Jerry smirked. “Part of the dirt involved some serious campaign finance irregularities, but for that they slap your wrist and say tsk tsk. The biggies are a couple offshore deals.”
“How big?”
“Ten to fifteen years as a guest of the state big. Stegener’s husband is trying to quash them but the feds are too close. The day after you left, Miriam’s campaign finance officer was found dead on his patio. No signs of foul play, no signs anyone else was in the house except his cat. Then her top dog in the campaign was found in his swimming pool. He knew how to swim.”
“Laura can’t find anything?”
“She’s still looking. Determined woman.”
Joe could drink to that. Determined but wise enough to see writing on walls. When their medical examiner, Laura Svenson, decided to rise to a challenge, it was Katie bar the door. On the other hand, the week before he flew to Ireland she had determined to seduce him, but when that didn’t work, she was wise enough not to try again. Her highly attractive breasts still blazed bright in his memory.
Jerry glanced at his watch. “This session went longer than I realized. Thank you, Laura. Now I better take you down to Tempe, Joe. It’s almost dinner.”
Joe didn’t bother flagging a server. Because he was a half owner of Chico’s Rincon, he and his companions ate and drank free, and a twenty percent tip was billed to his running account there. He waved to Clara on their way out.
As they crawled back into Jerry’s car, Maria asked, “What will you and Bridgid do tomorrow? Have you decided yet?”
“We talked about that on the plane. I’ll be reading supplementals, trying to catch up. Fel is getting her a bus pass today. She plans to whip out a map of Phoenix and go exploring tomorrow.”
Maria smiled. “Yep. You two will make a great couple.”
If Joe had a bane to his existence, it was supplemental reports. Writing them and reading them.
An intimidating stack of paper was awaiting him on his desk in the Vulture’s Roost Monday morning. Area maps would identify the third floor here as the Homicide Division. To everyone in the department it was the Vulture’s Roost; don’t let the map kid you.
He had tackled Hugh Bartoli’s stack first, because Hugh was working on the Stegener case, and no doubt Joe would get in on his share of the inaction. When a case involved CPAs, you couldn’t really call it action.
Hugh was an excellent observer and a good writer, as opposed to some of the investigators in Homicide. Joe got a clear picture from Hugh’s report and supplementals.
The chief financial officer of Miriam Stegener’s campaign, Karl Steiffel, was a bull of a fellow, hefty, somewhat overweight (Hugh phrased it well without actually saying “fat”), a raging conservative and not someone you would associate with a mild-mannered occupation. His housekeeper found him out on his walled-in patio in his favourite chaise longe. Laura determined he had been dead in the heat for about three hours. No known visitors that day.
Joe noted one thing of interest. Steiffel had quite a sophisticated alarm system complete with video surveillance of all the doors. You could see if anyone had come or gone. They hadn’t.
And here was Hugh’s report on the other recent victim from the Stegener group, Walter Davenport. The guy’s name should have been Walter Mitty, because he was the spitting image of James Thurber’s feckless character out to buy puppy biscuits. Frail, balding, aged and yet ageless, quiet, obsessive as to detail. In essence, Miriam Stegener had hired him to distribute her primary campaign funds in as effective a way as possible. According to Hugh, he was a good one for that task; essentially, he was cheap. He would not lay a twenty-dollar bribe on someone if a ten-dollar bribe would do the job.
Attached to Davenport’s jacket were spread sheets of the money he had handled. Hugh noted that the total was less than a fourth of the campaign funds that had come in. Miriam had explained away the discrepancy by saying that Davenport was assigned enough funds to do the job, and the rest were kept as a reserve in case she faced a major challenge in the November election. Where was that reserve? She didn’t know; ask Steiffel.
Davenport lived in a modest little house in Mesa with a small swimming pool in the back yard. He had no alarm system whatever.
And here were Hugh’s supplementals on a Missing Persons case, that of Miriam’s personal assistant, Alicia Bowerman. She vanished when Walter Davenport’s body was found and now belonged to Homicide because she was presumed dead. Hugh added a sidebar: He thought the real reason her case was given to Homicide was because Missing Persons already had a bigger workload than they could handle, so they dumped her.
Joe laid down the last of Hugh Bartoli’s and picked up Janet James’s. His post-lunch caffeine jolt was not doing its job of keeping him alert. Where was Bridgid? Somewhere on a bus, he supposed, exploring the city that was her new home. Sweet Bridgid.
In the door came a security officer looking pained, and he had a swarthy little fellow in tow. The man had gained weight since he bought the suit; the coat wouldn’t button. And its armpits were sweat-stained. They rapped briefly at Jerry’s door and marched in.
They came marching back out. As they approached Joe’s desk, the fellow stepped out around the officer and parked. “Jose Rodriguez? You’ve been served.” He slapped a paper on Joe’s desk, turned around, and walked away.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” the guard said, and followed the fellow out.
Joe just gaped. Across the room, Hugh gaped.
At her desk, Janet gaped. “Really?”
Joe picked up the paper. “Really.” He wagged his head. “I must have requested a hundred subpoenas, but this is the first time I’ve ever been on the receiving end.” He frowned. “Actually, I’m not. This is for Jose Rodriguez, not Joseph Rodriguez.” He looked around the room. “Anyone here know a Jose Rodriguez?”
Hugh shrugged. “Tommy calls you Jose sometimes, but what does he know? He’s Irish. I don’t believe anything he says; you know, Blarney stone and all that.”
Jerry came out of his office carrying a familiar-looking piece of paper.
“You too, huh?” Joe wagged his head. “We must be a hotbed of wrongdoing.”
“That’s not the half of it.” Jerry paused, looking as confused as Joe felt. “The chief was just served. He wants to know what’s up.”
“I don’t blame him. So do I.”
Hugh studied Jerry. “Who would lay this on the chief? Or you, for that matter.”
“Or get my name wrong.” Joe would have started speculating, but his phone rang.
“Joe?” Bridgid, and she sounded plaintive, frightened, not at all like Bridgid. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I fell asleep on the bus. I’m lost.” She also sounded panicky. Her mum panicked easily and Bridgid had a strong tendency to. That concerned him; panic cripples your capacity to think clearly in an emergency. Or, apparently, when you’re lost.
“What’s the name of the street you are on now?”
“Central. But Joe, I’m clear off the map. I think per’aps I’m north of town, or maybe south if the bus turned around, but I could be anywhere. Ye know, should the road curve around….”
“Central doesn’t curve. You’re north. Did you see any directional signs as you got off the bus? Just before you got off the bus?”
“Something about Rawhide; that’s a town, right?”
“No. What sort of landmarks do you see? Anything?”
“A petrol station up on the corner with a big yellow seashell.”
Joe smiled. “I know where you are. Stay right there. I’ll come get you.”
“But y’re at work. I didn’t want to disturb ye. Please, just tell me how to get home. If I get on a bus and go south, can I get home?”
“Work is already totally disturbed, believe me. Stay at the Shell station inside, in the air conditioning. I’m on my way.” He cradled the phone.
Jerry looked bemused. ”Bridgid?”
“She fell victim to jet lag and is now off the map north
of town, approaching Rawhide. She sounds distraught, so I’d like to quit early and take her to dinner.”
Jerry nodded. “Do that.”
“Take her to dinner where?” Janet asked.
“Pinnacle Peak.”
“Yes!”
Jerry half smiled. “And while you’re gone, I’ll go talk to Harvey and see what’s going on here. Hugh, you’re minding the store, right?”
“Right.”
Joe laid the supplementals aside, took one long last look at that subpoena, and left.
Traffic hadn’t turned completely hideous yet, and he got to the Shell station in twenty minutes. As he pulled into the station she came popping out at that fast, rolling walk that must be taught in paramedic school, because they all use it. He leaned over and opened the passenger door.
She flopped in. “Oh, Joe, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He kissed her extensively. “Other than getting lost, how did your day go?”
“Splendidly. I am already getting a feel for the town. First I rode about. Then I picked a place on the map at random, ye might say, and was going to take buses until I got to it. But I fell asleep.”
“Did you get lunch?”
“A pretty little coffee shop in Christown Mall. But it wasn’t very substantial.”
“Good. We’re going to Pinnacle Peak Steak House and your meal will definitely be substantial.”
“But your work…”
“I was falling asleep reading reports.”
She smiled and leaned back, the first sign of relaxation he could see. “Silly me, I thought that jet lag is all in one’s head and that meself could avoid it by force of will. Mind over matter and a’ that.”
“Takes me about four days.”
“Four. Oh, dear.”
He pulled into the steakhouse parking lot and was pleased to see that it was too early for the place to be crowded yet. He unclipped his beloved blue and white silk tie, opened the trunk, and carefully laid the tie in it. He got his ratty out-of-style red wool tie out of the trunk and clipped it on as she watched curiously. Appropriately dressed for their Pinnacle Peak adventure, he escorted her inside.
An older couple preceded them at the reception desk. The fellow was also wearing a tie. The receptionist greeted them brightly and explained that this was a very casual, cowboy sort of place. No place for formality, absolutely no neckties. She came around to stand in front of them, whipped out a big pair of scissors, and deftly cut the fellow’s tie off near the knot.
Bridgid actually yelped a sort of scream, her hands pressed to her mouth.
Good. Joe took off the red tie and stuffed it in his pocket. Bridgid had responded even better than he’d hoped, and he didn’t have to sacrifice a necktie, however out of date it might be.
The receptionist tacked the fellow’s tie end up on the wall with hundreds of others and escorted the bewildered couple off to seating.
Bridgid was looking from the receptionist to Joe to that vast variety of tie ends tacked up. Obviously she was doing some fast addition. “Ye knew! I see! Of course. Sure and y’rself and Tommy would know about this place. No doubt Fel and Gretchen do as well.” And she laughed heartily. “Oh, Joe, we must bring me Da here!”
“That we must. He can borrow my red wool tie.”
The receptionist settled them into one of the few booths left, in easy viewing distance of one of those big sports-bar television monitors that plague so many restaurants nowadays. Joe found them annoying. What he particularly found annoying was the fact that they drew his attention like a magnet, whether he wanted to watch or not. At least the early news had just come on, and that was easier to ignore than were baseball games. A blonde, chickie-doll communications major was telling us all the news. The sound was off, but subtitles crawled across the bottom of the screen.
The scene switched to an interview site and Joe felt his mouth drop open. Miriam Stegener was the interviewee! Miriam Stegener, former mayoral candidate, and her crass husband had crossed swords not just with Joe but with the whole police department, not to mention the fire department and legal services for the indigent. Her gaunt frame was draped in a stylish but severe business suit, and to prove that she was a busy, busy woman, she had a wad of yellow papers sticking out of her jacket pocket.
Apparently another of the Stegener retinue had decamped, the woman who handled the campaign venues. Miriam was certain the woman must have been killed like the two others. Her angular face was all scrunched up in grief, and she dabbed at her eyes. She had just talked to the girl a couple hours ago. Wonderful young woman and a skilled record-keeper. Such a loss. Heartbroken. Miriam was absolutely heartbroken.
Knowing her, Joe couldn’t bring himself to believe that. In the first place, as far as he could tell she had no heart. Neither did she have any trouble at all maligning people who actually did have a heart. Her crocodile tears greatly annoyed him.
His mobile phone rang. That was something else that greatly annoyed him, a telephone you can’t hide from. It was Jerry. “Hey, we got another Stegener possible.”
“If that’s a woman named Barbara Marsh, I’m watching the interview on Channel Four. Poor Miriam is heartbroken. She just said so.”
“Yeah, right. I just got off the phone with Harvey Spruce. We’re all lawyered up. We have a problem. Hugh has been taking the Stegener mess and he’s swamped. So are Janet and Visneros. You and Tommy will never know how much you were missed. I was going to quit giving Hugh any new ones, but I can’t give it to you and probably not to Tommy. And I have to stay out of it. So I want—”
A bell rang in Joe’s head. He interrupted. “That’s where I saw that shade of yellow before! Miriam Stegener is behind the subpoenas. She still has the yellow second copies in her pocket.”
“That explains it. Harvey said we’d talk about it later but that you and I are to stay off the Stegener case. The chief was going to give it to Tempe, but Harvey talked him out of it. Anyway, until these subpoenas are settled, we have to recuse ourselves from anything regarding the Stegeners. I’m going to transfer all of Hugh’s caseload except Stegener to you and Tommy.”
Joe stared at Bridgid without seeing her, realized what he was doing, and smiled at her. “So what you’re saying is that Stegener is running the homicide division now.”
“Pretty much.”
“I read Hugh’s supplementals. I’ll take him out for a drink and get filled in on the small stuff. Tell him I’ll pick him up around eight at his place.”
“Good. Thanks. This Stegener is a real pain in the ass.”
“I’ve always thought so.”
Chapter 3 Alicia Bowerman
Joe studied his ale tankard, now only half full. “Miriam was really blatant about it—passing out flyers, had her name up on a banner. “Miriam Stegener for mayor” ten feet long. She set her political display up right in front of the African Veldt exhibit, so you couldn’t miss her. And she wasn’t there to see all the cuddly zoo animals, either; she was in three-inch spike heels. Zoo security tried to close her down and she was resisting, but her husband was the ultimate goon. He was bullying, threatening, beating his chest. Miriam insisted that the zoo security guys weren’t real policemen and couldn’t stifle her right to free speech. It was quite a show.”
“Sorry I missed it.” Hugh smirked.
“The security guys obviously weren’t trained to recognize the signs that the situation was dangerously escalating, so I stepped in. After all, by Miriam’s definition I’m a real policeman.”
Hugh Bartoli nodded. “I assume the zoo was worried about their non-profit status if a candidate for mayor was stumping on their premises, even if the zoo hadn’t authorized it.”
“Exactly, and that’s the argument I used. And no, they hadn’t asked permission. They were exercising their free speech. I backed up the zoo security guys. Miriam and her husband took it poorly. He blew his cork—incidentally, his cork blows easily, so be ready for him—and started to paste me, so I took him
down. The caliche was over a hundred degrees, and he got a first-degree burn on his cheek. I suppose he’s really sore at the emergency room because they didn’t think a mild redness on one cheek requires hospitalization. They smeared some Benadryl on him and sent him home. When he left there he was threatening to sue them for negligence.”
Hugh smirked. “And I read your report filed when he attacked you and Harvey at the courthouse.”
“Totally unprovoked, and we hadn’t approached him. We didn’t even know he was in the building. Apparently he and Miriam are claiming police harassment and persecution and they’re going to sue us, but there’s no way in hell they’d win if they took me to court. In the deposition, eyewitnesses swear he ran the length of the hall to come get us and our backs were turned to him. The zoo incident, too; unassailable testimony.”
“I see what you mean by being ready for him.” Hugh took a swig from his tankard of ale. “Yeah, we cops tend to persecute and harass folks we see being illegal. Only we call it prosecution, not persecution.”
“A mere matter of a single vowel.”
Hugh laughed. “Ain’t English grand. Jerry says you have to stay out of it, so here’s what you’re not supposed to know. The day after you flew to Ireland to make the big mistake, Miriam Stegener’s campaign finance director was found dead.”
“That was Karl Steiffel in your reports.”
“Right. Two days later Miriam’s campaign director was found at the bottom of his swimming pool.”
“Walter Davenport.”
Hugh nodded. “No nasty substances on board, no water in his lungs, and he was supposedly a good swimmer. That same day Miriam’s personal secretarial assistant disappeared and is presumed dead. We’re still looking for her, but not as eagerly anymore. Now the venue manager slash part-time accountant is gone. Poof.”
“So apparently it doesn’t pay to work on Miriam’s campaign.”
Hugh polished off his ale. “It’s paying somebody. Fraud has been trying to find out where all their money went, especially after her campaign hopes fizzled. Even after she quit the race, money was still coming in.”
Pony Up Page 3