BACK IN HER OFFICE, Elizabeth reread Ben Addison’s obituary in the morning’s Logland Press. He had led a remarkably uneventful life.
Born in Logland, he had gone into the Army for three years after high school, and then returned to his hometown to work in the diner. When the prior owner died twelve years ago, Ben bought the business.
Elizabeth knew from town scuttlebutt that the former owner’s widow had listed it for sale for months, and finally sold it to Ben for the sum of $300 per month for ten years. No one else had wanted to operate the place. Elizabeth couldn’t imagine it brought in enough money to give Ben a comfortable life.
It was equally unlikely that anyone would want to buy the place now. Being the site of a murder wasn’t good in a real estate ad.
Ever since a Bob Evans opened near the highway, Ben’s business had been down. Still, anyone who worked downtown would miss having a place close by. She certainly would.
She glanced toward the door that led to the hallway outside her office. Ben needed a sideline income, and he had chosen to serve as the local sports bookie.
It made sense. He didn’t need to leave the diner, and no one would pay attention to his conversations about baseball or whatever. Unless a bettor passed him a large wad of bills, any money handed to Ben could appear to be payment for meals. And until two weeks ago, tips.
The paper said his parents were dead and an older sister in Idaho was very ill and would not be coming to Logland. Elizabeth wondered who would claim his body.
She picked up the desk phone and called John Stone, the local attorney who specialized in family and property law. For a small fee, he would prepare a simple will, one that divided your assets among only a few people, without any trusts or complicated codicils. Maybe he had done one for Ben.
“Morning, Elizabeth. Thought you might call.”
Elizabeth could envision the fifty-year-old lawyer leaning back in his antique wooden chair, clicking his ball point pen.
“If Ben had a will, that probably makes you the person in town who knew the most about him.”
“And while I would not discuss a client’s personal business, I’ll file the will at the courthouse. Can’t see why I can’t give you the nuts and bolts of the document.”
“I’d appreciate that. I don’t even know who will claim the body for burial.”
Stone hesitated before saying, “That would be me.”
“You, why?”
“He had no nearby family, and he was practical. He had enough life insurance for a simple funeral and to pay taxes on the building until it was sold.”
“No heirs?” Elizabeth asked.
“If there was money after the building’s sale paid off his small mortgage, each regular staff member was to get $500. The rest would go to the Salvation Army.”
“That’s…sad. Or, at least lonely.”
Stone’s voice softened. “It could be seen that way. I didn’t talk to him a lot, but I don’t think he was an unhappy man. A real shame, the way he died. Know anything yet?”
“Not much. I hoped you might have ideas about who was important to him. I can’t find people who know much about his personal life.”
“Not sure you will. He didn’t go to a local church. Services will be in the funeral home, with the director leading.”
Elizabeth drew a mental picture of Gretchen Morris, who owned Leaving the Farm Funeral Home. She was a tall, no-nonsense woman who was broad-shouldered and very pale. Her perfume smelled cheap and she always wore flat shoes.
“Do you think he knew Gretchen well?”
Stone’s chair creaked so loudly that Elizabeth heard it. “Doubt it.”
A buzzing noise came from Stone’s end.
“Listen, Chief, I have to take a call. I’ll drop off a copy of his will when I file it.”
Elizabeth hung up the phone and put her elbows on her desk. She tented her fingers under her chin. Ben had led a boring life, with no obvious enemies. Unless she heard he had had a violent personal argument with someone, Elizabeth thought Ben’s sideline work at the diner had to play into his death.
She stood, took her Glock from its locked cabinet, and placed it in its hip holster. Time to talk to Gordon Beals again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GORDON BEALS DID NOT appear at all pleased to see Elizabeth for the second time in two days. The first time she had interviewed him, he seemed ill-at-ease, but she had assumed Ben’s death had shocked him. Now, she figured he knew her visit related to Ben’s role as Beals’ bookie.
Elizabeth took a seat across from his desk. The office had the understated prosperity of a successful business person—deep brown carpet and beautifully matted photos in dark gold frames—but wasn’t ostentatious.
She wanted to put Beals at ease. “I appreciate your time, Gordon.”
“Anything to help Chief, anything.”
Elizabeth’s nod was somber. “I want to assure you I’m not interested in groups of friends that bet on sports games.” Even though it is illegal as hell.
Beals’ eyes left Elizabeth’s as he reached for his coffee cup.
She wanted to get him talking, so she added, “I join the NCAA basketball pool in the office every year, and we won’t talk about whether I lost ten bucks on the Super Bowl last year.”
Elizabeth didn’t add that Ben’s order book made it clear the bettors in the Bully Pulpit were regulars. She wanted Beals’ help, and was willing to ignore a group of small-time gamblers.
Beals leaned back in his chair as he drank some coffee and then lowered the mug. “I lost more than ten. But,” he added quickly, “it’s all in good fun.”
“Of course. I’m here because Ben made notes in his order book that I’m pretty sure relate to specific baseball games and who wagered what on them.”
Beals frowned. “He did, did he?”
“Yes. Just a few lines, and he appears to have referred to his, uh, clients by initials. Lucky for you, he had GB on a couple of lines.”
Beals’ expression soured. “Lucky me.”
“Keeping in mind that I don’t give a rolling donut hole about the past activity, I hope you can help me identify the people who go with the initials.” At his raised eyebrows, she added, “I simply want to talk to people who were in the diner regularly. Someone could have seen something, even weeks ago, that would help me know who was angry with Ben.”
Beals’ eyebrows went up again for a couple of seconds. “You don’t think it was robbery or something?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I don’t know what to think, but I have to start somewhere.”
“You bringing in the staties?”
For a second she wasn’t sure of his meaning, then she took the question to mean the Illinois Bureau of Investigation. “We can ask for assistance as needed, of course, but I hope we can deal with this quickly. Right now, I don’t even have a suspect’s prints to use for a comparison request.”
Beals nodded, and his expression seemed to clear. “From, uh, my perspective, I’d rather not have the firm,” he gestured around his office, “know I placed, uh, friendly wagers with Ben.”
“Can’t see how that would come up. Just tell them I’ve asked for your help because you ate breakfast there every day.
Beals leaned back in his chair and threaded fingers behind his balding head. “Okay, some names I know, of course. Some of the younger ones I don’t.”
Elizabeth took the cap off her pen. “Let’s start with what you do know.”
“Well…I like to talk sports with Squeaky, of course. He’s partial to the Baltimore Orioles.” He smiled broadly. “They’re near the bottom of the American League this year.”
Elizabeth wanted to tell him to cut the crap, but he probably wanted to convince her he did more socializing than betting. Maybe he did. It made no difference.
“So you think Squeaky sometimes wagered with Ben?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to disparage…” he began.
She tried to keep impatience from
her voice. “Really, it’s not an issue.”
“I expect he did bet on a game now and again.”
“Anybody else?”
Gordon’s eyes roamed his office and went back to Elizabeth’s. “See, leading up to the Super Bowl, or the Final Four, lots of people wanted in.”
Elizabeth nodded. “How about the rest of the time?”
“Ben was good friends with the gal from the bookstore.”
“Alice the owner, or Jen, who worked there part-time?”
“Huh. I forgot about Jen. I meant Alice.”
So, Alice was into sports betting. Who knew?
“Alice has been real concerned about Ben’s death. Anybody else come to mind?”
“See, I was mostly there in the morning. My, uh, sense is that Ben was busier later in the day.”
Elizabeth glanced at her notebook, where she had written some initials. “Any idea who AH and BH would be?”
She thought Gordon’s expression was perplexed, which was a different countenance than his hemming and hawing appearance.
“I can’t think of anybody. But there were a few college people. Students.”
“All men, or a mix?”
“I only saw men.” He reached for his candy jar. “Licorice really perks me up.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Carbs put me to sleep.” She glanced at her notes again, wanting to put him at ease before the next question. “That’s probably about it.”
“I’m sure glad I could help,” Gordon began.
“Just one more thing. Is there any chance Ben would have had trouble covering any bets?”
Gordon’s eyebrows shot up again, but just as fast relaxed. “Not with me. You could ask Squeaky.”
Elizabeth noted he’d avoided providing any specific information. “So, no obvious arguments about money?”
His head shake was quick and determined. “Never heard a peep from anyone about being stiffed.”
“If Ben was short on cash, who would he go to? You?”
That seemed to catch Gordon off guard. His gaze moved from his office door and back to Elizabeth. “I would have lent him something short-term, but he never asked.”
Three short raps came from Gordon’s office door. “Gordon? We have a nine o’clock.”
Elizabeth recognized insurance manager Corey Mitchell’s voice. She stood, strode to the door, and opened it, smiling. “Sorry, Corey. Hope I’m not bad for business. Gordon’s helping me think through the breakfast customers at the Bully Pulpit.”
Mitchell’s face, always flushed, faded from red to pink. “Sorry, Chief. Didn’t know you were in there. Shame about Ben.”
“It was.” Elizabeth extended a hand. “You eat there much?”
Mitchell shook his head. “Wife has me on a low-salt diet. Blood pressure.” He stood aside so Elizabeth could walk out of the office.
“Good for her.” She smiled as she passed him. “You hear anything about yesterday morning, you give me a call. Pass that idea around.”
His face again beet-red, Mitchell accompanied her to the building lobby.
ELIZABETH’S NEXT STOP WAS the sandwich shop where Steve Johnson had his second job. She called to be sure he was there.
Johnson peered out the window as her car pull up and was wiping his hands on a paper towel as she entered. “Morning, Chief. I’m good for about ten minutes, or I can come to your office after my shift ends at four.”
Elizabeth nodded. “We’ll see how it goes. How about a cup of coffee?”
She waited while he poured her mug. The sandwich place had only a few tables. Most of its business was carryout to the college dorms, though it was close enough to the cement block city hall that a few of those employees stopped by at lunch time. With the diner closed, maybe it would get some of those patrons.
Elizabeth paid for the coffee and stood at the cash register to talk to Johnson. He was older than Marti and Nick, perhaps in his late twenties.
She knew little about him except that he had come back to Logland after going to college elsewhere, she wasn’t sure where, and seemed to want to stay in the small town. Why she couldn’t figure, as there were few well-paying jobs outside of college faculty and senior staff.
Johnson handed her the coffee and change for a five. “Any news?”
“None. Hoped you could help me. I know you weren’t working the overnight before Ben was killed, but you sometimes worked nights, right?”
“I did. Ben paid an extra dollar an hour for third shift.”
“Okay. Did you ever see anyone angry at Ben? Or mad at the world in general, and hanging out at the diner in the middle of the night?”
“Not really. Ben stopped serving beer at two. Sometimes people didn’t know that and expected a beer at four AM. They were irritated, but not a lot more.”
“A lot of regular patrons?”
He shrugged. “College students, mostly people up late studying who got hungry. Ben would let them sit there with their books and stuff. Wasn’t crowded. Sometimes somebody driving late at night knew about the place and came in off the highway, but that was rare.”
Elizabeth drank some coffee. “I get the same kind of answer a lot.”
He hesitated. “I guess you heard I was pretty pissed at him?”
“Why?”
“He fired me three days ago.”
Elizabeth knew her surprise showed. “Why?"
Johnson shook his head. “Partly because I let him know I was furious about him cutting off tips. I got some good ones. Especially when people drank beer.”
“So he didn’t want you questioning his decision?”
“We would have gotten past that. Or I’d have stayed until I found something else. He said flat out he couldn’t afford me.”
“I’m surprised no one else told me that.”
He shrugged. “Not sure anyone would know unless Ben told them. I told a couple people, but I haven’t seen Marti and Nick. I would have called them eventually.”
“So not a heated discussion anyone witnessed?”
“Ben hated controversy. And nobody was in the diner. It was, let's see, the Thursday before he died.”
“Okay. So you were angry, but no big fight. Anybody else get fired lately? Any customers, even a month ago, really mad?”
“Nah. Ben changed the chili recipe. Less meat. Couple people noticed.” His smile was thin. “Wasn’t all that good anyway.”
Elizabeth studied him directly. “Anybody lose more money in the pools lately?”
“That was Ben’s thing, not staff’s.” A customer came in and he nodded to them. “Be right with you.”
He looked back at Elizabeth’s. “I think he told the regulars not to talk to us about it. I never took any money, but I did tell folks when Ben would be back. You know, if they stopped by and he was out.”
“How about people who didn’t like the results of their bets?”
Again he shook his head. “You know about the security camera pointing at the cash register, right?”
When Elizabeth nodded, he continued, “No sound to it, of course, but if someone happened to argue with him at the register you’d see it. Otherwise, no dice.”
No dice?
He glanced at the customer who was studying the menu on the wall. “You want me to stop by later?”
“Not today. I’ll call if I need you.”
He half turned, then met Elizabeth’s gaze. “He made lists in his order books.”
That was probably the first really helpful suggestion anyone had given her. And she’d already figured it out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ELIZABETH REACHED THE Bully Pulpit at nine-thirty Tuesday morning, as the locksmith finished installing a new deadbolt.
Richard Crusher was only five-six or so, but he had a deep voice and huge biceps. “Hey, Chief. Listen, I hate to ask so quick, but who pays for the new lock?”
“Probably my department’s budget. Can I let you know late today or tomorrow?”
Crusher frowned as
he placed a large screwdriver into his tool box. “Thing is, I had to buy the lock special.”
“Call the station about four. I’ll make sure you’re paid fast.” She held out her hand for the keys, which were lying atop the box the lock had come in.
In fact, Elizabeth had no idea how fast the city would pay, or if it would come from her department’s budget. If push came to shove, she’d pay and try to get reimbursed.
Crusher stooped to pick up the keys and pulled an invoice from a breast pocket. Elizabeth took both and folded the invoice to stuff in a trouser pocket.
“Should I leave the diner open, Chief?”
“Yes. I’m going in.”
As she shut the door to the street, Elizabeth reflected on the absolute quiet in what was usually a busy place. She turned to flip the new deadbolt so no one would come in while she searched.
Other than a sense that Ben’s personal keys had to be somewhere, her search was in an I’ll-know-it-if-I-find-it mode. She put on latex gloves and went first to the cash register.
Before she started searching, her phone rang.
“Chief? Hammer here. One of the guys picked up the tapes. You want me to watch them?”
“Sure, as long as you don’t have them on video in the bullpen.”
“Don’t worry. We’re lucky we still have that one VHS player.”
He hung up. Elizabeth figured she better keep that player in working order. Could be some of the other really small businesses had only VHS backup for their security systems.
She turned her attention to the register. As Marti had explained, there was a piece of paper in the change drawer that said simply $40. Probably the amount of change provided to the night shift. Only a five and a few ones sat in the tray now, plus two credit card receipts.
Neither receipt had legible signatures, but the printed names were clear – Erasmus Jenson and Herbert Gibson. Both were for less than $10, with time stamps only three minutes apart.
The men paid their bills at four ten and four thirteen, so they were likely long gone before seven AM. She’d pass their names to Hammer to make sure they were interviewed if they hadn’t been already.
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