by Bill Noel
I nearly fell off the bench. She was so wrong.
“Tell you what, Aunt M., I think Chris here should call his bud the chief and tell him what you found.” Charles turned to me.
She smiled. “Now?”
The last thing I wanted to do was to call Brian with her suspicions, so I did what most red-blooded Americans would do in a similar situation. I lied, again. “He’s in a meeting. I’ll call tonight.”
“Promise?” she said.
“Promise.”
Melinda seemed satisfied and had turned her attention once again to the lone crabber. Charles looked at me and shrugged. I snapped my fingers.
“Melinda,” I said, “since you’re getting so good at this detecting stuff, do you happen to know what Damian drives?”
“Huh?” she asked as she turned back to Charles and me.
I repeated the question, and she rubbed her chin. “Yeah, sort of,” she said.
“Sort of?” said Charles.
“I know it’s one of those little Jap cars—excuse me, now we’re supposed to call them Asian vehicles. By sort of, I mean I don’t know what kind it us. All those little cars look alike to me.”
Charles turned to me. “There goes that theory.”
Melinda looked at Charles and then turned to me. “Just because it’s little and not a big black car like Samuel saw doesn’t mean he drives it all the time. I don’t know what kind it is, but it’s old. Seems that it would break a lot. Maybe he has another car or borrows one when his is in the shop or when he gets a hankering to abduct a young lady. Just a thought.”
And not a bad one at that. I reinforced that I would call the chief later and tell him her suspicions. Charles nodded and told Melinda that we had gone to the chief with more far-fetched theories.
Could we be getting closer? Or were we adding suspects beyond the far-fetched?
CHAPTER 51
I CAUGHT THE CHIEF ON HIS WAY HOME. HE SAID HE’D HAD a “delightful” two-hour meeting with the mayor and was debating between treating himself to bourbon or Scotch. He didn’t ask me to help him decide or invite me to join him, so I jumped right into the reason for the call. He patiently listened as I shared Melinda’s theory about Damian. I heard announcements in the background about a two-for-one special and assumed he was in the Pig. He mumbled something about “watch where you’re going with that cart” and then asked what I thought of Melinda’s idea. I said it made as much sense as anything else we had.
“Thanks for adding another suspect,” he said.
“You’re welcome. We just want to help you serve and protect.”
“At this rate,” he said, “you’ll have the entire male population of Folly Beach in the suspect pool.”
I’d begun to wonder if we should limit it to males considering the small stature of the assailant and the long hair. I also gathered that he wasn’t excited about Melinda’s suspicions. “So what do you think?”
“You’ve brought me more far-fetched theories before,” he said and laughed.
Did he have the park bench bugged?
“Some of them helped you catch a killer,” I reminded him.
“And that’s why I’m going to pass this information on to Burton,” he said. There was some talk in the background and then he said, “Debit.”
I took that as a hint to get off the phone so he could pay for his groceries.
“Bourbon,” I said and then hit the end call button.
* * *
The humidity and excessive temperatures had moved off the coast, and the early morning sun’s rays reflected off high, puffy clouds. I started the coffee and told myself that it was going to be a glorious day—glorious if I could avoid Mayor Lally, the code enforcement cops, or any Mickey Mouse manure traffic stops. I was determined to enjoy it to the fullest. I willed myself not to think of a killer on the loose, Melinda’s deteriorating health, or the arthritis causing increased pain in four of my fingers.
I had just poured a cup of coffee when someone pounded on the front door. The saying “where there’s a will, there’s a way” was rudely interrupted by Charleston County Sheriff’s Office Detective Brad Burton.
“Good morning, Mr. Landrum,” said Burton. His disheveled hair matched his suit, and the look on his face fell somewhere between a snarl and a smirk. “May I come in?”
I motioned him in and asked if he wanted coffee. His nod surprised me. He followed me to the kitchen and sat at the table. I poured his coffee into a chipped mug I had “borrowed” from the Dog. I pointed to the refrigerator and he said, “Black.”
I set the mug in front of him, and he surprised me again when he said, “Thanks.” Maybe we were becoming BFFs after all.
He looked around the room. I figured he was looking for my Superman suit or, at least, my secret decoder ring.
“Nice,” he said. “It needs a lady’s touch, though.”
I couldn’t tell if he was a location scout for HGTV or making small talk. Neither option fit my impression of Detective Burton. I smiled. “You’re right about that,” I said.
He continued to look around. “Umm,” he said and then turned to me. “I thought it would be better to talk directly to you rather than keep hearing your theories from others.”
I was heartened that he felt that way but needed to get something out in the open. “Detective,” I said, “it’s no secret that you hold me in disdain. I can see your point, but you need to know that I don’t intentionally stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. When—”
“Mr. Landrum—”
I held my hand up. “Wait,” I interrupted. “Let me finish. When a friend of mine is in danger and the police”—I paused and looked him in the eye—“When the police don’t appear to take it seriously, I’m going to get involved.”
He leaned forward in the chair and glared at me. “The police—”
I returned his stare and interrupted again. “Please let me finish.” He blinked and then leaned back in his chair and waved his hand toward me.
“My young friend, Samuel, is convinced he saw a crime. My friend Charles was almost killed—twice. And three women, and who knows how many others, have been murdered on this island.” I waved toward the front door. “We’ve tried to take information to the local police. You’ve received the same information they have, and from what I can tell, nothing has been done.” I looked down at the table and then back at Burton. “My friends are in danger, and I’m not going to sit here and do nothing. Sorry, but I’m not.” I took a deep breath and exhaled.
Burton nodded. “Done?” he asked.
I returned his nod.
“Mr. Landrum,” he said, “I’ve never been a dues-paying member of your fan club.”
“I know—” I said.
“Wait,” he interrupted. “My turn. I’ve not been a member of your fan club. If you remember, the first time we met, you were standing over a body out by the lighthouse. I had no reason to think of you as anything but a suspect. You were cleared, but you were a smart-ass even then. It rubbed me wrong.”
I smiled. “Sorry.”
He shook his head. “Anyway, since then you’ve been nosing around every murder on this island. You, and some of your idiot friends, have interfered with our investigations. You’ve almost gotten killed. And you’ve been a constant burr under my saddle.”
“And helped you catch some really bad folks,” I said. He appeared to want to forget that.
He nodded. “Mr. Landrum, that’s why I’m here. I don’t have to like you to respect what you bring to the table. I also have a great deal of admiration for Chief Newman. He does a great job, and—umm, never mind. When you and your friend went to the local police, you talked to an officer who, for whatever reason, never told the chief. He didn’t find out until later.”
I sat back in the chair and looked him in the eyes. “Would you have d
one anything if you had known earlier?”
Burton blinked twice and then sighed. “To be honest, probably not.” He shook his head. “Look what I would have had to work with—a teenager thinking he saw a female being taken against her will. The kid didn’t recognize anyone, he couldn’t recognize the car, and there wasn’t anyone else who saw anything. And, oh yeah, no one was missing.”
He was right, but it still irritated me. “So what are you doing now?”
“Sitting here watching you stare at me like you’d like to crush me like a Palmetto bug,” he said and then smiled.
That wasn’t what I’d expected, but he was right. “Sorry,” I said. “I just don’t think you’ve taken this as seriously as you should have.”
“You may be right,” he said. “The point is that I am here now. Tell me what—” he hesitated and took a small notebook out of his suit coat pocket. “Tell me what, umm, Melinda Beale—that’s Charles’s aunt, right?” I nodded. “What did she see, say, and think about the gay, now straight, hairdresser?”
I walked Burton through Melinda’s experiences at the salon and what she thought about Damian. Burton took a few notes and listened attentively. It was a strange feeling watching the man paying attention when he had ignored me or snarled at me every time we were together and for the last six years. I also knew that much of what I was relaying was speculation. Burton could dismiss it as the ramblings of an elderly woman letting her imagination run wild while she was getting her wig dyed.
I’d better take advantage of his listening. I then told him about Alexander Bishop and how he had been the rental agent when two of the dead women came to Folly and about what he had told Louise about pushing single women to him when they wanted a rental. I shared about Samuel coming to me after seeing someone he believed was the abductor in the parking lot behind Rita’s and Charles’s theory that it was Alexander because Samuel said the car might have been a Chrysler, the kind of vehicle the rental agent drove.
Burton asked me if I agreed with Charles. I said that it could have been him but that I wasn’t convinced based on the car he drove. My thought was that if Samuel said it was a Ford Crown Vic then it was. The Ford model was common with police forces. Most boys, even if they weren’t experts on cars, wouldn’t mistake another make for it.
And for some reason, I remembered what Melinda had said twice about Anne’s husband killing her if he found out about her affair. I told him how much the owner of Folly Curls looked like two of the victims and wondered if her husband could have been taking his rage out on other women rather than his wife. I didn’t tell him that despite what the duty roster showed, I was still suspicious of Officer O’Hara.
Burton jotted down a couple of notes and only said, “Interesting theories.” He then nodded, seeming satisfied that he had gotten all he could out of me, and closed the notebook. He thanked me for the drink and walked toward the front door.
He hesitated and turned back to me. “Mr. Landrum,” he said. “I’m a year away from retiring. I’ve done this job for more years than I want to remember. I’ve put up with killers, crooks, liars, and politicians.”
“That’s redundant, isn’t it?” I said.
He chuckled. “Anyway,” he continued, “I’ve seen and taken about all the shit I can.” He took a deep breath and then looked around the room as if he thought someone else was there. “I shouldn’t tell you this … hell, why not. Your mayor’s doing everything he can to get rid of Chief Newman.”
That, of course, was no surprise since I had heard it from the mayor himself. I didn’t tell him that Brian had already resigned. I nodded.
“It’s not right,” he said.
I nodded again.
He hesitated, bit his lower lip, and then looked me in the eye. “If you say you heard this from me, I’ll deny it on a stack of Bibles and may shoot you.” I nodded, and he continued, “Five years ago, your upstanding, better-than-God mayor was accused of stealing millions of dollars that should have belonged to one of his employees.”
I sat up straighter. “Wouldn’t he have been taking his own money? Didn’t he make millions when he sold his company?”
“I’m just a police detective,” said Burton. “I deal with the dregs of society. I’m clueless about the big-time finances of companies. Apparently, this was before he sold to some conglomerate. It had something to do with Lally taking credit for a patent for software that one of the company’s vice presidents had created. The other guy created the off-track betting software that put the company on the map. Lally wasn’t about to let him have it, so he planted some cocaine in the guy’s company-furnished apartment and then had his security people find it. He held that over the vice president’s head. Basically, your mayor stole the software and tore up the intellectual property rights of the true creator.”
“Why didn’t the guy sue?” I asked.
He opened his notebook again and removed a folded piece of paper. He unfolded the paper, looked at it, and then handed it to me. “It’s all in here.”
I looked down at the paper. But Burton stopped me from reading it. He took it back and then said, “He had a drug conviction and didn’t think anyone would believe him.”
“Where did this come from?” I took the paper back and held it up.
“That’s the sad part,” he said and then shook his head. “The inventor was so torn up that he killed himself. Hanged himself a year to the day after Lally sold the company for millions.”
I held the paper back in front of Burton.
He pointed at it. “He wrote that four days before his death and mailed it to his sister in Charleston. He attached a note saying that nothing could be proven but wanted her to know his reason for the suicide. He didn’t want her to feel like it was her fault.”
“Why would she have thought that?”
“Not certain. But apparently they had a history of fighting over their parents’ estate. Poor guy—it seems that his sister won that battle too.”
“How’d you get it?”
“The sister’s brother-in-law works as a civilian clerk in our office. He gave it to me three months ago, saying he knew there was nothing I could do but wanted to get my take on it. He wanted to see if I knew any way it could be used to indict Lally.”
“And you couldn’t?” I said.
“Nothing in there except the word of a dead former employee—no evidence, no proof of authorship of the software code, no nothing.”
I scanned the single-spaced, typed document. I didn’t read it all, but Burton was right. There wasn’t anything that could be proven. I looked up at him. “So you think there’s a way I could use it to keep the mayor from firing the chief.”
“I’d like it if you could get him thrown in jail,” said Burton. “But that’s not going to happen. Next best thing is to save the chief.”
“Why me?” I asked.
“Because you’re Newman’s friend.” He hesitated and then grinned. “And because you are such a pain in the ass that you probably would be able to do something that no one else could.” He shook his head. “I figure you’ll find a way. I don’t know how and don’t want to.”
I wish I had that much confidence in what I could do. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Think quickly,” he said. “The chief is about out of work.”
He turned and grabbed the door handle and then turned back to me. “You didn’t get that from me.” He didn’t wait for a response.
CHAPTER 52
I STARED AT THE FRONT DOOR. I COULDN’T TELL WHAT surprised me more, having had a civil conversation with Detective Brad Burton or being handed a document that might give me the upper hand on our illustrious mayor.
I had always done my best thinking while seated on the ocean end of the Folly Pier. I needed that advantage, so I left the comfortable, and peaceful, confines of my cottage and headed three blocks to the la
ndmark. It was early for many vacationers to be on the beach, but there were already several people optimistically watching their fishing poles propped against the pier’s railing. I nodded to a couple of familiar faces along the way and then climbed the steps to the second level of the pier. The sun was beginning to leave its mark on the temperature, and I knew that in a couple of hours it would be unbearable.
I was the only person on the second level, and I took out the paper Burton had bestowed upon me. The document was heavy with words but light in provable content. The author, whose name was neither on the paper nor disclosed by Burton, said little more than what the detective had shared. It was woefully inadequate to prove anything, but was it strong enough to carry weight in the court of public opinion? I imagined the document plastered on the front page of the newspaper and wondered if it would garner enough anger with voters to affect how the mayor ran the city. Lally had sold his software company to a publicly traded company. Could the revelations stir enough interest for the Securities and Exchange Commission to initiate an investigation? Even if they didn’t, would they be enough to give the company a black eye and possibly affect its stock price? Either way, how would that affect the pompous mayor? How would he react to knowing that some of his upstanding—read, wealthy—citizens thought he was responsible for the death of the person who wrote the note? It couldn’t prove that the mayor pushed the author to suicide. But Lally couldn’t prove that he hadn’t.
The pier failed to work its magic. Answers to what I should do with the document were elusive, and my mind drifted back to the conversation with Burton about the murders. He had listened, but to be honest, I knew I hadn’t shared anything that would significantly help him with his investigation. Alexander had ties to two of the victims. Burton didn’t say if he already knew that. A competent detective would have figured that out in time, but I still wasn’t ready to elevate Burton to that level. Melinda’s speculation about Damian and my theory about Anne’s husband were even weaker. Either man could be the killer. I didn’t know what Anne’s husband looked like, but Damian was the right size, and the long, dark hair could have been a wig. He could have talked with each of the victims—“could” being the operative word. No one had tied him to any of them, and no one, not even the most car identification–challenged individual, would mistake a “little Jap car” for a Ford Crown Vic. I also didn’t know how Anne’s husband would have learned the details of why they were on Folly and realized that no one would notice they were missing. And I was still wondering about the alibi for O’Hara and whether the killer was even a male.
