However Many More

by Bo Thunboe

  “I have the background, counselor.” Lawyers loved to hear themselves talk, and most would start a story with the Big Bang if you let them.

  “Of course, Detective.”

  Hallagan started off by explaining how storage unit auctions worked. The storage facility operator would cut the lock off the unit, open the door, and allow any prospective buyers to look at the contents from outside—no picking through it. Most stuff was generally in boxes, and the boxes were rarely labeled, so the only things clearly visible were the pieces of furniture. Henry was the expert on that stuff, so Bowen added little value to the bidding. As a result, he stopped going to the auctions, leaving that part of the business to Henry. If Henry bought a unit, he’d secure the contents inside the unit with a new lock, then bring Bowen in later to help move the contents to Henry’s barn. There they would sort it together, deciding what to toss, what to sell, and where. That was the process, at least, until Bowen’s back started bothering him and he couldn’t help move the contents anymore.

  “Which meant Bowen’s involvement in the business was over,” Jake said. He realized he was defending Henry, but it needed to be said.

  “They were partners, Detective. Illinois law is very clear on their legal duties to one another. And Mr. Bowen still sorted the finds and helped sell them.”

  “Tell me about the silver.”

  “With Mr. Fox buying the units and moving the contents on his own, he had first look at everything in the unit, which made it easy for him to cheat my client.”

  Jake’s patience was growing thin. “The silver, Don.”

  “When Mr. Fox found the silver, his good judgment left him, and he decided to keep this find from his partner. When my client found out about the silver, he confronted Mr. Fox—”

  “And killed him,” Jake said, to interrupt Hallagan’s flow and let him know he’d given his client a motive.

  “And they worked it out. This was months ago, Detective Houser. The two men split the find—after reimbursing my client his start-up money—and then terminated the partnership.”

  The front door to Cole’s apartment building swung shut. Jake looked toward Grady’s car and found him watching the door. They exchanged a look. Jake shrugged.

  “Why had Mr. Fox kept it from Bowen?” Jake asked. Henry had never been motivated by money.

  “Money poisons some men, Detective.”

  “What did he tell your client to explain not sharing the silver?”

  “One minute, Detective.” Hallagan was back on the phone in thirty seconds. “Mr. Fox told my client he didn’t find the silver in a storage unit. He claimed he found it in an old outhouse pit.”

  “And why couldn’t that be the truth?”

  “My client has proof that it is not. And when we paper up a deal as we discussed, I’ll provide it to you.”

  “How did your client find out about the silver?”

  “Not until we have the written deal, Detective.”

  Bowen had probably learned it from Lynn—pillow talk—but he couldn’t have told his wife that. “How about something more concrete than this circumstantial information, like an alibi for Tuesday night?”

  “Characterizing our offer of proof as merely ‘circumstantial’ is not accurate. The matter between the men that you thought created a motive was settled months ago.” Hallagan’s voice oozed confidence.

  Jake’s phone vibrated. A text from Erin. “Hang on for just a minute, counselor.”

  Erin had forwarded a patrol report. The BOLO had worked. Officer Costello had found the crew cab truck with the Texas plate parked in front of Lanigan House Bed & Breakfast in downtown Weston. Mr. Lanigan had identified the truck’s driver as Gus Trane, a fifty-seven-year-old man from Corpus Christi, Texas, who had checked in last Thursday night. No priors. No warrants.

  Jake got back to his call with Hallagan. “Counselor, tell your client I appreciate his cooperation. I’ll get back to you in the next few days.” Jake paused, then tried one more time. “But I have to tell you that without an alibi, Mr. Bowen will stay on my list.”

  “We look forward to hearing from you.”

  Hallagan ended the call.

  Bowen would stay on Jake’s list, but he was nowhere near the top. The man had an alibi, even if he was reluctant to use it. Not in front of his wife, not unless forced to. And Hallagan was right that if Henry and Bowen had worked out their differences and terminated the partnership months ago, then Bowen lacked motive. He wasn’t a strong suspect.

  But Titus Cole was. He’d moved here specifically to chase the silver. And that seemed like far too much effort for twenty bars worth less than fifty thousand dollars. He’d also stuck around even after the bars had been sold to Griffin.

  There was something else keeping him in town.

  * * *

  While Conner was waiting for April, he received a text from his mom explaining they’d be gone for at least a couple hours. She apologized for not spending time with him while he was home, but said she had to “take care of this thing with your father.” Of course, she didn’t mention that the thing was getting his dad a criminal defense attorney to protect him from the cops.

  When April finally got to his house, they headed straight to his room and made love. The first time was fast and urgent, her lithe athletic body a blur of motion above him. The second time, slow and soft.

  Then he must have dozed off. When he woke, she was gone.

  He pulled on his clothes and looked out the front window. Her little car was still parked at the curb. He found her in his dad’s study, standing in the middle of the room, her big bag over her shoulder. Looking at the private space of the man who might have killed her dad.

  “Hey.”

  She startled, her head whipping around. “Conner. I just—”

  “It’s okay.” He leaned on the doorjamb. “You know, I haven’t been in here since I put the monitoring software on his computer.”

  “It’s just… so hard to believe.”

  “I know. I’m glad you came over.”

  She stepped toward him, and he pulled her close and held her tight.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I can’t believe my dad could have…”

  “I know.” She pulled her head back and looked deep into his eyes the way no one else could. “If he did do it, it wasn’t because he was bad, or hated my dad. It was because of the silver.”

  “That’s not an excuse.”

  “What I mean is, your dad isn’t a monster. He just did something monstrous because of the silver. It corrupts. Like the One Ring that Sauron the Dark Lord made.”

  “Nerd,” he said, then laughed. But the comparison did make him feel better.

  She put her head on his shoulder. “The silver is still out there.”

  “I guess.”

  “My dad found it. We can find it.” She put her lips on his ear. “And get out of this town forever.”

  The idea of getting away together felt like a balloon lifting him by his heart.

  His phone buzzed with a text.

  “It’s Mom,” he said. “They’re headed home. You should go.”

  She kissed him—long and lingering. “I love you.”

  Then she ran up the stairs and out the front door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Jake drove straight to the B&B to talk to Gus Trane, the Texas cowboy in the big white pickup. On the way his phone buzzed with another message. He parked down the block from Lanigan House and read the message. Levi asking for a callback.

  Jake called immediately, eager for whatever information he could get before talking to Trane.

  “Did you find something?”

  “Boy, did I.” Levi’s voice rang with delight.

  “On GWU?”

  “That’s next, but I wanted to tell you about the forum right away.”


  “Go ahead.”

  “I found the posting the coin dealer told you about, and he represented it accurately. He asked whether anyone knew of a market for bars with the GWU mark. Only two people responded. Both said they weren’t aware of any market for that mint mark.”

  “And when was this? June, like he said?”

  “Yes. But he posted a follow-up question on November first that’s attached to the earlier question. It uses the same subject line, ‘Collectability of Silver Bars with GWU Mint Mark,’ except he added the words ‘1,000-ounce bars’ to the end of the subject line. Then he asked: ‘Do thousand-ounce bars with the GWU mint mark have any value to a collector?’”

  “Thousand-ounce bars?” Ten times bigger than the bars Henry had sold to Griffin. “Did anyone respond to the email?”

  “A list member identified as ‘TH Tex’ responded that same day. He asked, quote, ‘How many are you talking about?’ End quote.”

  “TH Tex?” Jake wrote it down. “Trane’s pickup has those plates.” The man must have jumped in his pickup and driven north the instant he read the post.

  “Gus Trane?”

  “Did you come across that name?”

  “I did. After finding that post in the forum, I searched ‘TH Tex,’ and found TH, Inc., which is the official corporate name for Treasure Hunters International. It’s a company that searches for lost treasure around the world—mostly shipwrecks, some ancient and some from as recent as WWII. It’s pretty cool, actually, and they claim they’ve found more shipwrecks than any other outfit in the last thirty years. But apparently spending millions of dollars every year digging up shipwrecks that often contain nothing valuable isn’t the best business plan. They filed for bankruptcy three years ago after they lost possession of a half-billion dollar haul to Spain—apparently because the loot was being transported to Spain from Peru on a warship sunk in battle, or something. Some maritime law that basically robbed them of their find. Anyway, the company still exists—the bankruptcy case is still in the courts. And Gus Trane is the name of TH, Inc.’s majority owner.”

  Interesting. “Did Griffin respond to Trane’s forum question?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you see anything else from TH Tex in the forums?”

  “Nothing. I went back a year into the archive.”

  “Would TH Tex have been able to figure out who Griffin is?”

  “Oh, sure. Griffin’s posts weren’t anonymous. He has own name and the coin shop’s name and address in his signature line.”

  “Levi, this is great. Thanks for your help.”

  “Any time.”

  Jake ended the call. So, Griffin was shopping for a buyer for one or more thousand-ounce bars. It was fair to assume these bigger bars had also come from Henry.

  But why assume it when the answer was only a phone call away?

  He flipped through his notebook and found Griffin’s number.

  “Paget Valley Coins.” Griffin’s deep voice.

  “Tell me about the big bars, the thousand-ouncers.”

  “I… you asked about the hundred-ounce bars and I gave you everything you asked for on them. More than you asked for.”

  Deception. “Get to it.” Jake’s car sat in the sun and was starting to get warm. He twisted the key for accessory power and lowered the front windows, and cold fresh air swirled through the car.

  “Henry called me and asked if selling thousand-ounce bars is any different. I told him it isn’t. Just bring me proof of ownership like before.”

  “When was this?”

  “A week or two ago.”

  Jake needed a tighter timeline. “You posted the question on the forum on November first.”

  “He called me that same day.”

  “Jake?” said a voice outside the car.

  Jake jumped. A gray-haired woman was leaning in the passenger window. It was Mrs. King. His third-grade teacher.

  “I thought that was you,” she said. “How are you?”

  “Hang on, Griffin.” Jake pressed the phone to his thigh. “Uh, I’m good, Mrs. King. You look well.”

  “Ha,” she said. “I know how I look.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk right now. I’m on a work call.”

  “Well, I just wanted to say hello. I’m glad you’re back in town.” She straightened and walked off.

  Jake had been “back in town” for ten years. Apparently time moved differently for elementary school teachers.

  “I’m back,” Jake said into the phone. “Mr. Fox told you the big bar had the same mint mark?”

  “Not until I asked, but yeah, he did.”

  “Did you ever tell him the bar might be worth more as a collectible?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Did Henry have one bar or multiple bars?”

  “He said bars, plural.”

  “Did you call Cole?”

  “Of course. I thought he might want a big one. And at first it seemed he did, but then he said the little one was enough.”

  “At first?”

  “He sounded excited to hear about them, but then cooled off.”

  “Did he ask you who had the big one?”

  “Yes. I stretched things and said I had it.”

  “Did he ask where it came from?”

  “No.”

  “So then you posted the question on the forum?”

  “Well, actually, I posted the question before I called Cole.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought Cole would be a buyer, but having two buyers is always better. A bidding war can make me real money.”

  “And what did the other guy say? The one who responded to your forum post.”

  “I didn’t follow up with him because I didn’t know how many there are. And because if something is collectable, the fewer there are, the higher the price per unit.”

  “What else haven’t you told me?”

  “That’s all of it.”

  Jake didn’t believe him—leaving things out seemed to be Griffin’s default mode—but he ended the call. He had one other call to make before he talked to Trane. He needed to talk to Coogan.

  If Trane’s company was in bankruptcy, that was worth looking at. But he didn’t know enough about the process to know how to get access. Coogan would. He rolled up the windows, got out of the stuffy car, and leaned against it to make the call. He quickly explained the situation.

  “I guess you skipped that elective in law school,” Coogan said. The two of them had taken all the core classes together, but after that they’d followed different paths: Coogan mostly business and family law, Jake criminal and constitutional law. “What you want is Pacer. It’s the bankruptcy courts’ online system for filing documents and keeping the docket. Everything’s on there.”

  “Can I get access?” Jake closed his eyes and faced the sun. The breeze had died down and the warmth felt great. Like it was recharging him to face the man who might be Henry’s killer.

  “I can do it. I’ve spent plenty of time over the years deciphering the docket entries. Henry deserves our best efforts.”

  Yes he does. “Thanks, Coog.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Jake climbed the wide stairs of Lanigan House, a huge Victorian two blocks north of downtown. Walt and Missy Lanigan had converted the house into a bed and breakfast way back when they were the “in” thing, and the place was so comfortable and its location so perfect it was hanging on long after the trend had died out elsewhere. The front door opened to a large relaxed room sprinkled with people reading and playing cards, their conversations a low background burble, and the air was rich with the scent of chocolate chip cookies.

  Jake found Walt behind a tall counter that looked more like a bar than a front desk.

  “Jake.” He cast a quick look a
round. “Officer Costello said you might stop by. Here’s Mr. Trane’s registration card. He’s in his room now.”

  “Thanks, Walt.” Jake glanced at the card, but it held no information he didn’t already have. “How’s he been as a guest?”

  “No problems.” Lanigan looked around again. “Keeps odd hours. I leave the front door unlocked until nine, and after that the room keys will open it. He’s used his key a time or two that I’ve noticed. Our apartment is by the front door so I hear everyone come and go. Always take a peek.” He smiled.

  “How about Tuesday night?”

  “Night before last?”

  Jake nodded.

  “Well… I can’t say about a specific night.” He looked off as he tried to stretch his memory. “No, can’t say one way or the other.”

  “Thanks, Walt. Okay if I head up?”

  “Sure thing. He’s in the Sunrise Room. Third floor, in the back.”

  * * *

  Jake climbed the stairs, the oak treads solid and quiet under his feet. Both suspects—Cole and Trane—being from Texas didn’t feel like a coincidence. He was glad the case was heading toward two out-of-towners chasing treasure, and away from the ex-wife with money troubles and the local business partner who thought he’d been cheated.

  And away from any possibility Jake’s relationship with Lynn would get in the way of his investigation.

  He found the Sunrise Room at the end of the hall. He put his ear to the door before knocking. An old country song about being a drinking man droned through the wood, and a deep uneven voice sang along. When the song ended and a commercial for a body shop broke out, the voice swore and the radio went silent.

  Jake stepped back and rapped his knuckles hard on the door. He waited a long second, then gave a hard triple rap.

  The door cracked open, a large form blocking the gap, the face in shadow.

  “Who’re you?” The Texan’s voice was gravelly. He looked Jake up and down.

  “Jake Houser with the Weston PD.” Jake pulled his jacket back to reveal the badge on his belt.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’d like to come in and talk with you for a few minutes.” Jake stepped forward and put a hand against the door, pushing gently.