We could see the flashing red lights from three blocks away. The police had barricaded Atlantic Avenue, snarling the early morning traffic, which they had diverted onto South Carolina Avenue. I followed the slow-moving river of cars north to Arctic Avenue, turned right, and found a parking spot in the alley behind the courthouse. We walked down a narrow passageway to City Center Park, and cut diagonally across the rectangle of frost-blighted grass to the corner of Atlantic and North Carolina.
Millie and I stared in silence at the charred exterior of the building. Happy’s had taken the brunt of the fire, but the upper floors had suffered serious damage, too. I felt someone jostle my elbow, and turned around. A firefighter in soot-covered turnout gear was standing next to me. “This is no place for lookie-loos, Mister,” he said in a smoke-roughened voice. “You and the lady need to move along.”
Millie turned a tear-streaked face to him. “Our office is on the second floor of the building, directly above the restaurant. We need to get inside. Can you help us?”
The firefighter’s expression softened at Millie’s appeal. “Sorry, ma’am, but I can’t. There’s been a lot of damage. No one goes inside until the city’s building inspector pronounces the structure safe.”
“How long will that take?” I asked.
“Can’t say yet. We’re still checking for hot spots. Could be next week before the police and the building inspector give permission for tenants to access the premises. Right now, I have to ask you to move on.”
Millie and I looked at each other. “Let’s go home,” I said. “We need to make some plans.”
“And some phone calls,” Millie added with a nod.
We drove back to our apartment in mournful silence. Millie put up coffee and prepared breakfast while I took Hershey for a short walk. We nibbled at our toast, each of us lost in thoughts we didn’t trust ourselves to voice. Hershey was the only one whose appetite was unaffected by the situation. As usual, he inhaled his food, slurped up a long, noisy drink of water, and flopped down with a contented sigh. At Millie’s suggestion, we carried our coffee into the living room and turned on the television to watch the local newscast. The reporter at the scene of the fire had no information to add beyond what we already knew. I snapped off the set, and we got down to business.
“First things first,” Millie said, reaching for a pen and notepad, which were laying on the lamp table next to the phone. “We should call our insurance agent and give him a heads-up. Next, we need to…”
I reached over, took the pen and paper from her, and returned them to the table. “That can wait. First, we need to talk about the future. Our future.”
“Were you serious about throwing in the towel? Did you really mean it? You want to give up? You?” She gave me a knowing look. “That’s not at all like you, Dick. What aren’t you telling me?”
I shrugged. “It’s not that I want to give up. It’s just that Turpin has all the power in this town - in this state - and we can’t touch him. If it were just me, I’d continue to fight him. But the situation is spilling over and hurting our friends. People like Happy, who are innocent bystanders. It’s not fair to them.” I paused. I hadn’t told her the full story. It was time to come clean. “And I’m worried about you,” I admitted at last. “Whenever you’re out, and I’m alone at home or at the office, I get phone calls. Nasty calls, threatening your safety. Suggesting you might meet with a deadly accident.” My voice caught, and I swallowed hard to ease the lump in my throat as I reached for her hand. “It would kill me if anything happened to you, Millie. I almost lost you that time in Florida. I’m not going to put your life in danger again just to salve my ego.”
Millie squeezed my hand. Softly, she told me she understood.
“That’s settled, then.” I pushed myself to my feet. “I’ll call Susan and set up an appointment.”
When our paths first crossed in 1979, Susan Sutherland was a 26-year old graduate student at the University of Vermont. She cut short her studies to take over management of Sutherland Smokes, the family tobacco business, after her sister Celine was murdered. Back then, Turpin and other business sharks thought they could take advantage of her inexperience. But she had proven them wrong. Over the years, Susan expanded into other areas of business, changing the company’s name to Sutherland Enterprises to reflect its growing interests. However, the constant struggle took its toll on her. She buried her natural warmth beneath a protective shell. Business associates, her staff, and casual acquaintances saw her as cool and distant. Only her inner circle, consisting of family and a few close friends, knew the real Susan.
Millie and I occupy a unique place in Susan’s inner circle. Sutherland Enterprises has been our client ever since she took over management of the company. The Dickens Detective Agency performs background checks on Sutherland’s new hires, and advises Susan on any security issues affecting the company’s properties. We also socialize with her from time to time, mainly when Artie, Susan’s nephew and heir, is visiting her.
My phone call to Susan left me puzzled, and more than a little worried. Instead of the warm greeting I had come to expect, Susan held me at arm’s length, cool, distant, and all business. “I’ll see you and Millie in my office at 9:00 on Monday,” was all she said. “We’ll discuss the situation then.”
Monday was a long way off. We loaded Hershey into the car and drove back to what was left of our office. The firefighters had finished mopping up, but the entrances to the building were sealed with ACPD crime-scene tape, and guarded by uniformed cops. We couldn’t go inside, yet we couldn’t bring ourselves to leave. We made circuit after circuit of the block, mourning our loss. On our sixth lap, we came face-to-face with Happy, whose morose expression mirrored our own feelings. We exchanged words of sympathy, and I waited for him to ask us to find out who was responsible for the fire. My relief was mingled with disappointment when he told us that he and his insurer had hired Pinkerton’s to investigate. If an old friend like Happy didn’t want to hire us, we were truly out of business. I looked at Millie, who was masking her tears by stroking Hershey’s head. “Seen enough?” I asked. She swallowed hard and nodded, unable to speak. I took her hand, and we walked back to the car.
We were becalmed, the wind knocked out of our sails by the triple blows of the fire, our decision to close up shop, and Susan’s tepid response to my phone call. The hours dragged by. Zoe and Gus were on vacation in Hawaii. I’m not sure we would have wanted to see them anyway. We marked time, waiting for Monday morning and our meeting with Susan Sutherland.
Chapter Three
February 21, 1983
After a weekend of tense inactivity, it was a relief to be sitting across the table from Susan in the familiar surroundings of the executive conference room at Sutherland Enterprises. The offices were largely deserted, most of the senior staff and their secretaries having taken off for President’s Day. We could count on Susan’s undivided attention.
We helped ourselves to coffee from the urn on the credenza at the far end of the room before taking our seats. An uneasy silence enveloped us. Susan fidgeted with the papers on the table in front of her, and I braced myself for bad news. She cleared her throat and said, “I was sorry to hear about the fire.” Millie murmured a quiet word of thanks. I didn’t trust myself to say anything, acknowledging her condolences with a brief nod.
“As you know,” she continued, her usual poise returning, “I’ve spent the last couple of years diversifying the company’s business. We are no longer exclusively a tobacco company, hence the change in corporate name. Several months ago, we acquired Dalrymple Foods, which has five plants in the Southwest. I’ve also completed negotiations to purchase a fresh-produce operation in central California. I’m hoping to bid for contracts to supply military bases in the states where we have production facilities. But there are some hurdles to overcome. I have to satisfy the military procurement office that our food safety and security programs are robust.”
Susan stopped to take a sip of
coffee. “I have my food safety experts lined up; however, security is another matter. When I spoke to you about joining Sutherland Enterprises on a full-time basis, I was thinking of bringing both of you into the company’s head office operations. I was planning on handing over responsibility for all aspects of security to Team Dickens. Unfortunately, a problem has arisen.”
My heart sank at her last words. “Turpin?” I asked, fearing Susan had succumbed to his pressure and was cutting us loose.
“Indirectly. As you know, we own the land on which this industrial park is built. But buying both Dalrymple and the produce company was a real financial stretch. I had to mortgage the entire complex. According to our projections, the acquisitions should have generated more than enough cash to cover the carrying costs. I didn’t count on the bank selling the mortgage to a third party. To a company owned by Derek Turpin.” She shook her head, and I could see a new crop of worry lines in her forehead. “It turns out Turpin has been eyeing our site. He wants to develop it as a major casino resort, complete with its own golf course. It’s accessible from both the Garden State Parkway and the Atlantic City Expressway. It’s also isolated from the twin distractions of the beach and the Boardwalk. His clients would be a captive audience for his casino, his restaurants and his golf course.”
“Is the property large enough for a development of that size?” I asked.
“Easily. The company owns 250 contiguous acres. My father always believed land was the best asset.”
“But Turpin can’t force you out simply because he holds a mortgage,” Millie said.
“He can foreclose, if we’re unable to meet the mortgage payments.”
“Is that a possibility?”
“Unfortunately, it is.” Susan grimaced as she shook her head. “We’ve been having problems at one of the Dalrymple plants out west. There has been a lot of down-time due to equipment problems and food safety issues. Some of our customers are threatening to pull their business if we are unable to fill their orders on schedule. If we lose those accounts, Sutherland Enterprises won’t be able to meet its mortgage payments. I can’t let that happen.” She stood to top up her half-empty coffee cup from the urn, using the interval to collect herself before resuming her seat and her explanation. “That’s where the two of you come in.”
“Us?” I asked. “How?”
“I suspect sabotage. The plant was running smoothly up until a few months ago. Then there was a sudden jump in mechanical breakdowns. I spent the last week reviewing reports and talking to a couple of outside experts. There’s no other explanation that fits. And look at this.” Susan opened a file and turned it around so Millie and I could see the contents. “Look at this chart. It shows the frequency of breakdowns and product rejects over time. See that spike?” She jabbed at the paper with her finger. “The problems began just a couple of weeks after Turpin took over our mortgage.”
I pulled the file closer and skimmed through the report while Millie examined the chart. “You make a strong case,” I said, handing the report to Millie and taking the chart from her. “What are you proposing to do about it?”
“I want you to investigate.”
“Neither of us is an expert in food manufacturing, and we have no contacts in Nevada to fall back on,” I pointed out, avoiding Millie’s eyes. “This is way off our usual beat.”
“I am aware of that,” Susan replied, looking at Millie and me in turn. “I can arrange for you to have access to the appropriate experts. I need your investigative skills, and I need people I can trust.”
I glanced at Millie, then turned my attention back to Susan. “Can you give us a few minutes?” I asked.
Susan stood. “Take as much time as you need. I’ll be in my office.”
Millie’s eyes were gleaming with excitement, and I knew the reason why. “You really want to do this, don’t you?” I said.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, searching my face for a clue to my thoughts. “Only if you agree, Dick.”
“Are you sure it isn’t only because of the location? Henderson, Nevada?”
“Of course that’s part of it,” she said with an impatient gesture. “It will give me a chance to see Colin in Las Vegas.”
“It will give your brother a chance to sponge more money off you, in any event,” I grumbled.
“You don’t understand, Dick. You can’t understand.”
“I understand you feel responsible for him. I know…”
“You have no idea what you know and what you don’t know,” she snapped.
This was escalating into another argument. A major one, which I knew I couldn’t win. “You’re right.” I threw up my hands in a gesture of defeat. “I have no idea. I barely know Colin. Now let’s get back to business. Aside from seeing your brother, why do you think this would be a good move for us?”
Millie shook her head. “There’s nothing left for us here in Atlantic City.” Her voice was calm and measured now we were back on neutral ground. “We need to find work, and this is something we’re good at. Who knows? We might even like Nevada and decide to set up shop there.” She flashed an impish grin at me. “Maybe even find that missing hunk of gold we read about in the newspaper. The casino and its insurance company are offering $100,000 for information leading to its return.”
I knew when I was licked. I had to admit the idea of exploring a possible new base of operations was appealing, even if it would land us practically next door to Millie’s errant kid brother. I stood and leaned over to brush her forehead with my lips. “I agree. Let’s go talk to Susan.”
We wove between unoccupied secretarial desks to Susan’s private office at the far end of the executive suite. She was seated in a leather desk chair with her back to the door, staring out the window. She swung around in response to my knock, a document in her hand, and a frown of concentration on her face. Since our last visit, Susan had refurbished her office, creating a sitting area in one corner, with a leather-upholstered, two-seater sofa and a couple of matching chairs, all grouped around a coffee table. She gestured with a wave of the document in the direction of the sofa. “Make yourselves comfortable over there. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Susan had just walked over to join us when the intercom buzzed. With an impatient huff, she strode back to her desk, leaning across it to press a button. “I told you to hold my calls, Benita,” she snapped.
“Sorry, Ms. Sutherland.” We could hear the secretary’s apologetic voice from where we were sitting. “But I think you’ll want to take this call. It’s on your private line.”
Susan walked around the desk, lifted the receiver and pressed a button on the multi-line phone. “Hello? Hello Mary. How are… What?” She inhaled abruptly. Her face turned ash-white and she appeared to sway. Millie and I rushed to her side and guided her into her desk chair. She thanked us with a nod and waved us off. “I’m okay,” she whispered, her hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver. Motioning for us to sit across the desk, she said, “Mary Hegarty is on the phone. Artie is missing.” Susan removed her hand from over the receiver. “By chance, Damien and Millie are right here in my office. I’m putting you on the speaker phone.” She pressed a button and replaced the receiver on its cradle. “Are you still there, Mary? Can you hear me?”
“Yes, I hear you.” Mary’s voice was strained. “Artie isn’t with you? I had so hoped he was with you.”
“He’s not here, Mary,” Susan replied, looking at me with fear in her eyes.
“Mary,” I said, taking charge of the conversation, “can you tell us what happened? Start from the beginning and walk us through.”
There was a pause while she gathered her thoughts. “The Lawrenceville School - that’s where Artie goes, you know - organizes a ski trip each year over the President’s Day weekend. This was the first time Artie was old enough to join in, and he was very excited.” Her voice caught, and she swallowed a sob. “Zeb and I were thrilled, too, because the ski weekend was to be at Mount Mansfield, r
ight here in Stowe. The students were chaperoned by the gym teacher, a Mr. Blomqvist, who was assisted by one of the other staff members. They left Lawrenceville by bus early Friday morning and arrived in Stowe late in the afternoon. The group was staying at Two Dog Lodge on the Mountain Road, but we had arranged for Artie to stay with us overnight on Friday and Saturday. Zeb dropped him off at Two Dog Lodge early in the morning on Saturday and Sunday, in time for him to have breakfast with his schoolmates. Because the group was to leave Stowe first thing this morning, Artie was supposed to spend last night at Two Dog Lodge with the other boys. At least, that was the plan.” Mary stopped abruptly, and the sound of her sobs echoed through Susan’s office.
I waited for Mary to regain her composure. Keeping my voice matter-of-fact, I asked, “Where did Artie spend the night, Mary?”
“That’s just it,” she said. “We don’t know. Yesterday afternoon, one of the other boys informed Mr. Blomqvist that Artie would be spending the night with us, and that we would drop him off early this morning at Two Dog Lodge, in time for him to catch the bus back to Lawrenceville. When Artie wasn’t with the group at the end of the day yesterday, Mr. Blomqvist assumed we had already picked him up. Zeb and I only realized he was missing this morning, when the other chaperone called us to ask why Artie was late for the bus.” Her voice caught. “Zeb and I are frantic with worry.”
“What’s being done?” Susan asked.
“The Stowe police and the Ski Patrol have organized search parties on the mountain. Artie is an accomplished skier, but …” Her voice trailed off.
Susan looked at us. Millie and I knew what she was asking, and we both nodded. “I’m coming up,” she said to Mary, “and I’m bringing Millie and Damien with me. We’ll leave as soon as I can organize a plane and pilot.”
The Gold Dragon Caper: A Damien Dickens Mystery (Damien Dickens Mysteries Book 4) Page 2