“I’d say it’s a long shot. I’d sure like to know why he came to our office looking for Molly, then went to Heritage Car Rentals asking about Damon Saint. Lucky for us Tony got that driver to recall hearing about this motel.”
She glanced across at the parked vehicles. “I gather you didn’t find anything of value around those?”
“I jotted down the license numbers. We can use that to trace them if necessary.”
Checking my watch, I looked back at Jill. “It’s about noon. Let’s go park in the far corner and set up a little stakeout.”
“We’re going to wait for them to come back?”
“That’s the idea. Of course, we have no way of knowing when that will be. Stakeouts aren’t the most exciting things a detective does, but that looks like our only option.”
As the raindrops continued their frantic dance on the asphalt, we drove to a corner of the lot that bordered on a heavily wooded area. I backed against the fence, giving us a perfect view of the room doors and the two vehicles parked across from them.
“Too bad we didn’t bring our books to read,” Jill said after a few minutes of fruitless watching.
“That would violate the rules. I suppose we could take turns reading, but one of us needs to keep an eye on the target.”
She slumped down into the seat. “If you say so.”
“Come on, babe. If you’re going to be a PI, you’d better get used to the weary and boring parts of the job.”
“Hmph. I certainly didn’t get into this for the glamour.”
“Hey, I thought you looked knockdown gorgeous all dressed up for that hostess role at King Cole’s.”
She cut me a look, then shook her head. “Just assure me that we’re going to find Molly here, or somewhere, good as new.”
I thought of the familiar old contract clause “no warranties expressed or implied.” I didn’t feel up to making any guarantees on Molly Saint’s safe return.
After I called Bert Quincy to give him the good news about his being dropped off the FBI’s radar, I commented on the nasty weather and got a worried look from Jill.
“I hope they’ve checked to make sure my Cessna is tied down properly at the airport. I’ve been thinking about the possibility of renting hangar space. What do you think?”
I gave her a noncommittal glance. “The company plane is your department, babe.”
That prompted a smile. “Glory be. You’re admitting the airplane is a real asset to the business?”
“It helped on this case,” I said. “I’m not admitting anything else.”
She clucked her tongue and settled back in the seat. After half an hour, she dozed off. Another hour later, my eyes had tired of staring through what remained of the rainstorm, now only a gray drizzle. The rear of the motel continued to appear lifeless as a cemetery plot. The cell phone broke the monotony.
“Mr. McKenzie?”
“Yes.”
“This is your alarm monitoring station. We have a burglar alarm in Zone One.”
The front door. “Have you notified the police?”
“That’s my next call.”
“Thanks.”
I snapped the phone shut and started the car. “Somebody’s broken into the house,” I said.
Jill sat up with a start. “When?”
“Just now. That was the alarm company. They’re calling the cops.”
I sped past the motel office and turned toward the interstate. The rain had all but stopped now, though the pavement was still wet. That didn’t slow me as I raced up I-24 to the
Bell Road exit, cursed the traffic signals around Hickory Hollow Mall, and darted through traffic on our way to I-40. From there it wasn’t far to our place in Hermitage. I skidded to a stop in the driveway around two o’clock. A Metro patrol car sat there, the officer writing his report. I hurried over as he lowered his window.
“What did you find?” I asked.
“You must be Mr. McKenzie.”
“Right. The alarm company called us on the cell phone. We were a little below Smyrna.”
The cop—his badge said Wilcox—checked his watch and grinned. “You must’ve set some new speed records getting here. When I arrived, your pushbutton lock looked okay, but the front door had been bashed in. I checked upstairs and down, didn’t find anybody. I couldn’t tell that anything major had been taken. But it’s pretty obvious somebody has a real problem with you.”
My blood pressure had begun rising as he described what he had found, but that last remark kicked my curiosity into high gear. “What kind of problem?”
“Well, sir, they spray-painted one of your walls with—” He paused to check his notes. “Says, ‘I warned you butt out. Next time you’re done.’”
For a moment I stared, dumbfounded. Then it hit me. I turned to Jill, who had walked up just in time to hear Officer Wilcox’s description of the break-in. “Damon Saint,” I said without thinking, still trying to get used to his real name, Chad Rowe. “That’s the same words he used before. ‘If you don’t butt out, you’re going to experience your worst nightmare.’”
“What did he mean by ‘next time you’re done’?”
“My goose is cooked, I would think.”
“If you know who did this,” Officer Wilcox said, “I’d advise you to go down and swear out a warrant against him.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your help. Do you need anything else from us?”
“No, sir. But I’d say you need to find you a good housepainter.”
As soon as we opened the door, Jill gasped at what she saw. The entrance foyer gave a view of the stairway up to the bedroom level at the left, a look into the living room on the right. Red spray paint on the living room wall ran down in places like trails of blood.
“That’s horrible,” Jill said. She shook her head, almost in tears.
I wasn’t always the greatest of help, but she took pride in keeping the house in mint condition, neat as a military barracks ready for inspection.
“Don’t worry, babe,” I said. “I’ll get somebody onto it right away.”
“It isn’t just the paint, Greg. It’s the message. What do you think he might do, and what has he done to Molly?”
“I intend to find out.” I sat on the sofa and picked up the portable phone from the end table, punched in Phil Adamson’s number. When he answered, I said, “This is Greg again. We found Damon Saint.”
“Your client’s husband? Was she with him?”
“I think she is, but I’m not sure. Actually, we found where he’s staying, at a motel off I-24 below Smyrna. Both his truck and her car are parked there. I couldn’t get an answer at the room.”
“Any idea where he’s gone or when he’s coming back?”
“No. But I know where he’s been.” I told Phil about the break-in and the spray-painted warning. And I gave him a brief rundown on Molly’s husband’s real identity―Chad Rowe.
“Shit, man, sounds like you’re dealing with a real nut case.”
“It’s beginning to look that way. The motel clerk wouldn’t give out his room number. I wondered if you had any contacts in the Rutherford County Sheriff’s Office?”
“I didn’t until today. I’ve been on the phone a couple of times with Investigator Tune about a body they found this morning. They identified it as Tony Yarnell, the character who bragged about being a hit man. Saves us from looking for him any longer.”
“What happened to him?”
“His throat was slit and his body was thrown off a bridge. Come to think of it, they found him near Smyrna.”
“When did it happen?”
“The preliminary report says sometime last night. He shoots his mouth off about being a hit man, then he’s the one who gets hit. Must be some kind of poetic justice.”
“They have any idea who did it?” I asked. Jill had snuggled up against me, trying to hear the conversation. I cocked the phone away from my ear a bit so she could listen in.
“One reason Investigator Tun
e called me was to get some help,” Phil said. “He got my name from another deputy who’s a student in my criminology class. Seems Tony Yarnell had a card in his pocket with several telephone numbers. Two of them were home and work numbers for an employee at the Metro jail.”
“That’s interesting. Who’s the guy?”
“It isn’t a guy. She’s a clerk Tony would probably have had access to during his many visits to the jail, courtesy of the courts.”
“What’s her name?”
“Ermine Grooms.”
I felt Jill stiffen at his mention of the name.
“I have to tell you this, Phil,” I said, “Ermine Grooms is the wife of a driver at Maxxim Motor Freight, where Molly Saint works. During our investigation, we learned that Molly recently had an affair with Mitch Grooms, the husband. When I talked to Grooms last Sunday, he said Ermine had threatened to kill Molly if she caught her around him.”
“Damn. Tony had a pocketful of cash when they found him. You don’t suppose this Ermine hired him to kill your client?”
I thought about it a moment. Could that have been Tony’s reason for coming by our office, for asking Art Finley about the man called Damon?
“Maybe she did,” I said. “Tony talked to one of the drivers who worked with Chad Rowe at Heritage Car Rentals. The guy told him about the motel where Rowe’s staying. That’s how we found out about it. Maybe Tony went down there looking for Molly but ended up tangling with Chad instead.”
“Give me the name and location of that motel, Greg. I’ll contact Investigator Tune and see if he can meet us down there.”
“Have you got time to do that? What about the Bernstein case?”
“I’m looking for any excuse to get out of here. This place is going crazy. The Bureau boys are all cranked up over the Rodriguez shooting. One of the neighbors identified the shooter’s vehicle as an extended cab black Ford Ranger. The FBI is out shaking the bushes for it. I sent Tremaine off to be our liaison with them. Let me call Tune and I’ll get back to you.”
31
I did a quick patch job on the front door, and Jill tried to clean the offending red message off the wall while we waited to hear from Phil. The paint was probably a quick-drying enamel. It refused all of her efforts. She finally gave up and fixed cappuccino, which we drank at the kitchen table.
“I know Molly sounded a little off-the-wall at first,” she said, her forehead wrinkled in despair. “I agreed with you that just being a Vietnam vet didn’t make her husband the demon she cast him as. But now this, after what we learned about Chad Rowe.”
“I just hope he hasn’t done anything to harm her. I’m a bit surprised she hasn’t tried to get away from him.”
“Me, too. But I’d guess she was probably afraid to attempt anything at first. They’ve been gone from their house for a week now, though. If she was with him all that time, she must have seen some of the things he’s done. Like break into our office.”
I pushed my mug of cappuccino aside to let it cool a bit. “There’s another possibility we haven’t considered.”
“What’s that?”
“Drugs.”
“I remember you talked about a methamphetamine lab over in Antioch.”
“Not that kind of drugs, babe. Knockout pills, or even injected drugs like they used on you in Israel.” Her captors had kept her sedated during most of that ordeal.
Jill’s eyes clouded. “Oh, God, I don’t even want to think about that. But you’re right. Molly could be in that motel room now, while Chad is out roaming around.”
The horrifying memory of Jill’s captivity spooked her so badly she flinched when the phone rang. I grabbed it and answered.
“Tune said he’d head out toward Smyrna shortly,” Phil Adamson said. “I told him we’d meet at the motel office in half an hour.”
“Good. We were just talking about the possibility that Molly could be in the motel room now, sedated with drugs.”
“We’ll see. By the way, I called the deputy in Murfreesboro who’s a student in my class and asked him about Tune. He says the guy is one of the bright lights in the sheriff’s office down there.”
———
I drove with a bit more rationality this time. The Metro Police chief had been on a crusade lately to slow down Nashville’s speedy motorists, and I didn’t want to get delayed by a motivated cop. Schools were letting out, also, making it necessary to ease through a couple of school zones. We arrived at the Old Country Inn a little after three and found Phil’s white Malibu parked in front. A Rutherford County Sheriff’s car pulled in as we headed for the door.
Phil met us just inside the office. “We’re a little too late,” he said. “They’re gone.”
Jill exhaled a low sigh.
“How long?” I asked.
“Less than an hour ago.” He turned to the stocky black man behind us dressed in a white shirt, tie, and blue windbreaker. “Kevin Tune?”
Tune smiled and stuck out his hand. “You must be Detective Adamson. And these are the McKenzies?”
I shook hands and introduced Jill.
“I’ve never worked with any private eyes,” Tune said. He looked back at Phil. “Did I hear right that this Rowe guy split?”
“Yeah. Come on in. I just started questioning the clerk.”
We gathered around the front desk, where the same tall blonde we had talked to earlier waited solemnly. Phil introduced the new players and asked her to repeat what she had just told him.
“Mr. Casey, or whatever his name is, came in here about an hour ago and said he wanted to check out. He paid his bill in cash and left in his truck. His wife didn’t come in, but I could see somebody in the passenger seat of the truck.”
“Was this the big black Dodge Ram?” I asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see anything of a red Nissan Sentra?”
“That’s the wife’s car. He said they’d come back for it later. When he was here a week ago, I told him it would be all right to leave the car till they returned. I’m sure they’ll come back for it.”
A week ago? That meant they had stayed here after moving out of the house in Antioch. As for Chad’s coming back after Molly’s car, I wasn’t quite so sure. Apparently, Phil wasn’t either.
“I wouldn’t trust this guy to read the label on a can of beans,” Phil said.
I turned to him. “That black Dodge was here when our house was broken into. He had some other means of transportation to Hermitage and back.”
“Or else it wasn’t him.”
“It had to be him, Phil. No one else had a reason to leave that message.”
“Then somebody brought him back or he’s got another vehicle hidden around here.”
“There are lots of little back roads in this area,” Tune said. “I worked around here when I was on patrol.”
Phil looked back to the clerk. “Did this Casey guy say anything else to you?”
“He wanted to know if anybody had asked about him.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
She hesitated. “I told him about you and your wife. You didn’t tell me not to.” She looked on the verge of tears.
Jill smiled at her. “That’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
But Phil gave me a wary look. “Not good.”
I had to agree. Chad knew we definitely had not butted out. We were hot on his trail and getting closer. Bashing in the door and spray painting a wall were signs of anger. What would he do next?
Phil turned to Tune. “Let’s go check the room and see if he left anything that’d be of help.”
The deputy got a key from the clerk, and we trooped around to the rear of the motel. The muggy air had the freshly washed smell that followed a spring rain. And even though the rain had ended, the asphalt of the parking lot still had a smooth sheen to it. Molly’s car remained where we had seen it earlier. Tune unlocked the door to room 117 and we went inside.
“Shouldn’t we be careful of what we touch?”
Jill asked. She had moved into her CSI mode.
“Good idea,” Tune said. “But this isn’t a crime scene. We’re just looking for something that might give us a hint Rowe was involved in a murder, or anything that could give us an idea where he went.”
Phil dumped the contents of a wastebasket on the floor and began probing it with a pencil. “Don’t see any blood traces, nothing that might show somebody was involved in a bloody confrontation.”
“Don’t you think he would have done away with any clothing that might have gotten bloody?” I said. “The guy seems to be pretty adept at covering up his trail. I’m convinced he burned down the house he moved out of so nobody could tell what he’d been up to, probably making meth. We also found our office broken into on Sunday, with nothing missing but the file on Molly’s case. I know it was him, but he didn’t leave a trace.”
I briefed the two investigators on what we had learned about the man who was a former Green Beret, a Gallatin native with a record for bank robbery.
“You’ve been busy this past week,” Phil said. “Wish I could get that kind of dedication out of a couple of guys that work with me.” He gave me a broad grin. “Would you like to help out with the Bernstein case?”
“Ha,” Jill said. “I heard Greg tell a friend Metro wouldn’t even ask his help on a drunk and disorderly case.”
Phil stuck his hands up. “Don’t get your shorts in such a knot, pal. Things aren’t all that bad now. About the only ones that still hold a grudge are those close to Tremaine, including some of the patrol guys who work with his brother-in-law.”
I hoped he was right.
After combing through the small amount of trash in the wastebaskets, checking chairs, the desk, the bedding, the detectives agreed they had found nothing of significance. Noting a couple of plastic cups on the bathroom sink that had been stripped of their covers, I suggested Phil take them along to check for fingerprints.
“That would nail our ID of Chad Rowe.”
He agreed and bagged the cups.
We headed out to the red Sentra and gazed through the windows. Nothing appeared to have been moved.
Tune absently fiddled with his tie. “I’ll get a search warrant and check the car, see if there might be any bloody clothes or a knife in there. I questioned everyone around the area where the body was found, but nobody saw anything.”
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