C T Ferguson Box Set

by Tom Fowler

  “Nobody’s dead in Baltimore County?” I said.

  “You should know we sophisticated county dwellers don’t have the crime problems you city folks do,” he said.

  “My ass. Give me your email address. I’m sending you a picture and some information.”

  “Do I want this information?”

  “I’m trying to find someone,” I said. “You heard of Stanley Rodgers?”

  “Nope,” said Gonzalez.

  “He’s a rich guy who lost his ass not long ago. His wife says he’s locked himself in a hotel for three days trying to keep up with the Joneses again. I want to send you his picture in case he turns up somewhere.”

  “You think he’s dead?”

  “I have no reason to. As far as I know, he’s trying to day trade his way back to a fortune.”

  “Tell the son of a bitch good luck,” Gonzalez said. He gave me his email. “If he turns up, I’ll call you.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Gonzalez hung up without saying goodbye. Rich always did, too. They must have taught it at the police academy.

  I told county law enforcement Stanley Rodgers was missing and provided them some information about him. I didn't expect them to find him, and if they did, I didn't anticipate it to be under positive circumstances. This all meant I still needed to discover what hotel he squirreled himself away in. Towson was the best bet; I felt sure of it. Towson also featured a lot of hotels, some better than others. Even eliminating the dives, Stanley would have several choices.

  His brokerage had been in the heart of Towson. You couldn't drive through the traffic circle joining Joppa, York, and Dulaney Valley Roads without seeing it (and most people just plain couldn't drive in the circle at all). It still left the Sheraton and the Marriott of the nicer hotels in Towson. The Marriott was farther away and less likely, but I wanted to be more sure of my choice, so I grabbed my cell phone and called my parents’ house.

  “Dad, I need a little insight,” I said.

  “Sure, son,” my father said. “Into what?”

  “Into Stanley Rodgers. Remember him?”

  “Haven’t seen him in a couple years, but yeah, I remember him. We heard they fell on tough times.”

  “Fell hard, in fact,” I said. “His wife is worried about him. He hid out in a hotel room trying to day trade his way to a new fortune.”

  “Sounds really risky.”

  “I think ‘stupid’ would be my adjective of choice, but ‘risky’ works. Anyway, I need to figure out what hotel he’s in.”

  “How can I help?” said my father.

  “His brokerage would hold parties and conferences. I never went, but I’m sure you did. Where did he have them?”

  “The Sheraton.”

  As I calculated. “What I thought. Thanks, Dad.”

  “Glad I could help,” he said.

  This case would be easier than I expected.

  I parked around the corner from the main marquee of the Sheraton and went in a side door. In the middle of the afternoon, hotels kept those open. I started on the first level and walked up and down the halls until I ran into someone in housekeeping. Morning rounds were long over, but a few of them wandered about working on things. It took me until the fourth floor to find someone, a petite lady in her forties whose name badge identified her as Graciela.

  “Excuse me,” I said to her en Español. My Spanish lagged behind my Chinese, but I could still have a simple conversation.

  She smiled at me. “Did you lock yourself out of you room, sir?”

  “No.” I showed her my ID. “I’m trying to find someone, and I heard he might be here.”

  “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” she said.

  “He’s not in trouble.” I endeavored to sound reassuring. It’s not among my many strengths. “His wife is worried about him.”

  “Mr. Johansson is such a nice man,” she said, then covered her mouth right away.

  “I’m sure he is,” I said. “It’s why his wife worries. Thank you.”

  She frowned as I walked away.

  From there, I went back to the main floor and out the same side door. Having found “Mr. Johansson,” I would need to talk to him and tell him he should give up his foolishness and go home to his wife. First, I had to get into his room. Graciela wouldn’t let me in, and I wouldn’t expect any of the other housekeepers to, either. I would need to get a key from the front desk. Mr. Johansson had just acquired an assistant.

  A few months ago, the Lexus I drove since my college years blew its engine. I replaced it with a year-old Audi S4 which came with a manual transmission, drove better, and looked better still. I don’t know if it looked like a car Mr. Johansson’s assistant would drive, but I had a feeling it would. I parked in a spot visible from the front door, took a flash drive out of my pocket, and hoped I could play a harried assistant.

  I ran a hand through my hair to mess it up, got out of the car with alacrity, slammed the door, and ran into the lobby. The cheery fellow behind the desk—Brent, his name tag said—didn’t have a chance to finish his company-approved greeting before I broke in to my routine.

  “My boss is upstairs,” I said. I paced a few feet to either side. “He needs the information I have on this flash drive.” I showed him. “But he didn’t give me a key to his room.”

  “Sir, we could take it up for you if you—“

  “Do you invest?” I said after rushing the counter and staring into Brent’s eyes. “Do you?” He frowned. “No, you don’t. You don’t invest, and you don’t understand investing. Mr. Johansson does. He can make a lot of money for a lot of people, but I have to get him this information. It’s brand new and very important.”

  “I could call his room and—“

  “He doesn’t want to be disturbed with phone calls and knocks at the door. It’s why he’s had the sign on the door since he got here.” A guess, but it seemed right, and I doubted Brent knew anything to the contrary. “Do you want to stand in the way of earning millions of dollars? Brent, front desk employee and impediment to financial progress.” I pointed at him. “It’ll be your fault. All. Your. Fault.”

  Brent’s mouth hung open. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he closed his mouth, then gaped again. His eyes focused on me in the same way the guy who’s on his sixth shot at the bar’s eyes would. He looked at his computer screen and grabbed a blank key. “Mr. Johansson is in the penthouse.”

  “Of course he is. When a genius gets out of the office to work in peace and quiet, he doesn’t stay with the commoners.”

  Brent chuckled, but I thought he did it to be polite. He didn’t understand investing, and he didn’t understand me now. He clicked a few keys, swiped the card, and handed it to me. “Good luck saving the financial world.”

  “You’re a lifesaver, Brent,” I said. “When’s your shift over? I’m buying you a drink.”

  “Four o’clock, but that’s OK. You have a good day, sir.”

  “You too.” I dashed to the elevator and pushed the button. Why couldn’t all my cases be this easy?

  The Sheraton penthouse didn’t look like much of one from the outside. Those I’ve stayed in have been the only rooms on their floors. This top level had four alleged penthouses. “Suites” would have been a better name for them but also wouldn’t carry the price tag associated with staying in the penthouse. Despite his financial woes, Stanley Rodgers couldn’t resist its pull.

  I walked to the door and slid in the keycard. The light turned green, the lock whirred, and I pushed. Something smelled like bad food. If Rodgers had locked himself in here for a few days, bad food probably wasn’t the only stinky thing up here. The corridor inside the room at least boasted of a nice carpet. The gigantic bathroom featured a soaking tub, stand-up shower, two sinks, and marble floors. Despite its outward appearance, this suite might have deserved its lofty status. A flatscreen TV, muted and tuned to some financial network, hung on the wall in easy view of the king bed. I made a left at
the bed and looked at Rodger’s desk. His laptop, the screen saver active, sat on it. Beside the desk was a dorm-sized refrigerator which seemed small for the priciest room. A trash can full of food containers sat on the other side of the desk. I still hadn’t seen Rodgers.

  Past the office was a den with a leather couch, leather recliner, and another flatscreen TV. An ice bucket, now filled with water, rested atop the end table. I returned to the main room. Then I noticed the body on the far side of the bed against the wall. I shook my head and closed my eyes. It’s never been easy for me to look at corpses, and I hope it never gets to be. The deceased was definitely Stanley Rodgers. He was older, grayer, and heavier than I remembered, but I harbored no doubts as to his identity. Rodgers had a single gunshot wound to his temple. A pistol with a suppressor screwed onto its muzzle lay on the floor close to his right hand.

  It looked like a suicide. The corpse had stiffened, so Rodgers had been this way for a while. The “do not disturb” sign would have kept the hotel staff out. “Well, shit,” I said to no one in particular. It was a good thing I brought my flash drive. While this looked like a suicide, I wanted to dig around more before I ruled out someone shooting Rodgers in the head. The contents of his important files could give me a place to start. I connected the drive and rebooted the laptop. It loaded into the Linux-based operating system on the drive, and I copied important-looking files. I put the drive back in my pocket, rebooted the computer again, and went into the bathroom. I grabbed a towel, retraced my steps through the penthouse, and wiped down anything I remembered touching. When I finished, I took a few pictures of the scene with my cell phone. Then I left with the towel.

  Why did all my cases have to be this hard?

  Chapter 2

  At some point, I would have to let Pauline know what happened to her husband. She would ask me to keep investigating, and I would agree because it’s how I am. I knew why Stanley Rodgers locked himself in the hotel room. Right now, one fact constituted the whole of my knowledge. Stanley Rodgers might have killed himself. Maybe he realized he couldn’t recoup the money he and his family lost. Perhaps he figured eating a bullet would be better than facing his wife and kids again.

  The suicide angle didn’t feel right. He had a family. Pauline said theirs was a happy marriage despite the hard times. It meant someone killed Stanley Rodgers. Someone needed to know where he was, gain access to the room, and shoot him to stage a bogus scene. Oh, and do it all without drawing undue attention. It was possible. I knew Pauline would insist Stanley didn’t commit suicide even if the evidence were overwhelming.

  I captured Stanley’s important files on my flash drive. I could get his cell phone records if I needed them. His brokerage account would be more complicated, but I could get it, too. Finding out how well (or how poorly) he was doing could be useful. Based on my visibility at the hotel, I needed a couple hours before Brent ‘s shift ended and I could call the police. I estimated it would be enough time.

  It wasn’t.

  Sometimes, the bear gets you, and today, I was a bacon-covered snack for a ravenous grizzly. Stanley encrypted his hard drive and its contents. It made sense in hindsight, but most things make sense looking back on them. Movies depict people cracking complicated encryption schemes in a few minutes, often at gunpoint. The reality is deciphering good crypto takes a long time. Top-notch algorithms can take a lifetime to break. I owned good hardware and could farm out effort to the cloud, but time would still be a factor. I hadn’t even started on the phone and brokerage account records.

  Of course, my phone rang and of course, it was Pauline. I took a deep breath before answering.

  “C.T., it’s Pauline. I was wondering . . . if you’d made any progress.”

  This was the call I hoped to avoid. Soon I would have to tell this woman her husband had been shot, perhaps by himself. I couldn’t tell her now. “I . . . have a lead,” I said. “I’m working on it at the moment.”

  “Oh, that sounds promising.” I heard her voice pick up. Optimism would only make the news I would give her later much worse. Some days, I hated my job. On a few of those days, I even disliked the way I went about working some of my cases. Today, both intersected.

  “I hope it is. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “Please do,” she said. “I don’t want to keep you from your work. Let me know when you have more.”

  “I will,” I said. “Take care, Pauline.”

  I tossed my phone onto the sofa. Lying to clients usually didn’t bother me, but I rarely lied about something so important. Rich warned me my methods would catch up with me. This hadn’t been the way he meant, but he was right nonetheless. I went back to Stanley’s hard drive. Decrypting this would take a while. I looked at the clock. At least I could call the police soon.

  I made the anonymous tip from a pay phone in Fells Point. Once I did it, I drove back home and kept working on the encrypted hard drive while waiting for the inevitable call from Sergeant Gonzalez. It marked twenty-five minutes of zero progress on the crypto.

  “You might want to get down here,” he said when I answered.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “The guy you told me about, Rodgers? He’s dead. Has been for at least a day, is my guess. We’ll know more when the ME finishes with him.”

  “I’m guessing he didn’t die of natural causes.”

  “Gunshot to the head,” Gonzalez said. “We found a gun near his right hand. Early tests show GSR on it.”

  “Ooh, an acronym. You’re giving me credit for knowing gunshot residue.”

  “Yeah, I figured you watched CSI. Anyway, looks like a suicide.”

  “Or someone wants to make it look like one,” I said.

  “We think of this shit here, too, hotshot. We’ll look into it. Everyone is still processing the room. You want to get down here, now’s the time.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Towson Sheraton, Penthouse B.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said.

  Gonzalez hung up. I let out a deep breath I’d been holding. I could only hope I did a good job of playing ignorant.

  When I got to the Sheraton, the room looked like I remembered it with the addition of a dozen cops and the subtraction of any semblance of order. At least they were thorough. Drawers had been yanked out, sofa cushions strewn about the room, the bed dismantled. Gonzalez saw me and approached. “Looking like a suicide at this point,” he said. He led me through the mess and showed me the gun, now in an evidence bag on the dresser.

  “Suppressor,” I said, pointing out the obvious.

  “Probably means nobody heard anything,” Gonzalez said.

  “You have some men canvassing now?”

  “Women, too,” he said. We’re progressive in the BCPD.”

  “Next you’ll rename manhunt to ‘personhunt,’” I said.

  Gonzalez chuckled. “We ain’t so fucking progressive yet.” He looked around. “What do you make of this?”

  I followed his gaze, trying to act as if I hadn’t already seen the room today. “Nice place,” I said. “I don’t know if it counts as a penthouse, but it’s much nicer than I’d expect someone with money problems to afford.”

  “Puzzles me, too,” said Gonzalez. “If this guy was so poor, how’s he drop five bills a night on a ritzy suite?”

  “I think he wanted to stay here.”

  “Of course he did.” Gonzalez gave me a look like I’d sprouted a second head.

  “What I mean,” I said, “is he wanted to stay here in this specific hotel, in an opulent penthouse. Maybe even in this particular penthouse.” I walked to a window and threw open the curtain, flooding the area with late afternoon sunlight. “His old brokerage house was over there,” I said, pointing. “He could see it from this window. He could see the site of his greatest success and failure.”

  “So he made sure he had enough saved up to get this room.”

  I nodded. “He wanted it,” I said. “I think . . .
he hoped for inspiration. Some of the old Rodgers magic he used to make a fortune before. Maybe he found it. Could be why someone killed him.”

  “You really think someone killed him?” Gonzalez said.

  “I think he’s an unlikely victim of suicide, though Emile Durkheim might disagree.”

  Gonzalez frowned. “You’re going back to sociology class now?”

  “I minored in philosophy,” I said. “Sociology was right in there, too.”

  “You take it so you can make asshole quotes at parties?” said Gonzalez

  “No, I took it because girls who major in sociology are easy.”

  Gonzalez looked at me for a moment, then nodded. Maybe he enjoyed similar experiences during his college years. “OK, maybe somebody did kill him,” he said. “If so, we’ll find evidence of it in this room.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  “You can drive your fancy Lexus back to Baltimore and wait for my next phone call. We’ll go talk to the widow.”

  “It’s a fancy Audi now,” I pointed out.

  “Whatever,” said Gonzalez.

  Rich drove Gonzalez and me to talk to Pauline. She and Stanley lived in the city. How they sent their son to a county public school was not something I felt the need to ask about right now. I said I could drive Gonzalez myself, but Rich wanted to come along. Sometimes, his involvement in my cases puzzled me.

  They lived in Waverly, near Hamilton, just inside the line between Baltimore and the county. The houses were single-family units older than any of us in the car and in various states of repair. The Rodgers' house featured a brick front in need of some work, shutters yearning for a fresh coat of paint, a slapdash roof longing for a hurricane to rip it free, and a garden grown by someone with a black thumb. It was a house a family of modest means could afford and one they were almost certain to hate.