Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

by Suzann Ledbetter

  "Very impressive, McPhee."

  "I have my moments." He grinned. "And the ticket agent at the Park City airport thinks P. David Simpson wore glasses."

  "Cheater."

  "Professionally, yeah. Personally?" Jack shook his head. "Just because you have me on a diet, I'll still read menus, but that's as far as it'll go."

  "Define read," she said.

  He chuckled. "Big boobs? Nice butt? Hey, I'm human. Usually I keep the drooling down my shirt to a minimum."

  Ogling, but not touching, much less taking them home to hump their brains out in her bed was a new and refreshing concept for Dina. But if Jack didn't stop looking at her like that, Harriet was going to get a triple-X floor show any second.

  Forcing her attention to the rest of the printouts, she said, "Speaking of P. David Simpson, and his brother, Robert K ."

  "Brothers?"

  "The elder went by 'Paul,' not 'David.'" Reproduced Ohio newspaper articles were placed on top of the photos. "On April 3, 1974, 148 tornadoes chewed an almost 2600-mile swath across a dozen states and into Windsor, Ontario. Over 300 people were killed. Nearly 5500 were injured."

  Jack's expression hardened, his eyes flat and malevolent. "Then deHaven didn't buy a driver's-license-and-credit-card package off the street." He chafed his jaw. "Nah, too common criminal for a hotshot like him. He ripped off two disaster victims' identities."

  "Oh, not just any two." Dina wriggled around and up on her knees to reach across the table. "I got in a hurry and misspelled his last name in a search box. The prompt said, 'Do you mean Carl Haven?' If it wasn't for the weird tangents Yancy went on yesterday, I'd have ignored it and started over."

  "But there couldn't have been just one Carl Haven," Jack said. "Almost any name search brings up a million hits."

  "It did. I knew Yancy would then enter 'Carl Haven + Robert K. Simpson' to narrow the field."

  Her finger hopscotched from highlighted sentences and paragraphs in newspaper stories dated from April 4 to April 11. "Ellen Simpson, her daughter, Candice, and two foster kids, fifteen-year-old Carl Haven and twelve-year-old Melody Haven, made it to the storm cellar at their farm.

  "Ellen's husband, Paul, her brother-in-law, Robert Simpson, and a neighbor, Vincent Pflanders, were killed trying to batten down the outbuildings."

  Dina quoted Ellen Simpson, "'There wasn't nothing left of the barn. Over a hundred years old it was. Paul and Bobby's grandpa built it out of oak. Not a rafter, a feed trough—it's like a bomb blew it to bits, then scattered the splinters as far as the eye can see.'"

  Jack drained his beer and slammed the cozy on the table. He scraped a fist over his mouth, muttering under his breath. "Even if I believed in coincidences, this can't be one."

  Another page was presented. "Mrs. Simpson's obituary. She died of cancer in January 1991. I tried, but other than later tornado-related hits, I didn't find anything else on Carl or Melody Haven."

  She hesitated, then admitted, "Well, I might have, if I'd stuck with it, but—"

  "Glad you didn't. You nailed a wild goose. No sense in chasing it."

  "Assuming Melody is his sister, I was hoping to track her down, so you could contact her."

  Jack nodded. "If she's findable, I may, but Belle told me Carleton was an only child. Anything Melody could tell me about him would be ancient history."

  He gestured at the rest of the pile. "Anything on how they became the Simpsons' foster kids?"

  Damn. It hadn't occurred to Dina to look. Yancy would have zeroed in on their birth certificates.

  "How about Carleton deHaven?" Jack asked. "We searched some the other night, but what's the earliest dated reference you found to him?"

  Double damn.

  "Jesus, cheer up, kid. I'm fishing out loud. That wasn't part of the homework assignment I gave you."

  The leather portfolio he unzipped had fresh scuff marks on it. Road rash, Dina thought, from knocking it out of his hand when I jumped him in the driveway. Another few minutes, and she'd have had whisker rash.

  "Hindsight," he said, putting several pages of her day's work into an inner file pocket. "I should have dug deeper into deHaven's affiliation with F.D.I.C."

  A yawn overtook him—the head tilting, jaw breaking, king-of-the-jungle kind that left Jack's eyes watery and blinking. He apologized, adding, "Long day."

  Coffee should be the next beverage course, but not unless he suggested it. He needed sleep, not caffeine, and there'd be Harriet to contend with. Though her mother appeared to have dozed off, there was a better than half chance she was faking it.

  "I'll talk to McGuire, first thing tomorrow," Jack said. "Our circumstantial case against deHaven has to be more solid than the one against me."

  Picking through the photos and printed material, he winnowed the stack to a select few. As he arranged and tucked them in the portfolio, he said, "Nice highlighting job, too."

  Dina started. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Exactly what I said. It'll make the show-'n-tell in McGuire's office a lot easier."

  Her palms skated on the table as she pulled back and sat down in the chair. "Then today was a test. Sure, you needed me to follow up on some stuff. Giving me the keys to the candy store made it a twofer."

  "Nope."

  "Did you stop by and check the desk on your way from the airport? You must have another set of keys. It'd be stupid not to."

  "To the office door, yeah." Jack's smile was weary, circumspect. "Okay, you poked around in my desk. BFD. I expected it, same as I expect Yancy to. Willy Wonk probably has dupes of every key on the ring." The smile widened. "The kid bores easily."

  "Funny, I didn't see his name on an envelope with a notebook and cassette tapes in it. And I know it hasn't been there longer than a couple of days. The police would have found it when they searched your office."

  "True." Jack splayed his elbows on the table. "Which is why it's safe there now. Locked in the drawer, right where I left it." His gaze leveled at her. "Isn't it?"

  "No." A little head shake for emphasis. "It isn't."

  Dina plucked up the rest of the papers he'd rejected and tapped them into a neat pile. Next, each photo sheet was meticulously aligned on top.

  Giving her that full set of keys, instead of his spare door key was a test. Like tidying up now, while Jack's mouth worked, struggling not to ask what she'd done with the envelope. Waiting for her to tell him. Wondering if she'd destroyed it. If she had, whether he should be relieved or feel betrayed. And how much of either of those, or both, he could live with.

  Slumping back, he rubbed his face with his hands, chuckling. "Man, I must be exhausted. You had me going there for a minute."

  If he thought he could bluff her that easily—well, it was insulting, to say the least.

  "The diner's smoke alarm went off, like it does about twenty times a day," he said. "So you locked the envelope inside my nice, fire-resistant supply cabinet."

  Dina just stared at him, speechless. Between the desk and the cabinet, the envelope had jumped into her purse for a second, but why destroy it? The two people who mattered most already knew what she'd done.

  A snide voice called from the living room, "Lord have mercy, Dina Jeanne, if you're not your daddy's daughter. Smart about a thing or two, but dumber than a toadstool on a stump 'bout most everything else."

  20

  "Simpson reserved a minivan at the Park City airport." Jack consulted his notes. "A two-day lease with a drop-off option—leave the keys under the floor mat, lock 'er up and go. Except a lot jockey saw the van in its designated space Sunday night. The mileage on the odometer was within 3.2 miles of what I clocked from Park City Memorial to the deHaven house."

  McGuire had sat through almost an hour of circumstantial evidence against Carleton deHaven. Jack felt as though he were trying to sell his old friend a time-share condo. McGuire looked as if the sales pitch's steak house gift certificate and fifty bucks cash weren't as enticing as he'd thought.

  The detect
ive had made a few notes of his own. A good sign, considering a tape recorder captured Jack's every word—those of a prime homicide suspect. The outsourced lab the PD used hadn't yet ponied up the DNA test results.

  The case against Jack didn't hinge on them, but impregnating his ex-wife and the implications were the strongest motives for a .38-caliber solution.

  "Got addresses, Social Security numbers on these Simpson brothers?" McGuire asked.

  "Working on it." Or would, when he went to the office. What's known as a credit bureau header would provide those and more. In this instance, pulling them violated the Fair Credit Reporting Act. Saving your ass from a murder rap hadn't made the list of acceptable guidelines.

  "Fuzz, fuzzy, fuzzier," McGuire said. "The shuttle driver at the hotel in Little Rock can't describe any passengers he drove to the airport that morning."

  "He might pick a composite from a six-panel field," Jack argued. "I could have mocked up deHaven's photo from a MentalWealth brochure—inked in glasses and a ball cap. Without five others for comparison, that'd burn the guy as a witness later."

  "Assuming he'd recognize your theoretical Mr. Simpson." A pen weaved over and under McGuire's jazz-piano-man fingers. "I don't see the problem in deHaven phoning the limo service for a pickup at baggage claim. From what you've said, deHaven was supposed to meet Mr. Hollywood's plane on arrival. The flight was on time, deHaven was there on time—"

  "How'd he get to the airport?" Jack flipped back pages in his notebook. "The limo was a one-way fare—Little Rock National to the hotel. DeHaven's vehicle didn't leave the parking garage."

  "He took the shuttle. A cab. A bus. He hitchhiked."

  "Weak."

  "Says you."

  "A Little Rock PD inquiry about any Simpson rentals that day might put some muscle in it. I got stonewalled yesterday. Suckered, more likely. Just because fifty-dollar bribes don't buy what they used to doesn't mean one Simpson or the other didn't rent a vehicle over the weekend."

  "Whether one or both of them did, doesn't prove either of them was a deHaven alias."

  No, Jack admitted. It didn't.

  McGuire stood and stretched. The corner of the bull pen where his desk was located was as cold as a refrigerator. Peculiar that his pale blue shirt had damp circles under the arms. Groaning as he lowered them, he remained on his feet, hooking his thumbs on his belt.

  "I'll grant, post-9/11 airport security is a lot of hocus-pocus," he said. "Show a valid photo ID that matches the ticket and the credit card it's charged to, and you're good to go."

  He looked up at Jack. "Except where's the gun come in? A .38 smuggled past metal detectors, X-rays and bag inspectors in two different airports? No way."

  Helluva sticking point and it had bothered Jack, as well. DeHaven drove to the conference, so no problem taking the gun with him. Transporting it by air back to Park City, then stashing it to frame Jack was a giant hole in the puzzle.

  "The odometer on the Park City rental could have covered a stop by F.D.I.C.'s office building," he said. "It was Sunday. The place should have been emptier than my bank account."

  "Which is why installers replacing the carpet in F.D.I.C.'s offices received double time for working that day."

  "And they didn't see anybody come in or go out."

  McGuire shook his head.

  Of course they hadn't. DeHaven was familiar with the layout and there were multiple entrances and exits. That the carpet layers couldn't be everywhere at once wasn't worth arguing.

  McGuire had checked deHaven's alibi, though. Well beyond confirming the dates, times and movements deHaven provided, and the corroborating witness statements. His cop sense wasn't ready to accept that this wasn't a spousal homicide.

  Atypical, yes. The premeditation was as intricate and delicate as a spider web. One tatted by a spider with a stopwatch and scant margin for error.

  "You lied about me being the last person Belle talked to."

  McGuire smirked. "All's fair."

  "Then triangulate that landline call Belle supposedly made to hubby's cell. The one where she reportedly said she'd missed her flight and would take a later one. If I'm right, the signal bounced off the satellite tower nearest their house. DeHaven called himself on the landline phone and waited for his friggin' pocket to ring."

  "Can't do it. No probable cause to look deeper than the call logs."

  "The hell!" Now Jack was on his feet. "It goes to his alibi. Christ almighty. It's key to his alibi. The too-cutesy factor that was his biggest mistake."

  McGuire heaved a sigh and sat down hard in his desk chair. "DeHaven and the chief are golf buddies. This isn't the only open homicide on the board. Got me three, four attempteds, with one vic up to his ankles in the River Jordan and sinkin' fast."

  He waved at the oversize clock on a strip of wall between two windows. "In forty-one minutes, I'm testifying in court. If I'm sworn in before the judge adjourns for the weekend. Otherwise, Monday's gonna be déjŕ vu, except for the drive-by, or the fatality domestic I'll catch in the meantime."

  "I know," Jack said. "It never ends."

  "Nothing changes, except the names and faces."

  "But you wouldn't be opposed to moving Belle's name from the open to the suspect-charged side of the board, would you." A statement, not a question. "Say, by eight, eight-thirty tonight?"

  "Damned if you aren't a persistent—"

  "A few hours of your time, a high-profile clearance, and the unit commander might think of somebody else's badge number when he assigns those incomings this weekend."

  McGuire gave him the fish eye. "Not interested."

  Hands aloft, Jack said, "No harm asking. It'd be more official with you listening in when I meet with deHaven, but 'flexible' is my middle name."

  By now, deHaven should be opening a packet with copies of the most damning evidence and an unsigned letter. Jack had intercepted a courier and allowed him a look-see to prove the envelope's contents weren't explosive, illegal drugs, lethal microbes or cash. A hundred bucks for the delivery—another hundred for the messenger to permanently forget what Jack looked like.

  Blackmailing the guilty worked in movies, but Jack was more than dubious about real life. Then again, deHaven wasn't as brilliant as he thought he was. He'd suspect Jack was the extortionist. But what if Comb-over or someone else at the seminar thought about Belle's death and hubby's disappearing act and did some checking?

  F.D.I.C. data mined for new clientele. Cursory, if not full background checks culled greedy and broke prospects from greedy and financially solid ones. DeHaven had to wonder whether an IT tech had quietly been instructed to delve deeper into Golden Boy's past.

  "Stay out of it, McPhee. And stay the fuck away from deHaven. Got that? Way away."

  "I would, Andy. I swear I would if there weren't so many countries with no extradition treaties with the U.S. And several that do, but don't bust a hump finding rich bad guys. And if I didn't have a gut feeling that deHaven's scrambled ever since he found out Belle was pregnant. It ain't his. It ain't mine, either. Soon as that's confirmed, there goes his patsy."

  McGuire surveyed the immediate vicinity. "Somebody is monitoring his financials."

  "Excellent." And it was, since it also indicated McGuire's doubts about deHaven. "But how about Carl Haven's financials? Paul D. and Robert K. Simpson's? Every male killed in that '74 tornado outbreak? Daffy goddamn Duck's, for all we know."

  Jack knuckled the desk and leaned forward. "He's gotta figure the spotlight's about to swing back. Even if he believes his alibi is flawless, the cops recanvassing business associates, friends, neighbors? Man, oh man. That kind of scrutiny makes conversations fizzle when you walk into the room. Especially for a guy whose living comes from selling pipe dreams to pigeons."

  "Not interested," McGuire repeated, his gaze fixed on the BOLO alerts pushpinned to a cubicle's panel.

  "Yeah, well. I tried. 'Preciate the listen." Jack started away, then turned. "But if you're out near the pavilion at Shiffen P
ark about, uh, say, seven-thirty, give me a call on my cell."

  * * *

  "Nice evening for a walk," Dina said. "Quieter than usual."

  Jack grunted. Again. Since he'd come home from the office, then through dinner, it had been like cohabiting with a grouchy chimpanzee. A grouchy chimpanzee obsessed with his watch.

  Dina slackened the leash so Phil could snuffle and snort and decide which blade of grass to pee on this time. The men in her life were such sparkling conversationalists, she could hardly squeeze in a word edgewise.

  She ruffled the hair clinging to the back of her neck. "Sticky, though." The dark, clotted clouds seemed to suck up every breath of air and exhale none. The TV weatherman predicted the storm front inching up from the gulf across the Midwest wouldn't bring much rain to the Park City metro area.