by Susan Slater
He leaned down to take a look at Friday’s entries. Slow day. Breakfast meeting with Dixie, phone consult with a vet from the St. Augustine track, vaccinations for an incoming group of dogs after four…nothing out of the ordinary unless the note in the upper right-hand corner meant something. “Call 386 283-1020.” The number had been underlined three times. Doodling or done for emphasis? On a whim Dan pulled out his cell and dialed.
“Private Investigator, Scott Ramsey’s office. How may I help you?”
Dan almost dropped the phone. That wasn’t what he expected. He was barely able to mumble something about a wrong number before he hung up. It probably meant nothing, but under the circumstances, anything and everything could be important. He didn’t have a clue as to what someone might have been looking for in Kevin’s office. And he’d probably reached the end of any safe timeframe to be snooping. He grabbed a Kleenex from a box on a side table, quickly crossed to the door, covered the inside turn button as he twisted it perpendicular, stepped through and pulled the door shut behind him—locked like he’d found it.
“Can I help you?” The man in coveralls looked like he might work for Fred Manson in maintenance if the grease stains were any clue. Dan was just glad he hadn’t jumped because he certainly hadn’t heard the man walk up, but there was no indication that he’d seen him coming out of Kevin’s office.
“Actually, you can. I’m looking for a kid named Roddy. He works as a custodian, I think.”
“You’re shit out of luck on that one. Roddy came in last night, worked a half shift, and walked out. Said he’d give Fred a call but he didn’t plan on coming back.”
“Seems sudden. Any idea why?”
“Kid’s a hophead. Fred was giving him a chance to straighten out but I don’t think it was working. Even doled out his paychecks—you know, only gave him money for food and gas. Just the necessities. Kid was ‘up’ on something last night. I don’t think he could have finished his shift if he’d wanted to.”
No doubt, five hundred “Bens” would buy a fair amount of street dope, Dan thought. He’d had no way of knowing, but he could have been a major contributor to Roddy falling off the wagon. He hoped the kid would be all right but that didn’t make the sick feeling in his stomach go away. He walked the long way around the casino to the front entrance, then through the main hallway, past some gaming rooms on his right before stopping in front of Wayne Warren’s door. Time to get to work.
At first he thought no one was in the reception area. Ms. Taichert was not at her desk. Then she appeared in the doorway to her boss’ inner office—holding a cell phone.
“Mr. Mahoney? Could you help me?” She motioned for him to follow as she stepped back into the room and closed the door. “I don’t know what to do. People to contact…” Dan leaned down to catch her last words. It wasn’t that she was whispering but more like her voice was shaking. Was the woman going into shock? He quickly pulled out a chair from a small conference table and waited until she was seated before taking a seat himself. Carol Taichert was distraught—coming apart at the seams (there was his grandmother again)—and he had no idea why.
“Water?” The carafe on the table was full but its contents tepid. He poured a glass anyway and placed it where she could reach it. “Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
She took a sip of water, then another before setting the glass back down. “This…this is what’s wrong.” She waved the cell phone more or less in his direction. “I found it under the desk. There.” An index finger indicated the large wooden monstrosity in front of them—more collector’s item than functional piece of office furniture. “I’ve called and called. Nothing. He didn’t contact me the entire two weeks. He never would just be gone that long without checking in. He ran this office from there…” another gesture toward the desk…“on the road. Then just now I found the phone. It’s been here all the time. Oh, Mr. Mahoney, he never left. He wouldn’t leave without his phone.”
Even though Dan reached out and patted her arm, he knew he could offer no words of encouragement. He knew without putting all the pieces together that Wayne Warren, in fact, didn’t leave on vacation—probably didn’t leave the casino. The blood in the walkway to the kennel, the ashes in the urns? Dan would bet the farm that he could put a name to the contents.
“I can’t believe that something would have happened to him. Not now. Not when he’s finally getting ahead. He tried so hard to put this place right.”
“I’m not following”
“Well, I guess it was no secret that the club and casino had fallen on hard times. The last six months have been awful. And it wasn’t just Mr. Warren’s pocket—everyone was suffering. Ms. Halifax had her hauler repossessed.”
“Hauler?”
“The eighteen-wheeler that she used to carry dogs back and forth to the track. Two-hundred-seventy-five thousand-worth. It had a few years on it, but it was outfitted beautifully—built-in crates, grooming area, water tanks with shower, sleeping quarters for four, and a bottled gas kitchen. It was state-of-the-art. Such a shame that she had to lose it.”
“Where’s the casino now? Solvent?”
“Getting there. There were just too many costs—too many I.O.U.s—to breathe easy yet. Thanks to the heavy rain this last summer, reroofing set us back an unanticipated five hundred and fifty thousand. Putting that kind of money back in the bank has been slow. But we’re still in business.”
The owner of a repossessed hauler could certainly use some money about now—two hundred fifty thousand would come in handy. Dan couldn’t help but feel elated—wasn’t finding motive over half the game?
“What do you think has made the difference? Between now and six months ago?”
“Mr. Warren and I were just talking about that before he left. For one thing, he expanded the closed-circuit offerings. In addition he added I-don’t-know-how-many tables of in-house poker. Plus he said we’d picked up some high-rollers—a group from Miami—actually a sort of traveling club for gamblers. Let me tell you, they brought in big bucks. It was all starting to add up.”
A “traveling club for gamblers”? Why did that send up a red flag? He found a box of Kleenex in Wayne Warren’s executive bathroom and put it on the table. Then, he placed the call to Chief Cox, left a message, got her a bottle of cold water, and suggested she stay put. Was there anyone she would like to have sit with her? The woman who manned the information desk? He’d bring her over. Dan left to find this Rosy, and decide what his next move should be.
His mind was churning…there had to be a connection between Wayne Warren and Jackson Sanchez—both more than likely killed the same night and just maybe in the same vicinity. By the same person or persons? That was the big question. Then throw in one dead veterinarian and the intrigue had just reached proportions that would seem to negate any involvement of a challenged young man who dedicated his life to taking care of dogs.
Dan found a quiet corner in the track’s restaurant and flipped his iPad open. He’d go over his notes, then request an interview with police. And he’d bite the bullet and report to Dixie. But first a quick call to Roger Carter.
***
Roger met him at the restaurant. It was a little early, but Dan had just put in an order for a patty melt and fries. Who made the rule that breakfast food had to be cereal or eggs? He used to eat a lot of pizza about this time of day and had lived to tell.
“So, take it from the top. I need to know what you know and how you’re involved—in each step of the investigation. Mind if I record this?” At Dan’s shake of his head, Roger set the recorder between them. This was for Fucher’s sake but Dan didn’t rule out asking Roger to go with him when he talked with Dixie.
On the iPad, Dan brought up his outline as a prompt, then backtracked to his first meeting with Fucher and started to work his way forward. When he’d finished, Dan closed the iPad. He’d told Roger everything—from ingested alco
hol to altered tattoos to human remains in urns, to the track’s recent money problems…“Pretty compelling that Fucher just isn’t the killer or even one of the killers.”
Roger nodded. “I’m assuming you’re willing to turn over any evidence? Testify to what you’ve just said if it comes to that?”
“Based on what we know already, I don’t think it will go that far.”
“Me either. Especially based on Dr. Hunt’s lab work, I think I can get the charges against Fucher dismissed.” Roger pushed back from the table but signaled the waitress for another beer. “Sounds like Officer Bartlett won’t be too pleased.”
Funny, Dan mused, he could order a little beef before eleven but couldn’t have faced anything with hops in it at that hour. Ah, well, different tastes…
“Yeah, you can probably expect a little push-back. Officer Bartlett wants things wrapped up neatly and there isn’t anything neat about this one. Add another murder and a few folks are going to be working overtime.”
“You’ve agreed to share everything—exactly what you’ve told me—so let’s get started.” Roger snapped the cover on the recorder.
“You mean confront Dixie Halifax?”
“That, too. But let’s start with the police chief. I’ll give him a call and have him meet us here. He might as well get a warrant to search Dixie’s office—that’ll go over big.” A smile that made Dan think Roger almost relished the idea of upsetting her. The woman didn’t seem to have a lot of friends. And a fellow lawyer probably had good reason to want Dixie on the hot seat. Dan knew he wouldn’t want to face her in court.
Roger looked up from taking notes. “I forgot to ask if this has been done. If not, it’s about time that dog crematory was wiped down. Seems probable that the garbage bags of supposed dog bodies the night of the fire could have been human body parts—parts that were carried out of here right in front of everyone. Don’t know if it’s too late to detect residue twelve days old, but it needs to be checked.”
“While they’re at it, I suppose the lab here should be checked for human blood—especially instruments.”
“Good suggestion. I wasn’t thinking of that.”
“There’s little doubt that Kevin Elliot could have given us some answers.”
***
Was curiosity a good reason to attend a funeral? Dan didn’t think so, but he’d talked Elaine and Fucher both into going with him. Funny but with all the emphasis upon cremation for dogs, Dr. Elliot was in a box. A waste of space and expensive. But nobody had asked Dan. There hadn’t been a viewing because of the severity of the accident but there was a tasteful, if short, remembrance ceremony at a non-denominational church in town and a cop-led procession to a cemetery on the outskirts of the community.
The six pallbearers were in biker-leathers and after loading the casket into the hearse, followed behind on Harleys draped in black crepe. Fitting. Officer Bartlett assumed leader-of-the-pack duties and rushed ahead to clear intersections for the entourage. It was a somber group but Dan recognized most of the track’s management. Carol Taichert came with Dixie Halifax, Melody sat with fellow trainers, and Fred Manson came over and asked Fucher to sit with him.
“It’s so difficult to think a vet would lie about the death of five dogs. It must have been made very worth his while.” Elaine, as ever, looked gorgeous in a little black dress barely above the knee, high-necked, but form-fitting and just plain sexy. And immediately Dan admonished himself for impure thoughts at a funeral—somehow that didn’t seem appropriate. Funeral etiquette—no jeans, no loud talking, and no lewd thoughts. Had he read that? He was pretty sure it was written somewhere. Maybe it was his mother talking.
Before the final interment, several friends offered anecdotes, one a prayer. So far, Dan didn’t see one thing out of order. Then Officer Bartlett started to walk toward them.
“Uh oh. I think I’ll go check on Fucher.” Elaine nodded to the officer and retreated.
“I see your boy’s out. Wouldn’t have thought you’d want to bring him here.”
“And just why would that be? I think he considered Kevin Elliott a friend.”
“Some friend. For starters, Kev’s bike had been tampered with. A new set of Metzelers and the inner wall had been shaved. No way to see it from the outside and no way of knowing when the tire would blow. Poor guy never had a chance.”
“Come on, you don’t expect me to believe that Fucher would be able to do that? His motor skills can be a little challenged. And he might as well have been under house arrest the last couple weeks. He hasn’t gone anywhere since he was let out. He certainly hasn’t been back to the track.” Dan hoped he was right. He hadn’t kept tabs on Fucher, but someone would have had to have given him a ride. He didn’t remember seeing any cars there, and Fucher was still hard at work on the surveillance records.
“Just saying. This Fucher knew where the bike was parked. And it wasn’t like it was out in the open or anything. Pretty secluded—easy to vandalize something parked behind the kennel. And these? Found ’em stuffed in the saddlebags.” Officer Bartlett pulled a half dozen Snickers’ wrappers from his pocket. “Pretty much his calling card from what I hear.”
“Can I have some candy?” Dan hadn’t seen Fucher and Elaine walk up.
“Do I have to say more?” With a sneer Officer Bartlett turned to go, then waving the fistful of wrappers turned back, “If I was a bettin’ man, I’d put money on this.” He crumpled up the wrappers and stuffed them back in his pocket.
Dan watched him walk back toward the crowd. And if you had more than circumstantial evidence, you’d be able to do something about it, he thought. But you don’t. He wondered if those wrappers had been dusted for prints? Or had any other lab work done on them? Were they just for show? Could someone be trying to set Fucher up? Again? Implicate him in one murder and when that didn’t pan out, try him for another? But who? It would take some knowledge of Fucher’s habits. But then he guessed just about everyone who handled dogs at the track would know that Fucher liked Snickers bars.
“He’s not nice.” Fucher stood watching Officer Bartlett walk away. “He doesn’t like me. I want to leave.”
Well said, Dan thought. He wanted to leave too.
Chapter Seventeen
Monday. All the chores she’d put off over the weekend needed attention. First, up to Palm Coast to drop off her client report on Stanley and the garden elf retrieval. Next, groceries and last, a stop for dog food before circling back home. There was every possibility that Simon would be with them this week. She’d rented a car. Just as well, she had no time to shop for something permanent. And, as always, her good, economical angel was having a tussle with her bad, throw-caution-to-the-wind angel. Good common sense told her she could put some of the money paid out for the burned Mercedes—part of the nightmare in Wagon Mound last month—in the bank and not buy another, instead spending the rest on maybe a used luxury car. Or not buy luxury at all. She could get a truck or SUV or…possibilities were endless and made her head hurt. A rental would buy a little time.
She was faced with more than one major decision. She’d honestly enjoyed the gun-safety workshop and target practice. Yet, a gun permit still seemed like overkill even though the permit could arrive any day. The real question still was did she really want to carry a firearm? She admitted to being a little squeamish. It would just take practice to get used to it. The more comfortable she became, the easier it would be to accept. Dan promised to help her find a gun and take her to the range. The class on gun safety had allowed her to explore a semi-automatic as well as a revolver. And she’d honestly felt safer with the revolver. It was just the feel of the thing.
Dan had already turned up his nose at a nifty looking Lady Smith and Wesson she’d found online. He was suggesting a revolver, too, but nothing with the name “lady” on it, probably a snub-nosed .38—a revolver versus a semi-automatic because a revolver wouldn’
t jam. She could carry it in a pocket or her purse and no amount of lint or fuzzies would cause it to misfire. It’d be ready to go when she needed it. Needed it? She still felt a little shiver. Could she really kill another human being? And wasn’t that the one question you had to be comfortable with before even carrying a gun? She still had a little soul-searching before all this became routine. No class on Chaucer had ever required her to be armed.
The stop at Scott Ramsey’s office wouldn’t take long but she did want to hand it off personally. She decided not to just leave the report with his receptionist. She needed some info on their next assignment and would just wait. What a luxury to have time to kill. Elaine took a chair against the wall and picked up a Car and Driver. She really needed to get serious about getting another car. Elevated voices said he had someone in the office with him but the receptionist indicated she didn’t think the wait would be long.
A particularly good article on “going green” was interrupted by a buzz on the intercom. The receptionist quickly picked up and then went to the file cabinet and pulled out two manila folders. She knocked on the conference room door and stood with it partially open getting directions on yet another project, Elaine thought. Then a male voice chimed in and the magazine slipped from Elaine’s grasp. The man in the office was the same man who had tethered her by the ankle. Who had hid under her car to do so. The same agent who had handed off an envelope of lies.
She missed what he was saying and quickly stood to place the magazine on the table and leave. But didn’t move fast enough.
“Elaine? I didn’t realize you were here.” Scott had stepped out of the conference room and walked to the copier. “If you have a minute, I think my colleague has some questions for you.”
