Deadly Ruse

by E. Michael Helms

  I had retired from the Marines as a First Sergeant. That rank commanded respect and pulled a lot of weight with both enlisted personnel and officers. Starting over at the bottom of the heap didn’t exactly thrill me. And I’d be taking orders from Frank, a former swabbie.

  Kate was still pretending to be fascinated with the sights of the harbor. I reached over and touched her arm. She turned to me, her auburn hair reflecting the golden glow of sunlight still lingering on the horizon. I searched her eyes. “Kate?”

  She sighed and said, “It’s your decision,” just as the waitress arrived with our fresh round of drinks.

  When we’d been served I grabbed my tumbler of Dewar’s and held it up in a toast. “To Mac McClellan, boot private eye.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Later that evening Kate and I were watching a movie on her parents’ big-screen TV when my cell phone rang. Kate grabbed the remote and put the movie on pause as I answered.

  “Mr. McClellan, this is J.D.”

  “Good evening, Sergeant Owens.”

  “I mean, Mac.”

  “Much better, J.D. What’s up?”

  “I ran that name you asked me about, that Wes Harrison? I checked with the FBI National Crime Information Center and came up with a bunch of guys, but I ruled out all but a couple. They’re both around the right age and match the description you gave me.”

  I got up and made a scribbling motion at Kate. “Hold on a second J.D., I’m getting something to write with.” Kate hurried across the room and was back with a pad and pen in a few seconds. I told her to go ahead with the movie, a chick flick that had me struggling to stay awake. I moved to the kitchen so I’d be out of earshot.

  Because of the new info on Harrison’s eyes, anything J.D. had dug up was a long shot at best. But what the hell. He’d gone to the trouble; the least I could do was hear him out. “Okay, go.”

  I heard paper shuffling. “The first guy’s name is Wesley Jerome Harrison. Thirty-nine years old; born in Indiana but moved to Tallahassee with his family in 1985. He’s got a rap sheet as long as your arm; breaking and entering, auto theft, possession of stolen property, stuff like that.”

  I jotted it down. “Jail time?”

  “Yes, sir, mostly county slammers across the Panhandle, but he spent two years in Raiford for assault and battery. He roughed up an old lady during a home invasion.”

  “A real sweetheart. When was he in the state pen?”

  J.D. cleared his throat. “That’s a problem. It was after the boating accident.”

  The chances that our Wes Harrison faked his own death and then beat up some elderly woman a couple of years later were almost nil. Unless.... “What about his eye color?”

  “Hold on... brown.”

  Wesley Jerome wasn’t our man. “What about the other guy?”

  Turns out the other Harrison was a generic Wes, no middle name, with hazel eyes. He was a Mississippi native with a similar small-time record. This Wes’s only saving grace was that he’d managed to stay out of real trouble to date.

  I thanked J.D. and was about to end the conversation when an idea popped up. “Did you happen to run across any surfer dudes with blond hair and weird-colored eyes in that database?”

  There was silence for a moment. “Any whats?”

  “I’ll catch you later, J.D.”

  Thursday morning I drove back to St. George armed with some books and manuals Frank had loaned me about the PI business. Kate was staying in Destin a couple more days to visit with friends and family but promised to be home in time for work Saturday morning.

  When I got back to the campground I called J.D. on his personal cell phone. He was on duty but agreed to meet me at my trailer as soon as his shift ended at four. When J.D. arrived I filled him in on the new info I’d learned in Destin and showed him the photo of the younger Wes Harrison.

  J.D. let out a whistle. “So, this is what you meant by ‘surfer dude’ last night, huh.”

  “Yeah. That’s the Wes Harrison Kate knew back in Destin.”

  J.D. glanced up from the photo. “But he doesn’t look—”

  “Here’s the Harrison Kate saw at O’Malley’s.” I handed him the computer-generated likeness of the new Wes. “She thinks he’s had plastic surgery. Compare the eyes.”

  Another whistle.

  “Kate swears the man she saw at O’Malley’s last Friday had eyes just like this. Does that FBI database have photos?”

  J.D. was studying the printouts again. “Some,” he said without looking up.

  “I hate to be a pain in the butt, but would you check through it again? He might’ve had a juvenile record or some kind of run-in with the law before Kate ever met him.”

  J.D. nodded. “They got a juvenile offender file if I remember right. And a missing and unidentified persons file, too. I think that one’s got victims of storms and accidents where they didn’t recover a body.”

  We talked a few more minutes until J.D. had to leave to get ready for a date with Hailey, the girl he’d been seeing the past year. I handed him copies of the old and new Wes as he was leaving. “I owe you, J.D.”

  “No, sir, you don’t owe me. What you did for Maddie and all, I mean.” Halfway to his cruiser he stopped and turned. “I’ll get on this soon as I can... Mac.”

  The young man was learning.

  It took several days of filling out paperwork, submitting various documents, and a couple of phone interviews, but by the second Friday in April I was dutifully enrolled in an online certified PI training institute headquartered downstate. Forty hours of training were required. By busting my butt and taking advantage of Frank’s help, I hoped to complete the course work inside a month, six weeks tops.

  That would still leave me enough free time to do some actual footwork on Kate’s case during my studies—strictly off the record, of course, until I had my license. No way could I risk landing Frank or his business in hot water with state authorities. But if Wes Harrison was really alive and kicking somewhere, I aimed to find out. Kate was doing her best to be patient, but I could tell she was chomping at the bit.

  So, in the week before my enrollment paperwork was finalized I went to work. First I browsed through the books Frank had loaned me. A couple were mostly “how to” material on the private eye trade for the novice; another, more technical in scope, contained info on numerous available resources valuable to the profession, both online and elsewhere.

  For starters I accessed the archives of the Northwest Florida Sun, Okaloosa County’s leading newspaper, searching for coverage of the accident. Pay dirt. I turned up seven articles, beginning with the boat being reported overdue from a fishing trip. The Coast Guard discovered the capsized and fire-damaged vessel the next day. The official search for survivors was suspended a few days later. Speculation was that the men had been at anchor fishing when the storm came up. While attempting to restart the gas engines an explosion occurred, possibly from inadequate ventilation in the engine room. That might have led to a loss of steering. Foundering in the growing sea and taking on water, the vessel capsized.

  There were also obituaries for Ramey, Kohler, and Harrison. Ramey’s obit was lengthy and flattering, damn near a bio. Harrison’s and Kohler’s were barebones.

  Robert Alton Ramey was thirty-nine years old at the time of the accident. A respected jeweler and gemologist, he owned both Ramey’s Gems and Jewelry of Atlanta and Ramey’s Fine Jewelry in Destin. Coming from old money, Ramey succeeded his father and grandfather in one of Atlanta’s oldest and most respected jewelry establishments. He’d grown up in a ritzy neighborhood of North Atlanta’s upscale Buckhead district, not far from where the family business was located.

  Never married, Ramey spent the majority of his time at his Atlanta location but made numerous visits to the Gulf Coast to keep tabs on the Destin business. He was well-known in social circles for throwing lavish parties at his Atlanta home, his extravagant waterfront home in Sandestin, and aboard the vintage yacht he’d inherited fr
om his father, a forty-foot Chris Craft Conqueror.

  From all accounts, the silver spoon had never left Robert Ramey’s mouth, from his privileged birth till his untimely death, and he’d taken full advantage of it. He was survived by his mother, Mrs. Edmond Randolph (née Darla June Spence) Ramey, and a couple of aunts, uncles, and cousins.

  Eric James Kohler, twenty-eight, hailed from Waxahachie, Texas. Manager of Ramey’s Fine Jewelry, he’d been a resident of Destin for the past four years. He was survived by a sister, Rachel Todd of Pensacola. Short and sweet.

  The info on twenty-seven-year-old Wes Harrison was scant. He was single, a native of California, where his surviving family resided, and had also been employed with Ramey’s Fine Jewelry. He’d been a resident of Destin for two years.

  Kate hadn’t exactly been a geyser of information, but she had spilled a few interesting tidbits. Eric Kohler was already employed by Robert Ramey as manager of the Destin store when he and Kate were introduced at a mutual friend’s party. No sparks flew, but their shared interests in fishing and diving led to a close but platonic friendship.

  Rachel Todd was Eric’s half-sister and only living relative. A licensed pilot, Rachel worked for a Christian missionary organization headquartered in Pensacola and made frequent trips to South America. Kate had spent time with her on a few occasions, and, although not close friends, they’d gotten along well enough.

  Wes Harrison hailed from the San Diego, California, area. Before moving east he’d received training as a gemologist. He met Kate and Kohler while SCUBA diving shortly after his arrival in Destin. The three buddied-up on the dive trip and became fast friends. Upon learning Harrison was a trained gemologist, Kohler introduced him to Ramey, who hired him as a buyer working mainly out of the Destin store. Eventually, Kate found herself drawn to Harrison, and the two began dating.

  I was on my way to Kate’s house Monday around six p.m. for dinner when my phone rang. I hadn’t heard from J.D. in over a week and hoped he might be calling with info on Wes Harrison. It was Frank Hightower.

  “I’ve got some new dope on Eric Kohler for you,” Frank said.

  Hearing that, I pulled onto the shoulder of the road and grabbed the small notebook and pen I kept in the center console. “Shoot.”

  “I talked to a few jewelers around the area. Both of Robert Ramey’s businesses held membership in the Diamond Council of America. The DCA is a not-for-profit headquartered in Nashville. They’ve been in business since 1944. They’ve got a top-notch reputation in the jewelry trade and their training carries a lot of prestige. Having the DCA membership plaque hanging on your wall is evidently good for business.

  “Our boy Kohler had a couple of certificates for training courses offered by the DCA to its members’ employees. My guess is Ramey insisted Kohler take the training when he hired him to run his store.”

  I jotted down the info, intending to do my own research on the DCA. “What else?”

  “One thing bothers me, Mac. Kohler had to have earned his DCA certificates after he went to work for Ramey. So why would Ramey hire Kohler and put him in a managerial position right off the bat when he had no prior training or experience in the jewelry business? At least none that I’ve been able to dig up. For a smart businessman like Ramey, that doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Good question. Maybe Eric had a business degree or something related. I’ll mention it to Kate. She might know something.”

  “Okay, but go easy, Mac. Katie was friends with Kohler. I don’t want to see her hurt.”

  “Will do.”

  “Anything on your end?” Frank asked.

  “I’ve got a cop friend checking FBI databases to see if there’s anything on Wes Harrison. Kate doesn’t know about it yet.”

  “The Owens kid who saved your hide last summer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good move. You can’t have too many reliable contacts in this game, especially a cop. Anything else?”

  I gave Frank a quick rundown on what I’d found in the newspaper archives.

  “How old did you say Ramey was when the accident happened?” Frank asked.

  “Thirty-nine, according to the articles and obit.”

  “Okay, keep digging. Things tend to snowball once they get rolling. Find out if Ramey’s mother is still alive. If she is, you’re headed for Atlanta.”

  I was about to ask Frank what the hell good it would do to interview an eighty-something-year-old woman who might be half-senile when a blue light cut the darkness. I glanced in the rearview mirror as a city cruiser pulled up behind me. “Gotta go, Frank, the cops just showed up.”

  “You’re not going to like this,” I said when Kate answered the door. I handed her the printouts J.D. had given me a few minutes earlier. It had taken the young sergeant a week’s worth of spare time searching the FBI’s crime info site, but he’d struck real pay dirt.

  “Kate, meet Weston Russell Harrison.”

  Kate stood in the doorway, staring at the photo of a teenage Wes Harrison and scanning the criminal report J.D. included with it. Her mouth dropped open. “What in the world!”

  I stepped inside, pulling Kate with me, and closed the door. “Yeah, seems ol’ Wes wasn’t the all-American golden boy he led you to believe.”

  Kate finally looked up. “Gang activity?”

  Long story short: Weston Russell Harrison grew up in a well-to-do family living in La Jolla Shores, a popular beach and vacation community of greater San Diego. His father owned half interest in a real estate company while his mother taught economics at nearby University of California-San Diego.

  For whatever harebrained reason, while a sophomore in high school Wes and a bunch of his friends formed a gang composed of mostly upper-middle-class whites. Calling themselves the Red Vikes after their school mascot, the Vikings, their specialty soon became auto theft, made all the more convenient by transporting and selling their goods south of the border. Returning with cash and drugs, they marketed their ill-gotten gains primarily to classmates and other friends.

  There were a few run-ins with the law, but high-profile lawyers plus the perps’ tender age got most of the charges dropped or reduced to misdemeanors and probation. Then the Vikes decided to branch out into prostitution. They brought attractive señoritas across the border and began pimping them to their friends and others in the community. They paid the Mexican girls a pittance of the fee, but it was a hell of a lot more money than they could make on their side of the border. The Vikes even recruited a few willing local girls from their school, giving them half of the take for their trouble.

  Then came the bust. Wes and about a dozen of his cohorts wound up in the San Diego County Jail. Expelled from school, the Harrison family’s slick lawyers worked their magic to get the charges reduced to misdemeanors and time served, along with a few years of probation.

  The now-repentant Weston Harrison went to work for his uncle, who owned a jewelry store in the exclusive business district of La Jolla Shores. Keeping his nose clean, young Wes dutifully earned his GED and learned the ins and outs of the jewelry trade from the extensive on-the-job training his uncle provided. After a couple of years, and with money being no object for the Harrisons, Wes enrolled at the nearby Carlsbad campus of the Gemological Institute of America, where he earned a Graduate Gemologist diploma. Sheepskin in hand and his probation obligations fulfilled, Wes Harrison packed up and headed east.

  “That’s not the Wes Harrison I knew,” Kate said, looking stunned and shaking her head as she finished reading the report.

  “The man at O’Malley’s wasn’t the Wes you knew either,” I said, following her into the kitchen. She set the printouts on the table, grabbed a spoon on the stovetop, and stirred the pan of shrimp scampi as I opened the fridge for beer. My stomach growled when I smelled sautéing shrimp. I’d been trying to lose a little weight and had skipped lunch.

  “Dang, the sauce is drying out,” Kate said, rapping the spoon against the rim of the pan. “Hand me the butter
, would you?”

  I found the butter dish, grabbed a couple of beers, and elbowed the door shut. Kate looked a little pale but composed. She added a generous dash of olive oil to the scampi and reached for the butter. “Maybe I’m wrong, Mac,” she said, her back to me as she cut a chunk of butter and dropped it into the pan. “Maybe it wasn’t Wes I saw that night. My mind could’ve been playing tricks on me, like you said.”

  I twisted the tops off the beers and set one on the counter next to the stove. “You really believe that?”

  Kate added a splash of white wine, stirred the pan a final time, and turned the gas burner off. She turned, picked up the beer, and took a sip. Her eyes locked with mine. “No.”

  Wes Harrison had been up to no good as a kid, and it was a sound bet he’d been up to no good when Kate knew him. The question was, up to what? But there was something else bugging me. “You’ve got Wednesday off, right?”

  Kate nodded as she swallowed. “Yes, why?”

  “We’re going to Pensacola.”

  CHAPTER 7

  We crossed the Pensacola Bay Bridge around noon that Wednesday and followed Bayfront Parkway to East Main in downtown Pensacola. I hung a right on South Jefferson and drove north a few blocks to the headquarters of Sacred Word Missions located in an old two-story brick building. From my Internet research the day before, I’d learned that Sacred Word Missions, Rachel Todd’s employer during the time Kate knew her, had occupied this same location since before World War II. The nondenominational organization sponsored dozens of missionaries in South America, most located in Venezuela. I parked the Silverado in the mission’s small lot, and Kate and I headed for the entrance.

  Inside the reception room a slender woman with silver-streaked hair and glasses perched on the end of her nose smiled from behind a desk. “Welcome to Sacred Word,” she said. She stood and straightened her modest dress. Removing the glasses, she let them dangle from a strap around her neck. “I’m Mildred Comer. How may I help you two this morning?” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Oh my, this afternoon, I should say.”