I turned off the detector, put it down on the desk and leaned over the answering machine for a closer look. It looked normal. No odd attachments or wires protruded. I picked it up for a closer look. On the top was a lid. I opened it and saw nothing inside but a small recording tape. I hadn’t seen one of these in ages. I thought by now, everybody had changed to digital machines. I closed the lid and turned the machine over. On the bottom was a small hatch, like the kind that covers a battery compartment. I had seen machines like this before. They had a back up battery so the machine could still function if the electricity went off. Since telephone lines carry their own power and could function during a power outage, these backup batteries made sense.
I opened the battery cover and saw the bug. It was easy to identify since I knew what a battery looked like and the device in the battery compartment was clearly not a battery. I looked over at Ed and saw him leaning over the desk chair watching me as if the bug were a bomb. I pointed to the bug, and touched my thumb and forefinger together twice in front of my right eye.
He nodded, lifted the camera to his face and took two shots. After each, he showed me the image on the camera screen. They looked good. You could clearly see the bug. When he was finished, I carefully replaced the battery cover and put the answering machine down. I pointed to the stereo and then to the door. Ed turned off the music and we walked briskly out of his office.
I could see it took a great effort for Ed to contain himself inside his office. He was silently moving his lips and shaking his head from side to side. Once outside, Ed looked like he was ready to burst. He was shaking. He was sputtering. His lips were moving but he wasn’t saying anything, at least nothing intelligible. I hurried to the car so he could unburden himself in a private spot. He followed. We got inside. Ed slammed the door shut and then he exploded. I even learned a few new curse words. I was impressed. I guessed that was just one more advantage of an Ivy League education.
Interspersed between the expletives, I thought I heard something about “client privilege”, “not since 1577” and then “Berd v Lovelace”. Then he mumbled something like “not even” and then “1988” and “Swidler & Berlin v. United States”. After a while, his muttering began to slow down and he gradually became more coherent.
“Max. I can’t believe what I saw. I can’t believe what they did to me, did to my clients. I have to stop these people. We’ve got to stop these people.” He made a fist and pounded the air.
“Then, you want me to continue pursuing this?”
“Well, yes, dammit.” He slapped his right hand on his thigh and looked at me as if I were an idiot. I know because I’ve gotten that look before.
“What about Ray and his widow?”
“I’ll call the D. A. I’ll work something out. I’ll call in favors if I need to. Get those bastards. They compromised me.” He pointed his finger at me and shook it. His whole body shook. “They compromised my clients. Get ‘em. The bastards.” He clenched both fists and shook them once at chest level. “The bastards.”
“OK, Ed. I’m going to head out now. In the meantime, we’ll leave the bug where it is. It’s better they don’t know we found it. Just don’t say anything in that room that can’t be public. Now, how about you get the police report and I’ll drive out to the accident site to look around.”
“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head. We split up. Ed got out of the car and I started the engine. With any luck, the police report would tell me which way Ray was driving when he crashed. In any event, I wanted to see the site for myself. I was sure the officers at Ray’s murder scene weren’t looking at it in connection with a break-in that hadn’t yet occurred.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I left Ed’s, headed south and made a right turn onto Third Ave which crossed over onto the mainland and became state route 44. It was a straight 20-mile ride to Damascus Road. It took me around 35 minutes.
When I got there, I noticed a few things of interest. First, there was a wreath on a cross, driven into the shoulder on the right side of the westbound road. Unless some other poor soul was lost here too, that marker indicated Ray was heading west when he died.
In addition, route 44, at this point, was a divided highway with the eastbound and westbound lanes divided by a grassy median. While eastbound traffic could turn right onto Damascus from SR 44, westbound traffic on 44 couldn’t turn left onto Damascus. The median blocked access.
Of course, Ray could have been going east and could have crossed the median when he had the heart attack, but there were no marks on the median grass and there were no skid marks on the pavement in either direction.
I took this to mean Ray died with something in his possession; something someone wanted enough to bug a lawyer’s office and to break into my home. Something to kill for.
I parked my car near the cross in the ground and got out. I took some pictures of the pavement, the road, and the shoulder. Then I pulled out my cell and called Ed. “It’s me. Can you talk?”
“Yeah, I’ve got that police report and faxed you a copy.” He sounded like he had finally calmed down.
“I’ll bet it says Ray was traveling west when it happened.”
Ed was silent for a moment. “Yeah, it does. How’d you know that?”
“I got lucky, I guess. Someone placed a marker, a cross on the side of the road.”
“OK, so he died while driving west.” I could hear the shrug in his voice.
“West is the way to PC Gadgets. You told me that Ray took Friday afternoon off after lunch to shop. What time does the report show for the accident?”
“Hmmm. One forty five.”
“That’s just enough time for Ray to leave A. V. Designs and drive to the accident site. Since he died on the way here, instead of coming from here, he may have been coming this way to drop something off but never arrived. If that’s true, it may still be among his effects. We need to find out what that thing is. Look, someone bugged your office, stole the computers and killed Ray. If this person already committed a capital crime and thinks we’re a risk, we know how far he’ll go to protect his interests. We need to know what he’s after.”
“Yes, we do. You know, I only picked up the notebook so you could start work in it. I planned to get the rest of his stuff later when I hoped Kathleen would be better able to deal with it, but I should be able to get a complete inventory list from the Police. I can check it and see what else was there. You think it’s one person acting alone?”
“Could be. I don’t know, but it appears somebody knew the computer and maybe something else was in Ray’s car. They probably thought you could lead them to whatever it is they wanted. The next question is how they knew you were handling the estate.”
“They must have gotten that from Kathleen but I can’t imagine her telling anybody. I mean, who would care? Besides, she had nobody close here.”
“Maybe they bugged her place too.”
“We should check it for microphones?”
“Yeah, we better. Can you set it up?”
“Kathleen’s still out of town, but I think so. I’ll call you after I make arrangements. So do you think this other guy, what’s his name? Horton? He stole the computers?”
“No, he was in California, meeting with clients. He was eating brunch with them at the time of the break-in. He wasn’t scheduled to get back until this morning.”
“How do you know that?”
“Don’t ask. That’s the inadmissible part. You don’t want to know.”
“So, there may be someone else involved besides Horton?”
“I think so. I think there has to be.”
“And this person killed Ray to get something he had in the car?”
“Well, I’m not sure. I think if someone were going to kill Ray for something he had, you’d think they’d make sure they got it. Also, didn’t you say he had a heart attack and died before the accident?”
“Yeah, according to the Medical Examiner’s report.”
“Did the
y figure out how the killer induced the heart attack?”
“Not yet.”
“Let’s be careful. OK?”
“OK. What’s next?”
“You check on the inventory list and call me at home. I’m going to look into a few things… should be there in half an hour. If I’m not there, leave a message on my machine.”
I hung up with Ed and pulled off the shoulder onto S.R. 44 heading west. At the first break in the median, I stopped, made a U-turn and drove back east again, toward home.
The next right turn was Damascus Road, where Ben Horton’s PC Gadgets was located. It was close to one in the afternoon on Tuesday so he could be back to work by now. Now that I had seen the accident site, I wanted a closer look at Horton. I turned right and then left into the P.C. Gadgets parking lot.
It was a small lot for maybe 50 cars without any security booth or marked spaces. It was almost half-full with most of the cars parked in front of the building. In the middle of the lot was a rectangular, one story building. It looked like a long, white shoebox. I parked in a spot that allowed a view of the front door and a portion of the back yard. I watched for a while. Behind the building, on the grass behind the back parking lot, people ate lunch at two wooden picnic tables. Except for the lunch crowd and the brief appearance at the front of the building by a U.S. Post Office carrier, there was no activity.
Since I didn’t see anything threatening, I was tempted to go in and try to talk to Horton. I could show him a photo of the men on the boat and ask him who they were, but I didn’t have the pictures with me. I thought of going back home to get one and then thought better of it. It wouldn’t be smart to wave a document in his face that he knew contained stolen designs; especially stolen designs he had paid for.
Also, since the computers had been stolen from my home, I shouldn’t know about the photos. I realized it was better for me if he thought I hadn’t seen them.
If Horton was involved in the break-in, he would know who I was and that I was associated with Ray. Even so, there was no reason I couldn’t also be investigating related matters that presented him with no threat. If I played dumb, an easy trick for me, he might even slip up and reveal something. Since the police were keeping the murder quiet, the papers only reported Ray’s death as an accident. I could be a PI gathering information for a lawsuit.
I got out of my car just as the lunch crowd returned to the building. They went in the back while I went in the front. When I opened the door, a pleasantly plump, grandmotherly woman sat at a reception desk. She looked to be in her mid-60s and had a kind face. It was not hard to imagine her at home wearing an apron and baking a hot apple pie or maybe teaching in a one-room schoolhouse out on the prairie. “And how may I help you today sir?” she smiled at me. Her whole demeanor inspired good manners. Her desk was tidy and well organized her posture perfect.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Max Fried. I’m looking into an automobile accident that occurred just across the street. A man died in it and his family has asked me to look into whether road conditions may have contributed to the crash. Since you work across the street, I wondered if you knew anything that might be useful.”
“Oh, my, yes, I read about that in the paper and I saw the wreath someone placed across the street, but no,” she shook her head from side to side as her hand went to her throat, “I know nothing of the accident or anything regarding the road that may have caused it. I drive on that street and see the memorial marker every day.” She dropped her hand to her lap. “It’s so sad.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Would it be all right if I spoke with some of the other employees? Perhaps someone else saw or heard something?”
“Well, I don’t know. You’d have to check with Mr. Horton, the owner.” She clasped her hands together on the desk in front of her and nodded her head as if she were agreeing with herself.
“May I please?”
“Just a moment and I’ll see if he’s free. He just got in a little while ago.” She leaned forward, dropped her voice to a whisper and as if to excuse his tardiness said, “He’s been traveling today.” Then she picked up the telephone on her desk and pressed a button.
“Hello, Mr. Horton, sir. I have a gentleman here. He’s looking into that horrible accident across the street.” A slight pause ensued. “Yes sir. He was wondering if he could ask some questions.” She paused and nodded as if Horton could see her. “Yes, sir. I’ll send him right in.”
She replaced the phone, smiled up at me, and said, “Mr. Horton, himself, will see you.” She turned and pointed down the hall. “Fourth door on the right.”
“Thank you, very much, ma’am,” I said in my best Gary Cooper voice wishing I had a hat to tip. I headed down the hall.
When I got to the fourth door on the right, it was open and a man sitting behind a desk gestured for me to come in. The nameplate on the door read, ¨Benjamin Horton¨. As I entered the room, he stood up at his desk and reached out with his right hand to shake mine while his left hand gestured to the two chairs facing him. A garment bag covered one chair. The other was clear except for a small, black, leather case.
“Good morning, I guess, good afternoon. Please forgive me. I’m still on California time. I just got back. I’m Benjamin Horton. I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.”
“Max Fried.” I shook his hand with my right and gave him the black case off the chair with my left.
He shrugged. “I’m sorry. Like I said, I just got back.” Horton’s office was nicer than I would have expected given the building in which it was located. He sat at a large, brown, wood desk. On the desktop was an old-fashioned green felt ink blotter, a desk lamp with a green glass shade and of course a computer monitor. I saw no keyboard or mouse so I guessed his desk also had a keyboard drawer.
Behind the desk was a wall full of matching floor to ceiling bookcases. Some shelves were open, some glass covered and some had matching wood doors. To Horton’s right and on the wall behind me were large tasteful paintings of a variety of classic styles. To his left was a large window that looked over the parking lot. I guessed he could have seen me sitting in his lot.
At first glance, Ben Horton didn’t look much like any of the men in the photo, but that photo was 24 years old. As we sat there, I began to see a similarity. If you took off 40 pounds of 1980s big hair and added 40 pounds of 2008 fat, you’d get a match. Horton was balding and wore his remaining hair in a crew cut. He was about five feet eight inches, 200 pounds, and dressed in a blue suit with a pale blue shirt opened at the collar. His suit jacket and blue and white striped tie hung from a wood hanger on a wood coat rack in a corner behind the door to his office.
He sat down, leaned forward on his forearms and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. “Marge tells me you’re looking into that accident across the street?”
“Yes sir. The family is looking into whether there was any liability in the part of the State. You know, improperly maintained road. Long lasting hazards, that kind of thing.” I sat back, crossed my legs and tried to look nonchalant. If Horton didn’t know the Police were treating Ray’s death as a homicide, I wasn’t going to tip him off.
“You’re an insurance investigator, then?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“May I see some ID please?”
“Sure.” I got up and handed him my Florida P. I. license. He looked at the photo on the ID and then looked at me.
“Losing the beard was a good idea.” He grinned and handed me back my license.
“Thanks.” I put it back in my wallet and sat down again.
“So, you’re working for Ray Kenwood’s family.”
He surprised me by mentioning Ray’s name. “I’m working for the attorney handling the estate. Did you know Ray Kenwood?”
He sat back with his elbows on the arms of his chair and lifted his hands up. “I could tell you I know the name because I read it in the paper. I could say I remember it because the accident took place across the
street, but you’re a detective and it’s a matter of public record so you’ll probably find out anyway.”
“Find out what?”
He put his hands down in his lap and leaned forward. “That I knew Ray back in the 70s and 80s. That we got in trouble together.” He leaned back and waved his hand in the air as if to indicate how old and far away his story was. “You see, when we were young and stupid, about 25 years old; we got caught smuggling Cuban cigars. We got lucky, very lucky. I got a fine and three years of probation. Ray just got probation.” He leaned forward again. “I’m telling you this because I want you to believe me when I tell you I haven’t seen or had any contact with Ray in over 20 years.”
“Why would I care if you’ve seen Ray in the last 20 years?”
“Because he’s dead and I threatened to kill him.” He sat back and smiled as if he had just delivered the punch line to a joke.
I like to think I’m unflappable, but this was the second time Horton surprised me in just a few minutes. My expression must have given me away because the next thing Horton did was laugh.
“That threat was also a matter of public record. It’s in the transcript from the trial. During the trial, Ray testified against me to sweeten his deal with the prosecutors. I was young. I thought I was a tough guy. Turned out probation was a piece of cake. It was foolish to make the threat, especially like that in open court. Look, if I really wanted to kill him, I wouldn’t have threatened him like that and I would have killed him years ago. I mean years ago.” He looked in my eyes and slowly nodded his head as if to emphasize his certainty.
His stare convinced me and I sat there not knowing what to say next.
After a moment, Horton quickly leaned back in his chair and smiled a familiar twisted grin. Now, I was sure he was in the 1984 photo. “OK, I probably would have made the threat anyway. I was a hothead back then, but I really wouldn’t have waited 20 some odd years. Hotheads don’t wait. I would have done him back then.” He paused and looked at me as if he were evaluating my reaction. After he seemed satisfied, I believed him, he continued. “Besides, I was in California when Ray died.”
Falafel Jones - Max Fried 01 - Life's a Beach Then You Die Page 8