by V. M. Burns
Detective Hastings returned. “Well, gentleman. Where would you like to go next?”
“I think we better get a hotel room, since it looks like we’re going to be here a little longer than we expected.”
“I know just the place.”
The hotel was less than a mile from the station. After we checked into our rooms, I made a call to Chief Mike. He listened and promised to call some friends he had on the force, unofficially, and get what information he could. After the call, it was time to strategize.
Harley had advanced from fidgeting to pacing. “What now?”
“We keep going. Nothing’s changed. Not really. We investigate this like we do any other case.” I hoped I sounded a lot more confident than I felt, but my uneasiness was more a result of unanswered questions than a fear of doing anything that would lead to career suicide. I could always retire and come back as a consultant. But Harley couldn’t. He was young and had a lot to learn. I needed to make sure he had the chance.
I walked to the window. “A man packs up and leaves his wife, his job, and his friends. He changes his name and settles into a new community where he is seemingly unknown. He starts a new life, but then he gets murdered. Why?”
“And why is his wife terrified?” Harley asked.
Now I was pacing. “She’s afraid of something, and it isn’t the police.”
“You think she knows who killed him?”
“She knows something.” I was confident of that much.
“Can we trust Hastings?”
“He withheld information, but if he hadn’t come clean and told us about it, we might never have known.”
“So, what do we do now?” Harley asked.
“Let’s start by getting a car.”
Getting a rental car gave us something to do and was more of an ego boost than a reflection on Detective Hastings’ trustworthiness or the state of his vehicle. A car represented action and freedom.
By the time we picked up our new Toyota Camry, I was feeling more in control. We needed to go back and talk to Mrs. Warren, without Detective Hastings present, and find out what she knew.
It took quite a while for Mrs. Warren to get to the door this second time. The look on her face showed she expected us. She didn’t say a word but stepped aside to permit our entry. Harley and I removed our shoes without being asked and followed Mrs. Warren back to the family room where we’d left her on our last visit.
Settled into her recliner, she waved her arms to indicate we should sit. All this and still no words had passed between us. The silence had gone on long enough.
“As a matter of routine, I need to tell you anything you say can and will be used in a court of law. You do have a right to an attorney or to have an attorney present. Now, you know why we’re back. We need to know what happened to your husband.”
Mrs. Warren seemed to age twenty years in twenty seconds. Her face crumbled, and for the first time since we’d met, I saw honest emotion.
“He left me. He packed a bag and he left. Now he’s dead.”
I looked her directly in the eyes. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Things change. They always change. We weren’t swinging from the chandelier in ecstasy, but we were … comfortable.”
Harley took notes and stopped to hand Mrs. Warren a handkerchief. I’d trained him to always keep a couple in case he ran into a crier. He gave her a moment before asking, “Was there another woman?”
Warrendale certainly had plenty of them in St. Joe. He might have left a string of broken hearts in Cleveland too.
“I don’t know. He said he was tired, said he needed to get away. He wanted to start over. I didn’t know what that meant. I still don’t. How do you start over? Why would you want to? I didn’t. He couldn’t explain it.”
“So, you knew he was leaving?”
“No. He said he wanted to. He asked me to go. Just pick up and leave. Drop everything. Leave our home, our friends. Everything. He didn’t want to tell anyone. He didn’t even know where he wanted to go. Just get in the car and drive. Wherever we ran out of gas would be our new home. Start over.”
She was on autopilot now. The words tumbled out as though it was a relief to say them out loud.
“I couldn’t do it. No … that’s not right. I wouldn’t do it.” She shrugged. One day I came home, and he was gone. No note. No card. Just gone.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“So they could tell everyone my husband left me? I would have been the laughingstock of the neighborhood. No. I had some pride left. I knew he wasn’t dead. He took the car.”
“Didn’t anyone ask about him?” Harley said, looking as puzzled as he sounded. “I mean, his job? The church? Surely, someone questioned where he’d gone?”
“They did at first.” She leaned back in her chair. “I just told them he had a nervous breakdown and was recovering in a hospital. After the big investigation at the firm and all that media attention and stress, no one even questioned it.”
“Do you think his disappearance had anything to do with that?” I said.
She took so long considering the question, I thought she wasn’t going to answer at all.
“I don’t know. It was hard. The police and the IRS were going through our house. They went through his files at the office. It was horrible. We were so relieved when they dropped the whole thing. I thought we were finally going to get our lives back. Then he wanted to up and run away, as if ….”
“As if he really had done something wrong?” Harley asked.
She nodded.
“Had he?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
For the first time during our return visit, she was lying. She knew. From the set of her chin to the glint in her eyes, Mrs. Warren was not going to admit to anything that would jeopardize her reputation.
I tried another tactic. “Mrs. Warren, who wanted your husband dead? Who did you tell where he was hiding?”
Surprise. Panic. Fear. All three emotions flashed across her face.
Before she could deny it, I added, “You found out where he was, and you went to see him at the church. You were recognized.” Okay, maybe recognized was stretching the truth a little, but based on the description Mama B gave me, it was clear Mrs. Warren was the woman she’d seen at church.
“I guess he forgot and used one of his credit cards,” Mrs. Warren said. “I saw it on the statement. I found out where he was, and I went to visit him. But I didn’t kill him, and I don’t know who did.” She leaned back in her recliner, closed her eyes, and turned her head away. “I’m very tired. I don’t have anything else to say, and I’d appreciate it if you would leave and allow me to rest. I’m still recovering from surgery. Please show yourselves out.”
With that, we were dismissed.
We stopped at a restaurant before heading back to the hotel. “I think she did it,” Harley said.
“How? You heard what Hastings said. There’s no way she could have gotten to St. Joe and killed him. Besides, you saw her. I don’t think she could have physically done it.”
“She may not have pulled the trigger or started the fire. But I think she arranged it. For months, he was fine. But right after she shows up in St. Joe, he ends up dead. Too much of a coincidence.”
“You better watch it, Harley,” I said with a smile. “You’re beginning to sound like a detective.”
He was right. The facts were against Mrs. Warren, but it didn’t feel right.
We went to our rooms. For some reason, I didn’t believe Mrs. Warren had her husband killed. Facts were facts, but my gut was saying something else. In my current state, I was feeling very sentimental about love and marriage. Visions of a certain hair stylist kept entering my head. I wanted to call her but couldn’t think of a good excuse, so instead I tortured myself with thoughts of Paris rejecting me for a doctor or a lawyer or some other wealthy, highly educated man with a safe job and regular hours. Fortunately, my cell rang, interrupting this maso
chistic moment. I didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
It was Paris. I couldn’t erase the smile from my face, but I tried to sound casual and nonchalant anyway. As I listened, the smile left of its own volition.
“I’m sorry to bother you with this,” she said. “I know you’re out of town, and it’s certainly not important. But Mrs. Bethany insisted. It’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure—”
“Paris, what happened? Are you okay? Did something happen to Mama B?”
“No. She’s fine. We’re both fine. It’s just that someone broke into my shop. I’m sure it’s just teenagers or something, and I doubt if it has anything to do with … well, any of this … but well ….”
“Are you okay? Was anyone hurt?”
“No. The shop was closed and nothing was taken. It was only a few minutes before the security system alerted the police. They rifled through papers and files, but it appears nothing was taken.”
“Where are you now? Are the police there?”
“I’m at the shop, and yes, the police are here.”
“Paris, I’m going to have one of the officers take you home.” I could feel the objections rising in her voice and immediately elevated my own. “I want you to pack a bag and go to Mama B’s.”
“That’s crazy. I think you’re overreacting. It’s probably just some kids trying to find some money.”
It was time for a reality check. “Do you keep anything valuable in the shop?”
“No, just the equipment and a little petty cash in the safe.”
“So, why break in? There’s nothing of value, and the few valuable items were not touched.”
“You think it’s related to the murder, don’t you?” She seemed surprised and a little frightened.
“I don’t know, but I’d rather be sure. Now, let me talk to the officer in charge.”
She handed the phone to the officer on duty, who quickly and concisely relayed the facts. I informed him the break-in could be related to an open homicide investigation and asked him to escort Paris home, secure the premises, and stay with her while she packed. Then I gave him Mama B’s address.
Mama B liked to listen to the police radio at night. She might even have heard the call about the break-in. What was going on? First, someone had broken in to Starling and Schuck, and now there was a break-in at Paris’ hair salon. The common denominator was Warrendale. I needed to figure out what was going on before someone I cared about got hurt.
Chapter Seven
The next day, I updated Harley on the call I’d received from Paris. It was probably nothing to worry about, but better safe than sorry.
We drove to the precinct where Hastings was stationed. There I called Chief Mike and filled him in on the break-in and what we’d discovered about Mrs. Warren. Chief Mike listened and then said he would call an old friend from the Cleveland District Attorney’s office. If there was anything that might help with our murder investigation, he’d let us know. With that, we got back to work.
We made a trip to Benson, McCormick, and Chandler, LLC, the accounting firm where Tyrone Warren had worked.
The lobby was a large, glass, plant-filled space with brick-paved hallways and an interior atrium that included a fountain. It was opulent and stuffy, and I had a difficult time imagining Thomas Warrendale in this maze of blue suits and starched white shirts. Perhaps Tye Warren had been at home here, but the energetic, singing, dancing, flamboyant Thomas Warrendale from First Baptist Church wouldn’t have fit in at all.
At the front desk was a small, well-coiffed woman in her early sixties. She seemed petite and fragile, but you could tell her spine was made of steel. Something in her eyes showed she would gladly toss us out if we upset the delicate balance of her world.
“Welcome to Benson, McCormick, and Chandler. How may I help you?”
Harley and I flashed our shields, and she held out her hands. Most people don’t bother to look closely when you flash your shield, but not her. She took them and wrote down our names and badge numbers before handing them back.
“Thank you, Detectives Franklin and Wickfield. How may I help you?”
I’m sure she was trained to use customer names, but we weren’t customers. I guess some habits die hard. “We’d like to speak to whoever is in charge.”
“Well, that will depend. This is a large company. In charge of what?”
Harley must have been annoyed by her tone. Normally, he turned on the Southern charm, and women, especially elderly women, melted. But he was all business now. “We need the person in charge of handling murdered employees. We’re investigating the murder of Tyrone Warren.”
For a brief moment, she looked as though she would like to rip our faces off. I didn’t think it possible, but she sat up straighter than she had before. She picked up a phone and dialed. “There are two police officers here. They want to talk to someone about the death of Mr. Warren. Is Mr. Chandler available?”
She waited politely for a few seconds before responding, “Thank you.”
“Gentlemen, if you would take a seat, someone will be down shortly to show you the way.” She pointed to a seating area with overstuffed furniture and plush carpets.
With that, we were left to wait. We weren’t kept waiting long. I guess two police officers carrying guns were probably not good for business. It wasn’t long before a twenty-something woman with long hair, longer legs, and a really short skirt asked us to follow her.
From the outside, the building looked tall, but both of us were surprised how large it actually was. We followed her through a maze of hallways and cubicles to the back of the building, where we took an elevator to the sixteenth floor. She led us to a door that belonged to Bryce Chandler, CEO—at least that’s what the brass door plate said. Our guide knocked twice and then opened the door, and Harley and I entered before she backed out and closed the door behind her.
I’ve seen some nice offices in my time, but Bryce Chandler’s office was definitely one of the most luxurious. Two walls were made entirely of windows. One wall looked out over the Cuyahoga River, while the other looked out at the Cleveland skyline. Harley whistled softly under his breath as we approached the massive desk behind which Bryce Chandler sat.
Mr. Chandler stood to shake hands with us. He wasn’t a tall man, probably five feet six, but he had a presence that made him seem taller. His dark suit was custom-made, and from across the room I could tell none of his clothes were purchased off the rack.
“And I thought Mayor Longbow’s clothes were expensive,” Harley whispered so only I could hear.
Mr. Chandler’s clothes, his office, and his bearing were intended to impress and probably to intimidate. We were on his turf and he knew it. However, I wasn’t about to be intimidated.
“Mr. Chandler, I’m Detective Franklin and this is Detective Harley Wickfield.” My voice was five degrees colder than normal.
Harley sat down and pulled out his notebook.
“I was stunned to hear of Mr. Warren’s death. We knew he had been under a great deal of pressure. Poor Marla must be frantic.”
It took me a moment to realize Marla must be Mrs. Warren. “I’m sure she is. But we’re hoping you can shed some light on the case.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” Chandler’s innocent look was as fake as his perfect teeth and phony smile.
“Perhaps you can tell us why Tyrone Warren left here suddenly and disappeared without telling anyone where he was going?” I knew I had made a tactical error when relief flashed across his face.
“Well, Tye was always a little high-strung. He was a good worker, don’t get me wrong, but he was … the nervous type. We assumed the pressure of the job had gotten to him. He had a brilliant analytical mind, but they do say genius is a close kin to insanity.”
“So, you believed Mr. Warren was insane?” Harley asked innocently, barely looking up from his notebook.
“No. No. Not really insane. Not insane in a dangerous way. No. I merely m
eant that geniuses are often … well, eccentric. Yes. That’s a better word. He was eccentric.” Mr. Chandler smiled, pleased with himself for coming up with just the right word.
“How do you mean? Can you give us an example of some of his … eccentricities?” I was willing to indulge in this little game while I waited for just the right moment to wipe the smug look from his face.
“Well, I don’t know that I can lay a finger on any one thing he did or said. It was more a combination of a lot of little things. Certainly, picking up and moving to St. Joseph, Indiana, without one word to his wife or his friends is a perfect example of eccentric behavior, wouldn’t you say? If he’d wanted a transfer, we certainly could have arranged it. We have a small satellite office near St. Joseph.”
“How did you know Mr. Warren had moved to St. Joe?” Harley looked innocent as a lamb as he quietly waited for Mr. Warren to respond.
Chandler’s smile vanished briefly as he realized what he’d let slip. Smiling again, he stood up and walked to a bar by the window, which allowed him to look away from us and collect himself.
“Would you gentlemen care for a beverage?” Opening the refrigerator behind the bar, Chandler took out a couple of bottles of water, offering them to us. “I also have Coke, or would you care for something a little stronger?”
We both shook our heads, and he smiled knowingly. “Oh yes, you probably can’t drink while on duty.” This little diversion bought him about two extra minutes to think, and Chandler was taking advantage of each second. I could almost see his wheels turning. “Now, where were we?”
Harley glanced in his notebook as if he needed a reminder. “You were about to tell us how you knew Mr. Warren had moved to St. Joe, Indiana.”
“I’m sure I must have read about it somewhere.” Chandler took a drink. “Wasn’t it in the paper?”
“No, it hasn’t appeared in the Cleveland newspapers yet. We haven’t released that information to the press. The paper only mentioned he was dead.”
