“Yeah.”
“And,” he said, gathering steam with his argument, “if he killed them, he obviously took great pains to hide the bodies, which doesn’t fit the thinking of a guy who was planning on suicide. Why bother hiding the bodies if you’re not going to be around to worry about it?”
“So you think we should operate on the assumption he was killed.”
He gave me a tired grin. “I don’t know. But regardless, I’m not so worried about Weston. He killed himself, or someone killed him. Fine. We’ve got the body lying there, you know? But what the hell happened to that woman and her little girl?”
“That’s what we’re supposed to find out, old man.”
“I know.” He waved a handful of papers at me. “Swanders kept his word and faxed the crime scene report over.”
“And?”
“And the physical evidence makes it look like a suicide. They did a damn thorough job of checking the house, and they’ve also got no evidence of an intruder or any sort of struggle. Weston was killed with his own handgun, fired into his temple at point-blank range.”
“No chance someone else could have shot him, wiped the gun for prints, left it in his hand?”
He shrugged. “Well, there wasn’t any gunshot residue on his hand, no real convincing evidence he fired the shot himself. That doesn’t always exist in a suicide, though. So your idea is possible but unlikely. I mean, the guy was a pro, right? A Force Recon vet and a professional investigator? It’s hard to imagine a scenario where someone takes Weston’s gun away from him and shoots him at point-blank range so easily, then deals with the family, all without causing enough noise to attract attention from the neighbors. You don’t think the mother and little girl would get out even a scream?”
“Maybe the guy kills them first.”
“While Weston sits around chewing on his fingernails? You kidding me?”
I sighed and scratched my head. “When were the mother and girl last seen?”
“Neighbors said they were in the backyard at seven that night.”
“So they leave the house, meet with some kind of trouble, and then the guy or guys head back to the home and finish off Weston.”
“Weston wasn’t killed until after midnight. Probably closer to three or four than midnight. While his wife and kid are out missing that late, he sits around the house relaxing?”
“Maybe he was asleep, didn’t realize they hadn’t come home.”
“Guy sleeps wearing a shirt and tie?”
I was running out of maybes. “I guess we’re going to have to leave the office for this.”
“Depressing, isn’t it? We’re not so good after all.”
In the next hour, Joe and I agreed on a preliminary plan of action. He thought it would be more efficient if we worked separately on the early steps of the investigation, allowing us to tackle multiple angles as quickly as possible. He would look into Weston’s most recent cases and pursue the possible gambling connections. I would check out the three Russians and talk to Weston’s closest friends, whose names were in the notes provided by John Weston. I hoped that at least one of them would give me a better idea of Weston’s gambling tendencies.
Amy called, wanting an update on the case. Patience was never her strong suit. I told her about our meeting with Swanders and Kraus, then explained the questions that were nagging at Joe. She didn’t have any solutions.
“Anything I can do to help?” she asked.
“I’m not giving you a story, Ace.”
“I don’t want the story, Lincoln, I’m just asking if you could use any help.”
“Okay,” I said. “If you’re so eager to be helpful, you can run the names of my three Russian friends through your archives and see what you find. My guess is there will be at least one story. The robbery charge probably warranted some sort of attention from you guys.”
“Give me the names.”
I did, and she promised to check them out and get back to me. That settled, I began to call some of Weston’s closer acquaintances. John Weston had listed six names under the “Friends” category, along with the phone numbers he had for the five of them who lived in the state. The sixth was an old Marine buddy who lived in Florida. I’d try to find a number for him if I couldn’t turn up anything productive from the others. I assumed the police would have talked to all the same individuals, but it was still the place to start.
Four hours later, I’d conducted five interviews. Three of the “friends” John Weston had listed told me they weren’t really that close to Wayne Weston, just casual acquaintances who sometimes played golf with him. When asked about the gambling, they all claimed limited knowledge.
“He’d make bets on the golf course fairly often,” one man told me. “Never big money, just betting ten or twenty bucks on a round, or maybe five or ten on a hole. It was just something he did to make it a little more fun, increase the competitiveness a bit.”
The other two admitted being close with Weston, but both dismissed the idea that he might have had serious gambling debts, saying betting was nothing more than recreation to Weston, and not something he did recklessly. I stuck with them for a while, searching for other motives or sources of trouble, but found none. I finished the afternoon with no leads but with a growing list of questions about Wayne Weston. His father had provided names of the people he felt his son was closest to, yet none of those people seemed to know the man intimately. Even the self-proclaimed “close” friends had only casual relationships with Weston, and all of them described him as a private person, not given to a great deal of socializing or conversation about his personal affairs. It was not the response I had hoped to generate.
Joe left the office while I was doing the last of my interviews. It didn’t sound like he had made much progress with the Windsor calls. By the time I hung up, it was growing dark out on the street. Amy, for all her burning desire to help, hadn’t called back with any information about the Russians. I decided to call it a day and head to my gym for a mind-clearing workout, hoping to return the next morning with a fresh focus and some better ideas.
I own a gym called Sweat Alley just a few blocks from our office. After I was dismissed from the police department, I invested the meager inheritance left from my father’s estate in the gym and attempted to make it as a small business owner. Since then, I’d turned the management over to Grace, my middle-aged and sharp-tongued employee, but you could find me there most evenings.
When I arrived, the parking lot was fairly crowded. I had to admit Grace had more of a knack for running the place than I did. She’d started cardiovascular classes and generated a good-sized turnout for them after she began targeting the senior citizens’ centers in the area with advertising. The result was that the gym was making me more money than ever before, and I had an odd mix of burly power lifters and white-haired grandmothers.
It was after five, so Grace was gone and the office was closed. I used my keycard to enter, then did some light stretching and headed for the free weights. A black guy named Alan Belle was on the incline bench, pressing a pair of eighty-pound dumbbells, and we exchanged nods. Alan had been coming to the gym for a few months now, and we talked occasionally. As I started in on my own workout, I remembered that he’d served in the Marines.
“Hey, Alan,” I said when he had finished his set.
“Yeah?” He turned to me, wiping sweat away from his eyes with a towel. There were lots of guys in the gym who were big, or in great shape, and then there was Alan Belle. He wasn’t power-lifter thick but lean and cut, with an athlete’s hard muscle. He was tall, at least six-four, and he’d been a star in both football and basketball at St. Ignatius, Cleveland’s perennial high school powerhouse.
“You were in the Marines, right?”
“Six years, Marine Expeditionary Unit,” he acknowledged.
“Same group my father was in,” I said. “Guy I was named after was a Marine, too. Saved my dad’s life in Vietnam. You know anything about Force Recon?�
��
“Recon.” He grinned and rubbed his shaved head. “Yeah, I know Force Recon. Those boys are flat-out badasses, that’s all there is to it. I was recruited for Recon, but I wasn’t planning on making a career out of it and I liked my unit, so I passed.”
“They go through pretty tough training?”
“All Marines go through tough training, Perry. Force Recon boys go through specialized training. They get taught all the dirty tricks, the special ops techniques. That’s what they are: special operations. See, I was in an expeditionary unit. We were considered special operations capable. There’s a difference. And as far as the training is concerned, yeah, they’re pretty well taught. They’ve got to pass airborne training, combat diver training, escape and evasion training, close-quarters combat—all the fun stuff.”
“I see.”
“Why are you interested?” he asked.
“I met a guy who was with Force Recon, and I was curious,” I said.
Belle laughed. “Sure, Perry. I just hope you’re on this fella’s good side. You don’t want to be pissing off any Recon boys.”
I returned my attention to my own workout, beginning with military presses, then moving on to shoulder shrugs and lateral raises. I concentrated on steady breathing and careful form, trying to make each repetition identical to the last in motion and power, like cylinders working in an engine. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and the muscles began to ache. It wasn’t a bad pain, though, but one that promised better things ahead.
I finished my weight workout and then went outside and ran. The air was cold; it was only March, and in Cleveland March feels a lot more like the end of winter than it does the beginning of spring. There were still traces of snow in the parking lots, but the sidewalks were clear and the footing was safe. I ran regardless of the conditions, but it was nice not to have to worry about the slick patches of black ice that blended with the shadows.
I ran four miles, my body becoming hot under the sweatshirt despite the cold, the sweat beginning to drip down my face. When I returned to the gym I remained on the sidewalk until my breathing was back to normal, and then I went upstairs. I live in an apartment above the gym, and sometimes, late at night, I can hear the distant thuds of dropped weights and the clang of metal on metal from some night owl’s workout.
I showered and changed clothes, then stood in front of the open refrigerator debating what to make for dinner. The phone rang while I was considering the limited options and thinking it was time for a trip to the grocery store. I picked up the receiver, expecting it was Joe and hoping it wasn’t Angela calling again to question my judgment in ending our short-lived relationship.
“Hello?”
“Lincoln, I need you.” It was Amy, and she wasn’t happy.
“What’s wrong?” I said. Silence. “Amy? What’s wrong?”
“Just come over. I’ll explain when you’re here.”
She hung up, and I sighed and let the refrigerator door swing shut. So much for dinner. I grabbed my keys and left.
I’d driven a Jeep until recently, when I’d traded it in and purchased a four-year-old Chevy Silverado pickup truck. I like big cars, and the two settings of four-wheel drive meant I could handle any weather the Cleveland winter chose to dish out, but both Amy and Joe ridiculed the truck constantly. On the other hand, when I wanted to drive fast in the big truck, as I did on the way to Amy’s apartment, people tended to get out of my way.
The first thing I noticed when I pulled into a parking spot in front of Amy’s apartment was her car. The Acura was parked in its customary place but that was where the normalcy ended. The side panels and trunk were covered with large dents, all four windows had been broken out, and the windshield was spiderwebbed with cracks.
I turned my truck off and climbed out, staring at the car in amazement. I was standing beside it, running my fingers over some of the larger dents, when Amy came out of her apartment.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” she said. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, holding her arms tightly around herself, seemingly more to offer comfort than warmth. Her eyes were dry and she was calm, but at the same time I sensed a quality of tension and fear that I had never seen in her before. As long as I had known Amy, she’d always presented an attitude of confidence and bravado. I was surprised to see her this rattled.
“What happened?” I said.
She smiled. “I got a little too eager to help.”
“Excuse me?”
“When you gave me those names this afternoon, I ran them through the archives and didn’t find much. There was a story about the robbery they were involved with, and that was about it. But I didn’t want to report back with nothing, so I decided to do a little investigating on my own. I located addresses for two of them and drove out to talk to the neighbors.” She forced a tight-lipped smile. “Apparently, that wasn’t the wisest choice.”
I stared at her. “They did this? The guys on the list I gave you?”
She nodded. “Yeah. The neighbors weren’t real helpful, and they all seemed nervous. I left without learning anything, went back to work for another hour, and then came home. When I pulled into the lot, four men were waiting for me. Three of them had bats, and they started hitting my car, smashing the windows. I was screaming and trying to get my cell phone to call the police, and then the fourth one, this big blond guy, leaned down beside the driver’s door and smiled at me.” She gritted her teeth and frowned, angry. “People in the parking lot were screaming, someone was yelling about calling the police, and this guy, he’s smiling. Completely nonchalant. He hands me my own business card through the broken window and says, ‘I think it would be a good idea for you to forget all about us, ma’am.’ And then they left. They just got inside this fancy SUV and drove away.”
I looked at the car again, at the thousands of dollars of damage done so casually, and I took a few long, slow breaths, pushing down the rising anger.
“How are you so sure it was the guys on my list? Could it have been people from the trial you’re covering, or some other story?”
She shook her head vehemently. “No, Lincoln, it couldn’t have been anyone else. First of all, I’d been handing out my cards to all the neighbors, which is probably where that asshole got his. And he had a definite accent. His English was flawless, but it was spoken in this clipped, careful voice. It was obviously a second language for him, and I’d be willing to bet he was Russian.”
“Did the police come?”
“Yes. They filled out a vandalism report, which should help me with the insurance company, but I told them I had no idea who the guys were. I don’t think they believed me, but that’s fine. I figured I’d talk to you first.” She cocked her head and looked at me. “Who are these guys, Lincoln?”
“I don’t know,” I said, wondering the same thing. “I know they’re criminals who were of interest to Wayne Weston shortly before his death. That’s all I know, so far.” I tapped on the side of her car. “I’m really sorry, Ace.”
She waved me off. “Don’t be, Lincoln, it wasn’t your fault. All you wanted was a computer archives check. It was stupid for me to go around asking questions without knowing what I was getting into, but that’s my job, so it was a pretty natural response.”
“I suppose you could press charges, if it really was the Russians,” I said. “But I think it would be best if you let me look into things first.”
“No way I’m pressing charges. I mean, I just asked some questions, and they did this.” She gestured at the car. “It probably wouldn’t be wise to do anything else to piss them off.”
I looked away. Intimidation is a powerful and ugly tool. And an effective one. They’d intimidated Amy, and she’d never struck me as the type of person readily susceptible to such tactics.
Apparently, she was thinking similarly.
“I’m used to thugs,” she said softly. “I deal with con men, murderers, thieves, and rapists. I write stories about them, I push their personal affairs into the publi
c eye, and I upset them. And I’ve never really worried about it. But with these guys, it wasn’t the same. They were totally indifferent, you know? The one who talked to me, he looked just . . . I don’t know . . . empty. He looked like he could have raped me, killed me, or given me roses and felt exactly the same about all of it.” She took a deep breath. “Who are these guys, Lincoln?” she asked again.
I was saved from reaffirming my ignorance by a white Lexus coupe that squealed to a stop beside my truck. Amy and I both turned, and she put her hands to her head.
“Jacob,” she said. “I completely forgot he was coming over.”
Jacob Terry stepped out of the Lexus and looked at us with a wide smile. He was a tall, good-looking guy, with perfect teeth, eyebrows, and nails, and a haircut that said “beauty salon” where mine said “barber shop.” He’s supposedly the most popular news anchor in the city, but I remember a time when Pee Wee Herman and Geraldo Rivera were successful television personalities, so that’s not saying much.
“Hey, babe,” he said to Amy. “And you’re Lincoln Perry, correct?”
“Uh-huh.”
He beamed at me and offered his hand, apparently thrilled with the pleasant surprise of my company. “Good to see you again, Mr. Perry.”
“Likewise, Mr. Terry,” I said, realizing for the first sickening time that our names rhymed. Maybe he could join me when Joe retired. Perry and Terry Investigations. Yikes.
Terry was still smiling, completely oblivious to the wreck that was Amy’s car. “What brings you here?” he said.
“The smashed-up vehicle two feet in front of you,” I answered, releasing his hand. “Geez, for a professional journalist, you’re not the most observant guy in the world, are you, Jake?”
Amy fought to hide a smile while Terry fought to keep his in place.
“I guess not,” he said, looking past me and seeing the car for the first time. “Amy, what in the hell happened? Were you in an accident?”
I glanced back at the car myself, studying the damage and trying to comprehend how anyone could think it came from an accident. Maybe he thought she had rear-ended a semi that spilled a load of Louisville Sluggers onto her car.
Tonight I Said Goodbye lp-1 Page 4
