Voodoo Daddy vj-1

by Thomas L. Scott

  “Who notified them of Mr. Dugan’s murder?” I said.

  “We all did,” Gloria said. “We have a disaster plan in place. Each of us have assigned duties and responsibilities as defined in the plan. One of those responsibilities in the event of a disaster is immediate notification of the company’s Board of Directors.”

  “What qualifies as a disaster?”

  Hawthorne spoke for the first time. “Well, it’s pretty broad. Just about anything from any sort of natural disaster that would affect our operations, like structural damage to our facilities from fire, flood, tornados, things of that sort-to the sudden death or incapacitation of anyone on the executive committee.”

  “Were any of you unable to reach the other members of the board?”

  Fallbrook raised his hand. “I had a little trouble with one of my assigns. Bill Acker. But eventually I got him.”

  “Home or office?” I said.

  “Oh, it was at home. He was just in the shower.”

  “So to the best of everyone’s knowledge, the board members who were in town this morning are all in this room, and everyone else, everyone who lives out of town were all…well, out of town?” Everyone nodded.

  “Yes, I believe that’s correct,” Gloria said. “Why?”

  “Because I’m trying to figure out who killed your boss, Ms. Birchmier.”

  Gloria put a hand to her throat. “And you think one of us did it?”

  Marriott swore under his breath. “Aw, Jesus Christ.” He picked up the phone and punched one of the buttons. Margery…get Bob Brighton in here. Now.”

  Sunrise Bank’s lead council, Bob Brighton entered the conference room a few minutes later. Brighton was short, not much over five feet tall, and gone to fat. His hair was gray and kinky, he wore a yellow bow tie and his pants were about an inch too short.

  “How do you do, Detective?”

  “I’m well, thank you Mr. Brighton. Your executive committee thought it might be best if you sat in for a few of my questions.”

  “Indeed. Please, proceed.”

  “He thinks one of us killed Franklin,” Gloria said.

  Brighton raised his eyebrows at me, and a small grin formed at the corner of his mouth.

  “That’s not exactly accurate,” I said.

  Gloria pointed a finger at me. “It is too accurate. You said so yourself.”

  “No, Ms. Birchmier, what I said was that I am trying to figure out who killed Mr. Dugan. You were the one who asked if I thought any of you did it, not me.”

  “Well, the implication was quite clear, Detective.”

  Brighton cut in. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Detective, but these types of investigations are usually conducted, um, what’s the best way to put it? By process of elimination, isn’t that correct?”

  I nodded. “That’s often true. But, keep in mind, we also look at the question of ‘who benefits?’ So let me ask all of you this: with Franklin Dugan now deceased, who gets the big chair? Who is going to be Chairman of the Board and CEO of Sunrise Bank?”

  “The Board will have to vote on that,” Hawthorne said. “But undoubtedly, it would be one of us.”

  “Okay, so what happens if there’s a tie? In the vote?”

  “Then we would revert to the question of who holds the most stock. It’s in the charter.”

  “So who holds the most stock?” I said.

  Marriott rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. “I do.”

  I had everyone except Marriott and Brighton leave the room. When they were gone, Marriott shook his head. “I didn’t kill him. Hell, I was up at six and gone by six-thirty at the latest. I went to the club, worked out, then ate a light breakfast in the dining room. Gloria called me on my cell and told me the news. Plus, there must have been about ten or twenty people who saw me from the time I walked in the club until I left.”

  Nothing’s easy.

  I had a few more follow up questions for Marriott, none of which went anywhere at all, so I pulled at another thread. “I’d like to ask you about Samuel Pate.”

  Marriott snuffed at the mention of Pate’s name. “So ask.”

  “Well,” I said, “What I’d really like is your general, overall impression of the man.”

  Marriott leaned in, his forearms on the edge of the table. “Detective, we have a rather unique business model here at Sunrise. No other financial institution in the country does what we do. Now, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying-there are plenty of banks out there that lend money to churches and religious institutions all across the U.S. But we are the only one that does it exclusively.”

  “If you have a point, Mr. Marriott, so far it’s lost on me.”

  “My point is simple, Detective. We are as close as you could come to being called a private bank. We vigorously protect our assets and those of our clients. Confidentiality at our institution is held at the highest regard. I’m quite sure you understand.”

  “I’m not asking for his financials, Mr. Marriott. I’m asking for your general impression of the man.”

  Marriott looked at me for a full minute before he spoke. “He doesn’t let much get in his way, I’ll say that about the man. But that’s all I’ll say.”

  When I was finished with Marriott I stepped out of the conference room and found Rosencrantz and Donatti seated in the reception area waiting for me, two empty plates of shrimp tails on the coffee table by their knees.

  “Get what we needed?” I said.

  “Right here boss,” Donatti said, and handed me a file folder. Pate’s financial history with the bank.

  “Alright, I want you guys out at the scene to help with the canvass. Ron should still be there. Widen it out as far as possible. All we’ve got so far is Sandy’s report of a white panel van of some kind. If we can get a plate, or even a partial, we’d have something solid.”

  The two men stood up and Donatti picked up their plates, looked around for a trash can, didn’t see one, shrugged, and set them back down on the table.

  “You know,” Rosencrantz said, “If you let that Jamaican chef of yours, what’s his name, again?”

  “Robert,” I said.

  “Right, right, Robert. If you get Robert some of this shrimp, and he put some of that jerk sauce on them and sort of sizzled ‘em up in a pan, you’d have something right there.”

  Donatti was nodding. “He’s right. That sauce of his is something. You’d pretty much have the crack cocaine of shrimp.”

  I nodded right along with them. “Yeah, I know. I’m already on it.”

  Before I left, I found Margery at her desk. “Margery, listen. I’ve got something I want to run by you.”

  “Sure,” Margery said. “But wait, before I forget, here’s the number of the seafood place in Elkhart. They’re expecting your call.” She handed me a slip of paper with the info. “They said, and I quote, ‘as a favor to me and because you’re a new customer, they’ll move you to the front of the line.’ They’ve got a truck coming to Indy today. If you could call them soon enough, you’d be all set.”

  “Aw, jeez, Margery, that’s great. But, uh, I probably won’t have time to call them.” I pulled one of my cards out of my wallet and handed it to her. “Do me a favor? Call the number on this card and ask for Robert. He’s my chef. Tell him I said to order whatever he needs, okay?”

  “Sure. That’s no problem. You said you wanted to run something by me?”

  “I do. Look, I usually don’t ask this, but you seem to sort of have your ear to the ground around here, so I was sort of hoping you could let me know if you hear of anything that might be, uh, let’s say, out of the ordinary.”

  Margery looked around, like someone might be listening. “Like what?”

  “Anything really. Something out of place, someone acting strange, uptight, saying something out of character, something they wouldn’t normally do or say. Don’t do anything about it, but call me and let me know, will you?”

  “Sure, sounds a lot like what I do alrea
dy.” She gave me a little eyebrow wiggle. “And, as long as we’re trading favors, how about you do a little something for me?”

  “Uh, maybe,” I said, a little skeptical. “What is it?”

  “Oh don’t get all coppish on me.”

  “No, no. I’m not. What is it?”

  “Well, earlier I told you I was thinking about retiring and spending some time on the beach.”

  “Yeah? Boy I could tell you about some great places in Jamaica. I go every February for a month.”

  “No, no. I was wondering…your two guys?

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, you know… the cute one. Is he attached or anything? I was hoping you could put a word in for me.”

  I sort of puffed out my cheeks. “Margery, I’ll be the first to admit I’m not very religious, and I mean not at all. But with God as my witness, I don’t know which one qualifies as the cute one.”

  Margery huffed a little. “You know… the tall one. What’d you call him? Rosie?”

  “He’s the cute one?”

  Margery gave me a slow blink. Twice. “Oh, honey, are you kidding me? I’d like to buy him a few of those rum punches and get him into a man thong on the beach. You might not ever see him again.”

  “Aw jeez, Margery.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got to work with the guy pretty much every day. Now every time I look at him…”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I could feel the day starting to slip away. I had a court appearance scheduled from a previous case in a little over two hours. I thought about calling Sandy-even picked up my phone to do it-but then tossed it back on the passenger seat of my truck. The doctor had told her to get some rest. No sense in bugging her if she was actually doing what she’d been told her. My thoughts of Sandy made me think about what she’d said about the Governor’s wife being out of town…how she’d been there with the Governor at his home, at night, just the two of them…

  But those thoughts were nothing more than basic jealousy.

  So, Sandy. People say that there is no such thing as love at first sight, and on the whole I used to be one of them, but when I met Sandy everything changed. I’m not sure I can adequately explain the connection between us, but there is something more to her, to us, than a physical lust or even an emotional bond. I am drawn to her in ways that are foreign to me. In truth, I felt a little like a dopey school boy. A middle-aged dopey school boy. The politics of it could get complicated. We are on the same unit, I’m her boss. There are rules about these sorts of things.

  But… maybe fuck the politics.

  I had never seen Samuel Pate’s residence, but I had a rough idea where his house was located. One of the television stations in town did a feature story on his home a few months ago and I remembered the story mostly because I was amazed at the grandiosity on display from someone who had made their fortune by instilling the fear of God into people who probably could not afford to buy a second-hand bible.

  I had not yet looked at the documents I collected from Franklin Dugan’s office and wondered if maybe I should at least glance at them before trying to talk to Pate about a murder he might know more about than I did. I turned into a gas station just off the highway, picked up the papers from the passenger seat and began to read. I spent the better part of an hour trying to make sense of what I saw in the documents, but after reading through them three times, I had no more detailed information than what Cora had given me earlier. The bottom line was Samuel Pate was under investigation for insurance fraud out of Texas, he was talking publicly about running for the office of Governor of the state of Indiana, and he apparently had a banker who’d been either very generous or foolhardy. Maybe both.

  When I turned into Pate’s drive I realized the story I had seen on television a few months back did not do justice to the level of extravagance and excess to which this man lived his life. On T.V. he preached the way to heaven was to give most, if not all of your earthly belongings to God through his ministry, yet it appeared he lived his life as if the very rules he preached somehow did not apply to himself.

  The driveway was almost a quarter mile in length and at the far end it split into two lanes, one which led around the side of the house to a five car garage, the other to a circular turn-about in front of the three story red-bricked mansion. I parked my truck just past the front door then walked up and rang the bell. When the front door opened I felt a surge of cool, conditioned air brush past me but when I saw the woman on the other side of the threshold who smiled at me and said my name aloud I was left off balance and suddenly at a loss for words.

  “Well, Virgil Jones, as I live and breathe. What on earth are you doing here? Come in, won’t you please?”

  Her accent was manufactured, or if that is not fair of me to say, then perhaps it was simply acquired from her time spent in Texas, the way a person’s skin will darken after weeks or months spent outdoors in the summer sun. But she had always spoken with a Midwestern twang the way the rest of us do and I somehow found the sound of the words that came from her mouth as contrived as any meaning or sincerity they might have held.

  Her name when I knew her in high school had been Amanda Habern, but her married name now was Pate. I heard a number of years ago she and Sermon Sam had married, but at the time Pate was not yet famous in our part of the country, and Amanda was just a girl I knew a long time ago for a very short while. Under any other circumstance I might have been surprised that she recognized or even remembered me, but Amanda and I have a history of a single shared encounter, one which could have been beautiful, or at least just plain old fashion fun, but in the end was neither of those.

  I accepted her invitation and crossed the threshold of the front door and when I did, I felt suddenly conflicted about the nature of my visit and her eagerness to so willingly invite me into her home. I was in her house as an investigative officer of the state of Indiana and not a casual visitor or long lost lover from decades ago, and I wondered if the warmth in her eyes and the look of fondness upon her face were as manufactured as the accent of her sing-song voice. Regardless of the purpose of my visit, I had to admit she was still as easy to look at now as she was twenty years ago. She wore tennis whites, and her shirt was damp with perspiration. When she closed the door the two of us endured one of those clumsy moments old lovers are often faced with when an unexpected chance encounter brings them together. She stepped forward, her arms open to hug me at the same time I put my right arm out to shake her hand. It was awkward, but I thought she laughed a little too quickly and perhaps a touch too long. In the end, we went with the handshake.

  We looked at each other for a moment, and I was the one who broke the silence. “It’s been a long time, Amanda.”

  “It has been a long time, hasn’t it?” she said. “I just put some coffee on. Why don’t you come join me and we can catch up a little.”

  She placed her hand in the crook of my arm in an effort to lead me through the house, but I held myself steady and refused to go along with her. When she felt my resistance she turned her head, and I saw her smile falter. “I’m here in an official capacity, Amanda. I need to speak with Samuel. Perhaps yourself as well, but I’d like to have a word with your husband first.”

  “Is this about Franklin?” she asked. “Why would you want to talk to Samuel about that?”

  I made note of her referral of the victim by his first name, then answered her question. “Yes, it is about Franklin Dugan’s murder. I’m investigating on behalf of the state. It’s what I do, Amanda. Is your husband home?”

  “No, I’m afraid he is not home, Detective.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s at the church. They always tape Sunday’s broadcast a few days ahead of time then edit it down for time. I know a lot of people think it’s live, but it’s not. It’s taped. We make no secret about that, you know.”

  I suspected the defensiveness she displayed might be a large part of her life in general so I drew no conclusions fro
m the words she spoke or the manner in which they were delivered. “I wouldn’t know, Amanda.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything other than I am not a member of your church, and I don’t watch your televised broadcasts. How well did you know Franklin Dugan?”

  “Are you asking me that question in an official capacity? Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something?”

  “We only read you your rights if you are under arrest, which you are not. Could you please just answer the question?”

  “I could, but I choose not to. My rights are the same whether I’m under arrest or not and in this particular instance, I choose to remain silent. If you have any questions for me or my husband, I suggest you contact our attorney. Better yet, I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you. And your boss.” She opened the front door. “It was great seeing you, Jonesy,” she said, her manufactured east Texas accent suddenly gone, but her voice still thick with sarcasm. “Maybe next time we see each other it won’t be in an official capacity.”

  “I seriously doubt it, Amanda. Have your husband call me as soon as he gets home.” I tried to hand her my business card and when she refused to take it I laid it on the small receiving table next to the door. As soon as I set it down a gust of wind swirled through the doorway and blew the card onto the floor as if the table were no more willing to accept my contact information than the woman who stood at my side. I stepped out into the sunlight and the sound of the brass door knocker tapping against itself as the door slammed shut behind me.

  I had no misconceptions as to whether or not Amanda Pate would tell her husband to call me, so I drove over to the Pate Ministry complex located on the outer edges of a shopping center on the city’s west side. The massive brick building situated in the center of the property was so non-descript it looked more like a small hospital or office building than a church. Most of the property had been paved with blacktop and dedicated to parking, and when I turned into the entrance of the complex the parking lot was completely full. I parked next to the yellow-curbed sidewalk in front of the building then set a laminated placard on the dash identifying my truck as an official state vehicle.