If I Had A Nickel (Roy Ballard Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  “Well, it’s not like you’d be right next door,” she said, “which would be unbearable. Don’t think I could stand watching the parade of women coming and going on a daily basis.”

  She was only joking, but it kind of stung.

  “You know it’s not like that,” I said.

  “Do you have a realtor?” she asked. “If not, my friend Abby is awesome.”

  “Well, I haven’t even—”

  “I should call her,” Mia said, sitting up straight. “She could at least show you the house. Want me to do that?”

  She was plainly excited by the idea, and that made me feel good.

  “Like, right now?”

  “I could call her, yeah. Then the two of you could figure out when to meet over there.”

  “She won’t be mad if I don’t buy it?”

  “No, of course not. That’s what they do for a living—show houses. Plus, she’s cute. You’ve met her before, right?”

  I don’t know if I showed it on my face, but she had just punched me in the gut—metaphorically speaking—every bit as hard as Leo Pitts had. I didn’t want to be set up with one of her friends. What did it say about Mia’s mindset that she wanted to play matchmaker? What did it say about how she felt about me?

  “What, you don’t think she’s cute?” Mia asked, because I hadn’t responded.

  “No, sure, she’s adorable.”

  “Okay, now I know you’re pulling my chain. ‘Adorable’?”

  “What are we even talking about?” I said. “I made a passing remark about a home for sale and suddenly I’m walking into the sunset with Abby?”

  It sounded snarky. No two ways about it. It felt snarky.

  Mia frowned and took a breath. “You okay? You seem out of sorts.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t sleep well last night. Plus, generally speaking, I’m a jerk.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “You’re supposed to argue with me about that,” I said.

  “Not in the mood,” she said.

  She leaned back. We remained quiet for a few moments. There would be no more discussion about the house for sale.

  “So... what next?” Mia asked.

  “Idea number four,” I said.

  “There is no idea number four,” Mia said.

  “I have one. Don’t know if it’s any good.”

  11

  Not only did Max Dunn answer my phone call, he agreed to see us that afternoon, which was a surprise, considering his brother had died just the morning before. If Callie had described Max correctly—saying he was always too busy with his own family to interact much with his siblings—then he wouldn’t be able to shed much light on the situation. Still, it couldn’t hurt to chat with him for thirty minutes.

  Max invited us to his home in a small, exclusive neighborhood off Bee Caves Road. We grabbed a light lunch, then got into the van and headed out to Weston Lane, which led into the neighborhood called Rob Roy on the Lake. It was a gated neighborhood, but the gate was open and we pulled through.

  “Any idea who Rob Roy was?” I asked. “I know there’s a drink called a Rob Roy. Think there’s a connection?”

  Mia was wearing sunglasses and showed no expression.

  “And wasn’t there a movie called Rob Roy?” I asked.

  Mia grunted, meaning she didn’t know or care. She appeared to be checking addresses on mailboxes as we slowly descended Weston Lane toward Lake Austin. We passed three separate landscaper’s trailers as crews mowed and trimmed. The neighborhood probably had a restriction limiting the use of power equipment to one particular day of the week. Rich folk couldn’t be bothered to hear weed eaters all the time.

  “How in the hell do people get so rich?” I said. “Some of these houses have to be worth three or four million.”

  Mia said nothing. It was clear that I had hurt her feelings earlier. She had been equally quiet during lunch.

  “Think the Dunn kids got their money from daddy, or did they earn it themselves somehow?”

  “No idea,” Mia said.

  “Max Dunn is a financial consultant,” I said. “Is that vague or what? That could mean a thousand different things.”

  “Pretty vague,” Mia said.

  Okay. Enough.

  “Sorry I snapped at you earlier,” I said.

  She didn’t respond, so I looked over at her. Then she said, “What was that all about, anyway?”

  “Just grouchy,” I said.

  “You’d rather I not set you up with my friends?” she said.

  That was a difficult question to answer honestly. I was tired of ducking the issue—my feelings for her—but I damn sure wasn’t going to get into it right now.

  “That’s complicated,” I said. “But it was a nice gesture and I shouldn’t have gotten uptight.”

  Mia is one of the most intelligent and intuitive people I know. Could she see through my dodge and understand exactly what was going on? Maybe. But in response, she simply nodded. Apology accepted.

  We’d reached Max Dunn’s driveway and Mia immediately said, “Check it out.”

  Right next to the stone mailbox was a for-sale sign.

  I pulled in and stopped the van for a moment. Dunn’s house, forty yards away, was beautiful, but also kind of disgusting. So perfect. Like something that might be featured in a magazine article about “gracious living.” Two stories built from sandstone. A flat, sweeping expanse of flawless St. Augustine grass. There would be a pool in back, of course.

  I whipped my phone out and took a photo of the for-sale sign. Then I continued up the driveway to a circular parking area in front of the house.

  “I feel like Nick Carraway,” I said.

  Mia looked at me and raised an eyebrow. She was impressed with the reference.

  “Hey, I can read,” I said.

  “Will wonders never cease?” she said. Then, looking at the house, she said, “Shall we?”

  We got out, ascended the sandstone steps to the front door, and rang the bell. I could tell from the grain in the door that it was an exotic wood, probably harvested from some remote jungle. What’s wrong with good old oak?

  I heard footsteps, and the door swung open. Max Dunn looked just the way he did in Facebook photos: Trim, healthy, and handsome. But he also appeared fatigued and stressed. A harried executive with too many obligations, both business and social. Or weighed down by the recent deaths in the family.

  “Roy?” he said.

  “Yes, and this is Mia.”

  We shook hands all around and Max invited us in. The inside of the house was as fabulous as the outside. Max led us into a den with built-in bookcases occupying two walls and massive floor-to-ceiling windows filling the other two. We sat in leather chairs that were arranged around a circular coffee table built from the same wood as the front door.

  “We’re very sorry for your loss,” Mia said.

  “I appreciate that, but which one?” Max said with a rueful grin. “Been a rough week.”

  “I can’t even imagine,” Mia said. “It’s just horrible. So we’ll try to keep this short. I’m sure you have other things you need to tend to.”

  I glanced out the north-facing windows and saw that I was right—there was a pool in the backyard. In fact, I realized it was the pool in the photo from Callie Dunn’s Facebook page—the one taken at Alicia Potter’s birthday party. There was nobody to be seen back there now, and I hadn’t heard anyone else in the house. If Max’s wife and kids were home, they were keeping quiet.

  “You said this is about dad’s coin collection?” Max said.

  “Right,” Mia said. “We were hired by the insurance company to see if we could figure out where it went.”

  “Okay, but I have a question. What happens if you find it?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “If you find the coins, won’t our claim be rejected?”

  He looked at me. That was an odd question.

  “Well, yeah,” I said. “
But if we figure out where it went, then you’d likely get the collection back. Wouldn’t you prefer that?”

  He was shaking his head. “Honestly, I’m just so overwhelmed by everything right now, it’s hard to care one way or the other. I think it would be easier to get paid for the loss than to hassle with selling the collection. Except, wait. I guess it would be great if you found the coins, because that would mean you’d found the killer, right?”

  I said, “There’s just no way of knowing if they’re connected until we find the collection, so any help you can give us would be greatly appreciated.”

  That seemed to satisfy him.

  “Sure thing. What’re your questions?”

  I said, “Do you know if your father kept his inventory of coins reasonably up to date?”

  “Meaning the photos?”

  “Right.”

  “I can’t be sure about that. All I know is that he bought and sold them pretty regularly, but there was a core group of coins that were his keepers. In fact, that was the bulk of the collection. He loved those coins. At first I thought: What on earth is he wasting his money on? But then I looked into it and learned that the coins hold their value pretty well, and they can even increase in value. Plus, they’re pretty cool. I wouldn’t have said that when he first started, but I grew to appreciate the artistry. So I guess it wasn’t such a bad investment, really.”

  Mia said, “That’s your line of work, right? Investments?”

  “Well, sort of. I’m a financial advisor.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m self-employed.”

  “How is the real estate market in the Austin area nowadays?” I said. “I noticed your house is for sale.”

  “Oh, it’s fine. We bought this place because of the lake, of course, but the kids don’t have any interest in it. When I was their age, I’d be out on the boat all day long. But I can’t remember the last time we went out, so I decided it was time to move on.”

  “How old are your kids?” Mia asked.

  “Sixteen and thirteen. Two boys.”

  “Where are you moving to?” I asked.

  I could tell he was getting a little impatient with the questions, because it was small talk and had nothing to do with the coins—as far as he knew—and he wasn’t a small talk kind of guy.

  “Lost Creek,” he said. “Want to stay in the Eanes school district.”

  Lost Creek was a nice neighborhood, but not as exclusive or expensive as Rob Roy. For him, it would be a step down.

  “I don’t blame you,” I said, and began to transition back to our reason for being here. “I need to ask a couple of things that, quite frankly, are going to come across as intrusive.”

  “Okay,” Max said. Noncommittal.

  “Who is the executor of your father’s estate?” I asked.

  “I am. Lucky me. Another chore to take care of.”

  “I assume the bulk of the assets and any life insurance goes to you three kids?”

  “It does, yes.”

  “Equally split?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has the will been probated?”

  “Well, no, not yet. Of course not. We have to wait to see how the investigation goes.”

  The meaning was clear. He was acknowledging that he couldn’t distribute the assets until his siblings—or, now, just his one remaining sibling—were cleared in his father’s death.

  “Were you and Cole close? I apologize for getting so personal.”

  Max didn’t appear angry or offended, but he studied me for a moment, before he said, “Cole had his problems. I’m sure you know all about that, as do the police. The drugs wrecked his life—it’s that simple. There were times when I could still see the old Cole in there, but for the most part, in the past year or so, he was like a stranger.”

  “Did he ever come to you for money?”

  “Yeah, sure, he came to all of us, and we eventually had to agree to cut him off. That was rough. I know he kept badgering Dad and got really ugly with him at times.” He must’ve caught the expression on my face, because he added, “I realize how that looks and what you must be thinking, but there is no way Cole had anything to do with Dad’s death. Just no way. If you told me he stole the coins, I might say, yeah, he’d do that, which is sad, you know? But he wouldn’t harm anybody, even for an inheritance.”

  I gave Mia a quick glance and let her explore the next area of interest.

  “Did Cole have a girlfriend?” she asked.

  “He had a lot of them over the years, but the most recent ones weren’t exactly the kind you’d bring home to mom.”

  “Party girls?” Mia asked.

  “That would be a generous description. They were drug addicts, and I suspect some of them were prostitutes when they needed money.”

  “So I guess you didn’t know any of them?” Mia asked.

  “Not really, no, but especially not any women he met in the past year or so.”

  We had debated whether we should bring up Alicia Potter, and had finally agreed that we’d wait and see how Max responded to our questions. If he seemed to be honest and forthcoming, there was no reason not to ask.

  So Mia said, “Did the three of you kids get along with Alicia okay?”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. “She was fine. I wasn’t what you’d call close with her, but she and Callie have been friends for years—well before Alicia married Dad. That’s how she met him—through Callie.”

  “How did your dad and Alicia get along after the divorce?”

  “Well, he was upset, but it wasn’t as contentious as some divorces. He got over it and moved on. She was too young for him, and they both should have known that from the start. Plus, my dad was not what you’d call an ideal husband.”

  “How so?”

  “His eye wandered. I know he had at least a couple of affairs.”

  “So Alicia was the one who asked for the divorce?”

  “Right.”

  “Did they have any sort of ongoing relationship afterward?” Mia asked.

  “Not at first, no, because she was pretty angry about the cheating. But after he apologized and some time went by, I think they had dinner occasionally, but only as friends.”

  “How did Cole feel about Alicia?” I asked.

  “I gotta admit, these are some weird questions,” Max said. “Why this focus on Alicia?”

  “Sometimes it helps if we can get a big picture of all the different relationships in the family,” I said. “Most of it turns out to be irrelevant, to be honest.”

  “Well, Cole liked Alicia fine, I guess. There weren’t any problems that I know about.”

  “Do you know if Cole and Alicia ever saw each other?”

  For a second, he appeared genuinely puzzled. “How do you mean?”

  “We’re wondering whether they dated.”

  “Alicia and Cole? Why would you ask that? Where is this going?”

  He looked at me, then back at Mia.

  She told him about the manager at Cole’s apartment complex identifying Alicia from a photo, making it clear that Alicia and Cole had had something going on.

  Max reacted by sitting in confused silence. Then an expression I couldn’t interpret slowly formed on his face. I had no idea what he might say, nor did I expect what he actually said.

  “Alicia had an older sister who died several years ago.”

  He paused, apparently trying to recall the details clearly. Mia and I waited patiently.

  Max said, “I can’t believe I’m even pondering the possibilities here, but...Alicia’s mother was terminally ill and didn’t have much longer to live, which was sad enough, but then Alicia’s sister died in an accident. Her mother passed away just a month later, leaving behind half a million dollars, which Alicia inherited all to herself. I never thought much about it, but now, considering how my dad died... I’m not saying Alicia had anything to do with it, but it just seems kind of coincidental, you know? Is that crazy, considering that my dad cheated on h
er? Maybe she hadn’t forgiven him after all.”

  12

  I prefer fraud cases that are more cut and dried. Give me, for instance, an alleged slip-and-fall accident in a Walmart, or a guy who files for disability while moonlighting as a stripper for bachelorette parties.

  In my early days as a legal videographer, those types of cases made up the majority of my work. I would spend days, and many long nights, conducting surveillance, hoping to get video of a subject behaving in a manner that proved he or she wasn’t actually injured. Basic stuff.

  But then I began to work on more complex cases, because my clients needed it, and with those cases come more challenges. Like having too many suspects. That was the problem here. Too many people had a motive and the means to kill Alex Dunn, or to steal his coin collection, or both. Now we had to add Alicia Potter to the list. In fact, at this point, I had to wonder if she was the prime suspect.

  According to Max Dunn, Alicia and her sister Glenda had taken a hike along the Barton Creek greenbelt, and Glenda had fallen to her death. Just a sad accident. Glenda got too close to the edge, slipped off a wet slab of rock, and fell 90 feet. If there had been water in the creek, she might’ve had a chance, but the drought had left the creek bed bone dry.

  I’d gently prodded Max for his feelings about Alicia. Was she a killer? He said he had no idea, but sometimes people did crazy things for money. True enough. How was Alicia as a stepmother? He said it was weird, because she was a few years younger than he was, but they got along fine. She was sort of superficial and focused on material goods, but that described a lot of people nowadays. He certainly hadn’t ever suspected that she was seeing Cole, and he still wasn’t convinced. Perhaps the apartment manager was simply wrong.

  An hour after leaving Max’s house, we were back at Mia’s place, and I was on my iPhone, verifying the facts of Glenda’s death via the Austin American-Statesman archives.

  “It was a Tuesday evening in December,” I said, reading from the article that first reported the death.

  “Not exactly prime hiking season,” Mia said. She had her laptop open, doing some research of her own.

  “They were on a lookout point above something called the Urban Assault Wall, a popular spot with climbers,” I said. “It was ten minutes after seven when Alicia called 9-1-1, which is well after dark that time of year. Apparently she tried to find a way down to her sister, but there isn’t one, so then she ran back to her car and called for help. She said she’d left her phone in her car.”