Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  “The name don't ring a bell. But I know I've seen his bow-tied mug in a line-up or two.” He turned his gaze to the wreckage of the Iron Works. “The plot thickens.”

  The paramedic said, “I never got the other one's name. Funny; I was all set to transport him, and then he took off, wearing one of our First Response cervical collars. Usually his kind milks unspecified injuries for every dime there is.”

  Belknapf grinned. “His kind, as you put it, are after bigger fish. I can't recall his name, but I seen him someplace. And if I seen him, then odds are he's got a rap sheet longer than my Johnson.”

  He turned to Duane. “And the lap dancers at Tattletales don't call me Horace the Horse without reason.” He slapped the kid's arm. “Come on, let's take the evidence to HQ, and see if the Chief of Detectives can convince your Sheriff Claxon to lend you to us for the nonce.”

  Wilkes—Barre; the big time. Duane's heart thumped faster than Buge's tail when LuAnn slipped him a burrito.

  The detective offered a cryptic comment to Duane. “Some turds float, and some turds sink. It could take days, if we have to drag the river.” He bagged the evidence, signed and dated the chain of evidence tickets, and sealed the bags. To no one in particular he muttered, “Somebody needs to authorize some overtime.”

  —o—

  As Honey and the congressman made their way across the lot, Varnish broached a touchy subject—given that Detective Belknapf had just raised the ugly specter of domestic murder. “We are in a quandary here, Honey, in that the detective wants your husband's DNA, and will, if necessary, get a court order to obtain it. Perhaps a search warrant, as well. I have sat on a goodly number of congressional oversight hearings, looking for malfeasance by the other side of the aisle. But these cops know no bounds, when it comes to fishing expeditions. So I must ask you if there is anything at your home that might be misconstrued by a cop intent on rushing to judgement?”

  Honey was used to government officials and bureaucrats speaking in tongues. She'd once spend over an hour in a dentist's waiting room, and the TV had been tuned to C-SPAN. She played the dumb blonde, because he expected it. “Like love letters from my paramour? Bottles poison?”

  Dear God, was this woman serious? “Well, yes, since you broached the subject. Keep in mind the sacred attorney-client privilege, what sort of evidence is there?” He turned eager ears to her, hoping for something he could destroy before the cop found it, or use to access the corporate millions. A run for the Senate was not too far a reach. “You can tell me everything, dear.”

  “Sorry, Shelly, there's nothing to tell. Or for that cop to find. Mac and I were happily married, and the governor just pressed the wrong button.” Lying to your lawyer was a client-attorney privilege.

  —o—

  Mags returned the borrowed clothing to the fire truck, and headed for the job site trailer. Three men were dismantling the stage, and guy with a forklift was loading porta potties on a flatbed. She spotted her mother and that creepy Congressman Varnish, standing next to the Lexus.

  What she didn't see was the other creep, the one Daddy Mac called Spider. The man she'd caught her mother kissing at the farm. She needed to learn more about him; ammunition when she talked to the cops.

  She climbed the steel steps, and started going through the file cabinets, looking for personnel records. It was a quick search; there were less than a dozen employees on the payroll. The majority of the workmen were subcontractors, and who the hell knew who they worked for, although they stood up straighter when her father walked by.

  Jack's file folder was there, but no Tarantella. Maybe Daddy Mac paid him out of the bank box, and under the table.

  Frustrated, Mags headed for Jack and his crew. They were leaning on equipment, waiting for Daddy Mac to give them orders. Only Daddy Mac was gone, so it was up to her to grab the reins. He always said, when dealing employees, don't ask, tell. But he'd never been an eighteen year-old girl with pink hair, so she asked, “Jack, as soon as all these outsiders get their stuff off site, can you get your crew busy on whatever the plan is to clean up the rubble?”

  She had no idea if there even was a plan. This demolition project was ten times bigger than anything they'd ever done. Not too long ago tearing down an old office building was considered big, and her biggest worry was passing her trigonometry final exam. She looked past Jack, and stared at the billboard.

  SUSQUEHANNA FLOOD ABATEMENT PROJECT

  LACKAWANNA REDEVELOPMENT AUTHORITY

  U.S. ARMY CORPS OF ENGINEERS

  DEPARTMENT OF ENVIRONMENTAL PROTECTION

  General Contractor H. Poitrine & Associates

  Jack drew her aside. “We have a problem with that. The guy talking to the dope with the dog? He's the detective in charge of the investigation, and said the Iron Works is a crime scene, I should keep everyone out, including us.” He checked out her hair, and as the new father of a baby girl, wondered if this was what he was looking forward to, eighteen years down the road. “So you want us to do something else, or should I send the men home?”

  “My father always says down time is maintenance time. Spend the rest of today greasing zerks and changing oil.” It's what you did, when you didn't know what to do. She decided it was time to show some of Daddy Mac's swagger. “I'm heading to the bank right now, see about that payroll. If it will ease their anxiety, you can tell 'em that.”

  She ignored her mother and climbed in Daddy Mac's Mercedes, where she cranked up the air, and shut out the world. Angling the rearview down, she studied her face. A dirty one, with pink hair. What had started as a teen-age lark had suddenly become a grown-up mistake. She remembered a line from Sunday school, back when they were selling ladders. When I became a man, I put away childish things.

  Thank God for Clairol. When she'd gone pink she had the prescience to buy black hair dye. It was at home; and a good thing too. Playing Vice President, Operations with Mr. Collander at the bank wouldn't fly in a pink sweater and her stepfather's whipcord trousers.

  Back at the farm she cried on Dr. Q's shoulder, told Rosetta to cancel the luncheon, and washed away the morning under a long shower. The magic goop turned her from pink to black, and more goop made her hairdo a match for Liza in Cabaret. The face, not so much.

  She donned her double-breasted suit, the one she'd worn to Washington. Unlike her mother, she could go braless, so she did. The silk lining against bare skin was even sexier than cashmere. And the hint of breast should work as well on Heston Collander as it had on her Washington visit to Congressman Sheldon Varnish. She had learned how to tease at her mother's knees.

  —o—

  Belknapf took note of Varnish and the Poitrine woman going head to head as they stood beside a Lexus. He stowed the evidence in his trunk, then headed for the lawyer and the babe.

  Duane and Bugle Boy followed, hoping to become part of the investigation. Sheriff Claxon would have to let him join the team here in Wilkes-Barre; after all, he was the initial arresting officer. This was way better than running the speed trap.

  Belknapf called, “Hey, Varnish, since we're all of a piece here, can we dispense with the formalities, and go get my DNA right now?” He addressed Honey. “If I have to get a search warrant, it will involve crime scene technicians, and bunch of cops traipsing all over your house.” And I will waste a couple of hours on paperwork and judge-shopping.

  Varnish jumped in, saying, “Certainly, we want to get this wrapped up as much as you do. Follow us.” Anything Belknapf found without a warrant could be challenged as inadmissible, if indeed love notes or poison were present. The rich marched to a different drummer, doubly so, if they were beautiful women. “If you will drive, Honey, then I can catch a ride back with the detective, and pick his brains.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  When Mags leaned across the desk to shake the banker's hand her lapels gaped, and Heston Collander didn't miss the show, brief as it was. He rose and said, “Miss Poitrine. So nice to see you again.”

 
“Yes; too bad it's not under what they call more pleasant circumstances.” She dropped into the visitor's chair. “Have you heard the news?”

  “News?”

  “The demolition did not go as planned. My stepfather is missing, and we fear the worst. Has my mother call you? And did you know Mr. McClintock made me an officer of the corporation?”

  “What? No, and no.” Collander paled, his eyes darting about the office. In banking, risk was largely cerebral, and thankfully armed robbery was an excitement confined to branch banks. “Sit down, dear. But this is awful! How can I be of assistance?”

  “Well, there'll be a lot to do. The cops are searching the rubble for my father as we speak. A big chunk of money was supposed to come in when the building came down. And I need to know where it is, and how can I get my hands on some of it.

  “Specifically, money to meet this week's payroll.” She leaned back in the chair and clasped her hands on her lap. “My mother is obviously distraught, and until she can get hold of herself, she needs me to soldier on, in her behalf.” She put a poor-little-me catch in her voice, the way Mom did, when she wanted something. “As best I can.”

  Collander considered a clear desk the sign of a man too important to be surrounded with the trapping of commerce. Other than an antique onyx pen and inkwell set, an anniversary gift from his wife, the surface of the reproduction Biedermeier desk was devoid of paraphernalia.

  He kept his iPad out of sight, and his iPhone on vibrate. Oils of his predecessors looked down in dour approval from the paneled walls.

  But First Union was fully engaged with the twenty-first century, and a monitor and key board occupied a credenza in the corner. Collander called up the H. Poitrine and Associates account and said, “Since you say your stepfather made you an officer of the corporation, I assume he gave you the password.”

  The cursor winked at her, a steady metronome. Shit. “Since it's on your server, I assume you also know it, Mr. Collander.”

  “No, I don't. Of course, I know the Admin key. One must be able to access all of the bank's business records.”

  Daddy Mac liked to keep things as simple as possible. And he often gave her his blackberry, when they needed secure communication. She slowly typed Mags115. Her birthday. Bingo. Except, now that she was in the account she had no idea of where to go.

  She felt like Alice, falling down the rabbit hole, and about to have tea with a bunch of weirdos. “Mr. Collander, this is all new to me. I only learned a few hours ago I was vice president.” She pointed to the monitor and its list of subsets. “Daddy Mac said after the blast he would teach me all about this.” She turned away and pressed thumb and forefinger to her eyes, let a sob escape. “He said now I was a big girl, and it was time to learn what grownups do.”

  “There, there, dear. This must be awful for you.” Collander pulled the keyboard close. “Let me navigate the labyrinth, show you the money trail.”

  “Oh, would you?” She grabbed his arm, squeezed it hard enough that the banker winced. This was when Honey would snuggle closer, so Mags did the same. She should have added a dab of Mom's perfume.

  Collander let a sigh of relief escape. If Mr. McClintock was dead, it was most convenient that someone else could carry on. As far as the computer was concerned, the man himself was sitting here.

  Mags watched as the banker led her down the golden road. Less than an hour ago two point three million dollars entered the account. Minutes later it became seventy thousand dollars and sixty four cents. The latter was three minutes accrued interest. The rest was entered on the balance sheets of M&M trucking. Big Mac Blasting Supplies. ABC Equipment Leasing. XYZ Financial Services. Each one showed dozens of monthly payouts, many of them in cash.

  The banker explained, “In the construction business, many subcontractors work close to the bone, and cannot afford to wait thirty, sixty, or ninety days to get paid. Cash is a necessary evil, at least from the government's point of view.”

  That explained the box of banded hundreds. “This is all above my pay grade, Mr. Collander. I'm only here because we need to meet this weeks' payroll.”

  He accessed XYZ Financial Services. “This is your payroll account. You see these weekly deposits? They are twenty-week rolling averages. And these payouts are to ADP, who cut actual checks. Your stepfather would pick them up at their Scranton office.” He paused. “I remember him telling me you often handed them out.”

  She knew it wasn't good business, but Daddy Mac always placed his people ahead of himself. Good workers don't grow on trees, kiddo. She didn't have time to explain herself to this place in Scranton, so she would raid the cash box, and give Jack a fist full of dollars. He could decide who got how much.

  Mags stood. “I need to open the safe deposit box.”

  President Collander suspected as much. He touched a button under his desk, and a cute young man in a pinch-waisted suit slipped into the room. “This is Mr. Iorwyrth, from our parent company, the Llewylln Group. Emyr, please assist Miss Poitrine.” Collander was old school, still called unmarried girls Miss, until they achieved Madam status.

  Mags followed him to the vault, where she handed the cute young man with the strange name the key. “I'd like to get into my box.” She caught the thought that flickered across his thin lips, and said, “Don't even think that quip, pal.”

  He flushed, blushed, stammered an apology as he used the key number to find the signature card. Now he was puzzled. “But you were, I mean she was in here the other day. And you're not, I mean she's older and has, uhh. .”

  What was this jerk babbling about? She examined the signature card. God damn it to hell! Someone had signed her name. Had to be Mom. She must have gotten her hands on one of the keys. Her heart sank. Was the box empty?

  She pointed to the long line of McClintock signatures, then tapped a finger on her own scrawl. “Two days ago, that's me, Magnolia Poitrine, on my first visit. And yesterday the next Magnolia Poitrine signature is my mother. Honey Poitrine, forging my name, and doing a shitty job.” Mags knew her mother's skillful use of cleavage, and dollars to donuts it wasn't President Collander who let her open the box.

  “Uh, uh, uh. She said Honey was her stage name, and uh. . .”

  “Yes, I bet she did. And you didn't bother to ask for identification, or even compare signatures.” Mags shoved her driver's license in his face. “If anything is out of order when I open this box, Emyr Iorwyrth, your ass is grass.”

  The box was just as full as last time she saw it. Thank God! She needed to find a better place to hide her key, and then look for Daddy Mac's. Before Mom did. She removed a ten-grand pack for Jack, and another one, for incidentals.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Duane followed Belknapf to his Taurus, asking, “Can my partner ride shotgun? It's his regular spot, and he gets vexatious, he don't have a window to stick his head out.” Belknapf was not a dog man, and snorted in disgust. Duane explained, “So's he can catch passing scents, and add them to his repertoire.” He scratched Buge's ear.

  The detective shook his head. “Leave the pooch here. He did his part, now it's my turn to deploy my repertoire.” Duane offered a puzzled look, and Belknapf clarified. “Detecting skills. The powers of observation and deduction. Not something a dumb dog can match.”

  Duane took the comment personally; he'd come to believe Buge was every bit as smart as he was. So he voiced a thought that had been tingling ever since he was up on the stage, showing the boot and the watch to Detective Belknapf.

  “Were you halfway serious, when you gave Ms. Poitrine that half-assed Miranda warning? Because that slick congressman thought you were. By the way, I bet you didn't know he's the one responsible for Shaleville getting both Bugle Boy, and a K9 unit to carry him around. In a roundabout way, it's how I got my job.”

  “Yeah, well, I don't see a K9 unit parked here, and I don't want a dog in my car.”

  “If she's really a suspect, isn't there a chance she'll do something to screw up the DNA sample?
Substitute her hairbrush for his?”

  “Why would she do that?”

  Because he'd thought of it first, Duane still had suicide-by-cop on his mind. “Remember, earlier, you said sometimes people kill themselves because of a failing business? What if McClintock didn't get himself blown up on purpose? What if they were in cahoots? What if they planned this from the git go, and he left the watch and the boot in there days ago?”

  “Sonny, are you on drugs? Why the hell would they do that?”

  “For what you said, awhile ago. Cui Bono. Maybe they're about to declare bankruptcy, took out a big insurance policy, and after the dust settles, she'll go meet him in Paris.”

  Belknapf scratched his own ear. “You may have a point there. There are several cases that come to mind, with just that scenario. A guy in Atlantic city swam out to sea, and his wife collected six million bucks. Asshole got tired of waiting for her, send her an email from Orlando. Turned out she was tired of him, and was in bed with her laptop and a new boyfriend who happened to be an under the covers insurance adjuster.”

  Belknapf patted Bugle Boy on the head, and the bloodhound's hind leg thumped in reply. “We need to find out if there's life insurance. If the coroner rules this is death by misadventure, then it's double indemnity.”

  “Does this mean Buge can come with us?”

  “Yes, but he rides in the back seat.”

  —o—

  Honey Poitrine and Sheldon Varnish headed out the gate and up River Road, with Detective Belknapf, Duane, and Bugle Boy right behind.

  Congressman Varnish pulled his seatbelt tighter as he watched Honey drive the Lexus the way she engaged in conversation. Drifting from lane to lane, without signaling a change of direction.