C T Ferguson Box Set

by Tom Fowler

  “Like you might imagine.”

  “Gotta be tough.”

  “Did you know Paul worked overtime for a while? He’s been moonlighting downstairs as a technician.”

  Jake frowned again. “Why would he? Paul did good work here. He had to be making a lot of cash”

  “Not enough, apparently. You guys ever socialize outside of work?”

  “Here and there, you know? He didn’t like to socialize with the folks who worked for him because of the appearance it might create. A bunch of us went out when I got promoted, though. It was pretty epic.” He smiled at the memory.

  “I’m sure it was,” I said. “You know where Paul lived?”

  “I never went to his house, but he told me about it,” Jake said.

  “Then maybe you can answer this for me. Do you know why Paul would be in northeast Baltimore, a good half-hour from his house, late on a Friday night?”

  “No, man, I got no idea.”

  “Any of your coworkers live around there, maybe?”

  “I don’t know. You think Paul was messing around?”

  “I’m only trying to gather as many facts as I can.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss my client,” I said. “Did Paul manage a lot of accounts here?”

  “I guess,” Jake said. “He’d been doing it long enough.”

  “Lucrative accounts?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “More lucrative than, say, your accounts?”

  “You think I killed the dude?” Jake said.

  “I’m simply asking questions and exploring possibilities. Any ambitious people here who stand to gain from Paul no longer being on the payroll?”

  Jake shook his head. “We’re not like that here, man. We’re all good people who work together.”

  “There’s ambition in every workplace.”

  “Not the kind you’re talking about. Not here, at least.” He paused. “You obviously don’t think Paul died in an accident.”

  “No, Jake, I don’t. It means someone is responsible, and I’m trying to find out who.” I didn’t think Jake lied to me. He remained calm throughout. Of course, his stoner surfer demeanor would probably allow him to remain calm if a terrorist cell stormed the building and strung up the CEO. He would keep saying “dude” and “man” right up until someone shot him to shut him up. I still had problems with Paul Fisher’s car accident, but I wasn’t going to get any answers about it here. “All right. Thanks for your time, Jake.”

  “Sure, man, glad to do it. I hope I helped.”

  We shook hands, and I left without addressing the matter of his helpfulness.

  As I ate lunch at home, I realized my trip to Digital Sales proved fruitless. I could talk to someone else there Monday, but I didn’t think I would learn anything new. Paul Fisher had been a good company man, consistent with his image as a good man in general. Digging up dirt on him would be difficult. Those facts convinced me even more about his accident not being an accident. A good man stumbling into something unsavory made for an easy mark.

  Earlier, I decided to look into Paul’s coworkers at Digital Sales. I didn’t expect my visit to lead to much, but it made for easy due diligence. Anyone can learn the IP address attached to a website. Hackers can run with the information, footprint the network, and figure out how to attack it. Within about ten minutes, I found a file server I could get into without much trouble. From there, I spent about ten more minutes finding and breaking into the human resources department files. I copied all the personnel files to my external hard drive, took care to erase any footprints I may have left, and disconnected from Digital Sales’ network.

  Going through the personnel files took time. Digital Sales used a database, but the one piece of information I wanted (the address) had been left out. I didn’t care about department, service time, and salary. Without the ease of a complete database, I had to go through the files one by one. No one lived on Chesterfield Avenue, and only one employee lived within a stone’s throw of there: Sally Willis. She lived on Walther Avenue, an easy walk away. The fact by itself didn’t mean anything, of course. It may not even be interesting. Then again, it may be. Had I more experience as a detective, I could predict with certainty how much it meant. As it were, I tossed it onto a small pile of curious facts. Perhaps that pile would add up to something more interesting to help me crack the case. I wondered if conventional detectives worked this hard for their epiphanies.

  What else could I look into? I ran Alice Fisher’s phone records earlier, which is how I discovered her connection to Vinnie Serrano. Maybe Paul’s phone records would turn up something similar. The Fishers didn’t share a plan even though they had the same cell carrier. The hacks I breached the network with before got me in again now, and I had Paul Fisher’s phone records coming out of my printer in a matter of minutes. I collected the printouts and pored over them.

  It didn’t take long. The night he died, Paul Fisher had two conversations with Vinnie Serrano. Those were two among many.

  I needed to pay Vinnie another visit.

  Vinnie was a creature of habit: he ate his late lunch at Donna’s even on a Saturday. I went on a lark, in the hopes he might be there. I half-expected him to be at his house, huddling with his little baby bookies and going over everyone’s college football bets. Instead, Vinnie sat in a remote booth at the back of the restaurant. He had a notebook in front of him, a cell phone in his hand, and a goon at the table. Sam was nowhere to be seen, but considering his size, he could have been hiding under a table waiting to ambush someone.

  The goon stared at me as I approached. He didn’t stand, probably because it would look too suspicious. He wasn’t the same one I tangled with a few nights ago. The personnel swap disappointed me. He kept staring at me as Vinnie talked on the phone. I decided not to wage a staring contest with him. His dyed blond hair made him look silly, which I guessed wasn’t the desired effect. A bulge under his sport coat showed he carried a gun. I did, also: the .45 rode holstered at my side, well concealed by my short leather trench coat.

  Vinnie hung up and looked at me. A salad sat on the table in front of him, which looked like it had barely been touched. “What brings you by?” he said.

  “I’m taking a survey for Legbreakers Incorporated,” I said. “We heard you were dissatisfied with your midget goon and traded him in for a larger model.”

  The new goon looked at Vinnie, who smiled and waved him off. “Sal is another one of my boys.” Vinnie picked up his fork and took a bite of the salad. “What can I do for you, C.T.?”

  I sat at the booth. “Paul Fisher.”

  “Who?”

  “Come on, Vinnie. We talked about Alice Fisher recently. Paul was her husband.”

  “Did they divorce?”

  I decided to play along. “He’s dead.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Are you sorry to hear the news, Sal?” Sal nodded. His lack of a neck made it look like his head rocked back and forth on a hinge. “Sal’s sorry to hear it, too.”

  “Great. I’m sure the two of you will send a wonderful bouquet to the funeral home. Interesting thing, Vinnie—the night Paul Fisher died, he talked to you twice.”

  “So? Lots of people talk to me and live to tell about it.”

  “How many don’t?”

  “I don’t kill people, C.T.”

  “Sure, you have goons like Sal do it for you.” Sal narrowed his eyes at me. “No offense,” I said to Sal. “I’m sure you’re really good at goonery.”

  Sal balled his hands into meaty fists. Vinnie cleared his throat and shook his head. Sal went back to glaring at me. “Why do you think I had something to do with Alice’s husband’s death?”

  “I think he knew she was in deep with you. Maybe he threatened to go to the police. A man in your line of work can’t have the cops snooping around.”

  “While what you say is true, you have it wrong. Paul didn’t make any threats.”
<
br />   “So you admit you talked to him.”

  “Of course. I just didn’t kill him. Paul knew about Alice’s gambling. He’d known about it for a while, actually. He worked overtime for extra money to pay down her debt.” It explained a lot of things. “The problem was Alice would always make some stupid bet. Paul made payments, but he didn’t . . . knock the principal down much, if you will.”

  “And he never threatened to go to the cops? Reporting you seems a lot easier than working himself to the bone to pay you forever.”

  “He was smarter than you think. And you know what, C.T.? I’m smarter than you think, too. You ain’t the only one here with a brain. Paul was a regular source of money. Not quite as much money as I’d like, I admit, but he paid when he said he would. I got no problems with people like him. Hell, I wish everyone paid me when they said they would. It would eliminate a lot of the unpleasantness in the job.”

  “But then you wouldn’t have charming fellows like this in your employ.” I looked at Sal. He raised his fist at me. “You’re going to make a scene, Sal. I’m sure your boss wouldn’t appreciate a kerfuffle at his favorite restaurant.” Sal glared at me but didn’t slam his fist down or take a swing at me. I wondered if he knew what kerfuffle meant. I saw a waitress approach, but she looked at our table and turned back around. Smart girl.

  “Here’s the bottom line, C.T,” Vinnie said. “I don’t kill people who are paying me regularly. It’s bad for business. I didn’t get to be where I am today by doing things bad for business.”

  I looked at Vinnie. He ate his salad and stared back at me. His gaze was steady. He had always been a good liar, so he could have been lying right now. His story made sense on some level: why would he wipe out a steady source of money? The fact Paul could never really get his head above water on what Alice owed simply meant he would keep paying Vinnie, and keep paying him some more. Killing Paul would have indeed been bad business for Vinnie.

  “All right,” I said.

  “We’re good?” Vinnie said.

  “I went to school with you, Vinnie. I know you have a good head for business. You wouldn’t kill someone who gave you a steady income stream.”

  “Glad you came to your senses.”

  I stood. “I’m going to keep looking into Paul Fisher’s death. Maybe we’ll talk again.”

  “I don’t think we should.”

  “Is this how you treat all your old friends?” I said.

  “Just the ones whose jobs cause them to annoy me,” he said.

  “Always good to be appreciated. See you around, Vinnie.”

  “Vincent.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Good luck with that.”

  Vinnie had been an easy scapegoat. He was Alice Fisher’s bookie, and by his own admission, didn’t like to menace women. I doubted if the same compunction would apply to handsome private detectives. Paul Fisher paid regularly; killing him would be bad for business. Yet Paul talking to Vinnie had to be significant. When I got back home, I looked over his phone records again. Paul had been talking to Vinnie for about two months.

  I thought Vinnie told me the truth: Paul worked overtime to make extra money so he could pay down Alice’s debt. Alice suspected him of cheating when he had been trying to help her. If only he had told her. No, it wouldn’t have mattered. She wouldn’t have come to me, but everything else could have unfolded exactly as it did, except Alice Fisher wouldn’t have me to save her and figure everything out.

  A fine job I had done in the matter. I needed Vinnie Serrano to tell me he hadn’t killed Paul Fisher and why. When a choice suspect acquits himself through perfectly good logic, the investigation needs work. I felt out of my element on this one. I still believed what I told my father: hackers were the new detectives. Unfortunately, I found myself doing at least as much traditional detective work as hacking. I was ill-suited for old-school sleuthing. Everything I knew came from novels, movies, and TV shows, and I doubted they painted an accurate picture. Spenser never experienced these problems. I could call Rich for help, but then I would never live it down.

  This case was bigger than me and my pride, however. Alice Fisher lost her husband, and while she hadn’t hired me to solve the matter of his death, I needed to see it through—for her as much as for myself. At some point, I might need Rich’s help. Of course, he recently started working as a detective, but he also had his years as a uniform and sergeant with the BPD, plus his time in the Army. If I had to, I would call him in from the bullpen. For now, I decided to press onward. Pride goeth before the fall, and I have enough pride to goeth before a lot of falls.

  If Paul Fisher had been killed, I needed another suspect besides Vinnie and his goon squad. Vinnie had made a convincing argument, but I knew him to be a good liar. Right now, his connection to Paul Fisher was the only thread I could pull. Logical argument or not, I decided to stick with it and see what unraveled when I kept tugging. My decision meant I would need to start watching the people in Vinnie’s organization again.

  Hopefully, I could manage to avoid getting waylaid by a goon this time.

  Chapter 11

  My phone ringing at quarter after eight woke me from a deep sleep. I pawed at it from the comfort of my warm bed, almost knocking it off the nightstand before I finally corralled it. I answered without even checking the caller ID. “Hello?”

  “It’s Alice.”

  “Alice . . . what can I do for you?”

  “I’m not sure why I’m calling you, really.” Her voice sounded like she had been crying recently. “I just . . . I just wanted to talk to someone.”

  “You must have family.”

  “I do. I do. It’s just . . . we’re not exactly close. Do you know anything about planning a funeral?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Neither do I. Do you know anyone I can call about this sort of thing?”

  “Maybe I can have someone call you.”

  I roped my parents into brunch at Sofi’s Crepes, a restaurant in downtown Baltimore. They were eager to hear about the case. I was not eager to share many details about it. However, as long as my mother and father served as my benefactors, I would have to talk to them about my cases, and maybe even get them involved from time to time. If I got breakfast out of the deal here and there, it was at least some compensation.

  They beat me to the restaurant and got a spot as they normally do. In this case, our place to eat meant three consecutive seats at the small counter. For once, they hadn’t ordered. My mother looked at her watch as soon as I walked in the door. “I’m only four minutes late, Mom,” I said. “For me, I’m early.”

  “Coningsby, you don’t live far away,” my mother said. “It shouldn’t take you more than five minutes.”

  My father laughed. “June, have you tried to drive any distance up Charles Street? There’s a traffic light every five hundred feet. In five minutes, you might be able to go ten blocks, maybe fifteen if you really hit the lights.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said. “Maybe Mom would understand if she didn’t think driving were something best left to you and the little people.”

  My mother’s face colored, and she frowned like she wanted to scold me. “Coningsby, the fact that I don’t drive has nothing to do with this.”

  “Can we eat?” I said. “I didn’t have much breakfast.” Unfortunately, Sofi’s doesn’t open until noon on Sundays, so a crepe at breakfast time is out. Even I wake up too early to consider noon a good time for breakfast.

  “Yes, let’s eat,” my father said. We all looked over the menu at the counter. My mother still looked unhappy, but she would get over it. I went with the bacon and maple syrup crepe. My mother wrinkled her nose at my choice. Both opted for traditional sweet crepes.

  “How is the case going, son?” my father said.

  “It’s certainly gotten interesting.” I filled them in on a decent percentage of recent events. Benefactors or not, they didn’t need to know everything.

  “I can’t believe that poor
woman lost her husband,” my mother said. “This case has certainly drifted away from where it was when you took it.”

  “You’ve put your finger on one of the reasons I wanted to see you guys today. Alice called me this morning. She’s not close with her family, and she’s never planned a funeral before. Mom, I know you’ve helped some of your friends with theirs. Do you think you could call her and give her some advice?”

  “I’d love to,” my mother said with a smile. If nothing else, it gave her a feeling of being involved in my case.

  “Keep in mind she’s not rich. She’s on a budget, and I doubt it’s big. None of your elaborate ideas.”

  “Coningsby, I know how to do things cheaply.”

  “You do?” my father and I said at the same time.

  “Of course I do. You boys are just being silly.”

  I wrote Alice’s number on a napkin and slid it along the counter to my mother. “I’ll tell Alice you’ll call her later,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll be grateful for the help.”

  “Are you still looking into her problem?” my father said.

  I nodded. “For now, I’m not convinced that Paul’s car accident was an accident.”

  “You think he was murdered?”

  “I think the possibility shouldn’t be ignored, even though I don’t really have a good suspect.”

  “Maybe you should talk to Richard about it,” my mother said.

  “No. He’ll see it as me coming to him for help with my very first case and never let me live it down. I’ll call Rich if I figure enough out to make an arrest. I’m hoping I don’t need to call him beforehand.”

  “You call him if you need to, Coningsby. We want you to help people, and if that means you need some help from Richard, it’s all right. The important thing is helping the people who come to you in need.”

  “I know.” And I did realize the situation. For my self-esteem, I had to make sure my pride didn’t get dinged if I found myself in a spot where I did need Rich’s help.