Second Hand Smoke: Blood on Wolfe's Words

by Bill Capron

  Simpson answered, “Not only men. I had a friend like Mona Morgan. Well, not totally, but she couldn’t get enough sex. I stopped being her friend when she wouldn’t stop talking about it. She couldn’t get it through her head that graphic sex wasn’t girl talk. Well, she was almost killed by some guy she picked up. She’s not so pretty anymore, but I hear she’s at it again. I’m surprised this Mona survived so long.”

  “Maybe you’re the one who should be giving lessons. I can’t fathom where Mona and your friend, come from.”

  Chapter 3 - Thursday, June 22 - 7:30 am

  The rain soaked bodies were walled between two connected booths in the corner of the restaurant, separate from the pre-workday crowd. Robin motioned to the end of the table for more coffee. A balding runner, Dave, overweight but still fast, shimmied from his chair and got the fresh pot from the waitress station. The staff had long since given up trying to stop them, and anyway, it made everyone’s job easier. And they were good tippers.

  Dave topped off coffees all around; he said with some acid in his voice, “They found some woman shot in a motel out in Gresham. Too bad it couldn’t be Mona.”

  Dave actually knew Mona, had dated her, but he didn’t use that word. He was attracted, smitten, captured, infatuated, addicted and discarded, all in one night. Dave had no kind thoughts for Mona.

  A pretty redhead with out-turned ears added, “Yeah, Robin, right MO, but you couldn’t be that lucky.”

  Carla whispered into his ear, “God works in strange and wondrous ways. You can only hope.”

  Robin held both hands up, palms outward. “Come on guys, let’s not talk like that. Me, I want her out of my life, that’s it.”

  How did my life become grist for this mill?

  Peter, sitting on the other side of him, suggested, “You know, Robin, you could tie the settlement to her getting out of Portland.”

  Robin said, “It doesn’t matter if she stays. When I see her, I won’t even remember we were married.” But that’s not true.

  Carla put a manicured finger in the middle of his chest. “You’re a better man than I, Gunga Din.”

  Dave pointed to the television and quiet descended over the table.

  The announcer intoned, “We are going to the Gresham motel where early this morning a young woman was found shot to death. Dennis Morrow, what can you tell us?”

  The next picture was one of those useless on the scene shots where all that remained of the crime was the yellow tape. A tall ugly reporter who’d never make anchor said, “Jack, the police left the motel an hour ago. They are not divulging the name of the deceased until notification of the next of kin. From a reliable source, we know the woman was found naked in the bed, killed by a single shot to the chest fired though a pillow. She was registered as Jane Jones. There is some speculation on the woman’s identify, but nothing firm at this time. We do know she is married and had been with a man she’d met at the Marriott, not her husband, but that story is unconfirmed.”

  Robin spoke to the screen; “So why tell us.”

  Earlier footage came up. “Detective Maureen McMartin is leading the investigation. We asked her whether the police had made any progress.”

  The voice of the detective was soft, the words chosen carefully; “We are following up on hard leads at the moment, but nothing that we can make public.”

  The station cut back to the reporter. “Jack, we’ll keep you informed as the facts come in. Reporting from Gresham, this is Dennis Morrow.”

  Robin intoned into the table, “Nothing like getting a few lonely husbands really scared.”

  Canby said, “Hey, she’s real cute for a cop.”

  From the end of the table, Dave added, “She was real cute for an anything.”

  One brown haired woman in the middle of the table complained, “Don’t you guys get tired of your overt sexism. God, it’s got to be tough enough being a cop without your attitude everywhere she turns.”

  Canby, the ex-cop turned lawyer, stared at her and rubbed his hands together in fake anticipation. “You must be kidding, Bobbie. It’s not fun if it’s not overt.”

  He asked Robin, “So, any chance it could be the ever indiscrete Mona?”

  He blushed at the thought of how much easier his life would be with Mona dead; but she hadn’t earned that, not from him anyway. “I hope not.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Maureen’s car sloshed through the puddle in the driveway of her bungalow in Milwaukie. As she retrieved her checkbook from the kitchen table she noticed the books on the coffee table, right where they’d been last night. She padded softly to Meg’s room, knocked and entered.

  The thirteen year-old rubbed her eyes as her mother said, “You bus left ten minutes ago. What are you doing here?”

  In the middle of a yawn, “Sleeping.”

  Maureen suppressed her irritation. “So, you don’t plan on going to school today?”

  Meg levered herself upright and landed her feet noisily on the bedroom floor. “No, Mom, I’m going.”

  Anger sharpened the edge of her voice; “Yeah, right, easy to say now. Meg. You have to take some responsibility for your life. I can’t be following up on you every minute of the day.”

  Meg was already taller than her mother, thin as a rail with bulges in the right places, and pretty enough that boys would be a problem sooner rather than later. She turned towards the bathroom and spoke without looking at her mother; “Sure, mom, like you take responsibility for me, right? It’s your job that’s number one, two and three. Guess that makes me four.”

  Maureen blushed at the blistering truth of her statement. She blurted, “I’ll drop you off at school. See if you can make yourself presentable in thirty minutes,” to the slammed bathroom door.

  Maureen plopped herself in front of her daughter’s computer, hit the wake up button and logged onto the internet. She found the website for FindIt and printed fifteen pages of products and services. There was a brief biography on Robin Morgan.

  “Robin Morgan, the founder of FindIt, is an internationally recognized expert in the acquisition of capital equipment. Morgan has a master’s degree in Mathematics from University of Buffalo in New York. He and VP Dick Kaye have over thirty years of experience in capital asset acquisition and implementation projects. Morgan is forty-two years old, an avid fly-fisher and golfer. A complete list of professional organizations and published articles follows.”

  True to their word, there was a bibliography of more than sixty articles.

  Maureen returned to the search engine for more references to FindIt. She found an article in the Oregonian business page, headlined, ‘Local Firm on the Block’. It was a two paragraph article about the company being acquired by King, Inc, a worldwide consulting firm headquartered in Chicago. She printed the article and returned to the website.

  Her daughter said to her back, “I thought you’d forgotten how to use the computer. We used to spend a lot of time looking stuff up. I almost remember what it was like.”

  Maureen returned her attention to Meg. “Yeah, me too. I sort of remember having a daughter who loved me then.”

  Meg’s response was immediate; “I think you’ve got the cause and effect mixed up, Mom.”

  Maureen shut down the computer. The defensive silence she attributed to Meg now held her own tongue. She kept her attention on the road through the quick swish of the windshield wipers.

  Meg asked, “So what’s got you using the computer?”

  “It’s a case I walked into today.”

  The girl probed further, “What case?”

  Maureen resisted her all too common response of ‘nothing that would interest you, honey’. Instead, “It’s a murder case, Meg. A woman was murdered this morning, or last night, shot to death in a hotel room. We’re trying to find the husband right now.”

  “It’s not the president of FindIt, is it?”

  Maureen slammed on the brakes and skidded into the curb.

  Her daughter stammered, “I saw y
ou in their website, from the bathroom.”

  The mom was incredulous; “You can read the computer screen from the bathroom?”

  “No, but I saw the logo.” She answered the confusion in her mother’s face; “I’ve been in their website. My home room teacher, Miss Robbins, used to work for FindIt, and she talks about her experiences with the company.” Meg looked at her watch. “Mom, I’m going to be late.”

  “I’ll write you an excuse.” She pulled the notebook from her jacket pocket. “Did she talk about Robin Morgan?”

  “Sure.” Meg blushed, like she was telling a secret. “We could tell she really liked the guy. She said it was the best job of her life, but she couldn’t take the pressure.” Then, in a conspiratorial kind of whisper, “I think it was a classic case of unrequited love.”

  Maureen eyes came up from her scribbling. A quizzical look marked her mouth, but her eyes smiled. “Oh, you do, do you?”

  The young girl nodded vigorously. “Yes, mom. Miss Robbins is quite pretty, and she’s not used to going unnoticed by men. That’s what she couldn’t take.” While Maureen digested the thought, Meg continued, “Was it Robin Morgan’s wife who was murdered in that motel?”

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I was resting.”

  A stern tone crept into Maureen’s voice; “This is between us girls, all right?”

  Delight lit the girl’s face.

  Maureen eased the car forward again. “Yes, Mona Morgan was murdered, and yes, Robin Morgan is a suspect.”

  Before she finished the sentence, Meg said, “He didn’t do it.”

  She almost hit the brakes again. “Come again?”

  Meg was adamant; “He didn’t do it, Mom. The man Miss Robbins described wouldn’t murder anyone. She was spurned.” Maureen turned her head to her daughter, and then back to the road. “I learned that word from Wanda. She was spurned, but she had nice things to say about him.”

  When Maureen stopped in front of Meg’s school, she finished with a warning; “Now don’t say anything about this. Nothing has been announced yet. You can tell me what else you know when I get home. Comprende?”

  Meg nodded before sprinting through the steady rain for the front door.

  Maureen watched the disappearing back of the pretty girl who for the moment seemed like a daughter again. It was the first time in months they had gone more than ten minutes without arguing.

  Could Meg be right, that it was Maureen shutting out Meg? And if her job was the most interesting part of her life, sharing it might help them both.

  She pressed the accelerator and turned her thoughts to Robin Morgan.

  ~ ~ ~

  Maureen scanned the lobby on the eighteenth floor of the River Tower; an expansive view took in the downtown waterfront south to Ross Island and north to the Burnside Bridge; she located the puddle filled empty stalls of the Saturday Market as soggy runners splashed through Waterfront Park.

  The lobby was done in pale grays and blues. There was an air of efficient calmness. An overweight receptionist, in her mid thirties, said Dick Kaye would meet with her, and led her to a large corner office overlooking the West Hills. There was an increasing bustle as she passed into the heart of the facility.

  Dick Kaye was good looking in a Hollywood kind of way, not a hair out of place. He was five-nine, or a little less, and though the skin of his face had seen too much sun, he was physically fit, in an older guy kind of way. His gold Rolex probably cost her month’s salary. A pair of reading glasses hung from a tether around his neck. There was a framed picture of a very pretty blond woman on his black desk. Kaye looked self assured without looking cocky.

  Kaye stood and shook her hand. “What can I do for the police department?” he asked.

  Maureen said she was with Homicide; the self assuredness left Kaye’s face.

  He asked, “So, who’s been killed?” There was a quick look of panic. “Robin’s all right, isn’t he?”

  She nodded. “As far as I know Robin Morgan is fine. I’d like to see him, though, to ask a few questions. When do you expect him?”

  Kaye’s right hand was making circles as he thought. “After lunch. He’s got a meeting with his lawyer.”

  She could see his brain working.

  “It’s that woman in the motel? I heard about it on the ride in. Was it,” a long pause which the detective did nothing to alleviate, “Mona?”

  Stunned, suspicious, she controlled her voice; “You’re not surprised, Mr. Kaye?”

  He plopped into his chair. “Nothing about Mona surprises me, Detective McMartin.” After another pause, “You can’t suspect Robin?”

  Maureen was noncommittal; “I need to talk to him, Mr. Kaye, to notify him of her death. I’d appreciated it if you kept this news under your hat. We haven’t announced Mrs. Morgan’s identity yet.”

  He talked at his desk. “Sure, Detective, I can do that.” He opened his calendar and pointed very blue eyes at her. “Is there anything else I can do to help you?”

  He wants me to leave! Yeah, like that’s going to happen. “Yes, now that you mention it. I have questions about Robin Morgan, and I need to see his office.”

  His statement was matter of fact, “Don’t you need a search warrant for that?”

  “Not if you let me in.” She watched his eyes, kept up a visual pressure, shrugged her left shoulder. “But I can get one if I need to.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “No, that’s not necessary. Robin would say okay. In fact, why don’t we talk in there?”

  He led her around a corner past a glass walled conference room. Morgan’s name was handwritten on a white plaque set in the wall. The tiny office contained three upright chairs between the desk and the door; there was no window, a single print on the wall.

  “Isn’t this a bit,” she searched for a word, “Spartan for the head of a major company? I mean?” She left the question to hang.

  Kaye chuckled. “You mean compared to the vice president’s office.”

  She nodded as she settled into the chair next to Kaye.

  “I’m in his office. It’s what he wanted. I’ve been running the operation for a year as he winds down.” The executive lowered his voice, like he was telling her a secret; “Robin is more comfortable here. He’s not a corner office guy.”

  She swept her hand in an arc. “But this?”

  Kaye explained, “He felt this office fit his current level of contribution, but he was wrong.”

  “He’s a fisherman.” Maureen pointed her chin at the lone print of two trout holding their position in the current; a rod with a broken tip rested in the corner. She picked up a box of flies from his desk. “Does he tie his own flies?”

  Kaye nodded.

  She held one up. “Not a real pretty fly.”

  Kaye took the fly from her hand and twisted it in the light. “He calls it caddis no sink; says he can see the white elk hair in the current.”

  She reached a little farther and turned the picture frame on his desk. “Who’s this?” she asked.

  Kaye’s reply was curt; “That’s Rebecca Young.” Maureen waited. He squirmed under her gaze. “She was his compass.”

  “Compass?”

  A sadness descended on Kaye, and then it was gone. “Yes. It’s Robin’s word for her. Like a movie I saw about a man whose wife died. He wrote her a letter, calling her his true north.”

  “I remember that movie. So Rebecca Young was his true north, and not his wife?”

  Kaye decided he couldn’t explain it to her. “Yes.”

  It begged the question; “So why didn’t he marry her instead of Mona?”

  There was recollected mourning in his voice; “She died in a car accident. It grieved us all.”

  “So she lives on, on his desk?” Maureen drew the facile conclusion; “Seems death has saved him a fortune before.”

  Kaye’s eyes drew together, sharpened his voice; “What do you mean, Detective?”

  She was worthy of his glare, her eyes
met his. “Well, it seems two people with a claim to his good fortune are dead, wouldn’t you say?”

  He pointed a finger at her. “That’s bullshit, Detective. He’d give up everything for Rebecca. He is a good man.”

  She moved past his anger. “I take it he was good to you, Mr. Kaye?”

  He rubbed his chin, searched her eyes, found no understanding. “He’s been very good to me;” he swept his hand to take in the company; “to everyone here. More than he had to, more than could be expected.”

  What is it about this guy? “I detect a note of reverence, Mr. Kaye. What if he murdered his wife? Will you all still admire him?”

  Kaye’s answer was immediate, as if it was on the tip of his tongue, waiting for her to ask it; “Yes!” The blue eyes didn’t waver. “But he didn’t murder his wife. She was already gone, and he was paying the price.”

  Why is everyone so defensive of Robin Morgan? “A pretty penny, I understand.”

  It was like a broken record; “It’s money, nothing important.”

  Maureen changed tack; “What about other women. I mean, he’s almost free, so who’s he spending time with? Someone at the office?”

  Kaye’s demeanor returned to that of the arm’s length businessman. “No one. Right now he’s consumed with closing this sale.”

  She recalled Franconi’s comment. “I hear women hit on him all the time. You’re telling me he’s shooting them down?”

  Kaye nodded as if the answer were obvious.

  Disbelief shaded her question; “Why?”

  Kaye shrugged his shoulders. “For the principle of it. He doesn’t want to be Mona.” Kaye thought before continuing; “He got scammed down the primrose path. This is his penance.”

  Sarcastically, “Well, is there anyone who’d have killed her to help this paragon of men.”

  He leaned towards her, their shoulders grazing. “You can cool it with the attitude, Detective, it doesn’t become you.”

  She blushed.

  He answered the question; “There are probably ten women in here who’d off her as a favor to him.”