T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 01 - Southern Fatality

by T. Lynn Ocean

  He had a good point. It wasn’t my business. Before leaving, I wrote my home phone number on a Barnes Agency business card and offered my hand. Surprising me, he shook it.

  On my way out, I heard a secretary buzz Chesterfield on the intercom to say the maid needed him and it was an emergency. He picked up and listened briefly before letting the handset clatter to the floor. His face turned ashen and he looked as though he might get sick. I’d seen the same look on men before and it usually meant that something terribly bad had happened to someone they loved. I immediately thought of Lolly.

  “Your wife?” I said.

  He moved his head side to side in shocked, slow motion. “No, not Lolly. Jared. My son,” he said, not caring that I was a stranger. “He’s gone. There’s a note.”

  I didn’t know if he meant gone as in suicide or gone as in missing.

  “Kidnapped?”

  “Maybe.”

  I waited for him to ask for my help, but he didn’t. He was a cautious man. He had no idea who I was and, for all he knew, I could have been the kidnapper.

  “Please leave,” he said and it was not a request. “I can assume that what you’ve just heard will be held in confidence?”

  I nodded, noting that he slipped my business card into his pocket.

  My cell phone rang an hour later, while I was at the Block seeking companionship from Cracker.

  “It’s Samuel Chesterfield,” he said.

  “I thought you might call.”

  “You’re not a licensed private investigator.”

  “No, I’m not. Nobody in my agency is, and we do not advertise that we are,” I said. “Actually, we don’t advertise at all. A majority of our clients are carryovers from a previous career of mine.”

  “With the government.”

  “Your resourcefulness surprises me.”

  “I was unable to ascertain what exactly it is that you did for the government. But you do have a most impressive background, Miss Barnes. At least what I could find of it. Quite a bit seems to be missing.” He had done his homework and he was quick. With the resources he had at his disposal, he could probably find out anything about anyone more quickly than I could. The difference was that I called in favors, while he simply put out the cash.

  “Please, call me Jersey.”

  “My son is missing, Jersey. It appears to be a kidnapping. Nobody has been notified because the note instructed that Jared would be shot if police were called.”

  There was nothing for me to say, so I waited.

  “I’m, ah, a little out of my league here,” he said and I heard a hint of desperation creep into an otherwise calm voice. “I can pay any amount to hire anyone for anything. But I have no idea who to hire or what to do. With your background, I figure you ought to at least be able to tell me who to call.”

  This was a tough situation. Since it involved Samuel Chesterfield, the Feebies should be called, but as much as they tried, they couldn’t be invisible. A professional would spot FBI boys in a second, and might just carry out the death threat that was in the note. Although any kidnapper who killed their captive would lose their bargaining chip, so it was probably an empty threat. On the other hand, it may not have been an ordinary kidnapping. The murder, and now the missing son, were most likely tied to the computer data that Soup was working to decode. People, even billionaire financiers, just didn’t keep a database of United States residents’ Social Security information in a gym bag lying around on the floor of their penthouse condominium.

  “I can’t give a recommendation until you level with me.”

  “There’s nothing to level with you about. My son is missing. He’s a good boy and he wouldn’t just disappear like this.”

  “Flowers?”

  “I don’t know who killed him, or why. It had to have been a random thing.”

  “Lolly’s suspicions?” I didn’t want to let on that I was formulating several of my own suspicions.

  “Groundless. She may think I’ve been acting odd, but she doesn’t know me well. We’ve only been married less than a year.”

  “You have several options,” I said carefully. “The local police, the sheriff’s office, the SBI—State Bureau of Investigation, private investigators … or all of the above. I can’t really say until I see the note, talk to some people, and get a line on who may have taken him. If, in fact, it really was a kidnapping. But generally speaking, you must notify the law in a situation like this. And since it’s you we’re talking about, I can pretty much guarantee the Feds will jump in. It’s very simple to make a case that the kidnapping of your son could have national consequences, especially since he’s also an employee of your firm.”

  “Whatever your rate is, I’ll pay it. I’m a smart enough man to know when I need outside help, and this is one of those times.”

  “Problem is,” I said, “I only work for the good guys. And, while I am sorry that your son appears to be missing, I’m not so sure that you’re the good guy in this scenario. I think you’re giving me a Reader’s Digest condensed version of the story.”

  He slammed something down, a closed fist perhaps, and the hollow thud carried through the phone line. “Look, damn it! There is no story!”

  I didn’t reply.

  He blew out an agitated sigh. “What if I just hire you to get my son back? Everything else is inconsequential at this point. Whatever it takes. Just get him back.”

  “My rate is probably much more than you suspect, but I imagine that you probably don’t care.”

  “I don’t.”

  I thought about it briefly, and decided that helping the man I was investigating could work to my advantage. Plus, it never hurt to get paid for what you were already doing anyway.

  “Okay. I will try to help you get your son back and I’ll take your money for doing so. But you need to understand that just because you’re paying my salary for the time being doesn’t mean that I’ll ignore whatever I uncover. Aside from that, if you truly want Jared back, alive, it would further your cause to tell me everything you know.”

  “I’ll come to your place,” he said quickly. “The Block, is it?”

  “Yes. Who else knows about this?”

  “The housekeeper, my secretary who took the call, me, you. Lolly doesn’t know. She’s out of town at a health spa and we’re playing telephone tag. I don’t want to leave it on a message.”

  “Right, better to wait until she comes home. Meanwhile, call the secretary and tell her it was all a mistake, that Jared’s fine. We don’t want her gossiping.”

  “Good point. I’ll do it now,” he agreed.

  “The housekeeper,” I said. “Tell her not to answer the phones, keep the doors locked. Don’t talk to anyone.”

  “Already did that.”

  “Good. See you shortly,” I told him. “And bring the note.”

  Chesterfield disconnected.

  Cracker nuzzled my legs, wanting attention. I scratched the back of his neck and looked at Ox, who had heard my end of the conversation.

  He grinned. “Some retirement. You take another job?”

  “Affirmative. I’m officially employed again.”

  “Are you working for Bill’s friend, the one that thought Chesterfield was double-dipping?”

  “No,” I told him. “I’m working for Chesterfield.”

  Now I had Ox’s full attention. He motioned for me to tell him the rest.

  “His son is missing, and Chesterfield thinks the boy has been kidnapped. Chesterfield’s accountant was murdered yesterday, but local police theorize that it was a simple carjacking gone bad. And Soup is still trying to decode the rest of the data on that flash drive I told you about.”

  “Getting in deeper and deeper, Barnes.” Ox displayed a row of perfectly straight, white teeth. “And I thought you retired people just played shuffleboard all day.”

  “I may need you,” I said, ignoring his sarcasm.

  “Yeah, I think you may,” he agreed and moved down the bar to collec
t money from a couple who were standing and ready to leave.

  When Chesterfield arrived, I was still at the bar keeping company with Cracker. The dog sniffed the tassels on his leather loafers and waited for a return greeting. After receiving an absent-minded pat on the head, he sighed loudly and lay down by my bar stool. Chesterfield asked Ox for a glass of ice water.

  “Interesting place you’ve got here,” he observed. “Nice view.”

  “Thanks.”

  He laid the note on the bar. It was a basic one-paragraph note, printed in black ink on a plain white piece of paper. It was probably done with a computer and some type of ink-jet printer. It read: “We’ve got your son. If you want to see him ever again, do not contact any authorities. If you do, he will be shot. You will receive further instructions in a day or two.”

  The term “we” indicated there was more than one person involved. But it was not much to go on and didn’t say what the kidnappers wanted in exchange for the boy. Without being asked, Ox handed me a plastic Ziploc freezer bag. Using a paper napkin, I picked the page up and slid it into the Baggie before sealing the top. There probably weren’t any usable prints or fibers, but it was best to be sure. If we did bring in the local or state cops, they’d be a little miffed at me for tampering with evidence. But Chesterfield, the distraught father, would take the rap and nobody would think twice about it.

  “Any contact from them yet?” I asked.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “You tell anyone?”

  “No.” His features were tight, drawn. He was well composed, but it was obvious that he hadn’t gotten any sleep since the news about Flowers.

  “Any idea what it’s about? Or who took him?”

  “None. I’ve thought about it and I’m drawing an absolute blank.”

  We were rapidly approaching an impasse. He wasn’t being helpful, but he appeared to be telling the truth. So far.

  “Let’s talk about Flowers.”

  He took a deep breath before answering. “He called me from the main office in New York about a week ago. Said that he’d found some problems with a certain category of new accounts and that he needed to talk with me immediately. In person.” Chesterfield’s hands rested on the bar and he stared at the river as he spoke. His hands were wide and capable, the nails clean and perfectly trimmed. The humidity caused a heavy layer of condensation to form on both of our mugs, but a steady breeze circulated the air enough to keep us comfortable.

  From where we sat, we had a view of the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge. Although most vessels easily cleared the arch, it was a drawbridge and opened when needed. As though stretching after a nap, the metal giant slowly rose into the sky to let a cargo ship sail through. I always enjoy driving over the drawbridge in my sedan. Whenever I return from an out-of-town trip and hear the bridge’s segments whine and clack beneath my tires in greeting, it’s like being welcomed home.

  “Eddie said not to mention anything to anybody, because someone inside the company could be involved. He was most certain of that. He didn’t go into details over the phone and after he flew in from New York, we didn’t have a chance to talk before he was killed. He came straight to the new branch office from the airport, but I was in a meeting so he went to pick up lunch and didn’t come back. That’s it. That’s all I know.” His head shook from side to side, disbelieving the reality that he’d found himself faced with.

  “You have no idea what type of problem he found?”

  “None,” Chesterfield said, focusing his gaze on me. “I just know it was something terribly serious and it involved my firm. Eddie wouldn’t make a big deal over nothing. For him to want to speak to me in person, well, I can’t even imagine what the problem was.”

  “Did you tell this to the cops?”

  “Of course not. I don’t want a bunch of investigators pushing their noses around in Chesterfield Financial’s business. I can launch an internal audit, quietly. If and when I find anything out that could be relevant to Flowers’ death, I’ll pass it on.” He reminded me of me. He preferred to do things his own way.

  “Did he say which category of new accounts was involved?”

  “The SIPAs. We just recently got on the list of brokerage firms approved to handle them.”

  Bingo! I thought silently.

  “The SIPAs are not moneymakers for the firm,” he continued. “But the idea is young people will put their Social Security accounts with us and then use us for their traditional brokerage needs as well. To us, the SIPA business is really just a source for obtaining new clients.”

  “Did Flowers leave you with a computer printout or a report of some type? A computer disk or USB memory stick, perhaps?”

  “No, nothing. He brought something with him because the secretary remembers seeing him carrying his briefcase when he left to pick up lunch. But the police said there was nothing found in the rental car. And his briefcase was not at the office.”

  “Who found him?”

  “A fellow on a Harley pulled into the parking space next to Eddie’s car, saw him slumped over the wheel, and dialed nine-one-one.”

  I thought a little bit, swallowed some beer, then thought a little bit more.

  “Do you work out?”

  The question took him by surprise. “Come again?”

  “You look like you’re in pretty good shape,” I said. “I was just wondering if you work out at a gym somewhere. Play tennis or racquetball, maybe?” I remembered the aerobics class schedule that was in the gym bag and wondered whose it was.

  “Not lately. We’ve got a family membership at the Kingsport Health Club, but I haven’t even been once, I’ve been so busy with Jared and the new branch office. I think Lolly goes a few times a week. And Jared plays some racquetball.”

  “Hmm,” I said. Was he purposely not telling me about the flash drive, or did he really not know about it? I wondered if the original was still resting in the gym bag in Chesterfield’s coat closet. And if not, who had it? Perhaps I should have just taken the original when I first found it.

  “When I was tailing you last week, I noticed that you had some interesting lunch meetings.” I changed tacks again, wanting to keep him slightly off balance. Maybe he’d let something slip.

  “You were tailing me? I never noticed anyone following me,” he said, tilting his head to examine me a bit more closely.

  “Yeah, well. That’s sort of the idea,” I told him. “The meetings? The restaurants where you didn’t eat? The dry cleaner where you didn’t pick up laundry? Who were you meeting and what was it about?”

  “That’s a personal matter, Jersey.”

  “And retrieving your son isn’t? If I’m going to work for you, there are no boundaries between personal and business. I’m not a nosy person. If I ask something, it’s because I need to know.”

  “Who I met at the restaurants and the dry cleaner has no relevance to my son. That is what we’re talking about, right? Getting my son back?”

  I remained silent. If I was going to work when I was supposed to be retired, I was going to do it my own way. Come to think of it, before retirement I’d always done things my own way.

  Chesterfield fidgeted with his water glass, spinning it in tiny circles on the counter. Ox respectfully kept his distance while he followed our conversation. We caught each other’s eye, and he discreetly shrugged a shoulder. He couldn’t tell if Chesterfield was leveling with me or not.

  “Your choice,” I said. “You want my help, you talk to me.”

  “All right, Jersey, I’ll tell you, even though it’s nothing to do with Jared.” Chesterfield calmly drank water. “The building that Lolly and I are living in until we return to New York?” he began with the explaining type of question that wasn’t really a question.

  “The Bellington Complex, I believe it’s called,” I said. “Eight stories of luxury apartments, six units per floor. Two penthouse suites on the top floor—one of which you are occupying. Grossed a lease income of just slightly over one-point-four
million last year.”

  His eyebrows rose in surprise for a moment and then he nodded his head in affirmation. He’d underestimated me, just as I’d originally underestimated him.

  “I, or rather the company bought it just over a year ago, because I knew we’d be opening a branch office to serve the Carolinas. Buying it solved the problem of where we’d live while I trained Jared, plus offer a bit of a tax shelter,” he explained.

  I nodded.

  “There’s a married couple, on-site property managers. Came with the building and live on the first floor. They get a modest salary, a free apartment, and came with a strong recommendation. I kept them on when we bought.” He drank some more water and asked Ox for a refill. “Anyway, a few weeks back, I was teaching Jared how to read operating financials and profit-and-loss statements. I pulled copies from the manager’s files—there’s an office on the first floor, just off the lobby—and figured it would make a good learning lesson for Jared. We were sitting at the kitchen table, plowing through the numbers when he found a problem.”

  “Jared found it?”

  “Yes,” Chesterfield said with obvious pride. “The student found something the teacher overlooked.”

  Ox set a fresh glass of ice water in front of Chesterfield and a Guinness draught in front of me and moved silently away. We both drank. Below me, Cracker yawned, rolled over on his back, and stayed that way. Spread-eagle, with all four limbs sticking out, and the flap of his snout hanging away from his teeth, he resembled fresh roadkill. Although it didn’t look comfortable, it worked for Cracker because it was one of his favorite sleeping positions. If it weren’t for the snoring that immediately began filtering through his nose, arriving patrons probably would have thought the dog was dead, which wouldn’t have been good for business.

  “Bottom line is that this couple embezzled nearly fifty thousand dollars from me during the year I’ve owned the building. They did it by deducting for maintenance and repairs that were never done. They also recorded rental income on two units as less than they actually collected. Both tenants always paid in cash. They were told, if they paid in cash, they’d get discounted rent.”