Carter Peterson Mystery Series (Volume 1)

by Al Boudreau

  “Makes total sense,” Andrew replied.

  I handed Andrew my notebook. “Please send the link to Amber’s social media post over to Sergeant Kehoe. Here’s his contact information.” Andrew studied the notebook as if it were about to take flight. “What? Can’t read my handwriting?” I asked. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

  “What? Oh,” he said and began to laugh. “No, that’s not it at all. This notebook. It’s where you record all your thoughts, clues, information?”

  “Yep. Keep it on me at all times. Probably the most important tool I have,” I said as Andrew continued to stare at it.

  “Guess I never thought of a notebook as a tool.”

  “So … you’ll get that link sent off?” I asked.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry,” Andrew said, and began pecking away at the keys on the laptop.

  “Richard been around?” I asked.

  “Haven’t seen him. He’s probably busy on the nineteenth hole,” Andrew replied.

  “The guy’s been known to fall victim to a good Mai Tai,” I said, my mind focused on Todd Graf, the latest ingredient added to this mud soup of a case.

  I went to my bedroom and grabbed a computer tablet, mentally preparing myself for what I liked least about looking for clues: surfing the internet. Little by little, I was dragging my old-school tail into the twenty-first century.

  I was painfully aware that most folks couldn’t post on social media fast enough, offering each and every detail about their lives to anyone who cared to look. Who they saw. What they ate. Where they were. When they last used the toilet. How they felt.

  Why?

  I knew I’d never understand the motivation behind their behavior, but to discount the web’s usefulness as it related to my work would be the height of foolishness. It had worked for Andrew earlier in the day. He was a newbie, but finding clues faster than me and the Honolulu Police Department combined.

  I propped my pillows against the headboard and got busy, wondering as I scrolled down the seemingly endless wall of pictures, comments, and videos of Todd Graf’s social media presence, how he found time to get anything else done.

  There was a picture of Todd on his motorcycle. Todd snow skiing in Vale. Todd on a camping trip in the Rockies. Todd drinking beer with three scantily clad women, poolside in Las Vegas.

  Looking through the collection only reinforced my thoughts about social media: it was the ultimate in time-suckage. And for some—Todd Graf included—the ultimate forum for boosting a narcissistic ego.

  And in Graf’s case, this habit of sharing each and every move with the world went way back. Almost to the inception of social media itself. In fact, there was so much, I found looking at the pictorial history of this clown downright exhausting.

  I was no more than a minute away from going out to hand the task off to my new protégé, when a particular image caught my attention. It wasn’t the shot’s primary focus—Graf, posing at a party with six-foot blond bombshells on either side of him—that caught my eye. The two individuals standing in the background were my primary focus. One in particular.

  I went out to the living room. “Andrew, I just found a photograph online that may be helpful to us. Says it was from a party about six months ago. What’s the best way to enlarge this shot? And maybe improve the resolution?” I asked as I handed him the tablet.

  Andrew studied the image for a moment. “Hey, isn’t that the guy from the video stills standing in the background, talking to some dude? You know, fake Odell as you and Richard call him. He looks … different. But the same.”

  Andrew had just confirmed what I thought I’d seen. And, at a minimum, proved that Graf and our Odell impersonator had at least run in the same circles, and possibly knew one another.

  “C’mon, Andrew. We’re heading to Honolulu.”

  * * *

  Sergeant Kehoe was pacing back and forth as we entered the station. “Sergeant, say hello to Andrew McCarthy, a key member of my team.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Sergeant,” Andrew said as he reached out to shake Kehoe’s hand. I could tell by the look on Andrew’s face that he’d taken pride in hearing my words.

  Kehoe must have sensed the same from Andrew as they greeted one another. “That’s a glowing review, Andrew, considering the years of experience Carter possesses. Good show, and welcome to my station.” Kehoe looked down at the tablet. “This the photo?” he asked.

  I nodded and handed him the device. He walked off and motioned for us to follow.

  We made our way up to his office, where a high-resolution image of our Odell imposter stared down at us from a large wall-mounted monitor. Kehoe grabbed the intercom handset from his desk while staring at the image on my tablet. “Cholo, I need you in my office.”

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  Kehoe walked over next to us, held my tablet out at arm’s-length, and looked back and forth from the tablet to the monitor. “I’m fairly convinced the guy in this picture and our Odell imposter are one and the same.” He turned and grabbed a remote control device from his desk and aimed it at the monitor on the wall. “I had Ko Ahiku’s head of security send copies of their surveillance tapes over to me.”

  An officer knocked and entered. “Need something, boss?”

  Kehoe put his arm on the officer’s shoulder. “Cholo, here, is our resident technician. I had him tweak the resolution on this video footage we’re watching.” Kehoe handed the tablet over. “Cholo, I need you to download this image. Blow it up, clean it up, and get it back to me. How long?”

  “Be back in five,” he said.

  Kehoe turned back toward the monitor. “I showed this footage to Curtis Odell. Said he couldn’t get over how much this guy looks like his late brother Ellis.”

  “Do you think Curtis Odell would be able to identify the guy in the photo Cho is enhancing?” I asked.

  “Let’s find out,” Kehoe replied. “He’s staying in a hotel right down the street. Told me to call him day or night. Whenever we needed him to come back.” Kehoe got on his phone and stepped out of the office.

  I decided to test Andrew’s observational skills. “Okay, Andrew, you had several opportunities to study that image I found. That’s the before shot. Can you tell me, in detail, what looks different about this guy’s face now?” I asked as I pointed at the video playing on the monitor. “A before-and-after analysis, so to speak.”

  Andrew watched the video then stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. “For one, his nose was different. Bigger before. Wider.” Andrew studied the video monitor again, then closed his eyes. “I seem to remember his chin looking stronger. More pronounced, like it stuck out further in the before shot. Other than that I’m not sure. Maybe something going on with the cheekbones. Seems to me they’re more pronounced now than before. Fuller, I guess you’d say.”

  I didn’t know exactly what kind of surgery had been done on the guy’s face, but Andrew’s recollection was eerily close to my own, and I’d studied the two images side-by-side for an hour or more.

  “Good,” I said, not wanting to go overboard with praise. But I was impressed.

  Kehoe returned, my tablet in one hand, and a crisp, enlarged print of the image I’d found in the other. He grabbed an enhanced still off from his desk of our Odell imposter, captured from Ko Ahiku’s surveillance video. He held both photos up in front of us. “Well, what do you fellas think?”

  I watched a smile spread across Andrew’s face, likely pleased with himself in regard to his accurate assessment of the images. “The guy has clearly had plastic surgery on his face, but you can tell by the eyes … same individual in both shots.”

  I nodded. “Your man Cholo knows his craft, Sergeant. What a difference his expertise made in clarifying this image.”

  “Absolutely. We’re lucky to have him,” Kehoe said.

  “Having such a crisp picture should increase the odds of Curtis Odell being able to identify the guy. Well, if he knows him, that is,” Andrew said.
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  “I agree. Curtis said he’d be here shortly. And in the event he can’t identify the image of our guy before he changed his face, I think we know someone who can,” Kehoe said as he pressed his thumb against the screen of my tablet.

  Right across Todd Graf’s face.

  Chapter 20

  Curtis Odell entered the room as if he was on a mission, scrutinizing each of our faces as if he were about to ask Which one of you guys is responsible for my brother’s death?

  “Curtis Odell, meet Carter Peterson and his associate Andrew McCarthy,” Sergeant Kehoe said.

  Curtis Odell nodded at us and shook both of our hands without saying a word.

  Kehoe handed Curtis the photograph I’d found showing Graf and the two women in the foreground, and the man we believed was our pre-surgery Odell imposter talking to another man in the background. Curtis stared at the picture with no change of expression.

  First off, do you know the man standing with the two women?” Kehoe asked.

  “Nope. Don’t know him,” Curtis said. “Looks familiar, but I couldn’t tell you his name.”

  “Okay,” Kehoe said. “What about the man in the background, on the left?”

  “You mean on the right?” Curtis asked.

  Andrew and I gave one another a look in response to Curtis’s odd question. “Mr. Odell, the man on the left is a person of interest in our investigation.”

  “Don’t know him. But this guy,” Curtis said, “this guy I know. Me and my brother used to be fixtures at Skip’s Place. Till it burnt down a few months ago, that is. That’s where this picture was taken.”

  “Skip? Do you have a last name for him?” Kehoe asked.

  “Yeah. Traquair. Skip Traquair. Used to live above the club. I heard he plans to rebuild.”

  “Where was this club located?” Kehoe asked.

  “Playa Del Rey. You want to know the name of the guy on the left? Get in touch with Skip. He knows everybody,” Curtis said, and handed the photo back to Kehoe. “Anything else? Any new leads?”

  “No, not yet, but we’re going to stay on this,” Kehoe said. “Curtis, I want to thank you for coming back to the station on such short notice. I’ll walk you out.” Kehoe handed me the photograph before leaving the room.

  I looked at Andrew and took a deep breath. “Well, that was interesting.” I got out my notebook and jotted down the info Curtis Odell had provided.

  “Yeah, he’s intense,” Andrew said. “Sort of gave me the creeps the way he looked at us when he walked in.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure he wants answers. Losing a brother’s got to be tough.”

  I noticed Andrew looking past my shoulder, the expression on his face changing in an instant. I turned to see Todd Graf coming through the doorway, Kehoe steering him by the cuffs that secured his wrists at the small of his back.

  “Hand me that photograph, would you please?” Kehoe asked.

  I gave the picture to Kehoe, who held it up in front of Graf’s face.

  Graf began to laugh. “Aw, you guys visited my page, I see. Carmen and Mia. Man, I loved those two tweakers. Poor Carmen’s dead. And Mia’s got another seven years to go in Chowchilla.”

  “Enough memory lane,” Kehoe said. “Who are the individuals standing in the background?”

  “Tit for tat,” Graf replied. “What do I get out of this?”

  “That’s not how this is going to work,” Kehoe said.

  “Fine. I’m still waiting for my lawyer to respond to the message I left,” Graf said. “When he shows up, maybe I’ll answer your question.”

  “Okay, you asked me what you get out of this. What do you want, Graf?” Kehoe asked.

  “I want you to tell me why I’m really here, for starters,” Graf responded.

  Kehoe stared Graf down. “Fine.” He went for a file folder, pulled out three more photographs, then returned to Graf and held the first picture no more than a foot from Graf’s face. “Know this girl?”

  Graf shook his head. “Nope.”

  Kehoe held the second photograph up. “Do you know this man?”

  “Nope. I asked you why I’m here,” Graf said. And now you’re just asking me more questions. Why? Why are you asking me if I know the guy in the picture?”

  “Why?” Kehoe parroted as he held the third photo in front of Graf. “Because he’s dead. Taken at the morgue a few hours ago.” Kehoe lowered the photo, allowing us to witness Graf’s reaction.

  I sensed Graf knew who the real Ellis Odell was, but had no idea he was gone until this very moment. The expression on his pale face looked to be one of genuine astonishment.

  “I have a sneaking suspicion you had a hand in Mr. Odell’s demise,” Kehoe said.

  Graf began shaking his head, not saying a word.

  “Todd Graf, you have the right to remain silent.”

  “Okay, okay, look, I’ve never been in that kind of trouble. Stupid behind the wheel at times, yes, but I’ve never physically harmed anyone. Ever.”

  Kehoe began pacing, which appeared to make Graf nervous. “No doubt in my mind you’ve got something to hide.”

  Graf shook his head. “I didn’t kill anyone. But I don’t want to get railroaded.”

  The comment stopped Kehoe in his tracks. He turned and stared Graf down. “You’ve been watching too much bad TV. We’re having a conversation, Graf. I’m not threatening you. I’m not forcing you to do anything. You don’t want to talk? Don’t talk.”

  “All right. What was the question?”

  Kehoe took a few steps, stood directly in front of Graf, and held up first photograph again. “The two men behind you and your lady friends. Who are they?”

  “The one on the right … his name is Skip. The one on the left I’m not sure of.”

  “I think you are sure,” Kehoe said. “In fact, I’m almost certain you know him. What’s his name, Graf?”

  “I told you, I’m not sure. We run in the same circles, so I may have seen him around,” Graf said.

  “So your relationship with Skip Traquair was strictly social in nature?”

  “I suppose.”

  “You suppose?” Kehoe said. “Don’t be coy, Graf. You’re looking for favorable treatment; I’m looking for answers.”

  Graf smiled. “Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘Birds of a feather do drugs together,’ Sergeant?”

  “Dispense with the riddles. In English, please.”

  “I may have sold him some weed once. That’s all,” Graf said.

  Kehoe put his hands on his hips before turning and walking away. “Fair warning. I’m about to lose my patience.”

  “I told you everything I know.”

  Kehoe grabbed Graf’s wrist. “Let’s go.”

  “So that’s it, right? You’re letting me go now?” I heard Graf ask Kehoe as they headed down the hallway. I didn’t hear Kehoe’s response, but Graf shouting, “Aw, come on!” didn’t bode well for him walking out the door any time soon. At least not before the Honolulu Police Department’s 24-hour legal detainment period officially ended.

  “That was an experience I wasn’t expecting,” Andrew asked as we walked out of Kehoe’s office.

  “Glad you were here to witness Kehoe in action. The sergeant’s methods of persuasion are about as good as it gets,” I said. I was about to elaborate when my cell phone began ringing. “Hello?”

  “Carter,” said Richard, “where’d you two go? I’ve been sitting around the suite for hours now.”

  “We’re down at Honolulu PD. Just getting ready to head back. How was golf?”

  “Ugh, don’t ask.”

  “See you in a bit,” I said, ending the call just as Sergeant Kehoe returned.

  “Graf’s not telling us everything he knows,” Kehoe said.

  “I have to agree,” I said. “But what we did get is confirmation about the club owner Skip Traquair. Hopefully, he’ll be a valuable resource.” I reached out to shake hands with Kehoe. “I’m glad Andrew was here to see you in action, Sergeant.
Your methods are inspiring.”

  Kehoe smiled at me then slapped Andrew on the shoulder. “If you really want to learn, Andrew, make sure you stick with this guy.”

  “That’s my goal,” Andrew said.

  I smiled. “Thanks, Sergeant. So, what’s the plan concerning Graf? Are you going to charge him? I’d love to hear what he has to say concerning the GPS tracking device situation. And if Amber Odell actually had a device implanted, then removed, my money’s on Graf for performing one or both of those operations.”

  “We’ll definitely be asking him those questions, and more,” Kehoe replied. “My interrogation style involves poking and prodding, a little at a time. I was able to get warrants to search his home, as well as the business. I’ve got men at both locations as we speak. And I intend to have them pay the grandmother a visit later on. Graf’s a guest here until late tomorrow afternoon. We’ll let him stew overnight while we see what we can dig up. Meanwhile, I’m going to see if I can locate Skip Traquair. Email him a copy of this photo and see if we can get a name for our mystery man.”

  I nodded. “I should probably sign those papers for my provisional license while I’m here,” I said to Kehoe.

  “Thanks for reminding me. After you do that, how would you feel about stopping by Kalaeola Airport on your way back to Kapolei? I’d like you to see what you can find on their surveillance videos. We know Graf was one of the hits you got on that GPS tracker. Let’s work on finding out who the second one was.”

  “No problem,” I replied. “I jotted down the time in my notebook as soon as that signal appeared over at the airport, so we should be able to narrow the time frame down to within a fifteen minute block of footage.”

  “Good,” Kehoe said. “Let’s grab that paperwork, then I’ll call over there and let the head of security know you two are on your way.”

  We took care of the administrative bits then Kehoe walked us to the door and we were on our way. I looked out to the west as we crossed the parking lot. The sky was on fire, brilliant streaks of pink and yellow stretching out to the horizon, afterglow from what must have been an amazing sunset.