by Lisa Turner
Highsmith unlocked the front door and flipped the light switch. He’d moved the furniture around. The sofa was pushed against the wall opposite the wood stove, and the chair had been turned toward an old General Electric TV that was set on top of three wood onion crates. Billy could smell pine cleaner in the bathroom and the paint cans sitting on newspaper in the bedroom. On the table beside the chair sat a bottle of eighteen-year-old Laphroaig Scotch.
He’d forgotten the silence of this house. On the barge he was surrounded by horn blasts from the Memphis Queen II as she leaves the dock, the clack-clack of semis rolling over the new bridge’s expansion joints, and the drumming sound of trains on the track fifty yards away. It felt odd to be in the settling quiet of this place, a house where he hadn’t been welcome since the day he’d told his uncle that he had quit law school.
He crossed his arms and leaned his back against the wall next to the door. “Tell me about this embezzlement scheme.”
Highsmith regarded him. “You want all the details?”
He nodded. Enough to catch you lying.
Highsmith sat on the arm of the sofa. “The first client Rosalyn assigned me was a teenager named Tarek Merkle. A hotel balcony railing gave way and dumped the kid two stories onto concrete. That put him in a wheelchair for life. Rosalyn got him a four-million-dollar settlement and put it in a trust for his benefit with Martin Lee serving as trustee. Tarek’s parents bought a wheelchair van so he wouldn’t feel limited by his impairment. Last spring he lost control of the van and rear-ended a car stopped in a turn lane. The driver died, a mother of four.
“The computer chip the cops removed from the van indicated he’d been doing sixty-eight in a forty zone. Tarek was charged with vehicular homicide. However, the case hinged on that computer chip, which might not be admissible as evidence. At least that would be my contention. The dead woman’s husband couldn’t sue the trust directly because Rosalyn had included a spendthrift clause. With four kids, the husband desperately needed money. Tarek was terrified he’d go to prison. Not a good outcome on either side.
“When I took the case, I checked the balance of Tarek’s trust. It was almost two and a half million. I suggested to the ADA that if they dropped the charges because of reasonable doubt, Tarek’s trust would pay the family a million dollars. That got everyone’s attention. The ADA and the family’s attorney wanted the balance in the trust verified before he would take it to the judge. I checked the account again on Friday. There was a little over seven hundred thousand. Over 1.7 million was missing.”
Billy whistled. “Computer error?”
“You’d hope so, but I’ve seen this before. I asked the family a few discreet questions. They weren’t aware of the loss, which isn’t unusual. Discrepancies in the balance can go undetected because the trustee doesn’t report to the court. The transactions can be made so complicated most beneficiaries can’t tell they’re being screwed. A lot of them don’t even look at the statements.
“I figured Martin was behind this. I gave Rosalyn and Saunders a temporary pass because they wouldn’t question information on annual reports coming from their own son or check the balance of the account. But my assumption changed.”
“Why?”
“Before I went to Rosalyn with the numbers, I did some digging. It’s an old firm so it has hundreds of clients with trusts. I wrote queries for all trusts in the firm’s database that specified the bank as trustee. Two kinds of beneficiaries are the easiest sheep to shear. The first are those who have no relatives to monitor the reports. Second are those with no beneficiary to receive a windfall.
“I spent the weekend sorting the list I had created with my queries of relatives of the trust beneficiary. For the majority of those trusts, the field came up empty. Then I looked for a check box called ‘final distribution made’ and found trusts that showed no distribution. No distribution. All those trusts had minimal balances, just enough to keep the trusts from being cleared and keeping the absence of distribution from being challenged.”
“What did that tell you?”
“Something happened to the remaining assets of those trusts. As trustee, Martin could easily have stolen them. I also searched for trusts where Saunders or Rosalyn had drafted the trust instrument. There were twenty-three of those files on site. What shocked me was that Caroline had been named as a backup attorney on seven of the most recent ones, meaning she could represent the trust in court. That made me suspicious she’d known what was going on.
“On Monday morning I asked Zelda to pull those files and send them to my office. She said they were sequestered and unavailable even to me as a partner. That sent red flags flying. Caroline could be part of the scheme, and I was to marry her that night.”
Billy didn’t want to believe any of this, certainly not that Caroline might have been involved. “So far I hear more speculation than fact. How is this connected to Caroline’s murder?”
“I wanted to believe she had moved the files to her office because she had her own suspicions. If she’d confronted Martin on Monday and threatened to expose him, I’m sure he would’ve done anything to prevent it, including kill her.”
“That’s a leap.”
“Not when you consider that this morning my ability to remotely access the firm’s database was revoked. Martin is in charge of the firm’s IT. Only he could have done that. I went to the office. Rosalyn called me in and said she had decided to eliminate my litigation department. She wrote me a $50,000 severance check, asked for my key, and told me to clear out my desk immediately.”
Billy came off the wall and went to the window to think. “I’m sure you’ve prosecuted similar cases in Chicago. You know what evidence you need to persuade a DA.”
“I can’t go in with a hunch. I need those files, but Martin has probably destroyed them by now.”
“What about the funds missing from the Merkle account? That’s the foundation for your case.”
“The balance is back to 2.5 million. I’m sure Martin has altered the records to cover the earlier withdrawal. My best chance to pursue this is if he’s forgotten to delete the backup on those sequestered files.”
“Would the DA act on the information you have?” Billy asked.
“Not a chance. I understand the ramifications of going after a family like the Lees. He wants to keep his job.”
“That’s quite a story.” Billy noted the clean floors, fresh paint on the walls, and the empty bottle of scotch, everything the way Highsmith had described it. He’d spent time here and left tracks down to the paint smear on the sleeve of his jacket. There was no cell service and no landline, so that part of his story worked.
They heard Zelda’s footsteps on the porch. Bad timing.
Highsmith scowled. “Detective, this isn’t over by a long shot.”
“It sure isn’t.”
“Hey, guys, I have to use the bathroom,” Zelda called. Billy opened the door. She joined them, glancing around the front room. “I’ve always been curious about this place. It’ll be great when it’s fixed up.”
She looked at Highsmith. “Has he accused you of murder yet? He pinned me with it on the drive over.”
Shut up, Zelda, he thought.
“The bathroom’s through there,” Highsmith said.
She looked from Highsmith to him. “It feels pretty grim in here. Is everything all right?”
“We’re good except for one thing,” Billy said. He took out his mobile. “Stand up straight for the camera, Mr. Highsmith.” He took the photo. The flash went off.
Chapter 35
Billy drove away from the diner thinking detective work was fairly basic: ask smart questions, take good notes, and follow the trail to the end. The tricky part was hearing what wasn’t being said.
Highsmith had given him well-organized and persuasive information. No surprise. He expected a former prosecutor to know how to throw up a smoke screen in a murder investigation. Highsmith had directed attention away from himself by pointing a fin
ger at Martin with enough detail in his story to make his claim plausible. What Highsmith didn’t know was that Martin’s girlfriend had provided him with an alibi for the night of the murder early in the investigation. He could ask Frankie to test the girlfriend’s statement with a second interview. If that held up, Highsmith’s belief that Martin had murdered Caroline was hot air. Highsmith’s other mistake was including Caroline and her folks in the scenario. Martin a thief? He could believe that. The rest of the Lees? Never. That left Highsmith on the hot seat.
Billy glanced over at Zelda riding quietly beside him. Saunders had, without intending to, further implicated Zelda by mentioning the gun. Billy wanted to get his hands on her derringer, preferably tonight, so he could rule her in or out.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled off of old Highway 61 and parked in front of The Hollywood Cafe’s painted brick buildings.
“Hold on,” Zelda said. “I pictured a nice piece of grilled fish and a glass of Cabernet at one of the casino restaurants, not deep-fried frog legs.”
“Ever had The Hollywood’s fried dill pickles?”
“Of course not.”
“Let’s give it a try.”
Most of the authentic Delta blues greats had played within the walls of the Hollywood Cafe at one time or another. The original building had been a commissary on a Delta plantation that sold food and supplies to the workers. The building was moved in the sixties to a street in tiny Robinsonville near Tunica, a second building was added, and the place became a bar and restaurant. The old walls still echo with the blues licks of Son House, Howlin’ Wolf, and B.B. King. In the nineties, sweet Muriel Wilkins played her upright piano to packed houses on Friday and Saturday nights.
Zelda dug in her purse for her mobile. “I tried to cancel my tap class while you were talking to Robert, but I couldn’t get through.”
“You should have service here.” He stepped out of the car for some privacy. “I’ll check my messages then we’ll go inside for a bite to eat.” He’d parked between a pickup truck stacked with Sheetrock and two-by-fours and a new Jaguar F-Type convertible with Connecticut plates. Typical of the Hollywood, tonight’s patrons were a mix of beer-drinking locals and tourists who’d pulled off of Blues Highway 61 in search of a taste of the Delta.
The bar had been Billy’s favorite hangout during summer breaks in his Ole Miss undergrad days. He and his buddies would come in for draft beer, chicken wings, and world-class blues performed on the tiny stage. Tonight he was a cop coming to verify a piece of Highsmith’s story.
Depending on traffic from Memphis to the casinos, the drive would’ve taken Highsmith over an hour. The medical examiner had estimated Caroline’s time of death between nine and eleven o’clock. Highsmith said he’d been here before nine. If that was true, it would’ve been difficult for him to commit the murder before leaving Memphis.
He checked his texts. Frankie was in the office. He texted back:
On the road. Can you do a face-to-face with girlfriend to confirm Martin’s alibi?
He paced behind the cars and trucks. She responded:
Will do.
That out of the way, he noticed Zelda waiting for him under the porch’s corrugated metal awning. Inside, the place hadn’t changed much since his college days. Muriel Wilkins’s old piano stood by the door, unplayable now because of its busted keys. To the left, ten wood tables lined the brick and plaster wall that had been decorated with tree branches and twinkle lights after a wedding party. The patrons enjoyed the lights so much they were never taken down. To the right a cypress bar ran the length of the room. An electric piano, a small drum kit, and a Peavey Bass amp stood on the small stage at the back.
They took the last table against the wall. The server brought a basket of Lance Saltines wrapped in cellophane and a saucer with pats of butter softened to room temperature. Billy opened a pack, spread butter on the crackers, and placed them on a paper napkin in front of Zelda. She stared at the crackers and wrinkled her nose.
Behind the bar a guy in his thirties was busy pouring wine and filling glasses with whiskey and ice. “I need a word with the bartender,” Billy said.
He stepped to the corner of the bar near the door and caught the man’s eye by flashing his shield. The bartender came over, wiping his hands on a towel.
“How can I help you?” His gaze ran down the line of customers seated at the bar.
“Detective Able, Memphis Homicide. You work on Mondays?”
“Every Monday.”
He held up his mobile with Highsmith’s photo. “Do you remember this man from last Monday night?”
The bartender took the phone and studied the screen. “What time was he in?”
“Middle of the evening. He ordered a beer.”
“One beer?” The bartender handed back the mobile. “Not the kind of customer I’d remember.”
“What about the servers?”
“A different crew’s here tonight. Lilly and Paula will be in tomorrow. You can check back.”
“Thanks for your time.” Billy pulled out a ten and handed it to the bartender. “Would you send over a glass of your best Cabernet?”
Returning to the table, he saw the buttered crackers he’d put in front of Zelda were gone. She’d ordered for both of them—blackened catfish and fried pickles for her, grilled shrimp, fried green tomatoes, and a side of hush puppies for him.
She tilted her head toward the bartender. “Did you get what you came for?”
“Not exactly.”
She opened a pack of crackers, buttered one of them edge to edge, and handed it to him. “You and Robert talked a long time.”
Her style of fishing for information had become more sophisticated. “If you’re wondering why he bought the diner, he has a friend in Chicago who wants to open a restaurant for the casino trade.”
She brightened. “Wouldn’t that be great?”
“It’s a terrible idea. A pipe dream.”
“Yeah, well. Some of us survive on pipe dreams.” Her eyes wandered the room. “I’m going to believe Caroline and Robert were secretly, madly in love and were about to be married.”
He watched her face, wondering if she was still fishing or if she’d known about their relationship all along.
Her wine arrived. She raised her glass. “To Caroline and Robert.” She took a sip. “This is nice. Thank you.”
The food came. They split the pickles and fried green tomatoes. The background music was Muddy Waters’s “Rock Me All Night Long.” Watching Zelda take a bite of pickle, he wondered if he kissed her whether she would taste like pickles. Then he wondered why he’d thought about kissing her. She wasn’t the type of woman who attracted him.
While he ate, a middle-aged woman with dark skin and corkscrew curls mounted the stage and took a seat at the piano. She played a series of chords, her fingers moving down the keyboard to test the lower range. She bent to adjust a foot pedal.
He had an idea.
“Save a pickle for me, will you?” He left the table and signaled the bartender. “Was the piano player in the house last Monday night?”
“Sure. That’s Nell Ray Tate.”
He walked to the stage. “Sorry to disturb you, Mz. Tate. I understand you were performing last Monday night.”
She looked him up and down, her lips pursed. “Is this police business?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I know that cop swagger.” She grinned. “I got to say, it looks mighty fine on a man like you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “Did you happen to see this man Monday night?” He held up his mobile with Highsmith’s photo.
She slipped on a pair of readers and pointed her index finger to the screen. “I do remember the gentleman. He was leaning against the wall, looking like he’d lost his best friend. I broke my usual set for him and played ‘I Got Peace Like a River’ instead of ‘Two-Fisted Mama.’” She nodded. “Yes, sir. That was one troubled man.”
“You rememb
er what time that was?”
“My daddy was a railroad man. I run my show like he ran his trains—on time. I play ‘Two-Fisted Mama’ at half past eight.”
He set a ten on the end of the keyboard.
She frowned at him. “Young man, you don’t want to haul me into some courtroom to testify ’cause my memory comes and goes. Talking to you, I say the man was here. If I’m in some courtroom, I might not be so sure.”
“No ma’am, it won’t come to that.”
He walked back to the table thinking that Highsmith had said he texted Caroline from the parking lot. A tower dump would give him the exact time Highsmith had been at The Hollywood, but it would require a subpoena and several days of waiting to get the information. Nell Ray Tate sounded like she was just as accurate. Problem was, the timing cleared Highsmith of the murder before coming to The Hollywood, but not after. It would’ve been tight, but he had time to drive back to Memphis, kill Caroline, and drive to the house. And he didn’t have witnesses to say otherwise.
“The piano player is smiling at you,” Zelda said as he sat down. “You certainly have a way with the ladies.”
I hope so. He put on a smile for Zelda. “What exactly do you do at the firm?”
“Hmm,” she said, “I’ll need another glass of wine for that, because what you’re really asking about are those sequestered files.”
He signaled the server for another Cabernet. “What’s so special about them?”
“I don’t have a clue. Like I said, only the Lees are allowed access.”
“Are they locked up?”
“No. I’m sure they think I’m too stupid to go poking around.”
“Who has access to the file room?”
The wine came. Zelda took a big swallow. “Rosalyn, her assistant, and me. Attorneys request a file, I check it out of the system, and their assistant picks it up. When it’s returned, I check the file back in. That way I know the location of a file at all times.”