Fatal Chances (The Red Lake Series Book 5)

by Rich Foster

  They abandoned the boat behind the Prop Shop and took off in a plane that was standing by on the airstrip.”

  “Anybody get the numbers?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Covered over or false numbers?”

  “Bingo on your second guess. Goth came back and found Julia hunched over the body in hysterics. He called it in to 911. By the time we got there the Julia Stockman was coming unglued."

  “What was Goth doing?”

  “Sweating about what he was going to tell his boss, I suspect.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I had a positive ID on the body by Goth and Julia. Neither offered any reason why Jillian should be a target. I talked to an investigator, whose name slips my mind, from the organized crime unit in Nevada, he gave me slim odds of solving the case having assumed the killers were already out of the country and that Donatello would never talk. He was correct concerning the later. Donatello claimed the body but never returned my calls to be interviewed, in fact he had Bailard Mortuary pickup the body the day of the official identification. She was cremated and he left the state.

  “What about Goth?”

  “The Nevada Highway Patrol reported him killed in a hit and run along Interstate 5 ten miles north of Vegas. They concluded Goth ran out of gas and somebody clipped him as he walked along the shoulder.”

  “And you believe that?”

  “Hell no, but I have a limited budget and it doesn't include going to Las Vegas much less Mexico or Columbia.”

  Neither spoke as they mulled the news the other provided. Gaines unconsciously stroked his mustache. “What do you think?” he finally asked.

  “Who knows? I don't see how the two crimes connect.”

  “But they have got to, right?”

  Harry pointed one finger at Gaines and pulled the imaginary trigger. He rose to go.

  “Paula noticed Julia Stockman is holding a memorial service for her husband.”

  “Kind of rushing things unless she knows something we don't.”

  “Sheriff, I figure she knows lots of things we don't but I would also guess she is not willing to tell.”

  Gaines walked him out. “I'll call over to Beaumont but I doubt I'll get much. If you learn anything keep me posted, okay?”

  Harry sensed it was not a request.

  *

  St. Mary’s was Beaumont's grandest architectural edifice. The church was built of limestone carved and crafted by Italian immigrants in the early years of the twentieth century. The lines were graceful. The sunlight played on the cornices and bell tower hinting of eternal light. Inside it was as cool and dim as a sepulcher.

  After the bright light of the afternoon it took Harry a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dim gloom. There was a surprisingly large crowd to remember a man that not was not definitely dead.

  Of course he was in the Elks and the Chamber of Commerce.

  The organ ground out appropriately somber music as people fidgeted in their seats. A number of floral bouquets framed the front altar.

  The organ died out and the wizened old man who served as priest for the parish took the dais.

  “We are here to remember Harvey Stockman. His wife Julia would like to say a few words.”

  Julia stood in the front row and stepped forward. Her dress was an expertly tailored suit, to Harry's eye the fabric and cut both smacked of money.

  “I want to thank all of you who have come to remember Harvey. I know it may seem odd to do this, in that they failed to recover his body, but how long should one wait?" She paused to wipe away a tear with her handkerchief, " I should like nothing better than to be wrong, to have my dear husband walk in the door like Tom Sawyer at his own wake, but that of course is only a dream. So, let us join together and celebrate Harvey's life.”

  The service progressed with hymns and eulogies that were surprisingly slim on details. One might have gathered that Harvey's life was more a warm fuzzy feeling than an event.

  Harry was not inclined toward religion, he was more apt to find God in a bass boat or hiking in the mountains, than in a church, as a consequence he shifted restlessly. The service came to an appropriate crescendo and people filed out. Harry remained in the shadows beside the stone columns that formed the aisles that braced the nave. He watched those who came to comfort the widow. Most were cursory, little more than a handshake, the exception being a short, broad shouldered man with dark hair who enveloped Julia in an embrace. Even at a distance Harry perceived Julia go rigid. She successfully extricated herself from the man's arms but he held her one hand captive in both of his.

  Harry wandered forward in time to overhear the him say, “Anything you need, absolutely anything just call me, okay?”

  “Thank you Vito, thank you very much, I will.”

  Fat chance, thought Harry, she can't stand the guy.

  Donatello finally released her hand with the reluctance of an angler letting a trophy fish go during a catch and release event. As he worked his way toward the exit Donatello cast repeated glances back over his shoulder. The suit of the body builder at his side bulged in a manner that hinted of a concealed weapon.

  Harry reached Julia.

  “I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Stockman.”

  “I told you to call me Julia, Harry. I may call you that can't I?”

  “Sure, it doesn't sound as old. I am sorry I couldn't be of more help to you in Miami.”

  “Oh but you were. Just having you there was such a comfort and support.”

  *

  Julia returned home from the memorial service feeling hot, sweaty and a bit dirty as if Vito's hug rubbed something fetid off on her. Her sister's husband's presence at the service took her off guard. The thought of him helping her do anything left a tight feeling in her chest and a knot in her stomach.

  She unzipped the black shift that fit her curves as well as a Porsche hugs Alpine roads and let it fall to the floor. She had spent more money than she could afford on the dress but a widow needs to look good if she wants to get back into the market. She took off her bra and panties which she tossed into the dirty clothes hamper, but the dress she picked up pinched between her thumb and first two fingers. She held it up, made a moue with her mouth and dropped it in the wastebasket. The dress was ruined for her.

  Before the full length mirror she made a pirouette, her hair flew out, then dropped perfectly back in place as she stopped facing the mirror. In the same motion she put her arms out with her hands spreads, like a magician saying “Ta dah!” at the end of his act. Julia considered her body and it. pleased her. As she walked toward the bathroom to shower she paused to look back and take another look at her backside, she gave herself a happy pat on the rump and said allowed, “Free at last, praise God almighty I am free at last!”

  *

  “Seriously Paula, I'd swear she was flirting with me. There was more batting of eyelashes than an adolescent girl on a date.”

  “Harry, not every woman on the planet wants to jump your bones,” Paula retorted with mock disdain.

  Harry ignored this and continued, “And you should have seen her dress!”

  Paula's face showed serious doubts. “Harry you know nothing about fashion.”

  “But I can smell expensive and her suit was very, very expensive, probably a designer cut.”

  “So?”

  “Julia claimed she did not like to shop, yet that was all she seemed to do, despite the fact her clothing might well have come from a thrift store. Now suddenly, pow!”

  “I can think of several reasons.”

  “Such as?” Harry asked a bit testily.

  “It was a funeral and she wanted to leave a good impression, she was embarrassed to say she liked to shop, she normally dresses better than the days you followed her, or perhaps her husband was a tightwad and now that he is dead she is spreading her wings'”

  “Maybe she is celebrating?”

  “Honey, I think you are bored. Why don't you go fishing?” />
  Exasperated Harry protested, “You're the one who thought I should do something?”

  “Yes but that was before I knew she lost both her husband and her sister in the last year.”

  Don't even go there, he told himself, finding Paula's logic a bit convoluted at times. Instead he said, “Great idea I think I'll drop the runabout into the water and head to Upper Cransden.”

  Consequently, two hours after the service Harry was back in Red Lake racing across the water. He was happy for the excuse to put the boat in. His houseboat still floated at anchor in front of his house, waiting for Cody Marina to drop the floating docks in the water.

  Instead of following the eastern shore toward Cransden, he crossed the lake to the west side, passing the Prop Shop Bar, an old Quonset hut left over from when Red Lake was a training center during the last good war. He passed Le Salle point where the ill fated Judge Kellner and his wife once lived and violently died. Then the dock at the Corbett Estate, where one case took him to talk with the crippled heir of a family who owned vast tracts of land and the logging company that employed many in the area.

  A short distance later he came to Gulls Bay. The name was a misnomer, the bay was really more of a long arc in the shoreline. He was not sure why he came but Harry wanted to see the place Jillian Donatello died. The Stockman house was two story with large sheets of glass and wrap around balconies. The seasonal boat dock, still piled on shore, resembled bleached whale bones. A 'For Sale' sign from Lanski Real Estate faced the lake.

  I should call Herb and take a look around the inside.

  Herb managed to dominate the waterfront listings on Red Lake. He sold Harry his cabin a year and a half before.

  Harry nosed in until the runabout's bow ran aground on the sandy beach. He secured a line to the base of a tree and walked up to the house. Whatever he hoped to sense or discover eluded him. The ground level windows let in on sparsely furnished bedrooms. He went up the curving step that led to the upper deck. The drapes were open.

  The furniture was appropriately rustic. On the wall an elks head stared back at him. Harry doubted Harvey Stockman shot the animal himself, it probably appealed to his sense of rural décor. A kitchen was partially visible to the right and on the back wall near the interior staircase were several shut doors.

  He turned around and considered the other homes along the shore. I should have asked Gaines where Goth was staying. Of course does that matter?

  Most of the homes views toward the Stockman's deck were obscured by trees. Harry picked out three that would have been good for a stakeout, the only problem being they we distant enough that it would require a telescope, therefore explaining Goth's delay in getting to the house.

  Donatello was a tough guy to work for, of course you let the boss's wife get killed and you can sort of figure you're in trouble.

  Harry leaned back against the deck railing and made a call.

  “Hello,” that was all Barton Dirk ever said when Harry rang.

  “Harry here.”

  “I kinda figured that out, caller ID you know? How's it going?

  “Pretty quiet.”

  “If you are looking for work I have a quick job in Latin America. We can be in and out in three days. And as usual the money's good.”

  “No thanks.” Harry said.

  It was the answer Dirk expected, he knew Harry would refuse work as a mercenary, having grown weary of black bag ops and terminations with prejudice while they were still in Afghanistan.

  “No problem, friend.”

  “Do you know a mid level mob guy in Vegas by the name of Vito Donatello?”

  “Nope, but my contacts there are few. Other than the man who feels beholden to me for saving his daughter I don't know many names.”

  “Could you ask around?”

  “Sure, what do I say if someone finds it annoying?”

  “Tell them it concerns Donatello's former brother-in-law, a guy named Harvey Stockman. He presumably took a header off a cruise ship at sea. As far as I know it's nothing to do with their business.”

  “If it does their silence on the subject will be your answer.”

  “That's what I thought. But Donatello showed up in Beaumont for the memorial service, and the widow seemed creeped out by his presence, I just wondered why.”

  “I'll make a few calls and get back to you.”

  *

  Harry came home with a few fish and no answers.

  Over dinner Paula asked no questions about his non-case. Apparently, as his interest in Julia Stockman's life grew, Paula's concern about her diminished.

  Which was perhaps her intent all along?

  They enjoyed chicken breasts grilled with garlic powder and seasonings, baby carrots and a tossed salad.

  After the dishes were done up Paula settled into the sofa and turned on a movie. Harry went out for a walk, reluctantly admitting to himself. he was anxious to get Dirk's return call.

  The next day Harry was occupied running several background checks for local merchants who were taking applications for the upcoming season. Past experience had taught them that Harry's work paid for itself, it was depressing how many people seeking employment should come with a warning label. The majority of his work was via computer but it also required at least a cursory door to door with the applicant's neighbors.

  Toward the end of the day he found himself near Herb Lanski's office, consequently he wheeled in.

  “Harry! Good to see you.” Herb was in full salesman mode, 'a hail fellow well met' conviviality, that ground on Harry, but the man did know the real estate market.

  “How may I help you?”

  “I wanted to ask about your listing on Gulls Bay.”

  “Its a fabulous home! I have an offer on the house in escrow but I am willing to take backup offers. and if the deal happened to fail to close it would be the perfect place for you and Paula to move up to. More floor space and twice the water frontage over your current home. Why don't I run us over and you can take a look? If the sale falls through you should move fast.”

  They climbed into Herb's sedan, a sensible vehicle that was easy to slide in and out of at homes showings, new enough to speak of success but not so flashy as to raise questions about Herb's ethics, a thing that might not endure close scrutiny . Herb chatted as they cruised the western shore of the lake. Harry said nothing, Herb could easily talk for two.

  They came to the gates. Herb pointed to the top of the wall, “The house has security cameras, state of the art.”

  Harry mentally noted the model was at least ten years old.

  They pulled up to the front door and entered the living room which carried the odor of disuse. The view toward the northern end of the lake was spectacular as long as one did not notice the federal penitentiary on the far shore, a mile and a half away. The living room let out on a broad wooden deck.

  Herb droned on, "And due to the house being built into the hillside the ground drops away so under here," he tapped the wood with his heel, "is a fabulous well shaded patio for the bedrooms!"

  The lawn was verdant from the recent rains. It rolled down to the water's edge. The rock ring that had rimmed the lake when it was down was now back under water.

  Harry wandered downstairs, the bedrooms were functional. The house had the aura of utilitarian rather than lived in, a typical vacation home. He checked the locks on the sliders and windows. He also made a mental note of the floor plan. Upstairs he took a quick view of the kitchen but spent an inordinate amount of time in the upstairs bathroom looking through the crack on the hinged side of the door. Finally he walked to a spot slightly off the center of the living room.

  “Why are the owner's selling?” he asked staring at the floor.

  “There was a death in the family.” Lanski made a sorrowful look.

  Harry snorted in contempt. “Don't you mean there was a death in the this room?”

  Herb's face fell. “You're not really in the market are you, Harry?”

  Gr
im shook his head, “No.”

  “You aren't going to stir things up are you? People have finally stopped talking about that murder. I don't need you killing the deal.”

  “What could I possibly do?”

  It was Herb's turn to snort.

  “Who's the buyer?” Harry inquired casually.

  “That's confidential, Harry. Check the tax roles after the deal closes.”

  “Be helpful Herb or I will make a pest of myself.”

  “You wouldn't know the buyer anyway, he lives in Nevada.”

  Taking a wild guess, Harry said, “So Vito Donatello is buying the place?”

  Herb's mouth fell. “How do you know that?”

  Harry grinned, “A little birdie told me. And a word of advice, Herb, Donatello is connected, so don't piss him off.”

  Herb's mouth gaped, it quivered, but he failed to say anything, in fact he said nothing at all on the drive back to town.

  Harry went up to his office in the Edison Building. The elevator was out again so he took the stairs two at a time, stopping to see if he felt at all winded from the effort and pleased that he was not.

  “Any messages, Paula?”

  “Sheriff Gaines called, he said that neither the city nor the county have received inquires from Panama. Nor have they heard from Miami.” Paula flipped the page of her notes.

  “Barton called, he said your cell phone went to voice mail but he needs to talk to you. And here I quote, Tell Harry it is not an easy answer.”

  “Lastly, the widow Stockman called.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Probably a white knight, why else do women call for you?”

  “Sarcasm causes wrinkles you know!”

  Paula crinkled her nose and laughed. “Here's her number.”

  “She can wait until tomorrow. I'll call Barton later. Let's get out of here.”

  The evening was warm. A few precocious lightning bugs lit up the night. The lake was little more than a gray shadow between the trees. Dinner was delicious and now Harry settled himself in a deck chair with a beer in one hand and the phone in the other.

  “Its me.” Harry said tersely.

  “We've got a problem Harry. My questions made some people extremely nervous.”