I checked out of the corner of my eye and saw her raise her eyebrows in a gesture that appeared to border on a grin. I took that as progress.
“Why don’t we all sashay up that way tomorrow after church,” Jill said. “Isn’t it time we talked to Patricia Cook?”
I agreed. Warren calmed down and decided to go along with our suggestion. After he left for his motel, Jill and I moved to the reclining love seat that faced the TV and turned on the early evening news. I reached over to take her hand, pleased that I found no resistance. Then the phone rang. I answered it.
“Hi, Greg,” Wayne Fought said. “What’s this about a piece of potentially important evidence?”
I told him how I had found the Russian cigarette pack near the riverbank. “Casey Olson’s girlfriend told Jill that he didn’t smoke anything but pot.”
“When did you talk to her?”
“While you were at the cemetery this morning.”
He digested that, then asked, “And the pack has a cigarette inside?”
“Right. I haven’t taken it out, so I don’t know what shape it’s in.”
“It’s possible you may have something. We found a cigarette butt outside Bradley’s front door, but he didn’t smoke, either. The lab guys analyzed it and said it didn’t resemble any brand they were familiar with. If it matches your Russian cigarette, we may be onto something.”
“Another thing,” I said, “the path led right to the riverbank. It would be an ideal place to toss a Beretta in the water.”
“Could you drop that cigarette pack by TBI Headquarters tomorrow? I’ll tell them to get right on it. If there’s a match, it might be worth sending a diver down to check beneath that ledge.”
“Okay if I take it over after church?”
“No problem.” He laughed. “Somehow I didn’t take you for a congregant.”
“My wife had to twist my arm to get me there, but I kind of like it now. Let me know what you come up with. We had already thought about calling some tobacco shops around Nashville.”
“If we get a match, I’ll take care of that. Thanks a lot. I’ll keep in touch.”
I hung up the phone and turned to Jill. “I think we may have made a convert.”
“To Gethsemane United Methodist Church?”
“No. To McKenzie Investigations. I’ll leave the proselytizing to you.”
“So I had to twist your arm, huh?”
I put my arm around her shoulder. “I can’t think of anybody I’d rather have twisting my arm, babe.”
She looked into my eyes with an expression that nearly tore my heart out. “Not even Camilla?”
“Especially Camilla,” I said and pulled her toward me.
We were still sitting there five minutes later when the phone rang again. I answered it.
“Mr. McKenzie?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dr. Frank Wallace. I met you last night at the Rottman’s party.”
“Right. We enjoyed visiting with you, Doctor. How are things going?” I covered the mouthpiece and whispered “Dr. Wallace” to Jill.
“Actually, things aren’t going too well,” he said.
“What’s the problem?”
“Frankly, the problem is Camilla. She’s accused Roger of some things that simply aren’t true. She told him she had called you over today to talk about it.”
“She’s right about that. Did she also tell him that I declined to take part in her little investigation?”
“No. You told her that?”
“I certainly did. She wanted me to find out who he’d been sleeping with. I told her that McKenzie Investigations does not get involved in domestic cases. We made a firm decision against that when we started this business.”
After a long pause, he said, “That is interesting.”
“She told me he claimed he had gone fishing with one of his old Vanderbilt buddies. Was that you?”
“Yes. And that’s exactly where he was. I have a cabin on Center Hill Lake. There were four of us guys there.”
I had tilted the phone so Jill could listen in. “I feel for him. I got the impression she can be one ruthless character.” I decided against using the “B” word, a term I felt more appropriate.
“Don’t be too hard on her. But, yes, she is capable of being rather overbearing. She and her son are both unpredictable at times.”
“You’re talking about the one we saw last night?”
“Yes. He’s had his problems.”
“I understand they included gambling and drugs, both expensive hobbies.”
“I imagine you’ve dealt with people in that category.”
Jill mouthed, “Too many.”
“They perennially borrow money and never pay it back,” I said. “When they get on the downside, they’ll do anything to get more cash.”
“I guess it’s pay up or shut up in that economy.”
“Right. The saying on the street is ‘money talks and bullshit walks.’”
Jill frowned, but Dr. Wallace chuckled.
“Mr. Kirk Rottman needs to grow up. He can act terribly juvenile when he’s in one of his moods.”
“Is there a medical term for that?”
He laughed. “I think it’s covered by that old medical adage doctors use when they have no rational explanation.”
“And that would be?”
“Whatever happens, happens.”
Chapter 32
Our pastor, Dr. Peter Trent, avoided the money-grubbing theme Sunday morning, but he needled me not-so-gently with a sermon calling for greater understanding of those with whom we disagree. It reminded me again of the problems I’d had with Jill’s dad before he died. Neither of us seemed able to accept the legitimacy of the other’s point of view. Jill called it hardheadedness, which I suppose is preferable to something like pigheadedness.
During the coffee and gabbing session in our Sunday School classroom, I cornered John Jernigan, an accountant who retired from United States Tobacco Company before it changed its name to U.S. Smokeless Tobacco. They called him “Snuffy” in earlier days, but I knew he didn’t like that nickname. The side of the company’s plant facing downtown Nashville was emblazoned with “Bruton’s Snuff.” Jernigan was one of our resident Civil War buffs.
“Hey, John,” I greeted him, “guess where I was yesterday.”
A tall, husky man with a head as slick and brown as a dried gourd, he had a sly grin and alert eyes that reminded me of Telly Savalas as Kojak. “I’d guess you were hiding behind a tall hedge somewhere eavesdropping on the bad guys.”
“Well, that, too. But I was referring to the Battle of Hartsville. I didn’t notice much around there to see, but they had a big plaque with a description of what happened all around the area.”
“What were you doing up there?”
“We’re working a case with some Hartsville implications.”
John topped off his coffee cup. “Wouldn’t you know, I’ve been to Gettysburg and Manassas and Vicksburg and Fort Donelson and I don’t know how many other sites, but I’ve never visited one that’s practically under my nose.”
“Well, there wasn’t really much to attract your attention. What interested me was the location of the Confederate artillery battery. They apparently fired from near where a guy was murdered last week.”
“Hmm. Seems I read something about those Trousdale County murders. And you’re involved in that?”
“Only peripherally.”
He chuckled. “Better wear your Kevlar vest around there.”
Jill walked up to tell us we’d better find our seats and get ready for the morning’s lesson.
We picked up Warren at his motel shortly after eleven, headed out to the TBI office to drop off the Dallas Lights pack, and stopped at one of our favorite seafood restaurants in the Rivergate area. We always attended the early service at church, which improves your odds of getting a table quickly for Sunday lunch, or dinner as it’s called in the South.
After the wai
tress left with our order—we all chose the mahi mahi—Warren looked across at us with a smile. “I’m glad to see all appears well with you two.”
“We had a little heart-to-heart last night,” Jill said. “I don’t expect Greg to have any more lapses in judgment like that.”
I donned my most penitent look. I’m sure it would have gone over well in a confessional booth. That it was sincere seemed beside the point. If you don’t have the right look, you’re doomed.
“I will never trust another woman,” I said. “Other than my wife.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t overdo it.”
“What do you propose doing when we get to Hartsville, Greg?” Warren asked, no doubt sensing the previous subject was best sidestepped.
“Actually, I thought we might drive up to Lafayette first. Maybe take a look at the Samran plant. If there’s anybody around the place, we can try to identify this Kayjay person. We could also drop by the motels and ask if the Christian Science Monitor reporter is staying there. Hopefully we can get the name Kelli’s using.”
“Good idea. I just wish she’d get in contact and let me know she’s okay.”
“Sorry, Warren. When you’re working undercover, you make as little contact with the outside world as possible. You never know when somebody might overhear something or trace your calls.”
“Even with a cell phone?”
“There are ways of tracing cell phone calls and getting the numbers, and not just by sneaking a peak during an unguarded moment.”
“Do you think Kelli is following up on the Kayjay lead?” Jill asked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Of course, we have no idea if the guy could be involved with the murders. At the least he should be able to shed more light on Casey Olson.”
Jill looked across at Warren. “Have you ever encountered anything like this before?”
“Heavens no. Murder is out of my league.”
“I’ll bet you had some murderous experiences in Tel Aviv,” I said.
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “We had our share of mayhem, no doubt. I listened to a lot of tales from Israeli pilots that would curdle your blood.”
“Do you see any way out of the current impasse between the Arabs and Jews?” Jill asked.
“I wish I did. There are a lot of people on both sides willing to put away old grudges, but far too many refuse any compromise. They’re riveted to historic attitudes that have been drilled into them from birth.”
The arrival of our food left little interest in other than small talk. After paying the bill, we headed out to my Jeep and started the trek to Lafayette—with the accent on the “fay”—in Macon County. I had checked the internet last night and found a couple of motels along the highway into town. We traveled up U.S. 31E to Westmoreland, then east on Highway 52. We stopped at a neat little motel on the outskirts of Lafayette. It might have been an update of a relic from an earlier day. A room wing in front and another going off to the rear were brick, the office entrance faced with stone beneath a canopy.
After suggesting we not overwhelm the clerk, I headed in alone. I found a short, white-haired woman standing behind the front counter, which was open on one end. No walled-in cage or glass-enclosure. Evidently they didn’t feel the need for such security around here. A small but homey lobby sat off to the right, behind it a hallway with a cabinet containing a microwave and coffee maker.
“Can I help you?” the clerk asked, smiling. “We were full last night, but we have some rooms now.”
“I don’t need a room, thanks. I’m looking for a woman reporter for the Christian Science Monitor. I wondered if she might be staying here?”
“You must be talking about that nice red-headed woman. She said she was a reporter, but I didn’t know what newspaper she worked for.”
I smiled. “That’s probably her. What’s her name?”
She looked down at her desk. “I know her name is Quinn. Let’s see, here it is. Julia Quinn. That who you’re looking for?”
“Yeah. You wouldn’t happen to know if she’s in her room, would you?”
“She hasn’t been around the office lately. I can call her room if you want me to.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
I waited while she picked up the phone and dialed, gazing about as it rang.
“Sorry, no answer. You want to leave her a message?”
“No. That’s okay. I’ll try her again later.”
I walked out to the car and reported what I’d found.
Warren slumped back in the seat, his expression a mixed bag, but mostly frustration. “At least we know she’s still around. Maybe I should wait here, while you two go on to Hartsville.”
“Correction,” I said. “We know she’s been here. If the situation warranted, she would simply skip out.”
“Damn!”
“I know how you feel, buddy. Our best bet is to do whatever we can to track down those Marathon papers so Kelli can cut the charade and resurface.”
I drove on into Lafayette, which wasn’t all that different from Hartsville, and turned south on Highway 10. We drove a few miles with high wooded hills on either side. After the terrain began to flatten out, we saw a modern factory building with large American and Tennessee flags flying out front. A prominent sign mounted on an artistic stone base said “Samran, Inc.—a subsidiary of Hedrick Industries.”
Chapter 33
Jill rested her chin on her hand. “Now isn’t that interesting.” I stopped at the main driveway into the property and sat there for a few moments, staring at the sign, wondering what, if any, significance this might have for our case.
“Interesting, indeed,” I said.
A few cars sat in a fenced-in parking area behind a locked gate.
“Might as well try the front entrance, see if anybody’s home,” I said.
I pulled onto an oval drive and parked in a Visitor slot. When I got to the entrance, I found the door locked. There was no bell or any visible means of communication. Staring through the glass, I detected no activity.
I got back in the car and turned to Jill. “If we need to contact Hedrick Industries about anything, I suggest you give Roger Rottman a call.”
She smiled. “Probably not a bad idea. Shall we head on to Hartsville and find Pierce Bradley’s sister?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jill sat quietly for several minutes as we drove through more wooded areas and farmland with lots of slopes. It recalled those old tales of cows with short legs on one side grazing on the hills. She finally voiced her thoughts. “A lot of companies won’t voluntarily give out information on employees.”
“True,” I said.
“What if I went in there tomorrow and claimed to be a close relative of Casey, maybe talk to a secretary, tell her he had told me some nice things about his boss, Kayjay. I’d like to know how to get in touch with him. Maybe she would give me a name and phone number.”
Looking in the mirror, I saw Warren shake his head. “You’re a devious lady, Jill.”
“Devious is how PI’s operate,” I said. “We have to figure out how to get information out of people who don’t want to give it up. Good plan, babe. Let’s try it.”
When we got to Highway 25, we drove into Hartsville and turned onto the street where Patricia and A. B. Cook lived. Upscale homes that appeared to be fairly new lined the street. I asked Jill for the number, which I found on a mailbox in front of a long red brick ranch that appeared to be on two levels, following the contour of the lot. I parked in the driveway. The three of us got out and walked toward the front door.
The afternoon sun drilled down like a red-hot auger. I had forgotten to bring my Titans cap along, and my scalp felt ready to sizzle. It was something my dermatologist frequently railed against, but you do whatever it takes.
We stood on a small covered porch that offered token shelter from the heat. I rang the bell several times.
“Maybe they’re eating out after church,” Jill said.
>
I checked my watch. “It’s after two-thirty. They must be slow eaters.”
“Could be eating with friends,” Warren suggested.
“Or visiting with relatives,” I said. “Why don’t we drop by the sheriff’s office and see if Driscoll’s around. Maybe he knows something. I think I’ll leave a note.”
I wrote a brief message on the back of a business card about our investigation of some missing papers from Marathon Motor Works that had been in her brother’s possession. After sticking it in the door, I drove over to Main Street and pulled in at the low brick building that housed the sheriff’s office and jail. Driscoll’s patrol car was parked outside.
He came through the door as I got out of my Jeep. He stopped and stared, a quizzical look on his face. “What the hell are you doing up here today, McKenzie?”
“Hi, Sheriff.” I gave him my best grin. “Just following up loose ends. We stopped by to visit with Patricia Cook but didn’t find anybody home.”
“Oh. Okay.” He seemed a bit relieved by my answer, but I had no idea why. “They’re taking a couple of days off to get their nerves settled down. Pat and Pierce had their troubles, but his death seems to have really knocked the props out from under her. He was the only close relative she had.”
“Did they go out of town?”
“To visit A. B.’s brother in Lebanon. They’ll probably be back tomorrow or Tuesday. Wayne tells me you picked up something my boys missed.”
I didn’t want to cause any problems. I shrugged. “Don’t blame them. It wasn’t in the area where the cartridge case was found.”
“Well, they need to broaden their minds, and their area of interest. Think more like investigators. Maybe I ought to have you come up and give ’em a lecture.”
“Don’t know how much I could teach the guys, but I’m always available.”
The sheriff pushed back his cap and swiped a hand across his brow. “I just might take you up on that sometime. Where you headed now?”
“Back to Nashville, I guess. We’re just out for a Sunday drive.”
He grinned. “Sure you are.”
“See you,” I said.
Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4 Page 82
