“I don’t know him at all. But one thing we can probably be assured is that Mr. Vogue has the money and the smarts to hire competent people. I’d prefer that we not have to deal with it, but if we do, at least we should have that going for us.”
“I agree. One thing we could do is urge the mayor and Chief Hansen to contact Vogue and try to talk him out of hiring privates, or at least buy us some more time. We could use that,” I said.
***
I dropped Kate at police headquarters and headed back to my office. When I got there, Patti informed me that James Allen had called not once, but twice, asking that I return his call as soon as possible. It appeared Richard Vogue had moved well beyond the possibility of hiring a team of private investigators. He had already done so.
I decided not to postpone the inevitable and dialed his number. He picked up on the first ring, with “Sam Kincaid, how are you?” Caller ID. More technology I could do without. We engaged in the usual salutations and perfunctory glad-handing before settling down to business.
“Sam, as you probably know, Richard Vogue has asked Allen & Associates to look into Levi’s murder. I want to assure you that we are here to assist in any way we can and not to step on toes. Believe me, I understand how difficult it can be when a high profile case is already being worked by more than one agency. And then to have a team of private investigators tossed into the mix can’t be viewed by the official agencies with much enthusiasm.”
No shit, Sherlock, I thought.
I decided to hedge my bets and play it conservatively. “You know, Jim, you’re probably talking to the wrong guy. You need to be on the horn to Lt. Kate McConnell. She’s the lead on this one. My office has been assigned in a support capacity only.”
“Oh, I understand that, Sam, but I hoped you could make the introductions and lay the groundwork. After all, you and I have some history. I’m afraid I can’t say the same about my relationship with Lt. McConnell. I could take the direct approach and go straight to her boss, but I’d hate to do that for the obvious reasons.”
He was playing all of the right cards. I decided that it made sense to feign cooperation and stall for time. “You’re right about one thing—going around McConnell would probably be a big mistake. Suffice it to say, it wouldn’t exactly engender an attitude of trust and cooperation. You should also be aware that the Salt Lake County Attorney’s office has been involved from day one. Tom Stoddard is the contact there. I’m sure the DA’s office will expect input into this decision. In the meantime, I’d be happy to serve as a liaison between you and Lt. McConnell. Let me approach her and I’ll get back to you. How does that sound?”
Translated, that means I’ll get back to you in about ten years.
“Sounds good to me, Sam. I really appreciate your assistance. Time is of the essence, so I’ll expect to hear from you soon.”
***
I had an idea. I found Terry working in his office, all dressed up and ready to attend Levi Vogue’s funeral.
I dropped into the seat next to his desk. “Change of plan,” I said. “And for what I’ve got in mind, you’re definitely overdressed.”
“Shit. I not only wear my best suit, but I rush my ass to the cleaners yesterday and pay to get it cleaned, all because you told me we’re attending Vogue’s funeral today. And now you’re about to tell me I’m not going. What gives?”
Smiling, I said, “What’s the matter with you—out a little late last night? You know, Terry, it wouldn’t hurt if you’d buy a second suit, and always keep one of them clean. Then you can avoid the stress of having to run around at the last minute trying to get your wardrobe in order. And besides, you are going to the funeral. It’s just that nobody’s going to see you.”
“Up yours, Kincaid,” he said, trying to suppress a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Just give me the piss-ass assignment and get out of my office.” That’s what I liked about Burnham—always the soft-spoken gentleman.
***
I don’t like funerals much, never have. This one would be no exception. I arrived about twenty minutes before the scheduled start of the service. It was a beautiful afternoon for a funeral, lots of sunshine with a cobalt blue sky and a few cumulus clouds.
I spotted Burnham parked in our undercover surveillance van across the street from the church parking lot. This gave him an unobstructed view of the church’s main entrance, as well as a good view of a side entrance. He would have a clear field of vision through the van’s one-way glass to videotape mourners as they entered and exited the church. I knew this exercise might be for naught, but I also felt there was at least an outside chance that the video footage might help us connect someone to Vogue’s murder.
To my dismay, I also observed two marked vans and a large SUV from our local television stations. The press release, explaining the circumstances surrounding the death of Charles Watts, had been given to the assembled media at a nine a.m. news conference.
The guest of honor was present in a bronze casket at the front of the church. It was common in the Mormon faith to have an open-casket viewing preceding the funeral service. In this instance, undoubtedly because of the condition of the body, there had been no viewing.
By the time the service began, the church was filled beyond capacity. Margaret, her two sons, and a group of her family members occupied the front rows on one side of the church. Richard Vogue III, his wife, their two surviving daughters, and their families were seated in the first rows on the other side.
The next several rows were occupied by political dignitaries and members of their various entourages. I recognized Governor Walker, Salt Lake City Mayor Porter Baldwin, and Senator Theodore Stephens, all political heavyweights who had come to pay their respects to Richard Vogue III.
Chief Hansen was sitting with my boss, and they had been joined by Vogue’s colleagues from the state board of pardons. I saw people from my own department, including several members of Sloan’s administrative team and even a couple of prison employees.
Mercifully, the church service was handled with little fanfare. A much smaller group of mourners gathered at a nearby cemetery for a brief graveside service. The whole thing lasted less than two hours.
I met Burnham after the funeral at a downtown gourmet coffee shop. Feeling moderately guilty over his recent wardrobe crisis, I bought. Over two coffees and a single cinnamon roll that I’d reluctantly agreed to split, Terry and I discussed the current status of the case. Between bites, Terry said, “Tell me something. Why were you so hot to have this surveillance tape?”
“On one level, it’s a shot in the dark. I’ll admit that. But you know how intensely I dislike loose ends. I’m bothered that our investigation hasn’t identified the guy Vogue brought to the motel for the three-way action with Sue Ann. Think about it. It would have to be someone close to Vogue, somebody he trusted implicitly. Who might that somebody be? Surely not a member of his devout Mormon family. And certainly not someone from his church. It seems to me that leaves old, trusted friends, or perhaps somebody he works with. That somebody might well have attended his funeral. And just maybe we’ve got him on tape.”
“I follow you now,” said Burnham. “You’re planning to invite Ms. Winkler in to watch enhanced videotape.”
“Exactly. But not just yet. Kate’s got Salt Lake vice pulling round-the-clock surveillance on the motel. It would be nice if they’d come up with something illegal going on. Then, if Ms. Winkler decides not to cooperate, we’ll be able to apply some pressure.”
“You realize that finding this guy may not get us any closer to solving the murder of Watts,” Burnham said.
“No question about it. This could turn out to be a waste of time and energy. Fortunately, it’s not the only iron we’ve got in the fire.”
“I sure hope not. What else you got?”
“We’re trying to identify the individual who created the forged suicide note. That person might be directly involved, or at least represent a link to whoever else is
. We’re working that angle right now.”
We spent the next few minutes figuring out our next moves. The weekend would be spent interviewing Levi’s friends and acquaintances. I assigned Terry the task of locating Watts’ estranged sister, hoping that she might have information that would help us. I also gave him the difficult job of trying to locate any of Charles Watts’ friends. Those could be associates he hung around with while on parole, or possibly a small circle of friends from his most recent prison stay. While it appeared that Watts was something of a loner, that might not have been the case inside the joint. If Terry managed to locate his inmate friends, perhaps one of them might help us unravel the mystery surrounding his murder.
Six days had elapsed since the murder. We badly needed a break before the case grew any colder.
As for me, my weekend agenda included a stint as Mr. Mom. I had promised Sara she could bring a friend, and I would take them for an afternoon at Hogle Zoo.
Chapter Twenty-nine
One of the things I missed most about being married was a ritual Nicole and I developed during our eleven years together. On weekend mornings we would get up just ahead of the sunrise, brew our favorite coffee, usually something flavored, turn on the stereo, and settle in to watch the sun usher in a beautiful, new day. It was private, uninterrupted time between two people in love. Sometimes we talked, and on other occasions we didn’t speak at all, allowing ourselves to become consumed by the quiet splendor of the Wasatch Mountains. The mountains’ beauty was no less spectacular in the autumn months with the rich hues of aspen yellows and oranges clustered on the mountainside, or during winter with white crystal snow blanketing the landscape, often framed by a cloudless blue sky.
Sometimes on mornings like this, Aunt June got up early and joined me on the sun porch with her cup of black tea. And on rare occasions, even though her number one priority was sleeping in, I’d convinced Sara that getting up early to enjoy the sunrise was a special time. I don’t think she quite got it. It usually required a bribe of hot chocolate, scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.
On this particular morning, I was alone with my music and coffee. My thoughts drifted to the concurrent murder investigations of Levi Vogue and Charles Watts. The two cases had become entwined. It was now impossible to think of either case independently. To solve the murder of Charles Watts was to unravel the mystery of Levi Vogue’s killing.
It was simple before: Vogue gets whacked. We correctly identified the jealous boyfriend of the woman Vogue was stooping on the side. He was a violent ex-offender with one of the oldest motives in the world—jealousy. Problem was, he didn’t do it. Then Slick Watts came along. He turned out to be an even better suspect than John Merchant. He was the trigger, no doubt about it. Case closed. I should have been lying on the beach in Cabo sipping Long Island iced tea and reading a good who-done-it. But no, Watts’ death turned out to be a murder disguised to look like a suicide. Bye bye, R & R.
At the moment, I was stumped. But I’ve always had a knack for thinking outside the box, and that’s what I needed to do now.
One thing was clear—we had to locate the individual responsible for the forged suicide note, and we needed to find that person quickly. The forger’s life might be in imminent danger. If the forger was paid to create the false suicide note and was not a direct participant in the broader murder conspiracy, he could be perceived much the same way Slick Watts probably was: a loose end requiring elimination. On the other hand, if we were lucky, the forger may have been following the story in the local news. If that were the case, he might have gone into hiding or bought the first plane ticket out of Utah.
***
Assuming I survived today’s trip to Hogle Zoo, which, incidentally, had grown from Sara and one friend to Sara and three of her schoolmates, I planned to meet Kate later in the evening at one of Salt Lake’s finer watering holes. We planned to compare notes on the people on our separate lists of forgers. Besides, by then I’d probably need a drink, and who knows, maybe more.
Hogle Zoo, on a beautiful spring day, was a fun place to visit. I’d done my best to cajole Aunt June into coming, but she politely declined my offer. I wasn’t sure if her lack of enthusiasm stemmed from the prospect of having to walk endless miles on zoo property, or the company she would have to keep—four eight-year-old kids and me. Probably a combination of both.
The trip came off without a hitch. I didn’t lose anybody, and by early afternoon, I’d managed to fill four children with enough cotton candy and other goodies to keep them on a sugar-induced high for the rest of the day. When we returned to Park City, I dropped them all off at the home of one member of the group whose parents had invited everybody over for a birthday party sleep-over. On the ride back up the mountain, I overheard one of the girls talking about tonight’s slumber party. Eight-year-old kids talking about slumber parties. Yikes!
Chapter Thirty
By the time I completed my zoo duty and stopped by the office to pick up my list of forgery candidates, I was late for my rendezvous with Kate. If she was ticked about my tardiness, she didn’t show it. We met at the Timeout Lounge, a sports bar and eatery on Salt Lake’s east side.
Unlike me, Kate had made it home for a quick change of clothes after her interviews with the Vogue family. I hadn’t seen her in casual duds. I liked what I saw. She was wearing a little more makeup than I’d seen previously. Her cheeks definitely showed more color and her lips were a deep shade of red. She wore her long auburn hair down but tucked behind her ears. She was dressed casually in black, form-fitting designer jeans that flattered every curve. The open-toe sandals had heels that made her already long legs look even longer and slimmer. She wore a long-sleeve denim shirt accented by a gold necklace and matching earrings. So this was Kate McConnell away from the office. I found myself feeling attracted to her in a way I hadn’t felt about anybody since the divorce.
I ordered a Killian Red while she sipped the house Merlot. I told her about the phone calls from James Allen and my subsequent conversation with him. Kate didn’t seem surprised or irritated.
“So much for asking the mayor to attempt to dissuade Vogue from hiring a team of privates,” said Kate. “And why didn’t he call me directly instead of going through you?”
“He and I know each other, although not very well. You, he knows by reputation only. He’s trying to use his relationship with me to ease into the investigation without creating a lot of hard feelings. He’s really trying to avoid getting caught up in a pissing contest right out of the gate. And I think there’s a way for us to take advantage of it.”
“Oh yeah? How?”
“We stall for time in some very subtle ways that will keep Allen and his cohorts in the investigation, but always a couple of steps behind. If we get lucky, we resolve the case before they have a chance to fuck it up. Admittedly, we have to walk a fine line. We don’t want Jim Allen getting frustrated and calling his employer, who in turn will complain to the mayor.”
Kate looked more than a little skeptical. “Tell me how you think we should do this.”
“For starters, we bog them down in red tape. If you’d call Stoddard before Jim Allen does, ask Tom to set up a meeting with Allen to discuss how a joint investigation might be coordinated, clarify role assignments, the production of documents, that sort of thing. You know how the feds work. They’ll want every report that the investigation has generated to date. It takes time to copy all those documents.”
“And you know what else?” said Kate. “Allen won’t move forward with the investigation until his team has digested the contents of each and every report. Plus, the feds never trust the work produced by locals. They’ll want to re-interview everyone connected with the case. Any idea how many personnel Allen plans to use on the investigation?”
“He didn’t say.”
Kate was smiling now. “You know what? This just might work.
“Now let’s talk about something pleasant. How was your trip to the zoo today? Was it a good da
d-daughter experience?”
“Actually, I survived just fine, and the kids had a nice time. And I probably should confess, for a fleeting moment, I even considered calling you, hoping a trip to the zoo with four young kids might appeal to your maternal instincts.”
“Doubt that,” she said, laughing. “About the maternal instincts, I mean. I don’t think I have any. And if I do, I have no idea where they are.”
“Maternal instincts aside, how did your interviews go with Margaret and her sons?”
“Do you really want to talk about this now? It’s a great way of ruining a perfectly good glass of wine and your Killian.”
“You make a very good point,” I mused. “Why risk spoiling a potential glowing buzz, not to mention the added risk of indigestion.”
“I’m glad we agree on that. I’ll tell you about the interviews, but let’s keep it brief so that we can get back to more pleasant conversation.”
“I’ll drink to that!”
“Actually, things went surprisingly well, considering we had to do the interviews at Vogue Chemicals in the presence of corporate legal counsel. Ed Tillman, by the way, turned out to be kind of a big teddy bear. It’s amazing when you spend a few minutes flirting with a guy what you can get him to do, or in this case, refrain from doing. I didn’t want the interviews with Margaret and her sons to become adversarial, with everybody getting defensive and ultimately leaving ticked off. But, a few well-placed minutes with Mr. Ed beforehand and, voila, the teddy bear came out and the lawyer went away. For the most part, Tillman remained passive and only interrupted a couple of times. I really couldn’t have asked for more than that.”
Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission Page 12
