Give Up the Dead

by Joe Clifford

  “What for?”

  “We’re taking a ride.”

  “Where to?”

  Turley cracked a grin, unable to keep the surprise going any longer. I could see now he’d been hamming up the heavy.

  “Tom Gable woke up.”

  Even if I had answered the phone, I’d still be getting the personal escort. Turley wasn’t missing this moment. I had to cut the guy some slack. Given our rocky history, that note had put him in a tough spot.

  The room was packed with people who didn’t like me. Murder charges aside, the affair accusation wasn’t winning me any fans. Freddie and her sisters huddled around the bed, skull-fucking me with serious stink eye.

  But not Tom. Upon seeing me, he pushed himself up, beaming ear to ear. He scratched his wooly beard, then spread his lumberjack arms wide.

  “Jay! Get over here.” He wrapped me in a bear hug. The public embrace squashed any rumor I’d ever try to hurt him. “How’s our business?” The way he said it, he was nipping that shit in the mutherfucking bud right now.

  “Never better. Except for the break-in at the warehouse, our stuff being stolen from the storage pod, and someone trying to kill you.”

  “Besides that, Mrs. Lincoln?” He started laughing, then seized up, clutching his ribs, which were still heavily bandaged.

  The nurse in the room urged him to remain calm.

  He waved her off. “I feel like a million bucks. I got all my friends here.” He made sure everyone saw he was looking at me when he said that.

  “Tom,” Turley said. “I need to ask you some questions. If you’re up to it?”

  Tom curled his fingers, a defiant “bring it on.” “I’m famished.” He turned to the nurse. “Can someone get me something to eat?” Tom Gable slapped his big belly. “You think this thing’s gonna feed itself? I’ve been out almost a week.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Bring everything you got. Including the horse.”

  After she was gone, Tom leaned toward his wife, whispering, “Mind sneaking me up a coffee? They won’t let me have anything but decaf.”

  Freddie and the harpies glowered as they took leave.

  “Don’t mind Freddie, Jay. She’s been worried about me. This is all my fault.”

  “How’s that, Tom?”

  “The letter. I’m guessing that’s what you want to talk about?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Freddie told me.” Tom turned my way. “Sorry. I was trying to help.” Then back to Turley: “I got a call late Thanksgiving night. Like two in the morning. We’d been drinking most of the day. Party carried into night. I was pretty blotto, I’ll admit.”

  “Who called?”

  “Don’t know. Didn’t give his name. He wanted a list of all the items sold at auction that night, the one Jay handled.”

  “What’d this man say?”

  “I told you. He wanted the list of all the merch that changed hands. He was adamant, rude, abrasive. I told him it was none of his fucking business. I got a little heated. Alcohol. I don’t remember much of the conversation, only that it escalated quick. I don’t take well to being pushed around. Especially in my own house. At some point the guy said he wanted that list and I’d better give it to him if I knew what was good for me, some macho bullshit, how that wasn’t Joanne’s stuff to sell, et cetera.”

  “Ethan,” I said to Turley.

  “Or Vin Biscoglio.”

  “I don’t know who that is,” Tom said.

  “Don’t worry about it. The letter?”

  “Right. Ever hear the saying a drunk man’s tongue is a sober man’s mind? I’d been meaning to put something in writing, to protect Jay. In case something ever happened to me. My dad dropped dead of a heart attack at my age. I know how big I am, my heart, the cholesterol, the red meat. I remembered reading in a magazine how a dated letter in a sealed envelope was as good as a will. Save the lawyer costs. I hate giving those vultures a penny if I can avoid it. My heart was pounding so hard and fast when I hung up that phone. I guess I can get pretty sentimental when I’m hammered. Jay’s always been like a son.” He turned to me. “Don’t mean to embarrass you. But you are. I had no idea this guy, whoever he was, would make good on his threat. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? You wrote a note leaving me your company if you died. Why would you be sorry?”

  “Because I almost died.” He leered at Turley. “And apparently some people in this town still believe horseshit rumors and don’t know what a stand-up guy you are.”

  Turley’s face reddened.

  “So,” Tom said. “Jay’s off the hook, right? For everything?”

  “He was never on the hook. But someone did beat you senseless. Your brain hemorrhaged inside your skull. You were in a coma. I’d like to catch who did it. What happened that morning?”

  “I’m not sure. Memory is hazy. It was the day after the storm. I’d met with Jay, run some errands, and was headed back up the mountain. I saw a car stuck in the snow. The driver was gunning metal, spinning tires, digging himself deeper.”

  “Make? Model?”

  “Blue? Black? Sedan? Not sure.” Tom shook his head. “I pulled behind them. Got out of my truck, and before I could even tell whoever it was to take their goddamn foot off the gas, they were only making it worse, that we needed to put down some two-by-fours for traction, I feel thunder strike at the base of my skull, and next thing I know, I wake up here.”

  “Someone snuck up behind you?”

  “Whoever called me, I’d guess. Check the phone records.” Tom’s brow creased. “Where are my clothes?”

  Tom buzzed a nurse into the room.

  “Where are my clothes? The ones I was wearing when they brought me in here?”

  The nurse, a fresh young thing just out of school, dolled-up and platinum as a candy striper, pointed at a locker.

  “Mind getting my flannel for me, sugar?”

  She retrieved the shirt. Tom fished the pockets. “It’s not here.”

  “What?” Turley asked.

  “The list from the sale. When I met Jay for breakfast, he’d given me a complete list of all the items sold that night. I had it in my pocket.”

  “You took a helluva beating,” Turley said. “Could’ve gone flying out.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What was so important about that sale?”

  I’d begun gathering my suspicions. Putting those suspicions into words right now wasn’t going to help Turley.

  Another nurse brought Tom his lunch. Nothing smells worse than the stench of warmed-up hospital food. You can smell the disappointment. Might be the one meal on earth worse than eating at Denny’s. Not that Tom seemed to mind. He was scarfing ravenous, two-fisting slices of Wonder Bread and chicken legs, unwrapping plastic cutlery. He chomped down on the small, bruised apple.

  “We do sales like that all the time,” Tom said through a mouthful. “I can tell you everything that was bought and sold that night. You can run it through your systems, contact the buyers, however you want to handle it.”

  “Thought you said you lost the list?”

  Tom tapped his head. “Better storage than the new iMac.” He pointed a fork at me. “But I’m putting my money on that dresser Owen swindled.”

  “What dresser?” Turley said.

  “French-carved, Chaucer antique,” Tom said. “Sideboard, display. Owen Eaton got it for pennies on the dollar. Back-lot wheeling and dealing. Tried to do it off the books. Dirtbag move. Would’ve gone totally under the radar if not for our boy Jay here.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this dresser sooner?” Turley asked me.

  “I did. You weren’t paying attention.”

  Freddie came back upstairs. At least she attempted a genuine smile this time. Turley said he’d be in touch.

  Turley had to drive me back to the warehouse since we’d come together, which left us plenty of time to talk.

  “What do you think any of that means?” he asked. “
You know these Crowders better than I do.”

  “Not really. They were dealing with the fallout from a nasty breakup. I know Joanne arranged the sale.” I was glad Turley didn’t ask how I knew that. Confessing to hacking someone’s email was not high on my priority list. “My guess? Joanne got rid of something Ethan didn’t want gotten rid of. Something that painted him in a bad light or could prove something he didn’t want proven. Have you talked to Keith Mortenson? He was on-site to oversee the auction.”

  “No one has seen Keith Mortenson since that sale. Never got on his flight. And divorced couples fight over personal possessions all the time. That doesn’t equate to attempted murder. What about this dresser Tom was talking about? The one Owen low-balled on?”

  “It was top-of-the-line, a once-in-a-lifetime find. But this isn’t about the dresser.”

  “You ever hear the most logical answer is usually the correct one? It’s how being a cop works. Moultonborough rang earlier. Someone broke into the Clearing House last night. Tripped the security. Please tell me you weren’t home alone with no one to verify your whereabouts?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “If someone’s following that dresser, makes sense they’d hit up Owen next.”

  “Why didn’t you check Tom’s phone record?” I said. “See who called him that night? You know, you could’ve saved me a world of trouble.”

  “I fucked up, Jay. You’re right. I should have. I apologize. I assumed it was you, and you were scared to admit it because it would make you look guilty. I was wrong.” He peered over. “Now please give me an alibi for last night so I can report back to Moultonborough and tell them that it wasn’t you. After all the aggravation you caused the guy, you know Owen was itching to drop your name.”

  “What time?”

  “Eleven.” Turley’s expression conveyed eight degrees of pleading. I knew, after what happened with Tom, he didn’t want to be having this conversation.

  “Yes, someone can verify where I was. But don’t bother her unless you have to.”

  He nodded.

  “I was having a drink with Alison Rodgers. Down at the Blue Carousel. Torrington. About an hour from the lake. More than covers the time frame. I mean, I was having a drink. She had a club soda. But I’m serious, Turley. That will cause her a ton of aggravation if anyone finds out.”

  “Did you use a credit card for your drinks?”

  “I had a couple beers. And no, I paid cash.”

  He dropped me off back at the warehouse, too preoccupied to ask why I was meeting with Alison Rodgers, or maybe he wasn’t preoccupied at all and had class enough not to pry. No, this was Turley. He was distracted, hot on the trail of another lead. He was hung up on that dresser, and I might’ve been, too. It was the obvious solution. But nothing about this past week had been obvious. The most valuable item that evening hadn’t been sold or swindled; it had been given away. And there was no record of it. I’d been walking around town with the answer on my back all along.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  REVVING MY ENGINES, I headed into the plains. I hadn’t been able to reach Fisher or Charlie on their cells, and no one was picking up the landline. I had spoken with the hospital and Charlie wasn’t there anymore. Where else could they be? Now that Charlie wouldn’t be frequenting the Dubliner, I expected the house to see a lot more action. I was only half right. Charlie wasn’t there. Fisher was.

  “What’s up? Where’s Charlie?”

  “AA meeting at St. Paul’s.”

  I dropped my Pats hat on top of the landline. “Can’t pick up a phone?”

  “I’m busy.” Fisher had his laptop out, papers spread, tiny color-coded Post-It notes splitting sheaves, bookmarking God-knows-what. Charlie’s place was always dark. Even with the lights on, in the middle of the day, the shadow of Lamentation Mountain loomed large, throwing shade across the whole valley. Another storm brewed, gathering fury over the summit.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Next issue of Occam’s Razor. Electromagnetic pulses, Fukushima.”

  “Fuck you what?”

  “Japan. Nuclear reactor meltdown. Don’t worry about it, Porter. It’s only going to impact the West Coast.”

  “My nephew lives on the West Coast.”

  “Tell him to avoid eating sushi for a while. What do you want?”

  “Tom Gable woke up.”

  “Congratulations on being cleared of murder charges. I’d offer you a beer, but Charlie had me throw out all the alcohol.”

  “Even the beer?”

  “Even the beer.”

  I pulled the list I’d copied for Turley, slapping the death certificate on the table.

  “What’s this?”

  I spun around a wood chair, grabbed pine, and laid out what Tom had told Turley at the hospital, skipping past the dead-end dresser and getting to the heart of what we were dealing with.

  “You think someone brained Tom on the side road . . . for a list of junk?”

  “No. What that list of junk was written on.” I pointed at the ten digits in the lower left-hand corner. “That’s a phone number. Isabelle Crowder moved to Wyoming after the divorce.”

  “That’s why you wanted the area code for Wyoming?” Fisher read the name on the death certificate. “Did we ever figure out who this Maria Morales is?”

  “No clue. But I think Joanne Crowder was trying to get a message to me.”

  “Thought you didn’t know her.”

  “I don’t. I mean, I didn’t.” No one knew her anymore. “But I think she wanted me to call that number.”

  “Why didn’t she just call you directly and tell you that? Better yet, why not tell you straight up what the fuck was going on, instead of opting for some whacky game of telephone?”

  “I told you, I didn’t know her.”

  “Let me get this straight, Porter. You think Joanne Crowder, a woman you never met, sent you a secret message with a phone number to call Ethan Crowder’s ex-wife, on the back of a Mexican death certificate. And she did this because . . . ?”

  When Fisher put it like that, it did sound a little out there.

  “All I know is Keith Mortenson wanted me to have that winter coat, and that—” I pointed at the death certificate—“was in the pocket.”

  Fisher squinted elf-eyed, looking at me like I should be in Arkham.

  “Joanne set up the sale. You sent me the e-mail. She must’ve given the coat to Mortenson. To give to me. What other explanation could there be? They’re working together.”

  “Doesn’t Mortenson work for Ethan?”

  “I don’t know. Yeah, he did. I mean, no one has seen him in days.”

  Fisher got up, went to the kitchen, came back with some water. “Drink this.”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “No one said you were.”

  “This isn’t like Judge Roberts or Chris, okay? This isn’t stress. I’m not wigging out. I am thinking clearly.”

  “Let’s say you’re right. Joanne asks you to host a sale on Thanksgiving, tells Mortenson to give you a tip for doing her a solid—”

  “The coat!”

  “Fine. The coat. Maybe she bought the jacket used?”

  “I don’t think the Crowders do a lot of thrift store shopping. And whatever happened to ‘there’s no such thing as coincidence’?”

  Fisher seemed to consider this as he sat back down and fingered his news about tainted fish. He spun around his laptop, dragging the death certificate in front of him, clacking away. He closed his computer. “I’m assuming you called the number?”

  “Yup.”

  “No one answered?”

  “Nope. No name. No outgoing message, either. I tried a reverse lookup on Google—”

  “Google stopped doing that shit years ago.”

  “Can you find out if that number belongs to Isabelle Crowder?”

  “Not if Isabelle doesn’t want to be found. There’s tons of ways to keep your number hidden these days. C
all-forwarding, prepaid accounts, spoofcards. Fucking Freedom Voice. It’s endless.”

  “If she didn’t want to be found, why is her phone number on Maria Morales’ death certificate?”

  “How the hell should I know? You don’t even know who this Maria Morales is. And we don’t know if that is Isabelle Crowder’s phone number.”

  “It’s somebody’s. Those numbers are not from the Mexican government. I checked online.”

  “Look at you, Porter. Getting all hi-tech with the e-research.” He drummed his fingers on the laptop. “No shit. What do you think I was looking up?”

  “Someone wanted to know what items changed hands from that sale—a sale Joanne, now dead, initiated. They broke into our warehouse looking for that list. They emptied our storage pod looking for that list. They almost killed Tom to get it. Keith Mortenson, the man who was on-site with the merchandise, has vanished. Someone broke into Owen Eaton’s Clearing House last night. But no one cares about dressers or bedposts. No one cares about French-carved Chaucers. I’m telling you. They’re searching for that specific piece of paper. There’s no record of the coat. No one knows I have it.”

  “Didn’t you suspect Owen of breaking into your warehouse?” Fisher circled back around to the beginning. “How would Joanne even know who you are?”

  “Bowman.”

  “That psycho? Why?”

  “Can you find out if that’s her number?” I pointed at the laptop. “I thought you were good at that stuff.”

  “It’s a computer, Porter. Not a gateway to another dimension, man.”

  I snatched the death certificate off the table. “Never mind.”

  He snatched it back out of my hand. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I didn’t say I wouldn’t try. But it would help if I knew what I was looking for, beyond verifying phone numbers. Weren’t Ethan and Isabelle married, like, two days? Even if that is her number, what do you think she’s going to be able to tell you?”

  “I don’t know.” I pointed at the death certificate. “But I have a feeling that’s what everyone has been running around trying to find.”

  “I thought the goal was to find Phillip Crowder.”