Murder Takes a Break by Bill Crider

twice and that he'd done jail time for attempted murder.   Rumor had it that more than once he'd done more than attempt it, though no one could prove it and no one was likely to talk on the record.   Henry J. liked to use his hands, but he wasn't above using a knife.   He didn't much like guns, however.   They weren't personal enough.
    Maybe I shouldn't have tossed him over the balcony.   The Everly Brothers were singing "Problems."   They didn't know what real problems were.
    I wondered if Henry J. might pay me a visit.   The thought was enough to make me get up and get my pistol out of the closet.   It was a 7.65 mm Mauser in a sheepskin-lined case, but it wasn't loaded.   In that condition, it wouldn't slow Henry J. down for a tenth of a second.   I had to get the ammunition clips from a drawer in the kitchen.   Gun safety is my middle name.
    Nameless heard me open the drawer and thought I was probably getting him something to eat.   After all, it had been practically a full hour since I'd fed him.
    He looked up at me and said, "Mowr?"
    I showed him the clip.   "This isn't for you.   Lead isn't good for cats.   People either, for that matter."
    "Mowr?"
    "Forget it.   Why don't you go outside and bully some lizards?"
    "Mowr."
    I took that for agreement, and walked to the door.   Nameless followed me, but he took his time.   He wasn't going to let me think I had the upper hand.
    I opened the back door and he went through it at his own pace.   Clouds had come in from out over the Gulf, and the night was very dark.   I could hear the sound of the surf and the branches of the oleander bushes scraping against the side of the house.
    I went back to the kitchen, oiled the Mauser and shoved in one of the clips.   Gun safety is fine, but I didn't want to take it to extremes.   If Henry J. came around, I might need a pistol.   Unlike him, I didn't believe that violence had to be intimate to be effective.
    Before I sat back down in the recliner, I put the pistol on a little end table nearby where I could reach it easily.   Then I listened to the Kingston Trio sing "A Worried Man."   They didn't know the half of it.
    I wondered just how Bob Lattner figured into things.   Sure, he was supposedly investigating the disappearance of Randall Kirbo, but the Davis girl had been his niece.   That gave him an emotional stake in things, and sometimes that interfered with professionalism.   If he blamed Kirbo for his niece's death, he might not care whether Randall Kirbo ever got found.
    After a while I picked up the collection of John O'Hara stories and started reading.   Before long I'd forgotten about Henry J. and Big Al and even Randall Kirbo.   But not Kelly Davis.   For some reason she was always there, just at the back of my mind.
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    T here are two schools of thought about interviewing people in connection with a crime or a suspected crime.   You can either call them and ask permission to talk to them, or you can just drop in, cold, and see if they'll talk to you.   I've tried it both ways, and I'm still not sure which one is best.   This time I decided to do it the legit way and call ahead.   That way had the advantage of saving time.   I didn't want to drive all the way to Houston and then find out that Chad Peavy wasn't at home.
    I waited until about nine o'clock the next morning to make my calls, figuring that either people would be staying in for the day or getting ready for church, and I got lucky.
    Patrick Mullen's mother said that he was home and that he would be glad to talk to me.   Of course she might have said that because she somehow got the impression that I was representing his university's Student Retention Office and that I wanted to talk to him about ways he might help us keep students in school if we gave him a part-time job.  
    Maybe I could smooth that over when I got to their house, or maybe not.   I