“Yes.”
“Okay. Please speak up. I'm hard of hearing.”
“Sure,” Drummond repeated, louder with an annoying tone.
“Mr. Drummond, we want to know your involvement with Mr. Hatchett.”
“Nothing. I never met the guy. Do you suspect me as killing him?”
“I ask the questions. What's your occupation?”
Stephan Drummond explained that he was the Chief Financial Officer at Sloan Distributors, a liquor and wine distributor, and he owned twenty-five percent of this family-owned business.
Bridge aware of Drummond's relationship with Hatchett who gave one of their stocked wines a bad review. He had no other connection to Hatchett. Drummond also held a significant interest in a holding company that owned a fifty-five percent interest in six fine dining restaurants in the Bay Area. Several of these had received bad reviews by Hatchett. This information got discovered by Austin while Drummond was on vacation.
The interview of Drummond got conducted without an attorney since he had not called for one when he arrived at San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office. The agents asked to get his fingerprints and a DNA sample. He complied. With that completed, the questioning resumed.
“Where were you as the train left the station?” Agent Bridge asked.
“I went directly to the rear observation car.”
“Why?”
“I was to meet with Fred Reames,” Drummond said.
“Who is he?”
“A wine rep.”
“Why him?”
“We were working on a deal for promoting their brand.”
“Were you with him for the entire trip?” asked Bridge.
“No, I also met with Ted Baxter.”
“Was he there in the same car?”
“No, I met him in the next lounge car.”
“Did you talk to anyone else?” Ferguson asked in a calm voice.
“Ah, no. Other than to say hi to people I knew,” Drummond replied, his face expressionless.
“Did you see anything unusual when you walked through the cars?” Bridge asked.
“No.” Drummond fidgeted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “Are we done yet?”
“Not yet. Where did you go next?”
“To see Robert Taylor.”
“Where?”
“In the Vista car.”
“We were told you looked upset as you went through the Silverado car to the bar,” Bridge said.
“Who told you that?” Drummond's voice became shaky.
“I will ask the questions, sir. Why did you look so distraught?”
“I was upset about the information I received from Reames. He wouldn't offer us any discount,” he said blowing out a breath looking at the ceiling as if searching for an answer.
“Why?”
“I was interested in promoting the Chateau De Vie brand.”
“Did you stay there for the rest of the trip?”
“No, I met with Chef Giles Ardon.”
“What about?”
“Ah, he wanted to promote a particular wine with a new entree he was to feature,” Drummond said in a calmer tone.
“Where did you meet with him?”
“Also in the Vista car.”
“What time was this?”
“Around one, I think.”
“How did you know the time?”
“We had just heard an announcement about arriving in St. Helena in a few minutes, so I checked my watch.”
“Do you know anything about the death of Hatchett before the announcement at St. Helana?” Bridge asked
“No,” Drummond said in a quick and jovial expression.
“Please explain why you are smiling–”
Before Bridge continued, the door opened, and a red-faced man entered. “I’m Mr. Drummond's attorney, Thomas DeKnopple,” the suited man said.
Drummond stood up, letting out a huge breath. He looked at the man. “How did you know I was here, Tom?”
“Your wife called me.” Turning away from his client, the attorney said, “Agent, Bridge is it?” He handed Bridge his business card. “I represent Mr. Drummond. I'm directing him not to answer any more of your questions.” He motioned for Drummond to follow him from the room.
“Your client can answer my questions here or in front of the Grand Jury,” Bridge said, looking the attorney straight in the eye.
“Why have you taken my client into custody? What are the charges?” asked the attorney.
“As your client is aware, we are investigating the murder of Mr. Hatchett. Mr. Drummond needs to provide additional information that may be vital in solving this case. His cooperation is appreciated.”
“If you've got evidence to charge him, do it now. Otherwise, we are out of here,” Attorney DeKnopple said. He took Drummond's arm. “Let's go.”
TWENTY-ONE Sunday, December 1
At nine o’clock on a sunny, but chilly, Sunday morning, Hank's cell phone rang. “Hi, Alicia.”
“Hi, I hope it's not too early.”
“Not at all. Molly and I have walked and played. I was reading the Sunday Bee.”
“I wanted to let you know I won't be free today. My college roommate is coming to town, so we're spending the day together. Sorry, I'd like more time with you away from work, but it's been two years since we've seen each other.”
“I understand. I hope you have a fun time. Anything new on the case?”
“Not yet.”
“See you tomorrow?” Hank asked.
“Probably. I'll call and let you know. Have a great day.”
“You too. Bye.”
~~~~~~
Disappointed, Hank took a day trip with Molly. He left Sacramento a few minutes past ten to the Sierras and Reno. Driving on Interstate-80, he stopped at Boreal Ridge to check out the skiing. The slopes had a fresh coating of snow, early for the season. The highway was clear of snow and dry. Thinking about taking time off to ski and relax was pleasurable.
He pulled over to let Molly have a quick romp in the snow. After giving her a treat, he continued towards Reno, the 'Biggest Little City in the World, the theme for the casino city since the 1950's.
He checked into a dog-friendly motel near the University of Nevada campus. The trip had taken less than three hours. After another walk with her, he left her in the room and headed to the downtown casino district. He passed under the famed Reno Arch, then parked at the Harrah's Casino to begin a walking tour after stopping for lunch.
He picked up a brochure for the National Automobile Museum which brought back memories of his father telling him about visiting the Harrah's car collection in Reno. Bill Harrah had built the largest collection of American-made cars in the world. Hank's father was a carpenter, but his hobby was working on old American made cars, either restoring them or turning them into hot rods. One of his dad's cars which Hank played in taught him to shift a manual transmission. The rare and unique car, the 1931 Rockne, produced by the Studebaker company in South Bend, Indiana, and named after the famed Notre Dame football coach, Knute Rockne. Many of his happiest times were helping his dad with repairs and restoration of his cars. When he was old enough to drive, his father helped Hank repair and customize his first car, a 1955 Chevy Bel-Air. Gratitude enveloped Hank as he remembered those good times with his Dad.
Decades later Hank saw the only other Rockne car he'd seen, at a car collection in South Dakota while heading across the country. A billboard grabbed his attention after passing by the famed Wall Drug store. The exhibit contained many restored and original condition cars of several eras. The Rockne wasn't in a showcase but sat among several unrestored and dusty old cars.
After his meal, Hank walked a few blocks to the automobile museum on Lake Street. A collection of over 200 eye-popping cars on display with authentic street scenes and sounds greeted him. Many of the cars set in recreated facades bringing each scene to life; a hardware store here, a movie theater there, along with artifacts from each era. Hank spent over t
wo hours in this famed museum.
From the museum, he walked over to Center Street. He then headed north, crossing over the Truckee River and entered an old style hotel and casino, the Club Cal-Neva. This was a trip into the past since the club first opened in 1953. He dropped eight cents into a penny slot machine and lost. Had he won he might have considered playing Blackjack.
He strolled over to Virginia Street and walked by an old-fashioned diner, the Nugget. The place was famous for 24-hour service and their amazing hamburgers. To get his car, he proceeded past the Fitzgerald Casino then back to Harrah's Casino.
At a mini market, he bought a six-pack of beer and a bag of potato chips before returning to the Sundown Motel. Molly jumped up and down when he came into the room. He leashed her, and they walked north a block to a local park. Other people were walking dogs. He jogged with Molly for a half hour, sometimes stopping to toss a Frisbee, leaving Molly on the leash. She would return and drop the disc at his feet. They returned to the motel where he fed her, opened a beer, and read the newspaper.
By eight-thirty, he was hungry. After a quick shower and change of clothes, he drove to Harrah's Casino where he’d had a good lunch. He liked the feel of the place. After a char-grilled filet steak dinner, he wandered through the casino floor checking out the various gaming tables.
Hank took the only available seat at a Blackjack table, made change for a hundred and placed a ten-dollar chip as his bet. After a few hands, he was even with his bets, but one man left the table. A forty-something man took the vacant seat at the table. Almost gasping, Hank recognized him as Thomas Caswell; the chef wanted by the CBI. When the dealer dealt a new hand, her cards exceeded twenty-one, and all but two players won their bets, including Caswell. Hank played cards for an hour, watching Caswell's bets and the many hands he won. The stack of chips in front of Caswell appeared to be close to two-hundred dollars. Hank let his current twenty dollar bet ride as did Caswell, they both hit Blackjack. They played cards for another thirty minutes until the dealer change.
After losing several hands, Caswell stopped playing and exchanged most of his chips for five one hundred dollar chips. He left the table heading to the cashier. Hank followed him. Waiting in line, Hank said, “Excuse me, I thank you.”
“Oh? What for?” the man asked.
“You brought me good luck back at the table. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Ah, sure. I'm gonna stop anyway and check-in here for the night. This is the first time I can quit as a winner.”
Hank laughed. “Yeah, me too. We were on a roll for a while.”
It took a few minutes for them to settle in the cocktail area. “I'm Hank from Tucson. Are you a native here?”
“Not yet. My name's Tom. I've got an interview tomorrow morning. If my luck continues, I may become a resident.”
The waitress arrived to take their drink order. Hank spoke first, “A double Maker's Mark on the rocks, please. Tom this is my treat.”
Caswell decided on the same drink. “Why the generosity Hank?”
“You brought me luck. I paid attention to your bets and followed what I assumed were your hunches as best as I deciphered.”
“Are you some kind of card shark?” Caswell's eyes narrowed.
“Hardly. I seem to have a knack for figuring out people. What's your profession?”
When the drinks arrived, Hank dropped a twenty and a five dollar chip on her tray. “Thank you,” the waitress said, with a broad smile.
“I'm a chef looking for a new venture.”
“Well, here's a toast to your new career.” They raised their glasses before taking a sip of the smooth liquor. “I assume you've been in the business for a while?”
“Yep. Sadly, I lost my restaurant a few months ago and hadn't had much luck finding a job with opportunities.”
“There are plenty of job opportunities here I assume.” Hank sipped his drink.
“I'm not looking for a kitchen grunt job since I have many skills and experience with Mediterranean cuisine. I'm looking for a future head chef position.”
“If you are as good at cooking as you are with Blackjack, I bet you'll find what you are looking for. Good luck with your interview.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the thought.” Caswell said.
During the next hour, they discussed a variety of gourmet dishes they each enjoyed cooking. Caswell shared a few tips for preparing French and Italian dishes. Hank told of his experiences at the cooking schools he attended while in Europe. After two more drinks, Hank was feeling a little light headed.
Caswell was agreeable to calling it a night and dropped a twenty on the table. “Nice meeting you, Hank. Enjoy your stay here.” He headed to the hotel check-in counter.
Hank returned to the motel; doubtful Caswell was the killer.
TWENTY-TWO
Alicia and Bernie met for lunch at The Salad Bonanza in Roseville, not far from the Sierra College campus. After greetings and multiple hugs, they chose a table.
“I'm so happy to be here. You look terrific Alicia. You seem happy. Yes?” Bernie asked.
“Oh, my, yes. So do you. When do you start to work?”
“Classes resume this Monday.”
“That gives you time to get settled in.”
“I wish, but I have meetings and paperwork to complete during the week. There are lesson plans to write, but I’ll have access to the former professor's notes and lesson plans. Most likely, I will use her designated book list for the rest of this term. Next year will totally be my program, assuming the department head agrees. Now tell me about you and Hank.”
“He is fantastic!”
After giving the waitress their drink order, they went to the extensive salad bar. As they returned to the table, Bernie encouraged Alicia to talk. “Okay, tell me more.”
“I took your advice and invited him to dinner. We talked, ate, drank wine and had a great time. He has a way of making me comfortable, and encourages me to talk about myself.”
“Did you tell him about Dean?”
“No. Not yet.” With a sultry but embarrassed smile, Alicia continued, “Friday night after Thanksgiving was so relaxing that I took off my dress and seduced him.”
“Go, girl! What then?”
“The night was slow and sensual. He is a very caring and generous lover.”
“Could this be serious?”
“Possibly. But I'm conflicted. I’m not sure I want to settle down with anyone. You know Dean wanted us to get married and move to D.C. But I love my job.”
“Could it be different with Hank?” Bernie asked.
“I don't know. I think so. He seems devoted to his writing and travels. I doubt he'd want to settle down and give that up.”
“Could you live with that?”
“I don't know.” Alicia took a bite of her salad. “Enough of this, let’s change the subject and enjoy our lunch.”
“How was your Thanksgiving?” Bernie asked.
“I had a good time with my brother and family on Thursday night. I spent the drive home thinking about Hank and me. How was your Thanksgiving?”
“I had a fun time with my parents and family. We ate, talked for hours, and I was in bed by eleven.”
“Are you happy moving closer to home?”
“Oh, Yes. I’m glad you and I can meet more often. And maybe I’ll find a guy like Hank. He sounds divine.”
“Hands off! Girlfriend.”
After a good laugh, they finished their meal and went their separate ways.
TWENTY-THREE Monday, December 2
A woman's scream, men shouting, and the sound of a gunshot, followed by Molly barking at the door, startled Hank awake.
“Molly, hush,” Hank ordered. Without turning on a light, he rushed to the motel room window and moved the drape aside. Across the lighted parking area was an open door. To hear the voices from outside, Hank slid open the window.
A man pulled a naked woman toward a jacked-up dark colored 4X4 pickup truck. The man wore
jeans and a sleeveless denim jacket, black boots, was at least six-feet tall, with a beer gut and bushy black hair. The young woman was thin, her long blond hair hanging across her face. Her screams pierced through the night air.
Holy crap, what is this? I never expected to see anything like this again.
Glancing at the bedside clock, Hank saw the time was two-thirty-four. He grabbed the room phone and called 911. While watching the jean-man and woman in a struggle, he gave the operator his name, the address of the motel, and the violent incidents taking place. He described the attacker and the victim to the operator. He placed his cellphone in the window to video the action as he watched and talked to the 911 operator.
“The man forced the woman onto the driver's side seat of the big pickup truck. She punched and fought him, kicking her arms and legs, and connected with his groin. He stumbled back grabbing his crotch,” Hank said into the phone, then smiled. Good going lady.
The woman stumbled out of the truck, running away from the open door. The assailant grabbed her arm and hair yanking her to the ground. She screamed again. The man pulled the frantic woman to her feet, attempting to carry his victim back to the vehicle. His arm crossed her large breasts, hugging her against his side. Her knees were bloody from the fall. The struggling woman fought hard, kicking and screaming. He yelled, “Shut the fuck up, bitch.”
“When will the police arrive?” He asked.
The 911 operator replied, “Within three minutes.”
Hank was about to put on his pants and race to rescue the woman when a man appeared in the open doorway of the room where the woman got dragged from. The naked man was holding a towel against his side. A stream of blood was flowing down the man's side. Appearing weak, he leaned against the doorway and yelled at the man, “Leave her alone, you asshole.”
In a split second, the attacker pulled a gun from his back waistband and fired. The slug splintered the door jamb causing the bloodied man to duck back into the room.
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