Читать книгу Gone To Glory - Ron/Janet Benrey - Страница 8

Daniel Hartman hated prisons. During his years as an Army chaplain, he had visited prisoners in dozens of Army stockades. His trip to see Tony Taylor in the Albemarle District Jail, in Elizabeth City, took him to his first civilian lockup, but he knew exactly what to expect: the clank of steel doors, the embarrassment he felt as he passed through the metal detectors, the harsh lighting in the green-painted meeting room that would give him a headache, the smell of sweat that seemed to permeate the air, the hint of disinfectant and the oppressive atmosphere that he knew would stay with him long after his return to Glory.

Daniel put up with it all because Tony had changed his mind and requested his visit. At first, Tony had wanted no one but his lawyer to “see him caged up,” as he put it. But yesterday, surprisingly, he had sent a message via his lawyer: “Please visit ASAP. I need your help.”

Daniel had mentally prepared himself by praying for thirty minutes in his office and again during the drive along State Route 34A. But he was still surprised by Tony’s appearance. Daniel felt a wrench of anguish to see Tony, who usually wore fancy vests and cashmere sweaters, dressed in a prison jumpsuit. The big man, a retired naval officer, seemed to have diminished in size. Worst of all, his expression seemed beaten down and more than a bit hopeless.

“Hello, Tony,” Daniel said. They were required to sit on opposite sides of a small metal table. “No handshakes,” the correction officer had said. “No contact.” The officer had left them alone, but he was watching through a glass panel in the door.

“Thanks for coming,” Tony said. “You don’t have to sugarcoat your words—I know I look like an abandoned shipwreck.”

Daniel decided to go along with Tony’s wishes. “I’d ask how you’re doing, but your appearance speaks volumes. You look like you aren’t sleeping well.”

Tony’s shoulders sagged. “I mostly lie awake at night thinking about the Glory at Sea Marina. The work’s got to be piling up. I can’t expect my wife to do it for me. Rebecca puts in backbreaking hours at the hospital.” He shook his head. “If I don’t get out of here soon, I’ll lose my business.”

Tony slapped his palm against the tabletop. The noise reverberated through the small room. “I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t kill Quentin Fisher. I had nothing to do with the accident at the marina.”

Daniel nodded, not sure what to say.

“Ask yourself this, Reverend. Why would I want to kill Fisher? He hadn’t succeeded in cheating me. All I cared about was getting the church’s money back. For that, I needed him alive, not dead.” He held up a finger. “But…if I had wanted to kill the skunk, why would I choose a method that put my whole marina at risk? The explosion could have easily started a fire that engulfed all of the docks.” He held up a second finger. “And another thing—I’m not stupid. Why kill Fisher in a way that calls attention to me?”

Daniel nodded again. Everyone in Glory had theories about the “accident,” as Tony called it. The facts, such as they were, had been widely reported in the Glory Gazette and on local TV stations.

Three weeks earlier, Tony’s personal boat—an elegant 23-foot-long classic wooden runabout named Marzipan—had exploded at Tony’s marina. There wasn’t any uncertainty about the explosion itself. Gasoline vapors had collected in the bilges and inside the boat because of a leaking fuel line. A random spark had ignited the vapors and triggered the explosion. The real mystery, however, centered on why Quentin Fisher had been sitting in Marzipan’s cockpit when the small boat was consumed by a fireball that shot more than fifty feet into the air.

Quentin Fisher had become Tony’s financial adviser a few weeks prior. All their dealings had been over the telephone or in the conference room in the McKinley Investments office in Greenville.

Quentin had no reason of his own to travel to the Glory at Sea Marina on the day of the explosion. He was there because Tony had sent him an e-mail inviting him to the marina. The police had subpoenaed Tony’s Internet records and had found a copy of the e-mail in the “Sent Messages” directory on Tony’s computer.

Tony interrupted Daniel’s musing. “I can see the wheels in your head turning, but none of the so-called evidence that I killed Fisher is right. I didn’t send him that e-mail. It was sent on the Thursday afternoon before the accident—but that’s when I was out in Albemarle Sound testing the rebuilt engine in a big motor cruiser.” Tony added, “And I certainly didn’t send him a faxed map of the marina.”

Daniel didn’t see the point of arguing with Tony, but what could explain away the evidence that the police had? The marina’s telephone records showed that—also on the previous Thursday afternoon—a one-page fax had been sent from Tony’s fax machine to Quentin’s fax machine. Moreover, an employee at the boatyard saw Quentin Fisher walking on the docks a few minutes before the explosion. Quentin approached him and asked for help finding a boat named Marzipan. The employee noted that Fisher’d had in his possession a faxed diagram of the marina’s docks.

Tony rested both hands flat on the tabletop. “And let me tell you the most relevant fact of all. Marzipan was worth a fortune. She was my pride and joy: I’d rebuilt her personally. Who in his right mind would destroy a genuine antique to kill a slime ball like Quentin Fisher?”

Daniel nodded once more. Everything Tony said made sense, but then, each of the prisoners he’d visited over the years could spout a dozen good reasons that proved his innocence. Most of them would conveniently ignore an especially strong fact or two. Tony hadn’t mentioned the garage-door transmitter.

When arson investigators from the Glory fire department—supplemented by two evidence technicians from the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation—sifted through the debris, they found a radio-controlled detonator in the remains of Marzipan’s bilge. The detonator had been built using a garage door remote-control system. The police, acting under a search warrant, rummaged through Tony’s office at the marina. They found a matching garage-door transmitter tucked behind a row of books on his bookshelf.

Daniel found it difficult to look Tony squarely in the eye. He didn’t want to believe that his friend was guilty of murder, but the evidence seemed…well, “overwhelming” was the word that Rafe Neilson had used. Daniel had had a heart-to-heart talk with Rafe, who had been remarkably forthcoming.

“I wish it wasn’t so,” Rafe had said, “but all the evidence points to a simple fact. Tony Taylor turned Marzipan into a bomb that killed Quentin Fisher.”

Daniel had countered, “For what purpose? What was Tony’s motive for killing Quentin?”

Rafe had thrown both hands up. “The obvious one, of course. Tony figured out that Quentin Fisher was cheating the church. We found a letter to Fisher outlining his alleged fraud in Tony’s computer. The letter demanded that McKinley Investments return the church’s money.”

Daniel had pressed. “Okay, but why kill him?”

“Because Fisher refused to return the money,” Rafe had said. “We figure that Tony decided to kill Fisher in the hope that his ‘accidental death’ would clear the way for McKinley Investments to take a fresh look at the church’s failed investment.”

Daniel had chosen not to argue with Rafe. After all, what could he offer as an alternative theory? But Rafe’s reasoning as to Tony’s motive seemed awfully weak. Would he really kill Quentin Fisher as part of a revenge-driven scheme to get the church’s money back? That didn’t seem anything like the Tony Taylor he knew.

Now, as Daniel observed Tony’s distress in jail, he wished he had at least challenged some of Rafe’s assumptions. He should have pressed Rafe, made him explain more.

“I’m curious…” Daniel said. “What led you to Quentin Fisher in the first place?”

Tony shrugged leisurely. “I guess I foolishly assumed that George Ingles knew what he was doing.” He let his head roll backward, then forward. “Look, Rebecca’s uncle died six months ago and she received a cash bequest of about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. We were looking for an aggressive investment—something a bit riskier than usual that would have high returns. I asked George for his advice. He referred me to Quentin Fisher. I admit I was very impressed that he worked for McKinley Investments.”

“And he asked you to send him a check?”

“Not quite. At first he didn’t want to talk to me. He said that he handled major accounts and he offered to turn me over to one of the more junior investment advisers.”

“And?”

“I said fine. A few days later Fisher called me back and said that he’d be happy to take on my account.” Tony gave a mirthless laugh. “That’s when he asked me to send him a check.”

“And did you?”

“No. I dragged my feet. I wanted to see what kind of investment he would suggest before I made a commitment.” He grimaced. “I was astounded by what he came up with. Como Creative Media is a real dog. He tried to convince me that their corporate bonds would go up—I knew better.”

“But George Ingles didn’t?”

“I guess not.”

Daniel wanted to dig deeper, but decided not to. Any more questions about George would verge on gossip. Instead he asked, “So you never actually invested with Fisher?”

“Nope.” He paused. “When I realized that Quentin Fisher was a hack, I took a close look at the bonds that Fisher had sold the church and I confronted him about them.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone else at the church what you were doing?”

“Two reasons. I didn’t want to embarrass George, and I didn’t want to cause a panic among the congregation. I thought I’d be able to get the money back without making a big fuss.” He added, with a smile, “Feel free to use my story if you ever need a good example of foolish pride.”

Daniel returned the smile. When he was sure that Tony had nothing more to say, he asked, “How can I help you today, Tony? Besides praying for you, of course.”

“I need someone in my corner. Someone who cares enough to find out what really happened that day. The cops think I killed Quentin Fisher, so they’ve stopped investigating. I need someone who still has an open mind. I need you, Daniel.”

“Me?”

“My defense attorney recommended that I hire a private investigator, but it would take a month to bring him up to speed and a year to get folks in Glory to cooperate with him. Even then, he wouldn’t really care about me. I need you.”

Daniel thought about arguing with Tony—until he saw the determination in the man’s eyes. Tony would not take no for an answer.

“You’ve given me quite a challenge,” Daniel said. “Of course I’ll help in every way I can—including praying for you.”

Tony’s expression darkened for a moment but then he said, “You do that, Reverend. And while you’re praying, imagine what’s going to happen to me if you can’t help me prove my innocence. I’ll spend the rest of my life in a prison far grimmer than the Albemarle District Jail.”

Daniel shivered at the notion. There was indisputable fear behind Tony’s plea for help. And cold logic in his description of what could happen to him. For the first time in decades, Daniel began to wonder if prayer was enough.

Okay, Mizz Dorsett. It’s time to begin your scheming.

Lori slipped her camera case under her bed and retrieved her laptop computer, the smallest and thinnest portable available. She switched it on and opened a password-protected file that contained comprehensive dossiers of George Ingles, Christine Stanton and Daniel Hartman.

“A big hello to the Big Three,” she said. “Eeny, meeny, miney, mo. Which of you is best to know?”

Lori scrolled to the bottom of the document, then back to the top, stopping awhile to look at a large photograph of each “candidate.” One of them would soon be her weak link at Glory Community Church—the person who would, with gentle prodding, be encouraged to share information about the ongoing lawsuit.

She moved the cursor next to the photo of George Ingles and let herself smile. Her easiest target might well be flirty George, the fellow who started it all by making foolish investments. She’d probably learn a lot of delicious details from George—but would it be possible to befriend him?

The information that Kevin had gathered about Ingles was inconclusive. He held a bachelor’s degree in elementary education and a master’s of business administration. He had taken a job in what used to be called the personnel department at a small software company and eventually became vice president of Human Resources for a high-tech conglomerate.

Despite his blustery self-confidence, George might well turn out to be an all-talk-no-action type of man, the sort who panics if his flirting actually works.

Lori tapped the Page Down key, to a small photograph of a pinch-faced woman in her late fifties. To make matters worse, George was married. Margo Ingles had been his secretary for many years before they married, so she’d be achingly familiar with his coy antics. She probably kept George on a short leash and would work hard to terminate an unexpected relationship with a newly arrived woman more than twenty years younger than her husband.

Lori ran her finger along the computer’s touch pad and placed a red highlight atop George Ingles’s name. “Sorry, George,” she said. “We’ll never know how great our relationship might have been.”

Lori scrolled down the page to Christine Stanton’s photo and felt her smile fade into a frown. It would be hard work to sidle up to Christine. She was one of those women who wanted to believe the new divorcée in town was a pretty but brainless ditz. Lori remembered the puzzled look she’d received from Christine outside the church. It had spoken volumes.

“She was amused to see me taking pictures with a complex camera,” Lori murmured. “She undoubtedly assumed that I’d have endless problems figuring out how to work the dials and controls.”

On the other hand, maybe you’re being too hasty.

Lori brought the cursor atop the photo so that the “+” rested on Christine’s nose. Given the right circumstances, Christine might spill all of the beans to a “dumb but nice” friend. And as the church’s legal advocate, she would know everything worth knowing about Glory Community’s case…

No. She’s much too bright.

That was the chief downside of getting close to Christine. The dossier explained that Christine Eloise Stanton held a magna cum laude degree in political science from Smith College and had graduated with honors from University of Virginia Law School. These days, she might be toting guests’ luggage into the Scottish Captain, but that didn’t take away her savvy or her smarts. If anyone could figure out why Lori had come to Glory, it would be her. The risk of making friends with her was too high.

Lori turned Christine’s name red then touched Page Down to reach the one remaining candidate: Reverend Doctor Daniel Hartman, minister of word and sacrament, the pastor who had to deal with a nearly impossible mess. Daniel sat at the hub of Glory Community Church. He knew everyone involved with church finances and attended every meeting. He’d be more fun to be around than George and more forthcoming than Christine.

And the winner is, Daniel Hartman.

Lori studied his picture. Kevin had managed to find a lovely photograph of the pastor, although he really was so much better-looking in the flesh…

Knock it off, lady, you’re on duty.

Lori chuckled. There was certainly a lot to like about Daniel Hartman. Besides being unusually handsome, his various degrees from Dartmouth College, Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary and Erskine Seminary proved his intelligence. Equally important, he was charmingly polite and had an authentic knack for making people feel comfortable. Daniel had taken her put-down of Christianity in stride and seemed genuinely embarrassed by George Ingles’s clumsy come-on. It was a shame that she’d decided not to acknowledge his annoyance back then. Keeping George happy had been more important to her than impressing the pastor.

Lori centered Daniel’s picture on the screen. His eyes seemed filled with determination. She’d have to work extra hard to persuade him to share the information he had. Pastors tend to be close-mouthed, used to keeping secrets. Daniel looked even more resolute.

Lori wondered if she could also consider Emma Neilson—a B and B owner, recently married to the town’s deputy police chief, and Christine Stanton’s new boss. Lori quickly decided that she’d have to work too hard to become Emma’s fast friend. And once I did, she wouldn’t have much information about the case. Emma sang in the church choir, but that wouldn’t automatically give her access to what Chicago Financial Insurance needed to know.

“Nope. My best candidate is Daniel Hartman,” she murmured. “I can bypass some of his resolve with electronic surveillance gear.”

Lori felt herself smile at the thought. She would supplement her one-on-one contacts with Daniel by installing a bug at the church. A combination of investigatory techniques would make sure she got everything she needed. Better safe than sorry.

Her satellite phone began to ring. She retrieved it from her handbag and moved close to the window to give the antenna a better view of the sky.

“How we doing this afternoon, Mizz Dorsett,” Kevin asked, without any preamble.

“We’re doing peachy-keen. Why do you ask?”

“This is usually the time in every undercover assignment when you have a mild attack of scruples. I thought I’d nip it in the bud.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not having any second thoughts today. In fact, I’m making good process. I’ve just selected my Trojan Horse.”

“Let me guess—George Ingles.”

“Nope. Daniel Hartman, even though he’s not a sure thing.”

Kevin whistled softly. “The pastor! I’m impressed. And I’m also surprised. Isn’t hoodwinking a pastor considered a heavy-duty sin?”

“Very funny.”

“Okay. I’ll get serious. You tend to get close to the people you investigate. That’s what makes you a true undercover artist. But you also tend to take the sides of people you get to know. And that’s when you can become a pain to manage.”

Kevin’s voice became softer. “You like the town of Glory. You respect the people you’ve met. I could hear it in your voice earlier.” He seemed to hesitate. “You okay with all of this?”

“All of what?”

“If your investigation succeeds, the church won’t get its money back.”

“If I succeed, as you put it, it will mean that I’ve uncovered evidence that George Ingles made a rotten investment with his eyes wide open. That would mean that the church doesn’t deserve to get its money back.” She added. “And you’re right—I do respect the people I’ve met. They’re cheerful, direct and nice. I haven’t met any phonies yet.” Lori recalled George’s sleazy sweet talk. “Well, maybe I did meet one phony.” She added, “Anyway, I never take anyone’s side.”

Kevin snorted. “Speaking of rotten investments…we received another package of relevant documents from McKinley Investments. This stack of goodies includes the last monthly brokerage report that Quentin Fisher filed before he was killed. He claims that he urged the church not to buy junk bonds, but that the church’s financial secretary wanted to maximize return and was willing to accept a higher risk.”

“When did Fisher submit his last report?”

“The middle of April.”

“That seems rather late in the day. The church invested the money in February. Quentin Fisher counseled George Ingles in January.”

“I suppose he was finishing up his required paperwork—you know, dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s.”

“More likely, Quentin Fisher was covering his tail. He wanted to document that he lived up to his responsibility to give the church sound financial advice—even though he probably didn’t.”

“Hmm. Didn’t someone just tell me that Lori Dorsett never takes sides.”

“I don’t and I haven’t,” Lori said. “One needn’t play favorites to recognize that something’s wrong with Quentin Fisher’s story. It doesn’t ring true. We don’t have all the facts on him. We don’t know everything he did.”

“Maybe so, but Quentin Fisher’s not our problem. Our primary target is George Ingles.” Kevin grunted, a signal that the debate was over. “To change the subject, I hope you’re eating well. I’m concerned for two reasons. I need you to stay healthy and don’t want you to return to Chicago with a craving for chitlins and cornpone.”

“I’m eating very well, thank you. Since Chicago Financial Insurance is paying my expenses I intend to sample all of the best restaurants in Glory—the kind that have lobster and filet on the menu. In fact, it’s approaching my usual dinnertime and I’m feeling a bit hungry.”

“Bon appetit!” Kevin said with a laugh. “Let’s talk again tomorrow.”

“Whatever!” She pressed the disconnect button.

Lori turned off her computer and grabbed a lightweight jacket. Spring evenings could be cool in Glory. She ignored the stab of concern she felt as she left her room. There was a simple spring lock on her door, but every container in her room was unlocked: her suitcase, her camera case, her attaché case that held her computer and a folder full of travel brochures. This seeming indifference was in keeping with the laid-back persona she’d chosen. Christine Stanton would expect a “ditz” to behave that way. Better to risk a theft than raise unnecessary suspicions about herself. And besides, the odds of her room being burgled in a town like Glory were small.

As Lori walked toward the front door, she saw Christine sitting in the parlor, reading what looked like a thick law book.

“That’s definitely heavy reading,” Lori said.

Christine raised her eyes. “Out to take more pictures?”

Lori stepped into the parlor. “No. I’m in the mood for a short walk then a good meal.”

“Well, you can’t do much better than a stroll along the Glory Strand, down by the waterside. Turn left when you leave the Captain and take another left on Dock Street. Keep walking, you’ll end up at the start of the Strand.”

“Left, left and walk. Got it.”

“When you get to the end of Dock Street, look to your right and you’ll see the Glory at Sea Marina. There are a couple of fine seafood restaurants nearby. The Glorious Catch is big and fancy. The Fisherman’s Inn is small and cozy.”

“The Fisherman’s Inn sounds perfect. I’m kinda gloried-out.”

“Good choice. The Tuesday night special is usually homemade Maryland-style crab cakes.”

“Yum!”

Lori had taken several small steps into the parlor during the brief conversation, bringing her close enough to Christine to read the spine of book she held: Litigating Financial Fraud.

Lori nodded at Christine and backed out of the room. She would have to track down the book on the Internet and find out if it was a text for beginners or experts. That would be a useful bit of information to know. But it certainly could wait until after she ate her fill of crab cakes.