Dead Air

by David A. Poulsen

  “I don’t get it. Even though she thinks the guy’s an asshole — and that’s a direct quote — she’s attracted to him enough to sleep with him three different times … and do the other thing on another occasion. Why wouldn’t she go to the cops with the alibi that lets him go free?”

  “I’m guessing that either she or Larmer or both of them have relationships with other people, relationships that might take a serious hit if word got out that they’ve been less than faithful. And you have to remember that Larmer thinks he’s going to walk, that it’s just a matter of time until the cops or you and me or Shulsky come up with something, other than the Dekalb alibi, that will get him off. Why put her in a bad spot if you don’t need to?”

  I thought about that. “If it was me I’d want to be out of jail as fast as possible and I’d use whatever it took to get me out.”

  “But you’re not Larmer. Right now he’s being gallant for the lady. And probably enjoying playing that role.” He paused and I thought back to my conversation with the deadly dull Bernie McCready. It was looking like his contention that Larmer was a ladies’ man of considerable skill was accurate.

  Cobb went on. “Or there’s another possibility. Maybe he thinks that sleeping with Hugg’s ex might actually be seen as a motive for the murder. Hugg found out about it, threatened him, maybe confronted him, and Larmer decided to kill him. I can see the cops putting that kind of spin on it. Maybe Larmer’s thinking the same way.”

  I was liking Larmer less all the time, but I didn’t bother mentioning that. Instead I told Cobb about the day-planning calendars.

  Cobb nodded. “I’ll talk to the detectives handling the case, see if they have them and if they’ll let us take a peek. I’d better get moving. I’d hate to keep our client waiting.” He glanced at his watch. “And oh joy, this time it’s with his lawyer. Want to come along?”

  “Think I’ll pass on this one.”

  He chuckled. “I thought that might be your reaction.”

  SEVENTEEN

  I find middle-of-the-night phone calls even more alarming than early-morning calls.

  I guess there’s always a chance that the Pulitzer Prize committee makes all their congratulatory calls at three in the morning, and maybe there are wild women out there who randomly dial sleeping guys to lure them out for a night of wicked frivolity. I have never received either of those calls.

  The few times I have been roused, mid-sleep, from my slumber have either been bad-news calls or in more recent times calls from Cobb, who is apparently unaware of the difference between day and night, light and dark, a.m. and p.m.

  This call — I pried an eye open just enough to note that the exact time was 3:54 a.m. — established an entirely new category. This call fell into the Seriously? category.

  The voice was familiar although it was different this time. Perhaps, like me, Ariel Mancuso didn’t do late-night calls well. Except this wasn’t a late-night call for Ariel Mancuso. Because she lived in Fredericton, this was an early-morning call.

  Whatever the reason, her voice was hesitant, halting, like a teenager calling someone of the opposite sex for the first time.

  “Adam? Adam Cullen?”

  “Hello, Ariel,” I said, my voice not likely much better than hers.

  “How did you … Oh, right, call display.”

  “That’s it. What can I do for you, Ariel? Last time we talked I had a sense we didn’t part well.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Kind of,” I repeated.

  “Yeah. I’ve been thinking a little more about that day — you know, the day Randy and those other kids …” She hesitated.

  “And what have you been thinking?”

  “I called up one of the boys who was there that day. His name is Logan Branksome.”

  There were fairly lengthy pauses between each of her statements, like she wanted me to prompt her each time. I decided to wait it out this time.

  “Yeah, so anyway,” she said finally, “it didn’t turn out quite the way everybody thinks.”

  I sat up, reached for the pen and pad I keep beside my bed, and for the next several minutes I took notes. A lot of very interesting notes.

  Basia Bulat was amazing me as she did every time I listened to Tall Tall Shadow. I was working a coffee and three slices of toast and strawberry jam when Blue Rodeo’s “Cynthia” emanated from my cellphone. The ringtone clashed with Basia, probably the first less-than-amazing sound the group had ever issued.

  I hit speaker phone so I wouldn’t have to hold the phone — my laziness stunned even me. “Hey, good-looking!”

  “You better have call display, mister, or you will be in a great deal of pain next time I see you.” I could hear the smile in Jill’s voice.

  “Naw, I figured there’s a ninety percent chance it’s a chick and eighty percent that she’s good-looking. You gotta play the odds.”

  “The odds of your ever getting anywhere near this chick in any meaningful way just diminished a great deal.”

  “You say that now, but you and I both know you can’t resist my dazzling charms.”

  We both laughed.

  “I think I liked you better as the shy stumblebum you were when we first met,” she said.

  Another laugh.

  “Actually,” I said, “the truth is, you are the second woman to call me today and the first call was very interesting indeed.”

  “Tell all.”

  “I think I’ll save this one for when I see you. Anyway, how’s my girl?”

  “Actually that’s why I’m calling.”

  My frame of mind did a one-eighty. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that. No, nothing at all to worry about. In fact, Kyla’s feeling really well. And looking so much better, too.”

  “Wow, scared me there.”

  “I know, and I’m so sorry. But maybe I can make it up to you. Kyla’s been invited to a sleepover at Josie’s house. That means we have the evening to ourselves and —”

  “Is she well enough to be away from home overnight?” I interrupted.

  Jill laughed. “I love you so much for how much you care about Kyla. But yes, she’s still on prednisone and some other things and she’s feeling really well. I don’t want to start taking normal things away from her if she’s up to it.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I just … you know …”

  “Yes, I do know. You’re wonderful.”

  “So, does this evening to ourselves include dinner at a great place, a couple of glasses of a nice dry red, and maybe a little smooching after?”

  “I’ll have to think about the smooching, but I’m sure we can manage the dinner and wine. I made a reservation for tonight at Caesar’s. Sound good?”

  “Are you kidding? One of my favourite places in the northern hemisphere. Yes, it sounds good.”

  “Perfect. Kyla’s heading over to Josie’s around five. How about you come by about six?”

  “In my best bib and tucker.”

  We rang off and I looked at my watch. Lots of time to get work done. And I knew exactly where I planned to start.

  A shower, a shave, and then Gordon Lightfoot and I were enjoying the drive across town when Cuddy, Keelor, and the boys announced an incoming call.

  “I’ve got the planners,” Cobb announced.

  “And a pleasant good morning to you, too,” I said.

  “Sorry. I’ve got a lot happening. But I think we need to take a look at these a-s-a-p. What’s your morning look like?”

  I had a few things I wanted to check out, but I agreed with Cobb that a couple of hours examining Jasper Hugg’s day planners could be time well spent.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Shulsky’s office. Sixteenth Avenue, close to Foothil
ls Hospital.”

  “Perfect. Ten minutes at the most. Starbucks next to Earl’s on Sixteenth at Tenth. That work for you?”

  “On my way.”

  Fifteen minutes later Cobb was sitting opposite me sipping a vanilla steamer that looked beyond bland while I worked a Pike. The day planners, twelve in all, sat stacked on the table.

  I nodded admiringly. “Still got pull with the boys in blue, I see.”

  “Actually that was Shulsky’s work. I think he’s getting worried that his client might be in a little deeper than he thought. Seems to want to co-operate a bit more.”

  “Can’t hurt to have a smarmy lawyer in our corner.”

  Cobb shrugged.

  “You get anything from Larmer yesterday?”

  Cobb reached into the breast pocket of his blazer and extracted a couple of sheets of note paper. “I think Mr. Larmer is maybe getting the bad vibe from his lawyer. A little less cocky, a little more ‘what do you need from me.’”

  “Humility. Not a quality that exactly oozes from the guy.”

  “It’s amazing how the prospect of a long association with the federal penal system can change one’s attitude.” He unfolded and spread the sheet between us. “He gave me a list of conferences and events where folks of his ilk meet and mingle. Said he couldn’t remember all the names of the events or the organizers, but gave us as much as he had.”

  “And if I cross-reference that list with what I can dig out of Hugg’s planners, who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?”

  Cobb smiled. “Did the Shadow ever fail to solve a case?”

  “Never. And we’re right there with him.” I grinned.

  “Yeah, we’re two for two.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  Cobb stood up. “I’ll leave all this with you. If you lose any of it, Shulsky and I will break your kneecaps.”

  “Can’t have that. I’ll guard the stuff with my life.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you later.”

  Once Cobb was gone, I stepped to the counter for a refill, one eye on my table the whole time. Once I had the coffee in hand I decided to change locations. A table in a back corner had become available and I wasn’t keen on having people glancing over my shoulder as I worked.

  Once in my new spot I settled in for a couple of hours of eye abuse, going from Larmer’s handwritten notes to specific dates in the various day planners … and back again.

  Much of it was mind-numbing, but there were a few aha moments. I listed those in my own notebook. There were six that piqued my interest. All of them were on Larmer’s list and were also noted in Hugg’s planners. Two were conferences that had taken place in Los Angeles, four years apart, 2004 and 2008; one was in New York in 2001, just three months before 9/11; another was in Toronto, also in 2004; and yet another was in 2003 in a small Wyoming community called Buffalo, which I learned was located about a hundred miles from Casper. The sixth event that had made both lists was the Kansas City Conference of the Organization of American Unity — the 2007 Freedom Calls event I’d checked out earlier. I stroked it off the list.

  Now the real work could begin. Larmer had been able to provide names of organizers for three of the events — the two in Los Angeles and the Dallas event. The Wyoming conference sounded a bit odd. It was titled “America: Right to Be Proud, Proud to Be Right.”

  Who thinks of these goddamn names?

  Larmer had actually been one of the guest presenters but hadn’t been able to name the organizers. My first thought was that he had to know who’d hired him. But in fairness, I knew Larmer was much in demand as a speaker and with a large number of engagements, it was certainly possible he might forget a name.

  Once again I would have to go through the process of tracking someone who could give me lists of delegates. I didn’t like my chances with an event that had taken place many years earlier — such as the 2001 New York event. And since it was one for which neither Larmer’s notes nor Hugg’s calendar entries had offered names of organizers, I decided to put that one aside for later.

  I went out to the car, deposited all the day planners in the trunk, took my computer from the back seat, and returned to my spot in the Starbucks after ordering a caramel macchiato and a chocolate-chunk cookie — I didn’t want to be one of those people who sit in a coffee place for four hours and nurse one grande the whole time. And there was also the fact that I really liked chocolate-chunk cookies.

  An hour and a half later, I had consumed both the drink and the cookie and had got almost nowhere. Google offered little on three of the conferences and nothing on a couple — the Toronto and the Wyoming events.

  Cobb had said criminal investigations were often a slow dance. But every once in a while things sped up just a little. And when I searched Buckley-Rand Larmer and Buffalo, Wyoming, together, we went from waltzing to jiving in seconds.

  Well, that’s not exactly accurate. The first attempt didn’t yield much. But when I made it Buckley-Rand Larmer, Guest Speaker, Buffalo, Wyoming, I got lucky. I found a link to an interview Larmer had done with a reporter from the Buffalo Bulletin.

  The interview was pre-conference and loaded with Larmer crap — and next to no information about the conference or what he planned to talk about during his presentation. What it did give me was the name of the reporter — Martin Gathers.

  I placed a call to the Bulletin office and was told by a woman who sounded more like she was from Buffalo, New York, that she had worked at the paper four years and had never heard of Martin Gathers.

  That took me to Facebook where I learned that there were five Martin Gathers, but the one that interested me was the guy who was the city editor at the Omaha World-Herald. I called the newsroom at the World-Herald and after surprisingly pleasant conversations with a receptionist and a writer, got through to the city editor’s desk.

  “Gathers,” said a voice that sounded younger than Gathers could possibly be.

  “Mr. Gathers, my name is Adam Cullen. I’m a journalist up here in Canada — Calgary, Alberta. I’m working with a private detective on behalf of a client who has been charged with murder. His name is Buckley-Rand Larmer.” I paused to catch my breath and maybe get a feel for whether he was with me so far.

  “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Adam Cullen,” I answered. “I just finished reading an interview you did with Larmer back in 2003 when you were still out in Buffalo, Wyoming. Have I got the right Martin Gathers?”

  There was a long pause and finally, “Son of a bitch.”

  I wasn’t sure how I should respond to that so I didn’t.

  “I remember that guy. Even read a couple of things about him. He’s up there in Canada, too, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is. Here in Calgary. Kind of a big deal on a conservative talk-radio station.”

  “Big deal, huh? How about self-righteous prick?”

  I was suddenly liking the hell out of Martin Gathers. “So you do know the gentleman. And yes, there are those who definitely see him in that light.”

  “You one of those who see him in that light?”

  “Mr. Larmer and I are not close.”

  Laughter on the line. “Nicely put. What can I do for you, Mr. Cullen?”

  “Adam. I understand Larmer was one of the guest speakers at some kind of conference that was taking place in Buffalo. I’m having trouble finding out much about it.”

  “Well, no shit. I was right there and I couldn’t find out anything about it. Very secretive. To hear Larmer tell it, everybody who was anybody from the political right was going to be there, but, of course, he wasn’t able to name names.”

  “So you interviewed him before the conference got underway.”

  “Yeah, I ran into him in a bar in town. Just up the street from the old Occidental Hotel — you must have heard of the place.”

  “So
rry, can’t say I have.”

  “Owen Wister’s The Virginian. You familiar with the book?”

  “Know it and read it.”

  “Well, that’s the place he wrote about in the novel where the big shoot-em-up takes place at the end. Anyway, none of that matters shit. I see this guy in the bar and he’s a stranger in town so I get to talking to him. He gets just drunk enough to get me interested in this big event he’s going to be part of but not drunk enough to tell me anything useful. Mostly spiels about his view of the world. He didn’t even tell me where the thing was taking place. I talked to everybody in town. If people knew anything, and I think maybe some of them did, they got paid to keep their mouths shut. I even drove around the countryside some to see if I could see something that looked like it might be them. Never found a damn thing.”

  “I notice you didn’t run a picture with the piece.”

  “Nope, he wouldn’t let me. Said we could talk but no photo.”

  “Larmer didn’t happen to mention any names of people involved in organizing the thing, did he?’

  “Nope, sorry. It was like everything was this big secret, you know?”

  “Did he tell you anything else about the conference or even that it was a conference?”

  “You read my article; what I got, you got.”

  “And nothing after the fact, once they were gone — nobody got a little chattier about anything?”

  “Uh-uh, not a damn thing. So did he kill somebody?”

  “We don’t think so.”

  “Too bad.”

  “We think the murder he’s accused of carrying out could be part of a series of killings of right-wing media luminaries. You ever hear anything about that?”

  “Nope. We’ve got one of those stations here — I guess every place bigger than Buffalo has one, but I haven’t heard about a conspiracy to waste the talent. Of course, I don’t listen to that crap so maybe that’s why.”

  I was disappointed that Gathers hadn’t given me more, but I couldn’t think of anything else to ask that might get us any further along.

  “Listen, Martin, how about I give you my phone number and if you think of anything else, I’d appreciate a call.”