The Dead Detective Agency (The Dead Detective Mysteries)

by Peg Herring

  Despite Judd’s obvious guilt, Madison wondered as he dressed where the doper got the money to buy all that junk at once. There was another oddity: the syringe found beside him had no fingerprints on it. A drug overdose was no surprise for someone like Judd, but what if someone had wanted the guy dead?

  Then there was Detective Yates in Muskegon. Cartwright, the man who died of a broken neck, had been an elderly and very wealthy man. Yates was working on accessing Cartwright’s accounts, and what he might find there was anybody’s guess. The association with PLK might be coincidence, the note an old man’s confused mistake. But Yates apparently suspected someone had helped Cartwright on to the next world. If so, PLK was connected to two corpses.

  Seamus had told Tori in the darkness of Madison’s bedroom, “Sometimes we can plant an idea in the host’s mind. But we can’t make them do something they are opposed to doing.”

  “So it’s like hypnotism.”

  “I guess so.”

  “How do you do it?”

  A touch of humor entered his tone. “It’s like a kid’s book: simple words repeated over and over. If you do it often enough, the host thinks it’s his idea. I’m going to try to get Madison to PLK first thing in the morning. You jump to someone else. That’ll lessen the strain on him while I follow his investigation and try to guide him a little. We know things the detective does not.”

  “Like that I don’t have a lover somewhere in the shadows?” Tori resented the assumption she must have had secrets. According to the general operating principles of police officers, a murder victim had usually done something to put herself in harm’s way. While she had to admit it was a workable theory most of the time, it wasn’t true in her case.

  “We know the motive was something you stumbled on, since even you don’t know why someone put a bullet through your chest.”

  Tori winced. “Don’t sugar coat it for me, Seamus.”

  “While I’m traveling with Madison, find out what you can at the office.”

  Anxious about operating alone, Tori paid close attention now to the way Seamus accomplished his aim. She sensed intense focus. He chose only one thought to communicate, “PLK,” and repeated it every few seconds in a clear but soft voice. It worked. Although their host seemed tense, he obediently got into his car, cranked the radio volume up to three-quarters on the ’80s station, and turned down Monroe Street, headed for Tori’s former workplace and trusting what he thought was his own instinct.

  Madison lumbered from his car, oblivious to the marvels around him: birds, sunlight, and an occasional tree. Colors were not as Tori remembered them. The sky, clear and cloudless overhead, was more green than she recalled, the trees almost yellow. She concluded humans don’t see colors in the same way but name them as they are taught: a tree is a tree, and whatever color its leaves appear to be is termed “green.”

  The idea of seeing her coworkers once again made Tori nervous. How would it feel to watch them go about their daily tasks and know she’d never again be part of them? Did they miss her, or had her death been only a ripple on the surface of organizational efficiency? Worst of all, would she learn that someone she knew had a hand in her death, perhaps even commissioned it?

  PLK was just beginning to stir, and she recognized all four cars in the parking lot. Donald Pardike, the office workaholic, was always there first. Some joked that Don slept at the office, like Melville’s Bartleby the Scrivener. Erica, the personal assistant assigned to Mr. Kellerman and Mr. Loomis, was just entering the back door, a jacket over her arm. She had probably had a hot flash in the car.

  The beat-up pickup belonged to Baxter, who would by now have the bathrooms sparkling and the wastebasket contents shredded. Bax worked two half shifts, late p.m. and early a.m., to accommodate his college schedule.

  The last car belonged to Carmon, a little red Honda she claimed ran on squirrel power. It was pathetic, older than any car at PLK except Baxter’s. The car often stalled in wet weather, Tori recalled, but Carmon never complained.

  She had arrived at work early, and Madison’s thought answered Tori’s unspoken question. Girl–who–cried—behind. Carmon had been so upset she couldn’t work? Tori felt vague pity for her friend, though the emotion had changed dimension somewhat, like an object seen through deep water. She recalled but couldn’t feel how death hit the living, how sudden and final it must seem to those who cared about her.

  Madison went directly to Carmon’s cubicle, following Erica’s directions. The place still smelled of orange cleaner, and the wastebasket sat empty beside the desk. Carmon looked at the picture of Judd Simms and shook her head. “I’ve never seen him before. Is he the one who—?”

  “We think so.”

  She stared at the photo for a moment, and then abruptly changed the subject. “I’ll be taking tomorrow off for the, um, memorial,” she said with a gulp before the last word. “I thought I’d better put in some extra time.”

  “Who else will be going?” He pulled a chair up and sat at Carmon’s gesture of invitation.

  “I guess we all will,” she replied, raised eyebrows indicating it was an assumption. “Someone will stay and man the phones, but for an hour or so, the place will be empty. Most will come back to work afterward, but I’m taking Tori’s sister to the airport.”

  “What’s the sister like?” Madison knew, and therefore Tori understood as well, that Carmon had volunteered to serve as guide to Elizabeth Van Camp Collins during her stay in Grand Rapids.

  Carmon paused for a moment, apparently trying to decide what kinds of things the detective wanted to know. “She’s not like Tori. She’s pretty focused on her kids.”

  That was Liz, Tori reflected. Would she ever see her sister again? All she could picture of her now was a photograph of the two of them at twelve and eighteen. Tori had been taller, despite the six-year gap in their ages. Liz had been, and still was, petite, prim, and preoccupied. With her life, with her family, with being Mom of the Year. Tori guessed Liz was calling home several times a day, though her husband was there to watch the kids.

  “What does the sister say about Tori’s murder?”

  Carmon spread her hands in a gesture of frustration. “She’s as shocked as we are, but I gather they were pretty much strangers.” Elizabeth had married right out of high school and had five kids in eight years. Tori had remained single, so their lives were different. Although they called each other on holidays, Tori realized Carmon had known her better than her sister did.

  Madison made a note. Tori saw “Sis not concted” and wondered briefly whose fault that had been. Had she neglected her sister? Probably. She’d had little interest in endless talk of gymnastics and cheerleading tryouts. Tori had not understood a woman who lived vicariously through her offspring, and Liz could not fathom a woman in no hurry to start a family. Friendly, yes, devoted sisters, no. Detective Madison would be wasting his time if he kept looking in that direction.

  “One more question, and I’ll let you get back to your work. Ever hear the name Allen Cartwright?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Tori thought Carmon might be wrong. The name rang a bell, but it was pretty dim and far away.

  Madison pressed. “Are you sure?”

  Carmon took a moment to consider. “It’s a common enough name that I may have, but it doesn’t seem familiar in the sense I’ve typed or written it.”

  Madison rose, closing his notebook and stuffing it into an already bulging pocket. “So he’s not a client of the firm?”

  “You’d have to ask Jennise.”

  “Go!”

  Tori felt Madison shake his head in surprise as Seamus’ voice sounded. Responding as instructed, she jumped as the detective passed Carmon’s desk on his way out. Carmon’s body reacted with a slight shiver, as if a chill passed through her, and Madison looked at her questioningly.

  “I guess someone stepped on my grave.” She managed a weak smile, and suddenly Tori saw things through her friend’s eyes.

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nbsp; The feeling of heaviness persisted, but overall there was a change, as if the personality of the host affected the surrounding atmosphere. Somehow, Carmon’s world was clearer, despite sorrow over Tori’s death. Her eyesight might be better than Madison’s or maybe youth made a person lighter, less burdened with the proverbial weight of the world. Tori certainly felt that weight now, after experiencing an existence beyond this place.

  She made herself small, causing her friend what she hoped was minimal distress. Watching through Carmon’s eyes as Madison, and therefore Seamus, left, Tori felt both apprehensive and bereft. Alone and yet not, she missed the plain-spoken little detective more than she’d ever missed anyone in life.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Leader of the Pack

  Madison asked for Amos Pollard and was pleased to find the old man had arrived and was in his office. That would save him a trip to Kentwood, although it might have been interesting to see the home of the firm’s senior partner.

  Seated in Pollard’s expensive, sound-proofed but Spartan office, Madison faced a man who brought to mind an elderly and declining bird of prey. When the detective described Judd Simms, Pollard’s lips tightened in distaste. “So Miss Van Camp was the victim of random violence?”

  “Maybe not so random,” Madison contradicted. “Simms chose Tori’s apartment on purpose. He went to the second story, to her door. According to a witness, he asked her name before he shot her. It’s likely he was after her, not just anyone.”

  Pollard frowned, his beak-like nose framed by salt-and-pepper brows. “You believe there’s more to this than a crazed drug addict,” he said grudgingly.

  “I’d like to know more about some of your employees.”

  There was immediate understanding in Pollard’s eyes, and he leaned back in the fine leather chair. “I’ll help in any way I can, Detective.”

  “That’s good to know. Let’s start with Abe Gougeon.” Now the face changed, revealing surprise and something else that was quickly erased.

  “Why Abe?”

  “Why not, at least to begin with?”

  Pollard set his hands on the desk before him, possibly in an attempt to keep them still. “I knew Mr. Gougeon’s parents, and we gave Abe a chance at PLK because of that fact. He is quite honest, or we would not have hired him.”

  “We were told the condo he lives in belongs to his mother.”

  “Very possible.” Pollard added a bit defensively, “Our employees’ personal lives are their own.”

  Madison doubted Pollard was the type to blindly trust that his people were upright citizens, either at work or afterward. “I understand the firm gave Gougeon the intern position with the expectation he’d become a permanent employee once he qualified.”

  “If after close observance, I considered him to be a man of integrity. I’d never offer employment otherwise.” Pollard’s lips set in a self-righteous line. Maybe only righteous, Madison didn’t know him well enough to make a distinction.

  “I judge people on their merits, not their backgrounds.” Pollard shifted into the meditative mode of old men who lecture on what life has taught them. “I had a sister who misjudged both her daughter’s determination and the worth of the young man she’d fallen in love with. That misjudgment cost her dearly. From her experience, I learned to take the measure of a person without regard to educational level or family ties.”

  “You’re saying some of your employees are a risk on your part?”

  “A calculated risk. I have been wrong, but I’m more often right, I like to think. Carmon Calley, for example, was rough around the edges when she came to us, but I think you’ll agree she’s become quite suitable.” Pollard smiled thinly. “Even formidable!”

  “Was she hired through the university?”

  Pollard waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, no. Miss Calley came to us on her own, right out of high school. It’s only in the last few years that we’ve partnered with Grand Valley State to put their business students to work for us.”

  “Are you required to give these interns employment once they graduate?”

  “No, although of course it is hoped that we will. The intern position benefits us in that we get to know a person’s propensities before he or she becomes a full-fledged member of the firm. It does not ensure the person is ethical or that he or she is suited to the tasks we require.”

  “And the advantage for an intern like Gougeon?”

  “He learns the duties and the value of each position in the firm.” Pollard shifted slightly in the elegantly comfortable chair. “Infinitely better than simply handing a person a job because he has the documentation to call himself a broker. From Mr. Gougeon, we expect great things. He is learning the business from the ground up, so to speak.”

  Madison got the sense Pollard wanted to erase any suspicion he might have of Abe Gougeon, but his effort only made the detective more curious. Could Pollard have hired Abe for his own purposes, to cheat his own company? It made no sense, but what Madison didn’t know about investing would fill a book. Probably a twenty-volume set, he thought with a grimace

  “Do you know who purchased the Ferrari for him?”

  Pollard grinned, an almost scary effect on a man who already resembled a death’s head. “Impressive, isn’t it? I understand it was a gift from a great uncle.”

  Madison shifted in the chair, the weight of whatever illness he was fighting still with him. “A Ferrari isn’t something a person gives away lightly.”

  “As something of a connoisseur myself, Detective, I believe a classic automobile to be the best of gifts: practical, valuable, and aesthetically pleasing.”

  Having found plausible explanations for Gougeon’s job, car, and expensive address, Madison turned to the death of Allan Cartwright. He explained briefly what Detective Yates had told him and concluded with, “Mr. Cartwright left PLK some time ago, but he had written down the company phone number with the question, ‘Where am I?’ next to it. We don’t know what that meant, but if he recently contacted someone here, no one remembers, or admits to it.”

  Pollard rejected the insinuation of wrongdoing with a scowl and a shake of his white head. “People write down information all the time and never get around to using it. He may have considered returning to us but never actually initiated it.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Madison said tactfully. “Now let’s talk about Daryl Talbert.”

  Anger flared briefly in the old man’s eyes at the mention of the intern whose disgrace had occasioned Tori’s hiring. “A bad egg,” he said dismissively. “Mr. Talbert’s actions brought termination the instant they came to light.”

  “Was he unwise, incompetent, or acting illegally?”

  “We had no proof of intentional wrongdoing. While Talbert did nothing against the law, he clearly violated company policy.”

  “Could you be specific, Mr. Pollard? Help a layman understand exactly what he did.”

  Pollard’s jutting jaw indicated displeasure, but he explained. “Have you ever heard the term ‘selling away,’ Detective?”

  “No. I’m barely aware of the term ‘investments.’”

  A thin smile showed awareness but no appreciation of those who failed to embrace the joys of finance. “Selling away is uncommon but not unheard of at investment firms. An unprincipled broker waits for a client who is removed from his own affairs, possibly elderly or simply uninterested. The broker enlists the client, and then trades stocks for him that the firm does not offer.”

  “And takes the client’s money?”

  “Oh, no. He hands over the earnings, so the client isn’t cheated. But the firm does not receive its share of the fees.”

  “Fees?”

  Pollard made a gesture of impatience. “A brokerage isn’t a charity, Detective! We charge a fee for our services, which involve considerable expertise and give our clients the best measure of security possible in the complex field of investing.”

  “And the company gets part of the fee?”
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br />   “Customarily, the split is fifty-fifty.”

  “So a broker who sells away, as you call it, doubles his commission by leaving the firm out of the transaction.”

  “Exactly.” Pollard pulled an honest-to-goodness pocket watch from his vest, consulted it, snapped it closed, and returned it to its place. A hint that Madison had taken enough of his time?

  “How would a guy get away with something like that?”

  Pollard frowned. “In this day and age, much of the work is done long distance. A client might reside anywhere, might never visit our office or meet his broker in person. It’s how things are done, but the unscrupulous take advantage.”