by JL Wilson
Tinsley tugged an envelope from his pocket and pulled out three pictures. He arranged them carefully on the coffee table so three faces stared up at me.
One was John. It was his fire department picture, with him in his uniform, a faint smile on his face as he looked into the camera. His eyes, as always, were direct and unwavering, staring into the camera--at me--with open honesty.
One picture was a little girl, maybe three or four years old, in what looked like an Easter dress, all white and pink and flouncy. She had tousled curly brown-blonde hair, a round angelic face, and a pink ribbon pinned to a curl near her ear. In her arms was a large, floppy pale pink stuffed rabbit that she clutched against her tummy.
One was a family picture. Dan sat next to a slender woman with dark hair pulled back from her oval face with a clip, and a laughing look in her gray eyes. Two younger people stood behind them, a young man and woman, each with the features of their parents.
"These people were all murdered, Mrs. Carlson," Tinsley said. "And you can help us find who did it."
Chapter 5
"Low blow," I muttered. "Way to put me on the spot."
Dan glared at me, his hand stilling on Grumble. "Not as low as killing three people."
I shot him a glare in return while Tinsley retrieved the photos and tucked them back in the envelope. He put another photo on the table. I took it warily. It was Michael, standing near a bright red sports car, another man facing him. Both men were partially turned away from the camera but I could see their faces clearly.
"I don't know how I could help," I said as I examined the picture. "I don't know anything about the fire. It's a coincidence that John was there."
Another photo was tossed on the table, then another. I picked them up. Michael was talking to the same man, a solid, short individual with sunglasses and a cigar, who was gesturing and appeared angry. "So? Michael is talking to someone. Big deal. It's two guys talking next to a..." I peered at the photo. "Okay, a really fancy sports car."
"A Porsche Boxster," Dan murmured. "Worth about sixty thousand."
"Talking to a guy next to a fancy, expensive sports car," I amended.
Tinsley once again leveled those laser-blue eyes at me. "It's a man who was a key member in the Wickeds."
"The who?" It sounded like a Broadway show or something.
"The Wickeds. It's a criminal gang. That man was the leader of their fraud division."
I slid the photos back on the table. "Their what? Fraud division? You make them sound like a bank or a credit card company."
"They're like a bank in many ways. They're well organized, efficient, and have their tentacles into every aspect of American life."
"That sounds like a bank." I saw his grim look and hurried on. "Why should I believe you? There's a picture of Michael talking to a guy. Big deal."
Tinsley handed me another piece of paper, this one a police picture of the man holding a number under his chin. I did a double-take. It wasn't the same guy. They were very similar but the one in the picture with Michael was younger. "Who's that?"
"That's the father of the man talking to Bennington. Samuel Nesbitt, the man with Bennington, ran the Wickeds while his father, Solomon, was in prison." Tinsley said grimly. "He was in prison because I put him there."
"Okay. I'm confused. If you have pictures of Michael talking to a mobster, why didn't you arrest the guy?"
"It's a complicated case." Tinsley sat back but didn't relax. I doubt if he knew how to relax. He probably slept at attention. I almost grinned at the thought but the frowny look on his face squashed any idea I had about levity. "We--the FBI--have been after Solomon Nesbitt for years but we didn't have enough evidence to take him to trial for racketeering."
"So why was he in prison?" I asked, tossing the mug shot back on the table.
"Tax evasion. That's the least of his crimes, but it's the only one we could get him on."
"Didn't Elliot Ness do that to Al Capone?"
"Nesbitt has a lot in common with Al Capone," Tinsley said. "Capone had syphilis and died in prison from that disease. Solomon Nesbitt has cancer and is dying, too. But he was released from prison six months ago."
"What about the other guy? The son, the guy talking to Michael?"
"He's dead. I killed him a year ago, in Kansas, during an investigation."
He said it as calmly as I would say Time to feed Grumble now. "You seem to tangle with this family a lot."
Tinsley's jaw tightened and he stared at the picture on the table. "I almost broke the Wickeds three years ago when I killed Solomon Nesbitt's second-in-command. And I busted Nesbitt's younger brother two years ago. They shared a few months of jail time before the brother was killed in a prison fight."
"Good heavens. The man must feel cursed. But what does this have to do with John and your wife, " I glanced at Dan, "or Michael?"
"The little girl who died in the fire was the child of a man who was set to testify against the Wickeds," Tinsley said. "The child was kidnapped and, we believe, put in that house as a warning to anyone about what would happen if they crossed the gang."
My stomach twisted. It was bad enough a child died, but to think that someone deliberately did it was monstrous. "Good Lord, what kind of people would do that?"
"Sociopaths," Tinsley snapped. "Nesbitt has been under attack from a rival gang for years. He managed to hold on to his position while he was in prison, but rival leaders are after him. Nesbitt means to keep his leadership of the Wickeds through any means necessary, even if it means murdering a child and setting a fire to kill others who might cross him." He stared at me, his cold blue eyes like chips of ice. "Don't underestimate how violent these people are. They'll do anything to solidify their hold on anyone in their grasp and they'll stop at nothing if they think they've been double-crossed in any way."
I glanced sidelong at Dan, who was focused on Grumble. "What about your wife? How does she fit into this?"
"We're not sure. It may have been because of her employer. Maybe she saw something she wasn't supposed to see." Dan glanced at Tinsley as though asking permission to speak and when the FBI guy said nothing, he continued. "Paul Denton was supposed to be on duty that night but your husband took his place."
"What's that mean?" I looked from Dan to Tinsley, who sat on the edge of the couch, his arms resting on his thighs and his hands on his knees as though he was ready to push off the couch and sprint away if needed. In contrast, Dan was pinned to his chair by Grumbles, who acted as though he had found his lifelong buddy.
"This is totally confidential, Mrs. Carlson," Tinsley warned. "Remember."
I waved a hand. "Of course. I signed a paper. I promised to forfeit life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness if I blab."
Tinsley started to snap a reply but Dan interrupted. "Denton got into financial trouble a few years ago. He went to a friend of his for help. That friend sent him to the Wickeds."
"Some friend." I scooted back in my chair and curled up on the cushion, perhaps subconsciously withdrawing from this conversation as well.
"Denton was raised in a bad neighborhood," Dan continued, ignoring my mutter. "A few of his friends were in the gang but he didn't know it. We think," here he glanced at Tinsley, who nodded almost imperceptibly, "we think Denton managed to pay back the loan but his family was threatened. We think he told your husband and Bennington about it."
I straightened. "When did this happen?"
"About three or four years ago."
I thought back, trying to recreate a time so far in the past. "Let's see. Roberta, Paul's wife, died about that time. It was around the same time that John's nephew died."
Tinsley flinched and his face paled. I belatedly remembered the circumstances of that death. John's nephew, Mark, had died at this man's hands. Oh, shit, way to insert my foot into my mouth. "I'm sorry," I blurted. "I didn't mean--"
His lips thinned. "You don't need to be sorry. It happened."
"Have you talked to Amy since then? Does
she know you're involved in this investigation?"
"This has nothing to do with her," he said in a low, level voice.
"You know, it seems to me that everybody in this case has revenge on the mind. Are you avenging Amy's brother?" I didn't wait for an answer, but turned my attention to Dan, who tilted his head to regard me, his dark brown eyes faintly accusing. "And I suppose you'd like revenge for your wife."
"What about you?" Dan asked.
I wasn't sure so I tugged the conversation back to the topic at hand. "Let's see. Four years ago. I know Paul was under a lot of stress. His wife had cancer. His daughter was a teenager and I think Paul was studying for the captain's exam. John helped him with that. Paul would come over here and they went through the textbooks together. John was good at that kind of stuff."
"What kind of stuff?" Dan asked.
I glanced at him but he was focused on my adoring cat. Dan's lashes were dark on his cheeks, hiding his expressive brown eyes. "John was good at being a friend. I sometimes complained about it. He would drop everything to help somebody."
"That's not a bad quality."
I didn't argue. It would sound petty to complain about John's good points now.
"Did your husband loan Denton any money?" Tinsley asked.
I seized on the question eagerly, hopeful that I could put to rest any notion that John had benefited from the fire. "Not that I knew of. John and I had a joint bank account but we also had separate accounts. It's possible he loaned money from his private account, but when he died and I settled his estate, I didn't find anything that indicated he did."
"Did your aunt loan Denton any money?"
"My aunt?" I'm sure they heard the confusion in my voice. "Aunt Portia doesn't even know Paul Denton. Oh, she's probably met him. He and John were friends for years and maybe he went home with John for a visit back when they were in college together. But Aunt Portia doesn't know him well enough to loan him money." I frowned thoughtfully. "Of course, if John asked her to loan him money, she might have."
"Your husband had that much influence with your aunt?" Dan asked.
"She was John's aunt, too," I said.
"What?" Both Tinsley and Dan spoke simultaneously.
"That's how John and I met. We were at party for Uncle Leland for his birthday, out at the farm. Leland is--was--Portia's husband. My father was Portia's brother and John's mother was Leland's sister. John and Amy are related to Portia through Uncle Leland." I frowned at Tinsley. "Didn't Amy ever mention that? When you two came for a visit, it was for Uncle Leland's funeral. Surely you remember?"
To my surprise, Tinsley appeared flustered, his eyes darting anywhere but to me. "I must have forgotten. I don't recall meeting you or your husband."
"Hey, isn't this is a conflict of interest for you, too? I mean, you've met the people involved." I let the words die when I saw that the flinty look had returned to his blue eyes. "Maybe not," I concluded.
"Where did Denton get the money to repay a loan like that?" Tinsley stared at me as though I had the answers.
"Bennington," Dan said. "I've told you all along, it all comes back to Bennington."
I squirmed on my seat, trying to find a way to tell them what John had told me. Did Michael embezzle money in order to help Paul? I frowned. That didn't make sense. "I can't see Michael doing anything to help somebody unless it also benefits him. How would loaning money to Paul help him?" I decided to try a small lie. "Aunt Portia mentioned once that she talked to John on the day he died."
"Really?" Tinsley asked. "Do you know what it was about? Did she give you details?"
I shook my head. "I can ask her on Wednesday. I'm going home for the holiday weekend."
Dan glanced at Tinsley, a quick look that I think I wasn't supposed to see. Tinsley frowned, his jaw jutting slightly. "We need your help. We need to discover what they discussed and what part your aunt had in this."
"Well, like I said, I can ask Aunt Portia about it when I'm there." Neither man spoke. "What? Is that a problem?"
"I'd like Mr. Steele to go with you," Tinsley said. "He may be able to gather information that you can't."
"Like what? There's nothing to gather in Tangle Butte, Minnesota, except sunburn and mosquito bites at this time of year." The idea was laughable, but neither man was laughing. "Are you serious? What do you think this is, an undercover operation?" I attempted a chuckle but it ended up a strangled croak. "I'm no undercover spy."
"I am," Dan said. "I worked undercover when I was a cop." I looked at Dan's leg then at him and I suppose my skepticism showed. "Perfect cover," he said wryly. "Nobody would believe a handicapped guy would be undercover or could protect you."
I decided to ignore the issues of his handicap and focus on the oddity of what he said. "Protect me? From what?"
Tinsley leaned forward. "The Wickeds are one of the most dangerous gangs in America, Mrs. Carlson. If there's any chance your husband was involved with them, even peripherally, you could be in danger."
"But that's silly. It's been two years since John died. What could I possibly have that's useful?" I faltered, suddenly remembering John's words. Look in the notebook from my locker. When John died, Paul put all of the items from John's locker at the station into a box sealed with packing tape. He dropped it off at our house after the funeral. I visualized the box in the basement with John's name on it. As boxes went it was innocuous, a white rectangular container about thirty-by-fifteen inches. John's name was written on top in black marker and underneath was his locker number and the date of his death.
I shifted gears, hoping no one noticed. "I can't just show up in Tangle Butte with a strange man in tow," I protested. "That would look very odd."
"Sure you can." Tinsley smiled but it was more like a grimace. I think he was so unaccustomed to smiling that it might have hurt his face. "Pretend he's your new gentleman friend."
"My what?" I sputtered. "For heaven's sake, nobody would believe that." My words fell into a sudden silence with a little thud. Oops. That didn't sound very nice. "I mean, I haven't told anybody I'm even dating. Why would I suddenly appear with a guy?"
The tension seemed to ease in the room. "Maybe you're being secretive?" Dan suggested, petting Grumble, who purred and opened one eye. "Maybe you weren't sure how people would react?"
"I'm not a teenager. I'm long past the point where I care what people say." I suddenly visualized Penny, her plump face creased with concern that I wasn't 'putting it all behind me.' Dan might have a point. "Well, maybe," I conceded. "But I need to think about all this. You're tossing around accusations that I'm not sure I believe."
"All we want to do is gather information and evidence." Tinsley's gaze was direct, those blue lasers once again probing into my brain. It was unnerving. Most people weren't comfortable making eye contact. This guy had no problem with it at all. "Your husband was murdered, Mrs. Carlson. Don't you want to know who did it and why?"
"Of course I do. But I'm not sure anything I do could help."
Tinsley got to his feet. "Please think about it. I'll call you tomorrow and we can discuss any questions you might have."
I scrambled to my feet, too, so he wouldn't tower over me. "I don't enjoy being put on the spot like this."
He stiffened and his already harsh face settled into a hard frown. "Your enjoyment is irrelevant. This is a police investigation."
A faint, melodramatic meow made me turn. Dan was untangling himself from Grumble, who didn't want to lose his new best friend. Grumble slipped off Dan's lap and onto the chair, stretching once in an imploring way before curling into a heap of black-gray-and-white fur that purred loudly.
"We would appreciate your help," Dan said, petting Grumble one last time. "Please. Think about it." He leaned over for his cane, holding the chair to manage the maneuver without the benefit of a right leg that could bend.
When he straightened, I could see that his jeans were now liberally covered with gray cat hair. "Sorry about that," I said, darting past Tinsley
to get to the hall closet. I rummaged inside and finally found my lint remover. I rejoined Dan and Tinsley at the kitchen door. "Grumble is such a big shed monster. Here, I can--" I started to run the sticky paper over Dan's legs but stopped. Such an action seemed a little too intimate. I held out the roller. "Help yourself."
Dan waved it away. "Not a problem." He was behind Tinsley, who opened the door and started to step outside. "Please consider it. I promise I won't get in your way. It will only be for a few days." He stared at me briefly, eyes intent as though searching for an answer in my face. Then he followed Tinsley, holding the railing carefully while almost hopping down the steps, one at a time.
I closed the door behind them and went to the kitchen window to watch as they approached Dan's pickup truck. They paused in front of the truck to talk. Dan glanced back at the house, his face troubled. They seemed to be arguing, Tinsley making a point with an abrupt, cutting gesture and Dan shook his head. I peeked through the division in my curtains, wishing I was a butterfly on a bush so I could overhear.
Their disagreement was brief. Dan swung into the driver's seat of his pickup and Tinsley went around to the other side and entered, not quite as gracefully as Dan did. Dan drove the truck into my driveway to turn around and when he did, I had a good look at his face. He seemed tense, with a frown that I could see even from a distance. Then they were gone, disappearing into the fog that shrouded the street in mist.
After they left, I went to my office and made a half-hearted attempt to do Internet research but a Google search of ghost found all sorts of fiction, pseudo-documentaries, pseudo-experts, and other nonsense. I extracted my notepad from the accordion folder, adding a note to rent ghost movies. I thought of Dan Steele in his wet clothing. Maybe I needed to rent Ghost. I remembered those hot love scenes with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore. I shook my head at my own absurdity. Either my hormones were in an uproar or--