Once he made his decision to help Jerry Baker and Maureen Freeman, MacFarland found himself in a quandary. While he knew what he would have done when he was on the police force, now that he was a civilian he found himself facing a lot of constraints. First, he didn't have the legal authority to help him get through doors, in front of people, or access to records. He didn’t have the tools that he had depended on when he had been a detective. He didn’t have the contacts he used to have.
While he lacked all these things, he discovered that he lacked something even more critical.
He lacked confidence in himself.
Two years as a homeless drunk took a lot out of you.
On the other hand, he had stopped drinking. He had a place to live, a job to do. Wasn’t that proof enough that he could overcome all his limitations?
He smiled to himself. Yes, he may be lacking all of the things that gave a policeman an edge, but he still had some things that were uniquely his.
His mind, his determination, his skills.
Where to begin? He had the list of sites where the flame retardant had been applied. He could start going to site after site, but he knew that would be a pointless exercise. The list of sites was not as specific as he had hoped. Was the fire retardant used on actual burn spots, on structures, or on test sites? He only knew that it must have been used on pine trees. Douglas fir trees, Pseudotsuga menziesii to be exact. He had thought it would be easy to find a place where Douglas firs grew, there was nearby water, and recent signs of a fire.
On the contrary, finding such spots was a lot more difficult than he thought. He had spent most of Wednesday checking out just one of the sites on the list he got from the Crime Lab. After several hours traipsing along the shores of the Georgetown Reservoir and finding nothing, he realized that he had better find a more effective means of locating the site where Freeman had been killed. No wonder Iverson had not put out a lot of effort to find the place where Freeman had gone fishing. It was not a job that one man could reasonably do by himself. MacFarland was not even sure a search team would be successful.
Then MacFarland had an insight, what Pierson called one of his brain farts.
Chapter 34
Friday, December 18, 2330 Hours
Not a good evening to break into someone's house, thought MacFarland. A cloudy night with no precipitation would have been ideal. But he couldn't put off this task another night. Pierson was still pissed off at him for "causing" her suspension, so he found it prudent to avoid any contact with her until she went to bed. Fortunately, she went to bed early.
He donned dark clothes, grabbed a pocket flashlight and his lock picks, and quietly left through the back door.
The Freemans lived on Quitman Street over in the Sloan Lake area. MacFarland parked a couple of blocks away from the house, then walked over to Quitman Street. The block was deserted and quiet, except for the soft splatter of rain on the pavement and the pinging of drops off of barren tree branches. MacFarland went to the side of the house and tried to open the gate to the backyard. It was locked, forcing him to pull himself over the wood slat fence. He lowered himself to the ground, making sure he didn’t leave any footprints in the moist earth. He paused and listened for any indications that a neighbor had heard him scale the fence. A moment later, he was at the back door. Yellow police tape created an X over the doorway. He peered in through the door's window. He could make out a pair of men's boots on a low shelf, and several coats hanging on hooks against one wall. He took out his set of lock picks and inserted a torsion wrench. Then using a rake pick, he began to jiggle the pins until he found the shear line. In less than a minute, he had the door opened. He stepped inside, avoiding the police tape, and closed the door.
Once inside, he placed plastic booties over his shoes, then wiped up the moisture he had brought in with a paper towel. He put the towel in a baggie and put it in his pocket. The house was still considered a crime scene, and he didn't want any obvious indications that he had entered the premises. He took out his flashlight and began to move quietly through the house.
He did not have any specific objectives, but began to check out the spots where someone might record planned events. He found a calendar on the wall of the kitchen, but it contained notes and events that would be of interest to Maureen: dinner parties (all now cancelled, since she was in jail), work schedules, and birthdays. He didn't recognize any of the names associated with the birthdays. He did note that the last work day listed on the calendar was November 6th. There were some subsequent days listed, but they had been crossed out.
The house was a large sprawling ranch house. The house still had the smell of mountain flowers. He noticed one of those automatic deodorizers in the kitchen, the kind that sprayed out a whiff of scent every time you went by it. He went from the kitchen into a dining room, and from there into a living room. The furniture looked quite modern and oddly uncomfortable. The room did not look like it was used much, but rather was intended to create an impression of middle class success. Floor to ceiling windows made the room appear open to the front yard. At the moment, draperies closed off the view.
MacFarland saw a hallway and went down that. He found an office on his left. Judging by the furniture, it probably was used mostly by Otto Freeman. MacFarland searched the desk for any signs of a calendar, diary, or other item that might record the man's whereabouts. An empty section of the desk showed where a computer had once been placed. Undoubtedly the computer was with the police. MacFarland had the impression that Freeman wasn't the type of man to keep really personal information on the computer.
He searched the piles of papers and file folders that cluttered Freeman's desk. Then, stacked up with a bunch of tablets and a bundle of three by five note cards, he saw what he was looking for. A small four by six inch notebook with the words Fishing Log embossed in gold letters on the front. MacFarland began to scan through the notebook, leafing through until he came to the latest entries. "November 14 - WA, Gunnison;" "November 21 - Gross Reservoir, WA;" and finally, the last entry was "November 26 - WA, Gross Res."
MacFarland now knew where Freeman had been killed.
Chapter 35
Friday, December 18, 2358 Hours
As MacFarland stared at the small notebook, one question nagged at him. Why didn't Iverson and his detectives find this? Just a day earlier, he had been willing to forgive Iverson for any mistakes on the case when he realized how hard it would be to find the true murder scene. But overlooking this was simply inexcusable. Was Iverson deliberately trying to sink this case? Was it possible he was working with someone to get Mrs. Freeman convicted? Or was he just stupid?
MacFarland would rather believe that Iverson had been corrupted than to think that the man was simply incompetent. Corruption was a lesser sin than incompetence.
The notebook not only pointed out where Freeman had been, and probably the location of the true crime scene, but it also gave a strong indication of who the murderer really was. Someone whose initials were WA.
Unfortunately, “WA” did not match up with either Brian Newsome or Norris Peterson. Clearly, there was a third player in this drama.
MacFarland was about to put the notebook back when he had a disturbing thought. If he left the notebook here, it would certainly aid in proving the innocence of Maureen Freeman by demonstrating that her husband was with someone else the day he was killed. On the other hand, evidence in this case had a tendency to disappear. What would happen if this notebook also ended up missing?
Unless MacFarland could identify WA and apprehend him, Maureen Freeman might still be found guilty for a crime she did not commit.
He pocketed the notebook and was about to leave when he noticed a flashing red glow on the window blinds. He turned off his flashlight and went over to the window, cautiously looking out. A police car, its lights flashing, was pulling up in front of the house. MacFarland swore to himself and hurried towards the back door of the house. As
he closed the back door quietly behind him, he heard someone climbing over the front gate, just as he had done half an hour earlier. MacFarland raced to the back fence of the yard. The fence was a decorative stone wall, about eight feet tall. A brick grill was positioned about four feet from the back fence. MacFarland jumped up onto the grill, then leaped for the fence. He swung himself over, dropping to the ground in the alley. He raced across the alley and jumped the fence of a house on Raleigh Street. He headed for the side gate of this yard, just as the cop who had climbed into the Freeman's back yard was starting to climb over the Freeman’s fence. The cop shouted to his partner to drive around to Raleigh as he pulled himself over the wall. MacFarland did not wait for the cop to catch up with him. He opened the gate, then raced around the front of the house. He ran down past two more houses, then went through another gate into back yard of that house. He climbed over another fence, this one a chain link fence, and then within another minute, he was back on Quitman Street. There was no sign of the police car, which had probably raced around the block to intercept him on Raleigh Street. MacFarland had parked a block further east on Perry Street. Rather than walk on the street, MacFarland hurried into another yard, scaled the back fence, and came out on Perry Street. His truck was parked two houses down on the east side of the street. Fortunately, other vehicles cluttered the street, so it did not immediately stand out. But he knew it would only be a matter of time before the patrol car made a sweep of the surrounding streets, looking either for someone on foot or for a car that did not belong in the neighborhood.
He got to his truck, then listened for any sound or sight of the police vehicle. He wanted nothing more than to start his engine and get away from here, but he knew that caution was far more critical. The police car would circle the streets of the neighborhood with its lights off, as slowly and quietly as it could, yet instantly able to respond to any movement or vehicle leaving the scene. He hoped that the patrolmen hadn't called for backup.
After ten minutes, he saw the patrol car pass by at the end of the block, heading east. He waited a moment, then started his engine. He drove up two more blocks, turned west, and headed towards Sheridan. Once he reached Sheridan, he turned south and drove until he reached Hampden. It was only when he was heading east on Hampden that be began to relax.
This was the first time he had ever tried to get away from police. He was annoyed with himself that the feelings of anxiety that he had felt were actually quite exhilarating.
Chapter 36
Monday, December 21, 1030 Hours
Monday morning came around and MacFarland thankfully accepted the cup of coffee from Rufus. Then, as Rufus prepared to take his hot dogs and leave, MacFarland put a hand on his arm and asked him to stay. "I have a favor to ask, Rufus."
"Eh, boss? What do you need?"
MacFarland bit his lip. "I need to go do something, but I don't want to leave my cart unattended. Do you think you could watch my cart for me?"
"Me? You want me to be in charge of your hot dog cart?"
Being in charge wasn’t quite the way MacFarland thought about it, but he decided not to argue the point. "Yes, I do. Make sure the homeless people who come around get something to eat. Sell to regular customers if they come around. I don't think it's going to be very busy, given the weather and the fact that this is a holiday week."
Rufus looked up and down the street, as if he were trying to predict how many customers would come along. MacFarland didn't think he needed to tell him that most of the customers came out of the parking garage or from the courthouse. If there were any customers, Rufus would discover that soon enough.
"Sure, boss, I can take care of the cart. How much do I charge people?"
MacFarland pointed to the sign posted beneath the condiments shelf. "Everything is listed there, Rufus. Here's some money to make change in case people only have large bills. Lots of people use a hot dog stand as a bank to get change. Don't accept any hundred dollar bills. If a customer has a hundred note, just give them the food, okay?"
"Whatever you say, boss."
MacFarland handed Rufus the money pouch, shook his hand, and headed back to his truck. He unhooked the trailer, then drove out towards the Cherry Creek Mall. He parked in the garage and headed into the mall. Crowds of people swarmed through the mall. Christmas decorations adorned every doorway, hung from the ceiling, and emblazoned every wall. Holiday music blared from the stores, and in the distance, MacFarland could hear a choir singing reverently, trying to imbue the holiday with a more serious tenor.
As he jostled his way through the crowds, he called Baker.
“Jerry, I’m at the Cherry Creek Mall. Going to interview the store employees. What can you tell me about them, the business, anything that might help?”
“Hmmm. I don’t know much. Hold on, I got something here. Some notes I got from Maureen. Yeah, here we are. The Newsome Jewelry Store only recently moved into the mall. For years prior to the move, the store was located in the Cherry Creek area on a side street that did not get as much Cherry Creek traffic as the owners thought they needed for success. Newsome did some studies that showed if the store was located inside the mall, the store's sales would increase by more than forty percent and profits would nearly double. Otto Freeman was opposed to the move according to Maureen. That was one of the things they argued about. She said that so far they don’t know if Newsome’s estimates are correct.”
“Thanks, Jerry. What have you got about the staff?”
“Not much more than what was in the police interviews. My PI hasn't talked to them yet.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what I’m here to do.”
As MacFarland approached the store, he had to admit that the store appeared successful. MacFarland did not know what made a jewelry store profitable, but Newsome Jewelry looked like it met all the relevant criteria. There were four sales associates inside the store when MacFarland entered, two men and two women. Oh, wait a minute. No customers. Given the crowds outside, the relative calm inside the store seemed disjointed. As he entered, all four of the associates turned to check him out. He felt like a rabbit surrounded by wolves.
One of the associates, a woman with the body of a Sumerian fertility goddess, approached him and asked if she could help him. She was five foot five inches tall, looked like she weighed approximately one hundred thirty pounds. She had large blue eyes, a beautiful smile, and a narrow face. Her hair flowed down past her shoulders in gentle folds. Her erotic physique was subdued by a navy jacket and skirt, with a white lacy blouse. Even so, her clothes did nothing to hide her large bosom and broad hips.
MacFarland struggled to look only at her name tag. Laura Rogers. He recalled her name on the police interview list. As he recalled, the police had only interviewed three of the employees, one woman and two men. The fourth employee, another woman, hadn't been interviewed. He wondered why.
"Hello Miss Rogers," he said in a pleasant tone. "My name is Mark MacFarland. I'd like to ask you a few questions about the recent tragedy.” He handed her a card with his name and telephone number on it. She took it and without glancing at it, slid the card under a display case on the counter.
The Sumerian fertility goddess eyed him suspiciously. "Are you a reporter? A cop? We've already talked to the police."
"I'm not with the police," he said. "I’m just trying to help Mrs. Freeman."
Her face momentarily transformed into a scowl that made her look a lot less attractive. She recovered quickly and gave him one of her saleswoman smiles, which MacFarland now took to be part of her professional mask. "Do they really think Maureen killed poor Mr. Freeman?"
Since Maureen's arrest had been all over the news, MacFarland did not believe that this was news to Miss Rogers. He ignored her question. "Did Otto Freeman have any enemies or people he had problems with?"
Laura Rogers stifled a bitter laugh. "You mean besides his wife? No, I don't think so. Well, maybe with Mr. Newsome. They seemed to
be arguing a lot lately. It was mostly over Mr. Freeman letting his wife work here."
"Did Mr. Newsome ever get violent with Mr. Freeman?"
"Sure you're not a cop? You sure sound like one."
MacFarland smiled. "No, I’m just a small businessman like Otto Freeman, trying to help out a friend in trouble."
"I'm not sure I can be of any help. I usually tried to avoid being around when Brian and Otto were around. They didn't get physical, but sometimes the yelling would drive customers away."
"Do you know what they argued about? I mean, besides Mrs. Freeman working here."
"Mostly the books not balancing. It had us all worried for a while. We were afraid that Freeman would think one of us was stealing."
"How much are we talking about?"
"I don't know," said Laura Rogers. "All I know is it wasn't me who was skimming the cash drawer."
MacFarland was about to press her for more information about the missing money when a second associate came over. MacFarland smiled at the man, who had the body of a Russian Matryoshka doll, broad head, no neck, protruding midsection. He looked like he was in his early fifties, of Chinese descent, approximately five foot five inches and one hundred eighty-five pounds. He had close cut salt and pepper hair and herring bone glasses. "Couldn't help overhearing you asking about Maureen," he said as he came near. "Nice lady. Nice lady. Too bad about what happened. We will miss Mr. Freeman around here. He always had a good joke, every morning, a good joke.” He held out his hand to MacFarland. "I am Devon Brooks. I know. I look Chinese. That's because I am Chinese. Everyone thinks I should be Harry Wong, but my name is Devon Brooks. Third generation. My grandparents came over, in the early thirties. Wanted to fit right in, so we became the Brooks. We've been the Brooks ever since."
MacFarland shook his hand and tried to steer the conversation back in a more productive direction. "Miss Rogers was mentioning that there was some concern about discrepancies in the books?"
The Avid Angler - The Hot Dog Detective (A Denver Detective Cozy Mystery) Page 11
