I was not a stranger to the physical side of the business, however. Just out of college, before entering the Air Force, I had worked a few years as a deputy sheriff in St. Louis County, Missouri. It was right after my parents died and an uncle who served as chief of deputies got me the job. Dealing with drunks and pushers and users and a variety of petty hoods, I managed to gain a liberal education in street brawling. At five-ten and a couple of hundred pounds, I more than held my own. I was also in my early twenties back then. After you qualify for Social Security, you realize you’re better off depending on your brain rather than your brawn. A 9mm semiautomatic can also make a difference.
Deciding to put the brain versus brawn theory to work, I sat at my desk and reviewed what we had learned about Molly Saint’s husband. He was a closemouthed loner who worked occasionally, though he appeared to have money for whatever he wanted, including a big diesel pickup. According to Julio de Leon, Damon should have arrived in Nashville with a tidy bankroll. He supposedly sold jewelry he fashioned in his basement workshop, but the room more closely resembled a meth lab than a gem factory. Also, he had left Indianapolis under strange circumstances, supposedly having been recruited for a clandestine government mission.
Damon had been with Special Forces in Vietnam and was discharged after the war, although he claimed to have retired from the Army. He had written down the phone number for his old comrade Ray Orman in St. Louis, but Orman had not heard of him in ten years. Even more odd, if Damon were the soldier Orman remembered, he should never have courted and married Molly Harrison.
Recalling Perry Vanatta’s comment that Damon was always a big bullshitter, and Orman’s description of him as a guy who had to be doing something, going somewhere, I had difficulty reconciling his behavior with the man Molly had married. Was it a marriage of convenience? If so, I couldn’t imagine what made it so convenient. And why had he suddenly turned on Molly? Although we had no proof, I felt certain that’s what had happened. Did it relate to her discovery of something frightening in that basement workshop?
When a tired-sounding Jill called at 10:30 to say she would be ready to leave by the time I could get to Hendersonville, my mind was filled with the clutter of a picture puzzle that had too many odd-shaped pieces missing and too many others that didn’t match up. The only promising lead seemed to be Ray Orman. I wished we could head to St. Louis in the morning, but our main paying job required us to be out digging for a different set of answers at King Cole’s buffet tomorrow afternoon.
Driving toward Hendersonville, I agonized over the fact that the case of Molly Saint had more holes in it than a five-pound block of Swiss cheese.
16
At seven a.m., I pulled open the drapes that hid the French doors leading to the deck outside our second floor bedroom. The overcast that greeted me had a murky look, not unlike the state of my mind after a night of tossing and turning. Jill, on the other hand, had hardly moved since she’d slid beneath the covers around midnight. Her dark hair still sprawled across the pillow, the rest of her a motionless lump under the blanket.
I sat on the side of the bed, stuck my hand under the sheet and fondled a spot I knew would stimulate a reaction. She flinched and looked up through narrowed eyes.
“Who do you think you are, Cool Hand Luke?”
I grinned. “How about cold hand Greg? If we’re going to church, we’d better get moving.”
Jill struggled out of bed and headed for the shower while I went to the kitchen and started the coffee. On the table I saw the lined yellow pad I had written notes on after coming in with Jill around 11:30 p.m. I sat down and reviewed what she had told me on the way home.
Jill can be quite persuasive, and she had been a quick learner at this PI business while serving as an Apprentice Investigator under me. She did a real con job on her fellow King Cole’s employees. During a lull period around ten o’clock, she chatted with a waiter and a waitress about opportunities to pick up a little extra cash at King Cole’s. The young man told her he didn’t know if she could get in on it, but some of them were making money from customer cash transactions. He said he was too chicken, but he tipped her off to several he said were more daring. The waitress advised Jill to push the buffet if she worked on Sundays. That might put her in a position to cash in on some of the profits. Though everything had been expressed rather loosely, it left the definite impression that we were on the right track.
———
We attended the 8:30 service at Gethsemane United Methodist Church, where Jill had succeeded in making me a regular after years of unsuccessful prodding while I was in the Air Force. Retirement had helped, of course. Overexposure to the seamy side of humanity had left me questioning some of the tenets of the religion I had grown up with. I had seen so many people get away with the thou-shalt-nots of the Ten Commandments that I wondered if anybody really took them seriously any longer. But the lady I lived with always managed to straighten me out. Jill McKenzie was no perfect angel, but she came as close to one as I ever expected to see.
Our pastor, Dr. Peter Trent, knew us both better than I would have preferred. He greeted us with his usual exuberance.
“It’s great to see you this morning, Jill. I see you brought Sherlock with you. Is he behaving himself?”
She smiled. “You know Greg.”
“I’m no worse today than yesterday,” I said, “and expect to be no better tomorrow.”
The good reverend laughed. “You make incorrigible seem like a nice word.”
I took that as a compliment and steered Jill toward our pew. As with most church-goers, we sat in the same place every Sunday. It was not the same place we had sat on our first visit to Gethsemane Church, however. We had arrived early on that occasion and found a seat on the left aisle about three-quarters of the way back. Shortly afterward, a well-upholstered matron with a mound of white hair appeared in the aisle and stared at us with a nasty glint in her eye.
“You’re in my seat,” she announced.
As we scooted toward the other end of the pew, I said, “Sorry, I must have been sitting on your name plate.”
Since I liked the spot where we sat now, I got up and moved into the isle to let a newcomer slide past us. The music was uplifting and the sermon reminded me of a talk I’d heard at a seminar on hate crimes, which contended that people who beat up on other people were acting out their own insecurities. The preacher didn’t put it quite like that, of course. He said we should put our own houses in order first, then treat others with the same respect that we have for ourselves. Must have been a twist on the Golden Rule. I’ve always wondered what was in the Silver and Bronze, but maybe I’m getting Moses confused with the Olympics.
When the service was over, I tracked down our ex-deputy friend, Burton Pace, and briefed him on the buffet operation. After Jill and I reached our Sunday School classroom, I checked with my luncheon recruits during the coffee-drinking session that preceded the lesson. I quickly realized the whole exercise was a blast for them. Though I hadn’t divulged all the details of what we were up to, I knew it only added to the intrigue and the appeal.
———
Although Jill didn’t appear on the work schedule for today, we decided it would not look good for her to make an appearance at the buffet. Somebody might take it as a warning. I dropped off Jill and her best friend Wilma Gannon at a nearby restaurant before pulling in at King Cole’s. I had three tables of four diners this time. Sam Gannon and I would pay as singles, the others would order as couples.
The hostess who had been ill Thursday was on duty. She highly recommended the buffet with a price of $11.95. We all obliged. I had cautioned my operatives to say nothing that would hint they were here for anything but Sunday lunch.
The couple sitting with Sam and me, John and Emma Jernigan, had a son who worked as some sort of wheel at the Opryworld Hotel. He was in what we used to call personnel but was now euphemistically known as human resources.
“David told us they’re broadeni
ng the investigation on the Bernstein murder,” John Jernigan said.
Pushing aside my salad plate, I nodded. “I’m not surprised. I talked to a detective friend Thursday afternoon who told me the police weren’t making much headway on the case.”
“David said they’re now looking into the possibility that it could have been somebody with a supplier, like a deliveryman.”
“I hope they can find the culprit soon,” Sam said. “It doesn’t look good for Nashville, a big name guy like that getting blasted right in the middle of the day. In a fancy hotel, yet. I think they should hire Greg to look into it. He did a great job of tracking down my son’s murderer last fall.”
I held up both hands. “Thanks but no thanks. I’ll let Metro and the FBI handle that one all by themselves. I’ve got more than enough on my plate right now.”
I didn’t bother to add that I hardly thought the higher-ups in the Metro PD would be clamoring for my assistance on even the simplest case, from drunk and disorderly to breaking and entering. But as I thought about what David Jernigan had told his parents, a couple of random observations suddenly linked together. Considering that Dr. Bernstein’s murderer was possibly a deliveryman, I now knew why the images of the suspect I had seen on TV seemed oddly familiar. As I recalled things like size and shape and peculiar manner of walking, I thought immediately of the gloomy Computers ’n Stuff delivery guy named Larry. Though it was a long shot, I would pass along my observations at the first opportunity.
When we had finished eating and the waiter brought our checks, I repeated my Thursday night routine with the watch camera. I had jotted down the time the waiter took our order. The checks showed times at least an hour earlier. Seeing another waiter had dropped off checks at one of our other tables, I strolled over and chatted a few minutes, capturing digital images there also. Burton Pace would take care of the third group.
After settling with our waiter, we strolled out into the parking area and waited for the rest of our crew. They joined us a few minutes later.
“I want to thank all of you for your help,” I said. “Jill and I really appreciate it.”
“We should be the ones to thank you,” said Emma Jernigan as her husband dug around with a toothpick. “That was a delicious meal.”
Sam and I left the others and went to pick up our wives. They had been watching for us through the door and came out as soon as I stopped in front of the restaurant. Sam jumped out and opened the door for the women.
“How did it go?” Jill asked as she climbed into my Jeep.
“Just as predicted,” I said. “Most if not all of the tickets were old ones. When we get home I’ll download the pictures from both cameras and check the results. But now I’ve come across a disturbing new possibility I’ll tell you about later.”
17
After dropping off Sam and Wilma, I told Jill about my suspicions.
“I hadn’t thought about it,” she said. “But you’re a lot more observant of things like that than I am.”
“Admittedly, it’s not much to go on,” I said. “But I’ve closed cases on longer odds.”
As soon as we arrived home, I called Detective Adamson’s pager. He got right back to me.
“What’s up, Greg? Something new on your case?”
“No, on yours.”
“Bernstein?”
“Right. It may be nothing, but I thought I should pass it along for you to decide.”
I told him what I had heard from the Jernigans and the possible link I had made to our printer deliveryman.
“Thanks, Greg,” Phil said. “We’re definitely looking into that angle. We’ll check this out and see if your man might have made a delivery to the hotel that day, and if he can account for his whereabouts.”
Next I called Jesse Logan. He sounded relieved when I told him we had the evidence on the manager and four of his servers.
“Great job, Greg. And the cops promised to be discreet in rounding them up?”
“Right. That should keep things quiet around the restaurant. What happens when the cases go to court is another matter.”
“How bad could it get?” Logan asked.
“I’d not worry too much about it, Jesse,” I said. “They’re the bad guys. The readers and viewers should be behind you. You’re standing up for honesty and integrity. People should want to patronize a business that promotes those values.”
Maybe I was being too idealistic, but I hoped I was right. I told him what the Hendersonville police wanted and that I would get everything to him by tonight.
“We’re working on a really troubling case involving a young woman and a dangerous husband,” I said. “Jill and I need to fly to St. Louis in the morning. We’ll be back tomorrow afternoon if you need us for anything. You can call us on the cell phone if you have something urgent.”
“Thanks. I’ll look for you tonight.”
Jill and I took the pictures and other information from the buffet operation and headed to the office. We needed to put everything together in a package for Logan and the Hendersonville cops. It was around three o’clock when we arrived at McKenzie Investigations.
I unlocked the front door and held it open for Jill. As soon as she stepped inside, she gasped.
“Oh, God!”
I moved around her and gawked at the mess. Papers were strewn everywhere. The former contents of our desks now made the floor resemble a garbage heap. The lock had been jimmied on our filing cabinet and file folders were scattered about. Wastebaskets and the shredder had been turned over. They were empty, of course, as I always carried out the trash before leaving.
I looked around, eyes smoldering. “That bastard Saint has been here.”
“I wish you wouldn’t use those two words in the same sentence,” Jill said.
“Sorry. But that bastard is no saint. I hope he didn’t tear up our computer.”
I went over to Jill’s desk and switched on the computer. After a moment the box flashed on the screen asking for a User Name and a Password. He might have guessed the name (we used GUMSHOE) but I was confident he wouldn’t have stumbled onto our long, randomly selected password. If he had tried the computer, this is as far as he would have gotten. I typed in the correct answers and Windows booted.
“That’s one consolation,” I said. “But he certainly made a mess of the place.”
“Hadn’t we better check around to see if anything is missing?” Jill asked.
“If anything more than Molly’s file is gone, I’d be surprised.”
By the time we finished gathering up everything from the floor, it became obvious that Molly’s file had been taken. But we managed to account for everything else.
“Are you going to call Metro?” Jill asked.
“Why?” I said with a shrug. “We know who’s been here. Nothing of intrinsic value was taken. It would just be a waste of their time and ours.”
“How did he get in?”
A door in back opened onto a narrow hallway leading to an exit at the rear of the building. I only used it to carry out the trash. A cardboard box that had held some copier supplies sat next to the door, and I could tell it had been pushed aside. Finding no damage to the door or locks, I could only conclude that in addition to his other talents, Damon Saint was an accomplished lock picker.
“He came in through here,” I said. “Breaking and entering must be one of his specialties. Maybe he picked that up while cleaning carpets. You know, so he could get in if the customer had forgotten to leave a key.”
“Really, Greg.”
“Okay. Mr. Saint is one bad customer, if not an employer. He’s given us the slip, but if we keep pushing to find him, which we will, he’s going to come calling again. Maybe next time we’ll get lucky and meet him face to face.”
“I’m not so sure I’d call that lucky,” Jill said, frowning.
“I intend to be ready.”
“Couldn’t we ask the police to put out an APB—isn’t that what it’s called? Maybe they could fin
d his truck.”
“All Points Bulletin. That would be helpful, but like Phil Adamson said, we don’t have enough to get them involved.”
“What about this break-in?”
“Mr. Saint’s been trained for special operations. I’m sure he left no prints and we haven’t picked up the slightest clue to the burglar’s identity. Metro won’t even send an officer on something this inconsequential.”
“But what about Molly? She’s missing.”
“She is as far as we’re concerned. But both Wayne Marshall and Flossie Tarwater would say she’s with her husband, wherever they moved.”
“Wouldn’t the fire inspectors have asked the police to locate him?”
“It’s possible. But since they only want to question him, it isn’t likely. At least not yet.”
“But we can’t just sit here and do nothing. Molly’s life may be in danger.”
She was sitting at her desk and I gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder. “I hate to admit it, babe, but we detectives are not omniscient. Sometimes that’s all we can do—just sit and wait. Tomorrow morning, we’ll board your Cessna and see if we can’t pick up the trail.”
18
Actually, the trail heated up about an hour later while I was pecking away at the computer, getting all the King Cole’s details laid out for Logan and the Hendersonville cops. When the phone rang, Jill answered it.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “This is Jill McKenzie. Thanks for calling.” Then she motioned for me to listen in. I picked up the phone on her desk as she mouthed Peggy Davidson.
“I just came into the office,” Peggy said, “to catch up on a couple of things. I saw the note saying you needed to talk to me about Molly Saint. Sounded sort of urgent. You’re a private investigator? What’s going on?”
“Molly came to us last week,” Jill said. “She told us she was afraid of her husband and wanted us to check him out. She said you were a good friend.”
“Yeah. We’ve been buddies since I came to work at Maxxim. I really appreciate the way she’s taken to my mother. Mom and I live together. She’s getting up in years and has a growing problem with Parkinson’s Disease. Molly treats her like a second mother, brings her little gifts, sits and talks with her.”
Deadly Illusions Page 9
