Newsome drove a Porsche 918 Spyder. Even though it was a couple of years old, it must be worth nearly a million dollars. Why would anyone park a car like that out in the driveway, where everyone could see it?
Well, that’s the reason, thought MacFarland. Newsome had money and he wanted everyone to know it. What an asshole, thought MacFarland.
Newsome's house matched his car. It was new, gaudy, and huge, one of many similar homes going up in this area. This was a neighborhood that had seen a lot of recent development and a major influx of money. MacFarland was no expert on real estate, but he doubted that any of the houses in this area went for less than two or three million dollars. Why would someone who lived in a house like that be embezzling a piddling fifty thousand dollars from his store, wondered MacFarland. Then the answer seemed obvious. Newsome was the kind of guy who believed the rules didn't apply to him.
At around ten in the morning, MacFarland spotted Newsome coming out of the house and walking towards the car, his head thrust forward like a chicken pecking at the ground. Newsome was a tall, lanky man with grey hair and a tanned complexion, a narrow face and a pointed chin. He looked like he was about six feet two inches tall, and probably weighed about one hundred and ninety pounds. He didn't look very athletic, though MacFarland could easily imagine him on a golf course or a tennis court. He was wearing a suit and a long, grey coat. As Newsome backed out of his driveway and drove off, MacFarland started his truck and took off after him.
Newsome drove to a nearby mall and parked in the open lot. He went inside, with MacFarland following at a discreet distance. Despite having been out of detective work for nearly four years, MacFarland found that his old skills were rapidly returning. He was fairly certain that Newsome was not aware that he had a tail.
It also turned out that Newsome was merely trying to take advantage of post-Christmas sales. After watching him for several hours buy two pairs of slacks, a bottle of perfume (presumably for his wife), and a food blender, MacFarland decided to call it a day. Reluctantly, he returned to his hot dog cart to see how much of his product Rufus had given away today.
Chapter 41
Monday, January 4, 1049 Hours
MacFarland continued his surveillance of Newsome after the New Year. Despite his promise to go to Stefanie’s and Randy’s house on New Year’s Eve, he finally declined, claiming that he didn’t want to be out with all the drunk drivers. Stefanie, of course, had said that he could spend the night at their place, but MacFarland persevered. As their phone call ended, he was sure he heard Randy say, “Just as well.”
Newsome didn’t do much of anything over the weekend. Finally, on Monday, Newsome drove to the Cherry Creek Mall and parked in the ground level. MacFarland parked a few rows over, then followed Newsome into the mall. Newsome went into his store, which was already opened by his staff. MacFarland could see a couple of the associates handling customers. Newsome spoke briefly with Craig Meacham, then the two men went into a back room. They only remained there a short while, and then Newsome and Meacham came back into the store's main sales area. Meacham called the other associates over and there was a brief discussion. MacFarland couldn't hear what was said, but judging by the expressions on the faces of the other three associates, whatever message Meacham communicated was not received with favor. During all of this, Newsome stood to the side, his arms folded across his chest. The impression MacFarland got was of a shepherd watching as his sheep dog performed its maneuvers, rounding up and controlling the flock. When the meeting finished, the three junior associates went back to their stations, their expressions clouded and angry. Meacham and Newsome spoke again briefly. Afterwards Newsome started to head back into the mall.
MacFarland let Newsome get a short ways ahead of him, then began to follow him back to the parking garage. He caught up with Newsome just as the man reached his car.
"Brian Newsome?"
Newsome turned to see who had called out his name. He did not give any indication that he recognized MacFarland, although he was suspicious of being accosted in the parking lot. He tried to unlock the door to his car in order to get into it, but MacFarland came up and stood next to the door, preventing it from opening.
"Who are you?" demanded Newsome, looking around to see if there was anyone around who might provide him aid.
"Just a friend," said MacFarland. "A friend of Otto Freeman's."
Newsome looked troubled. "Otto is dead," he said. "He died last November."
MacFarland nodded. "Yes, I know. It was in all the papers."
"Well, then, what can I do for you? What do you want?"
"I wanted to talk about who murdered him."
"It was his wife," said Newsome hurriedly. "She killed him."
MacFarland smiled and rubbed his chin. "Now we both know that's not true," he said. "Let's talk about who really killed Otto Freeman."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Leave me alone before I call the police!"
"Fine, let's call the police. But do you really want the police here? They might start taking a closer look at your books, Mr. Newsome. This time, they will dig deeper, and they might discover that it wasn't Maureen Freeman who mismanaged the funds. Is that what you want?"
"Who are you? What do you want? Money?” Newsome was trying to get the door of his car opened, but MacFarland had his body pressed against it.
"I don't want money, Mr. Newsome. I want some answers. Did you have Freeman killed when he discovered that you had taken the money from the store?"
"You're the guy who was in the store last week! What do you want? You're not with the police, I know that."
"Do you ever go fishing, Mr. Newsome? Did you and Otto go up Boulder Canyon last November for some trout fishing?"
Brian Newsome blanched, then became very agitated. "I don't fish," he insisted. "I've never gone fishing with Otto. You can't pin that on me."
"I'm not trying to pin anything on you, Mr. Newsome. That's not my job. I just need to know who went fishing with Otto Freeman on November twenty-sixth and where they went."
Newsome finally got forceful enough to pull the door opened. MacFarland stepped away and let the man get into his car. He grabbed the door before Newsome could slam it shut. "It's going to come out soon enough, Newsome. The sooner you cooperate with the police, the better it will be for you."
Newsome's look of fear started to morph into a look of desperation. "Look, I don't know anything about what Otto did in his spare time. Maybe he liked fishing. Who the hell cares? But there has been a guy in the store, he came by a couple of times, and he was talking to Otto about fishing in the mountains. That's all I know, I swear! Now, let me go!"
"Can you describe this guy? Tell me his name?"
"He was short, pudgy, nothing remarkable about him. Oh, he said he was from Chicago. He's probably gone back to Chicago by now. Go there to find your murderer."
Newsome started his car and started backing out of the parking space. Another car, moving down the aisle, honked at him, then sped by. Newsome jerked to a sudden stop, and MacFarland got out of the way of the door. Newsome pulled the door shut and, as MacFarland watched, resumed pulling out and sped away.
A short, pudgy, unremarkable man from Chicago. “WA” was beginning to take shape.
MacFarland turned back towards the mall, now armed with some specific questions for the staff of the Newsome Jewelry Store.
He smiled as he entered the mall. He was finally beginning to feel like a detective again. Maybe he was a real person after all.
Chapter 42
Monday, January 4, 1444 Hours
Getting past Craig Meacham's defenses had been challenging, but when MacFarland suggested that he and his sales associates could either talk to him or to the police, Meacham decided to wipe his hands of the issue. "Fine, talk to whoever you want to. I for one have nothing to say."
He spent about thirty minutes with Brea Smith and Devon Brooks. They r
emembered the man from Chicago, though neither of them recalled hearing his name. "Wayne," insisted Laura Rogers, standing a few feet away and eavesdropping. "His name was Wayne.” Between the three of them, they were able to give him a general description of Wayne the fisherman: a short man, about five foot six, two hundred pounds, in his early forties. He had almost no neck--a point on which Devon Brooks was quite insistent--an oval face, brown mustache, thinning brown hair, heavy jowls and double chin. "His teeth were yellow," said Laura, her voice snarled up with disgust. "Like he smoked a lot. Or didn't ever brush."
Once more, MacFarland regretted that he couldn't get his witnesses in front of a sketch artist, but he did the next best thing. He gave them the telephone number of his former partner, Detective Pierson, to ask her to get them with a sketch artist. Brea Smith promised that they would.
That afternoon, after he rescued his hot dog cart from Rufus, he called up Jerry Baker's office. "I need to talk to him," he told Baker's secretary.
Baker showed up at two forty-four. "You needed to see me?" he said as he neared the cart.
MacFarland took off his headphones and turned off the Spanish lesson, "Tomar el tren a Barcelona.” "I think I have a pretty solid lead," he said. "I know that someone else saw Otto Freeman on the day he was killed."
Baker's eyes widened. "You do? Who?"
"Just have a first name right now. Wayne. Wayne A something or other. Early forties, short, about two hundred pounds. He and Freeman went up to Gross Reservoir on Thanksgiving day."
"How did you find that out?"
"We still can't prove that he was murdered up there, or even that this Wayne character actually murdered him. It may just be coincidence that they were fishing together that day. The prosecutor will still try to say that Otto came home and was killed that night by his wife. Or he might say that Maureen hired this man."
Baker nodded, a grim smile making him look oddly boyish and evil at the same time. "True, but now I have some reasonable doubt. Do the police know about this guy? I haven't seen anything about him in discovery."
"Iverson doesn't have the resources to scour all of Gross Reservoir. In fact, I’m fairly certain Iverson doesn't even know where Freeman went fishing in the month or so before he died. For that, I need to talk to Maureen Freeman."
Baker became tight-lipped. "She's over in the Women's Correctional Facility," he said. "The judge wouldn't grant bail. Still can't figure that out. I'm going to see her tomorrow morning. What do I need to ask her?"
MacFarland could tell that the lawyer didn't want his client to know that MacFarland was working on the case and didn't want her to see him. Was that because MacFarland was just a hot dog vendor, and that fact might lower Maureen Freeman's confidence in her lawyer? MacFarland pushed the sudden flux of resentment he felt back into the darker corners of his mind. "Ask her if she knows who the man was her husband went fishing with. Where they went. What side of the reservoir they fished from. Anything that she can remember that might help us locate this man or the place where they went fishing. Assuming your client didn't kill her husband, we need to work on discovering the motive that the real killer had. I have some leads on that, but I need more evidence. Right now, they are just suspicions."
"What leads to you have?"
Baker played the game of protecting his turf with his client, so now it was MacFarland's turn to protect his turf. "They are just hunches right now," he said. "Let me flush them out a bit, and then we can talk about them. Just see if you can get anything out of your client about her husband's recent fishing activities. Hopefully she has met this Wayne character and will be able to give a description of him."
"She hasn't mentioned anyone like that yet," said Baker. "But up to this point, I was just searching blindly. Now I have a direction to go in. Thanks, Mac."
Chapter 43
Wednesday, January 6, 1425 Hours
MacFarland went over to Newsome's house early Tuesday morning and parked his truck across the street. After about an hour, he saw a police car patrolling the neighborhood. Fortunately, the police car was more than a block away, and MacFarland decided to end his stake-out early.
On Wednesday morning, he tried once more, again getting an early start. On this day Newsome seemed to be housebound. Finally, in desperation, MacFarland went to see Pierson.
"How's it going, Cyn?" he asked. Always a good idea to start off with pleasantries. Pierson had returned to duty the previous Wednesday, but had avoided him for the past week. MacFarland wasn't sure if she was still angry, but the plan to avoid her was probably the best strategy. Now, however, he was desperate.
"Aside from the knowing stares and snide remarks, it's going great. I've been getting a lot more advice on how to avoid getting caught than I ever expected. One detective even told me if I was going to lift someone's case files, I should select an investigation that was going good. By the way, I got a call from an employee from Newsome Jewelers. She wants to come in and help with a composite for a person of interest. Do you know anything about that?"
"What answer would win me the most brownie points with you?"
"The truth, Mac, you know that."
"Okay, the truth. Yeah, I talked to some of the Newsome employees. They confirm that someone named Wayne had come into the store several times. I have reason to believe that this is the man who was fishing with Freeman on the day he was killed."
"How do you know he was really fishing with someone?"
MacFarland hadn't revealed his illegal break-in at the Freeman residence, nor the fact that he had taken evidence from the scene. He knew what Pierson's reaction would be. No matter how long she had been his partner, no matter what their relationship was, she would turn him in. On the other hand, she had bent a few rules when he asked.
"Just a hunch," he said. "Freeman doesn't strike me as the type who likes to spend a lot of time alone in the wilderness."
Pierson looked at him skeptically. "What do you know about fishing?"
"Cyn, I need your help."
She looked at him suspiciously. "I thought you promised that you wouldn't get me in any more hot water."
"It isn't like that. I need to borrow some money."
Pierson laughed. "Is Rufus giving away all your hot dogs?"
MacFarland tried to smile. "Something like that."
"No problem, Mac, how much do you need?"
"Two hundred," he said.
Pierson furrowed her brow, but handed him what money she had. "What are you going to use it for? And don't tell me to buy hot dogs. I already know that's not the reason for the money."
He hesitated, unsure how much to tell her. "I need to get a tracking device," he finally admitted.
"Oh, Christ, don't tell me! Am I going to have to arrest you for this?"
He shook his head. "But it may help us find out who we do have to arrest."
"Get the fuck out of here, Mac, before I take the money back."
GPS trackers had come a long way in recent years. MacFarland was able to find a small module that would allow him to follow it with his phone from anywhere in the world. The tracker would last for more than a month, even if used twenty-four hours a day. The best feature was that it could be easily attached to any part of a vehicle, using either a magnetic holder or a tactile adhesive. Even though the sales clerk insisted that the adhesive could not be traced back to the unit, MacFarland knew that wasn't true. He knew of instances where the Crime Lab boys had been able to match up a tracker with the vehicle it was on based on the debris that adhered to the adhesive.
When MacFarland returned to Newsome's house, he was pleased to see that the man's car was still in the driveway. He drove around the block and parked at one end, out of sight of Newsome's house. He then walked up the street, and stooping near the rear of Newsome's car, he slipped the tracking device beneath the car and next to the vehicle's trunk. It clicked into place. MacFarland tied his shoe, then continued his walk on around the block until he got to his truc
k. Checking his phone, he found the signal that showed the location of Newsome's car. Satisfied, he returned to his hot dog cart.
Rufus was glad to see him. "Selling hot dogs is a lot of work, boss," announced Rufus. "Trying to figure out what to charge people is not easy."
"Rufus, the prices are all posted here on the sign," said MacFarland, clearly confused.
"Yeah, boss, but that's for each item. What if someone buys two or three dogs at a time?"
MacFarland sighed. "I suppose you give them a cheaper price. What do you charge for two Long John hot dogs?” The posted prices was $2.75 for one.
"Well, I want the customer to keep coming back. So I charge them $2.00."
"Two dollars each?" That isn’t too bad, thought MacFarland.
Rufus smiled. "Oh, no, boss, that would be too much. I charge them two dollars for both of 'em.” He smiled broadly. "The customers love it!"
At least Rufus isn't giving my product away, thought MacFarland.
Just before four o'clock in the afternoon, MacFarland noticed his phone vibrating. He checked it. Brian Newsome was on the move! He asked Rufus to stay and take care of his cart for another hour or so, and the homeless man cheerfully agreed to continue selling hot dogs. Hopefully, very few people would be buying hot dogs on their way home to dinner.
MacFarland was able to determine where Newsome was going by watching the red dot move across the rendition of streets. Newsome wasn't heading towards Cherry Creek but rather was going towards downtown. Traffic was heavy, and it took Newsome nearly twenty minutes to get into the downtown section of Denver. MacFarland drove closer and closer until he finally had a visual on Newsome's car.
The Avid Angler - The Hot Dog Detective (A Denver Detective Cozy Mystery) Page 13
