“How about the Capone connection?”
Ray chuckled, “Another urban legend that has been around for decades. I used to hear about Capone as a kid from the old-timers. It’s one of those stories you can tell and continue to embellish because no one can disprove anything you’re saying. Big Al supposedly had two or three hideouts up here. For example, there’s a house in Frankfort that reportedly has a tunnel that runs toward the beach. Story is that Al’s boys would come up in speedboats on moonless nights and drop off loads of hooch. But speedboats all the way from Chicago in the ’20s? And why would you bother to dig a tunnel where there are hundreds of miles of deserted beaches and dozens of remote road ends. The storytellers were mixing legends and yarns. Along the Detroit River, smugglers were running booze into this country with speedboats, an easy trip across a narrow band of water. And, yes, there were lots of tunnels and boathouses along the river. Most of the booze that got up here probably came in trucks or cars from Detroit.”
“How about the police?”
“This was a very rural county. People stayed out of other people’s business. I would bet there was little effort to enforce the Volstead Act locally. My grandmother told stories of her father brewing beer and the sheriff dropping by in his Model T to share a few bottles.”
“So what about the buried treasure? Any truth to that?”
“I’ve just skimmed the first few chapters. According to Fox, Capone amassed a huge amount of money, most of which he converted to gold coins. This was going to be his special retirement fund. Not trusting Bank of America, he and the boys buried barrels of gold all along the Lake Michigan coast with the plan that they would retrieve it as needed. Alas, the wages of crime caught up to them.” Ray flipped the book over to show Hannah the back. “The best thing is, if you look on the author’s note, Fox says the book is an invaluable guide to finding the Capone treasure.”
“So what happens now, a summer of digging up beaches?”
“Probably. Many of them are in the National Shoreline. It will give the rangers something else to worry about besides the nude sunbathers.”
Hannah stood up with her plate and reached for Ray’s. “I’ve got my boat on the car….”
Ray yawned. “It’s too late, and I’m too tired. How about a short hike? Then I want to crash.”
“You’re on,” she said. “Let’s do the dishes.”
7
Sue had backed into Vincent Fox’s gravel drive and was standing at the open tailgate of her Jeep organizing her gear when Ray arrived.
“That was fast,” she said over the noise of Simone, yapping her greeting from the front seat.
Ray opened the door and accepted the kisses of the dog’s enthusiastic welcome. “I was already rolling when your call came.”
“I’m getting ready to cast a couple of tire prints. But I didn’t want to start on the house until you saw it. You can tell me what things looked like yesterday. And before we go in, I want to check the exterior for footprints, especially the area around the back door. That appears to have been the point of access.”
“So you’re telling me to hang back and not mess anything up?”
“Boy, are you fast,” Sue said, dryly.
Ray set Simone back in the car and closed the door. “You’re a bit touchy this morning,” he said.
“I’m a little ticked at myself. I should have been here yesterday and looked the place over. But it was late in the day, the search warrant wasn’t ready yet, and…”
“I didn’t expect you to be here yesterday, Sue. Didn’t I say that in my e-mail?”
“Yes, okay, but I would have normally come over and checked the place out. Shot some photos, looked for anything that might have shed some light on this man’s disappearance. I would have secured the place to come back to do a more thorough search, if it seemed necessary. But it was close to six o’clock when I got back from Sandville. And if I had started, I would have spent most of the evening here. I’m trying to figure out how to get a life. We’ve been working crazy hours for months.”
Ray waited for Sue to look at him, but she continued to fuss with her gear. “It’s okay, Sue,” he finally said. “Yesterday this wasn’t a crime scene. You did the right thing. When I requested that you look the place over, all I was thinking was that you might spot something that would give us a hint at why Fox went missing. You’re so good at that.” Ray paused for a long moment. “And you deserve a life, I recognize that.”
Sue faced Ray and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not putting this on you, Ray. It just happens when we are in the midst of an investigation. And, well, we are both like bulldogs. We keep going until we solve the crime. But I still need a life. I haven’t made it to yoga in months. I seldom spend any time with friends. I know it’s been the same for you.” She turned back to the Jeep and lifted out a bag of Traxtone, a powdered casting material. Then she said quietly, “I photographed the tire prints already and hope the castings will provide a better impression of the sides. I’m not sure there’s enough on the treads to give us any real evidence. If this is the perp’s ride, he’s driving on a couple of real bald eagles.”
Ray watched as Sue knelt and measured some warm water from a thermos and poured it into a plastic bag. Then she added the Traxtone. As the water came in contact with the cement, colored pellets appeared. She kneaded the material until the color disappeared, then carefully poured the mixture into each of the two tire prints. Ray stood by quietly. He knew that Sue liked to focus on her work without the interference of a conversation.
Suddenly she stood up and once again faced Ray with her arms crossed. “And I started seeing someone,” she said. “It would be nice to have weekends off, most of the time, and sort of a normal life.”
“Anything else?” Ray asked, matching her serious expression.
“Simone. I think we should have joint custody. I would like to be able to go away for a few days and not board her. She really likes you. I think it would be good for you, for her, and for me.”
“It almost sounds like we’re negotiating the terms for divorce.”
“It does,” she responded, half laughing. “ And we’ve never had the joys of a marriage, let alone the pain of separation.” Sue’s tone changed. “I really like you. If you weren’t my boss and a bit too old, I could go for you. You’re a prize, Ray Elkins, a truly nice man who’s one hell of a cook. Even though you don’t seem to do shirts or windows, you’d be okay. So how about joint custody?”
“I can probably manage that.”
“Now let me show you the house.” Sue was back to business. “We’ll start at the front. Whoever broke in last night didn’t bother with the front door. They probably scoped out the place enough to see that it was fairly substantial. The back door, however, is little more than an interior door. Something they could easily kick in.”
Ray followed Sue through the open front door and stood motionless for a few moments, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the dark interior. “Unbelievable,” he said.
“Bit of a change from yesterday?” asked Sue.
“Someone really tore the place up.” Indeed, the house had been thoroughly ransacked—furniture upended, drawers dumped, books pulled off shelves, cupboards emptied.
“What were they looking for?” asked Sue.
“Did you read my notes from yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see the line on Vincent Fox’s book?”
“Yes,” said Sue. “You noted the book’s title, something about Al Capone.”
“I scanned it last night. According to his daughter, it’s all fiction, but Fox presents his story as fact. Here’s the condensed version: Fox writes that he was once Al Capone’s driver and that Capone hid millions of dollars in gold coins up here during the 1920s and ’30s. He hints at the locations, but says with the passage of time things look different and, also, his memory is starting to fade so….”
“You think the trashing of his place….”
“Yes, and maybe even his disappearance, is connected to the book.” Ray carefully studied the interior. “It’s gone.”
“What’s that?”
“His computer, a desktop model. It was there, to the right of the printer.”
“So if we go with the theory that this break-in is connected to his book….”
“Exactly,” responded Ray. “Someone was looking for more information on the buried treasure. Maps, diaries, whatever. If what his daughter says is true about the story being total fiction, it must have been a frustrating search because there isn’t anything here. He wrote the book on the computer, so a quick glance at the directory would probably show file names related to the book. Maybe the perp was hoping there would be other material stored on the drive, so taking it would make sense.”
“New ring tone?” said Sue.
Ray nodded as he reached for his phone. He listened, looking at Sue. After thanking the caller, he switched off the phone.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“That was central. They just had a call from one of the security people at the casino. One of their employees noticed the piece on Vincent Fox on the early news and remembered seeing him at the casino over the last few days. When he got to work he checked a recently archived video. He’s got Fox and several people that he was with on tape. And, get this, Fox had a big win on Friday. Six thousand bucks on the slots!
“So, maybe, after all, it was just someone after the money he won?”
“How does that explain the computer?”
“A useful and somewhat easy item to turn into cash?”
Ray gave the small room another thorough look. “I’m not seeing anything else. Why don’t you finish up here, Sue? I’ll run up to the casino. Let’s plan on meeting in the late afternoon. Anything else?”
“The new ringtone,” said Sue. “I taught you how to download them and now you seem addicted.”
“A cheaper obsession than playing the slots,” he responded.
8
Ray waved his way past the greeter and headed toward Bear River Casino’s security department. Passing through the central room in the building, he paused to take in the rows and rows of slots, the noise and confusion generated by flashing lights and the jingle-jangle of whirling cylinders and techno beat. The air was redolent with cigarette smoke. Occasionally there was a loud orgasmic cacophony celebrating a jackpot. He looked at his watch. It was only a few minutes after 10 a.m. and the place was already bustling. Most of the players appeared to be retirees.
A stainless keypad was mounted under the doorknob of the steel security office door and a Non-Smoking Area sign attached at eye level. Ray knocked, and, after a long moment, the door swung open. Donald Sterling, a former Chicago detective he had met during a prior case, stretched out his hand.
Sterling escorted Ray through a maze of surveillance tech screens monitoring different parts of the casino. “Like I told one of your dispatchers,” he said, pointing at a display away from the main action, “I saw Fox’s picture on early news this morning. I knew I’d seen him in the last few days. He’s a regular, not a daily like some of our guests, but at least once a week. And given that weird costume, he’s hard to miss.” Sterling chuckled. “Nice old guy, though. I’ve talked to him a few times over the years. Once he found out I had been a Chicago cop, I got a lot of Capone stories.” Sterling pointed at the screen, “Here he is coming in on Friday morning. He’s with a man and woman, the people I usually see him with. There used to be four or five in his group, but these seem to be the only ones left. And look at that old boy on the right, he’s carrying his oxygen bottle. Not long for the world. And that woman…”
“What about her?”
“A real character. She’s the driver—a scary thought. She’s got this big old Town Car, white, with suicide doors. When did they stop making those? I’m sure you’ve seen that vehicle around.”
“Mildred Hall,” said Ray. “She’s in her early 90s and keeps passing her driver’s test. ”
“She’s a character.”
“She used to teach math and physics at the high school. I don’t think she retired until she was about 75.”
“That explains a lot,” said Sterling. “We used to keep her under surveillance.”
“Mildred Hall?”
“Uh huh,” responded Sterling. “She was a regular for a while, three or four times a week. Always played blackjack and always won. Not a lot, but she’d get 50 or 100 bucks ahead and cash out. Obviously, she was counting or had some system. Some of the suits in the front office got excited, thought she should be banned.”
“But she wasn’t.”
“Nope. Like you said, she’s well known in town. They worried about bad PR. And then, the problem just went away. She stopped playing. My guess is that she wanted to see if she could beat the system, and once she did there wasn’t a challenge. But she still brings in her group of buddies. Seems to like the company. Only now there’s just the two: Fox and Tommy Fuller.” Sterling pointed to the screen again. “Fuller’s the guy with the World War II hat. If you talk to him for more than two minutes, you’ll learn that he was in the Battle of the Bulge. Nice old guy, but not long for the world. And a walking menace. I’m surprised all these smokers with their oxygen tanks haven’t blown the place up.”
Sterling let the video run briefly, then said, “I’ve collected other video with the three musketeers. All from Friday. Do you want to see it all, or do you just want a summary?”
“A summary would be fine,” Ray said, nodding.
“So, they come in around 10 a.m., play the slots until about 11:30, have lunch, and go back to the slots for half an hour or so. Then Fox hits a big jackpot.”
“How much?”
“Six grand. All the lights, bells, and whistles. The racket gives hope to the other folks in the place. Keeps them playing. Right after that, Fox cashes out and leaves. You’re not supposed to do that,” Sterling said in a mocking tone. “You’re supposed to stay around and reinvest in the company.”
“Anyone else with them, anyone tailing them?”
“I’ve got exit and parking lot video,” Sterling said, tapping the top of the monitor. “You’re welcome to view it yourself, but I didn’t see anything unusual; just the three of them leaving, going to the car, and, oh, so slowly, driving away.” He shook his head sadly. “Man, I hope nothing bad’s happened to Fox, but I don’t like the sound of it. My wife says all police officers are pessimists. I guess maybe that’s true. Can I buy you lunch, Ray? We’ve got a great new executive chef. He trained at the CIA, then studied in Paris, then went to Vegas and made a name for himself. I’m always amazed at what money can buy.”
Ray joined in the joke and took a long moment to decide, considering Sue’s comments on having a life. “I’d love to,” he said, finally, “but you know how it is. Can’t take the time right now.”
“Been there, done that,” said Sterling, slapping him on the back. “You walk the walk and talk the talk. Duty calls.”
9
The ordinary two-story frame home dating back to the lumbering days sat on a quiet street four blocks away from the bay. Mildred Hall had been born in the house a few years after the end of WWI, one of the several hundred home deliveries performed by Old Doc Wade over his long career. It was one of the oldest houses in the village.
Ray pulled into the drive, parking behind the Lincoln. He knocked, using the bronze ring in a bronze lion’s mouth. Classical music blasted from the interior. He knocked again more vigorously. The volume dropped and shortly after, the door swung open.
Mildred Hall, in jeans and a blue sweater, was smaller than he remembered, but surprisingly wiry and vital for her years. “Ray Elkins, what brings you to my house? Come in, come in. I’ve just made some tea. Will you have a cup?” Hall didn’t wait for an answer. She just marched off to the kitchen. Ray followed her through the living room and dining room. With the exception of a television, the home was furnish
ed in antiques, mostly original to the house he guessed. The smell of lemon and lavender hung in the air.
“Sit here,” Hall ordered as she placed a second saucer and cup on the kitchen table.” She pulled a knitted rooster off the teapot and filled both cups. “Sugar, honey, a little milk?”
“I’m fine,” said Ray.
“The honey is local. Raw. It’s got pollen in it. Keeps your immune system tuned up. Helps with allergies and hay fever.” Hall halted her rapid-fire delivery and examined Ray for a long moment. “I’m not used to visits from the local constabulary.”
“Vincent Fox,” said Ray, “He’s been missing for several days. Reports of his disappearance ran last night and this morning on the local television news.”
“Oh my, oh my, oh my.” she said, her hands rising to her cheeks. “I don’t have a TV anymore. I just didn’t know. Well, I have one; I mean I keep some African violets on it. When the television people made that change…. Tell me about Vincent. What’s happened to him, do you think?”
“You were with him on Friday, at the casino?”
“That’s true, Saturday too, not at the casino, but I was with him.”
“We need to establish when he was last seen. I think you can help me with that. Tell me your history with Vincent. Then focus on the time you spent with him in recent days. What you did, where you went.” Ray took out a notebook from his coat pocket and flipped the pages slowly until reaching a blank one. Mildred Hall was staring into space. “Start at the beginning, Ms. Hall,” he urged her.
“Well, I met Vincent Fox five or six years ago at the Friends of the Library book sale. I was in charge of the cash box, and he was assigned to help me. After that he called me a couple of times. I think he sort of invited me out. I certainly wasn’t interested. Then he called and wanted to know if I would go to the casino with him. Well, Ray, it’s just up the road, been there for decades, but I’d never made a visit. Turns out, what Vincent really wanted was for me to drive him. Seems his kids had taken his car away, much like mine would like to do,” she said with a scowl. “But, I ended up taking Vincent and his cronies to the casino. Those old boys just loved it, especially the slots. Just toss the chip in and push the button. I tried to explain to them about B.F. Skinner and how they would assuredly never win anything. They weren’t interested. They were paying for the entertainment. I just don’t understand how losing money is entertainment.”
Cruelest Month Page 5
