by Susan Slater
***
Having only one car was the pits. Elaine picked up Dan at three-thirty and dropped him off at the townhouse, then took off for Palm Coast and her Friday afternoon meeting with Scott Ramsey. She’d give Dan a call when she’d finished and maybe pick up takeout on the way home. The community seemed to have a number of Thai restaurants. Thai by Thai had gotten great reviews online; maybe she’d try that one. She tried not to dwell on what she knew or actually didn’t know about Stanley. It was becoming crazy-making, a burden even. She’d never kept secrets from Dan and this was fast becoming one. Throw his mother into the mix and the guilt was mounting.
The receptionist was on the phone when she got there, but waved her toward the conference room.
“Did you have time to get some reading done?” Scott indicated she take a chair on the other side of the small conference table.
“Better than that. I took the gun-safety class and completed the requirements for a permit to carry. And I tackled my first job.”
“First job? That’s great but why do I detect a less than enthusiastic response?”
Elaine filled him in, showed him her notes, the list of contacts, the results…the dead end. How this was all for her future mother-in-law and could have serious consequences. And even though the book warned about taking cases for family members, it had seemed so simple—not one warning that she might have stepped in over her head. But how, now, she wasn’t sure.
Scott pushed back from the table and didn’t say anything, then got up and closed the door to the conference room. The receptionist was gone by quarter to five; the office was empty. Closing the door put her on her guard. What could be so ominous as to require this kind of precaution?
“I’m going to give you my best guess. Until we prove something, please remember it’s just that—a guess. And let me compliment you—good work!” A pause, pursed lips, slight frown, fingers tapping on the edge of the table…“My guess is that Stanley, or whoever he is, is in the Witness Protection Program.”
“You mean like the FBI’s attempt to keep someone from being killed because they’ve testified against some high-profile criminal?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, my God.”
“I don’t want to sound callous but this area has been known to be a dumping ground for older candidates in the program—it’s a favorite with the government.”
“I find this so surreal. I mean you read about it but to know it really happens…”
“I’ll give you an example. How long have you been in this area?”
“One week.”
“I’m kinda surprised that you haven’t heard about Palm Coast’s one claim to fame already. It happened a couple years ago when the program placed Joey Calco in the area. You know who he is? A killer for the Bonanno crime family—the Beth Avenue crew? He helped the feds take down the clan’s one-time boss—the Feds owed him big-time. They brought him here, bought him a pizzeria, Goomba’s pizza joint, and there wouldn’t have been a problem if Joey hadn’t pistol-whipped a customer over a calzone.”
“Come on, you’re just making this up to give me a laugh. I mean, seriously, Goombas? A pistol-whipping over food?”
“I kid you not. They gave him a new name, Joseph Milano, a new social security number, the business I mentioned, a house, and a car. When the calzone story broke—Joey had not only accosted the customer with the calzone but had also been turned in for sexual harassment that same week—the Daytona News-Journal did some checking. Seems Milano shared the same birthdate with Calco and “both” men had a mother named Giuseppina. How’s that for coincidence? Think that might throw up a red flag?”
“What happened?”
“Well, the Sicilian-trained henchman known as crazy Joe had pretty much escaped any life sentence when he ratted on Bonanno consigliere Anthony Spero. It came down to deciding what to do with him. Joe public will probably never know if he was thrown back into prison or relocated. Supposedly he got a few more years behind bars.”
“What do you think? Did he go to prison?”
A shrug, a half-smile. “Just depends on how you want to look at things. I guess my message is if you don’t want a little excitement in your life, be careful of the calzones—there are a lot of pizza joints in this town.”
Elaine laughed. A good story but hard to believe. “Why Palm Coast? What makes this an ideal hiding place?”
“All the New Yorkers. Throw in more than a couple from New Jersey and the Feds’ guys can hide in plain sight. Easy cover. All I know is you don’t hear of any federal transplants setting up house in Alabama.”
“True. But it’s still hard to believe that Stanley could be…well…possibly involved with the mob.”
“Another rule of this business? Don’t assume and don’t make people what you want them to be. Open mind means just that.”
“If what you suspect is true, what do I tell Dan’s mother? Do you think she’s in danger?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. If it were my mother? I think I’d want her to first of all be safe. Feel safe. For starters, why don’t you encourage her to take the gun-safety class?”
“Great idea. I think she’d enjoy it.” Elaine shared a thumbs-up review of the class she’d just taken. Yet there was simply no way she could sell that to Dan. His mother with a gun? She knew him—that was out of his realm of thinking.
“So I should tell her your suspicions?”
“You know her better than I do. Would she panic? Dissolve into hysteria? Confront him?”
“My guess is none of those. The woman seems pretty together and careful. I may be more worried about what her son might do.” Elaine could only imagine Dan’s reaction.
“I wasn’t thinking of that. Let’s make certain this isn’t just conjecture—that we’re really onto something with Stanley. As much as I’d like to be wrong, I’d hate to share my suspicions and then be wrong—if that makes sense. I have some friends who might be able to help—at least tell us for certain if our suspicions are well founded. Why don’t you tell your fiancé what you know and give him my phone number? In the meantime I’ll make sure we’re telling the truth.”
***
The Panang curry and Thai fried rice with pineapple were both delicious. Elaine wasn’t certain a Dos XXs beer was the best compliment, but it sort of made an international meal out of it. Dessert was mango sorbet—Haagan Dazs, of course. And it took the time to finish dinner for her to decide exactly what to say to Dan. She’d started out by giving him a rundown on the gun-safety class and showing him her very first target. He was impressed and immediately reiterated about buying her a handgun and continuing target practice. He seemed genuinely pleased to be sharing an interest in shooting.
Finally, she couldn’t put off talking about the rest of her day any longer. She decided to keep it simple and stick to the facts. State what she’d found but also share Scott Ramsey’s suspicions. No hypotheses, no conclusions.
“I had no idea that mom was worried. She never said anything.”
“I think she knew how busy you were and, honestly, I think she wanted to help me. Neither one of us had any idea that it would lead in this direction.”
Dan twisted the cap off of a second beer. “What would you say to my having Mom fly into New Mexico, spend a couple days with Carolyn, and then drive back down here with Simon?”
“I think that’s a terrific idea.”
“It’d buy us a week or so to sort through things here—maybe even wrap things up on my side. And keep Mom out of harm’s way a little longer.”
“I miss Simon and I’m sure he misses us.”
“Yeah, we’ll have to figure out some beach-time for the guy.”
Dan didn’t mention the swimming pool and the game of doggy water polo he’d witnessed. But he’d even admit to missing Sadie, let alone Simon. He liked having a dog around
. “I’ll text Mom and see if she’ll do it.” And I’ll have to get used to Mom carrying a handgun in her purse. Dan sighed.
Chapter Ten
It’s funny how you never forget where you were when something big happens. Dan was trying to think through getting his mother out of town long enough to get some answers about Stanley, and wrap up a case in a way that he knew was all wrong, when the call came. Sometime after the mango sorbet and halfway through an episode of Foyle’s War, his cell rang. Not recognizing the number and thinking it was an interviewee with new information, Dan went out on the porch before answering.
“Mr. Mahoney, a dead dog just won the fifth race at the Mardi Gras Casino outside Miami.” Click.
A fist-pump in the air. “Yes.” The break. The one he knew was out there. The voice was, no doubt, Mel Paget. She’d taken Nero to the track in that area for Nero’s maiden race. And she, above and beyond anyone else, would recognize the five “dead” dogs supposedly killed in the fire. She’d been their trainer—this was ironclad information. Stuff he could take to the bank or use to reopen an almost shut case.
And then reality set in. He met Mel at the track late Sunday when she got back. The fifth race winner might as well have been a ghost. She’d gotten pictures of the dog winning and had a program giving the dog’s stats, but that was it. Dog and handler disappeared directly following the race. They seemingly evaporated. The trainer listed was someone Mel had never heard of; the kennel supposedly in Kansas never existed. The dog’s registration number didn’t match any on the list of insured dogs. Even Mel might have missed the dog had it not gone crazy wagging his tail and whining to reach her when they were at the weigh-in station before being led to the box.
“I know I spooked the handler who obviously told the trainer that the dog knew me. It was Mellow Yellow. They won the fifth race and were out of there. I’m so sorry I didn’t follow them to the parking lot, get a license number or something. I was just so taken by surprise. This really makes a lot of things different, doesn’t it?”
“If we can prove it. I’m afraid it doesn’t exactly exonerate Fucher. He could still be charged with the murder of Sanchez and a cover-up fire.”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that. But doesn’t it make sense that someone was trying to steal the dogs? Like maybe Jackson?”
“Maybe and maybe not. We have nothing to tie the dogs to Jackson Sanchez. The events could be totally unrelated.”
“But at least the dogs didn’t die.”
“Well, one dog didn’t.” Dan suddenly realized how dejected Mel looked—like someone had just poked her with a pin letting all the air out and, well, hadn’t he done just that? “Mel, I hate to keep bringing you back to reality. I really appreciate your help—that was a, solid, heads-up find. I can stay on the case now. Even the suggestion of one insured dog being alive and UL&C isn’t about to pay out. It’s not a solution but it suggests that there are four other dogs out there. Very much alive. But now we have to wonder why Keith Elliott lied about putting five bags of dog remains in the back of his truck.”
“It’s like I’ve caused you more work.”
Dan put an arm around her shoulders. “More work? Yes, but you’ve helped me ask the right questions now. Where there was a pretty ironclad case before, we now have one with a few holes. Mel, believe me, you’ve been a big help.”
But on the way back to the townhouse, he had to admit things still looked bleak. He could, however, keep the case open. If they hadn’t driven Mellow Yellow and his trainer underground, there might be another race. That old sixth sense said there would be—no doubt about it. Money and the arrogance of the criminal always won out. Hadn’t he seen it over and over? But whether they would continue to race the dog in Florida or move to out-of-state tracks, there was no knowing. He just had to figure out how to find them. And the other four? They could be anywhere. For the first time he felt certain they were not in little dog-shaped ceramic urns on Ms. Halifax’s desk.
And then it came to him. Dan slapped the steering wheel, glanced in the rearview, and pulled a U-turn. Back to the track. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? It was right there under his nose or stuck in his shoe as the case might be. The ear tattoos—if they could be redefined to make them clearer and clean up shoddy work, why couldn’t they be altered to indicate an entirely different dog? And who would know? One Pete Ellis, tat artist extraordinaire. Dan could kick himself. He just hadn’t asked the right questions when he had the kid in front of him.
Dan didn’t have Pete paged. He knew the kennel cleanup crews traded off Sundays and if luck was with him, this would be Pete’s time on. He parked by the kennels and went in the back to the part of the building untouched by the fire. Pete was cleaning cages and didn’t seem too happy to see him.
“Got a minute? I thought of a couple more things I think you can help me with.”
“I got a tight schedule. I need to be out of here in a half hour.”
“This won’t take long. Let’s step out back.” Dan held the back door open and a somewhat reluctant Pete followed.
“Are you familiar with this ear tat number?” Dan held out the back of his card where he’d written Mellow Yellow’s registration number—111B. Good grief, even as he looked at it now the number in the program that Mel brought back would be the easiest to alter—411B. Dan had a feeling and he knew he was right. He just had to have this man in front of him confirm it.
“Um, I see a lot of numbers—”
“Pete, I’ll come right to the point. I think 111B became 411B, thanks to your talent with a pen. I think Jackson Sanchez maybe even paid you to alter the original number.”
Nothing. But no eye contact either just a nervous tick in his left eye.
“We can talk or I can go to the commission.”
“Look, I need this job. I got in a little trouble last year. Got caught with an ounce and some pills. I’m on probation and something like your saying? Well, that’d go really hard on me.”
“You’re ducking the question, Pete. Were you asked to alter this number?” Dan pointed to the card. “And if you did it, when was it done?”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m not going to do anything. My company just needs to know that at least one dog is still alive.”
“You’re not going to turn me in?”
“No.” Dan wouldn’t do anything, but he couldn’t guarantee that other law enforcement wouldn’t ask questions. Subpoena him if things came to court. In the meantime it was enough for UL&C to withhold payout. “Did you alter this number?”
A nod.
“Who asked you to do it?”
“Jackson.”
“When?”
“The afternoon of the fire.”
***
“Coffee?” The last of the mango sorbet and time alone. Usually a couple things Elaine cherished but Dan was deep in thought. Not the best of company but he’d share when he was ready. She was getting to know him—including all the quirks.
“Who would know the five dogs in question as well as Mel does?”
“Fucher, of course.” She wasn’t sure where this was going but she sensed Dan’s excitement.
“Exactly. I could subpoena race videos from tracks in Florida and set up Fucher to watch them—look for signs of the three dogs that might be racing. I could show him how to stop and start, do frame captures—”
“Dan, that would be hours and hours of tedious work.”
“It’s called ‘research.’ UL&C would pay for his time. How do you think insurance investigators catch workman’s comp cheaters? Set up cameras and monitor them. You know, catch the guy with the bad back hoisting hundred-pound bags of cement. I’d put money on your first case being either an errant spouse or someone feigning injury in order to stay on the payroll.”
“I’m sure you’re right. And when I think about
it, Fucher will love to be involved—be helping you solve a case.”
“It may help UL&C more than it will help him, but there is the chance we’ll uncover something tied to the murder.”
***
UL&C didn’t question Dan’s request and put Fucher on a temporary payroll as a “research assistant.” Chalk it up to too much TV but Fucher seemed to think he needed to be in costume. Seemed to fancy himself in some kind of undercover NCIS drama—started wearing dark glasses and a baseball cap turned backwards—even in the house. Oh yes, grew one of those in-vogue, seemingly pencil-drawn thin beards that outlined the jaw. But most importantly Dan could see that Fucher was thrilled to be asked to help. This was the next best thing to working at the track.
Dan rented equipment, had Roger Carter secure the necessary subpoenas, served them to all Class A tracks in the state and had each track download a full week’s races onto disks and overnight them to Fucher’s home. Fucher would, however, continue to get race results on disks from some seven tracks on a daily basis. FedEx’d every afternoon at two. Only a couple things kept the project from being totally overwhelming—they were checking only “A” tracks and only a week had passed since the fire. Still, a more than daunting task for most. Dan was thankful for Fucher’s dedication.
Fucher started his day at six a.m. and if Dan saw his lights on much after ten, he went over and under the pretext of discussing his day, made certain he went to bed. Finally, he explained to Fucher how he really needed “fresh” eyes—how easy it was to miss something if he’d been looking at a screen all day. Dan shortened Fucher’s workday to six hours, made him sign a make-believe contract, and that seemed to work. Dan wouldn’t have ruining Fucher’s health on his conscience. And if they were lucky, a couple supposedly dead dogs might be out there running races and they’d have proof. He had to have absolute proof that a dog—any one of the five—was alive. And that meant having the dog in hand, so to speak. Conclusive evidence that would rely on DNA and not the owner’s say so.
