Nothing to Hide

by Allison Brennan

  William shook his head. “He was a thorn in my side for years, but that lawsuit was uncalled for. My attorney wanted me to settle, but I refused—largely on principle. When one frivolous lawsuit gets a settlement, more come. It’s a slippery slope, and on this I was willing to take a stand, whatever the cost. We were vindicated. Mr. Andres wrote letters to the editor, to us, to the state and federal licensing boards—but eventually he stopped, and I haven’t heard from him in more than a year.”

  “Did he threaten Mr. James in any way?”

  “He threatened everyone he believed crossed him. He threatened lawsuits and bad publicity, but never physical injury. I don’t like the man, but I cannot see him killing anyone.”

  Jerry made the note. “You told me when we first met that Steven didn’t have a life insurance policy.”

  “He didn’t feel there was a need. We have a policy that all employees receive one year’s salary in the event of death. And his daughter, poor Abby, she was taken care of by her mother.”

  “What happened to her mother?”

  “It was ten years ago—eleven next January, I believe. A weather-related accident coupled with alcohol. Multiple fatalities.”

  “The first Mrs. James had been drinking?”

  “No—another driver. He was killed as well, took Mrs. James and a family of three with him. A tragedy.”

  “Did you know Mr. James at the time?”

  “Only professionally. We’d worked on an audit together for a major corporation with headquarters in multiple states. I learned to admire and respect him through that project, and when he contacted me—and several other companies—about relocating from California, I created a board position for him here. So he would have more than just a job—he would have part of the company. I wanted him that badly. I had hoped…” He sighed.

  “What, Mr. Peterson?” Lucy prompted.

  “I’m semi-retired. I’d planned on having Steven take my position on the board within the next year.”

  “Could anyone have been upset about that?” Lucy asked. “Someone who might have wanted the position or felt they were better qualified?”

  “No one was better qualified. And everyone here knew when I hired him eight years ago that I was grooming him. Except maybe Steven himself. He could be … oblivious at times. Not in his job, of course. He was meticulous. But he didn’t come here to replace me. He came here because it was a good position doing what he liked, and he missed his wife. He thought it would be easier for him and Abby to adjust if he started fresh.”

  It had been a long shot—especially since the promotion wasn’t imminent—but it was worth asking.

  William continued. “Steven was a brilliant accountant. A good man. And his world revolved around his daughter. She’d been having nightmares after her mother died, and the move seemed to be good for her.”

  “So the first Mrs. James had a large life insurance policy.”

  “I wouldn’t know. But you do know who her family was?”

  “No.”

  “Bridget’s maiden name was O’Connell. Her family was from Montecito, a wealthy community near Santa Barbara. They had old money, back to turn-of-the-century holdings. Land, mostly. Steven explained once, but I honestly don’t remember the details. I know that Bridget was the only heir. There are other branches of the family, but Bridget’s parents, when they died, left her millions. Her estate was vast, and half of it went into a charitable family trust, and the other half went to Abby. My partner, Joyce Witherspoon, specializes in estate planning, and while Abby’s trust is managed by a law firm in California, Steven hired Joyce to audit the trust. The last report on Abby’s trust was that it had grown to over fifteen million dollars.”

  “They don’t live lavishly,” Lucy said. “They have a nice home in a good area and Abby goes to a private school, but they don’t live like they’re worth millions.”

  “Of course not—Steven was frugal. And he felt strongly that it was Abby’s money. They lived on his and his wife’s salaries. And Abby can’t touch her funds until she’s twenty-one, except for schooling and a small monthly allowance.”

  “Does Steven’s death change any of the terms of Abby’s trust?” Lucy asked.

  “No. We manage her estate, but we don’t control the funds.”

  “I don’t see how that works,” Jerry said.

  “We oversee the accounts. Audit regularly, make sure the funds are invested conservatively. That was the way Steven set it up—he was not a bull in the marketplace. He believed in the tried-and-true method of steady growth, and our clients loved him for it. But Joyce knows far more about the estate than I do. I would suggest you talk to her.”

  “Is she available now?” Jerry asked.

  “I’ll walk you down to her office and we’ll talk to her secretary.” He rose. “You don’t think that Steven’s death had anything to do with Abby’s inheritance?”

  “We haven’t ruled anything out,” Jerry said.

  Lucy couldn’t imagine that a trust that couldn’t be accessed until Abby was twenty-one was the motive behind Steven James’s death … especially when there were two similar murders.

  But like Jerry said, they hadn’t ruled anything out. And greed was always a powerful motivator.

  * * *

  Joyce Witherspoon was in a client meeting, but her assistant set up an appointment with them for tomorrow morning. Might be nothing, but investigations were often baby steps. Checking out everything to see where it might lead.

  Jerry drove to Helotes, a suburb west of San Antonio, where George Andres lived. Lucy’s last case had brought her out here, and she’d become familiar with the area.

  “I was reading over Andres’s cases last night,” Jerry said. “He won a civil suit against a restaurant for food poisoning sixteen years ago, cleared a quarter million dollars. Since, he’s spent at least that on nine different lawsuits, seven of which were thrown out, one he settled out of court for an undisclosed amount, and one went to trial and he lost.”

  “It’s like he won one case and is looking for reasons to sue.”

  “Or he’s just a jerk. Defending lawsuits is expensive and takes a lot of time. That’s why so many companies settle. They weigh the cost of settlement with the cost of fighting.”

  “But that increases the number of lawsuits,” Lucy said. “If each case was decided solely on the merits of the case, and not settled just because it’s cheaper than going to court, fewer frivolous lawsuits would be filed.”

  “Tell that to the lawyers and insurance companies,” Jerry mumbled.

  George Andres lived at the end of a cul-de-sac in a fifteen-year-old development. Bikes and basketball hoops over garage doors told the story of a family neighborhood. Though Lucy wasn’t enamored with the architecture or tract-home feel where every house looked the same with slight color variations, she could appreciate the safe community, the cheaper properties filled with growing families, and the good schools.

  George Andres certainly didn’t fit the profile of a resident. He was divorced, in his fifties, and as soon as Lucy stepped onto his porch, she had a feeling he might have the personality of Mr. Wilson without the nice wife.

  There was literally a sign at the edge of the property that said:

  STAY OFF THE GRASS

  Another sign leading up the walk:

  PROTECTED BY A-WATCH SECURITY

  And of course the standard plaque over the doorbell:

  NO SOLICITORS

  The yard was immaculate—expertly trimmed trees, the ground half rock and drought-resistant plants, the other half a perfectly manicured lawn. His car wasn’t in the driveway, but a man like this would probably store it in the garage.

  They approached the door. In the corner was a security camera. “Who is this guy?” Jerry said.

  He knocked on the door, then held his badge up to the camera.

  A moment later the door opened. They could barely see Andres with the security screen.

  “Mr. Andres?”<
br />
  “Yes. Who are you?”

  Jerry showed him his badge. “Investigator Jerome Walker, Bexar County Sheriff’s Office. This is FBI Special Agent Lucy Kincaid. We’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

  “About what?”

  “Steven James.”

  “You’ll need to talk to my lawyer. The lawsuit against Mr. James was erroneously dismissed last year.”

  “We’re not here about the lawsuit. We’re here about Mr. James’s murder.”

  “Saw that on the news. That has nothing to do with me.”

  “We just have a few questions.”

  “I have nothing to say. If you have questions, you can send them to my lawyer and then I’ll answer them.”

  This was ridiculous. Could this disagreeable man have killed Steven James in cold blood? Planned it? Probably. Executed it? Lucy didn’t think so. But she knew better than to judge a killer on the surface.

  “Mr. Andres,” she said with a half smile, “we truly only have a few questions, and attorneys are expensive. It doesn’t cost us anything but time, but for you it could be pricey.”

  “Not if I sue you for false accusations!”

  “We haven’t accused you of anything. We simply want to understand what led up to your lawsuit and whether you harbor ill will toward Mr. James.”

  “Because he’s dead,” he said flatly.

  “Yes.”

  He grunted. “At least you’re honest.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Mr. Andres. In fact, we could clear everything up in five minutes right now so that our bosses will be satisfied we’ve done due diligence, or I can tie up your lawyers for days responding to questions. It’s your decision.”

  “Five minutes. And if I don’t like the direction of the conversation, then it’s over.”

  “Fair enough. May we come in?”

  She wanted to look at where he lived, what he did with his time.

  “You have to take off your shoes in the foyer.”

  “Well, for shitsake,” Jerry mumbled.

  “We can talk outside,” Andres said.

  “We are happy to take off our shoes,” Lucy said with a smile.

  Jerry grumbled again but left his boots in the foyer. He wore black socks with bucking broncos. Lucy grinned at him. He glared at her. Andres was oblivious.

  They sat in the formal dining room. The house was sparsely furnished and very clean. No carpets, only tile—which was nice in the hot summers, but with no carpet why take off their shoes? To each his own, Lucy thought.

  A portrait over the mantel showed Andres and his family. For a moment Lucy felt sorry for him. He had once been married, and his wife was lovely—he also had two girls. In the picture they were about three and five. They would likely be in college, or older, now. Had he always been this way or had his cleanliness and suspicion grown since the divorce? His picture was formal, but he was smiling and looked almost happy. Unlike the sour fifty-year-old who sat in front of them now with thinning gray hair perfectly gelled back.

  “Five minutes,” Andres said.

  Jerry was uncomfortable here. He seemed almost afraid to touch anything. Lucy smiled at Andres. “We reviewed your lawsuit and saw that it was dismissed by the judge. According to records, there was a verbal altercation between you and Mr. Peterson after the judge’s statement, and Mr. James intervened on the behalf of his employer.”

  “I’m positive he bribed the judge. I can’t prove it.”

  “It would be difficult to prove,” she said, humoring him.

  “Exactly. Especially with cash.”

  “Did you have any contact with Mr. James after that day in court?”

  “No. He sent a courier to return my files. I want nothing to do with Allied or anyone there.”

  “Fair enough. So you haven’t seen Mr. James, even in passing. At a store or restaurant?”

  “No.”

  “According to DMV records you own a 2017 Lexus.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you own or drive any other vehicles?”

  “No.”

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Andres?” He was home on a Wednesday morning, which was odd.

  “I worked for a telecommunications company until last March when a workplace accident required me to go out on disability.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He seemed surprised by her empathy, and nodded his appreciation of her concern.

  “Were you home Friday night?”

  “No.”

  She wasn’t expecting that answer.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Is it important?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this the last question?”

  “It depends on your answer.”

  “I was in Baton Rouge this weekend. My youngest daughter is a freshman at LSU and it was parents’ weekend. I drove out there Friday morning, returned Sunday afternoon.”

  He looked over her shoulder to the portrait Lucy knew to be on the wall. She glanced at it, too. When she looked back at him, she felt pity. This was a man who’d lost his family long ago, and probably didn’t even know why.

  “Your family is lovely. What is your daughter studying?”

  “She hasn’t decided. She’s very bright and has talked about law school. My oldest daughter is in her last year at Texas A and M. We fully expect her to graduate magna cum laude in biochemistry.”

  “You should be very proud.”

  “If that is all?”

  “Where did you stay in Baton Rogue?”

  “Embassy Suites downtown.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  He walked them to the door. Jerry struggled to pull on his boots while standing. Lucy stepped into hers, zipped up the sides, and shook Andres’s hand. It was soft—extremely soft. There were no bruises, no cuts, no calluses.

  This was not a man who could have pummeled a man to death or shot him in the face.

  They left and Jerry sped off. “Piece of work.”

  “I feel sorry for him.”

  “His alibi will be easy enough to verify. Dead end.”

  “You didn’t think he was the killer, did you?”

  “I didn’t know what to think. Take my boots off. Really.”

  “I like your socks.”

  He glared at her. “I suppose you did well back there.”

  “Suppose? Is that your idea of a compliment? If we had to jump through hoops and exchange questions through lawyers, it would take days—if not weeks. We were there for less than fifteen minutes and we know he didn’t kill these men.”

  “Sorry, it should have been a compliment. I reckon I’m just tired of cheaters. A cheating wife, a guy cheating the system.”

  “Being a cop you see the worst in people—but sometimes the best.”

  He sighed. “Usually the worst. At least it’s a line to scratch off, but it doesn’t bring us any closer to finding out who did this.”

  * * *

  They returned to BCSO and went to the cafeteria to eat lunch, fortunately missing the rush. By the time they were done, Carl Franklin was in the building. Jerry was surprised when the deputy told him.

  “What happened when you went to his place?”

  “I found him at work—he’s an electrician. I did exactly what you said—told him that you needed to talk to him about the Standish homicide, at his convenience, and would he prefer to come in this afternoon or have you come out? He said he’d come in right away—I think he thinks that you’ve solved it.”

  “Good work,” Jerry said. “What about Johns?”

  “He’s out of town.”

  “Convenient,” Lucy said.

  “He works for a computer company and has been installing cable up in Amarillo for the last two weeks. Doesn’t get back until Saturday. The owner said that he’s happy to send you his work schedule if you need it. He does have a record—served three months in jail for a second DUI after crashing his car into a fence. Boss said he’s been sober
ever since.”

  “Get his work records—when he was on and off. It’s nearly sixteen hours round trip,” Jerry said. “Be difficult to manage without someone wondering where he was. Also find his contact information. Even if we confirm his alibi, I want to talk to him.”

  “I’m on it, sir,” the deputy said. “Mr. Franklin is in interview two.”

  “Thanks.”

  Lucy followed Jerry down the hall. He knocked, then entered the room. Carl Franklin was a pleasant-looking man with a thick five-o’clock shadow, rough hands that said he worked hard with them—but no visible cuts or scrapes. He stood when they entered, his baseball cap in his hands.

  “Thank you for coming down,” Jerry said. “This is FBI Agent Lucy Kincaid. We’re working together to find out what happened to your friend, and two other men who were more recently killed.”

  “I saw the news. Are you sure it’s the same guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “The media is saying it’s a serial killer. We don’t have serial killers in San Antonio.”

  That certainly wasn’t true. The area had just as many notorious killers as most cities.

  “Mr. Franklin,” Jerry said using a fatherly tone, “when I talked to you nearly two months ago, after Billy was killed, you said you didn’t know anyone who would have wanted him dead. You were upset, said you were his best friend.”

  “I was—we were friends in high school, but in a large group. Over the years, you know, people go, but Billy and I stayed close. He was a good guy.”

  “I believe that. He did have a few problems with his drinking.”

  “Yes, sir, he did, but he wasn’t a mean drunk. Like I said, the bar fights were usually over stupid shi—stuff, like football. Nobody disses his Cowboys, you know?”

  “Right. And I confirmed that with the people involved in the altercations. Did you know that Billy had a life insurance policy?”

  “A what? Well, I don’t know that I knew, but I’m sure he did.”

  “Why? It seems odd that a twenty-nine-year-old would have a life insurance policy.”