An Arm and a Leg

by Olive Balla

  He jabbed Mel’s number onto the keypad with such force that pain shot up his index finger. Mel answered on the first ring.

  “Leave her alone, she doesn’t know anything.” Tiny flecks of spittle flew from Larry’s lips and onto the phone.

  Mel snorted. “Yeah, that’s what you keep saying. But how am I supposed to know anything about that, seeing as how I haven’t seen you in such a long time?”

  “I’m busy checking things out and taking care of business. You can tell Bellamy that.”

  “I’ll tell Bellamy you’ve lost it unless you come on back to the farm. I’ll tell him that you’ve made a deal with the police.”

  “I’ll be back after I find what we’ve been looking for.”

  “Bellamy told you to stop watching her. So, why are you still—?”

  “Because I don’t agree with Bellamy. I guess he’s afraid if she finds out someone’s watching her she’ll tell the police and they’ll start up the investigation again. But I think watching her is the best way to find the stuff O’Neil took. That stuff is our only hope. If we find it, Bellamy will pay us enough so we’ll never have to work again. We can go someplace nice. Someplace with palm trees and pretty, willing women.”

  “Okay. But what’re you going to do about her? You know…if she does find the stuff?”

  “I’ll worry about that when the time comes. One thing for sure, if the police get it they’ll dig into every corner of Bellamy’s business. Then they’ll come for you and me. It’s us that’ll do time for killing O’Neil and that hunter. You can bet Bellamy won’t spend a day inside for that.”

  “What’ll we do?”

  “I’m working on it.” Larry felt like one of those circus guys who somehow managed to get fifty plates spinning on sticks all at once. If even one plate hit the ground though, all bets were off as to what his future would be.

  “All right,” Mel said. “But when’re you coming back? Things don’t feel right, you being gone and all.”

  “Like I said before, tell Bellamy I’m busy running down a couple of leads.”

  “And then you’ll come back?”

  “Yep,” Larry said, like a man telling his mistress he was going to leave his wife. “Then I’ll come back.”

  ****

  In the sheriff’s office in Raton, New Mexico, Nick placed a cardboard box on top of his desk. On the side of the box were written in black permanent marker the words O’Neil, Tim, followed by a case number. The deputy lifted the lid off and peered down at the collection of what anyone else would see as garbage. One at a time, he pulled out the bagged and labeled pieces of potential evidence from the shooting.

  The coroner had said Tim’s wound was a through-and-through, and the resulting search for the bullet had been intense. But the forest covered thousands of acres, and that crucial piece of evidence remained elusive. The bullet from the dead hunter had been retrieved, but without the one that killed O’Neil to match it, there was no way to know if the same weapon had been used on both men.

  “Come on, talk to me.” Nick pulled a thick manila folder from a black wire, louvered holder on his desk, opened the folder and reviewed his notes on O’Neil’s death. He re-read every field note and scribbled marginal notation, all of which he’d read so many times he could quote them from memory.

  Frankie had said two men tailgated her and Tim from the time they left Albuquerque. And she seemed fairly certain Tim knew them because of his reaction when she asked about a green pickup. If that was the case, someone at the hospital where he worked might know something. Or one of his neighbors might have seen something. And she was right about one thing, although it did happen, anyone who hunted knew it was illegal to fire a weapon from a vehicle. Especially from a moving vehicle.

  That left three possible explanations: either the O’Neils had been partners in some scheme that made them both targets, but the shooter missed Frankie; or Tim had been the target all along; or Frankie had been the real target. But unless Frankie was a consummate actress, and Nick reluctantly had to admit to that possibility, she had no idea as to why someone would shoot Tim. He’d bet a year’s wages she didn’t manufacture the look that flared in her eyes when he told her the investigation had stalled due to lack of evidence. Anger, and not an inkling of fear for her own safety. No sign of guilt, or any other indication that she knew the reason behind her brother’s murder.

  He read through the statements made by O’Neil’s friends, neighbors, and co-workers. All of them expressed surprise at Dr. O’Neil’s death. All of them appeared to have held Tim in high esteem. No one could think of anyone who would want to hurt the good doctor, et cetera, et cetera.

  The statement given by a nurse named Landowski piqued his curiosity. He read with interest how she skirted some of the questions put to her by the interviewing officer, as well as her oblique references to an antipathy between doctors Bellamy and O’Neil. He reached for the desk phone and punched in a number. After several rings, a voice answered.

  “Hey, Ted,” Nick said. “How’re tricks in the Albuquerque Police Department?”

  “Nothing new, old buddy. Just the usual mayhem, political squabbling and bureaucratic BS you’d find anywhere else in this great country. No different than when we were MPs in the Corps. What’s happening in your neck of the woods?”

  “You remember the O’Neil shooting? I’ve been going over the statements you guys took. By the way, thanks for keeping me in the loop on that.”

  “No problem. Anything useful?”

  “Not much to go on. But I was wondering if your guys did any follow up. Hoping maybe someone added something to their earlier statement, that kind of thing.”

  “I sent you copies of everything we have in the file. You want to ride into town, shoot up the place, and drag answers from the populace?”

  Nick chuckled. “Sort of. I’d like to pay a visit to the hospital where O’Neil worked.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll let the powers that be know you’ll be in town. Anything in particular feel funny to you?”

  “Nothing I can put my finger on.”

  “Ahh, the famous Non-specific Rollins Brain Tingle.”

  “Go ahead and make fun. But O’Neil’s sister said a nurse at the hospital where Tim worked might have some important information. A talk with her seems like a good place to start.”

  “Have at it. Let me know if I can help.”

  Nick hung up the phone. He sat at his desk, drumming his pen on its cluttered top.

  No one lived a completely isolated life. Someone somewhere knew what had happened to Tim O’Neil and why.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Frankie’s daily counting ritual had lengthened until it stole nearly three hours out of her morning. That should probably bother her more than it did. But life was, after all, made up of a series of tradeoffs. And the subsequent sense of temporary peace, albeit mingled with guilt and shame, seemed worth the ever-increasing cost to her self-esteem.

  Between bites of breakfast, she reviewed her list of possible suspects in Tim’s death, scribbling notes on a piece of notebook paper. On the first line she wrote the two men who broke in to Tim’s apartment. She added one with a pockmarked face, and one with a baby face. Motive: Unknown.

  She considered writing Mina’s name in the second slot, but why would the nurse want Tim dead? Had they been romantically involved? That didn’t seem likely. Mina’s demeanor had been one of respect and admiration, not of a jilted lover. And Frankie was certain it had been two men in that pickup. If one of them had been a woman, she’d have had to put her hair up into a cap. Mina’s hair was too thick, long, and heavy to manage that.

  As for the other hospital employees, Mina said Tim was loved and respected by everyone with whom he worked. Everyone but Bellamy. Frankie jotted down the doctor’s name as second on her list. Next to it, she wrote the words Motive: jealous hack.

  In third place she wrote Guy in the Camaro, Motive: unfinished business?

  She wrot
e Flatte’s name in fourth place. But although he was a pompous narcissist, she could see no motive for Tim’s attorney to kill him. Flatte might be compelled to murder someone he perceived as a threat to his social or financial status, but Tim certainly hadn’t fit that bill. She scribbled a question mark next to Flatte’s name.

  As number five, she wrote: Relatives of Esther Emory. Although none were listed in the medical records, that didn’t rule out their existence. She’d heard Tim complain on more than one occasion about errors in the records. But she’d only begin the process of ferreting them out if none of the other leads showed promise.

  As suspect number six, Frankie listed Nick Rollins. She knew of no reason for him to kill Tim, but he worked in the area where the murder took place. But then, so did all of Eagle Nest. She jabbed her pen against the paper and scratched three question marks next to the deputy’s name so forcefully the paper tore.

  Her landline rang. Hoping it was Mina, she grabbed the telephone.

  “Good morning, Miss O’Neil. Jeremy Flatte returning your call.”

  “Oh. Good morning, Counselor.”

  “Ouch,” Flatte said.

  “Sorry, I’m expecting another call. But I do appreciate your getting back to me.”

  “I won’t take up more than a minute or two. I wondered if you’d have dinner with me tonight.”

  Surely Flatte had sensed her negative reaction to him during their first meeting. But maybe his ego buffered the input, and he figured he’d misread her vibes.

  “This could be a working dinner if you like,” Flatte added. “Can I pick you up at seven?”

  “A working dinner sounds good. I do have a couple of things I’d like to run past you, but at your usual hourly rate.”

  Flatte chuckled. “If you insist. I’ll see you then.”

  Frankie hung up the phone, wondering how she was going to pay for the attorney’s time. Her mind flashed on the pile of gold coins in Tim’s safe deposit box. The things were probably worth many thousands of dollars in today’s market. But she couldn’t see herself doing anything with the coins until she discovered where they’d come from.

  “Man oh man, Tim. You left quite a mess.”

  Her brother’s droll voice floated into Frankie’s ears: Hence the letter of apology.

  Frankie jumped when her cell rang, interrupting her thoughts. The caller identification listed a familiar number, though she couldn’t place it.

  “Miss O’Neil?” the male voice at the other end of the line said.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Hector Cordero.”

  “Oh yes, Mister Cordero. Thank you for getting back to me. I found your phone number in Tim’s address book, and it looks like he had an appointment with you just before he died. I was hoping you could tell me what that was about.”

  The line went silent for a few seconds. When Hector’s voice came back on, it was softer, nearly a whisper.

  “I asked him to meet me, yes. I had some medical questions and he offered to come by my work station.”

  “At seven in the morning on the day he was murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did he keep that appointment?”

  “Yes. But Miss O’Neil, I cannot talk now, I’m at work. My wife called me with your message because she thought it might be important.”

  “I was hoping we could meet somewhere for coffee.”

  “I would be glad to meet with you. I may not be able to answer your questions, but my wife would love to meet the sister of the man who helped us so much. Please join us for dinner tomorrow evening. We always eat at six, but you’re welcome to come earlier.”

  “I’d like that.” Frankie jotted down the address and hung up.

  If Hector Cordero had been one of the men in the green pickup, she might be walking into a trap. She didn’t really think he’d hurt her in front of his family, but it was a chance she’d have to take. And he could be an important domino. She added Hector’s name as number seven on her list of suspects.

  ****

  Larry had settled into his usual spot in Frankie’s tree just as a late model sports car pulled into her driveway. Some guy wearing a western shirt with pearl snaps, a black leather vest, designer jeans and ostrich boots climbed out of the car, walked up to Frankie’s door and rang the bell. Although he didn’t recognize the guy, Larry could smell his money. He drove a BMW convertible with its top down in spite of the cool autumn evening, and looked like he’d dressed to impress someone. Dressed to kill.

  Frankie came to the door wearing denim jeans stuffed into brown leather, high-heeled boots, a gold colored jacket zipped up against the cold air, and a thick, fluffy scarf the color of her hair wrapped a couple of times around her neck. Larry’s breath caught in his throat. And he knew all too well how the vision was affecting the butt-nugget standing there ogling her.

  “I hope you’re up for steak,” Rich Boy said.

  Larry strained to hear Frankie’s answer but was too far away to understand her murmured response.

  “Good. I’d like to try out that new steakhouse on Jefferson.” The guy bent his elbow and held out his arm for Frankie to hold on to. Larry squelched a chuckle when she ignored it and headed toward the Beemer.

  The sports car pulled out of the drive and sped off. For the next couple of hours, Larry tortured himself with images of Frankie and Rich Boy. He pictured the couple at dinner, gazing into each other’s eyes. He could hear Frankie laughing at the dip-wad’s jokes, a lock of her hair falling over her right eye as it often did. And he could see Rich Boy’s eyes flashing on high beam as he weighed his chances of getting Frankie into the sack.

  Larry began to hum an old song about a bad moon being on the rise. Yup, this was shaping up to be one of those bad moon nights, sure enough.

  ****

  While waiting for the garden salad prelude to the pan-seared rib eye steaks, Flatte sipped Petite Sirah and Frankie drank iced tea.

  “How well did you know Tim?”

  “I actually saw him in person only the two times he came to my office to set up his trust. I spoke to him on the phone a couple of times after that. Why?”

  “Just trying to fill in some gaps. I’m talking to anyone with whom he came into contact the last weeks of his life in hopes they can shed some light on his death.”

  Flatte puffed out his lips, the expression on his face quizzical, as if she’d spoken in Urdu. “Don’t you think you should let the police take care of that? That’s what they get paid to do.”

  “You may be right, but so far the police haven’t found any leads.”

  “But who would want to kill Tim? He seemed like a great guy.”

  “You said we could call this a working dinner. I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Of course.” Flatte leaned forward in his chair.

  “Am I correct in assuming that anything I tell you will be held in confidence?”

  “I’m your brother’s attorney, and you are the executrix to his estate. Attorney client privilege about anything concerning his trust, within certain legal parameters, is a given. What can I do you for?” The words were followed by a smirk and a surprisingly lecherous grin.

  Frankie ignored the double entendre and mentally kicked herself for not bringing her own car. But, she reminded herself, she could always call a cab. She just hoped the cab driver would take a credit card. “What if I found evidence of Tim’s involvement in something questionable? How would I go about setting it right?”

  A puzzled look flitted across Flatte’s face. “Can you be more specific?”

  “What if I found a stash of gold coins in his safe deposit box?”

  Flatte nodded his head. “Good for your brother. Lots of people are investing in gold right now. And other than an in-floor safe, a safe deposit box is about as secure a place to store them as any.”

  “But Tim’s bank records don’t reflect any large purchases. And he hadn’t started earning enough money yet to buy one gold coi
n, let alone a box full.”

  Flatte shrugged. “Tim struck me as a shrewd money manager. I’m sure there’s a reasonable answer, you just haven’t found it yet. But that reminds me, you remember I said there were a couple of things that needed attention? You’ll need to send a statement of Tim’s assets to the IRS. Although his estate is not large enough to require you to pay estate tax, you’ll be required to pay taxes on any interest accrued from the time of his death.”

  “But that’s just it. He didn’t have a savings account or a retirement fund. Just the gold coins.”

  “Then you’ll need to document where he got them, along with their current value. Nothing the IRS would like more than to bust someone for evading taxes.”

  “I’ll need your help in getting his transaction records from the gold company.” Frankie handed Flatte a paper upon which she’d written the gold merchant’s phone number.

  “No problem, I’ll get my assistant to draw up the necessary documents in the next day or so. You said a couple of questions?”

  Frankie nodded. “I also found some patient medical information on his laptop.”

  “And that struck you as strange in what way?” Flatte’s voice assumed a patronizing tone. “Tim was a doctor. Doctors work with patient records every day.”

  “But do they make copies and take them home?”

  The attorney held his hands out palms up. “There are several perfectly reasonable explanations for why Tim might keep track of some of the patients with whom he worked.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like research for a paper he wanted to write, for one.”

  Frankie considered the attorney’s comment. Maybe he was right about everything. Maybe Tim had done really well at something like day trading in the stock market and invested his profit in gold as a hedge against inflation. And as for the medical records, Frankie didn’t know what comprised legal or illegal, ethical or unethical activities in medical circles. Maybe he’d done nothing wrong at all.