Текст книги "Cruelest Month"

Автор книги: Aaron Stander

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

34

“Since you didn’t ask, you obviously know where we can find the potato perps,” said Sue, stopping at the end of the drive and looking over at Ray, waiting for directions.

“Left here, left on the first paved road, and about a half mile down turn right on Veelander. It’s gravel and usually in bad shape this time of year.”

“Their family name?”

“Yes.”

Their progress was interrupted by a call on the police radio asking for a unit to respond to a domestic disturbance. Sue picked up the microphone, “Central. Near that location. Will respond.” She looked over at Ray. “The Veelanders will have to wait.”

Ray turned the laptop mounted between them in his direction and read the information on the screen to Sue. Meet woman in drive in a red Mazda. He moved Simone around on his lap, retrieved his phone, and called the dispatcher.

“Central, this is Ray. I’m riding with Sue. Do you have anything more?”

“Hi, Ray, I’ll put it on screen. 911 call is from a Sally Rood who went to this address to reclaim some personal property from an ex-boyfriend. Apparently there was an argument, and he pushed her out of the house. Rood says she just wants her things back, and she’s afraid if she tries to go back in, he will hurt her. I instructed her to leave the scene, but she’s determined to get her belongings, so I told her to stay in her car, lock the doors, and wait for a deputy.”

“Do you have a name for the man involved?”

“I’m sending the info. It should be on your screen.”

“How about the caller?”

“Nothing. I’ve tentatively confirmed her I.D.”

“Thanks,” said Ray looking at the computer display. “The resident at that address is James Moarse, age 44,” he read to Sue. “Suspended license, series of DUIs, and three domestics, years ago.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” commented Sue, her eyes on the road. “The guy’s not on our top 40. There’s the Mazda.” She pulled behind the vehicle. “Kentucky tags.” They sat for a minute as Sue keyed in the plate numbers. After reading the response, she pushed the screen over.

Sally Rood was leaning against the driver’s side door, a cigarette in one hand, a cell phone in the other. “Okay, they’re here. I gotta go,” she said with a Dolly Parton twang, folding her phone.

Sue stood directly in front of Rood. Ray hung back by the front of the Jeep.

“Look,” said Rood, “all I want is my stuff. And that bastard won’t let me take it. If you just walk in and give me a little protection, I’ll be out of here.”

“Slow down. Tell us what’s happening.”

“Like I said….”

Sue cut her off, “What’s in the house, and how did it end up there?”

“Just some clothes. I moved out a while ago, but I left a few things behind. I called him earlier this morning, and he said he was okay with me coming by. But when I got here he was drunk. Big effing surprise. He started yelling at me. Said he was going to bash in my head with a ball bat. Then he pushed me out the door.”

“Did you see a ball bat or any other weapon?”

“No, but I wasn’t going to stand around while he went to look for one, not that he could find anything in that god damn pig pen.”

“The man inside, the person who threatened you, what’s his name?”

“Jimmy, Jimmy Moarse.”

“Is he alone?

“Yes.”

“How long did you live there.”

“Four or five months. I came up here to waitress last summer, moved in with him in…maybe…October. I went back south in the late winter. Couldn’t stand him or the cold.”

“And what are we talking about; what are you trying to retrieve?”

“A couple of suitcases. They’re packed already. I couldn’t fit them in my car when I went south. He said it was okay if I left them. Now he’s just being a prick about it. Saying I deserted him.”

“Let’s see if we can work this out,” said Sue.

The front door of the house flew open as they approached, and a large man, disheveled and unsteady, smelling of booze and cigarettes, charged out. Ray moved quickly to the man’s side.

“Sally, you didn’t have to go calling fucking Johnny Law. We could have worked this out.”

“Asshole. You said you were going to beat in my brains. What was I…?”

“I was just messing with you. Try to tell these cops you didn’t screw me over good on your way out.” He focused on Ray. “Bitch left in the middle of the night. Woke up, house empty, wallet too.”

“Your name please?” asked Sue.

“James Moarse.”

“Do you have a picture ID?”

The man pulled out a wallet. He retrieved a card and passed it to Sue. She peered at it for a long moment, briefly looked up at him, then returned the ID.

“Does she have some possessions in your house?” asked Sue.

“Yeah, a couple of bags. Should have thrown them out.”

“Where are they?”

“Right where she left them.”

“May we enter your house and get them?”

“Just don’t let her steal anything else.”

Moarse lit a cigarette, offering one to Ray as an afterthought. He shook his head. “She was nothing but trouble.”

Ray didn’t respond. The two women quickly returned, Rood carrying two red plastic suitcases, one in each hand.

“Mr. Moarse, are these the suitcases in question?”

“Yeah.”

“Ms. Rood, is that it? You have no other possessions in Moarse’s house?”

“No.”

“You are sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“And what are you going to do now?” Sue pursued.

“I’m getting in my car and getting outta Dodge. I want some serious distance between me and that asshole before I lay my head down again.”

“Fuck you, bitch.”

Ray stepped away from Moarse, and he and Sue walked behind Rood as she made her way back to her car, suitcases banging against her knees. They stood and waited as she loaded her car, pulled forward, turned around, and headed south on Town Line Road. Then they got into the Jeep and followed her at a distance.

“What did he give you as an ID?”

“An operator’s permit, expired.”

“What was the house like?”

“He’s sitting on a fortune in returnables.”

“Think she’ll be back?” asked Ray.

“Hard to tell. Do you think he’d take her back?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Should we head to Veelanders?” Sue asked.

“Let’s do lunch first,” Ray responded. “I don’t think they’re going anywhere.”

“Our job,” said Sue, exasperated. “Sometimes I think most of what we do is social work.”

“Yes, social work,” Ray repeated, “with a Glock just in case things go south—or in Ms. Rood’s case, they don’t go south as planned.”

35

Mackenzie felt like she was babbling. She took a deep breath in an attempt to slow down and focus. She sat back and looked hard at the Skype box showing Ken Lee’s face. It appeared that he was giving her his full attention. His gaze didn’t seem to wander off to one of the other screens she knew surrounded his workstation. Ken Lee always seemed available to talk, and she knew that he was spending countless hours researching for her or coming up with and shipping devices to aid her probe. She worried that she had become his full-time project, and, worse, that his emotional tie to her might exceed what she felt for him. Someday soon this will all be over. What are his expectations about the future, our future?

She sat up and stretched her neck. “Okay, so I rolled by a second time to get a better look, slowing, but trying not to make it too obvious,” she continued. “There was a red Mazda in the drive, and the Sheriff was standing outside with Jim Moarse. It didn’t look like they were talking: strange body language, just standing there. Then I did the absolute unthinkable.”

“You didn’t.”

“Yup. I went down the road, turned around in a drive, and came back a third time. I’m sure no one noticed. They were heavily into something. It was the sheriff, Moarse, a female deputy, and some woman with red hair, the Scottish red. Something heavy was going down. No one was looking at the traffic on the road. They were all focused on what was happening right there in the yard.”

“What was happening?”

“I don’t know. The woman had a couple of bags, suitcases. Maybe she was moving out.”

“So?”

“I did the double unthinkable, I drove down the road a couple of miles and came back again. By then the Mazda and the sheriff’s Jeep were on the road ahead of me. I followed at a polite distance. They eventually ended up on 22. The cops in the Jeep turned around near the county line, and I followed the Mazda into Traverse City.”

“And?”

“Ms. Redhead pulled into a parking lot. I circled the block and found her car, Kentucky plates.”

“Did you get the number?”

“Absolutely, I’ll send it to you.”

“Then what?”

“I parked and found the woman window shopping on Front Street. Then this man came along, and they embraced passionately, a bone crusher. I followed them to a restaurant a block down, quasi-French, almost good, but not quite, like the chef doesn’t make sure the greens are perfect and doesn’t check each entrée before it goes to the table.”

“I sense that…well, never mind. You’re sure they didn’t see you?”

“They only had eyes for each other. They had a couple of glasses of wine and a lunch that they gobbled down. I’m sure they were screwing their brains out 15 minutes later.”

“How do you know?”

“You could tell. They were both in heat.”

“So what does that have to do with Moarse?” asked Ken Lee.

“I don’t know. The redhead is younger than Moarse, maybe 10 years, more or less. And she looks good; she still has youth on her side. Not real classy, but cute and sexy with a killer body. Maybe she hooked up with Moarse for a while. She’s definitely moved on. It’s amazing how easily men can be manipulated for a little sex.” Is that what I’m doing? Mackenzie wondered.

“So what now?” asked Ken Lee.

“I’m going to focus on Moarse. See what I can find out. Maybe pull a stakeout, see if there are any comings and goings.”

“You should probably get a GPS on his car.”

“I have to figure out what he’s driving. There was an old garage there, but the door wasn’t open.”

“If you’re going to pull a stakeout, you need to be very careful.”

“His place would be easy. It’s real open with woods on three sides. I can also get on some high ground on the other side of the road.”

“Dog? Neighbors?”

“No, he’s pretty isolated.”

“You shouldn’t be out there alone. You need to have backup. These guys are killers.”

“Come on Ken Lee. Back off. I have a phone, multiple weapons, and like you’ve said many times, some of the fastest hands you’ve ever seen. I’m just going to go and look at the dude in the dark with binoculars, a hundred or more yards out. Safer than a walk in the park, a lot safer.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can find out about the owner of the Mazda, if she’s indeed the owner. Please be careful. Send me a note when you’re back.”

“You always know where my car is. You’ve got to give me some space, Ken Lee. This is all stuff I can do safely. Don’t smother me.”

“I just don’t want you to get over your head. Even the best sometimes…. Be careful. And one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The other two characters. I covered the same ground on Zed Piontowski. Not much there, and it’s hard to tell if the stiff in Galveston is one and the same. As for Chris Brewler, nothing comes up. Are you sure of the spelling?”

“It’s my best guess. So, how do you just disappear?”

“You tell me,” said Ken Lee.

“I had a great aunt who needed to protect me from an alcoholic mother. Not that Mom would have wanted us kids back, but she would have used us to try to extract money for the honor of taking care of us.”

“Maybe Chris Brewler needed to disappear, too. New name, social security number….”

“But he’d need to be out of here, people would recognize him.”

“Are you sure? You’re living 30 miles north of Sandville, right?”

“True.”

“So a new name, a heavy beard, and change in hair color—you probably don’t have to go very far to get a new identity to work. And that night at the beach—was there a third person?”

“Yes, there was. But I couldn’t see him from where I was hiding. So I’m going to focus on Moarse and see if I can start filling in the blanks.”

36

A rutted two-track led to the old farmhouse, its siding and trim cracked and weathered to gray tones after standing more than a century against the harsh northern Michigan climate. A sagging black Ford panel truck, one of the two rear doors standing wide open, was parked just beyond the house on the path toward a decrepit barn. Organic Vegetables had been spray painted in alert orange on the side of the truck in unsteady letters.

Sue followed Ray up the stairs to the front door, avoiding a missing board on the third step. They stood for a long moment outside the door listening, and then Ray rapped on the window with his knuckles. There was no response. He knocked a second time and waited. He tried the handle on the door. It didn’t move. “Let’s check around back.”

Sue chose to jump off the porch, landing on her feet on the weed-covered lawn. She tried to peek in the side windows, but they were too high off the foundation. She detoured to look in the back of the panel truck.

“Should I call for a search warrant?” asked Sue, sizing up the stack of bulging gunnysacks.

Ray joined her. “Go ahead,” he said, heading off. “I’ll check the back door.”

Standing on a moss-covered slab made of split rock and cement, Ray looked through the yellowed remnants of a lace curtain dangling to one side of the smudged window. Inside it was chaos. Every horizontal surface—the kitchen table, counters, sink, sideboards, even the seats of the chairs, save two—was covered with papers, dishes, cans, and bottles. He banged on the door.

“No answer there,” he said rejoining Sue. “Let’s check the other buildings.”

Smoke was rising faintly from the tin chimney that ran through the roof of the larger of the two outbuildings. Ray knocked on the door. Hearing a response from the inside, he pushed it open. The Veelander brothers, Tucker and Sam, were sitting near a potbellied stove, each holding a mug. A large porcelain coffee pot sat on top of the stove and the remains of lunch—a slab of cheese, some apples, and a partial loaf of bread in a plastic bag—were scattered on top of a workbench surrounded by well-worn hand tools.

“Well, Sheriff,” said Sam, “must be nearing an election. We hardly see you between times.”

“We hear about you, though. You being chauffeured around the county by some pretty lady so you can play games on a computer,” added Tucker.

“While us hard working tax payers can’t afford those kinda toys,” said Sam.

“And our poor friend, Vincent Fox, is dead. Why aren’t you chasing his killers instead of bothering with a couple of poor farmers?”

“What’s with the costumes?” asked Ray, pointing to their black pants and jackets over white shirts. “You fellows going through some kind of religious conversion?”

“We’re trying to seek a simpler life,” said Sam.

“How about the beards?” asked Ray.

“In the truck,” said Tucker. “We don’t put those on….”

“Till when?” asked Ray. He pulled the DVD from his jacket. “Seems you fellows are starting to make it in the movies. I’ve got some great video of you two from a security camera. You appear to be helping yourself to a few hundred pounds of potatoes. Only I noticed you were wearing your usual clothes. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Why aren’t you looking for the killers instead of bothering with us?” Tucker asked again.

“We’ve heard that two elderly Amish men were seen in the bookstore looking at Vincent Fox’s book,” said Ray. “We were also told that several copies of the book were stolen from that bookstore and the library.”

“We didn’t steal no books. We were just looking at the part that interested us,” said Tucker.”

“And what part was that?” asked Ray.

“Vincent said there was some treasure down in Missionary Cove. That’s just down the road, you know,” he said, pointing with a finger over his back. “Said we should buy the book and get some of that gangster gold.”

“So you knew Fox?”

“We knew him a little. Used to run into him at the casino on Senior’s Day.”

“Ever see him anywhere else?” asked Ray.

“No, never,” said Sam.

“How about the Last Chance?” asked Tucker, looking at his brother.

“Oh, yeah, the Last Chance. Had a beer with him there a few times. We asked him for a copy of his book, borrowed like. But he wouldn’t give us one. He was so tight, he squeaked when he walked.”

“Yes,” agreed Tucker, “he squeaked when he walked.”

“Did you ever go to his house?” Ray asked.

“Never,” said Sam.

Ray looked at Tucker, “Never.”

“And what about this?” asked Ray, holding up the DVD again. “Looks like the stolen goods might be in the back of your truck.”

“You can’t do that. You gotta have a search warrant. We know our rights.”

“The door was open; we just looked. And we’ve requested a search warrant.”

A long silence followed. “Tucker’s got a girlfriend downstate in Royal Oak. Hooked up with her again at their 60th high school reunion. She’s just crazy about the Amish. So when we go to visit, we sorta dress up. Makes her happy.”

“The potatoes, Sam?”

“I’m getting to it, Ray. The farm hasn’t been doing too good; the land’s played out. And the price of gasoline for that old truck, maybe 12, 14 miles a gallon. So we were selling potatoes at the farmers market down there, you know gourmet, organic. City people have no sense of money. Five dollars a pound. Couldn’t bring enough. They’d be gone in an hour or two. Even chefs from fancy restaurants buying ’em. So after a few months we ran through all of the ones we’d stored up, so we’ve been borrowing a few. I mean, I’m surprised anyone missed them. And we plan to return them next growing season.”

“Why didn’t you just buy them?”

“Well, like I said, things are tough. The casino and gasoline….”

“So you’re stealing from your friends, and you’re also cheating your customers.”

“That’s not true. We just borrowed them. As for those people in the city, a potato is a potato. No one was cheated.”

“Should I get a search warrant for your house and look for the book?”

Tucker laughed, “I’d like to see you find it. It’s been missing for weeks.”

“What happens now?” asked Sam.

“We give you a ride to town in our fancy police car. Sergeant Lawrence here will tape a statement from each of you, separately. We will compare the two interviews to see if either one of you can tell the truth about anything. Then we’ll turn the case over to the prosecutor’s office and let them sort it out.”

“Are we going to jail?” asked Tucker. “We were planning to vote for you. Guess we can’t do it if we’re behind bars.”

“There’s no justice in this country anymore,” said Sam. “If you’re not part of the one percent, you just get screwed.”

37

It was almost dark when Mackenzie lay down behind a berm at the edge of a wooded area overlooking Jim Moarse’s house. In the fading light, she glassed the area, adjusting the focus on her small, powerful binoculars. There were no signs of a dog or any other animals on the property. The door on the garage, a separate building at the side of the lot some distance from the back door, was closed.

After a few minutes, she moved along the ridgeline, looking for an angle that would allow her to see into the interior of the house. A long set of windows ran along the south-facing wall of the structure. She found a spot near a clump of cedars, halfway down the hill, and slid between the branches. Moarse appeared to be working at the stove, then he moved to a table, carrying a plate. He pushed stacks of newspaper aside before sitting down, his back to the window.

Mackenzie checked her watch. It was after 10 o’clock. When she next looked at the luminous dial again, only five minutes had passed. She was wondering if she could make an hour.

Moarse went back to the sink, plate in hand. He opened the refrigerator, took something out, then walked toward another part of the room. A large flat screen filled a wall with motion and color.

Mackenzie rotated her body, searching for branches that she could lean into. She was becoming stiff and uncomfortable in the cool night air. Her elbows resting on a branch, she kept her focus on the windows. Other than the flicker from the TV, nothing seemed to be happening.

Three vehicles passed during the first hour. First, a pick-up with one taillight going north. Then the same truck in the other direction 18 minutes later. Next, a small, dark sedan with a noisy muffler wheezed up the hill and off into the dark countryside. Then nothing. Mackenzie was lost in thought, going over the same things she had been struggling with for days. She was bored and frustrated and ready to throw in the towel.

A few minutes after 11, a large SUV came up the road, slowed, and turned into Moarse’s drive. Her quick scan of the license number before the lights were switched off confirmed her suspicions. As the door opened and the dome light came on, she got a quick look at Richard Sabotny. He reached back into the Land Rover and pulled out a large brown paper bag. He walked up to the front door and entered, not pausing to knock.

Mackenzie could see the men moving around the room, but her vantage point felt suddenly limited. Slipping out of the cedars, she crouched, and then scrambled down the hill into the ditch. She waited, listening and looking, before darting across the road into the brush. Slowly she crept forward until she had a clear view of the interior.

Sabotny and Moarse, both holding glasses, were engaged in an intense conversation. She saw Sabotny reach out and take Moarse’s glass, move toward the sink, and hand it back a few minutes later as he continued talking. When the two disappeared from view, Mackenzie assumed that they had settled in front of the TV. She was startled a few minutes later when an exterior light switched on and Sabotny came out into the yard, followed by Moarse. They headed toward a small block building at the rear of the property. As she watched, the two men stacked kindling in the external firebox, squirted on some kind of liquid, and put a match to the pile. Then, they stood around talking, each with a drink in hand, adding wood until the fire began to roar. They shut the door on the firebox and returned to the house, turning off the yard light.

The initial activity had given Mackenzie a burst of adrenalin, yet now she was struggling again with the tedium and discomfort of waiting. It turned out to be a long wait. For the next hour, Sabotny would periodically return to what she’d decided was a sauna to add more wood to the fire. She also observed him inside, making drinks and carrying them out of her view.

Finally the door opened again, and Sabotny appeared with Moarse. With difficulty, Sabotny guided the staggering figure toward the sauna. A small door opened and Sabotny hauled Moarse up the couple of steps. The door closed for just a moment, then Sabotny was back out. He switched on a flashlight and appeared to be looking through a heap of building materials at the side of the garage, eventually moving behind the building and out of view. She could hear things being tossed about. When he returned, he was dragging a large, heavy piece of metal, which he jammed it into the ground, wedging it against the outside of the door. He loaded the firebox again, then went back to the house.

Mackenzie watched him repeat this process of walking to the house, presumably to watch TV, and emerging to reload the stove with dread. After an hour, he lifted away the metal jam from the sauna. He lugged it back behind the garage where she heard it clang against other metal. When he opened the sauna door, he stood for a long moment, moving his flashlight beam around the interior. Then he kicked the door shut and went back in the house.

For another agonizing 10 minutes, she waited while he paced back and forth between the kitchen and the living area. Finally, the door opened and he backed out, dragging a large garbage bag. Leaving it on the stoop, he opened the hatch on the Range Rover, and then went back for the bag. He lifted it in both arms, threw it into the SUV, got in the driver’s seat, backed out onto the road, and drove slowly away.

Mackenzie held her position until the sound of his V8 stopped echoing across the countryside. She crept forward, moving along the perimeter of the yard, trying to stay hidden in the brush. She crawled near the rear of the sauna, then moved along the side, stopping and listening, every few steps. Finally, she reached the door and she pulled it open. A wave of searing heat exploded out, but she entered and pulled the door closed behind her. She switched on her light. Moarse was sprawled, naked, on the floor.

Pulling off a glove, she felt for a pulse in his neck, his skin hot and dry. Then she killed the light and fled the building, retreating across the yard, the road, back up the hill and into the woods, where she stood, heart pounding, inhaling the cold night air. Her first impulse was to keep going, run, but she straightened up, working to control her breathing and quiet her emotions.

She walked back, slowly but openly, and headed to the garage. A quick flash of her light revealed an old Jeep CJ parked in the center of several piles of debris. She slipped back outside, pulled the door shut, and reaching into an inner pocket, removed a phantom cell phone. She tore open its plastic bag as she returned to the sauna. With gloved hands she switched it on and activated the 911 calling program. Then she dropped the phone behind a stack of split logs at the side of the building. Thirty minutes later, she rolled past the scene, driving at a moderate speed, observing the emergency vehicles clustered in the drive.