Driven to Murder

by Judith Skillings

  “Hell, he didn’t have to be outside. With a recorder he could be as far away as the track. Damn, I should have tossed Peyton’s RV more thoroughly.”

  “Peyton? He might have been naturally sneaky, but he didn’t bug the house.”

  “You know who did?” He sucked the inside of his cheek, wished he had a toothpick. “Who? Tell me Groën saved the photograph and you identified the sniper.”

  She told him that the photo had been destroyed in the fire, though Groën had the disk. “Mick, he studied the photo when it was enlarged. The shooter’s face was obscured by shadows. But he noticed a scar on the forearm where a concentration camp tattoo might have been.”

  He sagged against the bars. “Moore, listen to yourself. Concentration camps, tattoos, sixty-year-old vendettas.” He turned his back on the desk sergeant, lowered his voice. “Is that why you’re getting so riled? You think this is a Nazi conspiracy? We’re in Indianapolis, for God’s sake. Heartland of America. How many Jewish camp survivors are still alive and hanging around the racetrack?”

  He heard a drawer slam, the scrape of keys in the brass bowl.

  She said, “At least one—Elise Carlson.”

  Mick paced the cell, flexing the fingers of his non-phone hand while Moore laid it out. She began with Carlson’s birth name and circumstances, drawing a path to the present. Threw in Brian Franks’s admissions as hearsay evidence. It was tantalizing, convoluted and mostly circumstantial. He didn’t want to believe it. And he sure as hell didn’t want Moore believing it and acting on it. She was clearly on a tear and he was stuck in the mock jail, which, thanks to this phone call, was starting to rile him.

  At first, he’d tried to bond with Chief Leonard Patten. Found him amusing even though the guy had watched too many late-night movies glorifying General Patton. The chief agreed that Evans was a school-yard bully, mostly bluster. He was inclined to believe Hagan’s version of the incident at the RV. He’d nodded in an understanding way when Mick had rationalized why neither Moore nor anyone else on the team had reported the sniper incident.

  This morning, though, Patten was testy. According to the deputy he’d spent the night building a case to charge Hagan on the assault of Peyton Madison. In his book, Hagan was the most logical suspect, maybe the only understandable one. Mick interpreted that to mean he was an outsider whose arrest wouldn’t annoy the locals. “Chief, I wasn’t in town when the race cars were sabotaged or the shot fired. I was six hundred miles east, giving out speeding tickets to pre-teens dragging farm tractors.”

  “Did I say you messed with the cars? Nope. I Figure Moore did that. Easy as pie for her. If the incidents occurred. No one on the team complained to track security. Maybe you’re lying about them, muddying the waters. Or maybe Moore lied to you to get you out here. Damsel-in-distress routine. Set you up. You wouldn’t be the first sap to do the dirty work for some female. Come to think of it, nobody was hurt until after you showed up.” He leaned his face against the cell, the bars pressing ruts into the flesh of his jowls. “What I said was: I think you assaulted Madison.”

  “Why? I didn’t know the man.”

  Patten straightened and ticked off his suspicions. “First, you were antagonistic toward the vic. People noticed you two having words at the restaurant party. Second, you were caught breaking into Peyton’s RV and assaulting his crew chief. Third, Peyton Madison was seen in public pawing at your girlfriend. Enough to get a red-blooded boy’s dander up, especially since you’re not getting any of what you came to Indianapolis to get.” At that, the younger cop sniggered.

  At the moment, what he was getting from Moore was an earful of fantasy and intrigue involving Elise Carlson. He tried to calm her—something he’d never been good at. Telling her that it was all her imagination did not go over well. Nor did recommending that she not do anything stupid. She rejoined by telling him to do something anatomically impossible, and hung up.

  Mick held the phone tight against his cheek to keep from throwing it at Patten when he stormed into the station. Lacking such restraint, Patten pitched his hat at the desk and faced Mick, hands on hips.

  “Hagan, we got ourselves a problem. Peyton Madison did not die of a heart failure brought on by the attack, or through hospital negligence. He was murdered. Snuffed out while all helpless in a hospital bed. That kind of shit’s not supposed to happen. So let’s hear it. Go over your story again, every step, especially the part when you and Moore decided to visit Madison in the hospital. ’Cause boy, your fingerprints were all over his room.”

  Thirty-eight

  Jo skipped his Sunday-morning ritual of ham and eggs at Flo’s Café. For two weeks, Flo had hovered over his table, stewing nonstop about the bagel shop that was moving into a vacant building on North Main Street. The owners had put up flyers all over town. There was an ad in last week’s paper. Same page as the obituaries, where everyone would read it.

  “You hear me, lawyer? I’ll lose my customers, the restaurant. Have to sell my mother’s home. And what about Priscilla? She’s too sulky to hold down a real job. If she don’t work for me, who’ll hire her?” Flo was one hundred percent positive that Jo could unearth some legal reason to stop the bagel shop. He couldn’t, even if he’d wanted to. Flo, like everyone else in town, needed to adjust to the changes coming to Head Tide. The local politicians called it progress.

  He waited in line at the deli for take-out coffee. Drank it standing up, watching Sunday traffic mosey up and down Main Street. Then he crossed the street to Vintage & Classics. Letting himself in the front door, he walked through the office and into the car shop, stood just inside the door while his eyes adjusted to the diffuse light drifting in through windows at the far end. Sunday was the one day when none of Rebecca’s workers was likely to be there. Only the magnificent vehicles waiting patiently to be resurrected. He wasn’t mechanical, but he appreciated the cars. Their classic lines had endured decades of change, outlived hundreds of fads. They still turned heads as they traveled along back roads. Old men smiled with remembrance, young men drooled.

  Mainly, though, Jo liked them because they were used. That was the simple explanation. What he liked about classic cars was the same thing that attracted him to antiques: Generations had used and enjoyed them before him. People he’d never known had sat at his pedestal dining table. When the boards warped, someone had added catches in an attempt to close the center gap. A woman distracted from her chores had rested an iron too long on the surface and left a permanent imprint on one of the leaves. A child doing his lessons had dribbled blue ink, which his mother had tried to get out with bleach.

  One evening Jo had sprinkled a benediction of Cabernet from his glass onto the bleached area surrounding the ink spots. Smeared the red liquid in with the blue, adding a touch of his generation to the reminders from the past. Red wine, like blood, ingrained in the cracks for the next owner to ponder over.

  He picked up a rag from the workbench. With a light hand, he wiped a film of dust from the headlamp of a new arrival. Frank had called it a 20/25, a Rolls-Royce named for the engine displacement or taxation value or something. Not really listening, Jo had walked around the elegant open touring car, admiring it from every angle. Cherry red, brown leather seats, a low windshield trimmed in chrome. And those oversized headlamps.

  Alone in the shop, he did something he’d never done—unlatched the driver’s side door and slid onto the seat. Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, he played it back and forth. The car fitted him, far better than Rebecca’s dainty MG, though both cars exuded the same feeling of freedom. He wondered if he could drive it adeptly? Would it steer well, brake on command, corner without slowing to a crawl? He could easily imagine Rebecca beside him, trying to capture her hair grown long again as it whipped in the wind. He saw her face tanned and laughing in the island sun. He should ask Frank who owned the car and if there was a chance it was for sale.

  His cell phone rang, shattering the daydream.

  Before he looked, he gues
sed the number on the readout display would be Rebecca’s. It was. He felt a twinge of guilt. Silly. She didn’t know he was trespassing in one of her customer’s cars. He should feel guilty for cutting her off last night and be thankful she was still speaking to him. Or feel guilty over his refusal to help Hagan. If the cop had been taking better care of Rebecca, he might feel obligated. Or maybe not. He was finished with obligations.

  Over the past few weeks, Jo had done little else except tie up loose ends for the absent Rebecca. Friday, he’d bullied the local magistrate to issue a restraining order against Sergio Dohlmani, the nightclub owner Rebecca had sparred with. No formal charges had been filed; nothing could be proved. Dohlmani was too well-connected to be charged without sufficient evidence to go to trial. The restraining order was a Band-Aid to make Rebecca rest easier. Dohlmani was no more likely to come to Head Tide than she was to revisit his strip club.

  Next, he’d filed papers on her behalf to stall the developer from gutting the fields behind her house. He couldn’t stop him, but the delay would make construction more costly.

  All Rebecca was losing was the view of open acreage; still Jo empathized. His family’s tiny plot and house in Jamaica had been forfeited following his mother’s death. It had compounded his sense of loss. Every weekend after relocating to Maryland, he’d searched for new land, first stumbling across twelve unimproved acres being sold for back taxes. Then taking out a loan to buy the farmhouse next to it. He was driven to establish new roots in a new country. It would not be the same as the home he’d lost, but he needed a place to belong.

  Jo leaned back, molded his spine against the worn leather. The phone continue to chime. She wasn’t going to give up. How like Rebecca.

  Beyond that, he’d visited her parents, her grandmother, made arrangements with Frank to feed the cats and look after her house. Paulie promised to tend the gardens. The asters were profuse and iridescent in the afternoon sun. It was a pity Rebecca was missing them.

  He couldn’t bring himself to still the ringing by answering the phone. He was too distracted to talk to her again. The letter from his cousin had stirred up too many conflicting emotions. From the first reading, he’d known he would have to return to Jamaica to confront Thomas Levy. What he hadn’t realized was the impact that decision would have on his feelings for Rebecca. One irrational part of him was angry with her for being away. For not communicating with her parents. For being with Hagan, which was ludicrous since he was the one who sent Hagan to protect her.

  His other irrational self was angry with her for bringing him back to life. For making him want her and a future with her. He had no right to pursue that until he settled the past.

  The phone stopped ringing. Jo pocketed it and slid out of the car. It was time to go.

  Leaning over the door edge, he tucked an envelope between the seat and the back. It was addressed to Rebecca.

  Thirty-nine

  Rebecca slammed on the brakes inches from the bumper of an orange Mustang. Taking the car had been a huge mistake, more frustrating even than trying to reach Jo. She’d made good time gunning it down Hulman Boulevard to Cagle Lane, only to lose it all after merging with traffic on Georgetown. Everyone within a hundred-mile radius was heading to the track, but no one seemed to be in a hurry. Most were scouting out parking spots, slowing while they mulled over which was most important: the cost, the walking distance to their seats, or ease of escape after the race. Those going south wanted to park in lots on the left side of the road. Those going north preferred the right side. Both moves necessitated cutting across lanes of creeping traffic that refused to give way. Only Jasmine’s worried face peering over the dashboard kept her from issuing four-letter instructions to drivers blocking the road.

  Poking through traffic provided her with plenty of time to fume over Hagan’s patronizing attitude. He was infuriating, possibly more condescending than her crew members when she first joined the team. At least they were willing to accept she knew something. Hagan wouldn’t. If it wasn’t his idea, if he hadn’t thought of it first, it couldn’t be right. She thumped the steering wheel. Damn it, she knew she was right. As a reporter, her instincts had been correct ninety-five times out of a hundred. She’d learned to trust her intuition, to cut through the web of lies to get at the truth. Her gut was telling her that Elise Carlson was a woman driven to murder. She would stake her reputation on it, if she still had a reputation to stake.

  When she finally reached Sixteenth Street, she bumped the Corvette onto the lawn in front of the administration building. She threatened Jasmine within an inch of her life to stay in the car. If anyone official came to yell at her, explain that there was an emergency inside the track. Cry if she had to. Have them send a cop or security guards to the historic car area, Team Lotus.

  She yanked out her track credentials, discarded her purse on the seat next to Jasmine and ran. She sprinted east around the southwest vista of the track, heading for the main gate and the underpass into the infield.

  During the maddening drive over, her mind had whipped from one improbable scenario to an equally impossible one. In all of them Peyton Madison was in dire trouble, being stalked by the same assailant who had attacked his son. Carlson had only today to get him alone. Tomorrow, after the memorial service, he would return to South Carolina, be back among his friends, cosseted by private security. Following him there would be riskier, require involved planning. Her best shot was today.

  Over the din of stalled traffic, Rebecca had replayed her grandmother’s cultured voice exposing Heinrich Kauffman’s infamy one fact at a time. It began when Kauffman had betrayed his Jewish neighbors and profited from their misfortune under the Nazis. He’d fled Germany with his son, Heinrich junior, and his family. In Argentina, both adult males had gone to work for I. G. Farben, the German pharmaceutical giant that had flourished by producing Zyklon B—the hydrogen cyanide poison used in gas chambers at Auschwitz.

  “It was already on hand to fumigate the barracks, Rebecca. Very efficient of the Nazis to use it to annihilate the occupants as well.”

  Once in Argentina, Kauffman had attracted little attention, until his daughter-in-law and grandson died while vacationing at a mountain resort. After that, he’d become a recluse. The son disappeared.

  Some years later, one thousand miles north, Peyton Madison II, a chemist in his thirties, appeared on the business scene in New Jersey. He was married to a Latin beauty. According to the rumors of the day, he had a fortune in fabulous art, which he’d used as collateral. “It could not be confirmed that the art had once belonged to German Jews. Still, gossip between bankers over martinis hinted at the rare quality and value of the paintings.”

  It had taken Mrs. Wetherly’s contacts years to pick up the son’s trail once he slipped into America. Heinrich Kauffman, Jr., had bought a new identity to go with the new business. By the time PLM Chemicals was established and he was making a name for himself, the name was Peyton Madison II. After relocating the company in South Carolina, he invented the role of a gracious, though nouveau, Southern gentleman. On paper, he touted the requisite credentials. For nearly five decades the deception had held. Kauffman had lived an assumed life as Madison and made a success of it.

  Now, his past was catching up. The sole descendant of a family his father had robbed was tracking him down to claim their pound of flesh.

  According to Franks, Elise Carlson had absorbed her mother’s hatred, turned it into her personal vendetta. She wouldn’t be content with wiping out just the son. Much more satisfying to eliminate the patriarch, too. Carlson had known about the elder Madison before he arrived: where he lived, how to reach him. She knew of his antagonism toward his son’s gambling and race habits and the location of the family burial plot. All of which said she’d been tracking him for months. The father, not the son. Peyton had been the tethered goat used to lure his father within striking range.

  Rebecca slid on loose gravel turning the corner into the tunnel, grabbed the railing, stra
ightened. The sound of her feet slapping the concrete walkway was drowned out by the roar of engines as cars thundered by on the track overhead. The Historic Grand Prix had started.

  Exiting the tunnel, she pushed past an indecisive cluster of teens blocking the walkway and headed for the paddock area. Under the tents, chaos had given way to momentary calm. The Lotus crew had done their job. Ian was on the track in the early laps of the race. He was running third behind Whitten’s Brabham and the Ferrari 312 T-2 formerly driven by Niki Lauda. No one wanted to pay attention to her, they were too intent on the video monitors. The race was only twenty laps long; they wanted to savor each one.

  She squeezed her way next to Evans, gripped his upper arm and pulled. He swung around. His eyes lit with anger when he recognized her. He opened his mouth. She stepped on his foot. Stretched up to yell in his ear. “Elise Carlson. Madison. Where are they?”

  “Why the fu—. Jesus, you were ordered away from here. Don’t you listen?”

  She punched his arm. “Where are they?”

  Johnny sidled over, drawn by the explosive exchange. He grinned lopsidedly at Rebecca. “Crow’s nest. Mr. Madison was in the way. He knows squat about racing. Mrs. Carlson took him up high to show him what’s going on.”

  Rebecca faced the kid, hoping he could read her lips over the noise. “Which stand? Where?”

  Johnny flapped his head back and forth like a bobble-head doll. He finally twisted one-eighty, pointed in the direction of the southeast vista.

  “But—”

  One of the crew screamed. Evans’s fist pumped high in the air. Johnny swung back to the monitor. Ian had passed Whitten under braking in the hairpin at the end of the front straight. He’d moved into second.

  Forty

  Mick blinked a few times as Patten’s new accusation settled in. Was he surprised that Peyton had been murdered? No. Once or twice he was tempted to wipe the smirk off himself. But the brazenness of it, to walk into a hospital, kill a patient and leave without anyone noticing. That didn’t mesh with a sniper mentality. Unless the shooter had tired of playing cat-and-mouse and decided it was time to finish off the rodent, comatose or not.