“And then Hickham—” Vicky said.
“Right. If Hank sent me a check for fifty grand in spite of my warning to him…”
“You’d be up shit creek.”
Chuck spread his hands. “Vicky, how do I protect myself from this?”
“Pray that nothing happens to Smoot.”
Chapter 58
Chuck looked up Allison Throckmorton McIntosh in the Notre Dame Dome yearbook. She’d been captain of the lacrosse team and had earned a broken nose in the NCAA championship semi-finals, which the Fighting Irish lost ten to nine. One of her teammates described her in the student newspaper as “the most competitive b---- I’ve ever known. And I mean that in the best possible way.” As co-captain of the Notre Dame tennis team, her yearbook photo showed a slender, rather flat-chested, brunette with a chipped tooth and a crooked nose.
The Allison Morrison that Chuck studied through his binoculars was a busty, athletic, thirty-ish, ash blonde with brown eyes. She walked out of the Wessington Club and reclaimed her red Tesla Model S. She flashed perfectly capped teeth as she smiled her thanks at the parking valet. Her hair hung straight down and she wore no makeup. Probably came straight from the shower after her tennis game, Chuck thought. Her white linen shorts revealed tan legs with highly defined muscles above her white leather sandals. The hot pink, sleeveless top showed off her well-muscled arms.
After college she must have invested some McIntosh family money in a new nose, capped teeth, and a boob job. But she still looks like she could run a half-marathon without breathing hard.
Chuck had her cellphone number from the file Smoot had assembled on her. He had already drafted a text before she drove away. I want to help you solve your Ted Smoot problem. I am in the silver Avanti behind you. If you want to talk, either call me, or pull into a coffee shop. Your choice. Chuck McCrary, Private Investigator.
After following her Tesla down the street a few blocks, he pressed send.
Ahead, Allison glanced down.
She’s reading my text. For crissakes. don’t have an accident.
She looked in the rearview mirror, waved at him, and pulled the Tesla to the curb. Chuck’s phone rang.
“I’ll do both. How about the Starbucks up ahead?”
“Fine.”
Allison bought an iced coffee and picked a table outside, far away from the other customers. “How do you know about my Ted Smoot problem?” she asked.
“I have his file on you.” Chuck handed her a business card and extended his hand. “I’m Chuck McCrary.”
She read the card and shook his hand. “Obviously, you know my name.”
“I do. May I call you Allison?”
“Of course.” Her mouth flashed a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Prove to me that you have Smoot’s file.”
“Reynaldo Mateo is your tennis pro.”
She nodded.
“Also, Smoot’s file is where I got your cell number.”
“Then you must know how much I’m paying him.” She looked at him over the rim of the glass as she sipped her coffee.
He told her.
“Right on. How the hell did you get the bastard’s file on me?”
“Professional secret. What matters is that the information in that file is still stored on the Internet and Smoot can recreate it in a matter of minutes from any computer. In fact, he’s probably already done it. My taking his file won’t stop him.”
“What will, short of a bullet to the head?”
“Also a professional secret until you and I reach an arrangement.”
“Arrangement?”
“For me to help you, you need to hire me as your private investigator.”
“Well, I’ve heard of ambulance-chasing attorneys. This is the first time I’ve heard of a car-chasing private detective.”
“Detectives are sworn police officers. I used to be one. Now I’m a private investigator.”
“Sorry. A car-chasing private investigator.” This time her smile reached her eyes.
“This is a first for me too. It seemed like the easiest way to meet you without your husband getting suspicious.”
“Okay, so you know how much I’m paying the blood-sucking prick. How much do you want to get him off my back, and how do I know you won’t turn around and blackmail me too?”
“I have references.”
“They’ll tell me your heart is pure?”
“Something like that.”
She took a long pull on her coffee. “Maybe later, certainly before I give you any money. Right now, let’s talk terms.”
Allison turned out to be a tough negotiator. Then Chuck remembered her college teammate’s assessment of her as highly competitive. I guess she still is, he thought.
Allison called Lieutenant Weiner and asked her if Chuck could be trusted. Then she called Vicky Ramirez and asked the same thing. Two of Chuck’s other clients had given him permission to use them as references, and she called them too.
She returned her phone to her purse. “Okay. We’re in business. You check out.”
Chapter 59
Allison swept into Chuck’s conference room and stretched out across the love seat as if she owned the building. Her outfit looked like it came from an expensive fashion magazine. Her hair was done up and her makeup was expertly applied. She placed her cup in the center of the coffee table, taking possession of it also. “What do you want to know, Chuck?”
“How did you meet Reynaldo Mateo?”
She glanced idly at Chuck’s Bronze Star citation on the wall before answering. She nodded to herself. “I lettered in both lacrosse and tennis at Notre Dame. But you probably know that.”
“I do.”
“I’m that rare combination of a girly-girl and a jock. I like satin and lace and makeup as well as any teenage girl does, but I’ve always been a jock. I like to stay in shape, and there’s not a lot of opportunity to play lacrosse in Port City.” She laughed at her own not-so-funny joke.
Chuck smiled back.
“So I joined the Wessington Club to find some women tennis players who could give me a good game.”
“I’d guess that few women members at the Wessington Club were in your league.”
“And you would guess right.” She sipped her coffee.
“So why not play with a male member?”
“Too controversial. If I had a regular game with a male member, it would raise eyebrows. Most of the male members are married.”
“And it would look even worse if you played with a bachelor.”
“You catch on quick.” She nodded as if to herself. “I like that.”
“Yet you took Reynaldo Mateo as a lover.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Allison sat up straighter. “In my social circle, you don’t screw another member’s husband. Word gets around. I’m no home wrecker. It’s just not done.” She drank some more coffee, again setting the cup in the center of the table.
“But it’s socially acceptable to screw the tennis pro?”
Allison laughed. “Actually, it is. Rey’s not a club member; he’s an employee. It doesn’t raise eyebrows to screw the help. It’s like I’m using Rey for stud—which I am actually.”
“So the other members wouldn’t see you as a home wrecker.”
“Right. Just a horny woman looking for some recreational sex. Like a British Earl who screws the upstairs maid.”
“Women’s lib.” Chuck set down his coffee cup and leaned back in his own chair. “So you tried to find a woman member who could give you a good game, and there weren’t any.”
“Tennis isn’t like golf, where you’re both playing against the golf course. To have a good tennis game, you gotta play an opponent with comparable skills.”
“So Rey Mateo…?” Chuck prompted.
“I signed up for lessons to have a good game.” She smirked. “And Rey is also good at games other than tennis.”
“How long has this been going
on?”
“Six years. Since right after Trey took up with that chippie in Chicago.”
Chuck made another note. “Tell me about that.”
Allison filled Chuck in on every detail of Trey’s relationship with Barbra Bamby, including how much of Bamby’s rent Trey paid.
Chuck hid his surprise and wrote it down like he heard it for the first time. “How’d you find out about Trey’s affair?”
Allison laughed. “I hired a private investigator.”
“Excuse me for asking, but why didn’t you hire the same PI to help you with Ted Smoot?”
“Two reasons.” She held up a finger. “First, the guy is in Chicago. And second—” She held up another finger. “He’s old—a retired Chicago cop. I don’t think he’s tough enough to do what might need to be done.”
Omigod. Not another offer of a contract killing. “And you think I’m ‘tough enough’ as you put it.”
Allison lifted her coffee cup. “I’m empty.” She raised an eyebrow.
Chuck called Betty on the intercom and ordered more coffee.
When he hung up the telephone, Allison said, “I’m a good judge of character.” She glanced again at Chuck’s Bronze Star. “And I Googled you before I came.”
Chuck held up a hand. “Let me tell you what I have in mind. Smoot’s already served one prison term for blackmail. Now that I have his files, I have proof that he’s back in the blackmailing business. I can send him to prison again if he doesn’t stop. That will be sufficient motive for him to leave you alone.”
Allison shook her head. “One problem with your plan, Chuck. Putting Smoot back in jail would require that one of his victims testify. Am I right?”
“Not necessarily. If Smoot believes that I have a victim who will testify, he’ll cave.”
“You’d have to run a bluff.”
“Yes,” Chuck said.
“If he calls the bluff, you don’t have a hole card.” She leaned forward. “Chuck, the whole reason I agreed to come here was to discuss how you can put Smoot permanently out of business.”
She leaned back. “And I mean permanently. I know your history. I know your skills. I know that Smoot is no match for you. And you know it too.”
Chuck shook his head. “Allison, I’m an investigator, not an assassin. I’m in the information business, not the punishment business. That’s for a judge and jury.”
“Bullshit. I know better.”
“Why do you care if Trey finds out you’ve been shtupping your tennis pro? Do you have a prenuptial agreement?”
Allison was about to answer, when a knock on the door stopped her. Betty brought in the coffee. When she left, Allison waited while Chuck poured her coffee.
“Chuck let me tell you the difference between the rich and the super-rich. My mother’s family, the Throckmortons, and my father’s family, the McIntoshes, are what most middle class people like you would call rich. But we don’t think of ourselves as rich. We say that we’re comfortable. Trey’s family, the Morrisons, they’re super-rich. Do you know what the difference is?”
Chuck stroked his chin. “I can’t wait to hear this.”
She smiled. “People who are comfortable have enough money to do practically anything. But they don’t have enough money to do nothing.”
“In other words, they still need to work at something—not just live off the interest or dividends.”
“Right. Our fortunes look large compared to the middle class, but we could lose them or outlive them unless we manage them prudently.”
“And the super-rich?”
“That’s Trey Morrison’s family. Trey has so much money, he could do anything or nothing. The fact that he chooses to manage his portfolio of stocks and bonds and real estate—that’s a hobby, nothing more.” She blew on her coffee and took a sip. “Plus, it gives him a chance to get into Helena Josephson’s pants whenever he wants.”
Again, Chuck concealed his surprise. “Helena Josephson? Who’s that?”
“Helena is Trey’s so-called office assistant.”
Chuck picked up his notepad again. “Tell me about that.”
Allison filled him in with the same information Trey had told him.
“And did your Chicago PI get this information also?”
She smirked. “No, that stuff I found out on my own.”
Chuck raised an eyebrow. “How?”
Allison laughed. “Chuck, I’m not dumb. Despite this boob job…” She cupped her breasts with both hands. “and the dyed hair and the capped teeth, I’m not a bimbo. I graduated from Notre Dame in economics, not fine arts. And I made good grades. I’m actually quite intelligent.”
“I never doubted it.”
“My detective in Chicago wrote a report detailing the investigative steps he took to uncover the truth about Barbra Bamby.”
“So you used his report as a textbook.”
“Right. It was my template.”
“I’m impressed. Not everyone would think of that.”
“Thanks.” She drank some coffee. “Anyway, I did the same things that my Chicago detective did, but the subject was Helena Josephson right here in good ol’ Port City. Now there’s a real bimbo.”
“So Trey is cheating on you with two different women, and you have the proof.”
Allison nodded.
Chuck put down his notepad. “The way I see it, there’s no harm in you letting me run the bluff on Smoot. Worst case, Trey hasn’t got a leg to stand on legally or morally. He would be the pot calling the kettle black.”
Allison stood and paced the room. “You asked if there is a prenuptial agreement. No. Believe it or not, Trey and I had a passionate whirlwind courtship and were married within six months.”
She stopped pacing for a moment. “You may think that I’m rich, and I guess I am a member of the so-called ‘one percent.’ But remember, we McIntoshes are good Catholics, and I have six brothers and sisters. My parents’ money will be split seven ways. That’s why I had to marry well.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t see. I spotted Trey a mile away and stalked him like a deer in the forest. He thinks that he swept me off his feet. Poor schlub. He never knew what hit him.”
“You mean the whole whirlwind courtship…?”
“I orchestrated the whole thing. You know my degree in economics?”
Chuck nodded.
“I minored in marketing.” She grinned. “And don’t look at me like that. I actually adore Trey. When I set out to marry him, I didn’t expect to love him as much as I do. It was just a marketing campaign for a good business arrangement. I knew I’d be fond of Trey, but I really love the guy.”
“He must be pretty likeable.”
“Oh, he is. My mother raised me with the idea that it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one. So, I only ever dated rich men. With Trey, everything clicked into place.”
“I have to admire your focus,” Chuck said, just to say something.
“Trey’s net worth is literally a hundred times more than mine. He’s number 296 on the Forbes 400 list of the richest people in America, for crissakes. My parents don’t even make the list.”
“So you’ve got to keep him happy.”
“Trey gives me more money than I know what to do with. I’ve even set up a brokerage account and squirreled away a few hundred thousand of my own for emergencies. But, if he wanted to, he could cut off the money in ten seconds. That’s why I won’t give him any excuse to divorce me. And why him having a mistress or two wouldn’t do me any good in a divorce fight. If Trey wanted to divorce me, he could afford high-priced attorneys that I could never touch with my own resources.” She smiled. “Besides, Trey’s not a bad guy; he just thinks with his dick. And I love him.”
“And you’ve been married ten years now. You have an investment in the marriage.”
“So far, so good.” She smiled. “I keep Trey happy and I have mind-blowing sex with Rey Mateo about once a week.”
> “This is not really something I need to know, Allison, but I’m curious. If Trey ‘thinks with his dick’ as you put it, and keeps a couple of mistresses, he must like sex a lot. If he likes sex that much, why can’t he keep you satisfied?”
She smirked. “Trey likes sex all right. His way. There are certain, ah, things that I like that Trey won’t, ah, doesn’t particularly care for. And Rey happens to love those things. Okay, I’m not proud of it, Chuck, but it’s not like I neglect Trey. I always remember our anniversary. I throw a great birthday party for him every year. We have dinner with his parents every couple of weeks.”
Her sincerity amazed Chuck. I can’t believe it—she’s going to say the same thing Trey said.
“I’m a good wife for Trey.”
Chapter 60
Chuck’s cellphone rang the next Monday morning while he was making breakfast. “Hey, Snoop. What’s up?”
“Ted Smoot’s been murdered.”
Chuck fought down the sick feeling churning in his gut. “Oh, God. When?”
“Last night or early this morning.”
“Where?”
“In his apartment.”
Afraid his legs wouldn’t hold him, he sat in the nearest chair. He could barely breathe. “Who found the body?”
“One of Smoot’s mooks shows up at the apartment this morning and can’t get in. The apartment manager opens the door for him and they find Smoot—dead.”
“Who’s got the case?”
“My guy at the precinct didn’t say.”
“Whoever it is, they’re bound to find my fingerprints in Smoot’s office and apartment. And they might find surveillance video of me from when I paid him a visit a few days ago.”
Chuck’s mind raced with possibilities. It was like riding a rollercoaster, being hauled inexorably up the first incline. When the car reached the top, it would pitch over and begin a steep, curving dive that he couldn’t stop or change. He envisioned disaster after disaster.
“You there, Chuck? Chuck, are you there?”
“Just a minute, Snoop. I’m trying to think.” He took a few slow breaths before he spoke. “Anything else I should know, Snoop?”
Double Fake, Double Murder (A Carlos McCrary, Private Investigator, Mystery Thriller Series Book 2) Page 15
