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

by Dallas Gorham

  More tapping. “What’s your source on the firm’s insolvency?”

  “When I first visited the firm’s offices, I noticed lots of empty offices. When I returned to Houston later, I corroborated their problems with the firm’s accountant and with Will Meacham, a business reporter at the Houston Tribune. Do you know him?”

  “No, but I’ll call him to get background if I need it. Spell his name.” I did. She tapped her keyboard again. “Go on.”

  “Then I discovered from Simonetti and Turbot’s cellphone records that Simonetti had contacted Turbot directly while he and Lorraine were in Houston.”

  “How did you get the cellphone records?”

  I winked at her. “Let’s just say that the NSA isn’t the only one who knows how to scoop up cellphone metadata.”

  She laughed. “So Ike Simonetti contacted Turbot...”

  “To get him to find someone to kill Simonetti’s half-sisters.”

  “Why would Turbot do that?”

  “I searched county records on Turbot and discovered that there was a big mortgage on his River Oaks mansion that was being foreclosed. His house was so far underwater that a snorkel wouldn’t have helped.”

  “So Turbot was hanging on by his fingernails when Simonetti approached him?”

  “Right. Plus, I found out that Simonetti’s real estate company had acquired Turbot’s mortgage from the original lender.”

  Crowell looked up from her laptop. “So Ike used the mortgage to squeeze Turbot?”

  “Yeah. Turbot was in default.”

  More tapping. “This is great stuff. Let’s hear more.”

  “Simonetti’s real estate company deposited a large check into Turbot’s escrow account at his law firm the day after he and his wife returned to Port City.”

  “How large a check?”

  When I told her, she whistled. “That’s got to be too much to be legal.”

  “Tell me about it. The next day, Turbot writes a check on his escrow account for fifty thousand dollars to Leonard J. Lucas, attorney-at-law. He used the rest of the money to bring his mortgage payments current.”

  “How did you uncover the deposit into Turbot’s account?”

  “I have magical powers.”

  Crowell chuckled. “Okay, how did you uncover the check Turbot wrote to Lucas?”

  “Lucas told me. And I confirmed the check independently.”

  “And how did you do that?”

  I waved a hand. “Abracadabra.”

  “Okay, we’ll leave out that part. Go on.”

  “As I said, Lucas was a criminal lawyer in Houston.”

  “Was?”

  “He’s now conveniently dead—convenient for Simonetti.”

  “Any previous connection between Turbot and Lucas?”

  I sipped my water. “The police are looking. The law firm has connections all over Texas.”

  I waited while she entered that information, then I continued. “Lucas took the check straight to Turbot’s bank and cashed it—fifty thousand dollars in good old U.S. greenbacks. Usually an attorney would deposit a check like that into his escrow account.”

  “How do you know he cashed it?”

  “The bank’s policy requires that a driver license number be written on the check when someone cashes a check in person. That gives proof the payee showed identification. I have a copy of the check.”

  “I know you won’t answer, but I have to ask: How did you get the check copy?”

  I smiled. “Abracadabra.”

  Crowell shrugged. “Okay, better left unsaid. Why did Turbot agree to arrange the murders?”

  “We’ll never know unless Turbot turns up alive and tells us.”

  “Turbot’s missing too?”

  I nodded. “My guess is that Simonetti threatened to foreclose unless Turbot helped him kill his half-sisters. The week after the sisters died, Simonetti’s real estate company filed a Release of Lien form for Turbot’s home mortgage.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “In effect, Simonetti marked Turbot’s mortgage ‘paid in full’ as his final payment for murdering the half-sisters.”

  Crowell tapped on her laptop some more. “Go on.”

  “Then six weeks after the sisters died, someone injected Sam Simonetti with Fentanyl, causing a fatal heart attack.”

  “Was it Ike?”

  I started to shrug, then winced as my right shoulder lanced with pain. “We may never know. A Fentanyl vial went missing from the hospital a few days before Sam died. Lots of people had access to the drugs.”

  “Did Ike steal it?”

  “Not personally. But he could’ve hired a janitor to steal it. A hospital janitor did disappear the day after the Fentanyl went missing.”

  “Did Ike have the janitor killed?”

  “Who knows? The janitor walked out the door one morning on his way to work. No one’s seen him since.”

  “What about Sam’s widow, Ramona? Originally, you pointed to her as a suspect. Could she have injected the Fentanyl?”

  “Yes, but after her previous husbands died, she cremated them to destroy evidence. She buried Sam. That’s what we professional sleuths call a clue.”

  “I get it. It means she didn’t know he’d been murdered.”

  “Right. Ramona may be a black widow, but she didn’t do this one. I think Simonetti beat her to the punch.”

  “What about Wallace? She’s a doctor. She could get Fentanyl.”

  “Wallace was in Chicago at a medical convention when the drug went missing. Also, the security video of the hospital corridors around the time of Sam’s death shows Wallace was never alone with him in his room. Ike was, on at least two occasions.”

  “So where’s Ike now?”

  I remembered not to shrug this time. “No one’s seen him. The other blood at the parking lot was his, so I did wound him. But he escaped before the cops arrived.”

  “One other thing doesn’t make sense, Chuck.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your investigation of the Cleveland fire ultimately uncovered Simonetti’s involvement in several murders. Why would Simonetti hire you to investigate the fire in the first place?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “But you told me that Simonetti was your client.”

  “Oh, he was, but he didn’t hire me to investigate the fire.”

  “Then why did he hire you?”

  “That part is still confidential.”

  Chapter 69

  Wallace wasn’t dressed like a Hollywood version of Businesswoman of the Year. Quite the opposite. She wore old blue jeans and a faded Polo shirt over sneakers. I hadn’t figured she even owned an old pair of anything. She’d put on a couple of much-needed pounds too. It looked good on her—less harsh. And today she wore almost no makeup, just a little lipstick and eyebrow pencil. She looked forty-one, but it was an honest forty-one.

  She bounced Gloria on her knee. “That’s a pretty girl. Can you say ‘I love you, Aunt Lorraine’?” she cooed.

  Gloria babbled and blew spit bubbles.

  I said, “Lorraine, you’re taking to motherhood in a big way.”

  “What’s not to like? I always wanted children, but Ike didn’t warm to the idea. I can’t figure out how he fooled me for ten years.”

  “You know that old saying—hindsight is always 20/20.”

  Wallace set Gloria on a blanket. “With that famous hindsight, I realize that Ike would’ve never settled for one-third of Pop’s estate—not if he could get it all. After Pop had his first heart attack, Ike and I discussed how much money was enough. Ike used to say ‘You can never have too much money.’ I thought he was kidding; now I know he meant every word.”

  “Ike didn’t care much for his half-sisters either.”

  “No, but having them killed? And why would Frank Turbot do such a stupid thing. When he hired that arsonist, he lost everything. He was a successful family lawyer.”

  “Was is the key word, Lorraine; he was s
uccessful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Turbot refinanced his house at the top of the real estate bubble. He put every penny into an Internet stock that went belly up. When his income from the law firm collapsed, he couldn’t make his mortgage payments.”

  Wallace reached down and stroked Gloria’s hair absent-mindedly. “The law firm appeared to be doing okay when I was there last September.”

  “The firm was still trying for a turnaround last summer. Later, they cut expenses right and left. They fired a third of their partners and laid off half their employees before Halloween.”

  “What about Frank? He wasn’t fired. He should’ve been okay.”

  “Not really. His firm was almost broke. To make matters worse, Ike held the mortgage on Turbot’s house. He could foreclose if Turbot refused. So he took Ike’s money and contracted with Lenny Lucas.”

  “Lucas is the guy who knew the arsonist?”

  I nodded. “I told you about him when I confronted you in your office.”

  Wallace shook her head. “I was so shocked that I don’t remember anything you said.”

  “I’m truly sorry about that, Lorraine. If I were you, I’d be plenty pissed at me.”

  She waved it off. “You were just doing your job. If not for you, Frank and Ike would’ve gotten away with it.”

  “It’s ironic that Ike’s hiring me is what exposed his own crimes. And now he’s vanished, Ramona’s in a Mexican prison, and you’re Gloria’s new mom.”

  Wallace handed Gloria another rattle to replace the one she’d dropped. “And I love that, don’t I, pretty girl? Yes, I do. Aunt Lorraine loves you, loves you, loves you.”

  Wallace made a serious face. “Changing the subject, I read Pop’s autopsy report. A Fentanyl injection precipitated his heart attack. Who did it?”

  “At first I suspected Ramona. Then I suspected you, but it could’ve been Ike.”

  “That’s hard to believe. Not his own father. Ramona, I’d believe. She murdered three previous husbands in Mexico.”

  “But then she had them cremated to destroy the evidence,” I said. “Ramona had Sam buried, not cremated. And no one else had a motive.”

  Wallace shuddered.

  “Lorraine, let’s talk about less gruesome matters. There’s a business decision you need to make. Can we talk a little private investigator business?”

  “Business decision? Shouldn’t Vicky Ramirez be making those, now that Ike’s gone?”

  “Technically, Vicky Ramirez’s law firm is my client as counsel for the executor of the estate. Vicky tells me that Sam’s will made you Ike’s successor as executor if Ike were out of the picture. Since he’s on the run, you’ve been promoted. Vicky told me to talk to you.”

  Wallace tapped her index finger on her bottom lip. “Okay. I guess I’m the logical one. After all, Gloria is Pop’s only heir, and I’m her guardian.”

  “That’s what we need to talk about.”

  “Gloria?”

  “Gloria is not Sam Simonetti’s child.”

  Wallace’s eyebrows lifted. “How so?”

  “I received more DNA results yesterday. I know who Gloria’s biological father is.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Ike.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I nodded. “DNA doesn’t lie.”

  “Well, that’s a whole new ballgame, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, and you need to look at the ramifications of this so you can make a business decision.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “So far, Vicky and I are the only ones who know.”

  “What about the DNA lab?”

  I waved a hand. “They’re bound by a confidentiality agreement.”

  “What difference does it make who knows? The truth always has a way of coming out. You, of all people, should know that.” Then Gloria cooed, and Wallace gazed at her with wide eyes. “So this is Ike’s daughter.”

  “That’s the decision you have to make. Legally—until someone contests her parentage—she’s still Sam’s daughter and heiress, not Ike’s.”

  “Well, I have my own money; I don’t need Pop’s. Gloria can have it. Hell, she would eventually inherit it from me anyway. And Gloria being Ike’s daughter smacks of incest. I’d hate to have the family name associated with that. I’ve decided to become a full-time, stay-at-home mom.”

  “Congratulations; that’ll be great for Gloria. But, if you want me to, I could prove that Sam is not Gloria’s father without disclosing who her real father is—no incest implied.”

  “How?”

  “With the DNA from Sam’s autopsy.”

  Wallace nodded. “I’d forgotten about Pop’s DNA.”

  “You’re her guardian regardless of who her father is.” I raised both hands. “I’m not suggesting that you cut Gloria out of the will. But I have an ethical duty to make sure that you know all your options. Only you can decide Gloria’s fate.”

  “God, that was so long ago when I wanted to cut her out of the will.”

  I nodded. “Anyway, if no interested party challenges Gloria’s paternity, she’ll inherit half of Sam’s estate. Now that Ramona is in a Mexican prison, you and Ike are the only remaining interested parties. As Gloria’s guardian, you’re in charge of her trust fund. So you could make sure she’s taken care of and also draw a reasonable salary for that.”

  “What happens to Ike’s half of Pop’s estate?”

  “If Ike killed his father and we can prove it, he can’t profit from his crime. Ike could not inherit. Then Gloria inherits the whole shebang.”

  “Can you prove that Ike killed Pop?”

  “Not yet. And if we can’t prove it, I don’t know what happens. Vicky would be in court for a long time sorting out what to do with Ike’s half of Sam’s estate. But remember that I have a personal stake in your decision.”

  “Personal?”

  “Yeah, my bonus. If no one challenges Gloria’s paternity, I don’t get my million dollar bonus, which I almost got killed to earn.”

  Wallace waved a hand dismissively. “As the new executor under Pop’s will, I’ll direct Vicky to have the estate pay your bonus anyway. I don’t want Gloria labeled as a bastard for the rest of her life. Deal?” She stuck out her hand.

  I shook it. “Deal. Changing the subject, what’re you going to do about your marriage to Ike?”

  “If he stays hidden, Vicky says I can claim he abandoned the marriage and divorce him after twelve months.”

  She smoothed Gloria’s hair. “Ike cleaned out our joint account last Friday while he was in Alaska. But there was less than a hundred thousand in it. That should run out soon.”

  “Ike never went to Alaska,” I said. “He got off the flight in Chicago and flew back to Port City under another name. He wanted an alibi for my murder. He even got a satellite phone to call me on, so I’d think he was in the wilderness. He’d already planned to run. Ike cleaned out his brokerage and bank accounts and transferred sixty million dollars to a bank in some Pacific island kingdom last week.”

  “Hmm. Let’s get you some carrots, sweetheart.” Wallace carried Gloria into the kitchen. I pulled the high chair into position with my left hand. My right arm and shoulder were still in a sling.

  Wallace began to feed Gloria. “How did you get Ike’s DNA?”

  “After our last meeting in Vicky’s office, I took his coffee cup to my lab; his saliva was on the rim. He was the next logical man to check after Reynaldo.” I paused. “And speaking of Reynaldo...”

  Wallace said, “I can explain, Chuck. I knew Ike screwed around—Ramona wasn’t the first time. I felt entitled.”

  “You don’t have to explain to me, Lorraine. Reynaldo looks like a Latin movie star; you’re a red-blooded woman. Besides, you’re the client now; you don’t owe me an explanation.”

  “But you’re also a friend; you deserve an explanation.”

  “How can you call me a friend when I accused you of murder?”

/>   “Doing your job, remember?”

  “You’re a better person than I am, Lorraine.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re making the world safe for democracy.”

  Chapter 70

  I sipped my morning coffee as I walked to the office window. The sun had risen above the parking garage across Bayfront Boulevard and glared through my windows. I glanced up at the roof where Tom Collins had hidden when he tried to ambush me.

  I used my right hand to adjust the blinds enough to block the sun. It felt good to have the sling off. I could move my right arm pretty well, even though I’d been practicing with my left hand at the shooting range. My left ribs had healed. The scar from the bullet that grazed me would fade soon enough. They always did.

  Nancy had placed the previous day’s snail mail on my desk. I thumbed through the stack and stopped when I saw the engraved envelope from Vicky’s law firm. Vicky had told me she was mailing my bonus check. I’d never seen a check for one million dollars. I wondered if I’d feel different when I held it in my hand. Yes, I decided I would feel different. I lay the envelope aside in anticipation while I opened the other mail.

  There was a bill for the Silver Ghost repair—again—from my classic car mechanic. I tossed catalogs and other junk into the recycle bin. I read a postcard of Notre Dame Cathedral from Abuelita and my great aunt Carolina, vacationing in Paris. I smiled at the thought of the two widows giving confession in Notre Dame.

  I picked up the envelope from Vicky again. “Come to Papa, baby,” I whispered. I savored every second. I’ll remember this moment for the rest of my life.

  I reached for my letter opener, listened to the blade rasp as it cut the paper. As I expected, the envelope held a transmittal letter. I listened to the engraved letterhead crinkle as I unfolded it to find the law firm’s check. The check was printed on golden paper—somehow appropriate. I held the check to my nose and inhaled. I wanted to remember the smell of one million dollars. It smelled like Vicky’s perfume—probably transferred from her wrist as she signed the check.

  My eyes caressed every word of Vicky’s transmittal letter. I kissed the check over the dollar sign. Then I folded it once and stuck it in my shirt pocket.