The Dead Detective Agency (The Dead Detective Mysteries)

by Peg Herring

  Tori recalled the occasion. She had tried to be helpful and received a tongue-lashing for her trouble. She also remembered sharing with Abe her surprise at the vehemence of Falk’s anger.

  Carmon stared at the refrigerator, deep in thought.” You’re saying Falk might have been taking those clients on, just not through the proper procedures.”

  “Or it could be Pardike. I just don’t know.”

  Carmon set her cup down with a thud. “It is Falk. He wasn’t just being his usual ornery self.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “He called here this morning to get the access code for the office doors. Mr. Pollard apparently changed them Friday after work. Falk couldn’t get in, and he wanted me to give him the new code.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “No, but what happened afterward was extreme, even for Falk. I told him I don’t have them. Apparently Mr. Pollard wanted everyone to stay out of the building this weekend, which I now understand. Falk got very agitated and accused me of lying. He’s seldom pleasant, but he was downright furious. He said if I was lying to him, he’d see that I’m fired.” She looked to Abe. “I’m so used to his ways, it didn’t seem that unusual, but after hearing your theory, I think he’s getting desperate.”

  “We all avoid his tantrums by giving in and by backing away,” Abe agreed. “It allowed him freedom to operate, to use PLK as a front while he took on clients everyone thought he had ignored.”

  “Falk’s been with us for years. Why would he turn criminal now?” Carmon asked.

  “I think I know.” Abe ticked off the answers on his fingers. “First, Uncle Amos never took to him, never asked Falk to become a partner, which he probably hoped for when he came to PLK. That made him bitter. More bitter, I should say.”

  “Falk would never admit his own personality held him back.”

  “The heart problem might actually have pushed him from resentment to action. A person with a critical illness tends to reexamine his life. You or I might decide to do more good in the world before we die, but someone like Falk might do just the opposite, grab what he can before it’s too late to enjoy it.”

  Though she couldn’t admire Falk’s schemes, Tori was struck by the phrase. “Before it’s too late.” She might have done more, taken more chances, if she had known her life would only span a quarter century. But I’d never have cheated people.

  Abe, still counting, reached the third finger. “Talbert was probably the catalyst. The two of them recognized in each other the same desires. Falk began doing what he had always dreamed of, taking PLK for everything he could get. He’s the connection, and Daryl is the means.”

  “I think you have it figured out.”

  “I took too long,” Abe said ruefully. “I wasted a lot of time watching Craig Loomis and Jennise Bowdlin, who were having an affair.”

  “Yvonne insisted there was something between them, but I never paid any attention.”

  “After Tori died, I focused on the two brokers she worked for. I made calls to their current clients, asking general questions about satisfaction with the services at PLK. I was fishing, but it paid off. One woman complained that I never come to her home the way I do for Mr. Alfsen. Now, I had never heard of the guy, and PLK has no Alfsen as a client. When I located the guy and spoke with him, I found out he believes he’s with PLK and that I’m his service rep.”

  “You?”

  “Daryl, playing me.”

  Carmon got it. “If a prospect checks PLK’s current employee list, he finds the names he’s been given and is reassured.”

  Abe’s lower lip rose as his brow lowered. “After DeMestrie’s visit I realized I’ve been set up to be the patsy in all this.”

  “We have to tell them it isn’t you.”

  Abe rose from the chair. “Uncle Amos will sort it out on Monday.”

  “He’ll fire Falk?”

  “This has gone beyond breaking the rules. He’ll be arrested.”

  Tori wondered if Abe realized the danger he was in. Apparently, Carmon’s thought ran parallel to hers. “Abe, they killed Tori, who didn’t know anything. They might try to kill you too.”

  Listening to them, Tori realized she had known something. When she picked up the laptop from the office floor after Falk’s heart attack, there had been a list of client names and addresses on the screen. At the time, it meant nothing to her, but she had saved the list and told him about it when he returned. Falk had seemed overly anxious about her having seen it. “Nothing important,” he had insisted.

  But later, when Cartwright called PLK, Falk must have become worried she would remember seeing that name on his client list. Worried enough to have her killed.

  Ironically, her death had focused Abe on Falk. Now his crimes would be exposed in spite of silencing her. Maybe because of it.

  Abe was gazing out Carmon’s kitchen window, lost in thought. “You say Falk wanted badly to get into the building today.” He turned to her. “What if he’s getting ready to run?”

  “If he knows it’s unraveling, he’ll take what he can get and disappear. We should call the police.” She rose from her chair and retrieved her phone from the countertop.

  Tori felt Abe’s resistance. “My name is on those client accounts, and the detective already thinks I’m guilty.”

  “Can’t you explain to him what your uncle asked you to do?”

  “I don’t think he’ll believe anything I say until Amos confirms it.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “That’s my fault.”

  Abe crossed to her and put his hands on her arms. “No, it’s not. You did what you thought was right. Besides, DeMestrie made up his own mind.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We?”

  “I got you into this, at least partly, and I want to help.” Carmon smiled, and Tori felt Abe’s spirits rise, despite the vague nausea the presence of an extra soul was causing him. “Maybe Detective Madison has come in by now. He wasn’t there earlier.”

  “That’s just it,” Abe said. “He’s missing. His partner seems to think I’m to blame for that too.”

  Abe flinched as the refrigerator in the corner came on with a low rumble Carmon didn’t even notice as she thought for a moment. “We don’t know where Detective Madison is, and we don’t know where Talbert is, but I know where Falk lives. What if we keep an eye on him and see where he goes?”

  Abe was cautious. “I don’t think you should get involved in this. So far you’re safe from these guys, but if Falk thinks you’re helping me, it won’t be good.”

  “If we think he’s leaving town, we call DeMestrie. Falk won’t even know it was us.”

  Abe considered the idea gravely. “I guess it would be okay if we just monitor his movements.”

  Carmon’s face brightened with the prospect of taking action. “He’s going to run, I can feel it.”

  “Just remember, our job is to call the police. I don’t want you in harm’s way.”

  Carmon rose and went to get her purse. “Who’s going to know we’re there? We’ll be like a couple of ghosts.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Turn, Turn, Turn

  At the police station, Seamus jumped immediately from the young cop to Miller at the front desk, figuring everyone who entered or left the building had to go past him. His move presented a problem Seamus hadn’t foreseen. Studying for an upcoming advancement exam, the man was so engrossed in the material that he seldom looked up. People passed the desk continually, but Miller ignored most of them. As a result, Seamus found it impossible to tell who might be a good choice for his next host. Voices around him might or might not have been DeMestrie, but Seamus couldn’t tell without Miller’s eyes. “Look!” he urged in disgust, but Miller concentrated on the “Procedures for Crime Scene Stabilization” pamphlet.

  When Seamus’ nerves were stretched to the point of snapping, a familiar voice sounded. “Miller, any word from Madison?”

  The cop sighed, put his finger on th
e spot where he had been reading, and turned. Seamus reacted with a feeling as close to joy as he ever let himself acknowledge. DeMestrie!

  “I said I’d let you know if he called,” Miller said patiently.

  “I don’t think he’s sick.”

  Miller rubbed his own ample stomach. “I know he felt lousy yesterday. I think I’m getting a touch of it myself, which I don’t need with this test coming up.”

  At that moment Miller’s expression cleared, and he looked down at his gut in surprise. Squinting across the desk at DeMestrie, he said, “You’d better get some rest or you’ll be as sick as he is.”

  Jaime set his lips. “It comes in waves. And I got this Van Camp thing.”

  “Okay, but I’m tellin’ ya. You don’t look so good.”

  With a wave of dismissal and a satisfied Seamus on board, DeMestrie returned to his office and began to search in earnest for his partner. He checked hospitals in the area. Nothing. After he had called every place he knew of that Madison might have gone, he phoned the captain and asked for an official inquiry.

  She was still hesitant. “I hate interfering in a guy’s life if he just took off for the weekend.”

  “Chuck would have told me.”

  “If there’s still no word in the morning, we’ll put the word out.”

  It had been a long day, but DeMestrie did not go home. He called both Madison’s phones once more: C’mon, Chuck. Pick up!

  Jamming the phone down in frustration, he turned to his computer and typed a few words into the search engine. He tried several queries, but apparently nothing produced the result he wanted. He sat back in his chair, regarding the computer as if it were holding out on him. “Gougeon. Gougeon. I know the guy is hiding something.”

  Suddenly, Jaime leaned forward again and began tapping at the keys. “So who’s this momma who lets him live in her expensive condo?” Seamus could read the information that came up but did not need to, since DeMestrie read it aloud. “Joshua Gougeon married Marilyn Ross in 1976. One child, Abraham.”

  He entered more keywords and read aloud as he took notes on the result: “Marilyn Ross, only daughter of Jacob Ross and his wife Anne…Anne Ross, born Anne Pollard, has one brother, Amos.” He stopped in surprise. “I’ll be damned. Gougeon is the old man’s nephew!”

  DeMestrie’s phone rang. The detective picked up, still staring at the computer screen, and Amos Pollard’s voice came through loudly, in the way of those uncomfortable with cell phones. DeMestrie winced, holding his own phone away from his ear.

  After he explained to Pollard who he was and what he needed, the old man became less grumpy. “Mr. Pollard, why didn’t you tell us Abe Gougeon is your nephew?”

  Pollard paused for a long moment. “It’s a private matter.”

  “It’s a multiple murder investigation, sir,”

  Pollard sighed. “Years ago, my niece fell in love with a man her mother deemed unsuitable.”

  DeMestrie still had the information on the computer screen. “Joshua Gougeon.”

  “Believing he was after the family’s money, my sister forced Marilyn to choose between Josh and her inheritance.”

  “And she chose love over money.”

  “With excellent results. The two of them moved to Wisconsin, of all places, and started a business. Cheese, of course.” Pollard gave a dry chuckle. “They did well enough that Marilyn was able to buy the condominium that made your partner suspicious of Abe’s address.”

  “And your sister?”

  Pollard’s voice turned bitter. “Died without ever meeting her own grandson.” The old man cleared his throat. “Having no children of my own, I wanted to be a part of the boy’s life. My niece is kind enough to allow it, though she prefers to avoid the Pollard name.”

  “So no one at PLK knew Abe was family.”

  “He was the perfect candidate for something I needed done.”

  “What was it you needed done?”

  There was another long pause. “Locating a bad apple. But the culprit has been difficult to catch.”

  “You caught Daryl Talbert.”

  “In policy infractions. Abe had begun to zero in on more serious matters.”

  “A dishonest broker who works with Talbert.”

  “Yes. We had narrowed the possibilities to two.”

  “I need their names.” Pollard hesitated. “It’s murder, Mr. Pollard.”

  A sigh. “Donald Pardike and James Falk.”

  “And if you had to guess which one is guilty?”

  “Abe and I planned to meet on Monday to discuss that question. Falk has always made me nervous. Pardike is grasping and ambitious, but I don’t think he’s a criminal.”

  “Thank you, sir. That’s all I need right now.” DeMestrie hung up quickly, cutting off any questions. He tore the wrapper off a Milky Way and chewed thoughtfully. Halfway through he set it down, grabbed his jacket and car keys, and hurried out the door. “Gougeon needs watching,” Seamus heard him mutter, “but not for the reason I thought.”

  Knowing Madison was in danger and understanding now that Abe Gougeon might well be too, Seamus hoped to guide DeMestrie to one or both of them before it was too late. He had to attempt to contact Tori now. He couldn’t afford to upset the detective while he was driving a car.

  “Tori!” At Seamus’ call, DeMestrie stopped dead on the sidewalk, causing a woman behind him to step on his heel. She apologized, but he barely noticed.

  “Gotta get some aspirin. Something,” he muttered. Seamus lapsed into silence lest his host started looking for a psychiatrist.

  When he’d almost given up hope, Tori’s voice came to him faint but clear. “With Abe.”

  However that had happened, Seamus figured, it was probably for the best. When DeMestrie found Abe, Seamus and Tori could work together to help Madison.

  “Gougeon,” Seamus whispered, and DeMestrie echoed it aloud.

  “Gotta find Gougeon,” he muttered. “After I find some aspirin.”

  “What?” Abe said to Carmon.

  “I didn’t say anything.” Carmon was driving, while he sat folded like a taco in the Honda’s passenger seat.

  Carmon pulled up half a block from Falk’s attractive, low-slung ranch home with little time to spare. The broker was loading things into his car, his movements jerky and rushed.

  “What if he sees us?”

  Carmon sniffed dismissively. “It’d be a miracle. Look how focused he is on getting out of here.”

  She had chosen a spot behind an SUV that screened them from casual view. Although Falk made a quick survey of the street before closing the trunk and taking the driver’s seat, he showed no sign of recognizing the Honda. “Aren’t you glad we didn’t bring the Ferrari?” Carmon said archly.

  “As long as we don’t have to try to outrun him, we’ll be fine.”

  Falk backed out of the driveway and drove off in the opposite direction. Carmon pulled out as soon as he turned the first corner and followed, staying well back but keeping Falk’s black Lincoln in sight. Both she and Abe craned their necks nervously, but keeping up wasn’t difficult. It was Saturday. Traffic was steady but not heavy, and the single angry horn that resulted when Carmon turned without signaling went unnoticed by their quarry.

  The prospect that Falk might be headed to the old garage both excited and worried Tori. If Madison was there, Carmon and Abe could summon help. But bitter experience demonstrated these men played for keeps. She hoped her friends didn’t get in the way.

  Falk turned off Clingell Street, and then left again at Forrest. Carmon passed Forrest and turned at the next block, driving slowly along as they both peered down the alleys looking for Falk’s Lincoln. Finally, Abe touched her arm and pointed. “There!”

  Only the rear end of the car was visible, parked between two abandoned buildings. Carmon parked on the street, back far enough to be discreet but at a point where they would know if the Lincoln moved again. Tori, waiting quietly inside Abe’s head, noted the faded Pegasus si
gn directly behind them.

  “What could he be doing down here?” Abe muttered.

  “I don’t know, but nobody in this neighborhood is likely to report suspicious activity.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Carmon bowed her head in mock meekness. “Mr. Nephew-of-the-Boss, meet Miss Down-in-the-Boondocks. I grew up not far from here.”

  Abe surveyed the scarred, depressing landscape. “Here?”

  She shrugged. “While you avoided tackles and wondered which cheerleader to date, I avoided gang-bangers and worried about my brother joining them.”