Dying Echo: A Grim Reaper Mystery (Grim Reaper Series)

by Clemens, Judy

  “Which direction are we headed?” Casey grabbed Eric’s iPad and pulled up the GPS. “We’re not going toward Galveston Bay, where Les works.”

  “Where’s Pinkerton’s house? See if he comes up in the white pages.”

  She struggled to figure out how to find that information, but eventually came up with an address. “Nope. Not going toward that, either.”

  “Brothers? Girlfriend?”

  “How do I know who his girlfriend is?” But she knew his brothers’ names. “I guess it could be the older brother. Zeke. He lives sort of out this way. Do we think he’s involved?”

  Eric groaned as a bakery truck pulled out in front of him, blocking their view of the escaping Pinkerton brother. He rode the truck’s bumper, waiting for a break in the solid yellow line.

  Casey flipped through several hits on the iPad. “From what I’m seeing here Zeke is Mr. Upright Citizen. So is Dan. Can’t really find much about Randy. The most recent photos that involve the business just show the older two brothers, but that fits with what Thornville said.”

  “Dang it,” Eric said, “where did he go? Do you see him?”

  Casey looked up. “We lost him?”

  “No. There he is.” They could see the little red car darting around a corner. The bakery truck lumbered straight, so Eric was free to turn after Pinkerton.

  “He’s turning again,” Casey said.

  “I see him. Why does this look familiar? Did we drive past here before?” Eric realized he was too close, and slowed to put more distance between the cars. “He’s on his phone.”

  “Talking to Thornville, maybe?”

  “Who knows. Maybe he’s calling his brothers. Or Les Danver. Or even the other guy.”

  The Other Guy. Marcus Flatt, the one who creeped out Britney just by stepping into the coffee shop, and who made Thornville shudder, and Elizabeth leave if she saw him coming. A man with shark’s eyes.

  “I think I know where we’re going,” Casey announced suddenly.

  “You do? Where?”

  She held up the GPS and pointed out their route. “We did drive past here before. We’re going back to Harbor Houseboats.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Eric let the car drift farther back. “Why would we be going there?”

  “A couple of reasons. He’s either going to hide or get something he doesn’t want us to find. He’s meeting the other guys to tell them about us. Or he’s leading us into a trap.”

  “Lovely.”

  Eric drove even slower.

  “If they’re going to hide incriminating evidence we have to get there first.”

  “Impossible. He knows where he’s going. We don’t. And they’ve had almost twenty years to get rid of whatever you’re imagining.”

  Casey plugged the address of the boat garage into the GPS. The first route it offered seemed to be the one they were already taking. She asked for an alternate way. The one that came up would be less mileage, but was supposed to take seven minutes longer.

  “We don’t have a choice,” she said. “You’ll just have to speed.”

  Following Casey’s directions, Eric turned at the next intersection, then flew along the town’s streets, slowing at crosswalks and roads, but ignoring posted speed limits. They managed to get close to the boathouse without crashing or getting a ticket, and parked a couple of blocks away. Casey didn’t see Randy’s car, or anyone at all, except for an older couple walking slowly down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, arm in arm, so she got out of the car and began walking toward the boat garage, angling through people’s yards and hoping they didn’t have those big guns Chief Kay had been talking about.

  They snuck up on the boathouse the back way, going as quickly as they could without calling attention to themselves. But when they got there, there was no sign of Randy Pinkerton’s car.

  “Did we beat him by that much?” Eric asked. “Doesn’t seem possible.”

  “Or we were just wrong about where he was going.”

  “Crap.”

  They watched the building for a half hour, but there was no activity, so they made their way back to their car.

  “Didn’t you say we could have been going to his brother’s house?”

  “Yes, the older one. Zeke.”

  “Should we check it out?”

  “I guess. Not sure what else to do. He’s obviously not going back to work today, where we could find him.”

  They drove to Zeke Pinkerton’s house, but there was no sign of Randy or his car. Not knowing what else to do they looked up Randy’s house, but there was no action there, either.

  “What about Les Danver’s place?” Eric said.

  Casey felt as weary as Eric’s voice sounded. “I’ll look him up.”

  But he wasn’t listed anywhere, not even in the database they’d paid to belong to.

  “Thornville would know,” she said. “The little prick.”

  Eric laughed. “I think it’s time for some food.”

  “I don’t want another blueberry muffin.”

  They found a quick Italian place between the Gulf and Whitley, and were almost done when Eric’s phone buzzed.

  “Britney?” Casey said. “I suppose you managed to exchange phone numbers while you were at it.”

  He ignored her and read the text. “You’re going to love this. Hometown Interiors? They’ve been around for ages.”

  “You’re wrong. I don’t love that.”

  “No, listen. They’ve been around, but they haven’t done anything. Just sat in the corporation listings. The last thing they did? Bought out a small business and took it over seventeen years ago. Since then they’ve done nothing but exist until last week, when they apparently did a few small jobs before the work on your brother’s house.”

  Casey let that sink in. “How is he supposed to have found this business if they haven’t been active for that long?”

  “Doesn’t matter, because we know he really didn’t. If the police would have dug a little farther they would have seen all this. Instead, they believed the voice on the other end of the phone, as well as the fake emails and phone calls they planted.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I can’t. Other people can, without breaking a sweat. Or, actually, without even waking up much, knowing those folks. But that’s not the part you’re going to love.”

  “So tell me already.”

  He smiled. “That little business they bought out? It just so happened to be owned by someone here in Texas, by the name of Cyrus Mann.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  “I don’t understand.” Thornville was wringing his hands, like an old woman in one of those books where old women do that sort of thing. “How did you find me?”

  “That’s what you don’t understand?” Casey stepped into Thornville’s front door—the door at his house. “Or you don’t understand about Hometown Interiors?”

  “Either one.”

  “May we come in?” Eric said.

  Thornville hesitated, so Casey pushed past him, into a little foyer.

  Eric followed. “Thank you. We appreciate your time.”

  “But…”

  “I assume you have computer access to your files here at home?” Eric said.

  “It’s not really something I like to do—” He hustled after Casey, who was making a self-guided tour around the first floor.

  He lived alone, that much was obvious. The living room and kitchen were exceptionally neat and tidy, as was the bathroom, and the small office at the back of the house. Casey stepped in and turned on the light. An extremely fat cat sat on the leather office chair. It took one look at her, rolled off its perch, and waddled out, tail held high.

  “Here’s the deal,” Casey said, going around to the other side of the desk. “We know Cyrus Mann was bought out seventeen years ago. His relatives didn’t understand it. They’d thought he was doing great. But all of a sudden, he was out of a business and working for someone else. The Pinkertons.
Can you explain that?”

  Thornville stood in the doorway, blinking rapidly, like his brain was trying to compute. “I don’t know, I didn’t know anything about—”

  “And who do you think bought out his company? I’m betting I know, and I’ll give you one guess.”

  Thornville swallowed. “Um, the Pinkertons?”

  “Ding, ding. But not all of them. Just one.”

  His face pinched, like someone was stepping on his toe. “Randy.”

  “You’re getting good at this. Now, you want to tell me why Randy, who is apparently a little pet of yours, seeing how you warned him about us today, would travel up to Marshland just to buy out some business that’s owned and run by one guy?”

  Thornville swayed on his feet. Eric grabbed him and led him to the chair behind the desk.

  Casey pointed at the computer. “See what you can find out for us.”

  “Please,” Eric added.

  Thornville blinked some more. “But I don’t know—”

  Casey leaned over him. “It’s called research.”

  “Why are you being so mean to me?” Thornville whined.

  “Because you sold us out today.”

  “But I don’t know you, and I do know Randy.”

  “Yes, you know that he’s a conniving little crook, and hangs out with even worse ones. You’re the one who said his brothers don’t even like him.”

  “I never said—”

  “Type!” Casey said.

  He began typing.

  “Now I see what you mean when you say you’re going to be nicer,” Eric said to Casey.

  She smiled.

  “What do you want to know?” Thornville said.

  “I want to see it for myself. Who officially owns Hometown Interiors?”

  He was able to find the business, way down in some deep recesses of businesses whose sole activity was paying enough fees and taxes they remained legal.

  “Well?”

  Thornville cleared his throat. “It’s owned by a corporation called Private Boats, Inc.”

  Casey couldn’t breathe. “And who owns that business?”

  Thornville typed some more. After a while, he swallowed loudly. “Randy Pinkterton. And Les Danvers. And…Marcus Flatt.”

  “Well, what do you know? Isn’t that interesting? What about work history of our lovely home repair business?”

  Thornville went back to Hometown Interiors, and found that the hibernating business had somehow managed to rack up several work payments in the past month, after years of remaining stagnant.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Casey said. “How they decided to get back into the workforce so suddenly?”

  “What details can you get us?” Eric asked.

  “None. It’s private business activity.”

  “You can’t see who their customers were?”

  “Not without getting into their files, and before you ask, I don’t know how to do that.” He flinched, as if afraid of Casey’s reaction.

  “That’s no problem,” Casey said. “There’s an easier way. Eric, may I borrow your phone?”

  “Of course.” He handed it to her, their politeness seeming to make Thornville even more nervous.

  Casey dialed the business number on the screen and smiled at Thornville as she waited for it to connect. After several rings a man answered. “Yeah?”

  She continued smiling at Thornville. “Hello, I’m calling to talk with someone about some work I need done.”

  “Sorry,” the man said. “We’re scheduled through the winter. It will have to wait.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. No chance you could squeeze me in before then?”

  “No can do.”

  “Well, okay. How about—Is there any chance I could see some of your work to see if I want to wait for you? Could you put me in touch with one of your customers?”

  “Look, lady, we can’t give out private information. We do good work. No complaints. Ask the Chamber of Commerce.”

  “Good idea. Thank you. I’ll do just that.”

  She hung up, still smiling. “How about that? They don’t have room for any new customers right now. They suggested I ask you for a reference. Why would they say that, do you think?”

  Thornville shrank in his chair. “I really have no idea.”

  “Nobody else has come calling, asking about them?”

  He shook his head.

  “Not even, say, the police in Colorado?”

  His eyes filled, and tears shone in his eyes. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know what they were asking. They asked if it was a legitimate business, and I said yes. That’s all. Because it is. And look, you can see for yourself that my database reports recent activity.” He angled the computer screen toward Casey, and he was right, she could see the work orders.

  “I suppose this is what we were talking about earlier?” she said to Eric.

  “I suppose it is. Easy as sweet potato pie to fake, as I believe they might say down here.”

  Thornville dropped his head into his hands. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

  “No,” Casey said. “I don’t suppose you did know exactly what they were asking. But now you do.” She handed him Eric’s phone. “And now you are going to tell the cops exactly what you’ve found out.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  Casey snatched the phone from his hands and gave it to Eric. “How ’bout you make the call? Once you have the right person, Thornville here can start talking.” She dropped her hand onto Thornville’s shoulder, and he about leapt from the chair. She kept him in it.

  Eric wasn’t able to connect with Detective Watts, but got someone on the line who would listen. He said they had the director of the Whitley, Texas, Chamber of Commerce on the line with information pertinent to the Alicia McManus case, and handed the phone to Thornville.

  “Talk,” Casey said.

  Thornville cleared his throat. “Um, hello?”

  Casey squeezed his shoulder, just a tad, and he squeaked. And began talking. When he’d given them all the information about who owned the company and how much work had actually been done in the past seventeen years, he looked up at Casey. She was still smiling. He cringed.

  Eric took back the phone. “Got all that? Great. We’ll be in touch.” He hung up. “So, are we done here?”

  Casey took her hand from Thornville’s shoulder. “I believe we are. Unless you have something else to ask?”

  “Nope.”

  Casey considered leaving Thornville with a physical reminder of their visit, but decided she wasn’t quite that angry. Instead, she smiled at him again, and walked to the door. As she was leaving, she heard Thornville say, “Doesn’t she scare you?”

  Eric replied, “Every single day. But then, we’re friends, so I don’t have to worry. At least, not too much.”

  Casey smiled to herself. That was exactly the way she liked it.

  Chapter Forty-five

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Eric said as they drove back toward Marshland. They had decided they didn’t actually need to track down Randy Pinkerton or his buddies. The cops had the new information, and the connections would hopefully be enough to at least bring the men in for questioning, as well as make it possible to check gun registrations, although alibis for a date several years ago would be impossible to come by. A week ago though, that was more hopeful. It wasn’t like Casey and Eric knew where Randy was, anyway, since he apparently was avoiding all his usual haunts.

  Casey shifted in her seat so she could look at Eric. “I’m thinking about timing. Cyrus’ business is supposedly going fine, then all of a sudden he sells out. A few months later he is working for the exact people who bought his company. Soon after that he’s laid off and making the blueprints for the smuggling boat. What exactly happened?”

  “Wayne said he was an expert, that people were lucky to get him to make something. I guess Harbor Houseboats wanted the best.”

  “So they buy out his company? He goes from being hi
s own boss to just another grunt? It doesn’t make sense. And meanwhile, his wife is ill and dying of cancer.”

  “He needed money for her treatment?”

  “Insurance would cover that.”

  “Assuming he had it. He wasn’t getting benefits from some large company. He would have had to supply it himself.”

  “One way to find out.” Eric dug his phone out of his pocket. “Call Betsy.”

  Betsy answered almost immediately. “You found something?”

  “Did Cyrus have medical insurance?”

  She hesitated. “They were living in a car.”

  “No, I mean before Vivian died. Were they okay?”

  “Oh. I guess so. From what I remember, she was getting the best care, always in a different hospital, trying this or that new treatment. None of it worked, of course. I mean it was pancreatic cancer. Not much you can do for that—especially that far back.”

  “Did he ever talk about why he sold his business?”

  “All I ever heard was that he ran out of money and had to get a different job.”

  “Do you know how he got the one with the houseboats?”

  “They came looking for him. It was like Wayne told you—Uncle Cyrus was really, really good when he was thinking straight.”

  “But then he got laid off not too long after.”

  “I don’t know, Casey. I guess so. Dad always said he must have still been out of his mind a little bit because of Aunt Viv. I don’t think he ever really recovered. He went a little nuts trying to keep her alive with all that medicine, and when it didn’t work…”

  “I understand. Thanks, Betsy. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Uh-oh,” Eric said when she hung up. “You’re burning brain cells.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense. Cyrus’ wife gets sick, but he’s got medical insurance, so he should be okay. He owns his own business, so he can make his own schedule—five months isn’t long enough for a business to go completely down the drain, is it? But halfway through her illness he sells his company and goes to work for somebody else, farther away, who would dictate his schedule, which would probably mean spending less time with his wife during her final months. From what we’re hearing about how her illness affected him and how much he loved her, I just can’t see that.”