“There was a line of tables for two set along the windows. She was at the next table, right behind Peter. She and my husband were sitting back to back and I was directly across from him.”
“Was there any indication that your husband knew Katherine?”
“I don’t believe he did. He spoke to her when we sat down at the table, but nothing else.”
“Do you have children?” I asked.
“Two. A boy and a girl.”
“Do they live here?”
“No. My daughter is married and lives in Miami. My son is a student at the University of Florida, but he’s traveling in Europe right now. He’ll be back on campus in a couple of weeks.”
“Did you ask if either of them knew Katherine?”
“Yes. I thought of that. She was close to their ages. They didn’t know her.”
“I understand you went up on deck for a smoke just before the lights went out on Dulcimer.”
“Yes. A terrible habit, but I was down to about five cigarettes a day. I’m completely off them now.”
“Why didn’t your husband go topside with you?”
“He was very sensitive to smoke. The least little whiff of it and he’d start sneezing. I always went outside by myself to feed the habit.”
“Did you see any Asians that night aboard the boat?”
“Nobody ever asked me that one.” She was quiet for a moment, thinking. She shut her eyes as if trying to conjure up a memory, then opened them wide, a look of surprise crossing her face. “Oh my goodness. You’re right. I did see somebody. The man I thought was hitting on Katherine was Asian.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Betty Garrison and I talked for another half hour, but she could tell me no more than she already had. Her memory of the Asian man was limited. She knew he was Asian, but she could not describe him. She didn’t remember if she ever heard him speak, so she couldn’t tell me whether the man had an accent. As far as she knew her husband had never had any dealings with Asians in his practice, but that might not be the case. She wouldn’t have known unless Peter made a point of telling her and there was no reason for him to do so. She agreed to check with the managing partner of Peter’s law firm and find out about any clients that might have had a beef with him. She would also determine if he’d had any recent clients from Asia.
I’d left Jock at my house. He was working the phones and the computer, running down anything the federal government had on Souphanouvong Phomvihana and his poppy growing operation. He was calling in a lot of favors.
I drove back to Craig Airport and boarded Doc’s plane for the trip to Charlotte. I typed my notes on my conversation with Betty Garrison into my laptop and e-mailed them to both Jock and J.D. and a copy to Chaz Desmond.
George and Estelle Brewster lived in a small bungalow in a working-class neighborhood near the rail yards northeast of downtown Charlotte. They were tired people with wan complexions, their bodies gaunt, their hair gray. They were two people beaten into submission by life’s dark whims. Perhaps the loss of their only child had been the ultimate defeat visited on them by a world they no longer understood, a loss that deflated them and turned them into the walking dead, those cadaverous beings who look forward to the grave and solace at last, the comforting presence of death providing some measurable meaning to their lives.
I knew from the earlier police statements that the Brewsters were in their fifties, but they looked eighty. Their small house was tidy and smelled of musty furniture that had not been moved in a generation. The living room was spare with only a chair, a sofa, and an old console television set that must have been at least twenty years old. Three photographs sat atop the TV, a portrait of Katherine that was probably her high school senior picture, another of all three Brewsters standing on the front porch of their home, and a third of Katherine and a young man smiling for the camera, low mountains providing a backdrop for what must have been a happy day.
We sat, I on the chair and the couple on the sofa, holding hands, looking glum. “I’m sorry to intrude,” I said, “but I’m hoping you can help me solve the murder of your daughter.” I’d told them over the phone when I set up the meeting and then moved it up a day what my interest in the case was.
“Mr. Royal, I hope you can figure it out. Kat was our only child. She was a happy girl with a big streak of kindness for everybody,” said George.
“Tell me about her,” I said.
“She was twenty-five years old. She’d finished the local community college and was working to save some money to finish her education at UNC-Charlotte.”
“How long had she worked at Hooters?”
“Almost two years. She was banking most of her money and was going to start school at UNCC this fall.”
“Did she ever have any men bothering her at the restaurant? Hitting on her?”
“Oh,” said Estelle, “I’m sure that happened often enough, but she let it roll off. She had a boyfriend.”
“Who’s the boyfriend?”
“His name’s Doug Peterson. They met at the community college. They’d been going together for about three years. Planned to get married when they both finished college.”
“Had there been any problems with their relationship?”
“No. They seemed very happy,” said Estelle.
“Why didn’t he go to Florida with her?”
“They really couldn’t afford it, and Doug couldn’t get the time off,” said George. “Kat’s trip was free except for the gas money to get down there.”
It had not occurred to me to even ask how Katherine had gotten to Anna Maria. I had just assumed she went by air. “She drove down?”
“Yes. She had a Honda that she kept in great shape. All paid for. She bought it used when she graduated from high school.”
“How did you get the car back to Charlotte?”
“Doug took a bus down and drove it back,” said Estelle.
“Where does Doug work?”
“He works on a lawn maintenance crew over at the university. He’s a junior there, planning to be a school teacher. Just like Kat.”
“Where did Katherine get the free stay on Anna Maria?” I asked.
“Funny,” said George. “It came in the mail. Kind of a surprise.”
“Where did it come from?”
“She worked a charity benefit over at the arena back in April. She was a bartender and one of the organizers sent her the certificate.”
“Did she know the man before he sent the certificate?”
“I don’t think so,” said George. “She didn’t even recognize the name on the letter that came with the gift certificate, but she appreciated it.”
Estelle said, “She said she needed to get away by herself to do some thinking.”
“Do you know what she needed to think about?”
Estelle shook her head. “No. She didn’t want to talk about it.”
“What was the charity event she worked?”
“I don’t know,” said George.
“Wait,” said Estelle. “I think the letter that came with the gift certificate is still in Kat’s room.”
She left us, disappearing into the back of the house. George and I sat quietly. I watched him stare off into space, saw tears collecting in his eyes. He wiped them away with his calloused hand, sniffed once, pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, blew his nose, and stared some more.
Estelle returned with a letter-sized paper and two smaller ones. She handed them to me. The first was a note thanking Katherine for helping out at the event and enclosing two gift certificates as tokens of appreciation. One certificate was for the stay at the Anna Maria Inn and the other for a dinner aboard Dulcimer. The signature was illegible, but the name typed underneath the scrawl was “Ronald Brumbaugh.” The letterhead identified the charity as “Charlotte Learns, Inc.” A subheading claimed it as “A not-for-profit corporation that supports public schools in poverty stricken neighborhoods.” The smaller sheets were copies of the gift ce
rtificates from the Anna Maria Inn and Dulcimer issued through EZGo Travel. The certificate for the Anna Maria Inn was for the specific date in June, but the Dulcimer certificate was open-ended and could be used at any time at the recipient’s discretion.
“Do you know this Mr. Brumbaugh?” I asked.
“No,” said Estelle. “And Kat didn’t either.”
“What about Charlotte Learns?”
“That’s a charity that we read about in the paper sometimes. They help our teachers buy pencils and paper and stuff for the poor kids.”
“Do you know the name of Doug’s supervisor over at the college?” I asked George.
“No,” he said. “He worked out of the maintenance department. That’s all I know. Why?”
“Don’t take this wrong, Mr. Brewster,” I said, “but we need to make sure Doug was in Charlotte at the time Katherine died.”
Estelle put her hand to her mouth. “He had dinner here that day. With us. Besides, Doug loved Kat. He would never have harmed her.”
“I’m sorry I had to ask,” I said, feeling a little foolish.
We talked some more without me learning anything new. I got up from the chair, thanked them for their time, and followed George toward the front door. Hanging on the wall between a window and the door was a shadow box with military decorations pinned inside along with the symbol of the U.S. Marine Corps.
“You were a Marine?” I asked.
“Yep. Did six years in the corps. Two tours in Vietnam. Did you serve?”
“Yeah. I did a tour right at the end of the war. Army.”
“What branch?”
“Special Forces.”
“You guys were tough.”
“So were you jarheads. Were you infantry?”
“Yeah. I was trained as a sniper and worked in Force Recon.”
“A Marine sniper. The best of the best.”
“So they told me.”
I shook his hand. “Thank you for your service.”
“And thank you for yours.”
I left them standing on the porch as dusk enveloped us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The small jet banked slightly and lined up on its final approach to Sarasota-Bradenton Airport. I looked down at the dark expanse of Sarasota Bay, clearly outlined by the lights of the mainland and the barrier islands. Headlights moved across the Anna Maria Bridge, its superstructure defined by red and green lights. People on their way home or out to eat. A placid scene that reminded me of why I loved my islands so much. It was hard to reconcile this sense of normalcy with the murders that had occurred a couple of months before. I wondered if I would be able to find the murderers, to bring some peace to the victims’ families and perhaps to the spirits of the dead themselves.
I’d driven the rental car away from that small house in Charlotte where grief was edging out the good memories of an aging couple who had lost their only child and their remaining hope of happiness. The plane was fueled and ready to go. Two hours later we were crossing the bay on final approach.
During the flight, I’d typed my notes into my laptop and e-mailed them to J.D. and Chaz Desmond. I called Jock and arranged to meet him for a late dinner at the Seafood Shack in Cortez. He was going to bring J.D. I pulled into the restaurant parking lot a few minutes after nine o’clock, walked down the outside deck to the bay side dining area. Jock and J.D. were already seated at a window table. I joined them.
“How was the trip?” Jock asked.
“Quick.”
“Did you find out anything?” asked J.D.
“Betty Garrison remembered an Asian man speaking to Katherine
Brewster on the boat the night of the murders.” I filled them in on the rest of the trip and what I’d found out. Which wasn’t much.
A waitress came and took our orders, and removed the menus. She looked tired. The beauty of the bay would have long ago been lost on her. I guess when one works in paradise every day, one becomes a bit jaded about the scenery that draws the tourists that makes the job possible in the first place. She returned immediately with our drinks, a beer for me, wine for J.D., and O’Doul’s for Jock.
“I’m interested in the bogus travel agency,” said J.D. “How did the gift certificate from the B and B on Anna Maria end up with Katherine? And why a fictitious travel agency?”
“Debbie called this afternoon,” said Jock. “She ran the credit card number on EZGo and came up with a blank. The card was issued to a company named EZGo and was guaranteed by a man named, get this, John Doe.”
J.D. laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Apparently the credit card companies aren’t very discriminating. The card was used twice. Once for the gift certificate for the Anna Maria Inn and a second time for gas at a service station in Bradenton.”
“Did the name Brumbaugh come up in Deb’s search?” I asked.
“She didn’t mention it to me,” said Jock, “and she would have, I think. So I’d say no.”
“Anything from your agency on Soupy?” I asked.
“A lot, but I’ve still got to sort through all the data. He’s pretty big in the poppy business and apparently commands a sizable army. He’s well known to our intelligence groups as one of the Golden Triangle warlords.”
“Any Laotian government involvement?”
“He’s right in the middle of it. Most of the warlords have their own people in the various ministries. I don’t know how much control Soupy has over what the government does, but he certainly has influence.”
“Any indication that he operates outside Laos?” I asked.
“None. I asked our director to query the intelligence agencies. It all came back negative. Apparently Soupy is happy to stay right there in Laos.”
J.D. had been sitting quietly. “That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have sent some goons to take out Jim Desmond.”
I shook my head. “The ones who tried to kill me grew up in America. Their English was too good, too idiomatic, to have been learned somewhere else.”
“Maybe the ones who attacked you were born here, but their parents are part of Soupy’s organization,” said J.D.
I nodded. “That’s a possibility. I wish I’d been able to hold onto one of them.”
Jock said, “I also checked on the Otto Foundation. It’s legit. Sends kids to build schools in Southeast Asia. Its director Bud Stanley is another matter.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“His real name is Robert Charles Bracewell, Jr. Thirty years ago, when he was in his early twenties, he and his dad were involved in a heroin import business in Long Beach, California. The DEA busted them and both went to prison. Senior died there, but Junior, who was called Bud, did his ten years at Lompoc and went on to better things. He legally changed his name to Bud Stanley, went to college at Cal State Northridge, got a degree, and went into the charitable business. He’s kept his skirts clean.”
“Sounds like a guy who learned his lesson,” I said.
“Possibly,” said Jock. “But guess who was on the other end of the heroin pipeline?”
“Shit,” I said. “You’re going to tell me it was Soupy’s dad.”
“You get the gold star. None other than Soupy’s old man.”
“No evidence Stanley’s still involved?” J.D. asked.
“None,” said Jock. “His bank accounts show he’s living on his salary from the Otto Foundation.”
“Family?”
“Never married. No kids. Mom died while he was in college.”
“That’s very strange,” I said.
“There’s more.”
I looked at Jock. He was showing a half smile of anticipation. A surprise was coming.
“I’m waiting,” I said.
“Bud Stanley has a very nice history. There is no connection to Bracewell. The record of his years before college, the years he was really in prison, is full of jobs that lasted a year or two. All in little companies that no longer exist. He was a typical young man strug
gling to make a living and then went back to college in his thirties.”
“I don’t understand,” said J.D.
“Somebody manufactured a pretty airtight background for our Mr. Stanley. I even have his high school records, the ones that Cal State got when he applied. He was a mediocre student who did not seem to the advisors to be college material. They’re all bogus.”
“How airtight is it if you can find out all this stuff in one day?” asked J.D.
“Damned airtight. Nobody would find the connection to Bracewell unless the one looking happens to be an intelligence agency of the United States government.”
“So,” I said, “Bud had some help. Could he be part of the U.S. Marshal’s witness protection program?”
“We checked,” said Jock. “The Marshals have never heard of either Stanley or Bracewell.”
“Any ideas on how he manufactured such an extensive background?” I asked.
“It’s possible he did it himself, but more likely he had help. This was a professional job.”
“How did you tie Bracewell and Stanley together?” asked J.D.
“Anytime somebody’s doing business with our government in a foreign country, they’re fingerprinted. Unless there’s some reason, such as a security clearance, to compare the prints to others, it’s not done. The prints are just put in a file and can be used for identification if needed. I asked my agency to run Stanley’s prints. We got a hit on Bracewell and followed up.”
“Did Bracewell just drop out of sight after Stanley showed up?” asked J.D.
Jock grinned. “A death certificate was filed on Bracewell in Los Angeles County about the time that Stanley applied to Cal State. Showed a death from natural causes and burial in a local cemetery.”
I knew the look on Jock’s face. “What else?”
He laughed. “The only other place that Bracewell’s name has shown up in the past twenty years is on a bank account in Switzerland.”
“Still active?” J.D. asked.
“Yep.”
J.D. frowned. “I understand that there’s no way to crack Swiss bank secrecy.”
“That’s generally true,” said Jock. “But there are ways to do it.”
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