“I’m glad he’s dead.” Toothpick’s whiskers swept forward. “Every now and then, he’d drive down our street. Brad would hide. Everyone would hide. He didn’t find what he was looking for so he’d drive off.” Toothpick sighed. “My dead master was a good person. He was just scared all the time.”
Baxter reached over and licked Toothpick’s forehead. “You don’t have to be scared. You’re safe here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Everywhere throughout Reno—from gas stations to supermarkets, even at elementary schools—the town buzzed about the spectacular demise of Patrick Wentworth and Tu’Lia. Some laughed derisively.
His mother, brother, and wife were not laughing, but even among his family there was a sense that he brought some of this on himself. Murder seemed outrageous, but Patrick’s stubborn persistence had whittled away those who might have supported him.
Emma Logan, Robert Dalrymple’s girlfriend, didn’t laugh, either. She called Pete. He and Lonnie drove over to see her at her job at Dr. Marahbal’s office.
Waiting in the plush office, a huge flat-screen TV tuned to the Discovery Channel, Emma came out and greeted them in her nurse’s uniform.
“Come on back, please. Dr. Marahbal says we can use the small visiting room.”
As they walked down the spotless corridor, they noticed that every examining room door was closed. There were beautiful underwater photos on the walls. It was obvious that the doctor had built a thriving practice, as well as an office that minimized the fear and distaste in seeing one’s physician. His specialty was respiratory diseases. Given the lack of humidity and an annual rainfall of seven inches, many patients suffering from allergies moved to Nevada. Most of them immediately felt relief, a few did not, and Dr. Marahbal treated them. All too often the persistence of allergy-like symptoms signaled something more serious.
Emma led them back to a cozy room, which was painted in high-desert colors. A comfortable couch and three equally comfortable chairs surrounded a gorgeous coffee table, inlaid with beautiful tiles.
“Can I get you two anything?”
“No.” Pete sat as she indicated the sofa.
Lonnie sat next to him and took out his notebook.
“When you visited me, I told you that Robert had gone to Patrick Wentworth’s campaign office to offer his services.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, I thought of something else. I guess it was Wentworth’s death that jarred it loose. Robert tried to interest him in the business side of those abandoned homes, but the guy just blew him off. All he cared about was drugs, sex, that stuff.” She paused. “Robert said Patrick Wentworth had no sense of money and didn’t care. Every now and then, Robert hinted that fortunes would still be made in the housing blowout.”
“Did he say how he thought this would happen?”
“No. He said loans had been rubber-stamped and the same thing was happening with foreclosures. The computer spits out names, addresses, numbers and no one actually looks at their owners, their earning potential, their past credit reports. They just foreclose. Boom.”
“And he tried to tell Patrick Wentworth this?”
“Yes. He said the now-stalled foreclosure process would prove a gold mine for people who know how to work the system, especially those within the system. Again, Patrick wasn’t interested in that sort of corruption. So Robert left.”
“Do you think he tried to tell other people this?”
“I don’t know. He might have talked about it with his brother. They were close.”
“I see.” Pete glanced over at Lonnie, who smiled back.
“There is one other thing. Patrick Wentworth asked Robert if he knew of any sex scandals in his old bank or among any government employees. I think this took Robert back a little. He wasn’t interested in that sort of thing. Robert’s policy was it’s better not to know, even if you know. But the really weird thing is the guy offered to pay Robert for information.”
Lonnie shook his head, but said nothing.
“Of course, Robert didn’t take the offer.” She smiled tightly. “Do you have any more leads about his death?”
“Miss Logan, given the manner of Patrick Wentworth’s death, a carbon copy of Robert’s, I’d say we’re getting closer. So often all it takes is one slip-up on the part of the murderer, one person who walks by and remembers a car or license plate near the crime scene.”
“What about the girl?”
“She wasn’t having a secret affair with him, we know that. We’ve interviewed everyone who worked with her. I know the stereotype of women in that line of work isn’t a nice one but, Miss Logan, you’d be surprised how many people in personal entertainment are good people, and I include prostitutes. Some have drug problems, others were mistreated as children, but a lot of them are there for one reason, they need the money.”
“I can understand that. I remembered one more thing. At one point, Robert said he thought he had a partner for his new business. He never said who it was.”
“Someone on Yolanda Street?” Lonnie asked.
Emma replied quickly, “No. He wouldn’t do that. I know his murder looks like he was involved with those criminals down on Yolanda Street. All he said was this was someone who understood the business, had lots of contacts.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Have you ever noticed when a government agency or a corporation has not distinguished themselves”—a slight smile crossed Michelle’s lips—“they issue statements from a woman spokesperson?”
Asa Chartris, sitting across the table at a high-priced restaurant for lunch, nodded. “People trust women more than men.”
Michelle shrugged. “For now. That will last until the public figures out you lie for whoever is paying you. I kind of hate to see it, really.”
“I do, too, perhaps for different reasons.” Asa dipped into his rich barley soup. “My mother used to make this. I love barley.”
“Me, too. What are your different reasons?”
“I’m a good twenty-some years older than you and try as I might, I still harbor many of the things I was taught about women. I thought women inhabited a higher emotional and spiritual realm. Men dealt with the rough and tumble of the world. Women were to lift us above it, not engage in it.” He put his spoon on the plate that sat under the bowl. “There’s something about fighting, grubbing in the business world that lowers a person, and I include myself.”
“You seem upstanding to me.”
“Oh, I don’t mean my ethics have crashed and burned, but these days I look at the world with a jaundiced eye, which is how I look at the statement from a Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac spokesperson you just mentioned.” He smiled ruefully when he said “spokesperson.”
Michelle, who read The Wall Street Journal on her Kindle, plucked the device out of her purse, turned it on, and began rolling up copy. “Here it is. ‘Our decision was motivated by several factors, including the protection of buyers with title insurance, the negative impact lingering on foreclosed properties has on the neighborhoods, and the cost burden that is placed on taxpayers when bank-owned sales are suspended.’ ” She looked up at a grim Asa. “Sounds reasonable.” Glancing back down at the small screen, she said, “November 27, 2010.”
“At least we weren’t blamed for stopping the foreclosures.” He sighed, returning to his delicious soup. “Reno Sagebrush is fortunate in some ways. Set aside housing for a moment, most banks’ loan portfolios carry about forty percent in commercial property and that’s not going anywhere, for years. The vacancy rates are through the roof, it’s about seventeen-point-five percent nationally, and worse here.”
“Everything’s worse here.”
“Well, yes, except for the people. And I can’t fault many of those businesses that are in trouble. They surfed a big wave and then it finally dumped them. We’re in pretty good shape, even with the debts we took on when we bought out Truckee Amalgamated.” He finished the last of his soup. “When they went under, they d
idn’t use a spokeswoman.”
“They always were one step behind.” She speared a hard-boiled egg in her salad.
“We need to divest ourselves of the foreclosed homes. Sooner or later it will dawn on all of us to forget about the document problems, the robolending, and get the hell out.”
“Yes, until more state attorneys general get into it,” Michelle grumbled.
“But not here. How can we intelligently unload what we have without causing undue concern and too much negative publicity?”
“We might be able to repackage debts for places like Spring Street, but the Yolanda area is a total loss.”
“We’re thinking along the same lines,” said Asa. “Do you believe at some point we can sell those foreclosed homes to a larger institution?”
“Not now. Three hundred billion dollars in loans must be rolled over in the next five years. People are going to come up short and there will be more properties on the market, both residential and commercial. There’s no speedy way out of this and I’m starting to wonder if there’s any way out of this without the government squeezing every penny out of the taxpayers to cover these astronomical debts.”
“I don’t know if that will work anymore.”
“One bright spot. The food and job program for Spring Street is both good PR and good business. It will restore some value down there—unless there are more starved or murdered bodies found.” Michelle sounded hopeful.
“Don’t even say that.” Asa blanched. “My mother used to say, ‘Talk of old troubles brings on new.’ I believe that.”
Twinkie and Bunny cruised down Spring Street. Passing Irene’s old house, Bunny spotted two men knocking on her door.
“New tenants,” Bunny noted.
“The good news is we don’t have to turn off water anymore. The bad news is we aren’t turning it back on.”
“Yep.” Bunny brightened. “CeCe drew me a truck.” He laughed. “She’s so bright. Picks up everything the first time you show it to her, and she loves my truck.”
“They’re like sponges at that age.”
“Irene’s settling in. She was so nervous at first. She’s been through a lot.” He paused. “She’s a good mother. Good cook, too.”
“Bunny, the right woman is pure heaven. The wrong woman is pure hell.”
“I didn’t say anything about the right woman.” Bunny bristled.
“I know.” Twinkie chuckled and changed the subject. “Howie Norris bought me a GPS system for my old truck.”
“No kidding.”
“He said he owed it to me for giving him that ingot.” Twinkie shook his head. “He’s straight up.”
“Yeah, he is.” Bunny swayed as Twinkie took a sharp turn in the SSRM truck. “There’s got to be more where that came from.”
“I bet it’s right under everyone’s noses. Ever notice that? Sometimes something is right in front of you and you can’t see it.”
“Yep.”
“Makes me wonder what I miss.”
If Twinkie and Bunny and others had noses as powerful as dogs, they might have discovered things sooner. But being human, they’d stumble on treasures or horrors in their own good time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Never.” Norton Wentworth’s jaw stuck out. “He would never be involved with a woman like that.”
Pete, sitting in the small conference room at Patrick Wentworth’s campaign headquarters, said quietly, “I’m glad to hear that.”
Next to Pete, Lonnie leaned forward and looked at Sophia Wentworth, Patrick’s beautiful mother. He decided not to ask the question that was on his mind. Instead, he peered intently at his notebook.
“He was set up. Given the hypocrisy of so many mendacious politicians, who will believe us about my son?” She was composed, despite her distress.
“Threats?”
Norton snorted. “I kept a nutcase file.” He tapped a manila file folder in front of him. “Nothing but threats. I’ve made copies for you.”
“Thank you. Do you feel any of them could have been made by the killer?” Pete accepted the folder containing the copies.
“Who knows? I always thought that people who make threats don’t carry them out. That killers just strike. But let me tell you, there’s stuff in there that makes you wonder. I mean, here’s one.” He flipped open the folder and took a typed letter off the top. “Mr. Wentworth, you have incorrectly identified the source of Reno’s ills. They are caused by those miners killed, angry over lax practices. They are all reincarnated at this time and seek revenge. Signed, Harvey S. Enright.”
“I think we can dismiss the idea that Patrick was murdered by vengeful spirits.” Sophia, elbow on the desk, cupped one hand under her head.
“Vengeful, yes. Spirit, no.” Norton nodded. “Mom, he pissed off a lot of people.”
“But is there anyone you felt was personally affronted?” Pete asked. “All politicians rub someone the wrong way, but not many people running for public office are murdered. Can you think of someone who followed him from speech to speech?”
Lonnie added, “Sometimes people who are fans turn against their star. You know, they feel slighted in some way. Unrequited love?”
Sophia’s even voice replied, “Patrick didn’t seem to inspire such devotion. Maybe because he stuck to the issues that meant the most to him.”
“His words or actions could have been misinterpreted,” said Lonnie. “To someone who’s imbalanced, just making eye contact can be loaded with meaning.”
Norton ran his hand through his thick hair. “God knows there are enough whack jobs out there.”
“We see them.” Pete half smiled. “I don’t think your brother was killed by a whack job. The manner of death, the place where the bodies were found, that points to what Mrs. Wentworth said, that this act was done to discredit him. Can you identify any special interests he might have jeopardized?”
Both mother and surviving son sat for a moment, looked at each other, then Sophia leaned forward.
“The drug lords. The people running illegal prostitute rings. After all, he was found in their territory.”
Pete nodded. “Do you know whether any such person ever called or threatened him personally?”
“They absolutely did not,” Norton answered vehemently. “Probably because they didn’t believe he could really harm their profits. It’s always about money.”
“Ninety percent of the time,” Pete agreed readily. “Were there more legitimate business interests that he might have upset?”
Norton threw up his hands. “No.” Then he added, “We got generous contributions from businesses.”
“How generous? Were the contributions large?” Pete asked.
“None more than one thousand dollars. It’s early in the campaign. I have that information for you here, too.” He pushed another folder across the table.
“What about individuals?”
“Only a few. They’re in there.” Norton pointed to the folder.
Lonnie scribbled in his notebook.
“Norton, would you give me the name of the campaign’s legal counsel?”
“We didn’t have one. Patrick didn’t want to spend the money this early along. It was a bone of contention between us.”
Pete looked at Sophia. “I appreciate you coming down here. I’m sorry your son’s wife wasn’t up to it, but that’s understandable. I will need to question her at some point.”
“Give her a few more days,” Sophia answered.
“Did you ever think he might be physically harmed?”
Sophia looked straight at Pete. “Yes. I told him to tone it down. Norton told him to tone it down. But he wouldn’t listen. He kept saying the people need to be stirred up. He could tone it down later, but right now he needed to get their attention.” She smiled sadly. “He was a bright child, a bright man, but he could miss emotional nuances.”
Pete liked her. “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid we all can.”
Back in the squad car, Pete drove a
few blocks before pulling over and parking. He took the folder from Lonnie with the dollar sign on it. Flipping through the pages, he then handed it back to Lonnie.
“Look at the contributions.”
Lonnie did. “Yeah.”
“You see that each week the money has been added up?”
“Right.”
“Lonnie, a month before he was killed the best week’s contributions came to five thousand something.”
Lonnie flipped through the pages backward. “Right.”
“The cost of Wentworth’s TV ads alone are way beyond that. Mags showed me the ad rate schedule.”
“Yeah?” Lonnie’s eyebrows rose. He didn’t know where this was going.
“Wentworth had ads at news time and also prime time. Thirty seconds on Monday night between nine and ten P.M. costs fifteen hundred dollars. He ran ads throughout the week. Not every night, but he ran them during high-cost times. Fifteen hundred dollars for thirty seconds. Norton Wentworth is lying about their contributors.”
Lonnie read the figures again. “Think the old lady is?”
“She wouldn’t be the first mother to lie for her son. But Norton sure is lying.”
“So why would he give us the campaign contributions? Maybe he doesn’t know.”
“Clearly Norton Wentworth thinks we’re stupid. It’s insulting, but we can use it to our advantage. Likely it would never occur to him that we’d know or even look at the cost of TV ads.”
“How we gonna get it out of him? The real contributors?”
“I don’t know. The last thing I want to do is give him time to tip off whoever was funneling funds to his brother’s campaign. If we could figure out what was truly at stake, we’ll be that much closer.”
“You’ve completely discounted personal hatred or revenge?”
“Well, you can never discount that. The guy rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. You can’t discount someone who’s crazy. I remember when I was studying law enforcement I read about a case in Ralph, Alabama. A kid there had taken so much LSD he scrambled his brains and thought he had been appointed by Archangel Michael to see that everyone wore a cross. If they weren’t wearing one he’d cut one onto their chest. He sliced two people before they apprehended him. That kind of perp, you have to struggle mightily to see the world as they do. But Wentworth’s grandstanding was economically useful to other people. Hey, even one of these large evangelical churches could make money off of him. There are a lot of ways that Wentworth could make a buck for others as well as himself.”
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