* * *
I awoke the next morning with the beginning of one of my skull-pounding headaches, and immediately popped two of the little pink tablets. I was getting low. I’d have to get Richard to write me a prescription.
After fortifying myself with a cup of coffee, I got on the phone. Charles Nowak had been Walker Construction’s vice-president, so he probably knew just about everything there was to know about the company. When I called his home, his wife gave me his work number and suggested I contact him there. He was now a sales rep with a competing construction company.
But I didn’t want to concentrate on only those at the top. While I had her on the phone, I told Mrs. Nowak I was working on a fraud investigation. Did she know of anyone whose actions might’ve led to the downfall of the company? She tried to be discreet but dropped one name: Ted Schmidt, a former employee who’d been caught stealing and selling heavy equipment. He’d gone to jail for at least a year. That was all she knew.
I called and talked with Nowak, explaining the situation and making an appointment to see him later that afternoon. Next I tried the Orchard Park Police Department. Detective Hayden was out, but expected back at eleven. That gave me a couple of hours to kill.
I knew from experience that cops—and nosy reporters—often believe they know who killers are, but don’t have enough proof to make an arrest. Before I visited Detective Hayden, I decided to try and see Sam Nielsen. He had to know more about the case than had appeared in the paper. My problem was getting him to spill it. I might have to dangle a carrot of my own in front of him. But what? No way did I want him to know how I knew what I knew.
Richard didn’t seem to mind adding another destination to the day’s itinerary. To prepare myself for the meeting, I donned my sling and combed my hair to de-emphasize the shaved areas of my skull. Didn’t help: I still looked like a shock therapy patient.
Brenda came in with the mail just as we were about to leave. “There’s a letter for you, Jeffy.”
I took the envelope from her, opened it, and smiled: my Federal Income Tax refund. The post office had delivered it to my old address, but my landlord had forwarded it to me.
“It ain’t much,” I told Richard, “but I need to cash this.”
“No problem. We’ll stop at a bank this morning.”
Despite the gray skies, Richard seemed in good spirits. Once we hit the road, I broached a subject that had been on my mind for days.
“Rich, when can I drive again?”
“When you’re better.”
“Who’s going to decide that? You, me, or some other doctor?”
“Right now I think I’m a better judge than you. You’re not ready.”
“I feel fine,” I lied.
“You don’t look fine. Have you seen the dark circles under your eyes? And you’re paler than snow.”
I pulled down the mirror on the passenger side visor and had a look. Okay, so there were circles under my eyes. I hadn’t been out in the sun in nearly seven months, was I supposed to look like some tanned and healthy beach bum?
“I have a lunch date tomorrow with Maggie. I’m trying to get to know the woman; I can’t have you tagging along forever.”
“I don’t mind driving you around. I’ll drop you off at the restaurant and, when you’re ready to leave, you can give me a call and I’ll come get you.”
I let out a breath. He was being obstinate. Or maybe I was. “Can you give me a timetable? If I was your patient, how long would you make me wait before I could drive?”
“If you were my patient, I’d order bed rest. Unfortunately, I’m only your brother, and you’re notorious for ignoring my advice.”
“Richard!”
“Another three or four weeks. Jeff, don’t be so impatient. You nearly had your head caved in. Give yourself time to heal.”
He was probably right, but I was ready to get on with my life. Whatever it ended up being.
Richard dropped me off in front of The Buffalo News building, intending to find a parking space. He said he hang around the lobby until I came down. I didn’t anticipate being inside too long.
I managed to slip by a security guard and found the crowded newsroom bustling with ringing phones, lively conversations, and reporters at their computer terminals hacking away at the news of the day. A tall young woman in a very short skirt told me where to find Nielsen’s desk.
I immediately recognized him as the reporter I’d seen at the church. Over the years Sam had lost most of his dark, wavy hair, but he was the same guy I’d known at Amherst Central High. We’d never really hit it off. To him I was just some nerd with a camera, while he’d been Mr. Popular and the editor of the yearbook. My self-esteem, low as it currently was, was still higher than it had been more than eighteen years before. I marched up to his desk and introduced myself.
“Sam Nielsen? I’m Jeff Resnick. I’ve been reading your stories on the Sumner murder case. I hoped I could have a few moments of your time.”
He pointed to the empty chair next to his desk. “Sit down.” His face betrayed no hint of recognition. Just as well. “What’s your interest in the case?”
“I’m an insurance investigator—currently unemployed. I was recently mugged,” I said, hastily explaining my infirmities. “I’m trying to—” I gestured with my right hand, as though I’d forgotten what I wanted to say.
“Polish up your skills?”
“Exactly.”
“What have you come up with so far?”
“Not a whole lot. I talked with his neighbors, his wife, some of the people he worked with.”
“Guy was a first-class prick, right?”
“He hasn’t been portrayed that way in the paper.”
“No,” he admitted. “He was friends with the editor in chief. That’s colored our reports a bit. But you want a relatively prominent murder victim portrayed in a positive light, at least if you want the crime solved. If the public doesn’t care, then someone who knows the truth might not come forward.”
“And your editor wants the crime solved.”
“You got it.” He scrutinized my face. “What did you say your name was? You look familiar.”
“Jeffrey Resnick.”
He shook his head. “Can’t place you. But it’ll come to me.”
“The whole situation reads like something out of the National Enquirer.”
“Hey, don’t blaspheme in the news room,” he warned good-naturedly.
“I’m curious. Your stories haven’t mentioned what happened to Sumner’s wallet and car keys. Were they found in the car?”
“In the glove box.”
That in itself was unusual. “Anything missing?”
“Just the cash. About seventy dollars. This case has got to break soon. Somebody knows something. Somebody tipped the cops on where to find the victim’s—”
“Guts,” I supplied.
“Yeah. It’s just a matter of time before the whole thing breaks.”
“You obviously have an inside line on what the police know. Are they close?”
He shrugged. “They’re too busy arguing jurisdiction. The body was found in Orchard Park, but he was murdered in Holland.”
“Have they narrowed down a list of suspects?”
He shook his head. “They keep running into dead ends. But I’ve got a feeling about this one.”
“A hunch?”
“Yeah. You depend on them in this job. Whoever told them about the murder site is going to lead them straight to the killer. Guaranteed.”
“Hey, Sam, got a minute?” a voice called.
Nielsen glanced over his shoulder, recognized the speaker, then turned back to me. “Excuse me.” He got up, joined the man out in the hall, both turning their backs to me.
I glanced at the reporter’s desk. A fat file folder labeled Sumner sat among other clutter.
Nielsen was deep in conversation.
I flipped open the file. Scribbled notes, typed pages—one askew. A photo copy—the l
etterhead said Amigone Funeral Home. I almost laughed, remembering the absurd name for the local chain of family-owned funeral homes, not for the first time wondering if their clients asked themselves . . . am I gone?
Nielson was still talking.
I reached over, slipped it out, set it on top. The list of funeral attendees. Two columns of neatly typed names—with one exception. Hand written, wedged between Mr. and Mrs. Michael Tessier and Clarence Woodward, was the name I’d hoped to see: Sharon Walker.
She hadn’t been included on Claudia Sumner’s original list. Someone had added her name at the last minute. Interesting.
I closed the folder just in time. Nielsen turned back, took his seat again.
“Sorry about the interruption.”
“No problem.” I stood. “I won’t take up any more of your time. Thanks for talking to me.”
He grabbed a business card from the top drawer of his desk. “If you come up with something, give me a call.”
“I’ll do that.”
His gaze remained fixed on my face. “You sure we haven’t met before?”
I shrugged. “Thanks again.”
Murder On The Mind Page 27
