Six Murders Too Many (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 1)

by Dallas Gorham

  “Do fish get wet when it rains? I’ll email the results like usual.”

  Within two hours Flamer emailed Wallace’s card charges and cleared checks. I printed and sorted the copies across my desk. Tennis lessons with Mateo every Wednesday.

  I checked the times Simonetti was in Latin America. Those weeks Wallace had two additional tennis lessons on Mondays and Fridays. I studied the periods Simonetti was incommunicado in Alaska or Canada. Six of seven periods Wallace had no charges at the Wessington. No tennis, lunches, cocktails, nada.

  I referred to Wallace’s personal checks, ATM, and credit card charges that I had arrayed across the desk. I selected the oldest hunting trip to Canada two summers ago.

  Bingo!

  She had bought two tickets to Nassau on separate flights. She had stayed at the Bahamian Caribe, a five-star resort on Paradise Island. She also had charges at the Cracked Conch. I checked its website. A restaurant in downtown Nassau.

  I checked the other times Simonetti had gone to Alaska or Canada. Three times Wallace went to Nassau and once to Bermuda. Once she charged a cruise from Miami to Jamaica and Grand Cayman. The cruise took ten days—too long for Wallace to stay gone. Then I saw she’d charged air tickets from Jamaica to Port City. She and Mateo must’ve skipped Grand Cayman and gotten off the ship early to beat Simonetti home.

  Wallace stayed at the Bahamian Caribe and visited the Cracked Conch every time she went to Nassau.

  Time to go see Mateo again. I suspected he’d already left for Nassau. I wondered if he liked Bahamian food.

  ###

  I got to the Wessington Club before lunch. I stopped at the reception desk. “I’m here for lunch with Reynaldo Mateo.”

  The receptionist picked up the telephone and punched a number. “A gentleman is here for a luncheon meeting with Reynaldo.” She listened. “Thanks, I’ll tell him.” She hung up. “Mr. Mateo had to leave town for a family emergency.”

  ###

  I called Wallace’s office. “This is Chuck McCrary. I’m a friend of Lorraine’s. Can I speak to her?

  “I’m sorry, Mr. McCrary. Dr. Wallace has taken a few days off.”

  “That’s funny. I met with her earlier this week, and she didn’t mention a vacation.”

  “It was spur-of-the-moment. She called me this morning from Houston and told me Ike had gone fishing. She’s visiting her sister. Would you like me to take a message?”

  “No thanks. It’ll wait.”

  I called Wallace’s mother in Houston. She hadn’t talked to Lorraine in a week. I called Wallace’s sister, Virginia Compostela, in Houston. She said Lorraine was out shopping.

  I called Simonetti’s PA again. “Tom, do you know where Lorraine is?”

  “Have you checked her office?”

  “Yes.” I told him about my calls looking for Wallace.

  Collins said, “If she went to Houston, she would visit her mother. She and her mother have a close relationship.”

  “Not as close as the one with her sister.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ike didn’t hire me for this, but I found out some info he needs to know. Ike told me he has no secrets from you.”

  “That’s right.”

  I told him that Snoop had tailed Wallace to the seaplane flight to Nassau. I told him about the Wessington Club statements and Wallace’s credit cards and checks. “I went by the club to see Mateo and guess what? He left town for a family emergency. I’ll bet a buffalo burger to a biscuit that Lorraine is with Mateo, and her sister in Houston is in on the secret and she’s Lorraine’s alibi.”

  ###

  I called Flamer. “Punch into Lorraine Wallace’s American Express account online and tell me if she’s charged any tickets in the last two days. I’ll hold.”

  Flamer was back in two minutes. “Two tickets to Nassau on different flights Saturday, then a charge for a Nassau limousine service, then a credit card hold from the Bahamian Caribe hotel when she checked in.”

  ###

  I called Terry. “You free for dinner, Queens?”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I need to know what kind of panties to wear—if any.”

  “How about some of both?”

  “I prefer a little business and lots of pleasure.”

  “Tough negotiator. Okay, lots of pleasure. Even some heavy petting.”

  “And hanky-panky?”

  “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “I’m counting on a hard bargain. When do we begin the festivities?”

  “Seven-thirty. The business part we take care of at dinner; the heavy petting and hanky-panky come after.”

  “Come over here. I’ll cook dinner for you. And breakfast.”

  “This is a business dinner, so I’ll bill the client. We can have dessert at your place.”

  “Dessert involves whipped cream and gooey, sticky chocolate syrup.”

  “I love it when you talk sticky.”

  ###

  Terry and I were seated at Nine Dragons after eight. “So Chuck, I don’t mean to pry, but where were you last weekend?”

  “Fighting for truth, justice, and the Mexican way.”

  “You mean ‘truth, justice, and the American way.’”

  “In this case, it’s the Mexican way. I delivered Ramona Elena Gomez Simonetti to Mexican justice last Thursday.” I told her the story.

  “...and the last thing I said was ‘Surprise.’”

  Terry guffawed. “I wish I could’ve seen her face.”

  We finished our first glass of wine. We had taken a taxi, so I’d ordered a bottle. “Terry, I’m investigating a woman who’s having an affair with her tennis pro.”

  “This the same woman and the same tennis pro you asked me about a month ago?”

  “Different woman, same tennis pro.”

  “This guy gets around.”

  I related the important aspects of the case. “I thought you might have an insight I’ve overlooked. My client is the husband. He’s quite wealthy, but so is she. That’s what I want your take on.”

  “Okay. Does either one travel for business?”

  “Yeah, he does. And he hunts and fishes without his wife for a week or more at a time. But he phones home or Skypes his wife every night when he can.”

  Terry rubbed her chin. “That means they do their tummy rubs in the daytime. Does she work?”

  “She’s a dermatologist. Her schedule includes weekly tennis lessons with the pro.”

  “What about emergencies?”

  “Dermatologists don’t have many emergencies.”

  “What if hubby calls during the day?”

  “He never does. During the day he hunts and fishes.”

  I refilled our wine glasses when the appetizers came. “There’s something else too. Some trips are by float plane to the wild country in Alaska and Canada where there is no Internet or cellphone service.”

  “Then she’s home free. She could meet the guy in Bermuda or the Bahamas if she wanted.”

  “Funny you should say that. She flew to Nassau Saturday morning.”

  “With the guy?”

  “He took a later flight. But she bought both tickets.”

  “Makes sense that they wouldn’t travel together. Someone could recognize them.”

  “Why would she pay?”

  “That depends on whether the man is rich too. Since she paid, I assume he was never a touring pro. They usually have lots of money.”

  I nodded. “He’s a club professional. Rents a middle-class apartment and drives a Mustang, not a Ferrari.”

  “Does she have money?”

  “Millions.”

  “Does she like to control things?”

  “I’ve only seen her with her husband. She’s quite forceful, but that could be because she wants to misdirect my investigation away from her.”

  “That leaves us with the fact she has money and he doesn’t. If they go anywhere expensive,
like traveling, she’ll pay. Her tennis pro will be a kept man. But you’re overlooking the obvious.”

  “How so?”

  “Her husband’s trips to the outback? I’ll bet he’s getting a little strange also.”

  Two hours later, we returned to Terry’s apartment. She poured us Sambuca Molinari over coffee beans and set them on fire.

  And then the evening got even hotter.

  Chapter 54

  Lieutenant Weiner looked up from her desk. “We got the exhumation order from the Medical Examiner. We’ll get the body this afternoon. The ME will do the autopsy this weekend.”

  “Okay. Lorraine Wallace is boinking her tennis pro in the Bahamas. Terry and I are off to Paradise Island this evening to investigate. I’m here to pick her up. I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “Just make sure she’s on the job Monday morning.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  As I left the LT’s office, Renate Crowell stopped me in the hall.

  Crowell and I had crossed paths a few times when I was a cop. Calling us friends stretched the definition a bit. Call us ‘acquainted.’ I knew from her Facebook page that she’d worked at the Port City Press-Journal for twenty years, the last twelve on the police beat. She didn’t look that old, unless she’d started at the Pee-Jay when she was thirteen.

  She wore designer jeans, colorful running shoes, and an imitation man’s dress shirt topped by a dark gray vest. Reading glasses hung on a gold chain around her neck. Somehow she made the outfit work. She was smart and she was pushy, but I’d always found her fair and honest. “Chuck, why the order to exhume Sam Simonetti’s body?”

  “What order?”

  “Don’t even think you can deny it, handsome. Our courthouse snitch gave me the heads up when the DA requested the order a few days ago. I’ve been lurking in the background ever since.”

  “You always were a good lurker.”

  “Our courthouse nerd tells me the order was delivered to Lieutenant Weiner’s office this morning, so I came to interview her. And here you are.” She raised an eyebrow.

  “And here I am.”

  “And you’ve come from Weiner’s office.”

  “And I’ve come from Weiner’s office.”

  She paused for me to say more. When I didn’t, she added, “The exhumation order means that they intend to get an autopsy. And I’ve heard the cops view Sam’s death as suspicious.”

  “Cops view every death as suspicious.”

  “Ike Simonetti inherited a lot of money from Sam.” She paused again.

  I knew she was using an old reporter’s trick to get me to fill the silence. I decided to go for it. “So?”

  “A few days ago I saw you in the Port City Towers.”

  “Lots of people go to the Port City Towers.”

  “It’s Ike Simonetti’s office building, sweetie. Is he under suspicion? Do you represent him?”

  “Oh? Does Ike Simonetti office in that building? Renate, the Port City Towers has thirty-nine floors.” I tried to walk around her, but she stepped in front.

  “Slick, I watched you get on the elevator. Alone. I watched the floor indicators; it went straight to the thirty-eighth floor. Ike Simonetti rents the entire thirty-eighth floor. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Ike Simonetti is your client.”

  “Renate, you know that I’d never confirm or deny a client’s identity. I have a confidential relationship with all my clients.” I tried to walk around her again. Again, she stepped in front.

  “Sam Simonetti was a billionaire and one of the wealthiest men in the whole state. His death was big news, handsome. Exhuming his body is even bigger news. If you cooperate, you could spin the story to your client’s benefit.”

  “Until the medical examiner does the autopsy, there is no story, Renate. And I’m pretty confident that you wouldn’t publish mere speculation.” I glanced at my watch. “Now, if you’ll allow me to pass, I’m here to pick up my girlfriend. She’s a cop in this precinct, and I just paid a courtesy visit to Lieutenant Weiner, who is my old boss. My girlfriend and I have a date for the weekend.” This time I managed to get around her.

  She called after me. “Remember, handsome; I’ll get the story one way or another.”

  I didn’t want Crowell blundering around muddying the waters… yet. I decided to bait the hook. I looked back at her. “Wait for the autopsy. It’ll be worth it.”

  Chapter 55

  Terry and I strolled hand-in-hand to the hostess desk at the Sand Dollar restaurant in the Bahamian Caribe. A smiling young woman in an island-style dress picked up two menus as we approached. “Enjoy your day in Paradise. Table for two, sir?”

  “No, thanks. We’re meeting another couple for breakfast and they’re probably waiting at a table for us.” I glanced over her shoulder. “In fact, I think I see them now.” I took the menus from her hand and thanked her.

  I’d worn a Panama hat and sunglasses as a simple disguise. Terry and I sauntered across the coffee shop to look for Wallace and Mateo. It was a big place. After five minutes we returned to the hostess. “I can’t find our friends. Are there other places to get breakfast in the hotel?”

  “Yes, sir. We have eight restaurants, and four of them serve breakfast.”

  “Which is the most exclusive?”

  “The Café Manta Ray.”

  “That must be where we’re supposed to meet. How would I find that?”

  The hostess pulled out a small map and marked directions on it. “Take this with you, sir. Enjoy your day in Paradise.”

  We pulled the same looking-for-friends routine at the three other restaurants. It was now ten o’clock. I winked at Terry. “Time for Plan B.” We returned to the lobby and I found a house phone in a quiet spot behind the elevator bank.

  I dialed the operator. “Enjoy your day in Paradise. How may I direct your call?”

  “Ms. Wallace’s room please.”

  “Do you have a first name?”

  “Yes, Lorraine.”

  “Hold please.”

  The phone rang four times. A man answered. “Hello.”

  I put on my best fake Bahamian accent. “Enjoy your day in Paradise, Mr. Wallace. This is the room service kitchen here. We have your order ready, sir, but the clerk who took your order—I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t make out his handwriting for your room number. I can make out the first two digits: 1-7.” I’d figured they were staying on the concierge floor, the seventeenth.

  “We already had breakfast.”

  This time he said enough for me to recognize Mateo’s accent. “Really? Let me see. Oh, I see. It’s a complementary fruit and wine basket from management.”

  “That’s nice. It’s suite 1762.”

  “Thank you, sir. We’ll have it there in less than thirty minutes. Enjoy your day in Paradise.”

  Terry and I boarded the private elevator to the concierge floor. We went to our suite, number 1715. I didn’t linger in the hall because both Wallace and Mateo knew me, although Mateo knew me as Charles Andrews. I ordered a fruit and wine basket for suite 1762.

  I hung up and turned to Terry, who was applying skin moisturizer. “Mateo answered when I rang Wallace’s room.”

  I picked up the phone again and dialed the front desk. “Enjoy your day in Paradise. How may I help you, Mr. Andrews?”

  “I’d like to change to a room on the other side of the hall.”

  “Is there something wrong with your suite, Mr. Andrews?”

  “Oh, no. The suite is beautiful, but the balcony is on the east side. And my fiancé would rather watch the sunset than the sunrise. Could we change to a room with the balcony on the west?”

  “I have suite 1724 available. It will have a lovely sunset view from the balcony.”

  “Great. I’ll come get the keys.”

  “Oh no, Mr. Andrews. A porter will bring you two keys and help you move your luggage. Would you like to do it right now?”

  ###

  The you are here diagram in our new suite sho
wed fire escapes and room layouts for the entire floor. Eight even-numbered suites lay between us and Wallace and Mateo’s suite. I paced our room—sixteen feet wide. I could tell from the diagram that the intervening suites were either thirty-two or forty-eight feet wide. Ours was one of the four smallest. I estimated Wallace’s balcony at, say, three hundred feet away. Good thing I brought a telephoto lens.

  Eight balconies separated us from Wallace’s. This was off season, so we had a good chance the suites between us and the target would be empty. I wouldn’t have to shoot around a bunch of people on the other balconies.

  I looked up local sunset time on the Internet. Wallace and Mateo could be on their balcony from, say, 7:30 to 8:00 p.m. Or they could be at the Tiki bar. Or at one of eight restaurants on the property. Or the Cracked Conch. I asked Terry, “If you were on a tryst with your lover, wouldn’t you watch the sunset from your own balcony?”

  “As it happens, I am on a tryst with my lover. And I do want to watch the sunset from our own balcony. So let’s take our chances up here. If we miss them, we can have dinner at the Cracked Conch.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t take a chance that either one recognizes me.”

  Terry shrugged. “No guts, no blue chips. Now we have the rest of the day to ourselves. I move we go to the beach. I heard it’s topless.”

  “Motion carried.”

  We returned to our suite at 6:30. She grabbed my hand and led me into the bathroom, opened the glass door to the large shower, and pulled me in for some good, clean fun.

  We put on terrycloth robes and I poured glasses of Pinot Grigio. The clock beside the bed said 7:24. “Let’s go out on the balcony.” We were three hundred feet from our targets. They couldn’t make out a face at that distance.

  Two balconies between us and Mateo’s suite were occupied. I sighted through the telephoto lens and could recognize Wallace and Mateo in the distance. Terry went to the side of the balcony closest to the target and turned to face me. I went to the other side with the camera. If anyone noticed, they’d think I was photographing Terry. I aimed over her shoulder. I murmured to Terry. “I’ll wait for the others to move away. Can you stand there and look gorgeous for a while?”