THE ELSON LEGACY (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 6)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Well, now, she is quite the assured young woman. No longer hooking. Has lots of money and will marry much more.”

  “I want to know what she looks like, not her Dun & Bradstreet.”

  “In a word, a freakin’ knockout.”

  “Did she offer to ball your socks off again?”

  “No, but she did mention how impressed she was that I once turned her down.”

  “Good. Because I’d hate to scratch her eyes out.”

  “What an un-Bryn Mawrish thing to say.”

  “You really don’t know anything about women, do you?”

  “Why should I be different from any other man?”

  “Speaking of eyes, her grandfather’s murder sounds so bizarre.”

  “Everything about Laurene is bizarre, including the retainer she gave me.”

  “I have Monday off. Want some company? It’s only about a three-hour drive from here. I could come down Saturday morning and help out with Gunner while you are gumshoeing. Do some antiquing and sightseeing. I don’t have a class until Tuesday afternoon.”

  Alice was a world-class antiquer, as I’ve discovered many times hauling her collection.

  “Gunner will be delighted.”

  Alice looked down my body, to where her hand had recently been busy.

  “Apparently, he’s not the only one.”

  “Arf, arf.”

  CHAPTER 8 - ATLAS

  I left early the next morning, arriving in Atlas just after 10 AM. As advertised, the surrounding Virginia countryside was loaded with horse farms and stables. The town itself looked like many Southern towns with proximity to Civil War battlefields. In its case it was, Manassas, or Bull Run, where the Union managed to lose not one, but two, battles to the Confederacy before getting its act together. The town square had the requisite statue of a heroic man on a horse and a few old canons, symbols of past glory that meant nothing to local pigeons. I ignored the monuments and parked across from the Atlas Police Department. Unless I have a good reason not to, I make it a point to check in with the local gendarmes when I am about to imitate pigeons and crap all over their case.

  The woman at the front desk told me that Chief Deerly Johnson was making her rounds and probably would be back in a few hours. I gave her my card.

  “Tell Chief Johnson that I’ll try to swing by later.”

  “The Chief’s last name is Deerly-Johnson,” the woman said. “With a hyphen.”

  “That’s a very unusual name.”

  “She’s a very unusual chief.”

  I left wondering what she meant by that, but knowing I’d soon find out. The local fuzz of a small town generally doesn’t like anyone but themselves annoying the citizenry with embarrassing questions. If I didn’t find the hyphenated chief of the Atlas cops, she’d undoubtedly find me.

  Gunner was just where I’d left him; his head out the half-open window of my SUV, happily smelling Virginia.

  Next stop was the law office of Ramsey, Gaudet & Rogers, L.L.P. Evelyn Rogers was Laurene Robillard’s local lawyer. She was supposed to bring me up to date, as well as give me the keys to the scene of the crime, which also happened to be where I’d be staying. Maybe I’d quickly stumble upon a clue the cops missed, or the murderer would return, as criminals always are supposed to. And maybe I’d find the missing socks in my sock drawer back home.

  I had no trouble finding the law firm, which was located in a large colonial on a tree-lined street about a half mile from the police station. Or, rather, I should say, “Gladys”, my trusty GPS system, had no trouble. The first couple of times I used Gladys with Gunner in the car he kept jumping from seat to seat looking for who else was talking. Now he doesn’t even take his head out of the window.

  I didn’t know how long I’d be in the law office, so I brought Gunner in with me.

  “Do you always take your dog on a case?” Evelyn Rogers asked when she ushered us into her office.

  “Probably the first and last time,” I said. “Gunner’s still a pup and I couldn’t make arrangements on short notice. Since I’m staying on what amounts to be a farm, I figured he’d enjoy a little vacation.”

  She leaned down to pet him. He lapped her hand.

  “He’s a pup? What do you feed him, zebra?”

  “He won’t get much bigger, but he’s still learning the canine ropes.”

  Rogers was a good-looking woman, with short brown hair and an easy smile. She got right to the point.

  “We’re making some headway on the civil side. I don’t think anyone really believes that Laurene had anything to do with her grandfather’s murder. We’ll win. I’m just local counsel, with limited resources, so the other side can make life difficult. But her D.C. lawyers, Hawser & Grey, are top-drawer litigators. They’ll bury the opposition.”

  “How is the murder investigation going?”

  “It’s going nowhere. The town cops have made no progress. I think the chief is pretty good, but the department is short of cash and severely undermanned. The Town Council in Atlas is tighter than a cow’s ass in fly time.”

  “I would think that in this part of the country law enforcement would be popular. Seems like every town I go to has S.W.A.T. teams and tanks.”

  “You would think so. But not Atlas. Just between you, me and the lamp post, the justice system here is broken. We have an old boy network that likes things just as they are. Cops are told to concentrate on quality-of-life crimes, like robberies and burglaries, things that might affect business or tourism. The police do a very good job, but I can’t remember the last white-collar prosecution in these parts.”

  “In most jurisdictions an ice pick in the eye of a judge might be considered a quality-of-life crime.”

  Evelyn Rogers laughed.

  “Of course. But the local police force has already been gutted. It’s a case of the old boys being hoist by their own petards. Not that I think they really care about what happened to Judge Elson. I mean, if it happens again, if there is a serial ice-pick killer running around, they’ll probably scream for the State Police, the National Guard and the F.B.I. But if it’s a one-off, they’ll leave it to Chief Deerly-Johnson and use it against her when she can’t solve it. Town fires more people than Donald Trump.”

  “Elson wasn’t well-liked? I thought he was a local institution. At least the stories about him in the papers Laurene gave me indicated that.”

  “What were they going to say? He was an institution, just not as beloved as some people made him out to be. Colver Elson was a legend in his own mind. I only knew him the last couple of years, but I found him insufferable. A pompous ass. And some of the lawyers who have been around Atlas for years say he was a mean son-of-a-bitch. And worse.”

  “Worse, how?”

  “I don’t like speaking ill of a dead man.”

  “He’s dead. Laurene is alive. She’s our client. Give me what you’ve heard.”

  “Well, for one thing, there was talk that he was a world-class cock hound who was not above tilting his judicial rulings in favor of whoever he was fucking.”

  “Please don’t hold back, counselor.”

  “Hell, you asked. In fact, some people think he solicited sex from female defendants and lawyers who came before his court. The joke was that all you needed from Judge Elson was a Writ of Fellatio to win your case.”

  “It sounds like the suspect pool might be pretty deep in Atlas.”

  “You’ve got your work cut out for you, Mr. Rhode.”

  She gave me directions to the Elson place and reached into her desk and handed me a set of keys.

  “ I checked the place out after the police had finished with it. They didn’t mess it up too badly but I also hired a cleaning service. They were there a couple of days ago, so everything should be shipshape. I did empty the the fridge, so you may want to stop for some provisions. There’s a Walmart on the way out there on Clayton Turnpike.”

  “There’s a Walmart on the way out to anywhere.”

  “There is cab
le TV and Wi-Fi.” Rogers handed me a slip of paper. “Here are the passwords if you have a laptop. Lauren told me that you are to make yourself at home. But if you want to drink anything but bourbon, you’ll have to buy it. Judge Elson was strictly a bourbon man. Died with one in his hand, figuratively. He has, or had, one of the best collections of small-batch bourbons in these parts.”

  “I’ll make do.”

  Evelyn Rogers stood up.

  “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Gunner.”

  At the mention of his name, Gunner’s ears perked up.

  “Does Gunner like horses?”

  “I don’t think he’s ever seen one, in the flesh.”

  “Well, the Elson place has a small stable, and there are other animals about, chickens and the like. I hired a landscaping company to keep the place up and also have a high school kid stopping by to take care of the livestock and do small chores. Nice kid. Name is Lucas Browne. He used to do odd jobs for Judge Elson, so he knows his way around. I’ve told him you will be staying there. Good luck, Mr. Rhode. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”

  ***

  Even though the directions to the Elson home were fairly straightforward, I still inputted the address into the GPS. It’s amazing how dependent one becomes on technology. As predicted, there was a Walmart just outside of town. A “Super Walmart”. I just needed some basics, and would have preferred a smaller neighborhood-type grocery store. By the time you find your way around a Super Walmart and reach the checkout counter, you need more basics. The parking lot was full. I was going to leave Gunner in the car and he sometimes gets upset when he can’t see where I’m going, so I drove around a few minutes before I found a spot near the store. Actually, two spots, side by side. I presumed that would be good news for whoever was driving the red pickup truck that was following me down each aisle, obviously also looking for a space. But when I pulled in the truck, with two men in it, just kept going. The vacant spot next to my car might have been too small for the truck. I managed to get in and out of the store in 20 minutes. Gunner still looked annoyed, so I gave him a dog biscuit from among the basics.

  Back on the road out of town, I spotted a tail. It wasn’t hard. It was the same red pickup truck that passed me in the parking lot. Now, that part of Virginia isn’t short of pickup trucks. But I knew it was the same vehicle, a Dodge Ram Laramie with a quad cab. Probably a 2003 or 2004 model. A good, tough truck that was a favorite of some of my comrades in my service days.

  I wanted to be sure, so I started driving haphazardly down some side roads. Naturally, Gladys lost her GPS mind and started berating me with “make a legal U-Turn” and “recalculating” pronouncements. I ignored her and kept my eye on my rear-view mirror. Sure enough, the pickup matched my every move, at a respectful distance. I finally got back onto Clayton Turnpike and a few minutes later turned onto Chandler Lane, a road that dead-ended at Colver Elson’s property. There were no other homes or structures on Chandler, and whoever was tailing me obviously knew that because the pickup truck didn’t follow me down the road. At no point was I able to get a license plate from the pickup.

  I hoped the men tailing me would assume that my meandering route was the result of my being lost. Not that it really mattered. Someone was interested in what I was doing in Atlas. I was sure to run into whoever it was again.

  I looked at Gunner, who had thoroughly enjoyed our jaunt through the woodlands and all the interesting sights and smells.

  “The game is afoot, my noble hound.”

  He gave me the look that remark deserved. I gave him another dog biscuit.

  CHAPTER 9 - TOSSED

  Laurene Robillard had come from money, even if she only found out about it recently.

  The three-story post and beam house her mother lived in at 1 Chandler Lane was nothing short of spectacular. And it had either aged well, or Colver Elson had spent a good deal of time and money maintaining the place. There were shavings around the trees and bushes that fronted the house, and the pleasant odor of yard work indicated a recent visit by the landscapers. I could see some horses in a nearby pasture, a stable and what appeared to be a barn. Evelyn Rogers had told me that the entire property, including the woods that surrounded it, amounted to just under 50 acres. Fall had not fully taken command in this part of Virginia, which, Rogers also told me, had a climate characterized by hot, humid summers and mild to cool winters, the recent Ice Age winter that battered the East being an exception.

  As I looked over a home that could have been featured in Southern Living magazine, I couldn’t help but wonder what Laurene must have thought when she saw it for the first time. And how different her life might have turned out had her birth family not abandoned her. She might have been a real Southern belle, instead of winding up as a hooker basically portraying one. Well, she had it all now, and I would try my best to make sure she kept it.

  When we got out of the car, Gunner made a beeline to the nearest tree. Then he bounded up the stairs and reconnoitered the wrap-around front porch before heading towards the pasture and its fascinating possibilities. I wasn’t worried about him. His ancestors thrived on the Eastern Front during World War II. I didn’t think rural Virginia would be a problem.

  The porch contained several rockers and a swing chair that reminded me of the one on which Scout and Boo Radley sat in To Kill a Mockingbird. I carried my bag of groceries up to the massive chestnut front door and put a key in the lock. Before I could turn the key the door yawned opened. Then I noticed telltale scratches around the door jamb near the lock. It had been forced, probably with a thin metal strip, judging from the marks on the wood. I switched the grocery bag to my left arm and pulled my gun with my right. Having just been tailed out of town, I knew that I was now probably in enemy territory. I should have put the bag down, but I was pretty sure no one was in the house. Gunner wouldn’t have run off had he smelled or heard another human.

  I went in, gun at the ready, just in case. No one shot me or my groceries. I quickly found the kitchen and dropped off the bag. A few drawers in the kitchen were not flush with their surrounding cabinets. I didn’t think it was sloppy work by the cleaning service hired by Evelyn Rogers.

  I started my search of the house, which I estimated to be about 5,000 square feet. On the first floor, in addition to the great room kitchen, was a dining room with breakfast area, a living room, a master bedroom with master bath and the den where Judge Elson had his encounter with an ice pick. The first upper level contained a sitting area, office, a bathroom and two smaller bedrooms with built-in loft beds. The third level featured another large bedroom overlooking the living and dining rooms, with a rock chimney as one wall.

  It didn’t take me long to absolve the cleaning service. The place had been tossed. The signs were obvious to the trained eye. More drawers not quite closed. Cushions not lining up exactly. Mattresses hanging a bit off center. Socks and underwear rumpled. Fine suits and shirts pressed together in the expansive walk-in closets, which indicated that someone pushed them aside to look behind them. The most attention had been paid to Colver Elson’s office, where books had been swept from shelves and locked desk drawers pried open, in some cases violently.

  The break-in and search smelled of teamwork. I wondered what the burglars were looking for. And if they found it. I didn’t think it was money or other valuables, since I found small amounts of both in several of the drawers that had been rifled. Not a lot, but stuff that would easily been pocketed by a crook. There was another dead giveaway. Judge Elson was apparently technologically old-school. On the desk in his office was a monitor, its wires hanging down to the floor where a depression in the carpet indicated an old-style computer tower once stood. I didn’t think any burglar worth his salt would steal a heavy computer tower. It was possible, of course, that the police had it. They might have gone through it looking for any clues that might have furthered their murder investigation. I would have to ask them.

  After searching
the upper floors, I went down to the basement. It, too, had been thoroughly searched. The intruders were probably exhausted by this point. They didn’t even bother putting anything back. There were several oak cabinets where drawers had been roughly pulled out and overturned on the ceramic tile floors. The area around another massive stone fireplace was covered in black ash scraped from the interior of the wood stove in the hearth. I checked the basement’s large family room, full bath and laundry. All trashed. I opened the basement door that led to a two-car garage. There were a couple of metal cabinets without doors, a set of golf clubs, a work bench with some tools on it and two cars: a Mercedes convertible and a Ford Fusion. It was a lot neater than my garage back home and nothing seemed wildly out of order, but still I presumed everything had been searched.

  I was about to go back into the basement when I heard a car pull up and Gunner barking. There was a garage door button by the basement door. I pushed it and the door clattered up. I pulled out my gun again and held it loosely at my side. I put the Ford Fusion between me and the door. Gunner was standing in front of a police cruiser barking at a tall black woman officer. I knew that was all he would do. He liked cops, especially those in uniform.

  I walked toward the cop. She looked at me, her eyes sliding down toward the gun in my hand. I slowly eased it back into my holster and held out my hands where she could see them.

  “Chief Deerly-Johnson, I presume.”

  CHAPTER 10 - THE CHIEF

  “We did take the computer, but put it back weeks ago,” the Chief said. “There was nothing useful on it. I think Judge Elson used it mainly to surf the web.”

  We were sitting in the kitchen. I’d made some coffee for the both of us. Gunner was happily scrunching away on an elk chew.

  “Did you check what he surfed?”

  She gave me a look.

  “Of course you did. Sorry.”

  “The judge liked his porn,” she said. “No law against that. I think whoever took the computer recently will come up dry.”