“Who do you think you are to tell me what to do anyway?” I said, my voice rising as my temper flared.
“I think I’m the guy who’s trying to keep you from being another murder statistic, that’s who!” Dutch yelled.
“Oh, for crying out loud!” I shouted. “I can bloody well take care of myself!” And with that I began to get out of Milo’s car.
“Hey!” Milo shouted at both of us. “Abby, hold on, and Dutch, shut up and sit there!”
I paused with my hand on the door and one foot out of the car, waiting Milo out. “What?” I asked finally.
“Abby, let’s go back to Dutch’s and the three of us can talk about it, okay?”
“He took my keys!” I yelled, refusing to give in.
“Obviously, you found another set,” Milo said, indicating those I held in my other hand.
“He can’t treat me like a child, Milo,” I insisted as I got the rest of the way out and slammed the door. I walked over to my car without looking back at either of them. I hated that Dutch was being such a jerk, and debated with myself about the wisdom of going back to his house to work things out, even with Milo playing referee.
I got in my car and started the engine, and waited grudgingly while Milo backed up the Beemer and allowed me to pull out. I drove for a few minutes, trying to let the rational side of my brain talk some sense into the angry five-year-old side and eventually it worked because I ended up back at Dutch’s, noting with only slight irritation that Milo pulled in right behind me and cut off my exit.
We filed into Dutch’s house and I took a seat on the chair next to the couch, pulling a pillow protectively over my lap and screwing my face up into half pout and half snarl.
Dutch and Milo sat on opposite ends of the couch, and after getting settled Milo said, “Abby, I know you think that Dutch is being overprotective, but you’ve got to give the guy a break. I mean, the entire time he’s known you, you’ve had one crazy psycho after another coming after you.”
I gave that statement some thought, and had to admit that in the last couple of months I’d seen my share of nutcases. Even now, there seemed to be another one lurking around every street corner, grocery store and furniture gallery. “It’s not like I go looking for this stuff, ya know,” I said defiantly. “Stuff just happens to me.”
Dutch rolled his eyes and shook his head at his partner as if to say, “See what I have to put up with?”
For obvious reasons, this really hurt my feelings, and as tears stung my eyes I snapped at him, “If you don’t like it, Cowboy, then all you have to do is wash your hands of me and walk away.”
“Oh, come on, Abby! Cut me a break, would ya?” he snapped back.
“Seriously, if you’re sick of babysitting me, then maybe we should just go our separate ways and be done with it.” The words were flowing out of my mouth of their own accord, and even though I didn’t mean them, I was saying them anyway.
“Is that what you want?” Dutch asked, glowering at me.
“Hey, guys,” Milo said, his hands in a time-out gesture.
“Maybe,” I sneered.
“You know where the door is,” Dutch said and turned his head away from me.
“Whoa!” Milo said and stood up, his hands going to his hips as he chastised us. “You two are just about the most pigheaded, stubborn malcontents I’ve ever laid eyes on.” Turning to me he said, “Abby, do you know that all Dutch ever talks about these days is you? The guy’s crazy about you. Head over heels. Gaga . . .”
“Milo,” Dutch warned, shooting daggers at him.
“And, Dutch, Abby is so nuts about you that she was willing to put her life on hold for a full month to nurse your sorry bullet-riddled butt back to health, a job trained nurses wouldn’t take if you paid them.”
I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair, as it dawned on me what this entire argument was about. I was used to my independence and freedom, not to mention a certain amount of alone time. Ever since I’d moved in with Dutch, I’d felt confined, and cagey. When he’d taken my keys away, he’d also taken my only ticket to freedom, and that’s what I was really upset about.
“Now that we’ve established that you two really, really like each other, what say we call a truce and agree to talk about what steps we need to take to protect you,” Milo said, pointing to me, “without making you feel smothered and what you,” he said, pivoting now to Dutch, “can do to give her a little space until we catch this guy.”
“It’s not safe for her out there,” Dutch replied.
“Agreed, but you can’t watch her every second, buddy. She’s a grown woman.”
There was a long pause among us as we all pondered that. After a minute I looked at Dutch and said, “I keep my keys, but agree to an escort for a while. And by escort I don’t always mean you.”
“Like who?” Dutch wanted to know.
“Like Dave, or Milo or Mary-friggin-Poppins if she’s available,” I said moodily.
Milo gave Dutch a look that said, “I’d take that deal if I were you.”
“Fine,” Dutch said and got up to walk into the kitchen, where he returned a moment later with two sets of keys. “Here,” he said, dropping them into my outstretched palm. They jingled when they hit my hand and a moment later Dutch closed his hand over mine and said, “I’m only trying to look after you because I am a little nuts about you, Edgar.”
“Good to know,” I said with a small smile.
“Thank God that’s over,” Milo said, sitting down on the couch again and lifting the remote. “I should get paid for this stuff,” he added as he tuned the TV to ESPN.
Just then Dutch’s office phone rang and he headed to the study to answer it. I sat in the chair for a long moment, fingering the keys that he’d given back to me and thinking about the two of us, wondering how couples managed to wade through all the shit that complicates a relationship. Sighing I got up and headed into the kitchen to put my keys and purse away. My intuition buzzed just then and I had the feeling I needed to look on the counter. There, my eye fell on the phone book and the name Willy Breger floated into my mind.
Curiously, I opened it and toured the B’s. Sure enough I found a listing for W. Breger in the town next to Birmingham called Bloomfield Hills. I wrote the address and phone number down and decided to tell Dutch and Milo about my conversation with Maria. Maybe we could call him and get some dirt on James.
As I came back into the living room, Dutch was walking back in from the study, carrying a small stack of papers.
“What’cha got there?” I asked.
“Carlier’s tax returns for the last three years.”
“His tax returns?” I asked, peering over his shoulder to take a better look.
“Yeah. My buddy at the Bureau just e-mailed them to me.”
“Anything interesting?” Milo asked, hitting the MUTE button on the TV.
“Only one thing I’ve noticed so far,” Dutch said, thumbing through the returns.
“We’re waiting,” I said when he paused to turn back to a page he’d already viewed.
“Do you know if Carlier’s Jewish?” he asked me.
I looked at him oddly for a moment, then I remembered the small crucifix I’d seen in James’s office. “No, I don’t think so. I believe he’s Catholic, why?”
“He makes a sizable donation to the Holocaust Survivors’ Fund every year.”
“How sizable?” Milo asked.
“Fifty thousand last year alone.”
My jaw dropped. “Did you say fifty thousand?”
Dutch nodded his head. “Another forty-six the year before, and thirty the year before that.”
Milo whistled. “That’s some profit he must be turning to be able to afford that kind of a donation.”
“That’s just it,” Dutch said, looking the papers over once again. “His profit for all three years was only two times that. By this account he donates half his profits to this one charity.”
I remembered my conversation with Mar
ia just then and chimed in, “I may know of someone who could help us find out a little more about that particular line item.”
“Who?” Dutch asked, finally looking up from the papers.
“Carlier’s accountant. I talked with one of his ex-employees today, and she suggested that James had it out with his tax man, and they went their separate ways. I’ve got the guy’s name and number right here if you’d like it.”
Dutch grinned at me, his features so much softer than a mere twenty minutes before. “Good job, Edgar. Milo, you up for a road trip?”
“As long as I get to drive,” Milo said, standing up.
He got no argument from Dutch and me as we followed him out the door.
Fifteen minutes later we arrived at a small office building on the southern end of Bloomfield Hills. Milo parked his Beemer in the very last parking slot at the back of the building, miles from any other car. “Don’t want anyone to scratch my new toy,” he said when Dutch and I gave him a look.
“No sweat, buddy,” Dutch said in a flat tone. “I mean, I’m only recovering from a bullet hole in the thigh. The remote possibility that this baby could be scratched is worth any extra discomfort.”
Milo gave him a look. “Well, ain’t that a pain in the ass,” he deadpanned, and got a glower from Dutch as I smiled at the pair. We all got out then and headed into the building, pausing once we got inside to check the wallboard and look up the suite number for Breger. Milo spotted his name first. “He’s on the second floor, suite 207.”
Dutch groaned as we headed toward the stairs, because even though he was getting around now without his cane, stairs were still tough for him. We made our way slowly up and down the hallway, pausing in front of Breger’s suite. Dutch knocked on the door and a moment later we heard a gruff voice say, “Come in!”
We stepped inside a small, single-room office with a desk at the far end, stacks of folders piled everywhere on the floor and no one in sight behind a huge barrier of paper lining the edge of the desk, like the Great Wall of China. We all came up short at the scene, and after a beat or two up rose Breger. He was taller than I expected, almost as tall as Dutch, with an additional fifty pounds of girth. He had a broad brow, eyebrows that looked like furry caterpillars and jowls so pronounced that they pulled the corners of his mouth down.
“Yeah?” he asked while we stared at him.
“Mr. William Breger?” Milo asked.
“Mr. Breger was my old man, you can call me Willy,” he corrected, cocking his head to the side like a big bulldog.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Milo Johnson of the Royal Oak Police Department,” Milo said, flipping his badge open for Willy’s inspection. “This is Agent Rivers of the FBI and our associate, Abigail Cooper. We’re here to talk to you about one of your clients.”
“Got a warrant?” Willy asked, quick on the draw.
Milo smiled turning on the charm and answered, “We don’t need one in this case, Mr. Breger. We’re really just here to ask some character questions about a James Carlier.”
“You mean the son of a bitch that owes me ten grand and won’t pay up? Ask any question you want, Detective, I’ll be happy to answer off the record until you get a warrant.” Willy said in a change of demeanor that took us all off guard.
“He owes you how much?” Dutch asked, taking out his notebook to jot down some notes.
“Ten stinking grand. I do his books all year for him, and get his taxes ready early on account of he’s been my client for so long. Hell, his grandpappy was my client for nearly twenty years. And all a sudden, he decides he wants to do his own taxes and tells me to go to hell. Son of a bitch. Ooops. Sorry, hon,” he said, noticing me.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve been known to use that term myself.”
Dutch coughed pointedly and I elbowed him while Milo asked, “When did he tell you he didn’t want you to do his books anymore?”
“The other day,” Willy said, leaning against the desk and threatening to topple over one of the great stacks with his bulk. “I call him to review his deductions and go over his donations and when I get to that part he goes ballistic. He tells me that I’m fired, and not to file anything or he’ll sue me. Forty stinking years of hard work down the toilet like that,” Willy lamented, snapping his fingers.
My intuition buzzed and I asked, “You mentioned something about donations—we know that Mr. Carlier had been giving generously to the Holocaust Survivors’ Fund. Can you tell us a little bit about his motivation for doing that?”
Willy scratched his head. “Wish I could, ’cuz it’s been a big fat mystery to me for as long as I’ve done his books. His grandpappy sure never donated to no charity. Hell, that miser’d steal from his own mother. But James was different. The moment he inherited the store he got rid of all the inventory, mostly at a loss, and started selling only opals. Then every year he’d scrape together the profits, cut them in half and donate that to the Holocaust fund.”
“Is he Jewish?” Dutch asked.
“No, and that’s why it was so odd. I mean, not that you have to be Jewish to donate to the Holocaust fund, but as far as I knew he didn’t have a direct connection to the organization, the Holocaust or any of the victims. He would never tell me why he did it, he just insisted I write the check and send it. Like, this year, he told me two weeks ago that he wanted to donate the entire proceeds of a house he’d sold, plus fifty percent of last year’s profits, then two days ago he yells at me for making out the checks. The guy’s gone wacko if you ask me.”
Something else was tickling my mind and I asked, “You mentioned that James got rid of all his inventory when his grandfather passed away. Why the change from traditional jewelry to opals?”
“Beats the hell outta me. Jean-Paul . . . uh, that’s his grandpappy, he used to do pretty good, let me tell you. He was also obsessively meticulous about his records. Do you know I still have every record of every sales transaction that guy ever made?”
Dutch looked around the cramped room. “Here?” he asked.
“Naw. I got a storage place in Pontiac.”
“Why would you keep all those old records?” Milo asked.
“Well,” Willy thought, rubbing his scruffy chin, “Most of it’s just ’cuz I’m lazy, and the other part is ’cuz when Jean-Paul was alive, he insisted on keeping track of his inventory, even after he’d sold it. Now that I’ve been fired, I guess it’s high time I got rid of that old junk, huh?”
I smiled at Willy. Despite his gruff exterior, I liked the guy. Just then my intuition buzzed again, and I said, “Willy, could we take a look at some of those sales receipts before you toss them?”
“Sure, I guess. I’ll have to get them out of storage, though. How about you folks come back around here tomorrow around six and I’ll let you cart away as many boxes as you’d like.”
“How many boxes are there?”
“Oh, I’d say around ten or so.”
“Are they big?”
“Banker’s Boxes, you can manage them,” Willy said, giving me a wink. “Jean-Paul didn’t move a ton of merchandise, mostly ’cuz his prices were so high, but what he moved he made a tidy profit on.”
“It’s not too much trouble?” I asked, looking at Willy’s energy and noting an area of caution around him.
“Nope. I need to clean out the old bin anyway.”
“Just don’t overexert yourself,” I said, troubled by the yellow light I saw blinking in my head. “If you want our help with the boxes, we can meet you at the storage place.”
Willy waved me off. “Naw, it’s fine. Listen, you guys get outta here while I get back to work and make some time for myself to go to the storage place tomorrow, okay?”
“We appreciate the help Willy, thanks,” Milo said, taking his leave.
“See you tomorrow at six,” I said as I nudged Dutch, who jotted something down before following us out the door.
We headed back to the car and piled in. Milo started the engine but didn’t take the Be
emer out of park. Instead he turned in his seat to me and Dutch and asked, “So, what do you make of it?”
“Not sure,” Dutch said, looking through his notes.
“It’s like one giant puzzle, with all these layers of interconnected pieces,” I said, shaking my head. “And the truly screwy part is that I know they all fit together, but I don’t know how.”
“There’s one lead we haven’t tracked down yet,” Dutch offered.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Simone Renard.”
“Madame Dubois’s friend?”
“And Jean-Paul’s ex-girlfriend.”
“What’re we waiting for?” Milo asked, pulling out of the space. “Just tell me where to go,” he said, and we headed back toward Royal Oak.
We arrived at Simone’s house a little while later, and I noticed a light on in the living room. “Good,” I said when we pulled up. “It looks like they’re home.”
We piled out of the car and headed up the front walk. Before we even got to the door it opened and a small woman with large eyes and a hawkish nose peered out the storm door at us. “Yes?” she asked meekly.
“Simone Renard?” Dutch asked, heading up the steps and extending his hand in a warm gesture.
“Yes?” she asked warily.
“How do you do?” Dutch asked, trying not to scare her. “I am Agent Rivers with the FBI, and this is my associate, Detective Johnson, and our associate Miss Abigail Cooper. May we come in and chat with you for a few minutes about an old friend of yours, Jean-Paul Carlier?”
Simone’s face wavered between fear and curiosity before curiosity won out. “Come in,” she said after a moment.
We walked into the house and were struck by the smell of Ben Gay, which hung cloyingly in the air. The house was furnished almost completely with antiques and vintage collectibles. Simone led us into the living room and indicated two weathered couches, arranged in an L, for us to sit down on. Dutch and I took one side, Milo took the other and Simone remained standing. “My sister is sleeping in the bedroom, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your voices low,” she said.
Dutch nodded and took out his notebook again. Flipping it open he began, “As I said, we’re here to talk to you about Jean-Paul Carlier. We understand the two of you were quite close at some point?”
A Vision of Murder Page 21