by Stacy Green
“Maybe. But it’s also the truth.”
Booth gave him tight smile. “It’s also my land. Did you have any other questions?”
“Not about the zoning, no. Just wanted to make sure I had the story straight.”
“Frankly, I’m concerned you’re not on the right track.” Booth shifted in his chair. His shirtsleeve slid up to reveal a clear, medicinal patch on his forearm. His eyes coolly focused on Cage. “I see why you’d think the arson is related to the reporter’s disappearance, but I disagree. I believe this was a direct strike with the city council vote coming up. The poor girl was collateral damage.”
“It’s a possibility. Especially since we’ve heard Norton Investments has had trouble in other states. Something about a lawsuit over mold and some financial issues?”
“Nothing any fast-growing company doesn’t have to deal with. But I’d like you to further consider the possibility the fire was an act against us.” Booth’s Sunday voice subtly shifted into the tone of a man used to getting his way. “I’d hate to have to call in outside investigators.”
“Is that a threat, Senator?” Cage kept his face arranged in a benign expression, but he allowed just enough irritation to ooze into his voice to remind the man who the authority figure was in the room.
“Of course not.” He smiled and relaxed back into the chair. Another grimace of pain. “I just want to know you’re looking at all angles.”
“Absolutely. Speaking of all angles, I’ve got to ask, why didn’t we know you were a former senator?”
“Well, I suppose because you didn’t do your research. It’s not something I try to hide. But my time in office was short—only a term—and many years ago.” He rubbed the patch absentmindedly.
“Trying to quit smoking?” Cage asked.
Booth chuckled. “I wish. This is a pain patch. One of those timed-release deals. I’ve got an arthritic knee giving me trouble.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Cage said. “Why the one term?”
“Maryland politics are a different sort of beast. You’ve got the pressure from Washington so close and a racially diverse economy that’s always pitted against each other. Honestly, I hated it. I’m better suited to being my own boss rather than representing others. My political aspirations weren’t fair to the people, or to myself. So I didn’t run for reelection and instead went back to the development company I’d founded.” A wry smile crossed his face. “My silly opponent and the man who succeeded me liked to say I left because of my family’s dark history.”
“Which is?”
“John Wilkes Booth was my great-great-great uncle.” He paused, obviously for dramatic effect. “It’s not something I’m especially proud of, but it was a long time ago. Certainly no effect on my beliefs or politics. The accusation was silly campaign rhetoric.”
“Interesting you’re able to trace your history that far,” Cage said. Dani would be skittering all over the place when she heard this one. He’d be lucky to keep her away from Ashland.
“Well, when your family has an infamous claim to fame, it’s hard not to.” Booth’s puffed up chest and smirk made Cage doubt he minded the connection at all. It was probably his go-to story at social functions.
“Good point.” Cage slipped the pictures out of the envelope. “We think Nick might have been doing a story on fraudulent Civil War relics. He had several of these pieces at Jaymee’s place, which again begs the question of whether or not she was the target of the fire.” He kept his eyes on Stanley. He couldn’t come out and say he knew what Stanley had in his closet, but he might be able to glean something from his expression.
Turns out, he didn’t have to.
Stanley scooted to the edge of his chair, wan face flushed. “I bought a belt buckle just like that a few weeks ago with some other stuff. You’re saying it’s fake?”
“These are definitely fake,” Cage said. “We’ve got the actual items, and they’ve been examined by an expert. She’d have to do the same with yours.”
Cage noticed Stanley’s gaze started to shift to Booth, but he caught himself. He must figure he needs to come up with his own answer on this one. “They were in the house. I had a buckle, some Confederate money, patches off some uniforms. I was told they were real.”
“By who?” Cage asked. “We’ve checked with the antique shops in town. They’re all too savvy to be fooled. No offense.”
Stanley gave him a sour look. “I don’t like antique stores. The odor makes me sick. I bought them online for my sister. She’s a Civil War nut. Thought she would love them.”
“Where did you buy them?”
“Memory Lane Antiques.”
“Original name,” Booth said. Cage couldn’t get a read on his cold smile. Cage didn’t like it, but he was too busy fighting the reflex to do a victory dance. Finally, a solid lead. “Do you have the seller’s email address?”
“It was standard. Owner at Memory Lane. Just do a web search, and you’ll find it.”
“I will.” Cage stood, making a show of slipping the pictures back into their envelope. “Shoot, missed one.” He retrieved the picture of the cartridge box and held it so all three men could see. “Mr. Stanley, you see anything like this on that website?”
Stanley peered at the photograph. “Is that a bullet hole?”
“Made from a Minié ball, yes. This has been confirmed as the real deal.”
Booth looked impressed. Mayor Asher said nothing, staring out the window with disinterest. He tapped his foot impatiently. “I think Mr. Stanley would remember that if he’d seen it, right?”
“I would,” Stanley said.
“Well, thanks for your time.” Cage tucked away the picture. “Any word from Dylan? I need to speak with him as well.”
The mayor’s eyes narrowed, and he tensed in the chair as if he were poised to stand and get into Cage’s face. “Why?”
“For Jaymee,” Cage lied. “About the tour.”
“He’s fighting the fire,” Mayor Asher said. He crossed his legs, sitting up a little straighter. At least something about Dylan made him proud. “I have no idea when he’ll be home.”
Cage’s eyes flickered to the mayor’s raised foot and then back to meet his carefully blank eyes. “You’ve got a little bit of good, ole Mississippi red mud on your shoes, Mayor. I’ll see myself out.”
The red mud could have come from anywhere, just like he’d told Jaymee. But the mud was too much of a coincidence to ignore, especially since Mayor Asher and nature went together about as well as oil and water. As inconspicuously as he could manage, Cage checked out the yard, remarking to the cleanup crew about the mess the storm had caused. No sign of red mud, and no red mud in the Asher’s drive—blacktop for the town’s richest family. That would have been too easy, anyway. He didn’t think the location of White Creek on the Asher property was anywhere near where Nick’s car had been found, but there was only one way to find out for sure.
Cage headed back to the search area, bypassing the uniforms combing the creek, and hit the dirt road behind the Asher’s property. Dirt roads were a special favorite of his. After his sister’s murder, he’d spent a lot of time driving through the wilder parts of the countryside, finding solace in the overgrown trees and peaceful silence.
Although they’d sold off most of their cotton fields years ago, the Ashers still had a nice parcel of land, some of it former fields left to become wild again, while other areas were patches of thick forest. Well out of eyesight from the house, Cage parked his cruiser on the side of the road. Technically he was trespassing without a warrant, but all he was looking for was dirt. Early afternoon sun burned through some of the drifting smoke haze, and farther away from the fire, the air smelled less like burnt leaves.
He crossed through the fields, into the wooded areas, and back again, eyes sharp for any sign of the red mud, but found nothing. And no sign of White Creek. It probably ran through the property that had been sold years ago. Unless it was closer to the house, the red mud lik
ely didn’t exist on the Asher property. So where were the mayor and Dylan getting it? Neither struck him as the nature type, and he highly doubted they were out for a bonding stroll.
It was a long shot. Only one of the known areas with a lot of clay was in the search grid, and Gina had cleared it. Nick could have stepped in a tiny patch of it. For that matter, so could the Ashers, and they could very easily be unrelated.
Still, in the house, he’d gotten the distinct feeling he was witnessing a choreographed performance, with Wyatt Booth as the director. It could be unrelated to Nick’s disappearance, but those men were hiding something. Stanley had seemed genuinely surprised by the pictures of the antiques, but neither he nor Booth seemed all that surprised by the idea of fakes. Indifference or something else? And he’d never seen Beau Asher take a backseat to anyone. But the mayor had cow-towed to Booth and allowed him to control the conversation. Then again, aligning himself with power and money was nothing new to the mayor, so Cage supposed he shouldn’t be surprised.
He’d almost reached the car when his cell rang. Seeing the restricted number, he hoped it was Dylan. He’d left a message for him on his personal phone and at the fire station but figured it would be a long time before he heard anything.
“It’s Gina.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Tech’s office, in the basement.”
“You get anything else from the photos Nick sent?”
“There’s something embedded in one of them, but our girl hasn’t figured out what it is yet. We’ve been doing a little research on Memory Lane Antiques. Our nerd is good. She’s already traced the IP to the real owner, and you’re going to love who it is.”
“Tell me.”
“Our own resident asshole, Ben Moore.”
18
Cage made it back to the police station in record time. Karma was a beautiful thing, especially when it came back and bit a backstabber like Ben Moore in the ass. And if Ben had anything to do with Nick’s disappearance, Cage would be sure to take off his badge before he finally kicked his ass. “What do we know? Is the bastard coming in?”
“He’s on his way,” Gina said. “Surprised me I didn’t have to threaten him, but I guess he’s used to how I work now. As for Memory Lane, it’s got a range of items, fairly large. Most of them are Civil-War related or at least in that era. Lots of things dug up from battlefields. Or found in estates and surprise, surprise, old houses.”
Cage scowled. Well before Dani purchased Ironwood, Ben paid a couple of urban explorers to search the mansion for a cache of treasures and started a shitstorm of events that had nearly gotten both him and Dani killed. Cage wanted to whip him when he’d finally been released from the hospital, but Dani wouldn’t let him. Something about needing him at Ironwood instead of visiting him in jail. A few nights in the cell would have been worth it, but he didn’t want to lose his job over Ben’s scheming ass.
“Oh, it gets better,” Gina said. “See, the business isn’t owned by Ben himself. It’s owned by a dummy corporation, best we can tell. And Tucker Moore is the president.”
This kept getting more and more precious. “Ben’s dad? But he’s been dead almost seven years now.”
“Exactly. My guess is Ben’s using his social security number and may be collecting benefits. Grace was a mess when her husband died, and Ben handled everything. He wouldn’t be the first one to keep collecting someone’s social security after they’re dead. And even if he’s not, he’s using his father’s name as a decoy. Which means nothing he’s up to is any good.”
“Because most of his so-called relics are either fake or stolen.”
“I’m guessing so.”
Laura knocked on the door. “Ben Moore’s waiting for you.”
“You shouldn’t be in this interview,” Gina said.
“I promise I’ll be good. Will observe. Won’t antagonize.” He was pretty sure he meant it. They needed Ben to spill everything. Nick’s life was on the line. Cage could hold his grudge for that.
“One strike and you’re out.”
Sitting at the table, arms folded and a suspiciously calm expression on his face, Ben greeted them as soon as Gina and Cage entered. He even offered Cage his hand. What was he playing at? They’d always mostly hated each other. In the same crowd in high school, but everyone knew it was a friendship of tolerance and convenience. Most of Ben’s friendships in high school were a matter of convenience: he had the liquor hookup.
“You wanted to ask me about my antiques business,” Ben said.
Gina’s mouth turned up in a sardonic grin. “I’m so happy to see you’re cooperating.”
“I want to help.”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter that there’s no legal precedent set for selling fake Civil War memorabilia,” Gina said. “When Lee Walker first approached me about the fakes circulating several months ago, I told him most law enforcement offices didn’t have time to track down on the sellers and that his best bet was a civil suit. Even then, he’d need to have a lot in damages. With the way our legal system works, creating these fakes is basically a legal way to counterfeit.”
“Small potatoes for the police,” Ben said. “After all, if any one of the buyers checked with an expert, they would likely save themselves the money.”
“Is that a confession?” Cage asked.
“Hardly. I’m just postulating on what Captain Barnes said.”
“We’ve traced Memory Lane Antiques back to you.” Gina shot Cage a warning look. She’ll probably take my head off next time I open my mouth.
“To my father,” Ben corrected. “That’s why I’ve come in. He’s clearly the victim of identity theft. Someone’s using his good name to sell this junk.”
So that’s the angle he’s going to take. Cage chewed his cheek to keep silent.
Gina started laying out the pictures from Jaymee’s email. “Have you seen any of these items?”
Ben’s shoulders came down, the lines between his eyes eased, and the faintest trace of a smile played at the corner of his mouth.
“Not these specific items, I don’t think,” Ben said. “Of course I’ve seen various Confederate buckles, and is that currency? Very interesting. Mom still has the ten-dollar note her great grandfather carried during the Civil War. It’s framed in her bedroom. She wouldn’t want tourists to see her still holding a torch for the Confederacy.”
“You don’t share your mother’s love of history,” Gina said.
Ben shrugged. “Yes and no. But I don’t have a romantic view of it. Doesn’t matter if we treated our slaves well. We still had them. Hundreds at one time. This whole area was built on the backs of slavery. Every one of these monstrous homes locals flaunt to tourists. The white man’s whip built them all. And a hundred years after the war, black people were still treated like lesser beings.” He sighed. “Still are, in some areas. And yet, most of these homeowners, including my mother, gloss over this part of our history. It’s embarrassing. But it’s fundamental. And playing it down is an insult to every person, white or black, who died for basic human rights.”
This guy was so full of sanctimonious shit. Cage couldn’t resist. “Yet, you didn’t see a problem with selling off historical land belonging to descendants of those slaves. Not if it meant an easy buck for you.” Gina kicked him under the table.
He didn’t get the flash of self-righteous anger he’d expected. Ben just shook his head, shrugged his shoulders. Almost like he was defeated. “Everyone has regrets.”
“You regret not getting Ironwood too?”
“Foster,” Gina warned.
“I regret ever bringing Norton down here,” Ben said. “It’s isolated me from my family, my friends.” He looked again at the pictures, his hand lingering over the photo of the fake money. “Amazing how one bad decision can turn everything to crap.”
“So you don’t like Senator Booth or Mr. Stanley?”
Ben blew out a breath, looking Cage square in the eyes. “They’re bu
sinessmen. Doesn’t matter if I like them.”
“Are they in on it with you?” Gina asked. “You make the fakes, they get a cut? Nick Samuels finds out, so he’s got to disappear. I’m guessing you all have something bigger going than the replicas, though.”
Ben jerked, looking nervous for the first time. “I had nothing to do with Nick’s disappearance. I can’t speak for Booth and Stanley.”
The unspoken accusation hummed in Cage’s ears as he watched Gina volley questions back and forth. Ben knew he wasn’t going to be prosecuted for the fakes. He insisted his father was a victim of identity theft and welcomed the Jackson police searching his apartment. He was too smart to get nailed for that. But every time the conversation came around to Norton or either of the executives, the asshole’s fists would involuntarily flinch, or his eyelids would twitch. His tone turned brittle. Never once did he say Booth or Stanley were incapable of kidnapping. Never vouched for their character. Cage could tell he disliked both men immensely. That stood out more than his guilt over the replicas.
“We’ve got the necessary warrants. The Jackson police are going to search your apartment today,” Gina said. “And I’ll need your laptop.”
“It’s in Jackson. I decided not to bring business with me on this trip,” Ben said. “I needed a break.”
Gina pressed him on Nick’s disappearance for a second time. Ben shook his head so fast his neck must have ached with the effort. “He pissed me off last year, yes. Nosed up to my secretary for information. But I’m the one who screwed up in the first place. Nick’s a good reporter. He knows how to get to the truth and get it out. I respect him for that.”
Cage could tell Gina wasn’t buying it, but he’d known Ben since they were kids. Once, they’d been real friends, at least until puberty and all its issues kicked in. Ben got real charming when he lied, playing up the righteous, wounded act in such a smooth way most people felt sorry for him. In high school, Ben once convinced the principal the teacher was at fault for Ben getting into trouble.