by Wayne Zurl
He looked at me, frowned, but didn’t answer.
I shifted forward in my seat and tried to bore a hole into his head with my eyes. He blinked first.
“You don’t think it was me, do ya?” he asked.
“Tell me it wasn’t.”
“Sam, I assure you…I’d never…I mean, I wouldn’t. Your personal history…I consider that highly confidential.”
“Good. Now you and I have to figure out who gave it to Judge Tipton.”
“Sam, are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” He hung his head slightly and shook it. I think a hair or two slipped out of place. A virtual disaster.
“How many people in this building had access to my file?”
“Why, I…ah…”
“How about Trudy?” He looked shocked. “Or Bettye?”
“Trudy or Bettye? Surely, Sam, you don’t suspect—”
“As Inspector Clouseau said, ‘I suspect everyone, and I suspect no one.’”
“Do what?”
“To whom did you give my applications and resume’?”
“Well, Trudy got them directly from me. Oh, Lord have mercy, you don’t think…?”
“Where did it go after Trudy?”
“Why, ah, Human Resources would use it to create your personnel folder.”
Human Resources? Why the hell can’t people call it the personnel department?
“Who in Human Resources?” I asked.
“Well, we’ll have to ask Trudy.”
“Okay, will you, or shall I?”
He jumped on that question with both feet. “Me, me, I’ll ask her. I don’t want you interrogatin’ Trudy.”
“Under the circumstances, Ronnie, I’m prepared to do whatever I think necessary to find out who your mole is.”
“Mole?”
“Let’s find out who had my file, okay?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Gimme a minute to speak with Trudy.”
Five minutes later Ronnie returned. “Lord have mercy, Sam. I think I know what happened.”
“Tell me.”
“Trudy gave the paperwork to Lola Rey Trickett, a clerk in Human Resources.”
“And why is that important?”
“Lola Rey is niece to Reynelda Trickett.”
“You lost me.”
“Sam, Reynelda used to be Minas Tipton’s administrative secretary over to the courts.”
“Aha!”
“Sam, I’m—”
“Yeah, right. Let’s talk to Lola Rey.”
“Now?”
“No time like the present.”
Ten minutes later, Lola Rey Trickett sat in the anteroom outside Ronnie’s office.
“To get this done as quickly as possible,” I said, “I suggest you let me speak to Lola Rey.”
“Now, Sam, you cain’t go treatin’ her like a criminal.”
“I’ve had a lot more experience with things like this than you. I’m not a bully. I know how to question women.”
“Oh, Lord have mercy.”
I opened the door and stepped into the anteroom. Trudy Connor sat at her desk typing away on her computer. A thirty-something-year-old blonde sat in one of the chairs against the wall.
I smiled and said, “Ms. Trickett, would you step inside, please?”
She walked into the Mayor’s office looking as guilty as hell. Or scared. I couldn’t tell which. Maybe both.
I let my smile linger, pointed to a green leather chair and asked her to sit. Ronnie remained behind his desk. I stood.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Sam Jenkins, the new police chief.”
“Hello, Chief.”
“Please call me Sam.” She nodded. “May I call you Lola Rey?”
“Yessir, you may.”
“Okay, Lola Rey, I need to know something very simple. Did anyone come to you asking to see or copy my personnel file?”
“Sir, why would you think I’d—?”
Who answers a question with a question? Guilty people.
“Stop!” I said. “Please don’t lie to me. You don’t do it well. Who did you give my personnel file to?”
I heard my voice rise. Ronnie slid down in his chair a few inches. Lola Rey looked shocked.
Like fifty percent of the women in the county, Lola Rey was blonde and slightly overweight, with what’s locally referred to as ‘big hair’. She tried to change her expression to one of indignation, as if I asked an offensive question. Then she looked at Ronnie.
“Mr. Shields, I don’t know what he’s talkin’ about. Honestly, I don’t.”
“Lola Rey,” I spoke before Ronnie could stick in his unwanted two cents, “There’s no other person on earth with the opportunity to copy my file. And there’s not another person in this building whose aunt used to be Judge Tipton’s secretary.”
She looked down at the hands in her lap.
“Hey.” I said. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, young lady.”
She turned her brown eyes up and stared at me. Two tears ran down her right cheek.
“Look, Lola Rey,” I said softly, “I know what you did. I even know why you did it. All I want you to do now is admit you took the file. I don’t want to punish you. I just want to know it was you and not someone else.”
She looked back at her hands and said nothing. I glanced over at Ronnie who sat as low in his chair as physics would allow. If anyone saw the look on his face, they’d think I just eviscerated the girl.
“Lola Rey, I can insist that you take a polygraph test. If I do that and you lie, I’ll have to charge you with perjury.” That was a bit of an exaggeration, but what the hell? “Then you’ll lose your job, end up in court, and after that, I won’t care.” I pulled another green chair next to her and sat. I lowered my volume and smoothed out my voice, like the old family doctor explaining how to overcome a social disease. “Look, just tell me the truth, and I’ll ask the mayor to let you go back to work or take the rest of the day off or whatever.”
She looked back at me, tears now streaming down her chubby cheeks.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes, you copied my file and gave it to your Aunt Reynelda?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks. Wait outside with Trudy for a couple of minutes.”
I opened the door for her. She took the same chair she had used moments before.
I closed the door and looked at Ronnie.
“Sam, did you hear yourself?”
“What?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. A few more hairs broke loose from the spray that bound them together.
“What do you want me to do with her, Sam?”
I could have smacked him for asking that.
“Boss, I honestly don’t give a shit. She violated your trust. Transfer her someplace where she can’t get into any more trouble. Fire her ass. I don’t care. What matters to me is that someone I trust had nothing to do with this—that’s all.”
He shook his head again and resorted to the phrase he uses for all occasions. “Lord have mercy.”
“I think the Lord may want to advise some of these God-fearing people not to play dirty pool with a guy like me.”
Rather than strangle Ronnie, I took a breath and told him what I’d do for the rest of my morning.
“Thanks for your time, Ronnie. Now I’ve got to go downstairs and find a way to apologize to someone I haven’t yet openly offended.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
I don’t often act contrite, especially if I feel that way. That must be my defense mechanism.
I walked into the lobby. “Hey,” I said to Bettye.
She looked up and said, “Hey, your own self. What happened up there?”
I grabbed her side chair and spun it around as I tossed my jacket at one of the other chairs in the waiting area. I missed, but sat down anyway.
Bettye shook her head, stood and walked over to pick up my jacket. She looked at me again, shook her head once more and hung my coat on
the rack behind her desk.
“You remember us kicking around the question of how Judge Tipton got hold of my personal information?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“It wasn’t difficult to figure out once Ronnie and I followed the path of the paperwork.”
“Really?”
“I guess you know Lola Rey Trickett?”
“Yes.” She took a second and then sighed. “Of course. Her aunt. I feel so stupid. I should have thought of that.”
“She admitted what she did.”
“What’s going to happen to her?”
“I don’t know and don’t care. I’m just glad I found out who it was.”
“I understand.”
“There were a few possibilities. I’m glad I know.”
I began to feel like a kid caught with a copy of Playboy magazine as she looked at me.
“You didn’t think I would have done that, did you, Sam?”
“Don’t be silly. That thought never crossed my mind.”
“Really?”
“Hey, it’s a well-known fact—no one with hazel eyes could ever do something like that.” I smiled for her like a little boy.
“Mister, with a line like that you must be some fisherman.”
“Most people don’t use the word fisherman. You’re quite the lady.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Time to change the subject and make amends.
“Did you bring your lunch?”
“I have yogurt, yes.”
“That’ll keep. Things are going my way today. How about I buy lunch again? Want Chinese?”
“Okay, but you don’t have to buy.”
“Yes, I do. It makes me feel heroic. What do you want?”
“Sweet and sour pork.”
“You had that last time.”
“I know.”
“Lord have mercy.”
Forty minutes later, Bettye closed up half of her meal and put it in the fridge. Five minutes later, I finished my home-style tofu and bagged up the empty container when the phone rang. Bettye answered.
She told me Rachel Williamson was calling for information on the Lovejoy case. She handed me the phone and walked away from her desk.
“Hello, Chief. Thanks for taking my call so quickly.” Rachel spoke with a bubbly voice we don’t usually hear during her newscasts.
“You’re welcome, and it’s Sam. I’m not much on formalities.”
“Okay, Sam. Not Harry?” She chuckled at that.
“No, Harry uses a big .44 magnum. I only carry a little .38.”
“That sounds dangerous enough to me.”
“I’ll be careful and won’t shoot myself in the foot. How can I help you, Rachel?”
“I heard the man arrested for the Lovejoy murder was released without being charged. We learned that the TBI had picked him up and lodged him with Blount County. The next day he was gone. I don’t understand. They’re not giving us any official information.”
I hoped to skate away from my recent shenanigans without making any public explanations. After all, I no longer held responsibility for the case.
Did I want to refer Rachel back to the TBI, the district attorney or speak with her myself? I couldn’t control the TBI or the DA. Twenty years as a cop taught me not to trust reporters—no matter how good they looked. But no information or information slanted by someone else is bad information. If she kept digging, somebody might start asking questions about George Morgan’s release. I decided to see how Rachel would react to my tap dance routine.
“There’s a little sensitive information involved here,” I said. “And I guess I’d rather not explain over the phone. Can I come to your office and answer your questions?”
“Normally I’d say yes, but we’ve got a crew of painters and spacklers all over the place. It’s not very quiet in here right now. I’d drive down to Prospect, but I have my news intro to do at 5:05 and then the show at 6:00.”
“I understand. I just finished having lunch and I don’t have any appointments until tomorrow. Why not take a quick drive down to Chesapeake’s. That’s not too far from your station. I’ll buy you a drink and tell you all I know.”
Well, almost all.
“That sounds almost theatrical, meeting a guy in a bar for information. Maybe we could make a movie about this.” I imagined her smiling as she spoke.
“I’ll do my best to act like a hardboiled Hollywood detective. When you get there, come to the bar, and look for a tall guy with a fedora and a trench coat.”
“I’d recognize you anywhere.”
“Okay, I can be there in half an hour,” I said.
“Don’t hurry. I’ll need a little time to clean up a few things, and then I’ll drive down. How’s 2:15?
“See you then.”
I hung up and looked at Bettye who had come back to the lobby. “I’ll be going up to Knoxville, but one thing before I leave. Call Pearl Lovejoy, and say I’ll be at her home tomorrow around eleven o’clock. Do whatever you have to do, and let her know this is not a request. No lawyers. No Daddy. And specifically tell her I don’t want her son, Fatty Arbuckle, there either. She might know I’m scheduled to meet with her daughter tomorrow morning and think this is important.”
* * * *
Chesapeake’s is exactly what it looks like, an upscale, classy restaurant on the right side of town. It reminds me of something from the Northeast. When I tell people from New York about it, I say it’s like being back in the world. Guys my age usually understand what I mean.
Inside, the paneling is rough and dark. The booths are upholstered in aged red leather. Paintings and prints hang on the walls, depicting typical scenes from around the tidewater regions of Maryland and Virginia. Nautical doodads: boat wheels, fish nets, brass hatch-plates and other memorabilia are strategically placed so you think you’re eating in an old boat house or a ship’s chandlery. The food is good enough to rate an honorable mention in any traveler’s handbook.
At 2:00, I sat on a stool at the end of the twenty-foot bar sipping a beer. A framed print of six canvasback ducks landing on a foggy bay hung on the wall behind me. 1940s music played from hidden speakers.
Most of the lunch crowd had finished their meals, and the restaurant looked sparsely populated. No other customers sat in the barroom.
In between drying glasses, restocking bottles and tidying up the shelves, the bartender stopped by to strike up a conversation about the Knoxville Smokies, the local minor league baseball team. I admitted not having a clue about what they were up to. He looked disappointed. I told him that when the Dodgers left Brooklyn I promised myself never to watch another baseball game.
“When did the Dodgers leave Brooklyn?” the young man asked.
“1957. I felt betrayed. Ebbets Field was so easy for a kid to get to.”
“I really look forward to the baseball season,” he said.
“I understand,” I said.
He nodded and polished a wine glass with a clean white towel.
Luckily, it wasn’t football season. Failing a quiz on UT football is a serious offense in East Tennessee. I’m not a spectator sport kind of guy.
Rachel Williamson walked into the restaurant five minutes late and came directly to the bar.
“Hi,” she said, pushing a stool out of her way to stand next to me, “Have you seen a good-looking guy with a hat and a trench coat?”
Her eyes took on that almond-shape again.
“I gave them to the hatcheck girl. She can’t resist me.” I used a Humphrey Bogart voice that would make Frank Gorshin jealous. “Tell me, sweetheart, why’s a classy dame like you meetin’ a gumshoe like me in a place like this?”
She laughed. I wasn’t sure if she found me entertaining or couldn’t wait to use her next line.
“Was that supposed to be Clint Eastwood?” She kept on smiling.
“I don’t know why I even speak to you young people.” I tried to look offended. I wasn’t.
She trie
d again. “I was just kidding—Edward G. Robinson, right?”
I gave in to her gorgeous smile.
“You’ve made me forget. Some other actor—I think, doing Philip Marlowe, or was that Sam Spade? I can’t remember. Anyway, thanks for coming. What can I get you to drink?”
She wanted a glass of chardonnay. I waved to my new friend, the baseball fan, and asked for one from Kendall-Jackson.
Rachel and I adjourned to a small table in the cocktail lounge. I carried my beer; the bartender brought her wine. We sat in heavy wooden captain’s chairs. The lighting was soft and indirect. Tommy Dorsey and his band played I’ll Be Seeing You. I knew the words, but I didn’t sing along.
I raised my glass. “Cheers,” I said.
We both took a sip.
My friend Bogie asked her, “Okay, sister, give it to me straight—whadda you wanna know?” She seemed ready to get down to business, ignored Bogie and looked like she wanted to ask questions.
I got interested in her red pantsuit and white T-shirt. The low-cut top looked similar to the one she wore on the day we met at the PD. I’d have to focus on my professionalism.
She began by saying, “All this business with your murder case is confusing, and no one has anything to say. What’s happening?”
“Sounds like a simple question,” I said, stalling.
I thought I’d begin my answer by bobbing and weaving around the truth like Sugar Ray Robinson in a fight ring. Then I looked at her sitting there, expecting me to tell her a straight story. I had no reason to trust her, except for her reputation as a good reporter and my own ability to judge a person’s character.
“I’m sure you want to hear the truth,” I said. “But I have some reservations about saying a few things. I’ll tell you what I know to be facts. When I get to the part where I’m guessing, you have to understand it’s only a guess and not for publication.”
She gave me a little smile, nodded and took another sip of wine. She was no stranger at manipulating guys like me.
“I’ll tell you the whole story,” I said, “but all I say right now has to be off the record until we agree on what’s reasonable for you to use on the air.”
She nodded again, “Okay, I’ll respect that. And don’t worry, I keep my promises.”
I believed her, but said, “I really hope so. I’d get upset if I misplaced my trust.”
“Don’t worry.” She touched my hand for emphasis.
I started my saga from when the TBI took over the case. I went on and on. Again, she took no notes. Either she had a recorder in her purse or her memory was as good as mine used to be.
Somewhere in midstream, I signaled for two more drinks. I continued, speaking about the women in the photos, the cheated building contractors, the complaints about poorly constructed homes, and then I got to George Morgan’s arrest.
