Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  He decided to pursue the insurance possibility, before Belknapf did. One of the first things he'd learned in law school was never ask a question you didn't know the answer to. “Did your husband have a key man corporate policy? Because we could be looking at double indemnity here.”

  Honey's heart skipped a beat. “What in the world made you think of that old movie? Isn't that the one where Barbara Stanwyck gets some jerk to kill her husband? And then he shoots her in the end?” She shivered, taking her eyes off the road to study his. “Shelly, I don't even know if Mac had life insurance. He was young, why would he need it?”

  “I'm just following up on all possibilities, as I look out for your interests, my dear. We want to stay a step ahead of that detective.” He figured dear was appropriate, now that she was calling him Shelly. “It would probably be in a safe deposit box, along with his will.”

  “Well, it isn't. I was just at First Union yesterday.”

  “Maybe there's a policy in the office. Where is it?”

  “Shel, if I knew where it was, then I would know if he had one, wouldn't I? Sheesh.”

  “No, no, I meant where is your corporate headquarters? Where you have your private office, and your personal assistant. A conference room, filing cabinets, the copier?”

  “There really isn't one. I mean, before Mac got this big contract, we sort of used the dining room table. That was before Rosetta, when we mostly ate out. I guess any papers and stuff would be in the filing cabinet in Mac's cell.”

  Cell? The conversation was taking on a surreal quality that reminded him of questioning a hostile witness in an oversight hearing. “What do you mean, cell?”

  Honey checked her rearview, saw the detective on her bumper. She needed some time alone with Shelley, her lawyer, now, before the fat detective started nosing around. She tromped the gas, and the Lexus left the Taurus in a cloud of metaphorical dust.

  “Oh, it's my little joke. Mac's bedroom is so spare, I always say it's like a monk's room in a monastery.” She saw his puzzled look. “See, he moved out of the master bedroom, when we took on this project. “Not that there was any marital strife, I told you we're a loving couple, but he came to bed at all hours, and then got up at entirely different all hours.

  “So Mac sleeps down the hall, in the old part of the farmhouse. And has a filing cabinet in there. I guess it must be where he keeps paperwork, because now we eat at the dining room table. That reminds me; I have to break the news to Rosetta. She'll be terribly disappointed, after her going to all the trouble with the goat, and everything.”

  “Hey!” Detective Belknapf yelled. “What the hell are they doing? Running for it? I wonder if she and the congressman are in cahoots.” He thumped the steering wheel in frustration. “I shoulda had a police radio installed in my car. I could put out an APB for them.” He fumbled for his iPhone, and tried to keep the Lexus in sight. “You happen to make note of her license number?”

  “No, but I bet she's going to the farm, on old Route Five.”

  “What farm?”

  Duane fished a pink Post-it from his wallet. “RD5, Box 347. It's listed as the corporate HQ of H.P & Associates. It's where the sheriff told me to look for my escaped prisoner, if he wasn't at the old Iron Works.”

  Belknapf eased off the gas. “I sure hope you're right.” After a moment he added, “If you are, then that's a nice bit of detective work, son.”

  Duane wasn't used to getting compliments, and he said, “Oh, it was Sheriff Claxon who found our where McClintock lives. He does all the departmental thinking. Me and Buge just do the leg work.”

  Honey parked by the veranda, and led Shelly in through the new entryway. If the detective and the dope with the dog could find the farm, they could also find their way to the DNA. Honey herself wasn't sure where it was.

  She paused for a moment, to allow Shelly to appreciate the soaring space and its sweeping vistas. With Mac gone, she could now complete the setting with the Keith Harings. “Mac bought this awful old place as an investment, before we were married. When he carried me across threshold, I took one look, and put my foot down. I mean, there were squirrels in the attic, and creepy crawlies in the basement.”

  Honey cast a nervous eye at the orchard, wondering where Dr. Q was. It would be both difficult and embarrassing to explain his presence. Rosetta too, for that matter, but she was a necessary evil. She was an undocumented alien with little English, but, Honey had to admit, culinary skills that would be hard to replace. Maybe she'd deal with the pair of them by selling the farm, tell the new owner they came with the place. So many decisions, and nobody to lean on.

  Mac made all the big decisions, and dismissed hers as either impractical or too expensive. And Mags was cut from the same cloth. No surprise; they were both Capricorns.

  When she'd looked up their sign, she learned they were Practical and Prudent, Miserly and Grudging. Her own sign, Aries, was Adventurous and Dynamic. Also Impatient and Impulsive, but that was only when she banged heads with those two Capricorns. Not that she believed in that nonsense.

  “This Great Room, and the Master Suite upstairs, are my design. The rest of the place is still ugly old farmhouse.” She let him up the narrow staircase to the second floor, gave him a tour of the master suite, pointing out the walk-in closets, sunken tub, and steam shower. Shelly noted the king-size Posturepedic.

  “Mac's bedroom is down the hall, across from my daughter.” She hoped Shelly didn't read anything into the proximity. The infamous kiss was also something she didn't want to explain. Happily, the suddenly-missing Spider was the only witness.

  She led him down the narrow hallway, past the closed door of her daughter's room, and opened Mac's. She pointed to a three-drawer steel file cabinet. “I guess his business papers are in there.” She grasped Shelly's arm. “I have to confess, just the other day I went to the bank? And to my surprise, I'm just a figurehead. Like on those old-timey ships.”

  The congressman did not want to tell her minority ownership was why H. Poitrine & Associates got the job. Or that he swayed the committee because he needed the minority vote in his district. Holding any sort of conversation with her was a stroll through a minefield. “Is there a key?”

  “Beats me.”

  Varnish tried the handle, found it unlocked. It was filled with equipment manuals and parts catalogues for articulated loaders, demolition jackhammers, tri-axle dump trucks. If there was a life insurance policy it was elsewhere.

  Belknapf parked beside the Lexus. He and Duane looked at the farmhouse, the remains of a barn, while Bugle Boy left his marker on a tree. The detective unlocked his trunk, removed the brown paper bag containing the evidence gathered at the blast site. “I want to see if there's more work boots in the house. Same size.”

  Duane was puzzled. “How is that important?”

  “Circumstantial evidence. You never know what little thing will sway a jury. It was before your time, but there was a famous case in Hollywood, where the defense attorney said, 'If the glove don't fit, you must acquit'.”

  “So the murderer wore the boots?”

  “Son, you have a lot to learn about the detective business.” The glass slider to the entry was open. “Hallo,” he called, and they walked in, stared up at the soaring ceiling. “I live in an old stone house like this. Except I don't have a Stuckey's stuck on the front.” He examined the nicknacks on the shelves. “No pecan logs.”

  “It sounds like they're upstairs.” Duane pulled Buge's leash tight. “You sure it's OK for us to just walk in?”

  “If it ain't, her lawyer will tell us quick enough.”

  Honey and Varnish met them at the top of the stairs. “Did you have to bring your dog in here?”

  “Yes ma'am. He has your husband's scent. it wouldn't do for Detective Belknapf to take the wrong toothbrush.”

  Belknapf gloved up and removed the Timberland and the Taser from the bag. Varnish asked, “Is that a stun gun?”

  “Taser X26. Fifty thousand volts, and i
t's been fired. We have what looks like blood on the barbs.” He turned to Honey. “Another reason I need to know his blood type. If your husband was shot with this thing inside the Iron Works, then we not only have a missing person, but evidence of foul play.”

  Honey raised her eyebrows and her hopes at this suggestion. “My husband had many enemies.” It was the best she could do at short notice.

  The detective put the boot on the floor, and pulled out his steno pad, flipped back a page. “It is possible it was fired in there by one Harry Mertz, recently deceased. Or by a mook whose name escapes me, but will come back, in due time.”

  Varnish muddied the waters with an old congressional red herring. “A third option is McClintock shot either Mertz or your mook.” He turned to Honey, hastily adding, “In self-defense, of course. Certainly warranted, if either of those two were holding the Python on him at time.”

  Detective Belknapf realized he was dealing with a pro here. “Ms. Poitrine, does your husband own a Python?”

  “No, we don't have pets of any kind.”

  “No, no; it's a pistol, made by Colt.” He pulled the revolver from the paper bag, and she recoiled.

  “Get that thing out of my house! I never allowed my husband to bring one in, and I don't even know you.”

  Belknapf returned it to the bag. His own sidearm was out of sight, in an FBI rig at the small of his back. “OK, OK. Sorry about that.”

  “Duane said, “Ma'am, when I apprehended Mr. McClintock he was in possession of a firearm.”

  “Yes, and it was probably because I told him no way was he going to leave it here. I also told him to go throw it in the pond, but obviously he didn't listen.”

  Belknapf jumped in. Where there were firearms in a case, usually they were fired. “Knowing your feelings, why did he even carry one?”

  “I have no idea.” She wasn't about to tell them Spider gave it to him. She wan't about to mention Spider at all. If these dopes wanted to blame Harry and the mook, that was fine with her.

  They found size ten footwear in Mac's closet, and an Oral B toothbrush in the bathroom.

  Bugle thought it smelled like Mac, although the Sonicare held the scent of a girl he'd recently wrestled with; the room was filled with both their scents, and he was momentarily confused. Then he remembered overhearing an instructor at Gynco tell Duane you could always depend upon a dog's instincts.

  He barked at the toothbrush, and then watched the fat man drop it in a plastic evidence bag, seal it, fill out a receipt, and give it to the lady. Humans, you gotta love 'em, and their primitive understanding of his species.

  Chapter Thirty

  When Mags returned to the job site Jack broke the news. “OSHA is closing us down. Both them and the cops are investigating. I asked how long, and they said as long as it takes.”

  Fuck. Now what? She handed him the banded hundreds. “Pay yourself, then divvy the rest to the guys. We may be back to work in a week, and we may be out of business. This is all beyond anything I can handle, Jack, so if you have any words of wisdom, now would be the time to give 'em to me.”

  “Well, I've been through a few job site accidents, a death one time, from a cave-in, but we always kept moving while the lawyers argued.” He stared at the wreckage in the river. “This time, I don't know. Mostly I been on tear-down jobs, so I ain't got much experience with explosives.”

  He checked out her new look, and believed that whatever happened, the kid would land on her feet. “You don't need to be no expert to know the explosion went off before it was supposed to. And your insurance company is gonna want to find someone to blame. Someone that lets them off the hook.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  Jack pointed to the billboard, and gave her a hint. “Like you said, above your pay grade. The way I figger it, H. Poitrine is where the buck stops. Your mother is gonna need a good lawyer. A whole bunch of 'em.”

  Lawyer. Daddy Mac's lawyer, King Something. He was in the job site trailer, in the drawer where she'd found the compliance documents. She raced there, to find a name and an address.

  Thirty minutes later she was in the lobby of a tan brick building, searching for his name among the other lawyers, realtors, and CPAs. Suite 406.

  She told a late twenties blonde with nails, hair, and a tailored suit, she wanted to see Kingman Brewster. She replied, “I'm Margo, his paralegal. May I tell him what this is about?”

  “It's about my stepfather, Mac McClintock. He's missing and presumed dead.”

  She told the attorney, “They found his boot and his watch, and they're talking about dragging the river.” She looked around the office. There was a catch in her voice as she added, “And I don't know what to do.”

  Yards of buckram-bound legal volumes competed with framed diplomas and awards. There was a wall devoted to photographs of Daddy Mac's lawyer with a bunch of people. She recognized Sean Penn, Susan Sarandon, Bono. Mags guessed she was supposed to be impressed. Big whoop; when her mother was dancing in Vegas she met lots of stars. They all spent lots of time looking at themselves.

  The man himself was Daddy Mac's age, but tall and lean, and in the style of today's powerful, had shaggy, careless hair. Mags thought if you covered it with a ten gallon hat, and handed him a six shooter, he would be the fastest gun in Wilkes-Barre. She relaxed. But not much. Uncle Saylor always said the only thing worse than a lawyer was two of 'em.

  “The first thing we do, Ms. Poitrine,” he said, opening a folder and handing her a pen, “is have you sign the document that legally makes you an officer of the corporation. Your stepfather was supposed to bring you in last week, but it seems to have slipped his mind.” He had icy blue eyes that made her wonder if Mom had ever fallen under their spell. Or he hers.

  He pointed to a signature line at the bottom of the document, already signed and dated by Daddy Mac. “Sign on the line below his, and enter the same date he did.” He laid a finger beside his nose. “I'll never tell.”

  She clicked the pen. Rules are for fools. This guy was cut from the same cloth as Mac McClintock. Since he was Daddy Mac's lawyer, she decided to semi-trust him. “Mr. Brewster, last month I was leading my high school field hockey team to the state championship. For fun I play with the machinery.

  “He's been teaching me stuff, but I don't know dick about the business end of H. Poitrine & Associates.” She paused to scrawl Magnolia Poitrine on the document. “And my mother knows even less. So tell me; what power does she have? Like, can she sell the company? Because she sure as hell can't run it.”

  Brewster tented his fingers and stared at her over them. This kid was everything Mac had promised, and more. God, if he were twenty years younger. He quashed the nascent tort, and addressed the situation at hand. If Mac really was dead, then so was his company.

  “Ms. Poitrine— Magnolia; Mags, if I may— neither you or your mother has any real power. A corporation is a legal method of avoiding personal liability. That's why I had you sign and back-date this piece of paper.”

  He waved the document at her. “The corporation was also set up as minority-owned, to take advantage of certain government proclivities. Your mother owns the non-voting common stock, your father holds the preferred shares. I wrote both their wills, so if he's really dead, she inherits. Then she can sell the company.”

  Mags began to understand her stepfather's devious mind. “Mr. Brewster—Kingman; King, if I may—I just came from the bank. Heston, I mean Mr. Collander, led me through the labyrinth. H. Poitrine & Associates is a shell. All the money is in a bunch of separate entities. I don't know what they're called—”

  “They're called limited liability companies. LLC for short. One of the benefits is pass-through income taxation. And if carefully managed, avoidance of same.” He wasn't going to say more, until he had to. If Mac was gone the kid would need a tutor. “And you're right, that's where the money is. Unfortunately, you and your mother don't have access to any of it.”

  He doesn't know about the bank box
. “So there's no way to even meet payroll?”

  “Nope. Your stepfather was not a long-term planner. Of course, none of us think we're going to die.”

  “I was just talking to our foreman, and he mentioned liability insurance. Do we have any?”

  “There's a rider holding the Redevelopment Authority harmless in case of non-performance, but it doesn't cover anything like this. As you say, the corporation has no assets, so what would be the point?”

  She didn't really give a hoot about her mother's powers, or corporate liability insurance. She was afraid her signature on the state and federal inspection authorizations could bite her on the ass. She handed him the company's copy of the compliance documents. “I signed this earlier today, without inspecting the Iron Works first, and I may be in trouble.”

  “Depends on the various entities involved. OSHA, the Corps of Engineers, Lackawanna. Even the city, hoping to recover search and rescue costs. Short answer, yes, as an officer of the corporation, you'd be liable, but without proof of intent, not criminally. I could tie them up in so many knots Alexander the Great couldn't cut them.”

  Mags slipped her hand inside her suit, grasped the pack of hundreds. “How much do you charge?”

  “More than you can afford. If you have a dollar bill, give it to me. It's called a retainer.” Hands linked behind his head, he relaxed in his high-backed, leather-upholstered chair, and raised his feet to his desk. Mags was not surprised to see hand-tooled cowboy boots. “I put a codicil in both those wills, and your stepfather appointed me as your guardian. As such, I will be well paid, down the road.”

  Mags removed her hand. Daddy Mac was looking out for her interests, from the Other Side. The bank box of hundred dollar bills would remain their secret.

  She drove the Mercedes, hard and fast, over the back roads of Luzerne county, running all this new information through her mind. Daddy Mac's car was big and powerful, and it was tempting to just take off in it. Empty the box, and head for Patagonia, like Butch and Sundance. It was somewhere in South America, and she was pretty sure you could get there by road. But first she had to nail a murderer.