Deadly Illusions

by Chester D. Campbell

  “What about friends?” I asked, taking a different tack. “Does he have any close friends at work, or elsewhere?”

  “Not really.” She hesitated, reconsidering. “Well, maybe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He has some old Vietnam buddies. I don’t know any names. But once in a while he takes off to go help one. Says it’s sort of like being an AA member. If one has a problem, he calls for help. The others rally to his side.”

  “They must really be a tight-knit bunch,” Jill said.

  I knew a bit about that. I had put in some time in Vietnam. But infantry types who had to live together and survive together were more likely to form bonds that lasted long beyond the war.

  I reminded Molly of her comments yesterday about being afraid of her husband because of the way he looked at her, things he didn’t say. “What exactly did you mean by that?”

  She gave a twist to her mouth and stammered a bit. “Well, I guess…for one thing…we don’t go out a lot. To a restaurant once in a great while, or a Predators game. Damon loves hockey. I’ve got this girl friend at work I go out with more than I do Damon. She and I go shopping a lot or to a movie. He’d rather watch movies at home.”

  “So what are you saying? Did he refuse to take you somewhere?”

  “I’d been bugging him for weeks to go to a concert. I complained that if he could take off at a moment’s notice to spend a week helping an old buddy, he should be able to spend one night with me at the Gaylord Center.”

  An arena that housed the NHL Nashville Predators, the Gaylord Center also catered to rock concerts, country music extravaganzas, you name it. Since she still hadn’t given me the answer I was looking for, I asked, “So what happened?”

  “When I brought it up again about a week ago, he glared at me with those cold black eyes and said, ‘Get your damned friend Peggy to go with you. If you don’t get off my ass–’ He never finished it, but I knew what he meant. I would be eternally sorry.”

  “But he hasn’t done anything to you,” I said.

  “Not physically...yet. He’s been in a dark mood the last few months, though. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. Meanwhile, he just does whatever he pleases and to hell with me. I’ve had it. I’d leave him today if I wasn’t so damned scared.”

  While I was digesting that, Jill got down to business. “What about his Social Security number, Molly?”

  She pulled a small piece of paper out of her handbag. “I had to search all over the place to find it.”

  “Don’t you keep copies of your tax returns?” I asked.

  “I have mine, of course,” she said. “We file separate. Damon said it would be better that way.”

  I should have known.

  “Is he working at Heritage today?” I asked.

  She nodded. “He had to go to Crossville. He shouldn’t be back until after lunch.”

  I took the slip with the Social Security number and the wedding photo and put them in a folder I had prepared for the case file. I gave Jill a prompting glance.

  She turned to Molly. “Did you bring the money for the fee advance?”

  Molly pulled a checkbook out of her bag, tore off a check and handed it over. “Eight hundred dollars.”

  “That should cover everything,” Jill said. “If there’s any left over after we figure our time and expenses, we’ll return it to you.”

  Molly looked up. “I can give you more if necessary.”

  “This is fine for now,” Jill said. “We’ll be in touch with you when we have something.”

  Molly shook her head. “I’ll call you. Say in a couple of days?”

  “That will be fine.”

  “What if there’s an emergency? Do you have a cell phone?”

  Jill wrote the number on the back of a business card. “We keep it on when we’re away from the office. But your best bet is to call us here or at home.”

  Molly took the card and started toward the door, then stopped and looked back. “Please be careful how you handle this. Don’t say any more than you have to to anybody. I just pray that Damon doesn’t get wind of what I’ve done.”

  5

  I sat at my desk with a yellow pad finishing my notes on the Molly Saint interview. Picking up my coffee mug, I stared into it. Empty.

  “Coming up, dear,” Jill said from across the office. She brought the pot over, poured the steaming brew and glanced down at my almost illegible scrawling. “It would make things a lot easier if you would do that on the computer.”

  I darted her a pained look. “Give me a little time, babe. I still think better with a pen in hand. I’ll transfer it to the computer.”

  She did the old eye roll maneuver, as though following the path of a rainbow, her favorite way of expressing irritation at some of my questionable antics. “Okay, boss,” she said. “Where do we start with this?”

  Boss was the nickname OSI agents used in referring to their special agent in charge. Jill had started using it—tongue-in-cheek, I hasten to add—since the opening of McKenzie Investigations. The only other person who still referred to me that way was Ted Kennerly, OSI special agent in charge at Arnold Air Force Base seventy miles south of Nashville. He had served under me several years ago fresh out of the Special Investigations Academy. Present for the not-so-grand opening of our

  Old Hickory Boulevard office, Ted had insisted that we call him when we had problems he could help with. “I think we’d better ask Ted to check with the Army on Mr. Saint,” I said. “I’ll make a few other inquiries, then we can head over to Heritage Car Rentals and see what they know.”

  I caught Ted in his office and asked him if he would run down the facts on Damon Saint’s military service.

  “No problem,” he said. “How’s the PI business? We’ve been picking up vibrations all the way down here over that Bernstein shooting. You know anything about it?”

  I told him our experience during and after lunch at the hotel.

  He chuckled. “Glad we’re just involved with simple things like terrorists and druggies. I’ll check out your man Saint and get back to you as soon as I have something.”

  Consulting my list that showed which of the first three digits in Social Security numbers were assigned to each state, I found Damon Saint had received his card while living in Indiana. He claimed to have been raised in Chicago, which was where a lot of people in northern Indiana worked.

  Finances can tell a lot about a person. A bit of knowledge about Damon Saint’s finances would give me a better insight into him, how he lived, where he traveled, what he was involved in. Molly had provided precious little help. Clearly, he did not want her to know anything regarding his financial situation. We had signed with a few on-line companies that could provide a world of information on subjects under investigation, but I decided to try an intriguing source I had learned of from a friend several weeks back.

  David Wolfson had come to my aid a year and a half ago while I was working to free Jill from a group that had taken her hostage. The co-owner of a local market research firm, David was a computer geek. Back in his college days, he had been part of a hacker group and later worked for the National Security Agency. Recently he’d told me about a young Hispanic he had met through a former buddy in the network. Julio de Leon specialized in “researching” the U.S. financial system. According to David, if there was anything to be found about an individual’s accounts—checking, savings, brokerage, credit cards, you name it—Julio could find it.

  I looked up his number and got Julio on the phone. I told him who I was and that David Wolfson had recommended him.

  “Greg McKenzie, you say?”

  “That’s right. I’m a private investigator.”

  “Hold a sec.” Julio was back a few moments later. “You recently opened a business account for McKenzie Investigations. Co-signer Jill McKenzie.”

  I shook my head. “Okay. I’m impressed.”

  “Good,” he said. “David told me I should be hearing from
you. What took you so long?”

  “Up to now I hadn’t found a need for your services.”

  “Obviously that’s changed.”

  “It has, and I’d be mucho obliged if you could help.”

  “Aha, now you’re speaking my language.”

  “I guess I was,” I said, though not intentionally. After studying Spanish in high school and college, mucho just popped up on occasion. “David told me you came up from Mexico with your parents. You speak English like a native.”

  “Sí. Eef you prefer I speak like the Espanish, I can do that.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “I need to see what you can find on a guy named Damon Saint.”

  “He one of those who came marching in?”

  I had a joker on my hands. “Probably. He was in the Army.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “How about a Social Security number?”

  “Couldn’t do better.”

  I read off the number.

  “Are you looking for anything special?” he asked.

  “No, nothing special. Just whatever you can dig up. He’s pretty much a blank at this point.”

  “If he has any accounts, I’ll find them. Guar-on-teed. You in a hurry?”

  “I’d like something by tomorrow, if possible.”

  “How about this afternoon?”

  “Great. What’s it going to cost me?”

  He laughed. “A new client, first inquiry...I just might do this one gratis.”

  When I repeated what Julio had said, Jill frowned. “We’re not going to get in any trouble, are we?”

  I gave a little shrug. “Not unless the feds have a wiretap on us.”

  ———

  It was around eleven when I turned my Jeep Grand Cherokee into the paved lot at the Heritage Car Rentals office on

  Murfreesboro Road, not far from Nashville International Airport. This part of the city was not the most scenic. A conglomeration of nondescript small businesses dotted with fast food outlets appeared thrown together like a pickup basketball team. The day was warm, the temperature in the upper sixties. I parked between a vintage red Corvette with the top down and a big black pickup. The place resembled a small auto dealership, with cars, vans and SUV’s lined up on the tarmac. Red, white and blue balloons bobbed about in the morning breeze. Jill and I entered the office, which had a glassed-in front that made it look like a small auto showroom. Posters mounted around the windows promoted special weekend rates and vacation deals—airfare, hotel room, car, all in one neat package. A long counter with several computer stations occupied one side of the room. Offices lined the other, the first one labeled MANAGER.

  “What kind of car can we fix you up with?” asked a tall, muscular black man behind the counter. He had a Clark Gable mustache and a Rhett Butler grin.

  “No car, thanks,” I said. “Is the manager in?”

  “That’s his little red toy you parked beside. Name’s Art Finley. He’s in his office.” The man pointed to the door beyond the counter. “He just got off the phone. You can knock and go on in.”

  I didn’t like the idea of barging in without an invitation, so I walked over to the door, knocked and waited.

  “Come in,” someone yelled from beyond the door.

  Jill and I entered to find a short, stocky man seated behind a gray metal desk. It occupied one side of a modest-sized office decorated with plaques and certificates honoring the agency for outstanding performance in areas such as sales and maintenance. I noticed the dates on them were all pre-millennium. Arthur Finley, whose name was confirmed by the walnut plaque on the desk, evidently doted on past glory.

  “What can I do for you folks?” Finley asked, getting up from his desk. The wide grin looked almost cherubic on a round face topped by a horseshoe-shaped fringe of white. I judged him to be around sixty, more than five years my junior.

  I handed him my card, which said “McKenzie Investigations, Background Checks, Civil and Criminal Investigations, Greg & Jill McKenzie, More than 30 Years Law Enforcement Experience.” The experience, of course, was all mine.

  Finley motioned us to a couple of chairs.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions about one of your employees,” I said. My smile was meant to be disarming. “He’s not suspected of any wrongdoing. We’re just looking into his background for a client.”

  Finley frowned. “Which employee?”

  “Damon Saint.”

  “I guess you know he’s just part-time. He apply for a full-time job?”

  “No,” I said. “This isn’t a pre-employment check. How long has he worked for you?”

  He sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “Seven years. Maybe eight. Was a couple of years after I sold my little used car lot and came with Heritage. Probably should have stayed where I was. Don’t mind saying I was one helluva car salesman.”

  Jill grinned. “I’ll bet you sold all the ladies.”

  “I did that, all right. Never met a lady I didn’t like.” He chuckled. “Probably why the wife left me.”

  “Did Damon tell you about his military service?” I asked.

  “Yeah. He’s retired Army. That’s one reason I took him on. I try to give veterans a preference in hiring. My kid brother was killed in Vietnam.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said. “Did Damon mention that he had served over there?”

  “Yeah. I told him about my brother, Donnie. Donnie died back in the early sixties. He was a Green Beret. Damon said he knew some Special Forces guys in Vietnam. He must’ve had it pretty rough. He doesn’t want to talk about it. I guess a lot of them feel that way.”

  I nodded. “I was in Nam for a while. In the Air Force. Incidentally, I understand Damon has his military pension deposited directly to his bank account. Is that the way you pay him?”

  Finley shook his head. “No way. Damon likes to feel the long green. I sorta like the feel of it myself. There’s a bank across the road. That’s where he heads as soon as he gets his check.”

  “Do you know his wife Molly, Mr. Finley?” Jill asked.

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve met her.” He did a little dance with his shoulders. “Sexy looking girl. Wouldn’t say I really know her, but we’ve met. A real odd couple, if you ask me.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know how they ever got together. He doesn’t strike me as being her type.”

  Jill cocked an eyebrow. “What type is that?”

  Finley picked up a small glass paperweight and rolled it around in his hand. “Have you met her?”

  “Yes,” Jill said.

  “Wouldn’t you say she looks like the party type? Well, I can’t see old Damon partying, except maybe with a beer at the corner tavern.”

  “He like to hoist one with the guys?” I asked.

  “Occasionally. Some of ’em drop by a little joint down

  Murfreesboro Road nearly every afternoon. Damon goes once in a while.” “These are people who ferry cars like Damon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Retirees like Damon?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Is Damon working today?”

  Finley nodded and set his glass toy on a stack of papers. “That’s his big black Dodge Ram diesel parked out front. He’s by himself today. Sometimes two or three of them travel in a convoy. They ride together on the way back if they’re only bringing one car.”

  “Does he get along pretty well with the other guys?” I asked.

  “The only complaint I’ve heard is he doesn’t talk much. Just sits there like a cigar store Indian.”

  “The others must be big talkers.”

  “Some of them will drive you up the wall.”

  “Does Damon talk to you?” I asked.

  “He answers questions. I figure maybe it has something to do with too much time in combat. Probably got a lot of stuff he’s holding inside. You know, stuff he doesn’t want to talk about.”

  Before leaving, I asked Finley to keep our
conversation confidential. We had given no hint that Molly had any connection with our investigation, but if her husband became aware of our inquiries, he might correctly assume she had something to do with it.

  I knew from the interview with Molly that Damon didn’t talk a lot. But I wasn’t so sure of Art Finley’s diagnosis about the reason for it. I was getting the picture of a loner who preferred to play everything close to the vest. It seemed the more we learned about him, the greater the enigma Damon Saint was turning into. I was anxious to find out what Julio de Leon and Ted Kennerly had learned about him.

  6

  Jill and I drove a little farther out

  Murfreesboro Road past the Dell Computer complex and stopped for lunch at a Subway restaurant. Ever since some character had come on TV with the story that he had lost a hundred or so pounds on a diet of Subway sandwiches, my wife had pushed me toward half a foot of meat and veggies on a wheat bun as one way to maintain my girlish figure. It seems I have a problem with a tendency to overeat when the pressure gets too great. Since my life had remained on a pretty steady course in recent months, however, my weight was currently one of the least of my worries. We arrived back at the office about the same time as a white panel truck with “Computers ’n Stuff” painted on the side.

  “Must be the new printer,” Jill said. The old one printed only in black. We needed one that would turn out color photographs for use as evidence.

  I unlocked the office door as the driver, a muscular black man, stepped out of the truck and went to the back, where he slid out a large box faced with the image of an expensive-looking printer. Being the Scot that I am, I wasn’t sure we needed to spend that kind of money, but office equipment was Jill’s department. She walked in ahead of the man and showed him where to put the carton.

  “Want me to open it for you?” he asked.

  He had a solemn look and seemed a bit surly. Since he was bald it couldn’t have been a bad hair day. “Never mind,” I said. “I can take care of it.”

  He pulled a sheaf of papers from his shirt pocket and pointed to a line with an X. “Need you to sign here.”