“Thought you said the number was residential,” Joe said.
“That’s what the computer told me.”
“Well, let’s go in and ask.”
We got out of the car and walked into the building. Racks of wine lined one side of the room, with coolers of chilled wine on the opposite side and bins full of fancy cheeses and other gourmet items in the middle. In one corner, about a dozen people were gathered together, glasses in their hands, listening intently as a woman with red hair explained the “full-bodied richness” of what they were about to sample. A young, attractive girl in a black skirt and blouse approached us then, smiling.
“Do you gentlemen need any help?”
“It seems we’re a bit confused,” Joe said. “We thought this place was a private home. We’re looking for Paul Brooks?”
She nodded. “Mr. Brooks owns the winery. And there is a private home—you just needed to go right when you came through the gate instead of left. It’s tough to see with all the pine trees.”
We thanked her, walked back out to the car, and followed her instructions. The house was maybe two hundred yards down the drive, a good distance from the winery, and the girl was right: The pines screened it from the parking lot completely. The construction matched the winery, though; it was a big log home with a green-shingled roof, looking every bit the perfect lakeside retreat. We walked up to the front porch, past a black BMW that was parked in the drive, and knocked on the door. About ten seconds later, a good-looking young guy opened it. He couldn’t have been much past thirty, wearing a white dress shirt untucked over blue jeans and leather moccasins. Between the outfit and the perfect face and the thick brown hair that hung down almost to his collar, he looked like he should be a model for one of those “outfitter” catalogs that pretend they’re marketing clothing for outdoorsmen but really sell only to men who live behind computers.
“Can I help you?”
Joe and I passed him our licenses. He didn’t show either the distrust or the childish excitement that most people give you when they see the PI license, just nodded.
“Are you Paul Brooks?” I asked.
“Yes. What do you need to talk to me about?” He had noted the damage to my face but immediately looked away. Manners.
“A five-year-old phone call,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“We’re looking into the background of a man who was recently murdered. Five years ago, he called this house at two in the morning on—”
“The Fourth of July,” Brooks said. “That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it? It would be five years now.”
Joe and I exchanged a glance while I nodded.
“That’s it. The call was on the fifth, but it was basically the night of the fourth.”
Paul Brooks sighed and pushed the door open wider. “I think we ought to sit down for this one.”
15
He took us out to a cedar deck that overlooked the woods and a private beach on Lake Erie. The water banged gently against the shore, and out beyond it the clouds were thickening. It made my own beautiful view of the stoplight on Lorain and the small-engine-repair shop across from it seem inferior.
“So, Paul, what can you tell us?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Let’s not get in such a rush. I still don’t know what interested you in the phone call to begin with.”
I gave it to him as concisely as I could, saying simply that we’d been employed by Alex Jefferson’s widow to look into the circumstances surrounding his murder and his son’s death, and that those circumstances had landed us here.
“I’d heard about Alex Jefferson being killed,” he said when I was through. “Didn’t know about the son, though.”
“Haven’t been reading your paper.”
He smiled. “Guess I’m a few days behind. But what makes the phone call significant to you?”
“Matt called his father before two in the morning, and his father then called your house. We’re wondering why.”
“You’re going to love the reason.”
“Yeah?”
“The calls were made because someone was murdered on my father’s property and Jefferson’s son saw it happen.”
It was quiet for a few seconds then, Joe and I waiting on Brooks, who was staring out at the lake. The beach in front of his house seemed to continue all the way up to the winery. Voices and laughter were audible, but we couldn’t see any people because of the pine trees.
“Can you provide a little more detail than that?” Joe said.
“I assume you know of my father?” Brooks asked in response.
Joe and I looked at each other, then shook our heads in unison. Brooks frowned at us, slighted.
“Fenton Brooks? Brooks Biomedical? That mean anything to you?”
“Stents,” Joe said.
Brooks nodded. “Yes, the company makes stents, although we also manufacture many other medical products.”
“But your father made his money on the stents, right?” Joe said.
“A good portion of it, at least.” Brooks looked annoyed, as if he found Joe’s question in poor taste. “The company has gone on to much greater things, though. My father passed away a few years ago. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
For a moment it was silent, and then Brooks cleared his throat.
“Okay, so now you understand the situation. My father owned a large company, had lots of employees, attorneys, advisors. He bought this winery as a side venture and liked the location enough that he built this house as a summer retreat. He used to have parties in the summer for friends, colleagues, that sort of thing. Five years ago, he held a Fourth of July party. There were about one hundred people out here, maybe more.”
“Including Matt Jefferson.”
“Yes, he was here. Alex Jefferson was, too, although he went home much earlier in the night. He was one of my father’s attorneys, you know.”
“We did not.”
“Well, he was. His son was in law school then, I believe. A few years younger than me? That sounds right. At any rate, he was here, and I gather he felt a bit out of place. The crowd began to thin out around twelve, but the man Matt Jefferson had come with was drunk and hanging around, and so he had to stay, too.”
“Who was that man?”
“Another one of the company’s attorneys, James Simon. Matt was working for him, some sort of internship.”
“So what happened?”
“Okay. Well, a few people stayed late—you know how that goes when you’ve got an open bar. Simon was drunk, and Matt got bored or annoyed or something and went up the beach, back toward the winery. We’d had a catered dinner up there earlier, so Matt knew where he was going. Found a guy and a girl up on the deck, apparently engaged in a little late-night illicit behavior. Matt figured they were entitled to their privacy and turned around and started back up the beach. But then he got the impression that the girl was resisting. Heard her shout or something. So he decided to go back in case there was a problem. When he got there he couldn’t see the girl, and the guy was booking around the corner of the building. Matt ran up onto the deck and found the girl. Clothes half off, and dead. She’d been strangled.”
The clouds had made the temperature dip, and Paul Brooks wasn’t wearing anything over his thin shirt, but he looked warm enough, sitting there watching our faces with a hint of satisfaction, a storyteller pleased with his ability to capture the audience.
“So what happened?” Joe said again.
“What do you think happened? The cops were called, obviously. Interviewed Matt and everyone else. Matt was pretty upset by it, I guess, and that was understandable. He wanted to talk to his dad. I think maybe he took the police questioning the wrong way. He called his dad, and his dad told him just to answer the questions and try to help. Then Alex called the house and asked for my father, making sure Matt had been honest about the situation.”
“That’s more than we were bargaining for with that ph
one call,” Joe said.
“Pretty intriguing stuff, but I don’t see what it could possibly have to do with Alex Jefferson’s murder or the son’s suicide,” Brooks said. “I’d have to say you’re grasping for straws on that one.”
“Who was the victim?” I said. “Did she belong with your party?”
“In a way. She worked for the caterer my father had hired for the party. She was only twenty years old, I think. A girl, really. They’d been going back and forth between the house and the winery, and she was left to clean up there alone. Not a good decision.”
“And the guy who killed her?”
Brooks hooked one moccasin-clad foot over his knee. “Someone she’d gone out with a time or two, then tried to dump. He was a real loser, criminal record nine miles long. Lived in a trailer maybe three miles up the road from the winery. Easy for him to come down that night.”
“He was arrested?”
“Arrested, tried, convicted. He’s still in jail.”
“You know his name?”
“Andy Doran. The girl he killed was named Monica Heath.”
“Quite a story,” Joe said.
“Quite a story,” Brooks agreed. “I imagine that answers your question about the phone call. What I can’t imagine, though, is that it will help you with the current problem.”
“You never know.”
Brooks looked skeptical. “I guess not. The whole situation was quite an embarrassment to my father. I mean, Andy Doran was certainly not an invited guest, but still . . . the girl was working at our party, you know?”
“Nobody else saw or heard anything?” Joe said. “No other witnesses except for Matt Jefferson?”
“None.”
“So Matt Jefferson gave a positive ID on this guy, Doran?” I said.
Brooks started to nod, then frowned and shook his head.
“To be honest, I can’t remember. I feel like he recognized a car, but not the actual guy? I’m not sure.”
“Pretty tough to convict someone with nothing but one eyewitness.”
“They had a lot more than that. Turned up hard evidence at the guy’s trailer, and then he got himself into all sorts of trouble lying to the cops. Changed his story six times before the trial, or something like that.”
“You said Matt called his dad because he took offense to the questioning,” Joe said. “What exactly did you mean?”
“Him being the only witness, I think maybe the police were more aggressive with the questions than he thought they should be. What I mean is, I think he felt—for a little while at least—like he was a suspect.”
“No kidding,” Joe said. “Like he was a suspect.”
Brooks saw where he was going and grinned. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Detective. The right guy went to jail. Check the case out yourself, but I’m pretty sure you’ll agree with the jury.”
“How well did you know the Jeffersons?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Casual acquaintance. My father knew them better.”
“What did you think of the two of them? Alex and his son?”
“Didn’t know them well enough to make any sort of a judgment, really. But it would appear they were ill-fated, don’t you think?”
16
We drove back down the winding road without seeing another car.
“And you wanted to give up on the phone call,” Joe said. “Go chasing Thor around the city, waiting to be killed.”
“The phone call was a good idea. I’m glad I thought of it.”
“Thought of it and then decided to forget it.”
“That’s why I need you around—to keep my own genius focused.”
He smiled and shook his head.
“It feels like something,” I said, “but it could be nothing.”
“What’s that?”
“All of this—the girl’s murder, the cops questioning Jefferson’s son.”
“Be a hell of a surprise to me if it’s not worth something. Jefferson and his murderer both referenced this phone call from the son. We trace the call back and find the kid was a murder witness? That matters.”
“Okay, but how? Sounds like this Doran guy was good for the crime. Hard evidence against him, a story filled with lies, and the kid putting him at the scene. Where does Alex Jefferson come into play there?”
“No way to know until we get into the old case, see what really happened. The obvious guess is that they set him up.”
“Looking at Jefferson’s kid as a murderer might be a bit overzealous.”
He shot me a quick glance before looking back up the road. “You’re the one who told me the kid was front and center in this thing, and your boy from last night came with a grudge.”
“Indeed he did. But Doran’s still in prison. So scratch him from the list of grudge suspects, and who do you have left from this scenario?”
“Maybe the guy who came after Jefferson’s family is connected to Doran. A brother or a close friend or something.”
“Someone who cares about Doran enough to kill for him but is restrained enough to wait five years before moving into action?”
Joe sighed. “Okay, the time lag is a problem. Still, it’s something to consider.”
“And we’ll consider it. I’m just saying we don’t know much yet in the way of facts.”
“We should try to get in to see Doran. Most of the guys doing time for crimes they pretend not to be guilty of will talk to anyone looking at their case, let alone the guys who really aren’t guilty.”
“Not a bad idea.”
It was quiet for a minute, and then I looked over and saw that Joe was grinning.
“What?”
“Sign of the apocalypse,” he said.
“Huh?”
“You just cautioned me against getting overzealous. Told me to slow down, get some more facts.”
He was still laughing at that when we made it back to the highway.
We got back to the office just after five. Joe pulled into the lot and shut off the engine and reached for the door handle. He went across his body with his right arm, which told me that his left arm had to be aching from driving.
I’d just closed my own door when I heard another open and turned to see Targent climbing out of a Crown Victoria that was parked on the street just up from our building. He was talking on a cell phone, but he lifted his free hand in a congenial wave.
“Shit.” I pointed at Targent. “Doesn’t this guy have anybody else to talk to?”
Joe and I waited beside the car while Targent wrapped up his conversation, snapped his phone shut, and walked over to join us.
“Should we go upstairs?” he said.
“I don’t think so. You spend any more time in our office and I’m going to start charging you rent.”
He gave me a wan smile and nodded at Joe. “Mr. Pritchard. How you doing?”
“Fine.”
“Where you guys been?”
“Nowhere exciting,” Joe said. “Now I’d like to get some dinner. Didn’t have lunch, and I’m hungry.”
“I hear that. Hate to stand between a man and his stomach, too, so I won’t take up much of your time. I just thought I should drop by after my last conversation with Mrs. Jefferson. She indicated that you were now, um, investigating on her behalf?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“I’ll go ahead and tell you I’m not real enamored with that idea.”
“Didn’t figure you would be.”
“I’m torn on how to handle it. Part of me would like to cut you off at the knees, tell you this isn’t going to happen. Another part tells me it’s not worth fighting you.”
“Listen to that voice.”
Targent had his eyes on the ground and was using the fingers of his right hand to rotate the wedding ring on his left. That impenetrable calm surrounded him again. Even today, when I’d told him about the attack and admitted to not calling him when it had happened, he’d been cool, or at least he’d gotten the cool back quickly. In m
y experience the unflappable cops always made suspects the most uncomfortable, giving off the sense that they were a hundred chess moves ahead. Joe was one of that breed. I wasn’t close.
“Okay,” he said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just let you do your thing. We’ll stay out of each other’s way, right? Share information when we get it? A regular team.”
I stood and stared at him, wondering what he was really thinking, why he was here, going with the friendly act.
“Sure, Targent. We’ll do that. A team, like you said.”
He nodded. “That’s real good news. Damn neighborly offer on your part.”
“I thought so. Now are we done?”
“Well, not quite. I’m going to need another minute, I’m afraid. Got a call this afternoon from Lieutenant Brewer of the Indiana State Police. Man had a strange tale to share.”
Targent reached into his back pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. He took his time unfolding it, then smoothed it against his leg and handed it to me.
It was a booking sheet from the Brown County Jail, where I’d spent the night on my visit. The photograph was of a middle-aged man with a poorly trimmed mustache, nobody I’d seen before, and the charge was interference. He’d been booked about six hours earlier.
“Stan Meyers.” I looked up at Targent. “This guy supposed to mean something to me?”
“You mean a lot to him, at least.”
“How?”
He took the booking sheet out of my hand, folded it, and slid it back into his pocket. “Mr. Meyers is a private detective in Indiana. Does that jog your memory?”
“Nope.”
“He was arrested yesterday. Tried to bribe a records clerk with the state police into releasing closed reports.” He paused a beat. “Reports concerning the Matt Jefferson death investigation.”
“Suicide,” I said.
“Death investigation. Results inconclusive as of the last time I spoke with Lieutenant Brewer.”
“Okay. I’ll give you that. What does this Meyers guy have to do with me?”
A Welcome Grave Page 12
