He looked up at me, and the defiant chin quivered slightly. He breathed heavily out of his nose and clenched his hands together. Angry. Then he pulled open one of the desk drawers, removed an envelope, and threw it at me. It hit me in the chest and fell to the floor.
"Go on," he said, his lip curling up in a snarl, spitting the words at me. "Go on and take a look."
I retrieved the envelope from the floor and opened it. There were photographs inside. I went through them slowly while Joe looked over my shoulder. In the first picture, Dan Beckley was in a car, talking to a woman on the sidewalk who wore stiletto heels and a short red skirt with black fishnet stockings. In the next, he was passing her money, and then she was in the car, her head buried in his lap. In the final photograph, she was out of the car again, walking away, while Beckley sat in the driver's seat.
I slipped the photographs back into the envelope. "So that's how it went," I said. "Hubbard sent you photographs of you with the hooker, and you made the deal?"
He shook his head. "Can't prove it was him. All I got were the photographs and a little Post-it note with the price he'd offered me written on it. The message was pretty clear, though." He looked down at the desk. "I got a wife and a son. I didn't want them seeing that shit."
"Did you call Hubbard on it," Joe asked, "or did you just agree to the deal?"
"I didn't call him out, but we both knew what was going on."
I dropped the envelope back on his desk. "Thanks for your time, Dan. And don't worry, this isn't going to leave the room."
He flipped me off and kept his eyes on the desk. Joe and I left. The Chinese man was still yammering at the clerk, who looked ready to strangle him. He shut up when Joe brushed against him, but he was back at it when we reached the door.
We sat in the truck, and I started the engine but didn't shift out of park.
"So that's what Weston was doing for him," I said. "No wonder the guy has such good luck with business deals."
"Explains why Weston didn't appear to be a legitimate investigator," Joe said. "He was just a well-paid extortionist. Hubbard probably gave him plenty of business."
"If Weston had been doing this for a while, it would add to the list of people who'd have liked to kill him."
"What about the Russians?" Joe said.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. "Yes. What about the Russians?"
We sat there for a while, and then I said, "We could go back to Hubbard, confront him with it, and see what he gives us."
Joe shook his head. "I don't like that. Not yet, at least."
"All right. So what now?"
"Back to the office. Let's take another look at those faxes from Amy and see who else Hubbard might have been putting the squeeze on. Then we'll give Agent Cody a call."
I pulled out of the lot and started to drive, then realized Joe was looking at me.
"What?" I asked.
"Just thinking about you pushing Beckley back there," he said. "You've got some kind of instincts, LP."
"Lucky guess," I said.
Back at the office, the telephone message indicator was blinking. Joe checked the voice mail while I browsed through the faxes from Amy, writing down all the names she'd associated with Hubbard in recent months. I had a list of seven names by the time Joe hung up the phone. His face was thoughtful.
"Who was it?"
"Cody," he said. "He had his guys check the plate on that green Oldsmobile we saw yesterday."
"Yeah?"
"Plate's not registered to the car."
"It'd be too easy if it were. Maybe I should ask the Russians for the VIN number. They've been eager to help me so far."
He frowned. "I don't think this guy is with them. Why's he camped outside their house if they're associates? You ask me, he's working against them in some capacity. And he's definitely interested in Weston."
"Makes you wonder, doesn't it."
"Uh-huh." He tapped a pencil on the desk and stared at the wall. "The plate was reported stolen from South Carolina, though. Two days ago, Cody said, in Myrtle Beach. That's a hell of a drive."
"If he drove. Could have stolen the plate beforehand, then flown up here, rented a car, and swapped the plates to cover himself."
"Now why's a guy from Myrtle Beach come to Cleveland with a phony badge to question Weston's neighbors? And how the hell does he know about the Russians? Even if he flew in, according to the license plate he couldn't have been here for more than two days. So we can assume he knew about the Russians beforehand."
"Knew what?"
He shrugged. "Something, anyhow. He's asking the neighbors about the night of Weston's death. Why?"
"Another investigator?"
"Who's he working for, then?"
I sighed and shook my head. I didn't have any answers. A dull ache had crept into my shoulders, and I rolled them slightly, trying to relieve the tension. I needed a good workout, or maybe a massage.
"What do you think of Agent Cody?" Joe asked.
"A Bureau boy, through and through," I said. "Smart, flashy, cocky. And probably full of shit."
He nodded. "That's what I think, too. I don't know if he lied to us last night, but I'm sure he didn't tell us everything he knew. He says the FBI took over this investigation just because Weston's name came up on a wiretap? Bullshit. There's got to be more than that involved."
"Do you think we should tell him about Dan Beckley?"
"I don't know. Our first duty is to John Weston. The FBI can make it awfully hard for us to get anywhere with this case if they don't like where we're going with it. I don't want that to happen."
"We can assume Weston was working for Hubbard, providing him blackmail material to use in his business negotiations," I said. "Hell, he's pretty active in city government, too. There's no telling how many secrets Weston gave him over the years."
"Enough to make some people mad enough to kill him."
"Sure. But where do the Russians fit in, then? I can see dozens of people willing to whack Weston for extortion if they caught him, but not many of them would involve his family. That sounds more like a mob tactic."
"And then we've got this guy in the green Olds," Joe said. "I'm thinking maybe he's FBI after all."
"Cody said he wasn't. And Swanders was pissed about it, when we told him the guy was flashing a badge and claiming to be CPD."
"Uh-huh," Joe said. "I believe Swanders is clueless, but I wouldn't put it past Cody. You know how the Bureau protects their agents, especially if they're undercover. If he didn't want to claim the guy as one of theirs, he wouldn't hesitate to lie about it. And it wasn't Swanders who left the message about the license plate being lifted in Myrtle Beach. It was Cody."
"You're saying he lied about that, too."
"I'm saying he could have."
We could have continued throwing questions and complaints about the case at one another for an hour or two, but it wasn't going to get us anywhere. Joe asked to look over the faxes from Amy again, so I passed those over, and, for lack of a better idea, I pulled out the small case file we had and began to look through it. The contents weren't particularly awe inspiring: the notebook of recollections from John Weston, the folder of background on the Russians I'd taken from April Sortigan, and notes from my conversation with Deputy Prosecutor James Sellers. I read through it all again, searching for something I might have overlooked originally or for something that might have new meaning after our recent discoveries. I didn't find much. Sortigan's file wasn't especially helpful, just basic notes from her court research. There was nothing I hadn't already committed to memory, but I read through it anyhow.
My eye caught on a telephone number written on a yellow Post-it note and stuck to the outside of the folder. I tried to remember if it was related to the case or just a personal note she'd neglected to remove when she gave me the file. Then I remembered. Sortigan told me Weston had instructed her to fax information on the Russians to that number while he was out of town.
I turned on the co
mputer and logged on to the Internet. There are a number of good databases for reverse lookups that take a phone number and match it with an address, or vice versa. I went to my favorite of them and typed in the number, then clicked the search button. A few seconds later the database reported there were no matches. I wasn't surprised. The databases are effective only for listed phone numbers, and most fax numbers aren't listed.
I stared at the monitor for a while, trying to think of another option. I could send a fax to the number on some pretext and hope someone responded. I couldn't think of a good pretext, though. Maybe I should just be honest, send a fax with our company letterhead and try for intimidating. When people are intimidated by investigators they generally clam up rather than provide information. I studied the fax number again and then went to a different database. If nothing else, I could find out what cities matched the area code. I entered the three digits into the search engine, and it fed me an immediate match. The area code belonged to a portion of South Carolina that included Myrtle Beach.
"Hey, Joseph," I said. He grunted in response. "When Weston told Sortigan to check out the Russians, he asked her to fax the information to him long distance. I can't find a match on the phone number, but I checked on the area code, and guess what city it includes?"
"Myrtle Beach."
I glared at him. "Do you have to be so damn clever? I was hoping to make a dramatic announcement."
He leaned over to look at the computer screen. "That's interesting, though. Maybe Cody didn't lie about the plate being stolen there after all."
"What would Weston have been doing in Myrtle Beach just a few days before he was killed?"
"Does he know anyone there?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
Joe looked at the monitor and rubbed his jaw idly. "Call John and ask him."
I picked up the phone and called John Weston. He answered on the second ring, and when I gave my name he said, "Yes, what is it?" with an expectant eagerness that made me want to sink lower in the chair. The days had seemed to go by quickly for Joe and me, but they were clearly passing with agonizing slowness for John Weston.
I explained that we were making some progress on the case, but I said we wouldn't discuss details until we'd corroborated theories with facts. He did some grumbling about that, but I held my ground. The last thing I wanted was to tell the poor man we thought his son had been an extortionist who'd pissed off the Russian mob. I had a bad feeling we'd have to tell him that sooner or later, but I wasn't about to rush into it until we were sure that was the case.
"We've turned up some connections to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina," I told him. "It looks like Wayne went down there shortly before his death. We were wondering if you knew of any friends or acquaintances he had there?"
"He went to South Carolina?" Weston said. "Well, he never said anything about that to me. Are you sure?"
"Did he have any friends or acquaintances there?" I repeated patiently. I doubted Wayne Weston had been sharing many things with his father, but apparently the idea came as a surprise to the old man.
"Well, sure," John Weston said. "Randy Hartwick. I told you about him already."
"You did?"
"It's all in the damned notebook," he snapped. "That's why I spent all that time writing everything down, so you'd have the information in front of you and you wouldn't have to waste time calling me with every damn question that came up."
I grabbed the notebook and flipped through it quickly. There was Randy Hartwick, listed under the "Friends" category. He was Wayne Weston's old Marine Corps buddy, but in the notebook it said he lived in Florida.
"I see his name here," I said, "but it says he lives in Florida."
"It's Myrtle Beach," Weston said irritably, probably more upset with his own mistake than with my comment. "All those damn beach-town tourist-trap shitholes are the same to me."
"Understandable. Have you heard anything from Mr. Hartwick recently?"
"No. I called and left a message with him about the funeral, because . . . well, because it just didn't seem right to put Wayne in the ground without Randy there. I never heard back from him, though." He said it carefully, like he was trying to keep any trace of bitterness from his voice, but he didn't completely succeed.
"I see. Did Mr. Hartwick and your son remain close after their Marine days?"
"Very close. Wayne went on fishing trips with him every year. Wayne told me that--outside of family, of course--the only man alive he trusted completely was Randy Hartwick. He said he'd trust his life to that son of a bitch in a heartbeat, no hesitation, no regrets. That's how it has to be in combat, you know. You have to have that loyalty."
"Yes, sir," I said, not anxious to hear another of John Weston's loyalty speeches. He should have stayed in the military. He'd have made a hell of a general. "In the notebook, you wrote that Mr. Hartwick worked for a resort hotel. Do you know what he did there?"
"He had the security contract for one of those big hotels. You know, he installed alarms and cameras, provided guards, all that crap. It was one of those fancy resorts."
"Do you remember the name?"
"Shit." He grunted, and the line was silent for a while as he thought about it. "Golden Palms, maybe? No, that's not it. Not the Palms. Dammit. What the hell was the name of it? Golden Beaches, Golden Palms. Something like that."
"I'll check it out and see if I can find anything close," I said.
"Good."
"Well, that's all I had to ask you, sir. I'm going to try to track Mr. Hartwick down now. We'll be in touch soon."
"I hope so," he said, the words barely audible, the typical gruffness and command absent from his voice. "I hope so."
I hung up and looked at Joe. "I've got our Myrtle Beach connection."
"Who is it?"
"Randy Hartwick," I said. "He served in Wayne Weston's Force Recon battalion. Apparently, they were together from boot camp at Twenty-nine Palms all the way through Recon training and then went into the same unit. That's what it says in the notebook, at least. On the phone, John Weston told me Hartwick was the only man his son truly trusted. Said Wayne would have put his life in the man's hands without hesitation."
Joe listened with interest. "And Weston visited Hartwick just before he died," he said.
"Possibly. We don't know that for sure, but it's likely. John Weston said Hartwick was the head of security for a resort in Myrtle Beach. He hasn't heard anything from Hartwick, even though he called to tell him what had happened and to ask him to attend the funeral."
"You think the guy in the Oldsmobile was Hartwick?"
"Could be."
"So what's he doing up here pretending to be a cop?"
"According to John Weston, there was some pretty fierce loyalty between his son and Randy Hartwick. Maybe Hartwick came up here to find out who killed his buddy, or maybe to find out what happened to the wife and daughter."
"He comes up here to investigate that, but he doesn't bother to contact John Weston while he's in town? He doesn't even show up for the funeral?"
I closed the notebook and tossed it onto the desk. "That bothered me, too."
"Look for the hotel," Joe said. "I want to move on this guy fast. If he's the man who has been talking to the neighbors and watching the Russians, he might have a whole lot of answers."
I returned my attention to the computer and did a few simple keyword searches for "Myrtle Beach," "hotel," and "Golden." It didn't take me more than five minutes to find a match. The Golden Breakers Resort in Myrtle Beach boasted a five-star rating, luxurious suites, a rooftop restaurant, hot tubs, pools, an exercise room, a sauna, and even a 422-foot "Lazy River" for children to float down. I located the phone number for the resort and called it.
"Hi," I said when a friendly clerk answered, "I was just about to fax something to you, but I lost the number. Could you give it to me?"
She happily obliged, and as she read the number off I compared it to the one Sortigan had been given. A match. I thanked
the clerk, hung up, and looked at Joe.
"The Golden Breakers," I said. "Sortigan faxed the information to Weston at that number. I'm fairly certain we'll find the resort is also Randy Hartwick's employer."
"Call back and ask for Hartwick," Joe instructed.
I did so.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hartwick is out of town," the clerk informed me after putting me on hold briefly.
"Out of town?" I repeated, and Joe looked over and gave me a thumbs-up sign. "Do you know where he went, or when he'll be back?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Damn," I said, feigning heavy disappointment. "I really need to speak with him today. I'm afraid a very close friend of Randy's passed away, and I know he'll want to be notified as soon as possible. Is there any way you could help me get in touch with him?"
"Oh, that's awful," she said with sympathy that sounded so genuine I felt bad. "Mr. Hartwick has a cell phone. I don't know the number, but if you give me ten minutes I could probably find out."
"That would be great." I gave her the office number, and she promised to call back.
I had hung up and turned to Joe, ready to explain the phone call, when someone knocked on the door. We both looked at it, then nodded at each other, expecting to see Swanders and Kraus, or possibly Cody.
"Come in," Joe said.
The man who entered wasn't Swanders, Kraus, or Cody, but Joe seemed to recognize him. I'd never seen him before.
"What brings you here, Mr. Kinkaid?" Joe said, getting to his feet and offering his hand. "This is my partner, Lincoln Perry. Lincoln, this is Aaron Kinkaid. He used to work with Wayne Weston."
I shook hands with the visitor. Kinkaid was a tall guy, at least six-four, with a slender build and dark red hair. A few freckles spotted the bridge of his nose, drawing attention to the stark contrast of his red hair and green eyes. He had enormous hands, hands that could palm a basketball the way most people could hold a softball. His tall, rangy build, red hair, and freckles made me think of a farm boy, but he had to be nearing forty.
"Nice to meet you," he said. His voice had a slight drawl to it, a languid delivery that enhanced the farm-boy image. He sat down and clasped his big hands together, then frowned and stared at his shoes.
Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery) Page 10
