SAGE: AN ADAM STONE MYSTERY (THE ADAM STONE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by D. L. EVANS

  “What is this Mack? You want me to get killed? Tell Lauren she can’t get married to the best catch in the city? Her BOSS yet? And why not, pray tell…. Because my crazy friend has the hots for her and records her shows...? Are you nuts?” My voice was up in the stratosphere.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ADAM STONE:

  Mack was as upset as I’ve ever seen him. What the hell was going on?

  “Sweet Jesus Adam, I wish that was all, but it isn’t.” He had that far away look in his eyes and I braced myself. “Look, the main reason why I wanted to talk to you tonight was about Roger Goddamn Smythe himself. I ran a check on him, for my own reasons, and he came out squeaky clean... not just pure as snow clean but scrubbed clean, like a fucking press release. It didn’t sit right. No one gets to the top without stirring up some shit. Christ, everyone has enemies in some closet somewhere. But I knew if there was some real dirt, he’s big enough to plant it deep where the sun don’t shine.” His voice cracked. He took a deep breath and regained control. I was a captive audience and he had the evening to go into details. “Help yourself to the pasta.” He poured some wine and served himself. I recognized the expression. He was organizing his thoughts and there was no rushing him. I practically heard his mind click into gear as his ice blue eyes stared into the emptiness beyond me.

  I sat opposite him at the small dining table. On the TV screen, Lauren and her guest were in animated conversation about an amazing bronze statue. I started to pay attention. The camera slowly circled two female forms covered in textured bark emerging from the trunk of a tree, showing the details in the metal that made it come alive. It was a stunning piece. Lauren's voice said that one dimension could not do it justice. I believed her. The guy was a genius. Mack was still miles away. I broke the silence between us, over Lauren’s muted interview. “Why did you run a check on him anyway?” Mack refocused and met my eyes. “Smythe, Roger Smythe,” I repeated. “What made you check him out? You’re still investigating the murder of that headless woman, aren’t you? The one you think is the victim of a serial killer? What’s Smythe got to do with that?” Something in my stomach tightened.

  “Don’t make that jump. I told ya I never liked the guy and I just didn’t believe the glowing reports in the file. He’s an artichoke.”

  “Pardon?”

  “An artichoke. You know, leaves all layered and interwoven. Looks impressive. Tastes like shit.” Mack said.

  “I guess you don’t want my opinion then.” I said.

  “Not unless it agrees with mine. But then, unlike Mason Green, I made a call. I didn’t tell you before but I didn’t just co-incidentally spot Reese watching Smythe and his buddies. Remember Franko, the reincarnation of Caesar?” I nodded. He had been framed on a drug charge, years ago and we dug around and caught the bad boys who thought they were clear. He was a real character but to give him credit he remembers his friends and helps us on occasion with the odd bit of information. “I asked him to check out Smythe.” Mack said.

  “What’d he say?”

  “Well y’know, if you want to find out something, you start at the bottom and work your way down. He’s says something stinks all right. The first time he called, he just said that Smythe was being watched but he didn’t know by whom. It wasn’t anyone in his circle so it was probably cops - I found out it was Reese. What he didn’t tell me was that he’d sent a ferret to Atlanta. The second call was yesterday. The ferret found something. It seems that Roger Dodger had two first wives. Everyone knows about the actress but the real first wife, Ellie May Whithers disappeared soon after they were married. You didn’t know that he’d been married twice, did you?”

  “No." This was not good news, I thought. "Neither does Lauren. Everyone knew about the actress, Fiona York and their supposedly amicable divorce, it was in all the papers, but I’m sure no one knew about another wife. What happened?”

  “They were just kids apparently. Ran off together when they were both seventeen. His father, Roger Senior, was a big shot lawyer in Atlanta and little Ellie May from the sticks, was not what he had in mind for his only son. Daddy tracked them down and had the marriage annulled. A few months later Roger was sent off to university in England and the girl’s family were paid off to keep quiet...”

  “Well, that’s not much of a skeleton, although I can see why he would want it forgotten.”

  “Franko didn’t leave it there. When the honeymoon couple were found by Smythe senior, little Ellie was already so badly beaten that when they brought her back she was under a doctor’s care for a month. It seems that Roger-of- the-Perfect Hair has the temper of a rattlesnake. And just as our boy is shipped out of the country, Ellie May Whithers, the former Mrs. Smythe, went for a walk in the swamp, pardon me, the ‘wetlands’, and didn’t return. The family said that she was depressed over the annulment but a couple of Ellie’s friends said she was pregnant and was actually happy that the beating didn’t cause a miscarriage... Sounds like someone didn’t want a mistake to effect future plans.”

  “Goddamn. How am I going to tell this to Lauren without her thinking that Roger is being investigated?”

  “You don’t Adam, at least, not yet.”

  “Christ Mack,” I argued, “this is Lauren we’re talking about!” I tried to keep my voice level and failed. “You think I’m going to keep this from her? He could be involved in a murder! There’s no way she’s marrying him. He might belong in prison.”

  "OK, OK," Mack said. "We agree that we can’t let them get married. You said she’s just got engaged, right? Have they announced a wedding date?” he asked.

  “No. In fact, they haven’t announced the engagement yet. I don’t know why.”

  “Well, neither of them is the type to run off and elope,” he figured out loud, “so we probably have some time. I know Reese says that he’s close to an arrest on this stock manipulation scam… Let me talk to him. If he doesn’t think its soon, I’ll tell him what Franko found out, arrange a leak to cover the source of the info, and we’ll start a homicide investigation. Just give me a few days Adam. Lauren’s not in any danger, believe me. I wouldn’t let anything happen to her. You know that.”

  “We’re not with her every minute,” I argued. “I’m not comfortable with this Mack. I’m going to try to find out when she’s planning to make the announcement and I’ll decide from there if you have any time to get Smythe on the fraud case... It’s the only way I can deal with this for now. It’s the best I’ll do.”

  “Agreed,” Mack relaxed. “I’ll talk to Reese first thing in the morning.”

  “Didn’t you say that you weren’t sure it was Smythe that Reese was after? What do you know about the case?”

  “When Franko made the first call I went down to the CHAT Plaza to see who was involved. I’d only met Reese once months ago but there he was, looking like a bum right down to the thatched roof hair tucked under a hat and bobbing Adam’s apple. How many can there be that look like him? I never could understand how he was so successful in fraud. I thought he’d stick out like a bloody fire hydrant on a stakeout but he didn’t... Just looked like any other weirdo eatin’ a sandwich and talking to himself.”

  “He had a team?” I asked?

  “Yup. And their technique’s have improved I can tell you. It took quite a while to spot them,” Mack was obviously impressed. “One followed Smythe and three of his cronies out the door to the limos. Reese only gets involved himself if it’s important but I’m not sure that it’s specifically Smythe that he’s after. I'm quietly trying to find out how important the other three are. They weren't exactly hiding so it shouldn't be too hard. If you think about it, Smythe knows everybody, politicians, businessmen and even the local church leaders, through the charity circuit. Christ, Roger Smythe is to bullshit, what Stonehenge is to rocks... You can use that in yer book.” (He was serious)

  “He wouldn’t dare hurt her, would he?” I asked trying not to sound panicked. “Surely not when she’s such a high profile celeb
rity,” I reasoned. “I know Lewis is just waiting to get you directing traffic in North Bay… a wrong move here Mack, could mean your career.”

  “You’re tellin’ me.”

  “Goddamn it Mack, she believes this guy is straight up. You really think he killed a pregnant, seventeen year old? Why not the old man? He could have arranged it and not involved his son.”

  “He beat her up, badly, Adam,” he said softly. “What kind of a fuckhead does that to someone... and not just anyone… but a young kid that was in love with him... that he’s just married? The vibes that Franko’s man picked up from the hometown questions, add up to a power freak that likes to hurt people. I think that Ellie May was a liability that wouldn’t go away. If daddy did have her removed, then my money says Roger junior was in on it. My own feeling is that he intended to kill her all along. The wedding was a means to get her away where she could have an accident. Franko’s man heard a lot of rumours from people who didn’t want to be quoted. They added up to the same thing. Maybe he doesn’t do the shit himself anymore, but word has it that he also liked to watch beatings, especially to women. He’s never missed a professional fight either. It’s no secret that he’s part owner, through a syndicate, of a couple of up-and-coming young fighters. Probably gets his rocks off just watching them. So.... how are you going to stop this marriage?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  ADAM STONE:

  It looked like a scene from an old black and white movie; an overcast day sucked empty of colour by leaden skies. No one spoke. I stood with the silent crowd and watched from behind the yellow police tape barrier just a few hundred feet from Cherry Street.

  Behind us, decrepit warehouses leaned sideways, empty for decades and long overdue for demolition. Further along the pier, stacked cubes of compressed metal, the rusty remains of unidentifiable cars, heading for reincarnation in China, swung crazily under a crane as they were lifted, several at a time by a huge circular electromagnet, to be lowered moments later into the maw of an equally rusty freighter with an indiscernible oriental name smeared on its bow.

  A crumbling concrete ledge, only a couple of inches high, marked the harbour’s edge, interrupting the cracked and broken pavement that otherwise ended without ceremony at the seawall. There was no barrier, no railing. The slight ledge was not much of a deterrent for anyone or anything inclined to fall over the edge and into the water.

  Here, at the east end of the harbour, whenever there was a strong wind from the south, a current flowed in from the lake through the eastern gap, pushing before it the swirls of century-old muck and rotted garbage, a legacy of earlier times when environmental concerns were unknown and the harbour bed was a convenient trash receptacle for the countless ships that delivered and took away the cargos of the time.

  The Lake was calm this morning. No wind ruffled its surface, the only disturbance being the circles radiating outward from a cable that disappeared into the opaque water several yards out into the harbour. There was a grinding squeal as the mobile crane operator proceeded to wind the rust coated wire cable around its cable drum. In the pale grey light, I sensed the stillness of death.

  Hours earlier, divers checking the pier foundations had followed a trail of oil to the bottom of the harbour and found the wreck. They recorded the license plate number and told the two cops that they saw what looked like a body behind the wheel. I looked at the slate coloured water. Those boys must have x-ray vision to have seen anything down there, I thought.

  The cable strained and quivered and several mercury coloured bubbles gurgled to the surface. Then the magnificent silver Mercedes appeared, rear bumper first, through the turbulence. In moments it was completely revealed and hung in obscene splendour, helpless, like a prized Marlin. A spew of filthy water ran out of the open windows, then as the water level in the car decreased, the streams slowed to a dribble that leaked from the door seams as the car spun very slowly on the taut cable. The car hung a few feet above the water for several more minutes, until the last of the interior liquid had drained away. The crane then swung the undignified carcass sideways, towards us and gently proceeded to lower it to the road, where it sat upright on its tires in a widening puddle.

  Two uniformed cops, one a fresh-faced rookie, had been making themselves useful controlling the inevitable crowd while a police photographer covered the scene from a variety of angles. The sound of the winch was replaced by harsh squeals from overhead as two seagulls circled. It struck me that they might be crying a warning.

  Mackenzie was the plain-clothes in charge. A computer check had produced a familiar name as the owner of the vehicle, and he had heard it recently from me. He’d called me to meet him at the scene immediately and I’d arrived unfed, unshaved and irritable, but in time for the retrieval.

  Mack caught my eye and signalled me to join him. I ducked under the yellow police tape. The seagulls swooped and screamed protest overhead, informing me I was not authorised to be inside the tape. Mack pulled a latex glove over his hand moved over to the car, looked inside for a moment, shook his head and opened the driver’s door gently.

  As we stood there, some foul smelling sediment oozed out onto the ground, followed by the small mud covered body of a woman. The onlookers collectively took an audible breath as all eyes stared at the shapeless, loose-jointed form on the ground. The photographer took several close-ups then Mack turned her over, careful not to touch her anymore than was necessary.

  “Do you recognize her, Adam? Is this Morgan Burnanski? It’s her car.”

  I remembered the face. “Yes, that’s her.” She looked like a hideous clay doll with her head at a strange angle; mouth gaping open and long dread locks spread around like greasy water snakes. The bloodless swollen skin indicated that she had been in the water for a few days. Her wrists and ankles protruded from a uniform style outfit that hugged her bone thin body. Her feet were bare. The younger cop excused himself and ran to a bush, retching up his last meal and the one before that. The first experience with death is always rough and this was going to give several onlookers nightmares for a while.

  A van pulled up as close as possible to the Mercedes and two attendants, the epitome of professional indifference, took charge of the body. She looked like a child, small and fragile, as they closed the black body bag, hoisted it onto the gurney and skilfully rolled her through the open rear doors. At a nod from Mack, they slammed the doors shut and drove away. The entertainment over, the crowd began to disperse.

  The crane operator unhooked his cable from the car as Mack spoke to the uniforms, gave some additional instructions to the photographer who was wrapping up, and made some notes in his book. A light drizzle began to fall as the last of the curious locals headed off to other interests. I turned my collar up and tucked my neck into it as much as possible. Mack stared at the receding van. “You sure that’s Burnanski?”

  “I only met her once, last week when I went with Lauren to the Stanford Gallery opening, but it’s her alright. She was one of the feature artists; a face you’re not likely to forget.” He nodded in silent agreement.

  Mack leaned into the saturated car and ran his gloved hand through the thin layer of smooth filth on the floor of the front and back seats. “Musta been a lousy party if she drove into the lake right after.” He stood, and removed the gloves. “Christ, this place stinks. How do people live with the smell of dead fish and crap floating by? No purse or anything in the car. Could have floated out the windows though. She wasn’t even wearing a coat. No obvious signs of foul play but she’ll have to be cleaned up to know for sure.”

  “You think it was suicide?” I asked as water ran down my forehead and dripped from my nose.

  “Who knows?” he shrugged. “We’ll just have to wait ‘till the coroner does his valve and lube job. Hope he’s not too stacked up. It’s still old Cramer, y’know. Hasn’t retired yet.”

  I nodded. He had to be a hundred years old. I said, “He’s going to be pissed if he has to drop everything to take care
of a celebrity... Still, he’ll be careful if it means he could get his name in the papers. Could be drugs or booze. Looked like her neck was broken... could have happened when she went over the edge if she was travelling fast enough. If that was the case, she was probably dead before the car sank. There’s no sign of skid marks, so it probably wasn’t an accident unless she was right out of it. Could have been intentional”

  “Was she sober when you left the party?” Mack asked.

  “Yah, I think so. I saw her leave in a hurry, alone, about ten thirty and I left soon after. She didn’t drive here from the Gallery though. She’s in different clothes so she must have gone home and changed. I saw her in a full-length caftan thing, not pants.” I was becoming thoroughly wet. “This doesn’t make sense, Mack. She is, I mean was, a successful artist, just about to hit the big time, according to the Stanford sisters, and they would know. Why would she kill herself?”

  Mack admired the sleek lines of the mud-streaked car. “Who knows? Could be nuts too. Lots of artsy type people are way out there.” He touched the side of his head. “This is a dead end street, not much traffic after dark. Had to be on purpose without skid marks on the road to indicate otherwise. Nice car, new too. These German babies cost the same as a house.... You’d think she could afford a decent hairdresser... Know where she lives?”