Текст книги "Cruelest Month"

Автор книги: Aaron Stander

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

16

Ray carried the tray with the two cups of coffee to the far corner of the Medical Center’s cafeteria. The room was almost empty; still he wanted a place where they could have a private conversation. Joan Barton, Vincent Fox’s daughter, lowered herself in the chair across from him. Ray placed one of the coffees in front of her, took the second, and slid the tray onto a nearby table.

He took a sip of his coffee and looked across the table at Barton. Her eyes were red. She looked older than she had only two days before.

“This part of the process is always difficult,” said Ray. “The formal identification by a family member or friend is something that we have to do, and it’s painful. Thank you for coming in.”

“I wasn’t ready for it,” Barton responded. “I mean, I thought a lot about his dying in recent years—when someone gets up near 90, well, you know. And I’ve been afraid for a long time that I would be the one who would go out to his house and find him. I always worried about his safety.” She picked up her cup, sipped her coffee, and looked at Ray. “I mean, I thought about him getting ill and needing some help, but nothing like this. I never expected… Who would’ve thought? And after you called me about his house getting trashed, I didn’t know what to… I was trying to prepare myself for the worst…” Her voice trailed off.

Ray held her in his gaze. He considered several possible responses, but each seemed trite. These were always difficult encounters.

“Please,” said Barton, “tell me what you know. Where was he found? Had he been harmed?”

“His body was discovered along North Bass Lake Road, just before it intersects with Township Line Road. The medical examiner found no injuries, no wounds, fractures, anything of that nature.” Ray chose not to mention the charring on the bottom of Fox’s foot.

“How did my father die?” she asked.

“I hope to be able to answer your question when we get the autopsy results.”

“Why does the body have to be sent to Grand Rapids? We have pathologists here.”

“Your father’s body is going to be examined by a forensic pathologist, a person trained to perform postmortems in cases of suspicious death. We need to establish whether or not his death was connected to any criminal behavior.”

They were both quiet for several minutes. Then Barton broke the silence with a soft question. “So he was found a long way from his house?” She shook her head. “None of this makes sense. How do you explain what’s happened?”

Ray kept his gaze steady. “It’s difficult to say for sure. But I think there’s a strong possibility that your father was abducted.”

“Like kidnapped?”

“Yes.”

Barton put down the coffee cup she’d been holding with the fingers of both hands. “And this might be connected with that Capone book?”

Ray pushed his cup away as well. “Perhaps,” he said. “Whoever trashed his house was clearly looking for something. They took his computer. It might have been somebody looking to fence it, but more likely he was looking for the Capone treasure. He might have thought there would be additional information on the hard drive.”

Once again they sat quietly, Barton staring vaguely towards the bank of windows. Ray waited and watched. Again, Barton broke the silence: “I just can’t wrap my brain around this. To think that he might be harmed because of that silly story. I never thought anyone would believe it, those stories.” She paused. “They ran the story on Dad being missing on television. Did anything come of that?”

“Yes, we did get some useful information. Your father and two friends went to the casino on Friday.”

“Who were they?” Barton asked.

“Mildred Hall and Tommy Fuller.”

“Ah, yes. Mildred Hall, Dad mentioned her. Someone he met at the library a few years ago, his only friend still driving.” She laughed. “They had a cooperative agreement of sorts. She’s got some kind of very old car he likes to work on. In return, she takes him wherever he needs to go around the village. Now, Tommy Fuller is an old friend. I’d sort of forgotten about him. My father hasn’t talked about him much lately. So they were at the Casino on Friday?”

Ray nodded. “Joan, you told me the other day that you’d talked to your father on Friday. What time was that?”

“It would have been pretty early, probably around eight. I try to get hold of him in the mornings, find out about his night and catch him before he goes out and about. I’d always ask him what he had planned for the day even though he’d usually just give me the ‘same-old, same-old.’” She smiled and wiped away the tears. “He liked his privacy, liked to be on his own; he hardly ever told me what he was really up to.”

“That was the only time you talked to him on Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Your father had quite a day at the Casino. He won $6,000.”

Barton hooted. “That old coot! He won all that money, and he didn’t bother to call me! All right, I’m not surprised. What’s happened to it? The money, I mean.”

“According to Mildred Hall, your father gave Tommy Fuller $4,000 of it for a trip to Florida. Mildred arranged for the flight, and she and your father took Tommy to the airport on Saturday. You weren’t aware of any of this?”

Barton’s eyes, again filled with tears, spilled over before she answered. “That’s like him. He’s enormously generous, with his friends, anyway. So what happened then? Was Mildred the last person to see him?”

“Sometime after 3 o’clock she dropped him off at the library. That’s the last anyone reported seeing him. Can you tell me how your father carried his money? A wallet? We didn’t find anything on his body.”

“He wouldn’t have lost it. It was this huge leather thing with a chain attached. The kind bikers have.”

“How about in the house? Was there a place where he hid his cash?”

Barton shook her head. “I don’t know. Like I said, he was very private about most things. But I can’t imagine that he ever had much cash around. He lived on Social Security and a small retirement annuity. This thing with the casino, that’s pretty crazy, not at all normal as far as I know.” She paused. “But what do I know? Even if he did win all that money, I can’t imagine he’d be carrying it around on him. I have no idea where he might have hidden it.”

“How about credit cards? Did he have any? Did he carry them?”

“Not in recent years. He liked cash. He didn’t trust plastic, had little faith in banks. You know, part of his story. Capone.”

“In our last conversation you told me about your father’s business.”

“Vinnie’s Import Auto.”

“You told me that he took care of the exotics, often the cars of the summer people.”

“Yes, the Jags and Mercedes, some lovely sports cars. I’m not sure what they all were.”

“There’s a family that has a large piece of property along Lake Michigan; it’s the only place that’s specifically named in his book as a possible Capone treasure site. Hollingsford is the family name. Do you know anything about them?”

“I don’t remember that, but….”

“I was wondering if he might have worked on some of the family’s cars.”

“Dad was the only game in town if they needed anything more than an oil change. Hollingsford.” She repeated the name and looked thoughtful. “I don’t remember that name, either from back in the day or from reading his book. If it’s there, like you say, I totally missed it.”

“Just one more thing,” Ray said, “and we’ve been over this before, but I need to ask again. Did your father have any enemies, or might there have been someone overly interested in any of his possessions or money?”

“I can’t think of anyone, Sheriff.” Barton smiled weakly. “As you can see, I didn’t know much about my father’s life.”

They sat in an uncomfortable silence, Barton fidgeting with her empty cup.

“I need to do some planning for a memorial service,” she said finally. “When do you think his body might be available?”

Ray waited for her to look at him. It didn’t happen. “I will get that information for you,” he said gently. “I’ll call tomorrow and tell you what’s happening.”

17

“Here are the original photos from the crime scene,” Sue said, pushing the stack across the table. “I’ve looked at each one very carefully. It’s pretty much what you saw. Nothing new.”

“And you searched the surrounding area?”

“Yes, and found nada. We fished around in the water where the body was recovered. We also checked both sides of the road for a fair distance. Only the usual detritus: beer cans, plastic bags, fast food containers. None of it recent.”

“How about the other boot?”

“It wasn’t there—not in the water or anywhere else.” Sue crossed her arms. “So what do you think?”

“The same thing that you do,” Ray answered. “Fox was abducted. They used torture to try to get information out of him, probably a wood stove. How he died is still an open question, but they were putting a lot of stress on a very elderly man.”

“Bastards, I’m surprised they didn’t want to water board him,” said Sue.

“That would take work, assembling a teeter-totter and finding something to hold water. These guys aren’t into heavy lifting. They didn’t even go to the trouble of burying him. It would have been so easy to put Fox in a shallow grave. His body would have quickly decomposed, leaving almost no chance of ever being found. We would be looking for an old guy who had gone missing under suspicious circumstance rather than a couple of killers. These thugs are lazy and stupid.”

She moved on to the next pile. “I have lots of pictures from his home, plus fingerprints and the shoe casting.”

“Did you run the fingerprints?”

“Uh huh. No hits.” Sue took a moment to look at Ray’s notes on the whiteboard. “So what do we know so far?”

“Sterling reviewed the surveillance video of Fox and friends from the time they entered the casino to the time they drove away. He couldn’t spot any of the other gamblers paying Fox more than the normal interest that a big winner attracts for a few minutes. That said, given his age and costume, Fox was easy to spot. I’m sure some of the people recognized him as a regular, even knew where he lived. They could have taken their time tracking him down and snatching him.”

“And the other scenario, the Capone book?”

“Yes, there’s that too: some fool who’s been taken in by the book abducts Fox and tries to extract the location of the treasure. I guess I should say the many locations of the treasure. And the person or persons who tore up his house and stole his computer might have thought the info was on the hard drive.”

“Or,” countered Sue, “maybe they snatched him off the street, found $2,000, and went to his house looking for the rest. They took the computer with them because it’s something they could use or sell.” She paused and frowned at Ray. “What’s going on with you? You can’t sit still.”

“I’m trying to stay rational and control my anger. We’re just spinning our wheels here. We need to do a press release this afternoon and follow up with a news conference early tomorrow. That will get the Fox story on tonight’s news and keep it there.”

“I’ll write the press release,” said Sue, opening her laptop. “What do you want in it?”

Ray remained silent for a long moment. Finally he said, “The body of Vincent Fox, 89, first reported missing on Monday afternoon by family members was found late yesterday in northern Cedar County. The cause and circumstances of Fox’s death are under investigation.

“Fox was last seen on Saturday afternoon in Cedar Bay. If you saw Mr. Fox on Saturday, or later, or have any information that you believe might help the investigation, please contact the Cedar County Sheriff’s Department at ….”

“That was easy. Usual distribution list?”

“With the tip line and e-mail address. Attach the photo. And put in a sentence that we will be holding a press conference tomorrow at 9 a.m..”

As Sue continued to work on the e-mail, Ray added more information to the whiteboard. After a few minutes, Sue said, “Proof it.”

18

When Ray entered the bookstore, Phillip’s head was down. He only looked up after Ray had pushed the door closed.

“Good timing on your part. A signed copy of Harrison’s new book of poetry arrived in this morning’s post. I thought that I should offer it to you before putting it on the shelf.” Phillip slid the thin volume over the counter to Ray.

Ray admired the cover art, and then opened it to the title page to see the signature. “I will treasure this,” he said.

“I heard about Vinnie on the news,” said Phillip, standing up and resting his elbows on the counter. “Do you know what happened yet? Did he just wander off and die? Pensioners have been known to do that.”

“I’m sorry, Phillip, I don’t have any answers yet. We’re still investigating and waiting for autopsy results.”

Phillip wagged his finer. “You’re being terribly mysterious.”

“Not at all,” said Ray. “I’d just rather not say anything until I have all the facts. Which brings me to the reason for my visit—apart from always liking to come in here, of course.”

“What do you need?”

“Fox’s book. You told me that some copies were stolen. Would you go through the numbers again for me? I’m trying to get a sense of how many are in circulation.” Ray watched the reflection on Phillip’s glasses as he keyed in the title and looked at the screen.

“Right. I had ten copies from Vinnie: six went through the till, two went missing, and I gave you one of the last two.”

“Do you have any idea who purchased the six copies?”

Phillip worked at the keyboard again. “Fortunately not,” he said at last. “They were all cash sales. Most unusual. More than 70 percent of our sales are on cards. Furthermore, none of the purchasers is in our Members Club. Statistically improbable.”

“And the ‘fortunately not’ part?” Ray asked.

“Cash purchases provide no data other than title. I am clueless as to who purchased the books. Which is fortunate because I have nothing to tell you about him, or her, and am, therefore, able to avoid any kind of right to privacy mishap. You wouldn’t want me telling your opposition during the next election that you’re a Robinson Jeffers fan, would you? I can just see one of those adverts on the telly, the shrill-voiced bubblehead going on and on about how Ray Elkins is palling around with pacifist poets. Of course, there will be that little line at the end when the narrator says, ‘Call Ray Elkins and tell him not to read pacifist poets.’ And then your phone number would be flashed on the screen.” Phillip was laughing so hard he could barely get his final sentence out.

Ray sighed. “So tell me this—and I know you can’t give me names, I wasn’t asking for any—what kind of people bought the book?”

“I would have thought you’d be more interested in what kind of people nicked the book,” Phillip responded, still giggling slightly. “Too bad I can’t tell you. All the purchases happened during the holiday rush. You know, I’m slow all fall and then we go mad from Thanksgiving to Christmas, especially the last two weeks. And to make things more complicated, I was often gone at the busiest time. My wife’s father was in the hospital in Detroit. Some temps, college kids, were running the asylum. When I was here I was focusing on inventory and orders. We don’t have much storage space; everything has to be just in time. It’s a bit of a dance.”

“So nothing really unusual?” probed Ray.

“Well, book buyers are sort of unusual, more all the time, don’t you think?” Phillip raised an eyebrow and looked thoughtful. “There was one thing more than a bit unusual. Nothing to do with Vinnie or his book, though, just odd. A couple of men were in here on the day before Christmas: two men, black suits and hats and beards.

“Hasids, or Amish?” asked Ray.

“The second, the ones with the buggies.”

“Were they looking at Fox’s book?”

“No, I don’t know what they were looking at; I don’t think it was his book. They did buy something, quite curious at the time, but I can’t remember what it was….” Phillip snapped his fingers. “You know, it might have been a map or a calendar. And after they left I went out to see if there was a buggy on the street,” he confided. “I was wondering if some of them were moving to the area. Might be good for the tourist trade. They do crafts and furniture.”

“And?”

“Nothing. No buggy, they just disappeared into the crowd.”

Ray set the volume of poetry on the counter and placed a credit card on top. Phillip picked up the card and ran it through the reader. Handing Ray a slip to be signed, he said, “See, with this sale your name gets recoded twice: once for the charge, and once as a member of our discount club. But I’ll never disclose this purchase to anyone, especially potential opponents.” He winked. “By the way, whatever happened to that guy that ran against you last time? What was his name?”

“Hammer.”

He chuckled. “Yes, Hammer.”

“Last I heard he’d moved to the Texas, border country somewhere. Bought a gun shop.”

“Ahhh.” Phillip picked up the store receipt and shut it in the register. “I must say your elections are, how should I put it, well I hate to see one coming. You just can’t watch the telly without one or more bits of outrageous propaganda at every break.”

“It does get noisy,” said Ray. “In your home country, politics are rough and tumble, too. And nothing more outrageous than British press coverage.”

“You’re right on about the tabloids, little truth there. At least we don’t have the adverts, there just isn’t that kind of money. And our politicians, well, our scandals are… But there is one important difference.”

“What’s that?” asked Ray, enjoying the banter.

“When our politicians are hearing voices and talking to God, they end up in hospital. They don’t get to stand for Parliament, let alone become Prime Minister. We don’t allow people, even politicians, to embarrass themselves completely.”

“How about Thatcher?”

“She wasn’t talking to God. She was God.”

“This has been fun,” said Ray, “but I’ve got to scoot. I do need a favor, however.”

“Anything for a loyal customer.”

“If you ever notice that I’m talking to myself or seem to be hearing voices, get me out of public office and into treatment.”

“No problem, old friend. I’ll just put out the word about the pacifist poets. I’ll even organize the recall.”

Ray found Penny Storrer, the Cedar Bay District Library head librarian, in her crowded office in the basement of the 60s modern brick building. Her door was open, and she was talking on the phone. Noticing Ray, she pointed to the empty chair in front of her desk. Then she completed her conversation. After returning the phone to its cradle, she crossed her hands on her chest and said, “Horrible news this morning, Ray. Vinnie has been a part of our community here at the library for years. The TV report was rather vague, not that there’s ever much content. I don’t understand what happened.” She looked at him inquiringly.

“I can’t tell you much, Penny. I’ll know a lot more in the next few days.” He smiled. “There is something you could help me with, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Two things, actually. First, what can you tell me about Fox’s book? And secondly, Phillip at Ye Olde says you told him you’ve had two copies stolen….”

“That’s right,” Storrer sniffed. “We checked them in, put them in circulation, and they disappeared.”

“When did you notice they were missing?”

“Vinnie called my attention to it—he liked showing people his books on the shelves. He was constantly dragging people over to his title. First he noticed one was gone, then the other. He asked me if I wanted additional books because both copies were checked out. He was sitting right where you are sitting, and I checked his title on the computer as we were talking. I remember that one copy had circulated; then it was returned in a few days. The other had never circulated. Logically, that meant both copies should have been on the shelves. Anyway, I told him I’d be happy to have two more, and after he left, I went to see if I could find the originals. They weren’t anywhere: not on a return cart, not left on a desk, not shelved incorrectly. Just gone.” She turned to a book-covered table by her desk and rummaged through several piles of books, finally extracting two fresh copies of Fox’s book. “Here are the new copies he brought me, sometime last week it was. They’re still waiting to be cataloged.”

Ray looked up from his notebook. “Is it normal to have books stolen from the library?”

Storrer shrugged and brushed back her shoulder length salt and pepper hair with the writing end of a pencil. “Well, yes and no,” she said. “It doesn’t happen much. Here anyway. Our loss rate is way below the national average. And, as you know, we don’t have any of the electronic detection gear at the door. We’ve never really needed it.” She looked to the ceiling, thinking. “There’ve been a few cases where particular books have disappeared, like new Harry Potter books, the Twilight series too. Our way of dealing with the problem is to put those titles behind the circulation desk. Patrons must ask for the book in person. Anyway, it’s not a common event. Not here.”

“Any idea who might have walked away with Fox’s book?”

Storrer shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about things that way.”

“But you were familiar with the contents of the book,” said Ray.

“Yes, very.” She smiled. “In fact, I helped Vincent with his research, the Capone part—Cicero and Chicago. I had to get most of the books he used via interlibrary loan, as there’s not much demand for Capone material up here. I also pulled things off the Internet for him. Have you read the book?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you know,” she said, her smile growing weak. “The first part of the book might be termed historical fiction with emphasis on the fiction, and the rest is just over the top, Vincent having fun. I liked to kid him about his story, but he’d say, ‘It’s all true!‘ The couple of times I pushed harder, he’d amend that to, ‘Well, it’s mostly true.’ And he would sit there and sort of laugh with a Cheshire cat grin, like we both knew he was just blowing smoke.”

“So you can’t remember anyone lurking about, reading Fox’s book?”

“No.”

“The new patrons at the library, anyone looking out of place?” asked Ray.

“No one comes to mind. We have our regulars; some people come in daily to read the papers and periodicals. Others are here once a week, or every other week, to get a new supply of books. And then there are the walk-ins: summer people, weekenders, or people just passing through town who come in and use a computer or our Wi-Fi to check their e-mail. We try to be helpful without being intrusive.”

“Any Amish?”

“Amish?” Penny responded. “Not here. Not in my career. I don’t know if they use public libraries. Interesting thought. I’ll have to research that.” She paused briefly, “I think the nearest Amish community is south of Cadillac.”

“Fox was reportedly dropped off near here last Saturday afternoon. We haven’t found anyone who saw him after that time. Did you see him? Did he come into the library Saturday?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t work Saturday. I went into Traverse. Joyce Points, one of my assistants, was running the desk.”

“Is she here now?”

“No. She’s part-time; let me check her schedule.” She typed for a few seconds and then looked back at Ray. “She’s on again tomorrow. Joyce is a college student. Do you want me to call her right now?”

“That’s okay. Could you just send her a note? Ask her if she would respond directly to me.” Ray placed a business card on the desk, pointing out his e-mail. He waited silently as Storrer keyed a note.

“So these books,” said Storrer, pointing to Al Capone’s Michigan. “What should I do about them?”

“Just like you said: put them behind the circulation desk and make them available.”