Family Ties Mystery Series Box Set

by James Kipling

  This time Orlando laughed. “But that sounds good. If you declare yourself a teacher, I bet you could get any number of people to sit in lounge chairs with wine and do contemplation exercises. You could start a movement or a philosophy class.”

  He offered his cup to a waiter who held a coffee pot, and asked about a refill. Orlando leaned forward. “What I was going to say is, I’m not sure I’d recognize that old guy. He seems…vastly different. Maybe my memory is defective but…”

  “No, it’s not. I like this guy better. Somehow, I think the old guy and I never would have clicked. I liked him, but realistically, maybe our prospects weren’t too good.”

  Emily felt the kindness and affection in Orlando’s voice when he replied.

  “Maybe the new David can change that. But please give the new David a little time. This case is one that I have to solve, and right now, it will take up every minute of my time. I just….” He clenched his fist. “I need to…”

  “I understand. The case has somehow helped make the change in you. You…let me just say, we need to resolve this, and bring peace to the Richardson family, the way the case has brought peace to you.”

  “Then, would you keep in touch with Sasha and see if she needs anything? If I weren’t on this case, I would stay in town to be here for her.”

  She grabbed his hand. “Don’t worry. I can do that. And she has other friends, too. To be honest, when I spoke to her this morning, she wasn’t in a state of distress. She was very happy that Martin had agreed to all her demands. I think she is on the cusp of a new life, too, and a better one.”

  “Good.”

  The waiter came and took away their plates.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “No, just bring me the check,” Orlando said. “You do good work.”

  The waiter laughed. “Thank you, Sir. I try.”

  For a moment, a chill went through Emily. Even in the warm Florida sun, she trembled as if it was a winter day. If David could not solve the case, would that depress him? Would it depress him so much that he might revert to being the old David, destroying everything that had been accomplished? She shook herself from the cold.

  “Boss, how confident are you that you can solve this case?”

  “In a twenty-five year-old case, there are no guarantees, but I am, as they say, cautiously optimistic. It may take a little more work and a little more shoe leather, but there’s a chance.”

  She nodded. After twenty-five years, maybe a chance is all you could hope for.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The First Citrus Bank, Orlando thought, was a neat, crisp building of desks, chairs, offices and teller cages. It looked just like a bank should. Even the air carried a whiff of professionalism. He walked down a long corridor, then turned right. The burnished nameplate on the door read ‘Everett Bankstorm, President’. It was open. When he looked in, a tall, elderly man sat at a large desk. He was bald, with narrow eyes and a large nose and lips. The man gave a slight nod as he walked in.

  “You must be Mr. Orlando.”

  “I am. Accept no substitutes,”

  “Please, sit down.”

  There were two large chairs in front of the desk. Orlando slipped into one of them. Bankstorm’s hair was entirely grey. His face was criss-crossed with wrinkles. The green eyes appeared to have some type of film on them, not letting much light through. The voice, though, was strong.

  “You surprised me with your call, Mr. Orlando. I had no idea someone was investigating the Mayor Richardson case. That was a long time ago,” Bankstorm said.

  “Yes, justice has been denied too long.”

  “Did the Richardson family hire you?”

  “Yes. It’s sort of one last shot at solving the case.”

  “Why are you here? I was a friend of the late Mayor Richardson. We had known one another for years before he was killed.”

  “But his decisions cost your bank a great deal of money.”

  Bankstrom nodded. “They did.”

  “Did that strain the friendship?”

  “Only for a brief time. The friendship was strained for a while, but we repaired it. I enjoyed a few lunches with Lyndon during the months before he was killed.”

  Orlando said nothing, but he gave Bankstrom a sceptical look. The bank president wriggled uncomfortably in his chair.

  “In business, sometimes you gain money and sometimes you lose it. I was surprised when Lyndon won the election, but when he did, I knew what to expect. I didn’t react in anger or bitterness. It was business.” He reached over and scratched his bald head. “I will admit, the bank had a very sweet deal with the city back then. We certainly made money in our dealings with the city, and I will also admit that any good finance director would have gagged at the deal. But I certainly didn’t hold a grudge against Lyndon and his friends for ending it. They devised a much better deal with another bank. Besides, it wasn’t my money. I think the amount was about four hundred thousand dollars. A significant sum, especially in those days, but it didn’t go into my pocket. After the city withdrew the money, the bank still made a profit, although the profits were a bit less after that first year. But we recovered. First Citrus had made money and lost money. It’s part of the business and nothing to get too angry about.”

  “So, you didn’t want to kill the mayor?” Orlando said.

  He chuckled. “It never crossed my mind, Mr. Orlando. Business is a game of profit and loss. You expect both. When you take a loss, you accept it and go on. I couldn’t kill anyone, much less a friend, along with other innocent people.” He opened a drawer and grabbed a long, thin cigar. He brought a lighter from his coat pocket and flicked it, bringing an orange flame up. He didn’t bring the flame to the tobacco, but held the cigar in one and lighter in the other.

  “The president title that you see on the door is honorary. I retired a few years ago, but having been the real president of the bank for many years, I do get some perks. This office is one of them. My cigars are another. This is officially a no smoking zone, but no one objects when I puff. My doctor has discovered some heart problems that he doesn’t like at all, and he told me to quit the cigars. But I’m not going to.” Bankstrom stuck the cigar between his teeth and lit it. “At my age, if I had killed someone, I’d probably come clean to you, Mr. Orlando. But I didn’t. When Lyndon was killed, I was shocked. If I had any knowledge of who killed him, I would have gone to the authorities.” He took a long puff on the cigar and blew out gray smoke. His voice took on a softer tone. “Age can mellow a man, and it has mellowed me, to a degree. I was a bit more ruthless twenty years ago, but not ruthless enough to kill a friend. So, I wish you success. I hope you do find the man who killed Lyndon. The state can give him the hot squat for all I care. For that matter, I’d pull the switch.”

  Orlando didn’t know if he liked Bankstrom. He thought he would not have liked him a quarter century ago. But what the man said had a ring of truth. He didn’t sense a false syllable in Bankstrom’s story. He really didn’t expect a confession, but he had what he wanted – the truth.

  But there was one last piece to the mystery puzzle that he had to check out. It would take some legwork and some computer work, and it might take a couple of days. But a couple of days, compared to twenty-five years, wasn’t a lot of time. He drove to the beach section of the town and checked into a hotel. He hoped to do the first part of the research with computers and phones. First, though, he had the interview with Mr. Riebeck, of the Riebeck Insurance Agency.

  ###

  Walter Riebeck was a tall, slender man who, Orlando thought, looked as distinguished as a British aristocrat who could trace his family ties back five hundred years. He had royal features, with gray hair and a gray moustache. A convivial air was around him that welcomed strangers. When Orlando walked into his large office, Riebeck stood up and walked around the desk to welcome him, and firmly shook his hand. Orlando noticed a few plaq
ues on the wall that had been awarded to Riebeck, but most of the pictures on his desk and wall were of his family, and the three young children who he assumed were the man’s grandchildren. Two boys and one golden-haired girl frolicked in more than a half dozen pictures.

  “They are the children of my oldest son. I am extraordinarily proud of them,” Riebeck said. He had a gentle, soft voice. “For a long time, my wife had I could not have a child. We thought we would be childless. Since we both wanted children, we were devastated. Then, miraculously, Steve came along. We were happy with him, but six years later, we had Melanie. She was born when I was forty years old. And in three months, she will give me my fourth grandchild. As you can tell, I am a doting grandfather.”

  “Which is a very good thing to be,” Orlando said.

  Riebeck laughed and returned to his desk and sat down. Orlando noticed the man was impeccably dressed. A spotless blue coat and shirt, with a dark vest with dark spots.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Orlando?” he said.

  “I’m investigating the murder of Mayor Richardson, and I wanted to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all, but I don’t think I can shed any light on the investigation. Jack Richardson is a good friend of me. We play golf occasionally. I enjoy the game and treasure those folks who will play with me. He mentioned he was going to make one last attempt to solve his father’s murder. I just nodded, and didn’t say I doubted the case can be solved after so long. I don’t see how I can help you, Mr. Orlando but if I can, I certainly will.”

  “Thank you. I’m taking a slightly different slant on the case. I’m leaving all options open, but I’m wondering if the intended target of that long-ago driver might have been Mr. Bayridge, and not Mayor Richardson.”

  Riebeck didn’t show any emotion, but the gray eyebrows rose slightly and the blue in his eyes seemed to become a deeper color. There was a pipe lying in a large orange, seashell ashtray on his desk. He reached for it, found a tobacco pouch in his desk and filled the bowl with tobacco. Orlando figured that Riebeck was thinking, the whole time he filled the pipe. He guessed Riebeck was a very intelligent man, and that he was mulling over what he had been told. Riebeck stuck the pipe between his lips and lit it.

  “Intriguing, Mr. Orlando. Your suggestion is intriguing. Twenty-five years ago, I don’t think anyone in the city thought Bayridge was the target. The focus was entirely on Mayor Richardson.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Orlando startled himself. He rarely used the word ‘sir’, but in this situation, it seemed appropriate. In a very short amount of time, he had gained enormous respect for the man sitting behind the desk.

  “And I think the man who crashed his car into those two men knew that. It gave him an edge.”

  Riebeck puffed on his pipe. “I liked Mayor Richardson. I thought he was a fine man, and a man who did a great deal of good in Linwood Springs. So, how can I help you?”

  “If I wasn’t misinformed, I understand that Mr. Bayridge used your agency for his insurance coverage. I was wondering who benefitted from his death.”

  “In terms of his life insurance?”

  “Yes. I’m also rather curious about how much it was.”

  Riebeck puffed again on his pipe.

  “I’m not familiar with the ethics of the insurance profession, Mr. Riebeck. And I do think you are a very ethical man. However, I assure you the question is not due to random curiosity. I think it is vitally important to my investigation to know all the insurance information involving Mr. Bayridge. It might shed light on the murder, or it might reveal that I’m heading down the wrong trail. Either way, it would be valuable to know. We want to know who killed Mayor Richardson, but we shouldn’t overlook Mr. Bayridge, either. I want to know who killed him, too.”

  “I knew Allan. I understand your point. I helped him with his insurance long ago. I don’t recall the exact amount. I can’t say precisely, off the top of my head. Allan was a rich man, and had his hand in a number of businesses. His life insurance would be considerable. If I recall it was close to a million.”

  “And the recipient?”

  Riebeck took the pipe from his lips. “I don’t want to say that off the top of my head. After twenty-five years I might be wrong.” He leaned back in his chair, but said nothing for a moment. “This is a highly irregular situation, Mr. Orlando. If you can wait here, I want to go talk to an associate. I should have the information you need when I return. I have some reservations about this course of action, but I will give you that information.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “I do hope it helps you find the killer.”

  Orlando nodded.

  Riebeck stood up and walked out of his office. Orlando leaned back in his chair. He figured it shouldn’t be too long until Riebeck walked back in. He figured the distinguished looking gentleman was very efficient. He would check to make sure his information was correct, and then walk back in.

  Orlando looked at his own clothes, and thought he didn’t look nearly as distinguished as Riebeck. He wore a dark coat, with a tie and a pale, yellow shirt. But, to be honest, the shirt had more than few wrinkles in it. He wondered if his voice sounded as dignified as Riebeck’s. Then he shrugged and figured such comparisons were useless.

  Riebeck walked back in and eased down into his chair.

  “I have your information, Mr. Orlando. The life insurance on Mr. Bayridge, for accidental death, was $950,000. It was payable to his wife, and was paid to her a short time after his death.”

  “That’s what I thought, but I needed to make sure. Thank you.”

  “I wish you success, Mr. Orlando. I hope you succeed, when all others have failed.”

  “By the way, would you happen to know who Bayridge’s personal attorney was? I need to talk to him, too.”

  “Allan used the same firm I do, Donaldson, Sullivan and Rowe. I think he was a client and good friend of Martin Sullivan.”

  “Thank you again, Mr. Riebeck.”

  ###

  Driving back to the hotel, he phoned the trio of attorneys and, after the routine computer replies, found a human secretary who told him Mr. Sullivan had a full schedule, but she could take a message. He told her he was investigating the cold case murders of the late Mayor Lyndon Richardson, and Allan Bayridge. She had no reaction.

  “I will give him the message,” she said, in a friendly but formal tone.

  He thanked her and kept driving.

  He had more legwork to do, but decided he was returning to the hotel. He had not exercised for a long time, and had noticed the hotel had a gym, as well as a swimming pool. He needed to begin exercising again. It was another sign of a mental and emotional renaissance he was experiencing.

  He ate a light lunch, then changed into a bathing suit and did eight laps in the hotel’s swimming pool. Then, he showered and spent thirty minutes in the gym. His muscles ached after so long without exercise, but he was satisfied with the effort. Now, he needed consistency. Too many people exercise once or twice, then give it up. You have to be consistent. You can’t drink orange juice once or twice, and expect to reap the benefits of one of Florida’s main products. Ten minutes after he returned to his room, his smart phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello.”

  “I’m Martin Sullivan. Is this David Orlando?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I received your message, I was shocked, Mr. Orlando. The two men you mentioned were killed a long time ago.”

  “And Justice has never been served.”

  “Who hired you, if I may ask.”

  “Jack Richardson. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time. It’s very important.”

  The voice on the phone was sceptical. “Mr. Orlando, do you really think you can find the murderer after so long a time?”

  “Yes, I do, if I can get a little help fro
m people like you.”

  “Are you a police officer?”

  “Private detective.”

  There was a pause on the line. “Because I have great respect for Jack Richardson, I will see you. How much time do you need?”

  “Not much. Fifteen minutes, if that.”

  “My afternoon is full, but if you come by at five, we can talk. I don’t mean to sound harsh. Allan Bayridge was my friend and a client. I’m just doubtful this case can be solved.”

  “I understand. But perhaps I can change your mind. I appreciate you seeing me.”

  ###

  The office of the trio of lawyers was in an old house of brown wood and orange trim. Some builder had taken the two-story house and remodeled it. Orlando thought the architect had done a fine job. The house/office projected a homey friendliness, yet also a professionalism and efficiency. A secretary walked him down a corridor and showed him into a large office. The man behind the desk had recently been out in the sun. His chubby face was sunburned. When the man rose to greet Orlando, he realized the lawyer sure hadn’t been to the gym lately. Martin Sullivan was about seventy pounds overweight, but had a good tailor. The tan coat and tie fit snugly on him. He reached out his fleshly hand and, to his credit, had a firm handshake. He turned to his desk and sat down.

  “Let’s not waste time, Mr. Orlando. Why do you want to ask me questions? An unidentified person killed the late Mayor Richardson. I was the attorney, and a friend of Allan Bayridge, who was a good friend and political ally of the mayor. I know cold cases are occasionally solved, but usually that’s due to police departments using the most up-to-date DNA tracking, not because of a lone investigator taking money for a case he will never solve.”

  Orlando gave a wry smile. “Thank you for the gracious welcome. What you say is true, and I won’t bother to argue with you, although I see a dim hope of solving this case. I do appreciate you seeing me. I wanted to ask you who inherited the estate of Mr. Bayridge when he was killed.”

  Sullivan blinked and shifted his considerable weight. “You’re asking me about Allan and not Mayor Richardson?” He had a baffled tone in his voice.