by Trace Conger
Albert hefted his suitcase into the bed, making sure it bounced off the small window separating the bed and the cab. He smiled, walked behind the pickup, and slid into the passenger side of the vehicle. “Nice truck. You push this thing here?”
“Would a brought my ’68 Shelby Mustang, but I didn’t want you to stink it up.”
“And how did you get a ’68 Shelby?”
“Ask your boy,” said Mitch. “You had a lot of time to think on that train. You come up with a plan, or we just gonna wing it?”
“Can’t wing it with Ollie. Gotta be smart this time. Make sure this doesn’t come back to bite us in the ass again. I think we should start with Cutter. He helped us out before. Might be up for helping us out again.”
“What if he ain’t?”
“Then we figure something else out,” Albert looked out the window as Mitch pulled onto Route 1. “Where we going anyway?”
“Ollie probably has eyes on my place,” said Mitch. “Won’t be smart to hang around there. I got a room at Boley’s Motel.”
“What about Dottie?”
“Shipped her off to our daughter’s place in Kittery. She’ll be safe there until things blow over.”
“A motel, huh?”
“Yeah.” Mitch looked over at Albert. “You can sleep on the floor tonight. We’ll go see Cutter first thing in the morning.”
Thirty Five
THE ADDRESS WE PULLED FROM William Burns’ real driver’s license led us to Ivy Fields, an upscale neighborhood near Cope, Indiana. Connor drove us through the neighborhood’s entrance, which was flanked by two large brick walls, both adorned with ivy.
I pulled Burns’ address up on my cell phone’s map and studied the aerial view. It showed about thirty homes. According to the map, there were four cul-de-sacs and one entrance, the same one we’d just passed through. Burns lived two streets away from the entrance.
“Take this left, and then another left,” I said. “He’s the fourth house on the right.”
From the street, each home looked larger than 4,500 square feet. Most of the homes had four-car garages, and a few had large RV-storage garages, a perfect place to shelter a box truck at night.
Connor slowed the SUV as we turned onto Ivy Way. Burns’ house was a federal-style red brick. White trim popped against the dozen or so windows on the front. Two white columns flanked the black front door. A single black iron light fixture hung over the front door. There were four newspapers on the ground where the sidewalk intersected the driveway. Someone wasn’t home. The cobblestone driveway gently curved toward two single garage doors attached to the house and two more garage doors on an outbuilding next to the house. No RV parking.
Connor pointed out the Escalade’s front window. “Looks like we found our cover,” he said.
Up ahead about ten cars, mostly European sedans, were parked in front of a large cedar home that sported several large windows, a green roof, and a “for sale” sign. The drivers were eagerly awaiting the open house, which according to the sign in the home’s front yard, was to begin in ten minutes.
Connor followed Ivy Way until it dead-ended into a cul-de-sac, and then he turned around and parked behind the row of vehicles waiting for the open house. Some of the couples had left their luxury cars and milled about the front lawn, probably explaining to one another how they would landscape the flower beds should they get the place.
About five minutes after we parked, an attractive brunette wearing a bright red blazer and a brighter smile stepped onto the front porch of the cedar home and ushered everyone inside. Once everyone had disappeared, Connor and I stepped out of the Escalade and headed toward Burns’ home across the street.
The four newspapers lying in their green wrappers hinted that Burns wasn’t there. If this was the Banker’s home, I expected him to be long gone by now, which would mean more than four orphaned newspapers. It’s possible, if the Banker had skipped town with Holbrook’s cash, that someone was looking in on the home for him and collecting the papers to keep up appearances. Or the realtor could be tossing them to keep the neighborhood tidy, but if that were the case, why didn’t she swipe these four in advance of her open house? Of course, maybe the Banker only received the newspaper a few days a week, in which case, four papers fit the timeline. I’d been looking for him for a week, and Holbrook mentioned he’d been MIA for a week before that.
Everything I knew about Burns told me he was a smart guy, and he’d be scrambled in the head to take that kind of money from someone like Holbrook and then stick around for someone like me to put a gun to his head and ask for it back. More than likely, he skipped town two weeks ago or longer and was relaxing on a beach somewhere far away from Holbrook’s horse farm. Even with Burns gone though, I hoped there was something inside that brick house that could warm up the trail.
I’d learned a lot about criminal behavior since I started working as a PI. One of those nuggets is that criminals don’t use moving vans. They’re prepared to skip town at a moment’s notice, and they don’t pack up all their belongings to take with them. That means there was a high probability that something in that house could push us in the right direction. A file, a ticket stub, a receipt, something. There’s always something. Now it was time to find out what.
Connor and I jogged up the driveway. Connor peered through the window of the detached garage.
“Nothing in here,” he said. “Let’s focus on the house.”
A moment later we stood on the back porch away from the prying eyes of any potential homebuyers across the street. The back yard was tidy. A cedar pergola stood on a flagstone patio, the remnants of the previous season’s wisteria vines tangled around its top. Burns’ back yard was surrounded by evergreen trees and shrubs, providing a blanket of privacy between us and his neighbors. Connor and I surveyed the inside of the home through a glass door on the back porch. Directly behind the door was a small table, and next to that an impressive kitchen with marble countertops and a large kidney-shaped island in the middle. Beyond the small table was the great room, which was also connected to the dining room. The floor plan was wide open and I could see most of the main floor, with the exception of whatever waited behind the two closed French doors adjacent to the front door. On the wall, directly next to the French doors, was an alarm system keypad, but I couldn't see a light indicating that it was armed.
I hadn’t finished surveying the home’s layout when I heard a muffled cracking sound. I turned to find Connor slipping his jacket back on, a set of brass knuckles wrapped around his fingers.
“What?” he said. “No one’s home and this is the quickest way in.” Connor pocketed the brass knuckles, reached his hand through the fractured glass panel, and unlocked the deadbolt on the other side. We held our breath as he turned the knob. If the alarm is active, we’d find out in a matter of seconds. Connor pushed the door open, and we exhaled. No piercing beep. That unnerved me. Why would the Banker have an alarm on his home, but not activate it? Was he home? Was there someone else watching the house who forgot to set it? Maybe there was no reason to set it because the cash wasn't there. Or maybe the Banker forgot. Another thing I’d learned over the years was that criminals made stupid mistakes. Even the smart ones.
We moved quickly once we stepped inside. We couldn’t see it from the patio, but there were six cardboard boxes on the kitchen floor, behind the marble-topped island. The boxes were filled with glassware and cooking utensils, mixing bowls, and cutting boards. Connor gave them a cursory glance as he passed through the kitchen looking for an entrance into the garage and a potential delivery vehicle. I moved past the kitchen and slipped through the two French doors into the den, which doubled as an office.
Inside the den was a dark brown desk, a leather chair, and a storage cabinet that held a printer stand. A small stack of flat cardboard boxes leaned against the cabinet. Two large windows covered with white plantation shutters opened to Ivy Way. From my position inside the den I could see if anyone pulled onto the driv
eway. After checking the street, I turned my attention to the desk.
The desk was neat, and the rest of the room was as clean as a funeral home. Not a speck of dust, which wasn’t surprising given the vacuum tracks on the carpet.
There were two photos on the desk. One of the photos was Burns and a middle-aged brunette. A stone wall, a black cannon, and a slim tree trunk, maybe a palm tree, stood behind them. Given the age difference, they didn’t look like a couple, but I couldn’t rule it out. The other photograph showed a much younger Burns, by thirty years or more, with a blond woman and an awkward-looking teenage girl. A quick comparison revealed the girl to be the teenage version of the woman in the other picture. Maybe a daughter. I took a mental snapshot of the photos and moved on to the pile of mail that teetered on top of a black metal desktop organizer.
I flipped through the envelopes, all addressed to William Burns. There were several bills, some junk mail, and two envelopes from Prudential Insurance.
I piled the mail back on top of the organizer and tried the desk drawer. The two left drawers contained the usual office supplies; pens, paper clips, Post-It notes, thumbtacks, and binder clips. The bottom drawer held a stapler and two boxes of stationery, but nothing else of interest. The long center drawer revealed a tangle of charger cords, a key ring with four keys, more pens, address labels, and a few crinkled photographs. The drawer on the right was a double drawer that had a hanging file system built into its sides. There were six dark green hanging folders, each containing several more file folders. I thumbed through the folders, noting the labels on each. “Phone”, “Utilities”, “Electric”, “Taxes”, “Lawn Care.” Nothing seemed interesting until I hit “Condo” and “Storage Unit.” I yanked both folders and opened them on the desk.
The folder labeled “Condo” included a purchase agreement for a unit at the Cedar Woods condominiums on East Sycamore Street in Morgantown, Indiana. The folder labeled “Storage Unit” included monthly invoices for S&F Storage, an RV storage facility on South Centerline Road in Mt. Pleasant, Indiana. The invoice didn’t specify a unit number, but the condo purchase agreement did. Both documents indicated William Burns was the owner.
I was flipping through two years’ worth of storage rental invoices when Connor stepped into the den. I’d almost forgotten that he was with me.
“There’s an Audi in the garage, but no sign of the money,” he said. “I checked the basement, but nothing there. The bedroom is torn to shit. Moving boxes everywhere. Looks like someone’s packing the place up.”
“That explains the boxes in the kitchen,” I said.
“Did you find anything in here?”
“Maybe.” I tucked the invoices back into the folder. “I’ve got a purchase agreement for a condo and some rental information for a unit at an RV storage park.”
“They local?”
I double checked the addresses on the forms. “Looks like it.”
“He could have stashed the money at either of those places. The vehicle too.”
“Only one way to find out.” I stacked the folders on top of each other and tucked them under my arm.
“There doesn’t seem to be anything else here,” said Connor. “If the Banker needed a place to stash a large amount of cash or a truck then that storage unit looks pretty good.”
“It fits,” I said. “Let’s follow up on the condo first. Burns might be using it as a safe house. Maybe we can ask him where the money is personally.”
“It’s your show, little brother.”
“Let’s go.” We were already in the great room when I turned around, headed back to the den, swiped the key ring from the center drawer, and slipped it in my pocket.
A few minutes later we were back in Connor’s Escalade heading to the entrance of Ivy Fields, and then later, back to Cincinnati for a date with my daughter.
Thirty Six
SOMETIME AFTER WE SPLIT, BROOKE mentioned that I was a better part-time father than a full-time one. When she first said it, part of me wanted to put her through a wall, but after the pain of the divorce subsided, I realized she was right. I was a better part-time father. I loved Becca, but when I was around her all the time I wasn’t engaged. I was a player in the background, not on the main stage. There was always something else that needed to be done. Crap around the house, client work, errands. Becca got whatever time was left after I finished all the other shit. I knew that wasn’t right, but I was too caught up in the inertia of daily life to change it.
When Brooke and I decided to go our separate ways, we discussed visitation and I made a promise to myself that when I was with Becca, she got 100 percent of me. Nothing else mattered. All that other shit that I used to prioritize over her went away. That’s why I had no issues with setting aside Holbrook’s investigation for Becca’s weekend visit.
On Friday we had our usual pepperoni pizza and a side of grapes at Dewey’s on Montgomery Road. With Albert playing detective in Maine, I asked Connor to join us, but he went back to his hotel instead. He said he had other business to take care of. I was disappointed, but also relieved, since I wasn’t sure how to introduce him to Becca for the first time. She’s a smart girl and would want to know why he’d waited so long to visit, and I wasn’t eager to explain the concept of a black-site prison.
After pizza we hit an arcade. Together we pocketed about a thousand prize tickets, which Becca redeemed for a lava lamp and a bag of Skittles. Back at my place, she picked out a Disney movie from the DVD vault under my flat screen television. We both fell asleep on the couch before the movie wrapped, but I’m pretty sure she conked out before I did.
Becca and I spent Saturday at an indoor water park and then hit one of those industrial-sized Halloween stores that seemed to erupt from the parking lot asphalt eight weeks before Halloween. I had promised Brooke I’d help Becca with a Halloween costume, and I wasn’t going to disappoint. I ushered her at fire-alarm speed past the aisles featuring the sexy nurse, sexy cheerleader, sexy nun, and sexy vampire costumes until we found the children’s section. Thankfully, at six years old, she was still interested in the more innocent costumes. After waffling between the black cat and unicorn, she settled on the cat. I knew at some point those costumes were going to get shorter and shorter, and I’d have to medicate myself to get through future Halloweens, but for now I was happy envisioning my daughter hitting up the neighboring houses for candy, her only concern being not to trip over her tail as she walked.
Thirty Seven
MITCH’S PICKUP ROLLED ONTO THE unnamed dirt road and stopped next to the small pine building that served as Meddybemps’ game warden office. The sign on the door indicated Neil Cutter, the only game warden in the area, was out.
“Probably checking fishing licenses or countin’ life jackets,” said Mitch.
Albert checked the door to confirm Cutter wasn’t there. It was locked. “Guess we have to wait.”
The two men returned to the pickup and watched out the windshield as the morning sun danced off the lake. Albert pulled the .45 from underneath the seat and placed it in his lap.
THE KNOCK ON THE DRIVER’S window woke both men. Albert jumped in his seat, sending the handgun tumbling onto the floor mat.
Mitch rolled down the window.
“Howdy fellas,” said Neil Cutter shifting the rifle in his arms. “On a stakeout?”
“Jesus Christ,” said Albert. “Don’t sneak up on someone like that. Could have shot you.”
“You’d have to pick up your weapon first.” Cutter leaned against Mitch’s door. “Assume you’re here to see me?”
“That’s right,” said Mitch. “Gotta talk about Ollie Stoner.”
“Figured as much.” Cutter stepped back from the pickup and opened Mitch’s door. “Reckon we should get to talking then.”
Cutter’s office included a desk, four chairs, a few file cabinets, and two large storage cabinets. All pine, and all shellacked to a high gloss. There was a large map of the Downeast region tacked to the wall. It ha
d sections cordoned off with large black rectangles.
Cutter placed his rifle against the wall behind his desk, took a seat, and motioned for Mitch and Albert to do the same.
“Now that we’re all here, let’s get to it,” said Cutter.
“Ollie’s out of prison,” said Mitch. “He came to see me at Palmer’s. Him and those two in-bred boys of his. Tried to drag me out of the place. Would have done it too had Jack not stepped in.”
“You go to the police?” said Cutter.
“You mean Hafner?” said Mitch. “Everyone knows he’s in Ollie’s pocket. He ain’t gonna do nothing ‘cept lock me up until Ollie can come put a bullet in me.”
“So I guess you haven’t heard about the constable?”
“What about him?” said Mitch. “I’ve been hidin’ out in a motel. Haven’t spoken to anyone.”
“Someone beat him to death in his office. Blew his secretary’s head clean off too. Found her under his desk.”
“What was she doing under his desk?” said Albert.
Cutter shook his head. “What Constable Hafner does around or under his desk ain’t my business.”
“But what happens to a police officer in Meddybemps is your business,” said Albert.
“Not my jurisdiction,” said Cutter. “Calais police are handling it.”
“Not your jurisdiction?” said Mitch. “Someone murders a police officer in town and you don’t investigate. What kind of LEO are you?”
“It’s not a Fish and Wildlife issue. Local police needs to handle that.”
“You nailed Ollie for the stolen boat,” said Albert. “How’s that any different?”
“The boat was IFW property. Totally within my authority.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Mitch.
