by Claire Booth
A tight smile, and the other hand went in the other pocket.
‘Well, he is the owner. I just sit around and look pretty.’ He made a more blatant move toward the building. Hank wished him a nice day and backed off. For now.
EIGHTEEN
Man, did he wish he could have been there last night for Lonnie Timmons’s arrest. Sam had heard all about it from Ted Pimental, who was still jazzed about it this morning. It sounded like it’d been quite the show. And it sure made Lonnie look guilty of his dad’s murder. He thought about that for a minute. Lonnie was definitely the most obvious suspect, but there was something about the bocce group. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was there. Maybe he should go back over the notes from all the interviews. He wondered if Derek Orvan had written up his report of the Ullyott interview yet.
He desperately wished they had a better time of death than just a range that included everything from sometime Saturday-ish to Monday morning. The pathologist had already said that with the cold indoor temperature caused by the furnace being out, it would be impossible to narrow down the time of death beyond that. Which was going to make it hell nailing down people’s alibis. He pulled out his notebook and started to make a list. His cell rang and he hit answer with his eyes still on the paper.
‘Hey, Sammy.’
Sam froze. It was Hank. Was he back in town? Had he heard about the murder? Had he talked to Sheila? Did Sheila still have a job? What the hell should he do?
‘Uh … hi, sir. Um … how’s Columbia?’
‘It’s good. It’s been nice to see my friend up here.’
OK, it sounded like he was still out of town. That was one question answered.
‘How are things down there?’ Hank asked.
Oh, God. He couldn’t breathe. He stared at the notebook full of murder suspects and started to get dizzy.
‘Fine.’ It came out as a squeak.
‘How’s that house burglary case?’
The what? He dragged his focus back several days to the couple who were probably padding their homeowner’s insurance claim. ‘Oh, that. Yeah. Good. I’m almost done with the report, which goes over lack of receipts and documentation and stuff on some of the items.’
He stopped talking. He was afraid to say more. He just knew Hank could tell through the phone that he was withholding information. That he was lying, more like. Should he tell him? What would he say? Oh, by the way, there was a murder and Sheila deliberately didn’t tell you about it. His stomach started to hurt.
‘That sounds great.’
Hank was talking. Sam forced his racing thoughts to stop so he could hear what the Chief was saying.
‘… need you to check out an address for me. I’ll text it to you. It’s near one of the outlet malls.’
Sam seized on it. ‘Sure. I can do that. No problem.’
‘I just need to know … well, I don’t know what I need to know,’ Hank said. He had that thoughtful tone where he was talking and thinking at the same time and didn’t know where exactly his brain was taking him. ‘Look and see if there’s any activity inside. Let me know what other businesses are located in the general vicinity. And don’t be obvious about it. Can you do that for me?’
‘Yeah. I can get it done pretty soon. I’ll let you know what I find.’
Sam stopped. It was now or never. He took a breath.
‘Thanks, Sammy. I appreciate it. I gotta go. I’ll talk to you soon.’
The air stuck in his throat and he just sat there as Hank hung up. He finally managed a gasp and then dropped his head into his hands. He wished to God he’d never picked up the phone.
The irony of lying in wait wasn’t lost on Hank. It always struck him as one of the more cowardly offenses that one could commit. And now he was doing it – parking behind a Dumpster in the Castle parking lot and waiting for Business School to come out of the building. He could call it a stakeout. But it wasn’t. He wasn’t watching to see who the kid met for lunch or where he lived. He was going to accost him. Politely and subtly, sure. But it was an ambush all the same.
He had pegged the correct car right off, which was why he had the unfortunate Dumpster position. The small five-year-old Subaru sat in the spot closest to the loading dock and the trash. The other vehicles in the lot were two pickups that he’d seen warehouse workers come out to for their bagged lunches, Marco’s spotless Infiniti, a nice black Ford SUV that had to belong to the redhead, and a lavender-ish Camry that he would bet money belonged to Doreen. So that left the used Subaru as the most likely recent-college-grad option.
And the kid knew something. That look on his face said that the company’s finances didn’t add up. And the window he couldn’t help glancing toward looked out at the warehouse Hank was now parked behind. Now he had to hope that another Castle employee was willing to go out on a limb, too. By confiding in a complete stranger. One who just lied to the entire office. Hank sighed. There was no going back from that now. He’d just have to talk his way past that deception. He went over several ways to do that before Business School finally came out of the building. He followed the kid the few miles to a Subway and waited until he got his order and sat down before he went inside. He didn’t even bother pretending it was an accidental encounter.
‘Hi. Can I sit down?’ Hank gestured to the empty chair across the table.
Business School gaped at him. Hank took that as a yes and sat down.
‘I need your help. I don’t know what’s going on at your company and I’m worried that it’s something that is going to get a lot of people hurt.’
The kid just stared at him with a mouth full of sandwich.
‘I’ve been asked to look into the state of the company, because of concerns like the ones you’re having,’ Hank continued. ‘To really do that, I need your help.’
The kid put down his six-inch spicy Italian.
‘Who the hell are you? Do you even know Tina?’
Hank danced around that one. ‘Not in any kind of a relationship way. I was hoping to talk to her today, but she’s not back.’ He wondered if he’d said a single thing today that was completely true. He was pretty sure he hadn’t.
‘I’m trying to find out what’s going on with the financials and the budgeting and all that. But I need to do it on the quiet, you know? I need to do it in a way that protects people’s jobs and …’ He trailed off and hoped that Business School’s imagination would fill in the rest. It did.
‘Wait – what? Our jobs? Shit, I just got this one.’ He slumped back in his chair. ‘I don’t want to have to go looking for another one.’
Hank nodded sympathetically. That wasn’t an act, at least. He started to explain what he needed and only got a few words in before the kid interrupted.
‘So what’s your name? And who exactly is having you look into Closeout Castle?’
Good for him, Hank thought. He should be asking questions in this kind of situation.
‘My name’s Hank. And one of the owners asked me to do this independent review. They didn’t want anybody to feel put on the spot or anything. So that’s why it would be great to get your thoughts. Figure things out without there being any fuss.’
The kid, whose name turned out to be Doug Pearson, took a bite of his sandwich. Then another. Hank waited. Half of it was gone by the time he seemed to make a decision.
‘There’s nothing in one of the warehouses. The one next to the office has stuff, but not enough for that to be even half of what’s on the books. And the warehouse that’s up near Brown Station Road – there’s barely anything in it. I drove out and looked at it …’ He trailed off and took a swig of soda.
‘What made you do that? Did you think something? About the inventory?’
‘It all matches up on paper. What I’ve seen anyway. But sitting next to a warehouse every day, it just doesn’t seem like enough is coming in and going out to match those numbers. That’s why I went out to Brown Station one day on my lunch break.’
Business Sch
ool leaned forward. ‘And Doreen said something. About how a couple years ago, we were really hurting, and then things just turned around and we started selling well again. We opened up Store Four and a bunch of investors came on board. She said it was sure nice not to struggle to make payroll anymore.’
‘And that’s the truth – you don’t struggle anymore?’
‘No. I know that for sure. There’s always money. They kid that I’m the accounting department, but I’m really just doing bare-level bookkeeping. I do the vendor bills and the payroll.’
Mr Cortello did the rest, he said. Hank asked if Mr Lancaster or Ms Hardy ever handled any of it. ‘Not that I know of … but I did see Tina staring out the window at the warehouse a couple of times that week before she went on vacation. Just like I’d been doing.’
There he was, standing in the lobby, looking extremely anxious. She’d never really dealt with him. Hank always did that. She couldn’t even remember his name. But he clearly knew who she was.
‘Chief Deputy Turley. They told me Sheriff Worth is out of town, so I need to ask you some questions about the homicide on Wednesday.’
She found herself patting at her hair and quickly pulled her hand away. He was not making her nervous.
‘We have a deceased white male, sixty-seven years old,’ she said. ‘He was found in his residence by a deputy doing a welfare check.’
‘He was beaten to death?’
‘Is that a question? You seem to know the answer.’
The kid glared at her. ‘I’d like to confirm with you what the morgue up in Springfield told me.’
She rested her hands on her duty belt and looked him in the eye. He was only a little taller than she was, early twenties, skinny, and obviously of Indian descent. She wondered if he felt as isolated and conspicuous in this county as she did.
‘So he was beaten to death?’ the kid kept pressing. ‘Do you know when he was killed?’
‘That is part of the active investigation.’
He sighed. ‘Do you have any suspects?’
She gave him a dirtier look than she probably should have.
‘What about Clyde Timmons’s son?’ he said.
What? How the hell did he know about that dirtbag?
‘You arrested him last night. Is he a suspect?’
Lord, she wished Hank was the one on the spot right now. She cleared her throat.
‘Lonnie Timmons is in custody on unrelated charges.’
The kid crossed his arms over his chest and stared at her. They stood that way for what seemed like hours. She wasn’t going to be the first to break. Apparently he was thinking the same thing. They glared at each other until the outside door slid open and a scraggly woman with a mouth full of meth teeth stomped in, yelling about seeing her husband in the jail. The stalemate ended as they both swung around to see her given directions by the lobby attendant. Sheila tried to remember what other spokespeople said when she saw them on the news.
‘We are actively investigating this crime,’ she said slowly. ‘We’re devoting intensive resources to the investigation. There is no danger to the public.’
He said thank you in a way that clearly meant Was that so hard?
‘So it wasn’t random? A burglary gone wrong or something?’
There was no way she was going to admit that could be what happened. She didn’t need a hysterical public.
‘No. Not random.’ She nodded and turned to go back to her office.
‘Wait. Can I give you my card?’ he said.
She said yes with what she considered great magnanimity. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and then blushed furiously.
‘I don’t – crap, I’m sorry – I came straight from the airport. I don’t even have my luggage.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘But you have a notebook?’
He straightened.
‘I. Always. Have. A. Notebook.’ He scribbled on a fresh page, tore it out, and handed it to her. ‘Thanks for your time.’
She watched him leave the building and wondered when his article would come out in the Branson Daily Herald. Then she wondered who leaked him that info about Lonnie Timmons. Three days ago, there would’ve been only two or three folks disgruntled enough to bother. But with the new overtime policy, that list of candidates had grown exponentially. She stuffed Jadhur Banerjee’s information in her pocket and headed back into her viper pit of a department.
NINETEEN
Tina had plans. A haircut, several lunch dates, a doctor’s appointment. All supposed to take place when she was either ‘on vacation’ or ‘out of town’ with her ‘ill mother’. Hank flipped the pages further into the future and found more of the same. A fully scheduled life. He did a quick Google search and then dialed a phone number, choosing the person he thought would be most likely to chat with a stranger. Two minutes later he knew that Tina hadn’t shown up at the salon for her cut and color. He wasn’t surprised.
He closed her datebook with a snap. It was time for a come-to-Jesus with Aunt Fin. She had to call the Columbia police. He still didn’t know what the hell had happened to Tina Hardy, but he did know it wasn’t good. If she’d left of her own accord, she wouldn’t have planned out her calendar so thoroughly. And she would have taken those smuggled company documents with her instead of leaving them under the mattress.
Add to all that the financial irregularities at a company where Lew was the president, and Fin had plenty to justify calling the authorities. She no longer had to worry that she would be dragging her husband into something without any substantiation. Now he just had to convince her of that.
He laid Tina’s calendar on the BMW passenger seat and started the car. He wanted a look inside the warehouses – both the one adjacent to the corporate office and the one a few more miles out from the city. He wondered if he could talk his way into those. That might be harder to do without outright lying. He thought for a minute. There was one place he could go without having to explain anything to anybody. He’d just be an ordinary shopper, browsing the aisles of Store Number Four.
He hit Interstate 70 and sped east toward Kingdom City, a collection of truck stops and hotels where 70 intersected with state Highway 54. The store sat just off the interchange near the Holiday Inn. The parking lot was practically empty. He sauntered in and took a look around. The sheer randomness of the merchandise was astonishing. Extension cords sat next to frying pans. Reams of copy paper were stacked next to bedsheets. It could be better organized, broken into categories. But maybe this was the point. Having to go through all of it to see what was in stock, which increased the possibility of coming across an impulse buy. Like the fondue pot he was currently looking at. That’d be fun to do with the kids. Oh, look, it even had auto temperature control. And it was only five bucks. He knew full well that his customer behavior was exactly what Closeout Castle wanted. But it was a cool little thing. And now he had a reason to engage with the cashier.
He wandered around some more first. As he got deeper into the store, he realized that it wasn’t stocked to the extent he’d first thought. Only the front was bursting with inventory. Farther back, there were gaps all over the shelves and what items there were sat covered in a fine layer of dust. All of this matched what Fin said about the state of the business – slow, no foot traffic, people now doing this kind of shopping online. What didn’t match were the fantastic sales numbers Business School was getting, and Lew saying that business was booming.
Hank walked up to the cashier, who’d been watching him from behind the counter. The young woman said hello and rang up the fondue pot on one of the two cash registers. As he pulled out his wallet, he asked if business was always this slow. She nodded and bagged his purchase.
‘I’ll bet things pick up around the holidays?’ he said.
She nodded again and took his cash. He looked at her long dark hair and brown eyes, and then asked if there was a bathroom.
‘No, sir. You must go to the gas station.’ She pointed across the stre
et.
‘¿Tu hablas español?’ he asked.
Her eyes went wide and she took a fearful step back. He held up his hands, palms out.
‘No te preocupes. Todo está bien.’ He repeated that she wasn’t in trouble. She took another step back and he started to worry that she’d bolt for the door. She probably knew just enough English to get by – basic greetings, where the bathroom was located, how to get to the highway.
‘Mis papeles están atrás en la oficina,’ she said. ‘Y soy legal.’
That broke Hank’s heart. She was legal and she was still terrified. He shook his head. He told her that he didn’t need to see her papers. He was a friend. He just thought she’d be more comfortable talking in Spanish. She nodded, but didn’t move any closer. The language always reminded him of his mother, Hank said, leaning against the counter to make himself look less tall and imposing.
‘Mi mamá es de Mexico,’ he said. ‘¿De dónde eres tu?’ Where was she from?
She gawked at him. Guatemala, she said in a small voice. He nodded encouragingly. How long have you worked here? She eyed him, clearly not believing his reassurances. He didn’t blame her. He pulled out his phone and quickly scrolled through his photos. That’s my mother, he said, showing her a picture of Mamá standing outside the house in California’s Central Valley. He searched further back and found a shot of the two of them, sitting in a restaurant with his abuela. Her eyes lit up at the sight of the little old woman with thick gray hair in a bun.
Her abuela lived with her, she said, in an apartment down the road toward Jeff City. She supported them both. Hank seized the opening. How much do you make here at the store? Ten dollars, she said. That was just above minimum wage, so there wasn’t anything illegal about that. There were enough employee options in mid-Missouri that the store manager could have hired someone who spoke English for that amount of money. So why didn’t he?
He asked if she always worked alone, phrasing it like he was curious to know whether she had help with stocking shelves or ringing up purchases. She said she usually didn’t. The only other employee was the manager, and they rarely worked at the same time. He usually opened or closed, and she handled the middle of the day. The occasional times she did work at the end of the day, all she did was turn off the lights and make sure everything was locked up tight. She looked puzzled about why he’d asked. What else would she do? Hank could think of several things, like tallying what was in the cash registers and sending sales reports. All things that would need to be falsified if Store Number Four was indeed selling stock that didn’t exist to customers who were ghosts.
