Lasting Doubts (The Red Lake Series Book 2) Page 14

  Harry pulled out the emergency stop button. The elevator jerked as it began to move down. “You’re a lousy liar, Mitch. I don’t really like you, but you don’t like me so I suppose that makes us even. You got a letter, you all did. The only question is who put a stop to it?”

  The doors rattled open. Conners stepped out.

  “You’re right Grim, I don’t like you.”

  Harry nodded. “A word of advice, Deputy. If you ever try to put a gun to my head again, I will make you eat the barrel!”

  Mitch seemed tempted to try, if only to test Grim but he had heard the sheriff talk about Harry’s combat record. Now, beyond the heat of anger Mitch found caution. He spun on his heel and stalked away.

  Harry ascended to his office. Paula met him in the hallway on her way to the County Courthouse. She gave him a peck on the cheek and was gone.

  A short time later Barton drifted in.

  “How goes it?” Harry asked.

  “Got followed around in three stores by clerks who thought I was ripping them off. People around here don’t like black people.”

  “They’re probably afraid you want their women.”

  “Who wants some skinny piece of ass that looks like un-toasted white bread?”

  Harry laughed. They both liked to flog stereotypes.

  “Don’t be too hard on them. Most of these folks have very little experience with their black brothers.”

  “And probably don’t want to!” Dirk said with indignation.

  “Could be. How about going to New York?”

  “There be brothers there! It’d be a nice change, we could cruise up to Harlem and you can be the minority.”

  “Like a beacon of light in a dark sea,” Harry said grinning.

  “More like bird shit on a black Caddie. It stands out and nobody is happy about it.”

  They drove home to pack. There was an early evening commuter flight out of Beaumont into Denver. From there they would catch a non-stop into JFK arriving in the early morning hours. Harry reserved a rental car.

  “What if he isn’t in?” Barton asked. “What if we haul our butts to New York and Schmidt is off on vacation in the Bahamas?”

  “Good question.”

  Harry glanced at his watch, four o'clock in New York, offices should still be open. He picked up the phone and dialed the number for Amdon World Fund.

  A voice that was more Bronx than Manhattan asked, “Your party or extension please?” The nasal twang killed any charm in her voice. Harry remembered that he hated big cities.

  “Anders Schmidt.”

  “One moment, please.” There was a click and the phone went silent, then it began to ring.

  “Mr. Schmidt’s office, Leslie speaking.”

  This voice was cool, professional, and would be comforting to those with money.

  “Hello Leslie, this is Harry Grim. I want to make an appointment with Anders for tomorrow.”

  The use of first names left Leslie to figure out if they had met before and if Mr. Grim was a friend or otherwise intimate with her boss. While she spoke she typed his name into the database. “I’m sorry Mr. Grim but I meet a lot of people each day, are you a client of Mr. Schmidt?”

  “No.”

  “May I ask the nature of your business?”

  “It’s private and personal.”

  “Well, I am afraid Mr. Schmidt is very busy this week, besides if it is private business, you must have his home phone already.”

  She is good. Harry thought. “Well perhaps you could give him a message?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Tell him I’ll be in town for the day and would like to meet. If the office doesn’t work for him we will drive out to his house. It’s about Alison Albright.”

  “Could you spell that?”

  “A-L-B-R-I-G-H-T”

  “Very well, Mr. Grim. I’m sorry I could not help you more but he is quite busy. I will pass along the message. Do you have a number where Mr. Schmidt can reach you?”

  “No. Tell Andy we’ll find him.”

  Over the last two decades Ander’s fought his way up on Wall Street. After he joined Amdon World Fund, eight years before, he became a player. His office was on the fifty-second floor. Beyond its green tinted glass lay a view of the harbor, including the Statue of Liberty out in the harbor and on down toward Staten Island and the Jersey shore. Far below, the orange ferries plowed back and forth wending their way past freighters steaming into port and the docks along the Hudson River. Anders seldom noticed.

  If a visitor commented on the view, he would shrug and say, “I like the color of the glass it reminds me of money.” This worked to bring the conversation back to investment and profits, the only thing that stirred Anders soul.

  He collected the symbols of success to assure himself, secretly fearing he might still carry the mark of where he came from.

  Leslie entered. Anders wanted to have her, to throw her across the desk and forcibly take her, to make wild love knocking pens and computer terminals flying.

  She was beautiful, aloof, and seemingly unattainable, thus highly desirable. But she was also a damn good administrative assistant and any affair with an employee could only turn out poorly. Just a year past another fund manger resigned in disgrace after being accused of sexual harassment by his assistant, who walked away with a six-figure settlement. The lesson was not wasted on Schmidt.

  “A Harry Grim called. He wanted to see you tomorrow.”

  Anders barely looked up. It was getting late and he wanted to catch the six o’clock Metro-North out of Grand Central. “Never heard of him. Anything else?”

  “He said he would reach you here or at home and that it was about Alison Albright.”

  She suddenly had Anders full attention. “You have a number?”

  “He would not leave one.”

  Ander’s waved her out with the back of his hand. “Call down to the security desk. Put his name on the no admittance list.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After the door closed Anders turned around and looked out at the view for the first time in days. He worked too hard and climbed too high to have some silly bitch from the past hurt him now.

  Anders' annual bonus was more than most people made in ten years. His salary and compensation package was commiserate with the general pillaging that is called Wall Street. Before he left for the night, he dialed the security office for his gated community in Connecticut.

  “Mel, this is Anders Schmidt. I have received some threats. It is possible they may try to reach my house.”

  “We could put you on heightened patrol, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mel. If anyone named Harry Grim or Alison Albright show up, keep them out and call the police.”

  “Very good, Mr. Schmidt.”

  His generosity at Christmas time brought the security guard's avid response. But anxiety followed Anders home; it nibbled at his heels and caused him to pour a double Scotch as soon as he entered his home.

  Chapter 18

  The jet circled wide on approach to JFK. To the east the sun was a dull red blob on a hazy horizon. To the west, in lower Manhattan, the new Freedom Tower rose above the urban haze. Harry felt a tension in his gut. He hated cities. He closed his eyes and thought about large mouth bass and rainbow trout. Fishing helped center him. To Harry, fishing was important; so was Paula. Everything else was just life.

  Dirk bestirred himself and glanced out the window. “Always good to visit home.”

  “If you’re dropping by the old neighborhood, leave me out.”

  “No problem white bread. But I thought we might need to pick up some protection.”

  “No need, I’ve taken up non-violence.”

  “Sure thing, Gandhi.”

  The stewards passed through the cabin collecting trash. The flaps extended, and the landing gear whined down into place. Soon, the passengers were putting their seat backs up for landing.

  Harry and Barton worked their way through the termin
al.

  “Let’s cancel the car and catch a cab,” said Harry. “Less trouble.”

  “What if we have to go to Greenwich?”

  “We’ll take the train.”

  They grabbed a cab. “Wall Street,” ordered Barton as they climbed in. “But take the Shore Parkway to the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. I want to see Coney Island”

  “That will cost more,” said the cabbie in a heavy mid-eastern accent.”

  “It’s my money.”

  The Arab muttered a few sentences that Harry failed to make out.

  Barton leaned forward and rattled off a few words in Arabic. The surprised driver looked aghast, his eyes large in the rearview mirror. Barton said something longer and more complex. The driver’s surprise was replaced by fear. The cabbie answered in Arabic and he slammed the taxi into drive.

  Harry glanced over at Dirk. “My Arabic is not what it once was.”

  “Our friend did not want to take the Shore Parkway. He made a series of aspersions upon our lineage, my race, and our mother’s possible profession.”

  “Really?”

  “I told him he failed to show the hospitality that Mohammed commanded and that I would arrange for him to ask Allah in person, unless he choose to retract it. The gentleman agreed.”

  They rode into the city. A few blocks off the Parkway they could see the rides of Coney Island. A short time later they crossed the river into Manhattan. Wall Street was crowded with limousines dropping off their patrons. People surged on the sidewalk. Harry tried to avoid feelings of claustrophobia fueled by his aversion to urban life.

  The Amdon World Fund building was a tall emerald green structure with angular shapes, befitting the Wizard of Oz. Inside, above the broad terrazzo lobby the name was abbreviated to AWF in large red letters.

  At the security check, a guard asked his name, what company they were visiting and with whom. Harry gave his and Schmidt’s name.

  “I’m sorry, sir. You are not on his list.”

  Rather than argue and become memorable, Harry nodded and left.

  “What’s plan B?” Barton asked.

  Harry opened his briefcase. “You’re being promoted to courier.” He took out a manila folder. While he printed a note, Barton glanced inside the envelope.

  “When did you make this?”

  “Yesterday at the office. I used the old flier in the file then added a little information.” Harry put the note in. “Take it to the desk and insist someone must sign for it.”

  While Barton made deliveries, Harry retreated to a coffee shop in the corner of the lobby. In about ten minutes a striking young woman came to the desk. Barton passed over the envelope; she signed a spiral notepad Barton held out to her.

  Barton jined Harry. “How long before Schmidt arrives?” he asked.

  “How long for the elevator to go up and come down?”

  “What’d you write on the note?”

  “Asked him to meet us in the coffee shop. Said we had five thousand of those fliers to pass out here and at the Greenwich train station.”

  Barton smiled. “He’ll be here.”

  Ten minutes later a man charged toward the coffee shop, a folded paper clutched in his hand. Schmidt was ruddy faced, probably due to his Germanic heritage. He was short, yet looked like he spent time in the gym. The suit he wore was an expensive cut, but thenonly cheap suits stood out on Wall Street.

  Harry waved him over.

  “Who the hell are you and what is this?” He flogged the paper.

  The top half was a copy of the fliers posted when Alison Albright went missing. Below Alison's high school picture was a picture of Anders that Harry found in the AWF's annual report. Across the bottom it read, “last seen in the company of Anders Schmidt, currently of Amdon World Fund. If you have seen either, please call,” and there was Harry’s cell phone number.

  Harry pointed at the empty seat. Schmidt remained standing.

  “You pass this out and I will sue your ass.”

  “Go ahead, I can see the story now. Lowly detective sued by hedge fund manager in girl's disappearance.”

  Anders appeared on the verge of apoplexy. “Listen, you moronic hick, do you have any idea what this could do to my reputation?”

  Barton grinned, “Might tank your part of the fund?”

  “I don’t know this girl!”

  “I have a witnesses who put you in a room having sex with her.”

  Anders almost exploded, “That was twenty years ago!” he hissed. “I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Neither has anyone else Andy, at least not until her mummified body turned up a couple weeks ago.”

  This news did not seem to shock Schmidt. He glared angrily at the paper.

  “Why don’t you have a seat? I’d rather sit and talk than spend the day or week handing out fliers.”

  “That’s a current picture of me!” Anders whined. “You’re making me look like a child molester!”

  “Well, technically you are; after all she was willing, but only sixteen.”

  “What is this, some sort of shake down?”

  “No, I'm just an investigator, Alison was the extortionist. Did you get one of her letters?”

  Schmidt let out a long breath and took the vacant chair. “You know about that, huh?”

  “I know most everything, except who killed her and what happened to her money. I might add, the news of her demise did not seem to surprise you.”

  “I figured she was dead.”

  “Why?”

  Schmidt shrugged his shoulders.

  “Did you kill her?”

  Anders looked as if the question were stupid. “No.”

  “That brings me to the money. I have an idea about what happened to it, which, by the way, could be a hell of a motive for murder.”

  “You can’t prove a thing.”

  “Don’t need to. There’s an election this fall and the sheriff would be happy to solve a big case. All he has to do is charge you. Even if you beat the rap, by the time it goes to trial the election will be over.”

  Barton chimed in, “And your career would be in ruins.”

  Harry added, “And if you were convicted, you might not live enough years to ever see Connecticut again.”

  Schmidt seemed to grow smaller. “What do you want?”

  “Information.”

  “Off the record?”

  “If you didn’t kill her, sure.”

  Anders sat pondering his options. “I think I should consult my attorney.”

  Harry rose. “Go ahead, we’ll be out front with our hired minions passing out fliers.”

  Anders threw up one hand. “Wait!”

  Harry waited.

  “What the hell, the statute of limitations is long gone,” Schmidt said.

  “There is no limitation on murder, so I assume you’re talking about the money you stole out of her suitcase?”

  Anders nodded. “I casually knew her. We met over a joint one afternoon near the school. A group of kids were talking about getting out of Red Lake. She didn’t say much but I could tell she was coming on to me. Anyway, I asked her if she wanted to have some fun. One thing led to another and she agreed to show up at the graduation party and strip.”

  “Why would she want to do that?” Harry interrupted.

  “Because I was so irresistible at eighteen!”

  Barton snorted.

  “Okay,” said Schmidt, “I figured she was a social climber and would do almost anything to be part of the ‘in’ crowd. I wanted to see if she would do it.”

  “So, Alison knew about going to the party a week in advance?”

  “Yea, something like that.”

  “Did she know who would be there?”

  “If you’re asking did I give her a list no, but I probably dropped a few names. She could have figured out who would be there without much trouble.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “The day before I graduated she checked a suitcase into the baggage
room. Out of curiosity I snuck a peak. Judging by her under garments it was going to be a pretty good show.”

  “Is that when you found the money?”

  “No, I found that when the depot manager told me to clear out the bags. This was after Alison had been gone for a while. There was almost ten grand in small bills. I figured she wasn’t coming back.”

  “And at the party, the plan was for her to just strip?”

  “”Yeah, the orgy was her idea. Nobody said anything about sex; she just started in on her friend. A little bit of that and we were all hot and then she yelled 'next'.” Schmidt shook his head, “Made me wonder why I had never made a pass at her before. Of course, then her note came two days later. I figure she deserved whatever she got.”

  “But you had nothing to do with it?”

  “Of course not!” Anders said with indignation. “What do you think I am?”

  “A thief.” Harry said as a matter of fact. “What happened after you took the money?”

  Schmidt’s face twitched. “I never looked back,” he said defiantly.

  “Been in Red Lake lately?”

  Schmidt snorted. “I haven’t been back since the day I left. And I never plan to.”

  “Any ideas who might have killed her?”

  Anders was thoughtful. “Off the record?”

  Harry nodded.

  “Ask Davy Barnes. His face was scratched when I saw him the next day.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  “Sure. He said he did it on a bush, but the scratches were deep. And no one saw Alison after that night, at least as far as I know.”

  Harry stood up. “Thanks.” Barton joined him.

  Schmidt held up the flier, “What about these?”

  “You can have it, it’s my only one!”

  As they left Harry overheard Schmidt mutter, “Son of a …”

  Chapter 19

  The night was hot. Up in the mountains the winds gusted among the peaks. When Harry and Barton flew up from Beaumont it was a roller coaster approach into the Red Lake landing strip. Now there was a lull in the winds and the air was torpid.

  “What I don’t understand,” Paula said over cocktails, “is how can you be sure he didn’t kill her?”

  Harry looked at the deep blue drink she handed him. “What is this?”