“First thing in the morning, I am declaring Gordon Maxwell a ‘person of interest’ in your father’s death. At the same time, I will have a warrant for his arrest for attempting to defraud the Northern Forest Resorts and their Partridge Lodge development. What you two need to understand are two things: first, I have no proof yet of Maxwell’s involvement in your father’s death.”
Again, Molly opened her mouth and Lew shut her down. “But I am convinced he is involved. You do not have to worry about that. My investigation is ongoing and I promise to keep you updated.
“What concerns me right now is the difficulty I run into proving Maxwell’s efforts to commit fraud, if not embezzlement. The legal twist that makes that difficult is that we—meaning the Loon Lake Police and the district attorney—have to prove that there has been an intent to defraud the parent company.”
“I don’t understand,” said Molly.
“Maxwell can allege that he was simply bad at doing business. Hiring the wrong people, submitting error-filled invoices, and so on. And he has the money to hire lawyers skilled at proving that he didn’t know he was doing the wrong thing. Happens all the time in fraud cases.
“I was just told that by our district attorney, who is a smart guy and, by the way, married to Doc’s daughter, Erin. Mark is the DA’s name and he has been down this road before so he knows.”
“Is this true?” asked Osborne. “Are you saying that Maxwell’s defense could be that he was too stupid to handle the finances correctly?”
“He can also allege—now that Chuck is dead and not here to defend himself—that it was all Chuck’s fault. That it has been Chuck who made critical errors in reporting the finances and making the payments.”
“Excuse me,” said Jessie. “I’m not the math whiz my sister is but I am wondering how much money we’re talking about?”
“We think ten million dollars or more may have been embezzled from the Partridge Lodge accounts using this Tom Patterson and his supposed construction firm as a front through which Maxwell laundered the kickbacks.
“Meanwhile, Maxwell has had another scam going. He bought property from at least one elderly, financially naive individual whose land abuts the Partridge Lodge development for a significantly distressed price. He appears to be in the process of reselling the same property to Partridge Lodge for five hundred seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“What do you mean ‘in the process’ and whose land are we talking about?” asked Osborne. “How did you find this out?”
“Dani discovered the potential sale of the property to the Partridge Lodge development in Chuck’s e-mails—an e-mail that arrived after Chuck’s death. An e-mail sent for two reasons: first, to make it look like Maxwell had no idea that Chuck had been killed; and, second, to give the proposed land sale the appearance of a legitimate transaction.
“I happen to know about the property in question because it belonged—or, I hope, still belongs—to my former mother-in-law. She came to me for help when a good friend convinced her she had been bamboozled. Lorraine is a dear person, but she is in her late eighties, hard of hearing, and”—Lew sighed—“not very bright.
“Maxwell’s plan, I think, is that a new CFO will replace Chuck and he’ll be able to slip the purchasing of that land from the company he is using as a front, which is the same company that has been receiving payments based on the forged invoices.”
“So he has made millions of dollars doing this?” asked Molly.
“So far. If I can’t stop him, if the courts can’t stop him, he may make more. Or”—Lew pressed her lips together in a grim smile—“he may decide to take what he has, and skedaddle like he did in Florida.”
“Stopping the fraud is in the hands of the lawyers,” said Lew. “I am convinced he will be stopped but it will take time. As I said, Gordon has the resources to hire expert lawyers to make his case that he did not commit fraud intentionally. Our DA and his staff will have their hands full and it will take time to fight this. I hate to say this but it’s a little like the Loon Lake Market battling Walmart. Not hopeless but not easy.”
Osborne scooted his chair forward. Elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him, he said, “Look, Molly and Jessie, the way I see it, here’s the problem: you can let your anger with Gordon Maxwell take over your life or you can have confidence in Chief Ferris and her investigation—and in the legal team here in Loon Lake.
“Now it may take months, even a year, to nail Maxwell. He’s a gifted con man; he knows what he’s doing and how to do it.
“I know this will be hard,” said Osborne, keeping his eyes on the two sisters, “but I’m sure, very sure, that your father would agree with me: let go of this, get on with your lives. Do not let avenging your father’s death become an obsession.”
“Doc is right,” said Lew. “If you wake to this every morning, you’ll never move on. You’ll never have a life—marry, have children.”
Jessie had tears running down her cheeks. “So what are we supposed to do? Give up?”
“Absolutely not,” said Lew. “I want you to feel confident that justice will be done. Your father’s death will not go unpunished.”
Molly, who had been listening and saying nothing, put an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Jessie. We should let Chief Ferris take care of this. Dr. Osborne is right.”
Molly accepted their advice with such equanimity that Osborne was surprised. He had expected more argument, more anger, more tears. Relieved on the one hand, he couldn’t get over a gut feeling that Molly was holding something back.
* * *
After the girls had driven off, Osborne turned to Lew. “You must be exhausted. Ready for an early bedtime?”
“Yes, but not here, Doc. I need to be at my place. You’re welcome to join me but tomorrow is Monday and I want to be in the office by six at the latest. I want that warrant and I want Gordon Maxwell under arrest. He’ll make bail, I know. But he will have to stay in this jurisdiction—no more flying off to Las Vegas and who knows where else.”
With that, she sighed. “At least it’s a start. I’ve promised the girls. Let’s hope I can do the job.” She gave Osborne a sad smile. “Wish me luck.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Hey, Jess,” said Molly, glancing over at her sister sitting in the passenger seat of their rental car, “it’s been a long day. I need time to decompress. So I’m going to drop you off at the motel but I need to drive a little, maybe stop somewhere and have a beer. Okay with you? I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Sure. I’m exhausted and I still need to wash my hair. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”
Molly pulled into the parking lot of the Loon Lake Motel and waited while Jessie grabbed her purse and jacket. She watched her sister open the door to their room and go inside. She checked her watch. It was after nine.
She wasn’t sure when the blood-black animal had moved into her gut: Was it when she learned that Patti had been in the SUV with Maxwell and her father was sure they had tried to kill him? Was it when she saw Maxwell and Patti walk into Dr. Osborne’s yard after embracing and touch hands? Or was it when Chief Ferris said it might take years to convict Maxwell of fraud, of her father’s murder?
Didn’t matter: she knew what she had to do.
Minutes later she pulled into one of the half dozen parking spaces at the private hangar. The tiny main terminal for the Loon Lake Airport was dark. Molly wasn’t surprised. Commercial planes and even most of the private jets used the Rhinelander/Oneida County Airport. Pilots like herself, owners of single-engine aircraft, liked the convenience of the small airports—less air traffic and less expensive.
She pressed in the code for the side door and let herself in. She walked over to her plane, climbed inside, and reached for her tools. Outside her plane, she walked over to the six-seater Beechcraft Bonanza that she knew belonged to Gordon Maxwell.
Before she got started, she stood dead silent, making sure no mechanic was workin
g late. She peered all around. No one else was in the hangar. She scanned the overhead steel beams and along the top edges of the outer walls. No surveillance cameras. But she hadn’t expected any, not in a small rural town like Loon Lake where the only surveillance cameras were likely to be in the two public library restrooms.
The task was so simple, she found it hard to believe it would work. But she knew it would. Was it easier than altering and forging an invoice? Sure. Was it easier than bludgeoning a man on the side of the head? Sure. Was it something she could live with for the rest of her life? Molly smiled.
She was back at the motel in half an hour. Jessie was in her pajamas and blow-drying her hair in front of the bathroom mirror. When her hair had dried and she climbed into the queen-size bed they were sharing, she snuggled up to her older sister. “I hope I can sleep tonight,” she said with a sigh.
Molly wrapped her arms around Jessie’s shoulders and gave her a hug. “I hope you can, too, Jess. I’m pretty sure I will.
“Say, you know what? How about tomorrow morning we go get Dad’s fly rods and his fishing vest? Chief Ferris and Dr. Osborne and Peter said they’d take us fly-fishing later this week. And Mom always said the secret to a happy life is planning ahead.”
Jessie hugged her back. “Do you think that Ray guy might come, too? He’s cute.”
Molly punched her in the arm and said, “Silly girl, go to sleep now.” And the two of them giggled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Lew’s personal cell phone rang shortly after 2:00 a.m. As she climbed over Osborne to scramble for the phone, she said, “Sorry, Doc, but it’s your own fault. If you hadn’t insisted on following me out here to the farm, you could be getting a good night’s sleep.”
As she raised the phone to her ear, all she heard at first was heavy breathing. Thinking it was a crank call from someone trying random phone numbers, she was about to click off when a female voice whispered between labored breaths: “Chief Ferris?”
“Charlene? Is that you?” Lew was sure she recognized the caller. “Are you okay?”
“He’s here. In the shed. Looking for the money. I’m hiding in Benjy’s closet. Can you hear me?”
“Yes. I’ll be right there. Is he armed?”
“Not sure. He’s real angry for sure. Told him he can’t find the money ’cause he was drunk when he hid it and I don’t know where it is—”
A sudden crash and the wail of a child were followed by the phone clicking off.
“Doc, call nine-one-one and tell Dispatch to reach Officer Donovan. Emergency,” said Lew, grabbing her pants. “He’s on duty tonight and I need him to meet me at the Northwoods RV Haven camp on Lincoln Street at house number three-seven-oh-six ASAP. Might be a hostage situation and Patterson could be armed.” She grabbed a shirt and shoes.
“I’m coming, too.”
“I can’t wait for you, Doc. Whatever you do, don’t approach without a signal from me.”
“Got it. Don’t worry and be careful.” But Lew was out the door, still buckling her holsters, before he had finished talking.
* * *
At the trailer court, Lew hadn’t gone far down the two-lane road between the trailers when she saw a red pickup parked in front of Charlene’s place. Officer Donovan was waiting in his squad car on the other side of Charlene’s short driveway with his lights off. He blinked the lights once to let her know he saw her.
As Lew pulled up, she could see birch logs piled haphazardly in the bed of the pickup. A blue tarp, which had been thrown over the load, had slid halfway off, exposing the cargo.
Lew got out of her cruiser and motioned for Donovan to follow her. A light shone through an opening in the small shed to one side of the trailer home and she could see a man down on all fours rummaging through boxes. As she approached, he grabbed a tire and threw it behind him.
“Freeze, Patterson,” she said, holding her Sig Sauer in both hands and pointing it at Patterson. “You’re under arrest.”
“What the hell—” The kneeling man twisted sideways to stare up at her. “Get outta here. This is my house.”
“No it’s not,” screamed Charlene, who rushed through the screened door toward Lew. “He’s wrecking all my stuff, Chief Ferris,” she cried. “He smacked Benjy.” She was hysterical.
“Calm down, Charlene,” said Lew from where she was standing with her gun pointed at Patterson. “Officer Donovan, help her out, would you please?”
“What?” The man had got to his knees and was sputtering. “Why are you arresting me in my own house?”
“You’re under arrest for the theft of birch logs from private property,” said Lew.
“Fine,” said the man. “Let me find my money first.” He turned back toward the stack of tires.
“Give it up, Patterson,” she said. “I have your money.”
Tommy Patterson’s jaw dropped as he turned to look at the police officer standing in the driveway. “What did you say?”
* * *
At the police station, Lew and Osborne faced Patterson as they prepared to interrogate him together. “This is being recorded, Mr. Patterson, while Dr. Osborne and myself ask you a few questions,” said Lew. “At any time, you are welcome to call your lawyer.”
“Can’t afford it,” said Patterson with a wave of his hand. “You got all my money. But why is he here?” asked Patterson, pointing a finger at Osborne and sounding confused to see a man who had checked his teeth during school exams seated across from him in the Loon Lake Police Station.
“Dr. Osborne is one of my deputies,” said Lew. “He’s good at asking questions that are different from the ones I ask. Speaking of questions—how long have you been cutting and stealing birch logs?” Lew waited while Patterson stared down at his knuckles, which were resting on the table. His mouth moved.
“Don’t mumble, answer me,” said Lew. “Look, Mr. Patterson, the more honest you are, the less the penalties you’ll face. Now we’ve got the stolen logs in your truck and I have a witness who spoke with friends of yours who said they were cutting the birches for you, that you were paying them. So tell me—who buys these from you?”
“A guy in White Bear Lake over in Minnesota,” said Patterson. “I got his name in my phone but you took my phone.”
“Yes, I did,” said Lew. The phone was sitting on a counter along the wall and as if it had heard itself mentioned, it rang. Patterson looked over at it. “Can I answer?”
“No.” Lew waited for the ringing to stop. Then she got up and walked over to pick up the cell phone. She read the caller ID before setting the phone back down.
“Who was it?”
Lew ignored him. “Got another question for you first. How much do you get for a load of birch logs, Mr. Patterson?”
“The name is Tom,” he said wearily, “five hundred bucks. Then I pay my guys twenty-five or thirty each depending. What’ll I serve, Chief—a couple months? Can I get out on Huber?” He referred to the Wisconsin law that lets jail inmates hold jobs while incarcerated.
“How many loads have you delivered to this man in White Bear Lake?”
“Ten.”
“So you’ve made five thousand dollars?”
Patterson shrugged. “Yeah—’bout that.”
Lew got up and left the room. Osborne, seated beside her, watched Patterson’s face while Lew was gone. Chewing on a fingernail, he looked worried.
Lew walked back into the room and tossed a filthy dark green backpack onto the table in front of Patterson. “What’s inside, Tom?”
He hesitated, looked away, then said, “My money.”
“More than five thousand dollars.”
Silence.
“What job paid you twenty grand? . . . And why did you just receive a phone call from Gordon Maxwell?”
“I did?” Patterson did not look surprised. “Maybe ’cause I do special jobs for him sometimes? Nothing wrong with that.”
“No, there isn’t,” said Lew. She glanced over at Osborne, signaling
it was his turn.
“What kind of jobs, Tom?” asked Osborne, making sure he sounded friendly.
“Oh, office stuff mostly. Maybe deliver memos to the main office from his house where he likes to work. Maybe check out some pieces of property for ’em. He buys old cabins and stuff. Investments, y’know.”
“Investments?”
“Sure. See, Maxwell is one of those brilliant guys who sees money where the rest of us see trees.” Patterson had scooted forward on his chair and grinned at his own joke. “So I’ve been learning from him and one of these days, he said he’ll make me a partner.
“That guy has made millions and he’s gonna make millions more. All you gotta do is watch. Those boys in New York, I tell ya they don’t know what they’re sitting on but Gordy does.”
“And he’s going to cut you in?”
“Yep. Been helping him out and our first deal is almost done.”
Now Patterson sat back with a smug smile. During Lew’s questioning, Osborne had recognized him as one of the local men who attended Loon Lake High School athletic events wearing his letter jacket from a bygone era: his own glory days.
“When did you start working with Chuck Pelletier?” asked Osborne. “I understand you own a small construction company that has done some bridge work out on some of the Partridge Lodge properties.”
“Uh, not exactly,” said Patterson. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” Osborne looked down at one of the forged invoices that Lew had slid across the desk.
“Well, I see here an invoice from a firm that you own for bridge work. Your signature is on it.” He showed it to Patterson.
“Oh, that. That’s not my company. That’s one of Gordy’s.”
“So who got paid? You or Gordy?” Osborne used Patterson’s name for Maxwell.
“Gordy, of course. Yeah, see, my job was to deliver the memos and stuff on Sunday nights when Gordy finished all his paperwork.”
“What about the real estate?” asked Lew, rejoining the interrogation. “Did you help with that, too?”
Dead Firefly Page 14
