The Voxlightner Scandal

by Don Travis

  “And the dealer?”

  “Thank God he wasn’t connected. Small-time independent supplied by a relative in Mexico. He went down for a long stretch. Harper now has a conviction on his record, but the judge gave him the opportunity to expunge it if he stays out of trouble.”

  “Sounds pretty normal,” I said. “The white kid gets a second chance. The Hispanic dealer gets prison.”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Roy said. “The dealer got plenty of chances to straighten out his life, but the money was too easy. Anyway, this was his third strike.”

  “How big a financial stress did this put on the Harpers?” I asked.

  “Lawyers for criminal trials—especially attempted murder trials—don’t come cheap. The Harpers remortgaged their house to the hilt and borrowed more money on top of that. Pretty deep hole, I’d say. Then there’s the cost of two kids in college to consider.”

  “Were the Harpers desperate?”

  “Pretty near. Melanie went to work clerking in a store. Cagney Sr. took a second job.”

  “So Belhaven’s death was fortuitous for them.”

  Roy nodded. “I’d say so.”

  “Any sign that Belhaven’s dislike of Cagney Harper went any deeper than the man wasn’t good enough for his daughter?”

  Roy laughed. “Maybe the beard, but nothing deeper than that.”

  “Pierce could be something of a snob,” Paul said. “The way Roy describes it makes sense to me.”

  “Do we know how much Melanie’s mother’s trust provides her?”

  “The mother’s trust? Not much. Equivalent of three grand a month after taxes.”

  “Didn’t know you pay taxes on benefits from a trust,” Paul said.

  “You don’t on a revocable trust,” I said. “The trust pays those taxes. But the beneficiary pays them in an irrevocable trust.”

  “Which was this?” he asked.

  “Initially it might have been a revocable trust. But upon Mrs. Belhaven’s death, it automatically became irrevocable.”

  Roy didn’t appear interested in trust details. “So Belhaven’s death solved a few problems for the Harpers.”

  “It appears so. Do they have alibis for the night he died?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Harper worked the night shift at the Handy Kitchen, a kitchenware store. The store closes at nine, and she’s out of there no later than nine thirty.”

  “And Cagney?” Paul asked.

  “Worked his second job at a grocery store that night. Also gets off at nine. After that he claims he was home. They alibi one another… for what that’s worth.” Roy paused. “Mrs. Harper ran into a neighbor lady when she arrived home, and they talked for a few minutes.”

  “It’s a seventy- or eighty-mile run right down I-40,” Paul said. “Plenty of time for either one to get to Albuquerque by ten thirty.”

  Roy nodded and agreed to have the Grants PD help us as much as they could.

  SINCE HARRIS Belhaven’s last words to me had been “If you want anything else, forget about it,” Paul decided to have a go at him by saying he wanted to do an article on John Pierce Belhaven, the writer. To my surprise Harris accepted an invitation to a late lunch at the downtown Flying Star. I headed to APD to see if I could turn up anything on Harris to help Paul with his lunch.

  I medically retired from the APD six years ago, so many of the faces I encountered at the headquarters were new, including the cop guarding the desk admitting people to the inner sanctum. But like a lot of the newbies, he recognized me because I was one of the last partners to ride with the new commander of CID. The gatekeeper admitted me without a problem. Roy Guerra was out, but Don Carson was in. We sat down and discussed yesterday’s interrogation of Lanigan. He reached the same conclusion Gene and I had. Wick did something to tick off a semisane hood and paid the price.

  Don knew nothing about the Harpers but cheerfully pulled up what he could find. As a licensed confidential investigator, I have databases available to me that nearly match the police department’s, but because the subjects lived in another town, Don might possibly learn something I wouldn’t. All he turned up that I didn’t already know, was Cag Harper had a running war with the meter maids in Grants. He’d chalked up close to $150 in unpaid tickets until recently. I surmised he paid them upon receiving partial settlement of his father-in-law’s estate.

  Harris, Don was a little more familiar with. I learned the Belhaven scion had two ex-wives, both of whom took him to court at least once for violent behavior. The second Mrs. Belhaven still had an order of protection out on him. They apparently argued over the possession of a Han Dynasty vase of questionable character he picked up on an Asian trip, but which she received in the divorce. The anger I perceived in him apparently ran deep, and he was prone to violence. Would Paul be safe asking a bunch of personal questions? I rested a bit easier realizing he would be conducting the interview in a public place. Even so… how much protection was that when facing a violent man? About the only thing I could help to prepare him for his upcoming meeting was a text to be careful.

  I left APD, recovered my car from the lot, and headed up Central for the Southeast Heights. Harris’s neighbors in the Highland neighborhood where he lived before moving to his father’s house might be able to shed a little light on his daily activities.

  Slog work like ringing doorbells tends to piss off the subject when he or she finds out about it, but this is an essential part of a confidential investigator’s life. I hit a dozen homes up and down the block and on the street behind Harris’s former residence. Fully a quarter of them went unanswered, but a few gave me suggestions of other people I could contact. I quickly gained a pretty good idea of the man’s social life. He worked, came home, drank, and vented his spleen by arguing with neighbors at the least provocation… and sometimes for none at all. Harris was proving to be a small man in my book. Someone who husbands himself to himself and collects anything and everything. According to gossip the two divorces almost did him in.

  His one friend seemed to be a man he worked with at the brokerage house. I knew no one in his employer’s firm, a nationally recognized investment broker. This made the next step a bit trickier. Mess with a man’s neighborhood; that’s one thing. Mess with his livelihood, and that’s another.

  Nonetheless, I invaded the premises of Stout Investments on West Central Avenue while Paul was treating Harris to lunch mere blocks away. Harris’s friend Charles Williamson was in and available. As we sat in his semiprivate cubicle, I wondered at the lack of loyalty Harris claimed from his friends. Williamson freely talked about his workmate’s sloppy business habits and his enduring anger tending to rise and fall without any discernable cause. Before long I recognized Williamson retained a semifriendly relationship with Harris by being what he was… a salesman. He treated Harris like a potential client, playing to his strengths and preying on his weaknesses. On one thing Williamson was adamant. Harris was honest when it came to business dealings. In personal relationships? Not so much.

  I concluded the meeting before Harris arrived back in the office, carrying with me a much firmer picture of the man. He was overlaid with all the niceties of civilization, but his sense of self-preservation overrode everything else. He was on decent terms with his sister and his great-aunt Dorothy but wouldn’t hesitate to use either of them. Was he capable of murder? In my estimation that depended upon one single factor. How desperate was he? No matter how many friends and acquaintances he could claim, Harris Belhaven was a lonely man.

  I was curious about how Paul would read him. Would he fall for the solicitous stockbroker or see through him? I didn’t have long to wait. Paul sailed through my door and plopped into a chair.

  “Man, that guy’s about as deep as a dishpan.”

  “You caught that, huh?”

  “Hard not to. He’s all out for number one. Don’t think he can even count to two.”

  Paul went on to explain how Harris painted his relationship with his father as “cool,” not “fract
ured.” My mate let him play that card for half an hour before he trumped Harris, asking about things others had already clued us into, such as his pettiness, the tendency to lose his temper, and his so-so record at work. Harris danced a little before he lost his temper and started describing everyone in colorful terms. Wait until he learned I’d talked to Williamson.

  Paul did learn one new fact. The life policies on Pierce Belhaven had not yet paid. Not too surprising. The insurance company knew the police considered the insured’s death as a homicide, and with no one yet named as the killer, they’d delay payment for as long as possible. We knew at least one of the beneficiaries had already engaged an attorney to press for payment.

  My payback came as I was preparing to leave for the day. Hazel put through a call from Harris Belhaven.

  “Vinson, you fucking queer, how dare you question my coworkers. I’ll—”

  “Doing my job, Belhaven. Just doing my job.”

  I hung up the phone and joined Paul in the front office where he was saying goodbye to Hazel. He held his tongue until we were preparing to get into our separate cars in the parking lot.

  “Pissed, was he?”

  “He didn’t like queers asking about his business.”

  Paul laughed. “Then tell him to stop being queer about his business.”

  Chapter 23

  I DETOURED four blocks to the Belhaven house to see if I could catch Spence Spears there before heading down to his apartment in the CNM area. He’d told me Mondays and Thursdays were his days reserved for the Belhaven house. This was Tuesday, but who knew which way the wind blew now that Pierce was dead?

  If my notes were right, the sky-blue Plymouth Barracuda with white racing stripes sitting at the curb in front of the house belonged to the said Mr. Spears. This raised an issue about Harris. He professed to distrust and dislike the yard boy, yet the guy was still working at the house. And the last time I checked, Harris felt the same about Sarah, who’d caused a permanent breach with his father. That sent my paranoia soaring. Was all as it seemed with Sarah and Pierce’s son? With Spence and Harris Belhaven for that matter?

  Judging that Harris had already left for work, I allowed the sound of a lawn mower to lure me around to the house’s huge backyard. Spence was a good landscaper. His plants looked healthy and vibrant, even this late in the year. He’d planted enough chrysanthemum and oriental lily and Japanese anemone to keep color in the yard and provide a subtle perfume less heady than his spring plants.

  Spence was at the far end of the lawn with his back to me, but when I approached, I failed to take him by surprise, probably owing to the lesser buzz of an electric mower. Interesting choice. Pierce Belhaven gets fried by the old gas-powered mower, so the family switches to electric.

  Spears flipped the Off switch and turned to confront me. “Hello, Mr. Vinson. Been expecting you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re investigating Pierce’s death, aren’t you?”

  “Most people figure I caught him when Wick Pillsner confessed.”

  “Don’t know much about that. Just what I see on TV. But Harris’s nose is all out of joint and Sarah’s walking on eggshells. I figure you got them spooked.”

  “You think either of them did it?”

  “Or both of them maybe.” He laughed. “Naw. Harris is too wimpy and Sarah’s too….” He thought that one over a moment. “Well, let’s just say she’s no Olive Oyl.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Not aggressive like Popeye’s gal.”

  I hit him with something to shake him. “Detective Guerra tells me there’s a hole in your alibi.”

  No physical reaction at all. “He does, does he?”

  Roy hadn’t said a word, but I’m not obligated to stick to the truth when interviewing suspects. “Somebody or the other says you disappeared for a while. The bar’s not far from the North Valley. You could have slipped out, killed Pierce, and made it back for the next round of drinks.”

  “Who says that?”

  Still no rise from him. “I don’t know, but Guerra does. I’m sure he’ll check things with you again.”

  “Hope so. I don’t want something like that hanging over my head. I’m righteous, man.” He laughed aloud. “Better a drunk than a murderer, right?”

  He stood still long enough to give me the names and phone numbers of his drinking buddies the night Belhaven died. He was well prepared—or else they were best buds.

  “The Hogshead’s on Montgomery near I-40. How long does it take you to get from there to here?” I asked.

  He gave me a look saying he knew I’d already timed it. “Ten minutes if I rush it.”

  “I did it in eight.”

  He shrugged and flipped on the mower’s motor, raising his voice over its subdued purr. “I drive the speed limit.”

  MY NEXT chore was to chase down Spence’s drinking buddies. Two of them, kids named Neal and Chuck, were what you’d expect college undergrads to be. While showing the world they were wise to its ways, their vulnerabilities were on clear display. Both swore Spence was at the tavern all evening, but it was hard to tie down their own movements. Apparently one left for a short period, trying to hook up with a girl. The other came and went to hit the head, make a phone call, talk to friends, hit on a girl.

  Rocky Lodeen, the fourth man at Spence’s party on the night Belhaven died, was older than the other two and—like Spence—a vet. I gathered they both served in Afghanistan, although in different units patrolling different locales. When I ran him down at the coffee shop at CNM’s Montoya campus, Rocky pinged slightly on my gaydar as rough trade, someone who’d use another man for his own needs and then abandon him. His hard veneer was real and not assumed. I suspected he’d volunteered for the Army to escape what he viewed as worse conditions back home. After I introduced myself and separated him from the other students he was rapping with, he was willing to talk, waving a muscular arm sporting a snarling black panther wrapped sinuously around it to make an occasional point. When he thrust the arm forward, the tattoo appeared to launch an attack. How different from Paul’s placid Pedro.

  He took a sip of the coffee I’d bought and addressed my question. “Yeah, man, I was right there soaking up some suds when Spence showed.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Who knows? That was four months ago. I usually hit the Hogshead after my shift.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “Northeast Heights Auto Body Shop out on San Mateo.”

  “What time do you get off work?”

  “That was a Wednesday, right?” I nodded. “Six. By the time I clean up it’s seven. Hit the place half-eight or a little later.”

  I noted Rocky’s European way of saying seven thirty. Did they use that in the Middle East too? “Didn’t you take time to eat?”

  “Usually grab something at the Hog.”

  “Okay, you were there before Spencer. You have any idea when that was?”

  “Maybe half an hour after I got there. I was just finishing up a corned beef on rye.”

  “How is it you don’t remember when you arrived that night, but you’re clear about eating a sandwich and when Spencer got there? Seems like a clear recollection to me.”

  “Thought we cleared that up. And I always eat a corned beef there. They put together a damned good sandwich. You ever eat there?”

  I pressed on. “At first you seemed uncertain about your movements, but now you recall details on when your friend arrived?”

  “You questioning my word?”

  “Trying to understand your word, Rocky. There’s a big difference. I’m hunting someone who killed a man. That’s serious business.”

  “On this side of the pond, maybe. Wasn’t so much over there. Kill them before they kill you.”

  “Pierce Belhaven wasn’t a threat to anyone.”

  He gave a faint smile. “You sure? He’s dead, ain’t he?”

  I stared into his hooded gray eyes. “It’s true that Belhaven alive was
a threat to some people. But dead, he was an opportunity.”

  He held my gaze a moment before he broke contact. “If you say so.”

  “I do. Now assuming Spencer got there around eight, did he leave at any time?”

  “Not that I remember. Sat and drank and talked about women and baseball.”

  Rocky eyed me across the table with a half smile across his face. If someone were inclined toward the coarser trade, he would have been devastating. This guy didn’t go looking for hookups. He simply waited until they came to him. Men, women, it probably didn’t matter. Spencer, maybe? Spencer… definitely. They likely tore up the bedroom when they went at it.

  “You wanna know why I remember that night?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “Because of that South Valley cop. Guerra, I think his name was. He put me through the ringer on this shit once already.”

  “I’d be disappointed if he hadn’t.”

  I kept Rocky sitting in the coffee shop for another half hour while I pushed him for detail. I could see from his eyes he knew I was trying to trip him up, but he stuck to his story. He’d been at the Hogshead all night until they broke up at closing.

  I returned to the office after leaving CNM to clear my desk of whatever Hazel had loaded it up with, nursing the feeling Rocky Lodeen had been sparring with me. Charlie agreed to do a background check on Rocky while I finished the day on the telephone with various people in his buddy Spencer Spears’s world: his landlord, his employer, and a counselor at CNM. He and his strawberry birthmark had charmed them all.

  That night, I couldn’t help but compare Pedro to the black panther living on Rocky Lodeen’s brawny arm. I far preferred the amiable dragon to the threatening cat. I glanced at the man sleeping beside me. Paul’s articles on the Voxlightner scandal were earning him attention and assignments. This was both good and bad. It meant he was building a reputation in his field, but it also meant he had less time to spend with me on the hunt for Belhaven’s killer. The tension that had existed between us was gone now—or lay hidden to rear its head again later. But that’s a danger in any relationship, right?