The J D Bragg Mystery Series Box Set

by Ron Fisher

  “You want me to gossip," he said. "I don’t want to do that.”

  “Help me clear the name of an innocent boy, Doctor Whitmore.”

  The Doctor chewed on his pipe looking at me.

  “I may have heard something in that respect,” he said, “but it’s just suppositions, and I won’t repeat them.”

  He stood up, tapped his pipe empty on the side of the building, and put it back in his pocket. “However charming I know Ms. Ladd to be, I’m sure Margaret is ready to go home. She’s an early to bed, early to rise woman, and has been for the fifty years of our marriage.”

  He seemed a bit hesitant to leave as if he was deciding something.

  “Talk to Wilson Kroll’s vet, Sam Squires,” he finally said. “We’ve known each other for a long time. I hate to think this, but if Kroll is up to any fraudulent shenanigans, then Sam would have to know. There’s no other way. What you’ve said takes a licensed veterinarian's stamp of approval.”

  It was what Brandon Wise, the insurance investigator, said, too.

  Doctor Whitmore looked at me with genuine sadness. “Sam Squires was once a good man, and I would hate to think he’s stooped to something like this, but he’s not the man I used to know. He’s suffered some bad times over the past few years, and it’s changed him. He lost his only son in Iraq, and his wife went into severe depression. She eventually killed herself with an overdose of sleeping pills. Sam went downhill fast after that. He started drinking heavily and lost what business he had. I got most of it.”

  “Then how did he become Wilson Kroll’s vet?” I asked.

  “It surprised me when Kroll hired him, which made me look at Kroll for the first time as a benevolent and kind-hearted man. He gave Sam a steady job, helped him settle his debts, and get off the booze. Sam straightened out for a while—went to AA and all that—but recently he’s started drinking again, not as much as before, but steady. He paces himself like veteran alcoholics do, so you don’t notice he’s snockered twenty-four hours a day. He has become a distressed man again.

  “The last few times I saw him he seemed to be carrying around a heavy burden, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the loss of his son or his wife. Something is troubling him again. I believe Sam is a man with a conscience, and I think he wants to talk about it, tell somebody, but can’t, or won’t. It could have something to do with Kroll, I don’t know. Maybe if you told Sam what you believe, he would unburden himself.”

  “It’s worth a try,” I said. “If Squires came clean with Mr. Wise at the insurance company, maybe Wise can make it easier on him. I want to talk to Dr. Squires.”

  Whitmore looked at his watch. “Well, if you want to do it tonight, you can find him where he is every day about this time, sitting at the bar at McGourty’s pub, just up the street.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Whitmore,” I said.

  He nodded at me, and I followed him back inside.

  Natasha and Mrs. Whitmore looked up as we came in.

  “Did you order for us?” I asked Natasha.

  “I didn’t know how long you’d be out there, so I didn’t want the food to get cold. Did I do wrong?”

  “No, that’s perfect. Let’s go someplace else to eat. McGourty’s Pub. Know where it is?”

  “Of course,” Natasha said. “It’s near Huckleberry’s, where we had lunch the day we met. Why are we going there?”

  “I need to see a man about a horse there. Tell you about it on the way.”

  She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “You’re the boss, big man.”

  I thanked Dr. Whitmore and shook his hand before leaving.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  We left our cars parked at Side Street Pizza and walked north on Trade Street to McGourty’s Pub. It took less than five minutes. As we walked, I filled Natasha in on who we were going to see, and everything I knew about him.

  “I know who Sam Squires is,” she said. “It’s terrible about his son and his wife, but if he’s had anything to do with Jamal’s disappearance I’m not going to feel sorry for him.”

  “That may be the leverage we use to get him to talk,” I said. “Even if Squires shot the horse, as long as he doesn’t have anything to do with Jamal’s disappearance, and I can convince him Kroll does, then maybe he will fess-up to the Emperor scam to distance himself from anything more criminal. If I can get him to tell Mr. Wise at the Olympic Equine Insurance Company about it, then we’ve got Kroll by the ba—well, let's just say we’ve got him nailed.”

  “J.D, you can say balls around me,” Natasha said. “I’ve seen them. I’ve even held—”

  “Stop it,” I said.

  “Why J.D., that’s the first time in years I’ve seen a grown man blush.”

  I tried to ignore her.

  We entered McGourty’s Pub. There were people there, but it wasn’t crowded. “Look for the most depressed guy in the place,” I said.

  “I told you I know who he is. That’s him at the far end of the bar, sitting alone. The tall, thin guy in the checked shirt and the long face. You’re right. He does look depressed.”

  There were two open stools next to him, and we took them—me, the closer one to him. The bartender came over, and I ordered a beer and two menus. Natasha checked out their wines and settled on a glass of house Merlot. The menus came, and we both ordered cheeseburgers medium, hers with fries and mine with pimento cheese and onion rings. When we placed our orders, I looked at Sam Squires and said, “Excuse me, aren’t you Doctor Squires?”

  He turned to look at me, his movements slow, his expression showing his thoughts were coming back from someplace far away.

  “Horse Doctor Squires,” he said. His speech was as slow as his movements. “Do I know you?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “But I know you.” I decided his long face and droopy eyes didn’t help his down-in-the-mouth look. It was a face that would probably look depressed even if he weren’t. But maybe I was judging him too harshly. He’d been through enough with the tragedies of his son and wife to pull down anybody’s face, I guessed.

  He looked around me at Natasha, and his eyes seemed to register a sharper focus, like he recognized her. He reached for a pack of cigarettes on the bar, took one out and lit it.

  “I need to ask you a couple of questions,” I said.

  He caught the bartender’s eye and pointed to his glass. The bartender nodded and began to make him a fresh drink. Squires turned back to me.

  “What kind of questions? he said, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “I want to know if you’re willing to go down with Wilson Kroll when the cops get him, which they will inevitably do,” I said. I gave him my most serious glare, but I probably just looked tired. I saw him, like Dr. Whitmore, glance up to my head and the stitches. Even horse doctors seemed keen on noticing fresh wounds.

  “Who are you, and what are you talking about?”

  I spoke to Natasha over my shoulder, “Why don’t you go get us a table. I believe Sam would rather talk to me one-on-one.”

  Natasha got up and took her wine to a table without saying a word.

  He watched her go and gave me a nervous look.

  “I’m going to tell you something,” I said, “and I want you to listen carefully. It may keep you from spending too much time in prison. Come clean about what you and Wilson Kroll have been up to. Get out ahead of it before it’s too late.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. He was a terrible liar. He swallowed hard and looked at me as if he’d been expecting this moment.

  “I’m talking about criminal fraud. Things like selling sperm from an infertile horse. That’s a neat trick. How does one manage that? But you know how, don’t you, because you’re a part of it. Then the horse—good old Emperor—gets shot for the insurance money before anyone finds out he’s infertile. But here’s where the trouble is. Somebody did find out. An innocent black kid who Kroll then accused of being the shooter. Only he didn’t do it. W
ho knows, maybe you did.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said, angrily, but there was a noticeable fear behind the anger.

  I decided to heap it on. Here’s the real kicker,” I said. “I’m sure you’re aware the kid in question, Jamal Johnson, has disappeared. Now let me ask you this. If the boy didn’t shoot the horse and believe me, he didn’t, why would he run away? I think they’ll eventually find his body somewhere, and this thing you’re into with Kroll won’t be just fraud, there will be a murder charge added to it. They will at least charge you as a co-conspirator.”

  Sam Squires was visibly shaken and sat staring at me as if he was having difficulty processing what I’d just said.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with that boy. I would never . . . I don’t know anything about him. If something has happened to him, it was Wilson’s doing, not mine.”

  I had him. I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sam, I know about your boy and your wife. I don’t know how anybody could get through something like that. People say you were a good man before all the tragedy befell you. I think you still are. And I believe this is your chance to prove it. Wilson Kroll is a bad man. He took advantage of your situation, and before you knew it, you were in too deep into his criminality to get out. Now’s your chance.”

  “Are you a cop?” he asked.

  “I’m just a guy who knows what you and Kroll have been up to,” I said. “And if I found out so easily, you’ve got to know the police will, too. It’s just a matter of time until everything comes crashing down. Don’t get caught up in things you didn’t do.”

  I took the business card of Mr. Wise, the insurance investigator, out of my pocket and placed it on the bar in front of him.

  “Talk to this man before it’s too late,” I said. “He’ll take it from here. I’m sure if you cooperate, he’ll try to make it easier on you. Nailing Kroll is worth several million dollars to him and his company.”

  “I know who he is,” Sam said, looking at the card. “He’s already been out asking questions. Do you work with him?”

  “Let’s just say we’re working together with similar purposes,” I said.

  He looked as if he was going to push himself away from the bar, but didn’t. His hands were trembling, and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the guy. Steve-the-bartender looked at us and started to come down the bar, but thought better of it and began laboriously shining beer glasses. I figured I’d done my best with Sam Squires and to say more might be too much. The guy seemed shattered.

  I tapped a finger on the card in front of him. “Call this guy, Sam. Tell him everything. I don’t want to see you go down with a scumbag like Wilson Kroll. Believe me, that’s coming, and a lot sooner than he thinks.”

  I picked up my beer and joined Natasha at a table by the window.

  “Well?” was all she said.

  I watched Sam Squires pay his tab and stand up. He stared at Wise’s card a moment, then picked it up and left through the back door.

  I grinned at Natasha. “I think we just nailed Wilson Kroll’s sorry ass to the wall.”

  “You’re kidding,” Natasha said. “How?”

  “I think Sam Squires is going to rat him out.”

  “So, why don’t you seem happy?”

  “Oh, I am. It’s just that the worst part of this—the question of Jamal Johnson’s innocence and disappearance—remains unanswered.”

  Natasha was nibbling on the last of her French fries. My cheeseburger and onion rings were almost cold, but I ate them anyway, and we headed back to Natasha’s place.

  I called Kelly and brought her up on the day’s events. I didn’t tell her I was exhausted, my stitches itched, and my head ached. I said I was doing great. I asked her to come to the race with us on Saturday, reassured her I would drop the silly boyfriend-girlfriend charade Natasha and I had been playing. It had served its purpose. She, not Natasha, would be my date and that would make me tremendously happy. Kelly enthusiastically agreed to come. Five minutes after we hung up, I was sound asleep in Natasha’s guest bedroom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Friday I awoke rested and feeling better. It would take more than a polo mallet to the head to take me out of the game. Or so I would like to think. I still had a mild headache, but I would grin and bear it, hoping it would eventually go away. I popped some aspirin to help it on its way.

  Natasha and I agreed that while I watched the Kroll Castle and Alvin stayed with Teddy, she would go to Millie Johnson’s to search for Jamal’s journal. I called Alvin, who was already on the job. He said there was no movement at Crane’s cabin. Teddy must be sleeping late.

  I was at my usual spot near Wilson Kroll’s place by nine o’clock, drinking a take-out coffee I’d bought along the way. There were a couple more cars in Kroll’s drive now, parked next to the one with Ohio plates I’d assumed belonged to the two goons I’d met with Kroll at the USEC Center party Wednesday night.

  I pulled the binoculars out and studied the two new vehicles. They were both late model Lincolns, one dark blue, the other black, both with rental-car company decals and Greenville-Spartanburg airport stickers on the back bumpers. Whoever came in them flew in and drove from the airport since last night. They were here, I assumed, for the race, and hopefully, for a party Wilson Kroll would throw for them tonight.

  Around lunchtime, one of the several garage doors on Kroll’s castle rolled up. Kroll’s wife came out pulling an overnight bag on wheels. She put it in the back seat of a Lexus, got in, and drove away. Whatever was going on, she wouldn’t be there for it.

  Not long after that, ten men came out of Kroll’s castle, one of them Kroll. They split up and got into the two Lincolns. They were laughing and talking so loud I could hear their voices from where I was sitting, but couldn’t make out the words. They were all dressed in loudly-colored golf shirts and wildly-patterned slacks. Several wore golf hats or visors. If I opened the trunks of the two cars, I would expect to find golf clubs. Kroll got behind the wheel of one of the airport rentals with a fit-looking silver-haired gentlemen riding passenger. Three other men took the back seat. The other five took the Lincoln, the two goons from the USEC party among them. They all drove away.

  I ducked down in my seat as they went by, and then followed. They drove out Oak Grove Road to Highway Eleven, turned right, went a couple of miles west, and into the gated community of the Cliffs at Glassy, a swank housing development and golf club on Glassy Mountain. The golf course, I’d heard, was carved out of the top of the mountain. Glassy was the western half of the same ridge that formed Hogback Mountain, but unlike Hogback, which was mostly uninhabited, impressive houses with spectacular cliff-side views covered Glassy. From below, the mountain resembled a contemporary, expensive version of a cliff dwelling.

  The gate and guardhouse stopped me. They required credentials to enter. You had to live there, be a member of the golf club, or a guest of someone who was, or you couldn’t get in. It didn’t matter. I knew where they were going and what they were going to do. I didn’t think anyone would wear those colors if they were up to no good. I’ve never understood golf attire. They looked like circus clowns.

  I called Natasha, and she said she and Millie Johnson had turned the Johnson house upside down and found no sign of a journal. She didn’t think it was there and wondered if someone already found it—or if Jamal gave it to someone.

  “By the way,” I said, “Kroll and his buddies are playing golf right now at the Cliffs at Glassy, and I’ve got some time on my hands. Want to have lunch?”

  “Sure,” she responded. “How about that Pizza place we didn’t get to eat at last night?”

  “Okay,” I’ll meet you there. I’ll call Alvin in the meantime and see if he wants us to bring him something.”

  My pizza was good, and Natasha had pasta, which also looked tasty. I ordered a to-go turkey sub on wheat, no mayo, and a large unsweetened iced tea for Alvin. Surely that would be on his diet. There was nothing fr
ied on it. I called him and told him about it, and he said Teddy was still there, and hadn’t left his cabin all morning.

  Natasha was staring at me when I put the phone away.

  “Do you really think it’s necessary to watch Teddy?” she said.

  “We’ve been over this,” I said. “You’re the one who told me Teddy sells drugs. Chuck said he supplied drugs to Kroll’s parties. Teddy says he doesn’t know Kroll—obviously not true. I’d like to prove it.”

  “Why don’t I just ask him?” she said. “He would probably tell me.”

  “Let’s do it my way,” I said. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll let you ask him. But until then promise me you won’t tell him what we’re doing.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said, sighing. “But Teddy doesn’t have anything to do with Kroll’s dead horse, and certainly not with Jamal’s disappearance. You’ll see.”

  “So, no luck finding Jamal’s journal,” I said, to change the subject.

  “Unless he has a super-secret hiding place. Millie and I did a thorough search and came up with nothing. We even knocked on walls and closet floors for hollow spaces,” she said. “I’ve been thinking. If someone put the rifle in the shed out back, maybe the same someone went into the house and found the diary.”

  “Possible, I said. “But before we give up, why don’t you go back and talk to the girlfriend again. Make double sure he didn’t give the journal to her, or she can’t guess where he hid it. Maybe she’ll tell you something she wouldn’t say in front of me. I’ll try that red-headed kid again—Jamal’s buddy, Ronnie Dill. We didn’t ask him about the journal, since we didn’t know about it at the time we talked to him.”

  I told her it looked like Kroll was planning a party for his friends tonight, and not to wait up for me. She wanted to come along on the stakeout, but I talked her out of it again, saying that Alvin and I might do a bit of party crashing and she didn’t want to be there for that. She reluctantly agreed.