by P. B. Ryan
“I’m probably making more out of it than I should. I just felt like I should be here tonight.”
He nodded and started down the street, putting on his left turn signal, even though there was no one behind us. I too looked both ways for oncoming traffic and saw a man and his dog jogging farther down on Freeman Road.
“Turn right, will you? I want to catch up with that jogger.”
In seconds we were moving parallel to a guy who looked to be in his mid-thirties. I hit the power window control. It slid down with an electronic hum, the cold air blasting in.
“Sir? Sir?”
The man looked straight ahead, picked up his speed. The dog barked, but he yanked it along with him.
“Sir?”
He glanced over to me. “I don’t want any trouble.”
His words startled me. Hadn’t I said the same thing to the muggers just weeks before?
“I’m investigating Matthew Sumner’s death. Do you jog this neighborhood on a regular basis? Maybe you saw something.”
He slowed and Richard braked along with him. He stopped beneath a street lamp, giving us the once over.
“What do you want?”
I got out of the car, handing him my business card. “I’m investigating Matt Sumner’s death,” I repeated.
He examined the card and gave me another quick once-over.
“Did you jog around this neighborhood a week ago Thursday?”
“I run most nights.”
“Do you know where the dead man lived?”
He looked down the road. “Back on Forest. The gray house with the ornamental cherry trees out front.”
I nodded. His dog, a big, happy black Lab with a wet nose the size of ripe plum, sniffed my coat. He yanked the leash and the dog sat.
“I jog down all these streets on a regular basis. I try to get in three or four miles a day, so I pretty much know the neighborhood. Who parks in their driveway, who parks in the garage. Stuff like that. One night, a couple weeks ago, there was a strange car in that driveway. I figured they had company.”
He didn’t even have to describe it. Just as he spoke, I could see it. A dark, full-sized station wagon, with a chrome roof rack. I couldn’t tell the make or model; it was old, but looked to be in good shape. Snow lazily drifted to earth in big flakes, covering the driveway. I wondered if the police had noted the tire tracks or if the snow had melted before Claudia Sumner had discovered her husband’s body. I tuned back into his description.
“—wagon. It was black, or dark red. Something like that. The funny thing is, it was backed right up to the garage door.”
“Did you see anyone?”
He shook his head. “The garage door was down. At the time, I didn’t give it much thought.”
“What time was this?”
He let out a breath. “I usually start out about eight thirty, so it would’ve taken me about fifteen minutes to get there. Maybe eight forty-five.”
I looked at my watch. “You’re late tonight.”
“One of the kids is sick. The whole day’s been shot.”
“Have you talked to the police about this?”
“I didn’t think it was important.”
“Would you be willing to?”
He shrugged. “I guess. But what good would it do? I didn’t see anyone and I didn’t see the license plate.”
“The cops like to be thorough. Your name, sir?”
“Paul Linski. I live a couple of blocks from here over on Cherry Tree Lane.” He gave me his phone number, and I told him the police would be in touch. I patted the dog, and Linski waved as he took off down the road.
I got back in the car.
“You knew,” Richard said. “When you were talking to him, you already knew what he was going to say.”
“When he said he saw the car, I knew it was a dark-colored station wagon. If I can find some pictures online or at the library, I might be able to pick out the year and model.”
Richard put the Lincoln in gear then pulled into a nearby driveway to turn around. “This is too weird. You are too weird.”
“Thanks. I love you, too.” Satisfied with what we’d accomplished, I turned my thoughts to a more important issue.
“So where’s a good place to get wings?”
Chapter 14
My first call Sunday morning was to check the central library’s recorded message for their hours. The second call was to Maggie.
Nervous as a teenager, I punched her number. The phone rang four times. Didn’t she ever pick it up on the first ring?
“Hello?” She sounded breathless again.
“Hi, Maggie. It’s—”
“Jeff! Good to hear from you.”
“Am I interrupting anything?”
“No. Just rushing around getting ready for Mass at noon. It’s Palm Sunday. I’m going to the Basilica in Lackawanna. Want to go? I could come pick you up.”
“I haven’t been to church in years. I wouldn’t know what to do any more.” A funny feeling welled inside me. Apprehension? I wasn’t sure. “Anyway, I’ve already made plans to go to the library this afternoon.”
“How about next Sunday? It’s Easter.”
“Let me think about it. I thought you lived in Clarence. Why go to church all the way out in Lackawanna?”
“I grew up there. I love the Basilica; it was my parish. Have you ever been there?”
“No. A sinner like me probably wouldn’t be welcome.”
“Don’t be silly. Besides, they’ve been restoring it for years. It’s worth it just to see the gorgeous art and stained glass.”
“I’ll think about it. But I would like to see you again.”
“Make me an offer.”
We settled for lunch on Tuesday.
o0o
Richard and I turned Brenda loose in the home decorating section of Buffalo’s Central Library, then we attached ourselves to the machines in their archives. We were able to backtrack Walker Construction’s downfall from articles in the financial section of The Buffalo News.
We split up the work. Richard looked into the company’s history, while I concentrated on the people.
Watching Richard work, I realized he would have made a damn good investigator. He thrived on digging through minutia—a necessary evil. No wonder he missed his research job.
We lost track of time. The librarians literally had to bully us off the equipment to get us out. By that time, we were starved. We found Brenda in the main lobby, loaded down with coffee table books. It took no persuasion at all to convince her to go out for an early dinner. We settled on the Red Mill, because Brenda thought its paddlewheel looked quaint.
Richard and I brought along our research to compare notes. His pages were well-organized, and he bucked the old physician’s cliché by writing in neat script. Mine looked no different from what I’d done in high school—haphazard. But I could read them, and that’s all that mattered.
After ordering drinks, Richard settled a pair of reading glasses on his nose and shuffled through his notes. “Walker Construction’s financial problems began after they contracted to build a shopping mall on the outskirts of Cheektowaga,” he began. “The land was purchased, but the permits were delayed time and again when environmental studies got bogged down in red tape. They’d already ordered extra equipment and building materials, but every time construction was slated to start, something else would crop up to halt work.
“Another shopping mall was proposed on a site on Walden Avenue,” he continued. “Despite the same delaying tactics, Pyramid Construction weathered the bureaucratic storms better than Walker. Walker Construction’s loans were called, penalties were levied, and the company was strangled. They ended up laying off fifty percent of their workforce under Chapter Eleven bankruptcy. That was the beginning of the end.”
“I got the names of five company officers, including acting company president Sharon Walker,” I said. “I want to interview as many of them as possible. It might take a few days
.”
“What did you learn about Sharon?”
“She took control of the firm after her father’s fatal heart attack in the midst of the bankruptcy proceedings. I found the others in the city directory or the phone book. Now I have to figure out exactly what I want to ask them.”
“Not bad for an afternoon’s work,” Brenda said.
The waitress arrived, forcing us to consider the menu.
“I was busy, too,” Brenda said after we’d ordered. She produced a handful of glossy brochures. “Richard, you never told me there’s a ton of great stuff to do in Buffalo. Did you know there’s a theater district downtown? And the Albright Knox Gallery. It probably isn’t the Huntington, but won’t it be fun to find out?”
I remembered Richard’s comment days before about broadening his horizons. Instead, he looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car. I tried not to smirk, but I was glad it was him and not me.
o0o
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. It 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, which was 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 letterhead 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. It was 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. “Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
I shrugged. “Thanks again.”
o0o
We crossed into the village of Orchard Park and found the Orchard Park PD located in the Municipal Center, a brick structure with a faux-colonial facade. We parked and headed inside. Detective Hayden was in. The receptionist first called him, then ushered us through a series of halls to his office.
