Chalky, lying on the floor next to his master’s bed, sat up on all fours and jumped onto Ignatius’s bed. He curled his body onto Ignatius’s lap, but before settling to sleep, he licked his master’s face for the last time.
“Chalky,” said Ignatius, “you have been a good friend.” Ignatius Jackson closed his eyes for the final time, and peacefully, without any further words or thoughts, he died.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I would like to report my husband as a missing person. I haven’t seen him in weeks; he hasn’t called, and to be honest I am concerned.” Veronica Partridge sounded worried as she spoke to the uniformed officer manning the inquiry window at the downtown Savannah police precinct. The officer behind the plastic screen looked at the woman opposite him and frowned.
“People go missing every day. If it hasn’t been seven days, and he isn’t a minor, what do you expect us to do?’
“Look, if you are not interested, or not even prepared to write a report, then get me someone who will. I will have you know I am a good friend of the Mayor, and yes, it has been longer than seven days, it’s been over a month.”
“Ok, ma’am – give me a minute, I will see if I can find you a detective,” replied the officer, abandoning his post and heading to find someone who could deal with the attractive woman; claiming to be a good friend of the new Mayor.
Five minutes later, Veronica was beckoned through the locked door separating the public from the inner sanctum of Savannah’s Police Department, and was led by the uniformed officer to an open style office. There, she was directed to a cubicle; occupied by an overweight and bespectacled man who looked more like a pig than a detective.
“Detective Morgan,” said the odd looking detective. “How may I help you?”
“My husband, Doug, Doug Partridge, is missing. I haven’t seen or heard from him for over a month. I explained this to the officer at the front desk; he just vanished.”
Morgan sighed, which didn’t go unnoticed by Veronica Partridge. Here we go again, he thought, just like that other woman, the pretty blond one, whose husband had left her. He hoped that the woman in front of him, though attractive, but not as attractive as the girl who had reported her husband missing four months earlier, wasn’t also a friend of Elliott Miller.
“And before you sigh again, I will have you know that I am a close friend of the Mayor,” said Veronica, annoyed not only by the detective’s obvious bad attitude, but also by the stench of offensive body odor that protruded from his chubby frame.
Jeff Morgan tried his best not to sigh again. How many women did the Mayor know? And how many of these good looking women had missing husbands? He forced a smile, and continued to speak.
“Okay. Give me a few details; age, description, social security number and the last time you saw him. Oh, and your address.”
Veronica duly gave the detective Doug’s age, date of birth, social security number, description and their address. Morgan, as she spoke, duly wrote the information he was receiving into his notebook, often raising his hand to indicate that Veronica was speaking too fast, that she needed to slow down.
“Okay. Kinzie Avenue,” said Morgan. “Where is that exactly?”
“Gordonston,” replied Veronica.
“Gordonston?” repeated Morgan.
“Yes, Gordonston,” confirmed Veronica. “Why, is that an issue?” she said, having noted the hint of surprise in Morgan’s voice.
Morgan scratched his head before replying. “No, not an issue, just I had another woman report her husband missing. She also lives in Gordonston, quite recently actually. She is a friend of the Mayor’s also. Do you know the Hudds? Kelly and Tom?” he asked Veronica.
“Vaguely,” replied Veronica. “I heard he had left her. Not sure why; she is gorgeous,” she paused. “So is he actually missing?”
Morgan put his pencil to his mouth and tapped it against his lips before speaking again. He didn’t reply to Veronica’s last question. “Did you and your husband have any marital problems? Was there any problem in the marriage? You know, another woman, another man maybe?” Veronica shook her head. Morgan continued tapping his pencil against his lips.
“Look, we have a two year old daughter. There is simply no reason why he would vanish. Maybe things were tight and we had money problems, but I recently came into an inheritance. Things were looking up, so there is simply no reason he would just leave. No, something has happened to him. I know it. And as for another man? How dare you.”
Morgan stretched his legs under his desk before speaking again. “I am sorry. I just needed to ask, you know, just trying to get the facts. Have you spoke to his friends? His family, his colleagues?”
Veronica shook her head. “He hasn’t got any friends. He is from England, and he didn’t have a job. He spent his time at home, looking after our daughter, well, until I got the inheritance money that is, then he was concentrating on writing a book.”
The detective nodded as if he understood. “We will keep a look out for him. If you have any recent photos of him, please can you get them to me and we will do what we can. To be honest, that won’t be a lot. Your friend the Mayor has us all working on cold cases right now, so we are a little stretched, but I promise you, we will do our best. Maybe he is back in England?”
Veronica shrugged and rose. As she had expected, there wouldn’t be much the police could do. She shook Morgan’s hand and took the card he offered her.
“Hold on,” said Morgan as Veronica stood to leave, “I think you dropped this.” Morgan leaned beneath his desk and retrieved a stuffed toy. A small furry rabbit that had fallen from Veronica’s purse.
“Thanks. It’s my daughter’s. She would be devastated if she lost it. It’s her favorite toy,” said Veronica, as she took the stuffed animal from Morgan.
Morgan leaned back in his chair and smiled. Case solved. Two cases solved in fact. It was obvious. Neither Tom Hudd nor Doug Partridge were missing persons and neither of them had run off with other women. They had run off together. Obviously they knew each other, and obviously they were lovers. Morgan, if he could have, would have patted himself on the back. An obvious case of two men falling in love and unable to face their families and admit that they were closeted homosexuals, not that Morgan thought there was anything wrong with that. Quite simply, these men had embarked on a clandestine homosexual affair. It probably began, thought Morgan, when this Partridge fellow was at home bored beyond belief, writing his book, looking after his daughter, which was, of course, woman’s work. He probably had a thing for hunky and good looking men in uniform, especially firefighters. He imagined the pair of them meeting in the park and striking up a friendship. They were both relatively the same age, and apparently Hudd was an attractive man. Obviously, Partridge, being English and all, was probably gay, and had most likely gone to one of those schools where boys shared cold showers and wore shorts. Morgan had seen schools of that type on TV; no doubt Partridge had been the instigator, he had probably turned Hudd gay. Morgan had read somewhere that most attractive men had some sort of notion to become gay. He wasn’t sure where he had read it. Probably on the internet. Odd, though, because he considered himself a very attractive man, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t gay. Surely, supposed Morgan, this happened all the time, that’s how it probably always happened. Two men, family men even, some even fathers, hiding their true feelings, living fake lives, hiding behind sham marriages. It happened in the movies, so why not in real life? In fact, the more he thought about it, Morgan was convinced this was the only plausible reason why these two men, who lived in close proximity, had disappeared. He had been wrong about Hudd leaving his wife because of her affair. No, Hudd was a closeted gay man, as was Partridge, and that, as far as Morgan was concerned, made perfect sense. He would not waste any more time searching for these two men, not that he had made much headway in his search for Tom Hudd. Let them enjoy themselves and live the way they please. Good luck to them, he thought. Live and let live.
&n
bsp; Veronica Partridge returned to her car, parked in the police department’s lot; her new expensive car. She turned on the ignition. She stared at her reflection in the rear view mirror. Her hairdresser had done a great job, and she felt she had deserved the treat. She looked at her manicured nails and admired them also. Then she smiled.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Police Chief Sam Taylor hated it whenever a new Mayor took office. They all made the same promises and it all involved reducing the crime rate, clearing up unsolved crimes, putting more officers on the street, which all added up to more pressure on him. Every new incumbent was the same. It wasn’t until they realized there was simply no money in the city coffers and that there were no funds available for policing that they forgot their election promises. The Savannah Police Department simply did not have the manpower to combat the crime that occurred on a daily basis. Let alone investigate old crimes, crimes that were impossible to solve.
“Mayor Miller, if I may…”
“Elliott, please.”
“Elliott, you must understand that the particular case you are referring to occurred over three years ago. There were no leads. There are still no leads. I assure you that my officers and this department did everything within our capabilities to investigate. Quite simply, it was a random street robbery that, though tragic, is not an uncommon occurrence in some, should I say, unsavory, parts of Savannah. Granted, they are not all fatal, but it was one of those ‘wrong place – wrong time’ sort of situations. I have the file here. I have spent the whole morning reviewing the details, as soon as you initiated this meeting. I am sorry but I just haven’t the manpower to re-investigate a case that as far as I am concerned was a random mugging and is firmly closed.”
From across the Police Chief’s desk Mayor Elliott Miller nodded.
“I understand that. But the consequences of this killing had a major effect on the city. You do realize that this man was attending a conference, and that conference generated money for Savannah? You do realize that the organizers of the conference no longer even consider Savannah as a venue, due to the fact they deem Savannah unsafe? That is unacceptable. I agree with you when you say funds are tight, but Vladimir Derepaska was not just anybody. He was a major player for an international bank. He was worth millions. I understand it was a random mugging, and I understand that you investigated every plausible and possible lead; and I also understand that the chances of solving this crime are slim to none. That is not what I am asking. I want to send a message. I want potential visitors to understand that Savannah is a safe city and crimes are not simply left ‘unsolved,’ that we make a point of not letting anything go. This is a political gesture. If I can somehow convince big business that we are re-investigating this crime, they may, just may, decide that our city is a venue that can be trusted again to protect conference attendees. All I am asking is that you announce you have reopened the case, put a detective on it and leave me to spin the rest.”
Taylor understood exactly what his new Mayor was asking. It was a public relations stunt. The murder and robbery of Vladimir Derepaska had indeed been big news, not only in Savannah, but in his home country. Robbed at gunpoint, and then shot for his expensive watch as he explored Savannah while attending an international banker’s conference, held at the now seldom used Conference Center that overlooked the Savannah River downtown. He had strayed into the wrong area of town, more than likely lost, and as a result, lost his life. As the Mayor had said, the repercussions of his murder had led to the International Banker’s Conference organizers choosing another venue for future conferences. Savannah, it seemed, in their mind at least, was not safe.
“You know, I doubt we will find any new leads, and you do realize the chances of actually solving this murder is probably less than one per cent?” said the Chief, scratching his head.
Elliott nodded. “I do. As I said, all I want is an announcement that the crime is being re-investigated, mention new leads. It is for the city. It is for Savannah. I am not saying put your best on it. Put any man on it, and I am not expecting an investigation. I just want people to believe there are new leads and that we haven’t forgotten about it.”
The police Chief sighed but concurred with Elliott’s philosophy. “Look, I have one detective who I can assign to this. He isn’t my best man, in fact he is probably my worst man, but if it is purely a paper exercise, then fine, I will go along with it.” Sam Taylor understood politics, and as much as the next man, he loved his city, and he knew what Elliott had said made perfect sense.
Elliott smiled and rose from his seat and shook Taylor’s hand. “Let me know who you are going to put on this, so he can liaise directly with me, if that’s acceptable to you. I did meet one of your men, one of your detectives a few months ago, Morgan? Put him on it, he seems perfect.”
Chief Taylor smiled; it was Morgan he had been thinking of. He detested the man. He was practically his worst detective, unpopular, reeking of body odor and constantly losing evidence, contaminating crime scenes and practically despised and regarded as a joke by his colleagues. Maybe by loading Morgan with this case, in addition to Taylor making the detective responsible for investigating missing persons a year ago, it would keep him occupied, maybe get him actually away from his desk. He was beginning to like this new Mayor.
“Sure, I will put him on it, not a problem,” smiled Chief Taylor, who stood and shook hands with Elliott once more, who then promptly left and headed back to city hall. As he reached his car, he saw a familiar face. Veronica Partridge sat in her new car, admiring her hair in the rear view mirror. Poor woman, he thought, he had heard that her husband had run off back to England. Funny, he thought, just like Tom Hudd, just left, vanished, not even a word. He shook his head. Some men just don’t know how lucky they are. Veronica was an attractive woman, who now even seemed more attractive with her new car, nice hair and fashionable clothes. Elliott shook his head. What he would give to have a woman like Veronica Partridge, or Kelly Hudd, at his side.
Chief Taylor took a sip of coffee and once again flicked through the Derepaska file on his desk. Pointless, he thought. It was a random mugging with no witnesses and no suspects. An utter waste of time, but maybe the Mayor had a point. He lifted up the phone receiver on his desk. “Send Detective Morgan to my office please…. ”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Cindy Mopper had made a huge mistake and she knew it. Carla Zipp had no romantic feelings for Elliott Miller and never had. Cindy had totally misconstrued the situation and misread the signals, Carla must have been trying to snare another man and she probably had failed. The poor woman. Carla no longer dressed provocatively, no longer wore splashing’s of make-up nor did she any longer push out her false breasts, though Cindy did recall that Carla had made a point of flirting with Stefan the other day in the park. But that was a one-off, and anyway, Stefan wasn’t Elliott.
Carla, whenever the Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club convened, dressed far more appropriately these days. Gone were the high heels and tight jeans. She hardly ever mentioned Elliott and she hardly ever commented about him. It was obvious that Carla found Elliott not the least bit attractive. Cindy surmised that Carla probably had joined some sort of dating web site, and had probably been the victim of some cad or bounder, who had probably been after her money. She had probably been going through a mid-life crisis. No doubt her odd behavior, acting the way she had, was a result of some ill-advised potential romance.
In fact, Carla had reassured Cindy, told her that she had no intention of ever trying to come between Cindy and Elliott. She had told Cindy that she considered Cindy her best friend, that it was actually her hope that Elliott and Cindy would eventually ‘hook up’.
This had left Cindy with a huge problem. A devastating problem with unthinkable consequences, and a problem she could not seem to rectify. She had spent hours searching the internet, trying to find the remotest trace of the web site where, four months previously, she had paid and organized for her friend to be kill
ed. Every day, for the past two months, for hours at a time, she searched for some way of contacting the organization, not for a refund, they could keep her money. No, she needed to cancel whatever they had in store for her best friend Carla.
But it was all to no avail. The web site had vanished, so there was nothing she could do. She had tried all she could. When she had organized the ‘hit’ on Carla, she had followed the instructions given on her computer screen to the letter, and those instructions had included removing all trace of the website. It was an impossible task, everything had been wiped.
She had tried the phone book, which had proved to be a complete waste of time also. The only exterminators she could find dealt with rats, mice and cockroaches.
She could not live with herself if something happened to Carla. She had acted in haste and out of jealousy, unfounded jealousy, and the consequences, the consequences were simply awful. Carla and Cindy, once Cindy had realized that Carla had no desires on Elliott, had become even closer. They had bonded and become firm friends; in fact, Cindy considered Carla her best friend, just as Carla considered her. The stress and burden of her guilt was too much to bear; the guilt she felt for her hasty and uncharacteristic actions was overwhelming. She could only hope and pray that by some stroke of luck her contract was rejected. There had been, she recalled, a disclaimer stating not all contracts would be fulfilled, and there was the chance that nothing would happen… but what if it did? She couldn’t warn Carla. How on earth could she begin to explain what she had done? Her only hope was that nothing would happen and that, hopefully, she had been the victim of a giant confidence trick, and this ‘Organization’ had never even existed in the first place.
Unleashed - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part 2 Page 10
