and she skidded to a halt in the spongy peat less than a yard from our feet. At that moment, squeals burst out in the briars and a dozen dark little shapes scattered in every direction, quickly vanishing into the thickets around us.
    Grandpa slipped his knife from his belt and sliced the sow’s throat. Bright red blood spurted out. “Son,” he said, wiping the blade on his pants. “Whenever an animal comes at you for no reason, they’re either crazy or protecting something.”
    And that’s the only explanation I had for the District Attorney’s actions, crazy or protecting something. And there was no way I figured he was crazy.
    So what could he be protecting?
    He already had enough evidence to get me indicted on the Cheshire shooting. So why continue building the case?
    I rose and stared unseeing out the window at the gray waves rolling in from the gulf. I had stumbled across more than I knew.
    The jangling of the telephone snapped me from my reverie. It was Sergeant Wilson. “Got an address,” he said.
    “Shoot.”
    “Apartment 315, Seaview Plaza.”
    “What city?”
    “Here.”
    Whoa. I didn’t expect that. “Telephone number by any chance?”
    “Yeah. 555-3636.”
    I jotted the number. It looked familiar, and then an alarm went off in my head. I stammered out my thanks and hung up.
    Muttering an excited curse, I fumbled with the list of numbers I had copied from the cover of Cheshire’s telephone book. There it was, the fifth number—the one that never answered. 
    I stared at the number on the note pad. Morrison might be able to deny making contact with the fence, Ho Lui, in Philadelphia, but what excuse could he have for his number being on the front cover of Cheshire’s telephone book?
    I reached for my jacket, then froze. Janice. My Significant Other—well, more or less significant Other. What was she going to think? All those years with other her Aunt Beatrice as her only kin, and then along comes Cousin Ted. Taking a deep breath, I shook my head and slipped into my jacket.
     
    Ted Morrison looked like he had stepped right out of the J.C. Penny catalog. With his short blond hair, tanned complexion, and dazzling smile, he would be any father or mother’s choice as a life mate for their daughter.
    He covered his surprise at my sudden appearance and made an effort to be convivial, but beneath the surface, he was as defensive as a cur mongrel guarding a bone. I had the feeling he knew exactly why I was paying him a visit.
    But he was the perfect host. We sat across from each other at the snack bar in his apartment. He sipped a cold bourbon and coke. I sipped ice water and eyed his bourbon. Don’t let anyone fool you into believing booze is easy to leave alone.
    Anyway, we made idle chit-chat about our first meeting at the coming out party his aunt had thrown at the country club in Austin a few months earlier.
    He relaxed somewhat. After a few more minutes of inane chatter during which we both grew restless, I jumped feet first into the purpose of my visit.
    Briefly, I told him about events on the wharf a few nights earlier.
    He looked at me in surprise. “I. .  .I read about the shooting, but I didn’t have any idea that you were involved.”
    “Unfortunately, I was there—par for the course as far as I’m concerned. Always at the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s why I need your help.”
    “Me?” He arched an eyebrow. “How can I help you?”
    “I know you had some business dealings