Newly was right. Sitting in the bar at the Aloft was a bad idea and he had waved me off as I’d expected. So, I took that as permission to have free rein outside the hotel.
***
Arnold Osteen lived in a large two-story home on Kimberly Avenue, one of the nicest old neighborhoods in Asheville. At six-thirty, I drove slowly by his residence and saw the silver Mercedes parked in front of a three-car garage. Unless he had taken another vehicle, the real estate developer/would-be movie mogul was at home.
Nakayla hadn’t been enthusiastic about my plan to follow Osteen to and from the meeting. I wanted to see what he did after Dustin Henry gave him the ultimatum. That meant I needed to know where he parked his car. Nakayla considered my action to be a stake-out that should have backup. She wanted to be with me or at least be in her own car as part of the tail. A two-car surveillance was more effective than a lone operative, but Asheville isn’t that big, and at night we could look like a caravan. Besides, Newly might pass me information that she could respond to through the resources at the office.
We compromised when I agreed to keep my phone connected to her while I was in motion.
I circled around and drove down Kimberly in the direction most likely to be the one Osteen would take to the Aloft. The avenue was wide enough to allow parking, so I stopped in front of a stucco home with a tile roof that had a for sale sign in the yard. Osteen’s house was about five behind and I could clearly see his driveway in the rearview mirror. I reported my location to Nakayla and then disconnected, promising to phone as soon as Osteen headed for the hotel.
A few minutes before seven, I saw a flash of the setting sun reflect off the silver hood of Osteen’s car as he swung onto Kimberly. I ducked down across the seat and speed-dialed Nakayla.
“He’s moving.”
“All right. Stay connected.”
Evening traffic was light and I had no trouble catching up with Osteen. Fortunately, another car had slipped in between us or I’d have been on his rear bumper at the first stoplight. I tailed him till he turned off Biltmore Avenue onto Aston, the side street by the Aloft that ran to South Lexington, and the rear entrance to the underground deck for hotel parking. Following the Mercedes left me at the mercy of available spaces that could put us on separate levels. The odds were Osteen would exit the way he entered so I drove past and pulled into the parking lot of Lexington Glass Works a half block away. The business had closed at six so I could position the CR-V with a clear view of the Aloft’s garage exit. It was seven-fifteen. I gave Nakayla my location.
“And you’re staying put,” she said.
“Yes. I’ll call you when Osteen reappears.”
“No. Leave the line open. Use your charger if you have to, but I want to stay in contact.”
“All right.”
A heavy-duty gray pickup, the kind with a four-door cab, parked at an angle right behind me. The vehicle was so close, it pinned me in.
“Hold up. I’ve got company. Don’t talk.” I laid the phone back on the seat, facedown so the glowing screen wouldn’t be visible.
The driver got out but in the dim light of dusk I didn’t recognize him till he stepped up to my window. Mick Ritchie.
I rolled down the glass.
“Hey, Sam, watcha doin’ out here by yourself?”
It was a good question and I wished I’d thought to invent a good answer ahead of time.
“You know how it is, Mick. The parking lots cost an arm and a leg and I don’t have that many legs.”
Ritchie didn’t laugh. “So, are you meeting someone in the hotel and parking for free?”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m doing.”
He nodded, weighing my answer. “You meeting Mr. Osteen?”
That question came out of left field and he must have read the surprise on my face.
“No. Is he here?”
“Yeah. But you should know that since you followed him from his house. You see, one of my jobs is to watch Mr. Osteen’s back.”
My stomach knotted. Mick Ritchie. Electrician. My mind flashed to the disabled power box at the Black Mountain College Museum. Then to the movie location where Ritchie had access as a crew member. He easily could have been the person calling to Harlan Beale as the old mountaineer left me his voice message. Maybe Beale had told him what he suspected about the construction materials. Ritchie had called Osteen for instructions, and then gone to Beale’s house.
“We need to have a little talk, Sam.” He drew a thirty-eight-caliber pistol from underneath his denim jacket but kept it low enough that no passing car would notice.
I reached for my phone.
“Leave it,” he growled.
“Where are we going?”
He smiled. “Somewhere where nobody’s home.” He stepped back and ordered me to open the door.
Part of me wanted to resist. To see if he was bluffing and wouldn’t dare shoot me on a city street. But this was the man who murdered Nancy Pellegatti within earshot of Woody and Mickey Farmer. He could pull the trigger, be in his truck and gone in less than ten seconds. If I broke and ran, my prosthetic leg would make it easy for him to overtake me, or worse, shoot me in the back.
I tried to stall, hoping that Nakayla heard enough to alert the police. “Mick, there’s no need for this. I don’t know what you think is going on.”
“That’s what we’re going to find out. Now move it!” He jabbed the gun forward for emphasis.
I did as he said. He instructed me to get in the front passenger’s seat of his truck and buckle the shoulder strap. Then, never taking his eyes off me, he crossed in front of the hood and climbed behind the wheel. He pulled his cell phone from his belt and speed-dialed. He said three words: “I have him.”
I could only assume he was talking to Osteen, and that Osteen had been aware I’d been following him. I shuddered to think how I’d screwed up. Would Osteen even meet with Dustin Henry? Would he try to silence both of us?
Two people had already been murdered. What were two more?
Chapter Twenty-eight
Mick Ritchie and I rode in silence. I made no accusations against him, figuring the less he thought I knew, the better my chances.
His phone rang once. He listened without speaking a word.
As dusk turned to darkness, I had an idea where we were headed. My suspicion was confirmed when we turned into Harlan Beale’s long driveway. Ritchie was the reason nobody was home.
We parked close to the shed with the old tractor.
“Get out and walk ahead of me to the front door.” Ritchie brandished the gun openly.
I did as I was told, navigating my steps through the yard by the faint light of a crescent moon.
“Open the door,” he ordered.
I tried the knob, but it was locked.
“Step aside.” Ritchie struck the pane above the lock, shattering the glass. He reached through and opened the door from the inside. “Now go in nice and slow. The light switch is on the left.”
No question that he’d been in the house before. The two-bulb overhead threw a yellow glow across the room.
“Sit down.” He pointed the pistol at the bentwood rocker and then sat in an upholstered chair facing me and the front door.
“What now?” I asked.
“We wait. Believe me, you don’t want to be in a hurry.”
For another fifteen minutes, we sat without speaking. Ritchie kept the pistol resting on his thigh but pointed at me. Then we heard the approaching crunch of tires on gravel. Headlights swept through the front window and across the wall. Ritchie stood and arced toward the door, never taking his eyes off me.
I glared at him, hoping to look angry rather than display the genuine fear I felt in my gut.
The first person through the door was Dustin Henry. He walked as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Good evening, Mick,” he said. “Nice work apprehending Inspector Clouseau here.”
My mouth went dry. I couldn’t speak. Had Dustin been part of the conspiracy from the beginning? Had he fooled me into making a colossal misjudgment? Dustin was followed by Osteen and the accountant Raymond Braxton. Osteen wore a tailored navy suit, white shirt, and red tie. He must have planned on attending some Friday night function after meeting with Dustin. Braxton’s pudgy face looked as pale as skim milk. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.
“So, has he confirmed my story, Mick?” Dustin Henry asked.
“What story? I ain’t talked to him. Just like Mr. Osteen told me.”
“Yes,” Osteen agreed. “I’d rather hear it from Sam.”
“Okay.” Dustin Henry raised his right hand to his heart and gave a solicitous bow to Osteen. “Whatever you say.”
I saw it, and only I saw it. Dustin kept his hand over his heart a few extra seconds, long enough to spread his fingers in the splayed salute of his character, Captain Jefferson. Dustin’s calm demeanor was a façade. He was improvising and it was up to me to play along without blowing the scene.
“All right, Sam,” Osteen said. “The time for games is over. We can all walk away without anyone getting hurt. Just tell me what’s going on.”
I nodded. “Okay. The police were investigating Nancy Pellegatti’s murder. They brought me in because of Harlan Beale’s death in the museum. They thought that was tied to the research he was doing for me and perhaps there was some connection between the two deaths. They searched the guesthouse but found nothing. I make my living accomplishing what the police can’t. I went back through the guesthouse and found some invoices buried in a copy of the script. They appeared to be doctored. I didn’t have any proof that they represented any crime, but I was suspicious. I’d found some pictures on Beale’s phone of construction supplies.” I looked at Mick Ritchie. “I showed them to Mick. I was curious as to what they meant. I started following you, Arnold, to see if there was more to it. I apologize.”
Osteen’s lips were thin as wire. His eyes stared without blinking. He said, “How does Dustin fit into the picture?”
Dustin Henry’s eyes narrowed and I knew I was heading into a critical part of the story. Would they have frisked him for a microphone? Certainly for a gun, which would have revealed the microphone. How would he have explained it?
“I approached him,” I said. “I knew he’d been around the movie business for years. I asked him if the invoices could be evidence of trying to get grant money based on phony expenses. He said that it might, but that I shouldn’t go making accusations without proof. I did some research and found Braxton,” I nodded to the trembling accountant, “is the brother-in-law of the Secretary of Commerce, who has final say on the awarding of grant funds. I saw an opportunity.”
“What opportunity?” Osteen asked.
“See if I could record something incriminating. I borrowed the equipment from Nathan Armitage and convinced Dustin to wear a wire. Nathan’s security firm has all the latest gadgets, as you know.”
“And then what?” Osteen asked.
“Well, Dustin was supposed to shake you down and we’d split the take. Otherwise, I’d go to the cops and make headlines as a brilliant detective. I win either way.”
Dustin Henry smiled. I must have been close enough to what he’d told them.
“How much?” Osteen asked me.
“How much what?”
“How much was the blackmail? Surely you discussed it. You were splitting some figure.”
Stick to the story we’d concocted, I told myself. “It was a quarter of what we thought you might make from the fraud. We couldn’t be sure but our first demand was for a fourth of two and a half million dollars.”
“First demand?” Osteen asked.
“Well, we didn’t know for sure. I gave Dustin latitude to get what he could. If our numbers don’t match, it’s because he made a judgment call.”
“And the police?” Osteen asked.
“What police? I told you they don’t know anything about your scam. If I was working with the police, why would I have asked Dustin to be part of it? I’d have worn the wire myself. Look, we tried, we failed, and we’ve got no proof. If you haven’t processed any of the false expenses, then even the invoices aren’t evidence of a crime.”
Raymond Braxton spoke for the first time. “But we have processed invoices.” He stepped back toward the door, distancing himself from what was to come.
I felt a cold chill sweep through me. I’d spoken one sentence too many and rubbed their noses in our incriminating evidence.
“So, destroy the invoices I gave you,” Dustin said to Osteen. “Nobody else knows anything.”
“No,” Osteen said. “We’re in it now. If you’re lying and you’ve told the police, they’ve got the evidence. If you told the truth, then tough. You’re both loose ends.” He nodded to Ritchie.
Dustin Henry jerked his elbow back with a vicious swing that caught Ritchie across the nose. The man stumbled backwards. I jumped from the rocker to go for his gun but Dustin was ahead of me. He wasn’t quite fast enough. Ritchie brought the revolver down across Dustin’s temple with a blow that sent the actor crashing to the floor. Staggering to stay on his feet, Ritchie pointed the gun at the injured man, but I smashed into him and the shot went wide into the wood floorplanks. I pinned Ritchie’s arms to his side. He fired a second shot and I felt my prosthesis vibrate from the bullet’s impact. Ritchie spun around, trying to shake me off and we both tripped over Dustin. As we fell together, I twisted Ritchie’s wrist. Whether he fired on purpose or my fingers pressed against his, I’ll never know. I felt the sting of the muzzle flash and hot blood on the side of my face—Ritchie’s blood as the bullet ripped through his carotid artery.
He went limp and I yanked the pistol free.
“Drop it, Sam.”
I looked up to see Osteen standing over me, a small caliber Beretta held rock-solid in his hand.
It would have been suicide to try to swing the pistol around and fire. It would have been suicide not to. But in that split-second of weighing horrible choices, Raymond Braxton stumbled forward as if someone had shoved him.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?”
Osteen kept the gun on me, but looked over his shoulder.
In the doorway stood Nadine Oates, her shotgun at the ready and a rotund raccoon in a rhinestone collar by her side.
“This man attacked me,” Osteen said. “He’s crazy.”
I let the gun fall to the floor. “It’s the men in suits, Naydee. Now they’ve come for you too.”
Nadine Oates’ eyes widened as she took in Osteen’s wardrobe. Osteen saw the change come over her. He couldn’t have understood what was happening, but he knew it wasn’t good. He spun around.
She fired the shotgun point-blank at his face.
The gun smoke still burned in my nostrils and the sonic blast still rang in my ears when the cavalry arrived.
Fifteen minutes later, I sat on the edge of Harlan Beale’s porch. Nakayla was wiping my face with a damp cloth. My shirt was soaked in Mick Ritchie’s blood. Nadine Oates sat in Newly’s unmarked police car. Tuck Efird was minding her. Ricky the Raccoon was in the old lady’s arms and her shotgun was in the trunk tagged as evidence.
EMTs were in the living room tending to Dustin Henry. Braxton was with Newly and Special Agent Boyce at the other end of the porch. Braxton was retching with dry heaves. Ritchie and Osteen were destined for the morgue. Osteen’s funeral would be closed casket.
“What took you so long?” I asked Nakayla.
“You didn’t give me a lot of clues. I heard you say you had company and then you spoke Mick’s name. The last I heard he was taking you where nobody was home. Then you were gone. I called Newly. He was rattled because Dustin had just disappeared. Evident
ly, Braxton said he wasn’t feeling well and if Dustin wanted to meet, he’d have to come to Braxton’s room. Newly figures they nabbed Dustin in the corridor on Braxton’s floor. Mick Ritchie must have tipped them off you were following Osteen, and Osteen smelled a rat.”
“Dustin came up with a good story,” I said. “With me listening rather than the FBI. He hoped we could talk our way out of it.”
“I told Newly where you’d parked and I hurried there on foot,” Nakayla explained. “Dustin had been quickly removed beyond the range of his transmitter. Efird put out a BOLO on Osteen’s Mercedes and Boyce was searching databases for descriptions of Ritchie’s truck. Newly was pacing, cursing you one minute and praying the next. I kept turning over the phrase I heard about ‘nobody home,’ and I thought it sounded like a boastful jab at you. Nobody was at the Farmer’s guesthouse, but that was too visible. That left Harlan Beale’s, so we threw all our eggs in that basket and arrived in time to see that a ninety-year-old crazy woman had done the job for us.”
Footsteps sounded on the warped floorboards. I looked up to see Newly towering above us.
“How you doing?” he asked.
“I’ve had better Friday nights. Sorry to screw up your big chance to work with the FBI.”
“Yeah, there goes my career. On the bright side, I’ve got two dead criminals that I won’t have to see at trial, and I’ve got a whining blob of Jell-o singing like a choirboy to Agent Boyce. Braxton’s selling out the Secretary of Commerce like yesterday’s bread. Take my advice. Never trust a brother-in-law.”
I looked over the yard to Newly’s car. “You know there’s a raccoon in your backseat.”
“So far he’s neater than most people I’ve put back there. You ought to be grateful to him. The Oates woman said they come at night to set out food and water for the chickens. The raccoon likes the eggs. She says you took care of the coonhound but forgot all about the hens.”
“She’s right. They’re hard to keep in an apartment. What’s the word on Dustin?”
“He’s conscious. Probably has a concussion. He was asking for you. They’ll bring him out in a few minutes. Then Boyce is bringing in forensics and we pay for the body bags.”
Hidden Scars Page 24
