Читать книгу Three Deuces Down - Keith Donnelly - Страница 9

The next morning, after an early workout at Moto’s, I worked my new Pathfinder LE over to I-81 and south to I-40 West and on into Knoxville. I knew the area well from having attended so many University of Tennessee football and basketball games when I was younger. I had not called ahead. If Slack had a file on Ronnie Fairchild I wanted it intact. I had no reason to believe it wouldn’t be, but why take chances?

The day was cool and overcast with battleship gray clouds that threatened rain. I was dressed to the nines in a blue pinstripe suit, white shirt, and a red-striped power tie. My trench coat lay over the passenger seat and my briefcase with laptop securely inside lay in the passenger-side floorboard. A suitcase packed for two days nestled behind the driver’s seat—I didn’t plan on spending the night but it paid to be prepared. With my radar detector on, I made Gay Street in an hour and fifteen minutes.

Thomas Slack Investigations was on the second floor of an older but well-kept office building. Why did private investigators always have offices on the second floor, I wondered—life imitating art? I opened the door and encountered a very pretty young blond receptionist. Cherokee Investigations could use one of those, I thought.

The phone rang. “Tom Slack Investigations,” said a pleasant voice. A pause and then, “I’m sorry, he’s on another line. Can I take a message? Uh-huh, uh-huh, right, okay.”

She smiled at me and started to say something and the phone rang again and the scenario repeated itself. Before she could hang up it rang again and she put the call through to someone. Then it was quiet.

“Sorry, can I help you?” she asked.

“Busy day, Emily?” I asked. I guessed her name not because I am such a crack investigator but because the nameplate on her desk read Emily Wright.

“Not really,” she replied.

I was witnessing a thriving investigations business for the first time. Can’t say that I liked it. I handed her my card and requested, “Tom Slack, please.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“No. As a professional courtesy I thought he might work me in,” I continued. It was meant as a joke. She didn’t laugh.

“One moment, please.” She walked down the hall and around the corner—not an unpleasant sight. She returned quickly.

“Mr. Slack is with a client. He said to wait and he will see you.”

I hung up my trench coat and waited. Then I waited some more. I am not good at waiting. Fidgeting in someone’s waiting room is almost as bad as sitting in traffic. I am notorious for walking out on appointments that make me wait and for exploring secondary roads when traffic is backed up. My doctor gives me his first morning appointment for my annual physical since a few years ago I walked out of his office after having waited an hour. He actually called to apologize. My doctor does not want to make me angry. As a personal favor, I handle his investments. His investments are doing quite well.

But I was going to wait for Tom Slack for as long as it took. I may be impatient, but I am not stupid. I had driven a considerable distance to see Slack and I had come unannounced for a reason. So I waited.

It wasn’t long before a fortyish-looking man with close-cropped blond hair came walking purposefully down the hall. He wore a slight smile. He stopped and considered me. “Mister Youngblood?”

I stood and shook the extended hand. “Don will do just fine,” I answered.

“Tom Slack. Call me Tom. Come on back.”

I grabbed my briefcase and followed him down the hall and around the corner and down that hall to the end where we entered his office. It was, of course, a corner office and as far from the reception area as he could get and still be in the building. His office was about twenty feet square and immaculate. It was tastefully decorated in a male persona and everything was in its place. Slack had rugged good looks on a frame that appeared to be in very good shape and stood about five feet ten inches tall. His eyes were ice blue, bright and intent. A picture on the wall explained it all. Tom Slack was an ex-marine colonel.

“I didn’t know Mountain Center had a private investigation firm,” he said.

“We don’t really,” I replied. “I just kind of dabble. Small stuff.”

“Well what brings you to Knoxville?”

“I need to ask about someone your firm investigated a while back. A Ronald Fairchild. You were hired by Joseph Fleet or more probably by Roy Husky.”

“I really cannot comment on any case unless the client gives permission,” Slack said. “You should know that.”

“No problem,” I said as I took my cell phone from my coat pocket, “What is your direct number?” He gave it to me.

I dialed Roy’s beeper. We sat and stared at each other as we waited. It wasn’t long before Slack’s phone rang. “Put it on speaker, please,” I said. He did.

“Tom Slack,” he answered.

“This is Roy Husky,” came the voice through the speaker.

Before Slack could reply I interjected, “Roy, Youngblood here. I need Fleet’s permission to see the file we discussed.”

“Permission granted,” came the reply with a tint of humor. I could picture Roy smiling.

“How do I know this is Roy Husky?” Slack asked.

“Remember the bar we met at, Mr. Slack? Remember the girl . . .”

“Okay, okay,” Slack said hurriedly. He picked up the phone. “I’ll be sure he gets everything we have.” He listened for a moment, smiled, said “Okay” and then hung up and pressed the intercom button. “Emily, get me the file on Ronald Fairchild. It’s five or six years old.”

We waited.

“How long you been a P.I.?” he asked.

“A few years,” I smiled. “Although there is still some doubt that I really am one.”

“I might need your help in your area sometime,” Slack said. I couldn’t tell if he was serious or just making idle conversation while we waited on the file.

“Anytime,” I said.

The door opened and Emily came in with a file. Slack briefly looked at it and then passed it to me as his phone rang. He answered and got absorbed in the conversation, as I got absorbed in the file. There wasn’t a lot there. By the time Slack was finished with his telephone call, I was finished with my first pass through the file. Slack’s investigator on the case had been an ex-cop, Ed Sanders, who had spent two days in Connecticut a few weeks before Ronnie and Sarah Ann were married. According to the file, Ronnie Fairchild was who he said he was and from a rich and prominent Greenwich, Connecticut, family. Trent Fairchild III, Ronnie’s father, headed a very successful investment firm. Ronnie had one older brother, Trent IV. Obviously, Joseph Fleet had been pleased with the report. “Any chance of talking to Ed Sanders?” I asked.

“Not unless you believe in seances,” Slack cracked.

“Dead?”

Slack nodded.

“When?”

“A few days after he came back from Connecticut after working this case.”

“How?”

“Car wreck. Drunk.”

“Anything suspicious about the accident?”

“You think it’s connected to this case?” He looked skeptical.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just asking questions.”

“Well, forget it. Ed Sanders was an alcoholic. It was the reason he had to leave the Knoxville police force. He did good work and promised me he would never drink on the job and as far as I know he didn’t. Sometimes when he wasn’t working a case he would go on a bender. Then I’d call and tell him to sober up, that I had a job for him. The next day he would show up sober and ready to work. That’s pretty much the way it went the entire three years he worked for me. I was sorry when I heard the news, but not surprised. If he hadn’t been an ex-cop he would probably have had a dozen DUI’s.

“Do you know any of the details?” I asked.

“Single-car accident late at night. No witnesses.”

“Can I have a copy of this file?”

“No need for a copy, take the file. Send it back when you’re through with it.”

I thanked Slack for his time. We shook hands and I left his office. The reception area was empty as I gathered my trench coat from the coat rack.

“In town long?” Emily queried with a smile beyond friendliness.

I smiled back. “It does look like I might have to stay at least one night.”

She handed me a card. “Call me if you’re free, and I’ll buy you a drink.”

I pocketed the card. “I’ll do that,” I said and left.

The times, as Dylan said, they are a changin’.

Not long after leaving Tom Slack Investigations, I was in a downtown coffee shop doing major damage to a loaded cheeseburger and a large order of fries. I had commandeered a booth in the back and was deeply engrossed in my food, a USA Today, and a Knoxville News Sentinel. My beloved Tennessee Vols were entrenched in the top ten after wins over UCLA, Arkansas, the hated Florida Gators, and LSU. Visions of another national championship danced in my head. Georgia was next. Then my cheeseburger almost did an about-face as I read that our star running back was out for the season. My visions of a national championship vanished.

I had not lied to the lovely Emily when I said I might be spending the night. I disliked coincidences, even when they made sense. Ed Sanders could have died after working on any case, but he died after working on the case I was now investigating and my naturally suspicious nature was working overtime. I used my cell phone to call Big Bob Wilson.

Big Bob was my best high school friend and we had stayed in touch after graduation. His nickname was bestowed by teammates after the local paper repeatedly reported that “Big Bob Wilson” had done this or that when referring to a win by our high school basketball team. Big Bob went on to UT on a basketball scholarship. In his senior year, he made All-SEC and Tennessee went to the NCAA tournament, an occurrence that came around about as often as Halley’s Comet. The Vols made it to the sweet sixteen.

Big Bob graduated with a degree in criminal science but he still let his very close friends call him Big Bob even though he was now Chief of Police in Mountain Center. Big Bob’s father was also one of the five richest men in town and many thought this was why Big Bob was police chief at such a young age. I didn’t think Big Bob was all that young. We were both pushing forty.

“Mountain Center Police Headquarters,” announced a female voice on the other end of the line.

“Hi, Susie,” I said. “Let me speak to the Big Bob.”

“Hey Donnie. How you doin’?”

Susie was Big Bob’s sister. After small talk, she got him on the line.

“Hey Blood! What’s going on?” Big Bob’s voice matched his nickname. He was a serious man with a subtle sense of humor. He had become more serious after being appointed Chief. Crime and all that went with it had had its effects on the big man. Big Bob had ulcers.

“Investigating,” I replied. “Remember, I’m a private investigator.”

“Like shit you are,” he teased. “Investor gator is more like it.”

“I’m on a serious case and surrounded by comedians,” I said. “Listen, Big Bob, I need a favor. Do you know the Knoxville Chief of Police?”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“I need to talk to the officer who investigated a traffic accident about five years ago if he is still with the force. If not, then I need to know where he is. I need to know something today if possible. Call me on the cell phone.”

“Will do. By the way, we’re expecting you for dinner Friday night.” Before I could accept or decline, Big Bob hung up. I took out my day planner and wrote Dinner@Wilsons under Friday. Big Bob had spoken.

I had finished with USA Today and was well into my second cup of coffee when my cell phone rang.

“Ask for Captain Liam McSwain,” Big Bob commanded.

“An Irish cop. How quaint.”

Big Bob ignored the humor. “He’ll see you as soon as you get there.”

“Thanks,” I said. “He must owe you a favor.”

“Everybody owes me a favor,” he said and hung up.

I opened the Fairchild file and re-read it. Then I looked at the late Ed Sanders’s expense account. His written report about the trip said he had spent two days in Connecticut but there was a receipt for only one night at a Holiday Inn in Darien. Other than that one discrepancy, I found no other information that I had not found the first time I looked at the file. I tucked the file in my briefcase and left a tip and the newspapers behind as I paid the check at the front register. The police department was in a municipal building near the Tennessee River, not far from the University of Tennessee campus. I decided to walk. I needed to walk and think. It took fifteen minutes.

I rode the elevator to the fifth floor where the lobby directory informed me I might find the Chief. I introduced myself to the receptionist, handed her my card and told her that I was expected. I was shortly sitting in front of the Knoxville Chief of Police.

“So how is Big Bob?” Liam McSwain asked with a heavy brogue.

“Big,” I said. I resisted the temptation of asking the Irishman how he had ended up in Knoxville, Tennessee, as the Chief of Police.

“He certainly is that,” McSwain said. “What can I do for you?”

McSwain was no lightweight himself. He was about six foot two and probably weighed two-fifty but did not look fat. He had a ruddy complexion and premature gray hair with eyebrows to match. His hands were large and meaty and a barrel chest tapered to relatively slender hips. I imagined him to be one of those graceful big men whose agility and coordination belied his size. Even at his age—mid-fifties, I guessed—he was not a guy I would want to mess with. I also guessed that when he gave orders they were followed. I told him what I needed.

“Sanders, you say,” McSwain said as he turned sideways to his computer. I could listen to this guy talk all day, I thought. “About five years ago?”

I nodded.

The big hands moved deftly over the keyboard. He brought up the accident report. Seconds later his printer whirred into action and spit out a page. McSwain glanced at it and handed it to me.

“Looks routine,” he said.

I scanned it. Two am, single-car accident, dead drunk, etc. Ed Sanders was just another statistic. The investigating officer was Hoffman.

“Where can I find this Officer Hoffman?” I asked.

He turned back to his computer and opened another file.

“Left the force last year,” McSwain said.

“Know where he went?”

“Doesn’t say,” he replied, glancing at the screen with a sigh that said my time was up.

“Any chance you can find out for me?”

He gave me a quick annoyed look that let me know I was pushing it, but then he smiled and said, “Sure, where can I reach you?”

“I’ll be moving around a lot in the next few days,” I said. “But I’ll be at Big Bob’s on Friday for dinner.”

“Fine. I’ll let Big Bob know and he can pass it along Friday night.” He wrote Hoffman with a question mark on a note pad on his desk. Under that he wrote, Call Big Bob.

I could have given him my cell phone number, but only a few people knew it and I wanted to keep it that way. I didn’t think the information was so important it couldn’t wait until Friday night. I hoped Hoffman wasn’t dead. Then I really would be paranoid.

I stood and extended my hand. “I appreciate your time and your help. If you get up my way, we’ll grab Big Bob and I’ll treat for dinner.”

He shook my hand and replied, “It’s a date.”

I retrieved the Pathfinder and headed for the Residence Inn on Kingston Pike. I wanted to do some more poking around and I had a few ideas. I felt like a barnyard rooster scratching and pecking, scratching and pecking, hoping to turn up something worth finding. By the time I got inside my penthouse suite, it was 5:05. I quickly changed into my running gear and headed back to campus. Ten minutes later I was doing laps on Tom Black track. Running helps me think and thinking helps me forget that running is really work. An hour later I was back in my suite with a beer, a box of white cheddar Cheez-Its and my laptop, checking out the stock market. It had been a very flat day on the Street.

I called Sandy and talked to her machine. “Staying over,” I said. “Probably back tomorrow night. Want to get laid?” My rule was to leave as few words as possible on any machine. I also left my telephone and room number. Then I made one more phone call and headed to the shower.

The Regas is one of Knoxville’s oldest and best-known restaurants. I valet parked the Pathfinder and double-checked my attire in the entrance hall mirror. Black turtleneck, gray herringbone sport coat with a touch of beige, and tan slacks accessorized by a black belt, black socks, and black shoes. I was trying to be modest but I liked what I saw. Private investigators, after all, do need confidence.

There was a half-hour wait for dinner. I put my name in for two and went to the bar. I ordered a Rolling Rock and had no sooner taken that first cold delicious swallow than I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and was almost nose-to-nose with a very pretty, blond haired, blue-eyed face.

“Hi,” I said. “First round is on you. What will you have?”

“Rolling Rock looks good,” Emily replied.

Emily was gorgeous in a black leather jacket, white turtleneck, tight jeans, and high heels. If I had been a wolf I would have howled. Instead I smiled and took another swallow of Rolling Rock. We finished our first round exchanging small talk and as promised Emily bought the first round. She had just paid for the drinks when my name was called for dinner.

“You hungry?” I asked. “Dinner is on me.”

“Sure,” she smiled.

I left the bartender a five and we followed our waiter to our table. We took our time accessing the menu. Finally, Emily looked up. “Too many choices,” she said. “What are you having?”

“Salmon.”

“Sounds good to me.”

When the waiter returned, I ordered two salmon entrees and two small Caesar salads. I looked at Emily as I ordered the salads and a slight nod of her head told me I had made the right choice.

We engaged in more small talk. I mostly listened as Emily told me her life story. Occasionally I asked a question to keep her going. I wanted her talking freely. We ordered another round of drinks. The Caesars came and went. Delicious. The salmon arrived.

“How long have you been with Tom Slack?”

“Eight years,” Emily answered. “I was attending UT and getting bored. I answered an ad in the paper for a part-time file clerk-typist. I worked about twenty hours a week and continued school. Mr. Slack liked my work and kept offering me more hours. The more hours I worked, the fewer classes I took. After two years I was working full-time and going to night school. I finally graduated two years ago with a degree in business. My official title now is office manager. I run the office, do payroll, manage the secretaries and sometimes play receptionist.”

“Which I am glad you were doing today,” I smiled.

“Me, too,” Emily smiled back. “The salmon is delicious.”

“Indeed it is. Do you remember Ed Sanders?”

“Ed? Sure. Nice guy, but he drank too much. It was a real shock when he was killed. Mr. Slack was very upset.”

“Was Sanders married?”

“Divorced, I think. I saw his wife at the funeral so I know he was married, but I believe I heard they were divorced.”

“Any children?”

“One at least. Ed had a son he was very proud of. The kid was a real jock for Knox Central, football and basketball. Ed talked about him all the time. If he had other children, he never mentioned them. Why all the interest?”

Something tugged at my memory as I tried to make a connection but then it was gone. “A case Ed investigated is tied to a case I am working now,” I answered. “It’s probably nothing. I’m just tracking down leads. Do you know the wife’s name or where she lives?”

Emily arched an eyebrow and gave me a wicked smile. “I get it. I’m being pumped for information. A little beer, a good meal, and the lady will tell you anything, right?”

I was beginning to like this woman.

I laughed. “You did give me your phone number.”

“Touché,” Emily said. “And I’m glad you called. Call me at the office tomorrow and I’ll pull Ed’s personnel file and see if I can help.”

“Deal. How about dessert or coffee?”

Outside in the cool autumn evening I turned to Emily and asked, “Did you valet park your car?”

She smiled and said, “I took a taxi.”

I gave my parking receipt to the valet and within minutes I was downtown on Cumberland Avenue and out Kingston Pike obediently following the directions Emily had given me. Eventually I took a right into an elaborate condo complex.

“Building G, to the left past the tennis courts,” Emily instructed. “There,” she pointed. “Any place in front of that building.”

I parked. I got out and went around the back of the Pathfinder to open the passenger side door, but Emily was already out and searching for her keys.

“One flight up,” she said as she led the way.

We stopped in front of 2G as Emily unlocked two locks and opened the door. I stood in the threshold.

“Coming in?” she asked with an inviting smile.

“Better not this time.”

“Guess I’ll have to settle for a good-night kiss,” she said as she slid against me.

It was more of a statement of fact than a question and we were kissing before I knew what happened. It was not that unpleasant. I could feel her breasts against my chest and her hips pressing against mine. Her mouth was relaxed and inviting. I let go of her reluctantly.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, if that’s OK.”

“Sure,” she smiled.

“Good-night,” I said.

I left as casually as I could, thinking that I probably should have stayed and wondering why I didn’t. I hadn’t slept with anyone but Sandy Smith in more than a year. Sandy and I have an unspoken understanding to be mutually exclusive. Since it remains unspoken, I’m not quite sure, but that’s the way I was playing it. One woman at a time is enough. Why make life more complicated than it already is?