Promissory Payback

by Laurel Dewey

  “No earthly idea,” he said, avoiding Jane’s glare. Another tell.

  Jane glanced at Joe’s business card. It was a simple white card with grey lettering above his name that read Founded on Trust—Sustained on Trust. To Jane, putting the word “trust” twice on your card spoke volumes. “Nice slogan,” Jane said, pointing to the card.

  “That’s not a slogan, Detective,” Joe replied somewhat insulted. “That’s the way I live my life and run my business.” He leaned back in his broken-in, inexpensive desk chair, tapping the eraser tip of a pencil against the layers of papers that cluttered his modest desk. “Without trust, you have nothing. I built a reputation on that and I’m proud of it.”

  Yes, there was that singleness of purpose. “What exactly do you do?”

  “I consult with companies and nonprofit groups as to how they can connect with likeminded individuals and create win-win outcomes.”

  Well, that sentence wouldn’t fit on his card, Jane thought. “Why?” Jane asked, catching Joe off guard.

  “What do you mean, ‘why’?” Joe looked stunned.

  Jane decided to play devil’s advocate. She didn’t have to, but she liked pissing off people like Joe Harvey who were puffed up with self-importance. “Why is it so important for you to help people? What do you get out of it?”

  Joe seriously considered her question. “My late mother was Carolyn’s sister. As rich as Carolyn was, it never trickled down to us. But the one thing that was driven into my head was that it didn’t matter how much money you had—the most important thing in life was your word.” He leaned forward, mindlessly playing with a paper clip as he spoke. “A man can own all the riches, but he’s as good as a pauper if his word isn’t his bond. I saw so many people growing up who had nothing, and I knew there had to be a way to attract people in need to people with means to help.” Joe discarded the paper clip and gave his full attention to Jane. “There is no reason for people in this world to suffer needlessly.”

  Suffer. There was that damn word again. This guy was the Johnny Appleseed of hope, planting kernels of prosperity in fields where paucity once flourished. Joe Harvey was a take-no-prisoners activist, intent on providing everyone with that elusive “pursuit of happiness.” If Joe had his way, there’d be a chicken in every pot, in every home and in every country.

  “I’ve been called a bleeding-heart idealist,” Joe quickly added. “I don’t give a shit. Nobody should be a victim of circumstance.”

  Oh, fuck. This was going to be fun, Jane figured. “If there were no victims of circumstance, Joe, I’d be out of a job.”

  He leaned closer, severity carved across his brow. “Nobody should be a victim of anything.”

  Jane felt the resonance of his statement bounce off the walls several times. She decided to go in for the kill. “So how much did you invest in your Aunt Carolyn’s little Mexico scam?”

  His eyes showed surprise. “How did you—?”

  “Laura Abernathy.”

  “Right . . .” He appeared distracted.

  “So, how much did you invest?”

  He looked Jane straight in the eye. “Nothing. I invested absolutely nothing on this one.”

  “This one?”

  Joe fiddled again with the paper clip. “After she and her fourth husband divorced three years ago, she asked me for capital to invest in an interactive video game that was being launched in Asia.”

  “How much did you lose?”

  “Not a cent.” He shook his head in dismay. “I made a killing.” Embarrassment was evident.

  “So, Aunt Carolyn wasn’t always a crook?”

  “I’m not sure. I often wonder if my profit on that deal was made on the backs of others who invested after me in varying ‘investments.’”

  “A ponzi scheme?”

  His face cloaked in sorrow. “Yes. My profit was most likely gained from the misery and loss of another human being’s resources. I just didn’t understand that soon enough.”

  Jane nonchalantly stood up and crossed over to the wall with the four photos. She noticed that Joe immediately tensed up. She studied the faces of the men in the two photos. The Vietnam vet’s photo bore an inscription reading: “Charley P. Hall, former P.O.W.” The other gentleman on crutches was Raymond Honeycutt and he appeared to be from a Denver diabetes support group associated with Denver Health Medical Center. “What were you doing in California, Joe?”

  He looked distracted by Jane’s attention to the photos. “I went out to L.A. to check out a prospective contact for a new client who runs a children’s cancer charity. I wanted to make sure he was legit.”

  She turned to him. “You physically went to California to check out someone?”

  “My word is my bond.” The weightiness of his belief system hung around his shoulders. “I had to make sure . . .”

  Jane kept her attention on the photos of the two men on the wall. “Make sure about what?”

  “You can’t be too careful these days. People are getting screwed right and left.”

  His words felt like daggers. Jane felt an icy shiver race down her spine. She turned to him. “Like your business card says: ‘Founded in Trust—Sustained in Trust.’”

  “Exactly.”

  Standing there, she now had a better view of the red envelope on his desk. It bore the emblem of a crown and the word “Travel.” “Is that your airline ticket out to California?”

  Joe handed the ticket to Jane. “Yeah. Five o’clock flight. Well, we didn’t leave the ground for over an hour. It was close to six-twenty actually. There was a baggage weight issue. They had to remove some heavy suitcases and put them on another flight.”

  “Is that right?” Jane replied. Lots of volunteered information there. Lots of it.

  “And we seemed to fight wind the whole way,” he added, shaking his head.

  “So, you were late getting into California, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes. Very much so.”

  Wow. Scheduled flights and a ticket to prove it. And baggage information that delayed the flight. Jane hadn’t seen a guy fight so hard in a long time to prove he wasn’t involved in a murder. “A five o’clock flight that left the ground an hour late.”

  “Hour and twenty minutes at least. What ... what are you getting at?”

  “I’m just counting the hours in my head. Flight left around six-twenty and it’s two hours and change to Los Angeles from Denver. So that means you got in around eight-thirty, Colorado time.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Wow. That means that, according to your aunt’s T.O.D., she was struggling for her last breath about the time you were taxiing down the runway.”

  “My God,” he muttered.

  Jane regarded Joe carefully. “Ironic, eh?” She looked at the airline ticket. “Colorado Mountain Airlines? That’s about as budget as you can get.” Jane recalled how even the bargain airline’s logo was economical. It was CMA in nondescript letters with a half-ass illustration of a snowcapped mountain above the M.

  “My client paid for the trip. Since most of what I do is for nonprofits, I try to cut corners whenever possible.”

  “Well, Colorado Mountain Airlines fits the bill. They’re so cheap, the pilot doubles as the flight attendant and baggage handler.” Joe regarded her with a stone face. No fucking sense of humor. She noted the travel agency: Crown Travel. The name rang a recent bell. “There’s a plaque out front. Something about the Heart Association and Crown Travel?”

  “Yes. My travel agent’s son was born with a heart defect and needs a lot of medical attention. I do what I can to get the word out.” A look of profound sadness overtook him again. “I tried to help . . .” Jane regarded Joe’s reaction. It wasn’t faked. I tried to help. His phone rang and he answered it, asking the person to hang on. Cupping his hand over the receiver, he addressed Jane. “This is the conference call I was waiting for. Would you excuse me?”

  “Sure.” Jane noted a small seal in the corner of the room: PROPERTY PR
OTECTED BY S.O.S.—SECURITY ON SITE. It was the same company his Aunt Carolyn used. “One second, Joe. Did you know your aunt has the same security system?”

  “Yeah. S.O.S. is one of my oldest clients. I arranged it for her. She never did pay me for the install.” He arched his eyebrows.

  Jane was about to go when she turned back to him. “One more question. I understand you were Carolyn’s only next of kin. Were you in her will?”

  He sighed soulfully. “I’m her sole beneficiary. Upon her death, I get three hundred thousand dollars.” He stared Jane straight in the eye. “And I will donate every last cent of it to people who deserve it.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Crown Travel was the size of a postage stamp. When Jane walked in the place, the owner, Jacque Wilde, was finishing up a reservation on the telephone. She motioned for Jane to sit down. Jacque was a woman about fifty with long red hair she wore in a cascade of soft curls. One side of the wall was decorated with cards thanking her for her “fabulous service,” while the other wall featured photos taken by her clients of every known vacation destination on the planet. It was evident to Jane from the manner in which Jacque spoke on the phone that she was a hot shot, go-getter with deft abilities to make miracles happen when everyone else would give up.

  “Just remember, hon’,” Jacque said before hanging up, “flights are like men at a singles’ bar—if you miss boarding one, there’s usually another available in two hours or less.” She hung up and turned her attention to Jane. “Hi, there! Where would you like to go?”

  “Someplace sunny,” Jane deadpanned as she flashed her shield. “Detective Jane Perry. Denver Homicide.” Jacque’s jaw tensed. “I’m investigating a murder. Carolyn Handel?”

  “Oh, of course. Joe’s aunt. I saw it in the paper.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Jacque didn’t look old enough to have a hearing problem, especially in such a small, noise-free space. “Did you know Carolyn Handel?”

  “No, not directly. Just from the occasional mutterings of Joe when she would do something . . . Carolyn-ish.”

  “Carolyn-ish? That doesn’t have the same ring as ‘pulling a Madoff,’ does it? His name has become a pop culture term for being financially screwed.”

  Jacque smiled. “Don’t you think ‘fucked’ is a better word for what Madoff did?”

  Jane couldn’t help but grin. Jacque was no shrinking violet. She looked up at the wall behind Jacque’s desk. There, in block letters and angled on the wings of a jet airplane were the words WE MAKE TRAVEL HAPPEN ! What in the hell was it with these bold statements of purpose, Jane mused? “You make travel happen, huh?”

  “Absolutely! Here,” she said, handing Jane a business card. “I’ve got a toll-free number and I’m available 24/7! And my commission is lower than any other competing agency in Denver!”

  Jane had to reconsider the “go-getter” label she’d silently given her. Jacque had ascended into type A territory that bordered on cutthroat. “How’s business been lately? What with the economy and all—”

  “It’s okay, considering. Hey, two other agencies went out of business in this zip code so that leaves more for me!” She directed her attention to an email that popped up on her screen, read it quickly and then typed a short reply before clicking the send button with a sharp point of her mouse. “You gotta be a fighter these days. But that’s nothin’ new to me. I’ve always had to be a fighter. I’ve been a single mom since Travis’s dad skipped out on me when he was six months old. He couldn’t handle the idea of having an imperfect child. Men can be such weak ass-holes, can’t they?” Jacque turned a framed photo on her desk toward Jane.

  Jane wasn’t going to take the female bonding bait, dishing about men’s weaknesses. She stared at Travis. It looked like one of those standard yearbook shots. In this one, the boy was standing in front of a tree in a neatly starched white shirt, arms crossed over his chest with a forced smile. He looked weak, somewhat scrawny and lacking the vibrant energy most teenagers give off.

  “That’s an old shot. But I like it. He’s twenty-eight now but he’s still my baby boy. We’ve been through a lot together and we’re still goin’ strong!”

  “Joe mentioned something about Travis being born with a heart defect?”

  The comment slowed Jacque down for a second. And it was a quick second. “Yeah. Right. That’s what I meant about my asshole ex-husband leaving because Travis wasn’t ‘perfect.’ But I always told my kid that medical doctors would one day figure out how to fix his heart.”

  “Still waiting, huh?”

  “No, they figured it out. A little over a year ago, his doctor told us about an operation that was close to one hundred percent effective. But then Travis lost his job a week later because he was absent so often due to his health. So, of course, he lost his health insurance and I couldn’t get my fucking insurance agency to sign him up because of his preexisting condition, blah, blah, blah. You know the score, right?” Jacque glanced at Travis’s photo with a melancholy eye. “We were that close, you know? That close to making my baby perfect!”

  “How much did they want for the operation?”

  “Almost a hundred grand.”

  Math was not Jane’s forte, but it was simple to calculate that a one hundred percent return on fifty thousand dollars equaled one hundred grand. Ironic. Fucking ironic. Suddenly, Joe Harvey’s sorrowful comment of, I tried to help seemed to take on another meaning when he mentioned Jacque’s son. It wasn’t beyond reason that Joe, being the do-gooder that he was, maybe hooked up Jacque with his Aunt Carolyn in hopes that Jacque could see the same financial windfall that he had experienced. Of course, that may have been before he realized the ponzi profits were coming from future investors that might never materialize.

  “How’s Travis doing?”

  Jacque sighed. “Oh, good days and bad. He works part time. He’s back living with me. I thought it was best. I can keep an eye on him if he needs help.” She straightened her back. “We’re not giving up though! We never give up! I keep telling him that if you want to change your life, you gotta make it happen!”

  Jane pointed to the slogan above Jacque’s desk. “You make travel happen.”

  “Sure as shit do!” she said proudly. There was a thoughtful pause and then, “We’re not victims, you know? I won’t allow the use of that word in our home. Victims aren’t fighters. Victims roll over and let others kick the shit out of them. No matter what happens, I will never be a fucking victim of anyone or anything.”

  This broad wasn’t kidding. Instead of her happy travel slogan, Jane concluded Jacque should replace it with Ayn Rand’s declaration that, “Evil requires the sanction of the victim.” Any fool dumb enough to cross this mama lion would have his testicles hacked and left to bleed out.

  Jane quickly switched subjects, discussing the timing of when Joe booked his trip to California. Jacque showed Jane via the computer that his ticket was issued a week prior. Jane walked around her desk to get a better view of the computer screen. “You book all Joe’s tickets?”

  “Sure. He’s one of my oldest and best clients.”

  “Did he rent a car?”

  “No. He flew into Burbank airport and was meeting his client in Glendale. So, he opted to take taxis since it was going to be a quick trip.”

  “Can’t you get him a good deal on a car?”

  “Sure! But that’s what Joe wanted to do.”

  “You book his hotel?”

  “Of course.” She clicked a few keys on her keyboard to pull up Joe’s travel itinerary. “He stayed at the Budget Inn right near the airport. It’s just two blocks away. He probably walked it, knowing Joe.”

  “To save his client money.”

  “Exactly.”

  Jane leaned against the desk. “God, if there were more people in this world like Joe, we’d have a better world, wouldn’t we?”

  “You have no idea, Detective,” Jacque murmured, scrolling through Joe’
s itinerary.

  It was a statement that seemed extremely loaded to Jane. She waited for Jacque to embellish but the woman suddenly became uncharacteristically taciturn. Jane craned her neck to get a better view of Joe’s page on the computer screen. “Any idea when he checked in to that Budget hotel?”

  Jacque clicked her fingers across the keypad with lightening speed. “His plane was quite late getting in.”

  Jane played dumb. “Really? How come?”

  “Well, it doesn’t tell us on here. Could be weather or baggage issues.”

  “Baggage issues?”

  “Yeah. These smaller planes have extremely strict weight rules.”

  “Right. Colorado Mountain Airlines. The el cheapo human transporter.”

  Jacque forced an odd smile toward Jane. For some reason, the woman seemed insulted by Jane’s sarcastic remark. She turned back to the computer screen. “What CMA lacks in stature they more than make up for in other ways.”

  “What other ways?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Crazy how Jacque’s hearing seemed to fluctuate. “How does CMA make up for it?”

  She looked Jane straight in the eye. “Impeccable customer service.” This time her smile was genuine. She turned back to her computer screen. “They make travel happen just like I do!”

  Jacque expressed a need to get back to booking a backlog of clients’ tickets. Jane nodded and was about to make an exit when she spotted another photo of Travis on Jacque’s desk. It was tucked close to her computer. There was the boy, looking much older, in a more recent shot, standing outside on what appeared to be an airport tarmac. He was wearing a dark blue jacket with a clear emblem on the left breast pocket. Jane easily recognized the economical block lettering and half-ass illustration of a snowcapped mountain above the “M.” It seemed that Travis worked for Colorado Mountain Airlines. Ironic, Jane thought. Fucking ironic.