by Glenn Trust
Grady Moore and Lieutenant Turly followed George out. “Where you headed, George?”
“Over to Martz’s jewelry store. Figure someone should give him the heads up and warn him to be looking over his shoulder.”
Moore nodded. “Good idea. But I think you’ll find it easier said than done.”
“Why’s that?”
“I know something about Martz. In fact, been knowing him around Savannah for thirty years. We’ve butted heads more than once. He’s also been on our side a few times. Can’t ever figure which side he will come down on.” Moore shrugged. “He has his principles. Sometimes they’re hard to see, but they are there, and he always acts on his principles.”
“That’s good to know.”
“One more thing.” Moore waited until George turned and looked at him. “He’s stubborn.”
George smiled. “Seems to be a lot of that going around.”
“I mean it, Deputy. He’s stubborn and he’s proud. I don’t think he’s going to pay much attention to your warning.”
“Fair enough. I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me. So, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to have Lieutenant Turly here go with you over to Martz’s place. Maybe he can help. At least it might look more official to Martz, having a Savannah PD uniform there and all.”
George nodded. “That would be helpful.”
“Then I’m going back to my office to try and set up some sort of protective surveillance. It’s got to be quiet. Martz would stop it if the word got out and it became too public. Hell, he might stop it anyway.” He paused, thinking. “It’s also not in the budget. I’ve got to figure out how to cover it. Probably take a day or two to set up. Just play it low-key with Martz or it will be dead in the water.”
“Understood,” George said, “and thanks.”
He walked out with Turly following behind.
48. Family Problems
Pulling into the concrete drive of a tidy ranch house in an upper middle-class neighborhood of Everett, Ronnie Kupman drove up to the garage. The Wrights had lived in the house for twenty years. It was the only home their children had ever known.
As the owner of the Everett Gazette and the cable television station, Porter Wright could have afforded to move his family to one of the newer more affluent neighborhoods of the small city. Instead, they chose to maintain their home and family in the ranch house where the kids had grown up.
Ringing the bell, they waited long enough that they were about to ring the bell again when the door opened. Naomi Wright stood there, neatly dressed, looking like she might be going out for a day of shopping with her friends, except for the red eyes and nose and tissue she held that had obviously been drying tears off of her face.
“Ronnie, what can I do for you?”
“Naomi, what’s the matter?” Kupman had known the Wrights most of his life, since school. They were friends.
“Nothing, Ronnie. What do you need?”
“Naomi,” he said firmly. “Something is wrong. What is it?”
She just shook her head and put the tissue to her eyes and nose.
“Can we come in?” Kupman asked.
Naomi Wright nodded, tissue still at her eyes, and stepped back from the door.
“Naomi, this is Sharon Price with the GBI. We need to speak with Porter. Is he around?” Kupman looked over her head down the hallway.
Naomi Wright’s shoulders shook as she tried to stifle sobs. Stepping forward Sharon put an arm around her and guided her into the adjacent living room where she sat the woman down on the sofa and took a seat beside her. Ronnie Kupman stood in the hallway watching with a mortified look on his face that said, ‘I didn’t mean to make her cry…really’. Sharon motioned him into the room and indicated a chair where she wanted him to sit and remain silent. Ronnie completely understood and had no intention of saying anything that might cause Naomi to break down in sobs again.
Sharon allowed the sobs to subside before she spoke. “Naomi, where’s Porter?”
Shaking her head, tissue to her nose, she whispered, “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean? Did he leave?”
Naomi nodded, without looking up.
“Do you know where he is?”
There was no response. Naomi sat huddled over, Sharon’s arm around her shoulders.
“Naomi, can you at least tell us why he left? Are you having…” Sharon paused before the next words, part of her hoping the answer would be yes, part of her dreading the alternative. “…family problems?”
Naomi wiped her nose and looked up at the GBI agent. “I don’t know. I didn’t think so…I just don’t know.”
“Tell us what he said, Naomi. We may be able to help.”
Tearfully, Naomi Wright explained that her husband Porter had sat her down at the kitchen table the night before and explained that he had to go away for a while. Things were happening. He mentioned Timmy Farrin and the Somerhill and Marswell murders. He said he had put two and two together and that if the killers were who he thought, they would come for him soon.
“So he left you?”
Naomi looked up at Sharon. Her voice was firm now as she said, “Porter would not desert us if he thought there was danger to us. He said he was taking the danger away by leaving. They would follow him and not come to the house. He would be gone.”
“Did he tell you where he was going?”
Naomi Wright looked Sharon in the eyes and said simply, “No.”
Sharon nodded and patted her arm. “Well, put your mind at ease, at least about his leaving. Your husband was telling the truth. We came here today to talk about the murders and to arrange protection for him. He is trying to protect you, although I don’t think he made the best decision.”
Ronnie Kupman spoke for the first time since causing Naomi to break out in sobs. “Naomi, why didn’t Porter come see me? Say something?”
“He trusts you, Ronnie, he does,” she said wiping her nose again as she calmed. “He doesn’t trust Klineman. He was afraid that any contact with the sheriff’s department would end up with Klineman knowing everything.”
“I wouldn’t have let that happen. You know that.”
She nodded, “He said he couldn’t take the chance with me and the children. He said it was better for him to just quietly disappear for a while. Said that if anyone asks, he’s gone fishing.”
“Is there anything you can tell us about where he might have gone?”
Naomi Wright looked down at her lap and shook her head.
“All right, Naomi. We’ll go now, but please give us a call if you hear anything from Porter.”
“I will,” she nodded again, still looking at her lap and wiping her nose.
Seated in Kupman’s car, Sharon looked at him and asked, “What do you think?”
“I think she’s telling the truth. It’s the kind of thing Porter would do, protect his family, figure if he was out of the way, no one would have any reason to bother them.”
“Think she knows where he is?”
“Hard to say. Porter would want to protect her and the kids and not let them know where he was going.” He thought about that and added, “She’s probably telling the truth.”
“You know it won’t help.”
Kupman looked over at her, waiting.
“It won’t help, Ronnie.” Sharon shook her head slowly side to side emphasizing her words. “These people will find him. They won’t give up.”
“I know,” he said nodding. “Just means we have to find him first…somehow,”
Not wanting to take the chance of being spotted, the big blue four by four had parked around the block and out of sight. From the corner as they passed by, Lee had counted the number of houses in to where the brown county car pulled into the driveway…six. Now, waiting until the county car had driven by the cross street headed back into the center of Everett, Bill Quince turned the big truck’s engine over.
“Do a drive-by,” Lee said.
“Find the library.”
“What?” Quince looked at his partner. “You gonna read a book?”
“They have computers at libraries. I can get online and find out who lives in that house. If it’s who I think it is, it gives us another place to stake out and look for our guy.” He looked at Quince. “Right? Unless you want me to go to the courthouse and search the records there?”
Quince shook his head and then nodded in quick succession. Yep, it was good having Lee around. He was a good thinker.
49. Georgia Boys
Martz’s Jewelry Store was located in a commercial area of cheap strip shopping centers, fast food restaurants, and car lots. It had been there for twenty years, since the area was a newly expanding district of the city. Now the city had moved far beyond the district, and it was considered an older part of town. Rubin Martz had rented the space originally and then bought the entire strip center and several others as his jewelry store prospered.
Active in the local Jewish community, Martz had become a leader. Over the years, he had often been asked to run for political office but had eschewed all attempts to convince him to enter the political arena. Martz preferred the freedom to speak his mind and, on occasion, offend both sides of the aisle, sometimes at the same time. Martz was his own man. Political office would have changed that, or so he believed. He would have none of it.
Parking the rental car in a space in front of Martz’s store, George pushed the door open and then held onto it in order to drag his large frame out from under the cramped steering wheel and driver’s seat. Next time he was in Atlanta, and that was not likely to be soon, he was going to have to introduce himself to Shaklee’s secretary. She needed to understand the size requirements for any vehicles she might arrange for him in the future.
He stretched and waited while Lieutenant Turly parked his Savannah PD unit and walked over. George noted that he seemed to have no trouble exiting his vehicle, a big Crown Vic.
Opening the glass storefront door, Turly held it while George walked in. Inside, the walls were lined with glass display cases filled with jewelry. They were organized by item, rings on one side, bracelets and necklaces on the other, and earrings and broaches in the middle. Three customers, two older women and a young man, wandered the counters, followed by two sales staff.
Turly motioned his head towards a man, probably approaching seventy years old, leaning over the center glass case reading a newspaper. George nodded and they walked over as the man looked up from his newspaper. His silver white hair shone brightly under the show room lights that had been placed to make the diamonds sparkle. He was dressed simply in khakis and a white shirt. The shirt was open far enough to expose a gold Star of David hanging from a gold chain on his chest. It was the only jewelry he wore.
“Lieutenant, what can I do for you?” he said, recognizing Turly, or at least the uniform.
“Have someone here who would like to speak with you, Mr. Martz.” He turned and motioned towards George. “This is Deputy Mackey with a GBI task force. He has some information for you, and we would like to talk about some assistance for you.”
“Assistance, for me?” He looked at Turly with a wry smile. “That seems a bit,” he paused considering his words, “out of place, doesn’t it?”
“Not this time, Mr. Martz. This is serious. Is there some place we can speak, privately?”
Rubin Martz regarded the two law enforcement officers quietly for a few seconds. He and the police had not always been on the best of terms. Then, with a shrug, he said, “Follow me.”
He held open the waist-high gate between the jewelry counters and led them to an office in the back storeroom area. The office had no windows, but it did have a number of video monitors displaying live images of the store and its exterior from a number of camera positions.
Martz sat down behind the desk and motioned the two into the plush leather chairs in front. “What can I do for you, or as you said, what can you do for me?”
Turly looked at Mackey, waiting for him to speak. George nodded, okay, let’s do it.
“Mr. Martz, I am with a GBI task force that is…”
“Excuse me, Deputy, what did you say your name was?”
“Mackey, sir. Deputy George Mackey, Pickham County Sheriff’s Office, assigned to the GBI task force investigating the deaths of Prentiss Somerhill and Clayton Marswell.”
Martz’s snow-white eyebrows angled suddenly down. “So the GBI thinks there is a connection between their deaths, Somerhill and Marswell? I had wondered about that.”
George nodded. This man was on the list. He deserved to know as much as George could tell him. “Yes. There is a connection, and we believe there are others. We believe you are on the…” he hesitated for a moment in front of Turly, “the list as well, Mr. Martz.”
The white eyebrows rose again to a more natural position. “My name is Rubin, Deputy. Please call me by my name. And yours was, George?”
“Yes, sir.”
“May I call you George?”
“Rubin, you can call me whatever you like. I hope you will listen to what I have to say and what Lieutenant Turly is going to offer you.”
“I like that. You’re a Georgia country boy, aren’t you, George?”
“Well, I was born and raised in Pickham County. Can’t get much more country than that, I guess.”
“I’m a Georgia city boy. Born and raised in Georgia too, here in Savannah. Martz smiled. “How about that, George? A redneck boy from Pickham County and a Jew boy from Savannah, both Georgia boys. What do you think about that?”
“I think, Rubin, that you should listen to what I have to say, one Georgia boy to another. You may be in danger.”
Martz leaned back and laughed. “Fair enough, George. One Georgia boy to another, tell me about the danger.”
George spent ten minutes explaining the investigation and connection between Somerhill and Marswell. Without breaking investigative confidentiality and mentioning the prioritized hit list that Andy Barnes had put together, he told Martz that the GBI task force considered him to be in serious, imminent danger. When he was done, Martz spoke quietly.
“And you are part of this task force, George?”
“I am.”
“And do you think that I am in serious danger?”
“I do, Rubin. You need to take this seriously.”
“I do, George, I do.” Martz smiled his soft smile that just barely turned up the corners of his mouth, almost in a melancholy way, like the picture of a sad clown. “You see, I have been in serious danger many times. The KKK not happy that a Jew boy was buying up ‘white’ businesses, the city council not happy that a Jew boy was taking votes away, Baptists not happy that the Jew boy did business with the papist Catholics, Catholics not happy that the Jew boy’s ancestors killed Christ, a Jew himself by the way. So you see, many have been unhappy with this Jewish Georgia boy from Savannah.” He paused and smiled his smile at George again. “But to you I am Rubin, and so I’m listening.”
“Rubin, take this seriously, please.” George wasn’t sure why he felt the need to convince Martz to take heed of the warning, but he did. “If they do come, and we believe they will, they are professionals. They can’t be bargained with, and you won’t see them coming.”
“I promise you, George, I am taking your warning seriously. May I ask, what type of weapon do you carry?”
George lifted the jacket lapel slightly, revealing the shoulder holster. “A Glock.” He let the jacket drop back into place.
“I carry a Glock also. A fine weapon.” He looked at Turly. “And I have a permit to carry it concealed. I carry it almost always. After today, I promise you, George, I will carry it always.”
“Rubin…”
“
George, stop trying to convince me. I’m convinced. I am just not convinced that the police can look after me better than I can for myself. I gave up relying on others long ago. I rely on myself first.”
Turly spoke for the first time since entering the office. “Mr. Martz, we are arranging some protective surveillance for you. It may take a day or so to get it in place, but we are putting it together now.”
“And I appreciate it, Lieutenant. I accept your offer, but I hope you will understand that I have more confidence in me than some detectives sleeping in a car outside my house at night.”
Turly looked like he had been slapped, but to his credit, George thought, he did not react to Martz’s lack of trust. “I understand, Mr. Martz. We will put the protective detail together, but you call us for anything or with any concerns.” He laid a card on Martz’s desk and stood.
Turly was right. It was time to go. George shook hands with Rubin, and they walked through the store to the front door. Looking back as he walked through the front door, he saw Martz leaning over the newspaper spread across the glass case once more.
Outside, he said goodbye to Lieutenant Turly, exchanged cards, and crammed his ass back in the subcompact. He got lost twice and had to turn around, but he made it to the airport in thirty minutes.
Rince was waiting. He had a six pack iced down in a small cooler on the ground beside the plane. George looked at him.
“For me?”
“Not for me, I’m driving.” He grinned at the big deputy. “You’re about the most nervous passenger I’ve ever had. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to relax you a bit.”
Reaching into the cooler, George pulled out a brown longneck bottle and twisted off the cap. He took a long pull and watched Rince go through the ground inspection of the plane with a new appreciation for the man. Yep, he thought, taking another pull from the bottle, ole Rince just might survive the day after all.
50. They Won’t Stop
“Shit.”
“What’s the matter, Sim?” Bill Quince turned his head up from the fishing magazine he was reading to look out the passenger side window.
