Water's Edge

by Robert Whitlow

  It didn’t contain a pair of pliers. In fact, it didn’t hold any fishing tackle at all.

  chapter

  TWENTY-TWO

  Inside the tackle box he found a bundle of folded papers. Taking them out, he opened the one on top. It was the original memo from Harold Addington to his father. Even though he knew what it said, Tom read it again. The presence of the memo in the tackle box certainly answered the question he’d raised with Rose about whether his father received the information. Tom took out the next sheet of paper. It contained columns of dates and figures going back five years. The numbers ranged from 500,000 to 2,000,000. The last entry caught Tom’s attention. It was 1,750,000, dated less than a week before that of the memo. He opened another sheet on which his father had written across the top “Harold Addington—Notes from Fishing Trip on Gilbert Lake.”

  Tom quickly scanned the notes. There was no doubt about the subject. It had to do with Pelham Financial’s bank in Barbados. Beside the words “Island Properties” his father had written “grossly overvalued on financial statement.” Names of resorts and developments followed. Beside the names were numbers, some as high as 80,000,000. Next to the large numbers his father had written much smaller ones, often no more than ten percent of the larger amounts.

  The next paragraph began “Certificates of deposit—insider loans.” The next line read “Interest on CDs not paid by earnings but from new deposits. Bribes to regulator in Barbados.”

  Another sheet of paper contained notes of his father’s legal research. All the references were familiar to Tom, who had used the well-known provisions of the federal security laws as either a sword or a shield, depending on the case. At the bottom of the page, his father had scribbled several phone numbers, including the number for Tom’s office at Barnes, McGraw, and Crowther and Arthur Pelham’s cell phone number.

  Finally a crumpled paper listed the fish John Crane caught and released over the last four months of his life. He recorded the name of the pond or lake, the date, the weight of the fish, its girth, length, and the type of lure used to catch it. He also noted the weather and temperature. On a trip to Austin’s Pond a month before the fatal accident, John Crane caught a six-pound-four-ounce largemouth bass named “Spud” that had a distinctive nick in its tail. It had been caught on several previous occasions. Tom returned the fishing pole to its place on the wall and closed the tackle box. He wasn’t going fishing. He took the information he’d discovered into the house and spread the papers out on the kitchen table.

  By the time Elias returned from church and opened the front door, Tom had thoroughly studied the information. He hurriedly folded up the papers as Elias came into the kitchen.

  “A homemade apple pie,” Elias announced, holding up a pie pan. “Betsy Case brought several to church and gave one to me. She has a small orchard on her property and an early variety ripened last week. They’re too tart to eat raw but taste great in a pie.”

  Elias placed the pie on the table. It gave off a sweet pungent fragrance.

  “Look at that crust,” Elias continued enthusiastically. “She sprinkles brown sugar and melted butter on top before she bakes it. I don’t care what we eat for lunch, but let’s make it quick so we can cut into this pie. Oh, you should have come with me. Esther and Rose Addington weren’t there, but I saw Tiffany Pelham as I was leaving.”

  “Was Rick with her?”

  “No.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Just for a second. She said you encouraged her to visit the church and was disappointed you didn’t come. Lane preached a good message. I started to take notes but didn’t have any paper stuck in my Bible.” Elias stopped. “Did you go fishing?”

  “No, while I was getting all the gear together I realized I wasn’t in the mood.”

  “Did you find something in the garage that upset you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think he had an old fishing pole that belonged to you when you were a boy out there. Something like that might make you feel blue.”

  “No, I didn’t see one.”

  Tom spent the rest of the day in upheaval. Harold Addington had obviously presented himself to John Crane as a whistle-blower with information that could destroy Pelham Financial. But if Addington was lying, it could have been a subterfuge to convince John Crane to help him launder the money in the designated trust account. Gaining his father’s trust and spinning a tall tale would be one way to do that.

  ______

  Tom was still unsettled when he drove to town in the morning. The information from the tackle box was on the seat beside him. When he reached the office, he reviewed the Pelham documents, searching for a piece that might solve the contradiction. He heard the front door open.

  “Good morning!” he called out to Bernice.

  Bernice didn’t answer. When he looked up, Rose Addington was standing in front of him.

  “Sorry, I thought you were Bernice,” he said. “Have a seat.”

  “It’s not necessary,” Rose replied. “I brought the affidavit. I signed it on Friday in front of a notary public at the bank, but you’d left the office by the time I stopped by.”

  Rose handed him the affidavit. Tom could tell at a glance that everything was in order but pretended to study it while furiously debating what to do. He coughed and cleared his throat.

  “Is that all you need?” Rose asked. “If so, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Did you make a copy of the affidavit for yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is your mother doing?”

  Rose gave him a puzzled look. “In what way?”

  “Uh, about this.”

  “I didn’t tell her, but all this is a small loss compared to my papa’s death. I hope she’ll be able to sell the house soon and go back to Newcastle.”

  “Do you think there might be any other records in your father’s papers?”

  Rose pointed to Tom’s computer. “You have everything you need to make up your mind.”

  “But as you said the other day, it’s important to be thorough.”

  Rose smiled wryly. “And there’s a time to shake the dust from your feet and walk away from a bad situation.”

  Tom placed the affidavit on top of the information he’d found in the tackle box. “You’re right. This has placed a lot of extra stress on your family during a time you didn’t need it. I’m sorry for being the source for much of it.”

  “You had a job to do.” Rose shrugged. “And you’ll have to live with the way you went about it.” She paused for a moment. “Oh, one thing I would like to know. How did the Lord let you know what you should do?”

  “A couple of Bible verses.”

  Rose waited. Tom didn’t speak.

  “Which you’re not going to tell me?”

  Tom looked down at the desk and debated what to do. When he glanced up, he saw Rose Addington walking quickly toward the front door. A few moments later the door opened. This time it was Bernice.

  “What was she doing here so early?” Bernice asked with a flick of her head.

  “She dropped by an affidavit that will let me close the estate without worrying about any loose ends related to her father.”

  “And she won’t be coming back?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s been a good day already.”

  Tom didn’t call Owen Harrelson to let him know Rose had signed the affidavit. Instead, he started working on the last unopened box of files in his father’s office. When he found an unmarked folder, he had a momentary sense of dread that it might contain information that would further complicate the Addington situation. To his relief, it was a research file for an unrelated case. Close to noon he checked with Bernice.

  “How’s it going?”

  “I’m almost finished organizing the records for the closed files that need to be sent off-site,” she said. “Are you going to keep the mini-warehouse?”

  “Yes. If I wanted to destroy the files,
I’d have to make an effort to contact the clients first. It will be easier to keep the mini-warehouse space and let some time pass.”

  “How much time?”

  “Seven years.”

  “What will happen if a client wants an old file and you’re in Atlanta?”

  “You’ll meet them at the mini-warehouse and send me a bill for driving over there to give it to them. Will you promise to let me know when that happens?”

  Bernice hesitated.

  “It will give me an excuse to send a little something so you and Carl can go out to eat.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’d better. Is Bob Gray still managing the mini-ware-houses?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll tell Bob to let me know if he sees you snooping around over there.”

  Tom checked his watch. “I’m going to eat lunch at the Chickamauga. How long are you going to stay?”

  “A few more minutes. If it’s okay, I won’t come back until tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes. I’m definitely winding down.”

  ______

  Tom sat alone at the counter of the restaurant. No one tried to talk to him. An older couple was sitting at the table where he had eaten with Rose. They bowed their heads, and the man prayed a blessing. Tom thought about his conversation with Rose the day he first encountered the Lord. If not for the problems associated with Harold Addington, Tom could see himself enjoying a friendship with the attractive young British woman. After he finished eating, he stepped onto the sidewalk and almost bumped into Charlie Williams.

  “I called your father’s office, and Bernice told me you’d come over here for lunch,” Williams said. “Do you have a few minutes? I need to talk to you.”

  The DA’s attitude didn’t seem aggressive.

  “Okay, I’m heading back to the office.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Williams said.

  The two men crossed the street.

  “Have you given any more thought to staying in Bethel?” Williams asked.

  “Yeah, but I don’t think that’s likely.”

  “Any job offers in Atlanta?”

  “I’ve been contacted by a good firm.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t have any trouble landing a job,” Williams said. “All things considered, it might be best for you to leave here.”

  Tom glanced at Williams. Nothing about the DA’s expression gave away a secondary meaning for his comment. They reached the office. Bernice was gone. Tom unlocked the door.

  “It’s been awhile since I was here,” Williams said. “Your father didn’t handle many criminal cases, and we always met at the courthouse.”

  Tom thought about the memo in the top drawer of the desk. His heart started to beat faster. He vainly tried to make it slow down.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

  “First, I want to apologize for the way I came across in front of Judge Caldwell,” Williams said. “The judge was right. I should have shown more respect for your father than to throw out serious accusations without any confirmed evidence of wrongdoing.”

  “I appreciate you saying that.” Tom relaxed a little bit. “And it means a lot hearing it from you in person.”

  “However, I still have some unanswered questions,” Williams continued. “And I wanted to come to you informally about them.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  The DA reached into the coat pocket of his jacket and took out something that he didn’t show Tom.

  “Did you get a copy of the coroner’s report on your father?”

  “Yes, he gave the cause of death as asphyxiation due to water in his lungs.”

  “That’s right; however, the results for Harold Addington were more ambivalent.”

  “In what way?”

  “There was water in his lungs, but it wasn’t clear that he drowned.”

  Tom shifted in his chair. “Then how did he die?”

  “There were abrasions around Addington’s neck. A forensic pathologist from Atlanta examined the body and concluded the marks were most likely caused by some type of rope. He harvested a few strands of fiber from Addington’s skin. The only ropelike item at the scene was a red-and-white fish stringer floating on the surface of the pond. The fibers from Addington’s neck were analyzed and came back as a match to the stringer.”

  Tom’s mouth went dry. “How long have you known this?”

  “I had everything except the lab results on the fibers before I served you with the subpoena. It’s been an ongoing investigation, but because both men were dead, it didn’t receive high priority at the lab in Atlanta.”

  “What were you looking for when you served me with the subpoena?” Tom asked as he frantically tried to figure out any connection between what he’d found and Williams’s investigation.

  “An answer to this.” Williams laid a clear plastic bag on the desk.

  Tom picked it up. Inside was a crumpled piece of greenish paper.

  “It got wet and faded, but you can still make it out,” Williams said.

  Tom turned the bag sideways. It was a check. There was no name and address printed on the top, but on the payee line it read in faded ink, “John Crane.” The amount was $250,000. In the memo section someone had written “Deposit.” The signature was washed out. The handwriting could have been his father’s, but he wasn’t sure. Part of the bank routing and account information printed across the bottom of the check had been torn off; however, several numbers were still clear.

  “Do you have any idea why your father would have a $250,000 check payable to himself in his pocket when he went fishing with Harold Addington?” Williams asked.

  “No.”

  “Did he have $250,000 in his business or personal bank accounts?”

  “No.”

  “Then whose account is it?”

  Tom opened the middle drawer of the desk and took out the starter checkbook for the designated trust account but left the memo from Addington to his father in the drawer. Tom compared the numbers on the check in the plastic bag with the account information in the checkbook. It was a match.

  “It’s from a trust account,” he said.

  “That contained money belonging to Harold Addington?” Williams leaned forward as if about to pounce.

  “No.” Tom picked up a folder with his right hand. “In here is an affidavit from Rose Addington confirming that her father’s estate has no claim to any trust account funds.”

  Tom handed the affidavit to Williams, who silently read it.

  “Why did you get this affidavit from Ms. Addington?”

  “To remove any question that the trust account contained funds belonging to Harold Addington. It’s embarrassing to admit, but my father’s record keeping wasn’t the best. There was confusion that I’ve had to sort out.”

  “Why would he write a check for such a large amount to himself from the trust account?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He didn’t have an open file with Addington that gives you an idea what was going on?”

  Tom hesitated. “Based on the affidavit, the money in the trust account didn’t belong to Addington anyway.”

  It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth. The existence of the $250,000 check shook every assumption Tom had about his father. John Crane was more than Harold Addington’s confidant; he may have been a coconspirator.

  “Whose money was it?” Williams asked.

  “That’s confidential, but it didn’t belong to Harold Addington.”

  Williams put his large hands together in front of him. Tom’s mouth went dry.

  “Tom, I can’t ignore the physical evidence from the scene that raises the possibility of criminal activity playing a role in Harold Addington’s death. And nothing you’ve told me today gives me reason to close the case.”

  Tom licked his lips. “Are you going to talk to Addington’s widow and daughter about this?”

  “I went on my own fishing
expedition to their house several weeks ago. They knew less than nothing, and I don’t see the point in causing them additional anguish based on unconfirmed speculation.” Williams looked directly into Tom’s eyes. “But if something comes to light, I’ll do what I have to do.”

  “I understand,” Tom replied, hoping his voice didn’t tremble. “Will you let me make a copy of the check?”

  Williams handed the plastic bag to Tom. “Leave it in the bag. It’s fragile.”

  Tom took the bag to the copy machine and made a copy of both sides of the check. He rested his hands on the machine and took several deep breaths. The back of the check was blank. His father never endorsed it. He returned the bag to Williams.

  “What are you going to do next?” Tom asked.

  It was the DA’s turn to dodge a question. “Pick a jury in an aggravated battery case next week. I intend to send a man who beat up his girlfriend and her fifteen-year-old daughter to prison for at least fifteen years.”

  After Williams left, Tom locked the door again and returned to the office. He sat in his father’s chair and stared across the room. All he could think about was an overturned boat, a fish stringer floating on the water, and a crumpled check in a clear plastic bag.

  chapter

  TWENTY-THREE

  Tom couldn’t concentrate on work. He took out the legal pad he’d been using to journal his thoughts and prayers and opened the Bible. But it was no use. The Scriptures made sense to a spiritual man only when he was capable of being spiritually minded. Tom’s thoughts were trapped in the murky waters of Austin’s Pond. Nothing he read in the Bible could make that water clear. He closed the book and left the office.

  As soon as he pulled into Elias’s dirt driveway, he knew he couldn’t stay there either. The turmoil inside his chest was not going to allow him to remain physically still. He parked the car under the massive oak tree. When he went inside, Elias was napping in his chair with his mouth slightly open. Rover lay at the older man’s feet. Both man and dog were snoring slightly. They were perfect bookends. If he’d not been upset, Tom would have smiled.