Danny sucked in air like a drowning man.
I pressed on. “If I figured it out, don’t you think the aliens will too? What did your shirt say? ‘I’m coming for you.’ I believe it. The connected dots are now circled, and you’re in the middle.”
Newly was right. It was a cock-and-bull story that no one in their right mind would believe. Unless they were paranoid. And guilty.
Danny pivoted and ran to the barn as fast as he could.
“Should we chase him?” I asked.
“Nah. Where’s he going to go?”
An engine roared to life, but nothing came out. Then we caught a flash of metal as a jeep looped away from the back side. It became clear that the driveway passed through the barn and out the other side.
“Damn,” Newly said. “The barn opens at both ends.” He shrugged off the setback. “Let’s go talk to the wife.”
“You’re not going after him?”
He pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll call Sheriff Hickman. He can handle it. Besides, he’ll understand Danny will be back.”
“Because of his wife and child,” I said.
“Because he left without his banjo.”
Chapter 18
“He believed a missing tire would convict him?” Special Agent Lindsay Boyce looked at me with unconcealed skepticism.
We were in her office in the Federal Building in Asheville. Newly had dropped me off, and I’d given her the explanation for why I’d arrived thirty minutes late.
“No,” I said. “It really was fear that the aliens believed he started the fire. Danny drove out of the barn and within a hundred yards decided he’d be safer in jail. He actually wanted to sit in the back of Detective Newland’s unmarked car.”
Boyce couldn’t restrain a smile. “I might need to have you do some of those alien threats in the Bureau’s interrogations. We certainly see our share of weirdos.”
“Well, it didn’t get me anywhere with last night’s fire. Danny swears up and down he had no part of that crime.”
Boyce drummed her polished nails on the arm of her chair. We sat at a small conference table in a corner. Her formal welcome had become relaxed conversation as I relayed my adventure. Yet there was no doubt Lindsay Boyce was a consummate FBI professional. From her smartly tailored pinstriped suit to the piercing eyes that seemed to miss nothing, she was someone I’d wouldn’t want coming after me.
“Maybe he’s just confessing to a case of arson that can’t be as easily coupled with attempted murder,” she said.
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s someone else in the family. Someone who thinks I killed Loretta, or someone who thinks I might be learning too much about Frank DeMille’s death.”
Agent Boyce straightened in her chair. “What have you learned about Frank DeMille?”
I knew we’d come to the real reason she wanted to see me. For my part, I wanted to make sure I got something in return.
“You’ve seen everything I have—the letters from Loretta to Frank and her concern about her family’s attitude toward him.”
“Yes,” Boyce agreed. “And no one tried to burn down my house. Whether it’s true or not, someone thinks you know something the rest of us don’t.”
Boyce made a valid point. Nakayla and I had spoken to Loretta at her home. Then she and I had the brief, private conversation before her band played at Jack of the Wood. She’d promised to talk to me afterward. Had the fact that we’d been seen together marked us both as targets?
“Loretta had something to tell me but never got the chance,” I said. “I believe she remembered something about the night Frank disappeared. I told her the forensic evidence suggested he’d been killed by a shovel. If I interpreted her body language correctly, that information jolted her. It seemed more than just a reaction to a brutal death.”
“She learned Frank hadn’t run out on her,” Boyce said.
“Yes, but she’d learned that several days earlier with the identification of the bones. Time enough to process the discovery and to compose a song of tribute to her lost love.”
The FBI agent cocked her head and arched her eyebrows with intense curiosity. “Song? What song?”
I started to ask “Didn’t Detective Newland tell you?” but thought better of throwing Newly under a federal bus. In his defense, Loretta’s murder was his case and not an FBI investigation.
“She sang a solo at Jack of the Wood with new verses to the old folk tune, ‘Come All You Fair and Tender Ladies.’ It was about a woman who thought her lover had abandoned her. Then she learned the truth that he’d been murdered.”
“OK. It’s not unusual that a singer like Loretta would express her grief in song.”
“Yes, but there are two unusual points. Her family didn’t know she was going to sing it, and she inserted a new verse referencing the shovel and someone with earth-coated knees. She must have devised it on the spot. My comment about the shovel must have triggered some memory.”
“How do you know the verse wasn’t already written?”
“Because we found a paper with her lyrics in her fiddle case. The verse wasn’t included.”
Boyce drew her lips tight and nodded. “So she not only surprised her family but she also might have alerted a killer that she was onto him.”
“Including someone in the pub she was about to meet.” I explained how her brother said she remarked she was seeing someone that night and her family drew the wrong conclusion it was me. “Her phone was missing, and Newland is getting records from the carrier.”
“If it was encrypted text over Wi-Fi, he’s going to be out of luck.”
I recalled Newly’s response when I made the same comment. “He’s painfully aware of that.”
“Did Newland get the names of everyone present when you discovered the body?”
“Yes. And went through the evening’s credit card receipts and food and drink orders for all the tables. The wait staff was thoroughly questioned to identify any patrons who might have left before I found the body. No immediate connections outside the Case family were evident.”
“If it’s not one of her family members, then someone could have entered the alley without going through the pub.”
“Yes. Especially if the meeting was prearranged.”
Special Agent Lindsay Boyce sat silently for a few minutes. I did the same.
Then she leaned across the table and folded her hands. “Sam, I asked you to come in because I wanted to know what you might have found that we haven’t regarding Frank DeMille’s murder. You’ve gotten ahead of us, and last night’s fire makes me wonder if you’re too close to an answer for your own good.”
I smiled. “That thought has crossed my mind.”
“I’m going to talk to Newland, because it’s clear to me there very well may be a connection between the two deaths even though nearly fifty years lie between them. I can help him with Loretta’s phone records and perhaps some forensic resources. My advice to you, even though I’m wasting my breath, is to back off and let us handle both cases.”
“Tell me who you’ve talked to,” I said.
“No one you haven’t. Our investigation is just getting geared up. We’ll circle back to the family and the former employees of the tracking station. Joseph Gordowski and Theo Brecht said they were at home the nights of Loretta’s death and the fire. We’re compiling a list of others who worked at the tracking station, although the senior staff members are deceased. Where are you going next?”
“I guess I’m backing off.”
“Right. And I’m about to win Powerball.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “I’m talking to Theo Brecht, who worked with Frank DeMille and Joseph Gordowski. In fact, he now works in this building for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s National Centers for Environmental Information. And I’m waiting to hear back from Lor
etta’s estranged husband, Randall Johnson, who worked maintenance at the tracking station. I’ve learned he’s the sole beneficiary of her will.”
“Interesting. How’d you get that information?”
“I have my sources.”
“Right. Tell Hewitt Donaldson unless he’s defending someone, I expect him to play nice and share.”
Boyce was no dummy, and I’d have to alert Hewitt she was aware of his machinations.
“Remember your comment about wasted breath?”
She laughed. “Yeah. And I have one more question. You left out an area of your investigation. Why?”
“What’s that?”
“A who, not a what. Eddie Gilmore. I’m curious as to what Frank DeMille asked his brother-in-law to do. So I called military records and learned I’m the second person within the last few days inquiring about him. And there is precious little they’ll tell me. How did your inquiry go?”
Her question told me that despite being in the FBI, she hadn’t been as successful from outside the army as Chief Warrant Officer DeShaun Clark had been from the inside. Giving up my information could put DeShaun in a bind. Time to protect my own. I gave her my most winsome smile. “If they wouldn’t play nice and share with you, they wouldn’t play nice and share with me.” Technically not a lie because I hadn’t asked “them.” DeShaun had.
Boyce stared at me. I kept smiling, although I had a growing fear she was about to ask me point-blank what I knew about Eddie Gilmore. If I didn’t answer truthfully, I’d clearly be in violation of Title 18 United States Code Section 1001 for lying to a federal agent in a federal investigation, and I could be playing nice and sharing space in a federal penitentiary for five years.
She spared me. “Well, if you do find out something, you know where to find me. And, Sam, remember who your friends are. Don’t be a hero.”
* * *
Although I was still in the same building as Brecht, I elected not to show up unannounced at NOAA’s NCEI. Acronyms are the bane of government and public organizations, but in this case, the mouthful of words for National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration and National Centers for Environmental Information definitely deserved their NOAA and NCEI shorthand.
I checked my messages in the hall outside the door to the FBI and saw I had a text from Nakayla and a voicemail from Newly. I checked Nakayla first. Got new phone. Can you make dinner at your apartment at 7? The time on my phone read five thirty. An hour with Brecht should allow me to be home before then. I was anxious to share what I’d learned. I typed, Meeting Brecht but should be there by 7 at the latest.
Then I listened to Newly’s message. “Call me.” A true cop of few words. I pressed callback.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Just leaving Agent Boyce. She’s offered to help with Loretta’s investigation since she thinks it could tie back to DeMille’s murder.”
“I don’t know whether that’s good news or bad. At least for a fed, she’s got her head screwed on right. I’ll contact her. Anything else?”
“You called me.”
“Right. Sheriff Hickman sends his undying love. He said a search of Danny’s barn found a couple of empty cans that smelled of kerosene. Danny’s wife and daughter confirmed he took the tire from the swing a few weeks ago. He said he needed it for something important. Danny admitted taking the tire, rags, and the cans up on the ridge beside PARI. You’ve convinced him the aliens made the wind shift. A shrink will probably report Danny should be in a mental institution rather than prison.”
“He doesn’t strike me as violent,” I said. “Maybe minimum security with psychiatric attention would be his best outcome.”
Newly laughed. “Danny’s only concern was can he have his banjo in jail.”
“Anything support his story that he didn’t firebomb Nakayla’s house?”
“That’s the other reason I called. The fire marshal’s ninety-nine percent sure the accelerant was gasoline. Danny had cans of gasoline in his barn along with the kerosene empties.”
“How does he explain that?”
“Farm machinery. Tractor, tiller, mower. The cans were full. He filled them at a Shell station near Rosman on Tuesday.”
“The day before the fire,” I said.
“Yes. And Hickman said he had the receipt to prove it. Seems as though he always buys his farm gas from the same store, and he’s purchased no more gas since Tuesday. The number of gallons on the receipt match the volume in the full cans.”
“So it wasn’t him.”
Newly sighed. “Well, it wasn’t his gas. That doesn’t mean he didn’t help his father and/or his uncle. As far as I’m concerned, those two old men are both good suspects for DeMille’s murder and therefore your fire. Hell, one of them could have killed Loretta. Hickman’s going to work with us, and maybe we’ll uncover something. Mainly I wanted you to know we could have a potential killer on the loose.”
“What about Randall Johnson? Have you interviewed him?”
“We’ve tried to reach him by phone but no answer. Probably screens his calls. Tuck and I are going to run up to his place after I turn in the paperwork on what happened at Danny’s. It was Hickman’s collar, but he wants my official statement in case some lawyer gets Danny to retract his confession.” Newly laughed again. “For God’s sake, don’t let Donaldson take him as a client. He’ll convince a jury there are aliens at PARI.”
We disconnected. I checked my phone log and found the number Theo Brecht had used to call me. He answered on the first ring.
“Mr. Blackman?”
“Yes. But Sam, please. Sorry I’m running late. Are you still good to grab a drink?”
“I am. Where are you?”
“At the parking garage on Otis,” I lied. I didn’t feel comfortable spreading around the fact I was talking to the FBI.
“Then let’s meet at the Battery Park Book Exchange. I can be there in five minutes.”
The Battery Park Book Exchange & Champagne Bar was across Otis from the Federal Building. I hurried out the nearest door to avoid running into Brecht. The bookstore was fairly crowded with people and dogs, but I found a small table for two that faced the door. The layout of the place was like a warren created by a platoon of librarians who also enjoyed a good bottle of wine. A maze of bookshelves carried volumes ranging from history to religion and from regional topics to global movements. The bar was fully stocked, and appetizers were available. I thought of Nakayla’s book club, Reading Between the Wines, that usually met here.
One of the familiar staff behind the bar looked at me and then scanned the area around me. I knew he searched for Nakayla and Blue because I rarely came without them.
“A meeting,” I mouthed.
He nodded and went back to pouring a glass of red wine.
The door opened, and Brecht entered wearing a purple-and-orange Hawaiian shirt. The gaudy colors challenged Hewitt Donaldson’s most brilliant neon apparel. A broad smile brightened his face, and he hurried to me like I was some long-lost nephew.
“Sam. Good to see you again.”
I stood, and he pumped my hand enthusiastically.
“Mr. Brecht, thanks for making the time.”
He shook his head. “No, no, it’s Theo.” He looked at my clothes, a blue sport coat over a yellow golf shirt with khaki pants. “I hope you didn’t wear the coat on my account.”
I wore the coat to conceal the Kimber semiautomatic in the small of my back, but I didn’t tell him that. “No. I had an earlier meeting that ran long.”
“Well, you must be hot. How about a drink?”
“Not unless I’m buying. I invited you.”
He shrugged. “Who am I to keep you from enjoying a glass of wine? I’ll have my usual pinot. Tony knows.” He nodded toward the man I knew by sight but not by name. Then he looked at the small table where I’d
been waiting. “Why don’t we see if we can find a quieter spot up in the stacks?”
“OK,” I agreed. I went to the bar, and Tony came over with a bottle of Foris pinot noir.
“Getting a glass for Theo?” he asked.
“Yes. And one for me. Is he in here a lot?”
Tony laughed. “Three or four times a week. He told me if two days go by without seeing him, then I should call the police and the coroner. He’s a character all right. Does he want his regular appetizer?”
“He didn’t say. What is it?”
“Olives, hummus, and flatbread. Theo’s a vegetarian. Must work. The old man’s as spry as a twenty-year-old.”
“My money’s on the wine.”
“Amen.” Tony poured two glasses. “If you can carry these, I’ll be up in a few minutes with the food.”
“Up where?”
“Theo usually sits in the art history nook. Just two chairs and a small coffee table. A reserved sign is on it.”
“And he sits there any way?”
Tony laughed. “Who do you think it’s reserved for?”
I found Theo where Tony had predicted. He slid the reserved sign to one side, and I set the wine in its place.
“I’m sorry we’re meeting under such difficult circumstances,” he said. “First the awful discovery at PARI, and now Loretta’s death. She was a sweet girl. She made the administrative side of the tracking station hum better than our radio telescopes.” He took a sip of the pinot and rolled the liquid around his tongue before swallowing. He shook his head. “What a tragedy. They would have made a lovely couple.”
“You worked with Frank?”
“Not at first. I primarily backed up Joseph Gordowski fine-tuning signal strength. But I had a knack for computer code, and Frank took me under his wing. I say he took me under his wing, but I was actually a year older. The chief administrator, Dr. Haskford, approved, and the plan became that I would learn from Frank and then take my knowledge and skill to another station.” He paused and then shook his head again. “But when Frank disappeared, Haskford decided it made no sense to export me and import someone else. So I headed our computer operations.”
Murder in Rat Alley Page 15
