“At supper last night, Jimmy didn’t say where he was going afterwards?”
“No. He only made his little speech to me while Emmama was in the kitchen. Other than that, we had a very pleasant evening. I understand why Emmama thought he was happy.”
I ran out of questions. Nothing Skye said seemed to offer any real leads.
“Thank you,” I said. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”
“Have you got a card?”
I pulled out my wallet and saw all I had were Clayton and Clayton business cards. I handed her one. “This is my cell.”
She glanced at it, and then read it more closely. “The funeral home. How fitting.”
***
Tommy Lee and I returned to Gainesboro a little after six. I checked for any messages that might have come through the department, but the only note was from the dispatcher saying State Senator Mack Collins would like to speak with me. The number wasn’t a Raleigh area code, and so I figured it was his cell. I also figured he could wait until tomorrow.
I had three priorities for the case: follow up on why Darren Cransford no longer worked where his father said he worked, and therefore couldn’t have been urgently returning to his job; push for the ME and forensic reports; and nail down time to interview Eddie Wolfe and perhaps Jimmy Panther’s colleagues at the Cherokee Boys Club.
But my immediate priority was to check in with my wife. I had learned a good husband stays in touch, especially near meal times. I called her on speed-dial from the jeep.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Just finishing rounds.” Susan usually had several surgeries on Monday and always checked on her patients at the end of the day. “Where are you?”
“Leaving the department.”
“Any progress?”
“It was a day of collecting information. I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“Are you headed home?”
I checked the dashboard clock. Six twenty. “I’m going to swing by the funeral home. I should be at the cabin about seven thirty, if that’s all right.”
“How does pizza and wine sound?”
“Superb.”
“Good. I’ll pick up a Supreme and have it ready with a salad. Don’t be late.”
“I wouldn’t dare, Mrs. Clayton.”
“Smart man, to use an oxymoron.” She hung up.
The parking lot at the funeral home was empty except for a large, white Lincoln. I parked beside it and noticed a North Carolina State Senate license plate. The owner had to be Mack Collins, and I wondered if his call to me had been about a death in the family. He was married, but I couldn’t remember his wife’s name. Carol or Caroline?
He sat in the parlor with Uncle Wayne. A cup of coffee and plate of Mom’s oatmeal cookies were on the side table by his chair.
“There he is.” Uncle Wayne stood. “I told Mack you might be by. Barry, Mack was asking my advice on some legislation he’s proposing. He wants to make funeral expenses tax deductible. I told him it’s a great idea. High time too, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” I agreed. I doubted Senator Collins called me at the Sheriff’s Department to discuss tax policy, but I played along. “What can we do to help?”
“I’d even go to Raleigh,” my uncle interjected. “Testify to one of those committees, like during Watergate. You know, what did I know? When did I know it?”
Collins rose from his chair. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He winked at me. “If I have to pull out the big guns.” He shook my uncle’s hand, sealing the high-stakes political strategy. “I’ve got another matter to discuss with Barry, but I left the paperwork in the car. Please thank Connie for her hospitality and I’ll keep you posted on our progress.” He turned to me. “Barry, have you got a few minutes?”
“Sure.” I followed him to his car.
Instead of retrieving the alleged paperwork, Collins leaned against his trunk and folded his arms across his chest. He was a thin man with a long face and steely-gray hair. His eyes were cold-blue and close set. The dark shadow on his cheeks showed he had shaved early that morning, but his charcoal suit, white shirt, and muted red tie looked fresh. I wondered if he wore his business attire just to call on me.
He cleared his throat. “Barry, I didn’t want to talk about it in front of your uncle, but I’m very upset over this Cherokee thing.”
“I picked up your message and was going to call you when I got here,” I said. “We’re working the case as hard as we can.”
Collins unlocked his arms and clasped his hands together. “I know. I’m not being critical. I’m just concerned because it looks like Luther has to be your prime suspect. We all witnessed what happened at Eurleen’s funeral.”
“Let me assure you we’re not just focused on Luther. Jimmy Panther was an activist who might have angered other people. We’re receiving terrific cooperation from the Cherokee tribal police.”
Collins had a habit of working his thin lips in and out while he thought, a trait I noticed during our poker game but one that seemed to bear no relation to whether he held a good or bad hand.
His lips disappeared and reappeared several times, and then he nodded. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. I don’t want this to become a contentious issue. I chair the committee on Indian affairs and an anti-Cherokee reaction could have statewide ramifications.”
“Why would that happen?”
“There are people and companies who don’t like the covenant we have with the reservation. They don’t think it’s fair that the Cherokee have exclusive gaming rights. Hell, the video poker people challenged the covenant all the way to the state supreme court. Fortunately, they lost. But, they’re looking for any opportunity to overturn the legislation establishing that exclusivity. Pile on the Catawbas, and you’ve got a political mess.”
“The Catawbas? Is that tribe even in North Carolina?”
My question fueled a rush of blood to Collins’ face. He pushed himself off the Lincoln and started pacing back and forth. “Hell, no. Their reservation is in South Carolina. But they’re petitioning to build a casino about thirty miles down I-85 from Charlotte by purchasing land and putting it into a federal trust like other reservation property. The governor’s against it and the Cherokee are furious at the prospect of cannibalizing their revenues and disrupting their plans for a second casino.”
“So, what are the Catawba tribe’s chances?”
Collins stopped pacing and stepped close to me. “In politics, never say never. Two days ago, I would have told you slim at best. I can control my committee and wield influence with the state’s Bureau of Indian Affairs, but there are significant private business interests that are all for it. We’re talking a lot of money potentially pouring into relatively poor counties.”
Collins pressed his index finger in my chest. “But, if the Catawba can do it, what’s to stop another out-of-state tribe? I mean god damn it, Barry, what’s to keep the Apache or the Sioux from showing up on our doorstep?”
“Why wouldn’t the Catawba put this on their existing land?”
“Because South Carolina won’t give them live gaming rights. The Cherokee casino has established the North Carolina precedent for Indian gaming. People want real dealers, real roulette wheels, and real poker. Our covenant with the Cherokee has worked great, and the state gets a share of the revenue. But now?” He threw up his hands. “They’re going to kill the goose laying the golden eggs.”
I understood the problem of how North Carolina could become an overbuilt haven of Indian gaming, but my murder case seemed irrelevant. “I don’t get the connection to Luther and Panther?”
“Don’t you see? If Luther’s arrested, then people are going to draw up sides. There will be a lot of sympathy for a man whose mourning was turned into political theater. If Luther killed Panther in a turmoil of grief and rage, I predict
a surge of support. Feelings that Jimmy Panther had it coming. Jimmy’s supporters will turn him into a Cherokee martyr and that only ratchets up emotions. When people are pushed to extremes, they take extreme action. If this becomes a Cherokee versus Gainesboro issue, it could resonate all the way to Raleigh.”
Collins shook his head slowly. “I don’t want to see that happen. For Luther’s sake. The guy’s been my friend for nearly thirty years. He was one of the first people to welcome Corrine and me when we moved here from New Jersey to start our family. But I tell you, Barry, people are ready to exploit this whole tragic affair. None more so than his son Darren.”
“Darren?”
“Yeah. He’s helping the Catawba Indians pursue their casino. I got word because he claims to have access to me. I don’t appreciate being used like that—by him or his Washington PR firm. Don’t think he won’t vilify the Cherokee if it serves his client.”
I didn’t know what to say. If what Collins said was true, it wrapped a new layer around Darren’s involvement. Collins didn’t know Darren no longer worked at the PR firm, and until I knew more, I wasn’t about to tell him. Not while he was worked up in such an emotional state.
“Mack, you know Tommy Lee and I have to follow this wherever the evidence leads.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “I know. I’d just appreciate a heads-up if this is going to break bad for Luther. Don’t mistake me. I’m sympathetic to Luther, but I feel a responsibility to do what’s right for all the people in North Carolina.” He stepped back, reached in his suit coat, and handed me a card. “Here are all my contact numbers in Raleigh, and my cell’s on the back. I’ve got to go back to the legislature in the morning, but you call day or night.”
He gave my shoulder a squeeze. “I owe you.” He smiled. “Who knows? Maybe I can get your uncle in front of that committee.”
I thought about my conversation with Collins the entire drive to my cabin. His political concerns had appeared tangential to my investigation until he mentioned Darren Cransford. Now dots could be connected that weren’t coincidences but consequences. Mack Collins oversaw Indian and gaming legislation, Darren would know his father’s friend from his childhood, and the Catawba Indian forces would be seeking any influence in Raleigh they could find. But how did that connect to Panther?
The discovery of the Cherokee burial site and Eurleen Cransford’s death had been the catalysts, a convergence of events, each individually explainable and yet with no logical connection. Maybe there was no logical connection. They were a coincidence of timing, timing that someone saw as an opportunity for murder.
Susan’s car was in its customary spot by the cabin porch. I saw a black Ford Escort with a Tennessee plate parked beside it. We had company, but I had no idea who.
I opened the front door and my yellow lab Democrat jumped up from his rug near the hearth and bounded for me. At the same time, a man sprang from the sofa, wineglass in hand.
“As I live and breathe, hasn’t our funeral director gone and transformed himself into a right proper law officer.”
I was stunned to see Kevin Malone, Boston police detective and Vietnam platoon mate of Tommy Lee. Although several years had passed since he was in Gainesboro to help solve a murder going back to that war, Kevin looked the same. His gray hair was a little thinner, but the impish Irish grin was as broad as ever.
“Kevin. What are you doing here?”
He raised the wineglass higher. “I’ve come to receive your gratitude, youngster. I know who killed Jimmy Panther.”
Chapter Nine
I stood inside the front door, doubly shocked by Kevin’s presence and his pronouncement.
“Well, come on in, lad. Susan’s kind enough to invite me to stay for dinner.” He sat down as if he were in his own den.
Susan came around the bar from the kitchen with a plate of cheese and crackers. “Hello, dear.” Her sly smile told me she was amused by the situation. She set the appetizers on the coffee table. “You want a glass of Malbec?”
“Definitely.”
Democrat gave up on getting a pat from me and trotted over to Kevin. He put his big head on the Irishman’s knee and was rewarded with a scratch behind the ear.
“Can’t believe he remembered me,” Kevin said.
I broke my frozen stance and closed the door. “You’re a hard man to forget.”
He set his glass on the table and stood again, this time to give me a firm handshake. “I had a feeling our paths would cross again. Maybe Democrat did too.” He returned to the sofa. “Tommy Lee said you’re heading up this Indian killing.”
I sat in a chair opposite him. “Did you see him?”
“No. Got him by phone as I was driving in. He said you and he spent the afternoon in Cherokee and he had to go to some civic meeting tonight.”
My mind was racing. Kevin’s car was obviously a rental, probably from the Asheville airport. So, he’d flown in from Boston. How had he learned about the murder and gotten here so fast? And why? I could only think of one explanation. “Tommy Lee put you up to claiming you solved my case. What, are you here on vacation?”
Susan entered with my wine. “Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”
Kevin patted the cushion beside him. “Sit down, Susan. I don’t want you running around on my account.”
She laughed. “I’m not. But it would be on your account before Barry’s.”
He grinned at me. “You’ve caught yourself a wicked one, son.”
“You men talk,” Susan said. “I’m going to walk Democrat up to the mailbox and we’ll eat when I get back.”
Democrat lifted his head at the sound of his name. He headed for the door.
When it closed behind Susan and the dog, Kevin’s face turned rigid. “Francis Tyrell. He killed your Indian.”
It didn’t take a detective to deduce Kevin was dead serious. “Who’s he?”
“A slick son of a bitch I wouldn’t cross Newbury Street to piss on if he was on fire.”
“And you flew in today because he’s a suspect?”
Kevin eyed his wineglass. “This grape juice is nice, but do you happen to have anything stronger?”
“I have some Bushmills.”
“Oh, be still my heart.”
I went to the cabinet beside the fireplace and pulled out a fifth that had been a Christmas present several seasons ago. I’m not much of a drinker. “How do you want it?”
Kevin gulped down his wine and then pointed to the empty glass. “She can land right there.”
I poured a couple of fingers and left the bottle on the table. He took a healthy swig, rolled it around his mouth, and then swallowed. “Ah. Aren’t your Southern Baptists going to be shocked when they find God’s got this on stock in heaven.”
“Francis Tyrell,” I prompted, pulling him back on topic. “What’s the connection to Boston?”
He waved me to my chair. “Whitey Bulger. Know the name?”
“Who doesn’t? We got coverage of the trial down here.” Whitey Bulger was a notorious Boston mobster who had been on the run for years until he was finally nabbed in California and brought to trial for multiple murders. I didn’t know the details, but I remembered the headlines and his alleged role as mastermind of the Winter Hill Gang, an Irish-American mob rooted in South Boston.
“And I guarantee you Francis Tyrell’s name never appeared,” Kevin said. “He was Whitey’s society face.”
“A lawyer?”
“No. A schmoozer. Like most sociopaths. I knew him as Frankie Tyrelli, a tough Italian kid surviving in an Irish neighborhood. He ran numbers in high school and Whitey tapped him as a sort of emissary to the New York families. You know, one of their own.”
“Is he wanted for something?”
Kevin leaned forward. “I want him for three murders. Of course, I’m only short in one area.�
�� He swirled the Bushmills in his glass. “Evidence.”
“So, he’s a schmoozer and a hit man.”
“I’m sure he smiles as he pulls the trigger. Over the last fifteen years, three potential witnesses against Whitey died of gunshot wounds to the head. Forensics leans toward a Walther P22.”
“A ballistics match for all three?”
“No.” Kevin took a drink, and then replenished his glass from the bottle. “Frankie’s too smart for that. Yes, the slugs were recovered from the heads of the victims, but they weren’t from the same gun. All were contact shots behind the ear. Scalp burns suggest a suppressor for two that happened in hotel rooms. The third victim was discovered in a construction site on Route 128 about ten miles out of Boston. That’s where the high tech sector developed. The skin was singed enough to identify the barrel profile of a Walther.”
“Over fifteen years,” I said. “That’s back when Whitey was still on the run.”
“My theory is the victims either tried to fill his vacuum prematurely, or they had information they could trade for immunity from prosecution. Whitey didn’t get where he did taking chances and leaving loose ends.”
“Was Tyrell brought in for questioning?”
Kevin shook his head. “Not enough to tag him for the hits. The targets worked the drug side of Winter Hill’s operations. A turf war runs off and on, especially after the Jamaicans moved in. The cases are still open, but most in the department think it was score-settling between the gangs. And good riddance.”
“You don’t?”
“The Walther P22 is a fine gun. Dependable, already threaded for a suppressor, and easy to conceal. Most of those Jamaican gangbangers pack Saturday Night Specials that are as likely to blow up in your hand as to fire properly. Frankie wouldn’t be caught dead with crap like that.”
“I’m not a gun expert but there are a lot of other quality semiautomatic pistols out there.”
“True,” Kevin conceded. “But a couple of months ago Frankie was stopped on a DUI. The officer found a Walther P22 in his glove compartment and Frankie was arrested for carrying a concealed weapon. Frankie claimed to have bought it in another state because he feared for his life.” Kevin cocked his head. “Can you believe it, Barry? He said Whitey Bulger was coming after him because he had always cooperated with the authorities. This was when the trial was in full swing. Frankie cited the very murders I think he committed as the proof of the threats. And although Frankie was as innocent as a lamb, Whitey had it in for him.”
Risky Undertaking Page 8
