Deadly Ruse

by E. Michael Helms

“Hey, McClellan.” A disheveled, bleary-eyed Dakota dressed in a man’s striped button-up shirt raised a hand to stifle a yawn. I assumed she had panties on underneath. “What brings you here so early this fine Friday morning?”

  I tapped my watch. “It’s after eleven. We need to talk.”

  Dakota yawned again, this time not bothering to lift a hand. She stepped aside and waved me in. I walked into the kitchen area, modern and well-equipped with stainless steel appliances. Beyond an island was the living room, nicely furnished but a bit messy for my liking.

  “I need some coffee,” Dakota said, “you want some?”

  “Sure, thanks.” For some reason I sniffed the air and noticed there wasn’t a trace of tobacco smoke. I glanced around for ashtrays but came up empty. For all Dakota’s talk and bravado, I’d never detected the odor of cigarettes on her clothes, hair, or breath, and we’d gotten pretty damn up-close and personal.

  Dakota made her way to the coffeemaker near the sink. She dumped the old grounds down the garbage disposal, opened a cabinet, and reached for a can of Maxwell House. The shirt hiked halfway up her butt, revealing a skimpy pair of beige panties. “So, what’s up?” she said, pouring fresh grounds from the can into the basket.

  “You give up smoking?”

  She turned to face me with a blank expression and then grinned. “Oh, that. Yeah, you proud of me?”

  “Good for you.”

  Dakota pointed to the manila envelope in my hand. “What you got there?”

  “Business. Let’s wait for the coffee.”

  While the coffee dripped, Dakota disappeared through the living room to get dressed, I assumed. She returned just as the coffeemaker gave a final sigh and the beeper sounded. She was wearing the same shirt with a pair of faded denim shorts. The sleep was washed from her eyes, and her hair was brushed and pulled back into a ponytail. Dakota reached for a cup inside the sink, glanced into it, and grabbed a second cup from an overhead cabinet. After pouring the coffee she joined me at the table.

  “Thanks,” I said, reaching for the cup she’d taken from the cabinet. I took a sip of the strong, hot brew and pushed the envelope across the table. “Ever seen these two before?”

  Dakota opened the envelope and pulled out the prints. She sipped her coffee, staring at them a moment. Her eyebrows rose. “Hey, I think this is the lady with the hair,” she said, pointing to the photo of Alice Spence.

  “The hair?”

  “Yeah.” Dakota grabbed her ponytail and waved it up and down. “From work, remember? The hair color I liked?”

  Now I remembered; the night Dakota showed up at my camper with the bottle of Dewar’s and the new hair color; the night we’d wound up in bed together after she’d tried seducing me. “Does she have a name?”

  Dakota giggled. “Of course she does, McClellan. Everybody’s got a name. I don’t know hers, though.”

  “Crap. Where exactly did you see this ‘lady with the hair’?”

  “Upstairs. I’d just finished my shift. It was a Friday, so I clocked out and went upstairs to get my paycheck. I saw her coming out of one of the offices down the hall. I remember liking her hair color.”

  “Was she with anybody?”

  Dakota thought a moment. “Don’t think so.”

  “You got any idea who she is? It’s important.”

  Dakota sipped her coffee and stared at me over the cup. “Not by name, but I asked a girl I work with about her because of the hair. She didn’t know a name either but said she thought she was one of the big wheels from out of state.”

  “Big wheels?”

  “Yeah, like an owner or investor or something.”

  “Have you seen her since?”

  Dakota shook her head and set down the cup as she swallowed. “Nope, only that once.”

  “What about the guy?”

  Dakota stared at the computer-generated likeness of the resurrected Wes Harrison that Frank had created in his office from Kate’s description. I swore I heard her mutter “Faces ID” under her breath. She looked up, searching my eyes. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Never mind. Have you seen him or not?”

  Dakota blew out a breath, got up, grabbed the coffee decanter, and topped off our cups. “You can be a rude son of a bitch sometimes, you know that, McClellan? You come to my apartment, start grilling me about shit at work, and order me around like I was one of your friggin’ Marine flunkies.”

  She was right and I knew it. Time to lighten up. “I apologize. Sometimes I have trouble shaking off twenty-four years in the Corps. Please, take a good look. Do you recognize the man?”

  Dakota’s face relaxed a little. She gave Harrison the once-over again. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Look McClellan, this is a computer composite, not a photo, but I’m sure you already know that. I might’ve seen somebody who sort of looks like him, but I’m not sure.”

  “How close?”

  Dakota studied the printout again. “Well, the facial features are pretty close, but the guy I saw wore his hair combed straight back, not parted like this. And it was a little longer.”

  Bingo. The young Wes Harrison had worn his blond locks slicked straight back. Maybe since Kate had seen him that night at O’Malley’s he’d reverted to his old hairstyle to change his appearance.

  “And the eyes are wrong.”

  “How so?”

  “The color, mainly.” Dakota tapped the printout with a turquoise nail. “These are freaky. The man I saw had brown eyes.”

  “You sure?”

  Dakota huffed. “He’s a good-looking guy, McClellan. Believe me, women notice such things.”

  On a lark I covered my eyes. “What color are mine?”

  “Blue, sometimes bluish-gray, depends on what you’re wearing.”

  I moved my hand away and grinned. “Good answer. One more question?”

  “Okay.”

  “Name?”

  “No.”

  “Where’d you see him?”

  “That’s two, but I’ll answer anyway. In the resort area, coming out of an office near the pool complex. They’ve got this great indoor-outdoor pool. I like to swim, so, hey, sometimes I take advantage of it after work.”

  “They let the employees do that?”

  Dakota flashed a coy smile. “Nobody’s complained about it yet.”

  I saw Dakota’s point. Who the hell would bitch about eye candy like her dressing up the pool area? Talk about great free advertisement. “One more thing, pretty please?”

  Dakota pursed her lips. “What?”

  I reached across the table and tapped the printouts. “These are for you. The names I have are Alice Spence and Wes Harrison, but don’t go letting that slip to anyone. Would you keep an eye out for these people and let me know if you see or hear anything about them?”

  “Jeez, McClellan, now I’m your friggin’ watchdog?”

  Saturday morning just after daylight I drove to Gillman’s Marina, loaded my rental boat with bait, tackle, and plenty of beer, and headed out the canal to do a little fishing and a lot of thinking. I eased out the mouth of the canal past the seawall, crossed the sandbar, and gunned the motor. I hadn’t been on the water in a while. The sky was clear, and there was barely a ripple on the surface. It felt good to smell the salt air and feel the fresh sea breeze on my face.

  I crossed St. George Bay and anchored at The Stumps, the remnants of an old pine forest that had been cut off from Five-Mile Island during a hurricane many years before. I’d found Brett Barfield’s sunken runabout there last summer, which had proven instrumental in solving Maddie Harper’s murder. It was also a hell of a good fishing spot when conditions were right.

  The light wind was out of the east, so I anchored at the western edge of the dead forest, baited my hook with a live shrimp, and cast toward shore along the edge of the stumps rising out of the water like black ghosts. No more than a minute passed before the bobber twisted slightly and then disappeared. I waited a c
ouple of seconds and set the hook. It was touch and go for a minute until I managed to work the fish clear of the stumps and toward the boat. A couple more minutes of tug-of-war, and a nice three-and-a half- to four-pound speckled trout slapped the side of the boat. I slipped the net under the speck, brought it aboard, unhooked it, and dropped it in the live well. Less than fifteen minutes at The Stumps, and supper was already caught. I popped open a Bud to celebrate. After netting another shrimp from my aerated bucket, I baited up and cast again, hoping for gravy.

  In the next half hour I caught two more keeper specks and drank a second beer before I decided to retire the rod and reel for the day. I wasn’t a meat hog; I’d give the other two fish to Jerry and Donna when I got back to the campground.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee from the thermos I’d packed and unwrapped a Jimmy Dean’s sausage and egg biscuit I’d microwaved just before leaving my camper. Propping my legs on the gunnels, I ate breakfast while my thoughts drifted back to Alice Spence.

  If Dakota’s friend at work was right, Alice’s investment company might have at least some interest in the Palmetto Royale Casino & Resort. Throw in the fact that Dakota might have seen our Wes Harrison character around the place, and things were really beginning to get interesting.

  I don’t know why I hadn’t thought about it before, but I needed to access county records and look up the owners of the casino and resort. I’d been too occupied working on the drug-smuggling case last year to give the casino much thought, other than hearing the Bible-thumpers raising holy hell about it. Chances were I could get the info online, but I needed to stock up on groceries anyway, so I decided to wait until Monday for the courthouse to open.

  The diamonds Kate found in Harrison’s filing cabinet were also bugging me. Frank Hightower’s FBI buddy was sure they were conflict diamonds smuggled into the country from South America. That pointed a finger directly at Rachel Todd, who would’ve had easy access to black-market contacts in the outlying villages she flew supplies to. The bagful of diamonds was in Harrison’s possession when the so-called boating accident went down, so it was almost a sure bet that Rachel was passing the smuggled stones along to him and/or Kohler.

  But why would Kohler and Harrison just walk away from those diamonds if they faked their own deaths? Had it been a simple oversight to move them before they staged the accident? How the hell does somebody forget about a bagful of diamonds potentially worth a few million bucks? Did Harrison plan to sneak back to the apartment later to retrieve them when things quieted down, only to find Kate had given up the lease and moved them? If so, it would’ve been awful damn risky to break into Kate’s parents’ house to search for them. Maybe they’d made enough of a killing already to even bother with the Crown Royal bag of rocks. Not likely in my book, not for that greedy bunch.

  I finished the coffee and biscuit, weighed anchor, and headed home.

  After finishing my supper of grilled speckled trout and potato logs, I poured myself a Scotch and booted up my laptop. I did a Google search for “Georgia Power of Attorney” and spent the better part of an hour learning what I could. After I’d finished, my best guess was that Darla Ramey had probably signed, as “principal,” what’s called a “Durable Power of Attorney,” with niece Alice Spence designated as “agent.” If so, that would give Alice full control of her aunt’s estate with the legal power to act on her behalf in any matter granted by the document. With Mrs. Ramey’s diminishing mental state, my money said Alice probably had Dear Aunt Darla designate unlimited power to her.

  My research also showed that such a Durable Power of Attorney didn’t necessarily have to be filed with the county clerk of court; however, if any property transfers occurred, it would then be a matter of public record and filed with the clerk of court. Another guess—Alice Spence now had legal ownership of the Ramey’s swanky Buckhead mansion and possibly all their business interests as well.

  I poured myself another Scotch. There was a decision to be made. Either I could spend who-knows-how-many fruitless hours on the Internet and phone trying to find the info I needed from the Fulton County Clerk of Court, or I could make another trip to Atlanta and do it in person. By the time I drained my second drink I decided to head for Atlanta sometime in the next few days. With a nice buzz coming on, I grinned, wondering how sweet Alice would react to a surprise visit.

  CHAPTER 21

  I left for Atlanta just after daylight Tuesday, more convinced than ever that my ducks were starting to swim in a row. The previous morning I’d struck pay dirt during my visit to the courthouse in Parkersville. Spence-Ramey Investments was listed as one of the “Tenants in Common” for the Palmetto Royale Casino & Resort, along with Dobro Greyhound Racing, Inc., and Garrett Realty and Development Corporation.

  I nearly shouted out a “hallelujah” right there in the clerk of court’s office when I read this last-named partner in the venture; however, the Garrett listed as CEO of the corporation was a Mr. David Jarrod Garrett from Miami, Florida. Still, the fact that the surnames Spence-Ramey and Garrett were listed as co-owners of the same enterprise was enough for me to fire off a call to Frank as soon as I left the courthouse. He promised to check into the two Garretts’ backgrounds and see if he could dig up any relationship or ties between them.

  I hoped to hell there was. Now I had a possible connection between the names Spence and Garrett, and the crude drawing of circles and arrows I’d made was beginning to make some sense after all. I was chomping at the bit to hear what Alice had to say now that I had concrete proof she had business interests in Palmetto County. That bump-in I’d had at O’Malley’s was starting to feel more familiar, too.

  I stopped for lunch at a Hardee’s off Interstate 75 and made downtown Atlanta just after one. I turned left onto Martin Luther King Jr. Drive, made another left three blocks later at Pryor Street, and found a parking spot near the Fulton County Courthouse.

  Less than thirty minutes later, with the invaluable help of Shauna, a savvy young African American clerk, I stepped outside into the Georgia sunshine with the info I’d been seeking. Mrs. Edmond Randolph Ramey had signed a watertight “Durable Power of Attorney Effective Immediately” document, naming Alice Spence as agent. As far as I could tell, this gave Alice unlimited legal right to act on her aunt’s behalf in all matters. And, for the kicker, Alice was also now legal and sole owner of the Ramey Buckhead estate. Most likely for tax purposes, was Shauna’s best guess, thereby saving tens of thousands in taxes had Mrs. Ramey waited to bequeath the property to her niece upon her passing.

  I climbed into my Silverado, and while waiting for the air conditioner to chase some of the heat out the half-opened windows, double-checked the directions to the Ramey house from the map I’d printed out for my previous trip. Confident of my route, I drove back to the freeway and headed north.

  There was a three-car accident that had traffic crawling for a couple of miles, and it was nearing three o’clock by the time I turned onto Ramey Way and passed through the open wrought iron gate. The driveway ended in a wide circle. I followed it around and parked along the side facing back the way I’d come. I got out and climbed the steps. I hadn’t really thought about what I was going to say to Alice. I figured I’d just wing it.

  I pushed the doorbell and listened to the strains of the Westminster chime resonating inside. About halfway through, the big glass-paneled door swung open. Standing there was Miss Lettie, the maid, or was “housekeeper” the more politically correct term these days? Inside the house I heard faint voices, probably from a TV.

  “Yes, sir, can I help you?”

  I offered my hand. “Hi, Miss Lettie, I’m Mac McClellan. I was here a few weeks ago to see Alice and Mrs. Ramey, remember?”

  She gave my hand a tentative shake as the big dark eyes in the round face studied me for a minute. “Yes, sir, believe I do. Sorry, but they not here right now.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Oh... when do you expect them back?”

  Lettie frowned. “Don�
��t know for sure. They in Florida, been gone a week now. Miss Alice said she’ll call and let me know when they coming back.”

  Damn, there went my element of surprise to catch Alice off her guard and see if she might let something slip. “Are they staying at the house in Sandestin?”

  Lettie glanced over her shoulder a second. She looked a little impatient, like she had something important to get back to. Probably a soap opera or talk show. “Yes, sir, far’s I know.”

  “Well, thanks for your time.”

  “Yes, sir.” The door shut in my face.

  I walked toward my truck but then decided to take a little detour around the back of the house. I recognized some of the objects from the outside photos I’d seen in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution feature on Alice and the Ramey home. I made my way to the swimming pool area. Nearby, a big statue of Neptune carrying his trident and riding three horses stood in the center of a circulating fountain. Water spouted from the horses’ flared nostrils. I glanced around at the rest of the area. Something seemed out of place, but I couldn’t pinpoint it.

  From the corner of my eye I saw a window curtain peel to one side and Miss Lettie’s disapproving face staring out at me. I gave a quick wave and about-faced for my pickup.

  Back home, I found a folded slip of paper wedged between the door and the frame. I unlocked the door, switched on a light, and unfolded the white square: Call me. D.

  I glanced at the clock on the microwave above the stove. Ten after ten. I opened a beer, slumped onto the sofa in the living area, and dialed Dakota’s number.

  “Where you been, McClellan? I tried calling you all afternoon.”

  “Atlanta. I didn’t hear my phone ring. Probably a lousy signal. What’s up?”

  “I saw the hair lady, that Alice somebody.”

  “Spence.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Anyway, my shift ended at two, so I decided to hang out at the pool for a couple of hours. I was coming out of the dressing room, and there she was on the other side of the pool heading for the offices.”