Secret Undertaking

by Mark de Castrique

  “How much coverage do they have?” I asked.

  “Because of the actuarial tables, Robert Santona’s death benefit is about fifty thousand dollars less than Joan’s, but all three policies are just shy of three million in total face value and close to a million in surrender cash value.”

  Tommy Lee passed me the policies. “And the corporate papers?”

  Archie lifted a document from the briefcase and handed it to the sheriff. “They’ve made changes by adding their former identities, Joan and Robert Santona, to the list of corporate officers. They also designated the death benefits to go to the company, Sinclairity Sales. That works out great because the Sinclairs are actually the sole owners.”

  I followed Archie’s narrative and while I thought I understood, a question popped into my mind. “But the name of the insured would have to stay the same, right?”

  “Yes. Otherwise, a different person has different health conditions and is potentially a different age, so changing the insured couldn’t happen under the same policy. They’d have two choices. The owner could surrender the policy and get the cash minus the taxes due, or the owner could obtain a false death certificate for the Santona name and claim that person had died. To collect the second-to-die, both Santonas would need death certificates. Collecting the benefits gives them a lot more money and it comes into the company tax-free. That’s harder to pull off. The insurance companies want a death certificate with a raised seal, not a copy. Some also want an obituary from the newspaper.”

  “Did the Sinclairs ask you about that?” Tommy Lee asked.

  “Yes. Robert said it as a joke, but I think he was serious. I wouldn’t know where to get a false death certificate, but since fake passports and driver’s licenses exist, they could probably find a source somewhere.”

  “Would the false claim have to come through you?” I asked.

  “It could, or the owner could deal with the insurance company’s service center directly. Usually the agent of record is sent a death claim kit to assist the beneficiary. There’s an ulterior motive. The company wants to keep us close to the money so we can possibly put the funds into another of their products, like an annuity.”

  “What did you say when they asked about the fake death certificate?”

  “I laughed and said I knew they were still alive, and then there was a little bit of awkward silence.”

  I bet there was, I thought. Robert Sinclair was clearly angling to collect the full death benefit on all the policies.

  Tommy Lee handed the corporate document back to Archie. I returned the policies.

  “Those ready to go?” Tommy Lee asked.

  “Yes,” Archie said. “I told them I’d FedEx them tonight.”

  The sheriff checked his watch. “Then you need to do that. When’s last pickup?”

  “Six. But I can drive to Asheville if I miss it. Final pickup there is eight.”

  “It’s five-thirty now,” Tommy Lee said. “We’d better let you go. Anything else?”

  Archie nodded. “Yes. Before I came here, I ran a history on the policies. Each was an aggregate of smaller ones consolidated within the same company. That’s permissible. Each was originally purchased as three one-hundred-thousand-dollar contracts. They were all taken out within the same year, which is unusual. That was five years ago.”

  “Why would they do that?” Tommy Lee asked.

  “Lower profile. Not as big an initial policy that might create more scrutiny. Funds could have been drawn from different banks without writing a big check. At least that’s my guess. I backtracked this history after the Sinclairs left. They don’t know I did so.”

  “Will the policy changes come back to you?” I asked.

  “Yes. I believe everything will be turned around by the middle of next week.”

  “Good,” Tommy Lee said. “Then I’ll want you to mail them that completed paperwork. Avoid seeing either of them if you can. At least until we clarify what role, if any, they played in the murders.”

  Tommy Lee’s concern echoed my own. “Did you get Gloria and the girls to Weaverville?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “As soon as you get those documents back, you join them.”

  “Barry’s right,” Tommy Lee emphasized. “You’ll no longer be their insurance agent, you’ll be their loose end.”

  I used the funeral home’s Xerox machine to make copies of Archie’s paperwork. Then we sent him on his way, urging him to work away from the office. I knew he got the message when he handwrote instructions that the executed documents were to be returned to his mother-in-law’s address. His secret mission was over and he was taking no more chances.

  Tommy Lee reached for his Coke; the ice had all but melted. He took a long swallow and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “What do you think?”

  “We still don’t have any connection between the Sinclairs and our murder victims. The insurance angle appears more relevant to their past lives than the activities of Rufus and Sonny. If Robert Sinclair is actually a rep for sportswear, it’s not the kind of product that would put him in contact with grocery and convenience store owners.”

  “No, but his sales territory could overlap. I think we’ve got enough for us to make an unannounced visit on Luther Brookshire tomorrow.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A U.S. Marshal in the Western District of North Carolina. His office is in Asheville, but I have his home address. Six-thirty ought to be late enough so that we don’t appear rude.”

  “You’re going to pound on a U.S. Marshal’s door at dawn?”

  Tommy Lee grinned. “Only if there’s no doorbell.”

  At six twenty-five, Tommy Lee pulled into the driveway of a brick ranch in the Beaver Lake area north of Asheville and parked behind a dew-coated green Ford Escape SUV. I was holding a file with all the information we’d been able to gather on the Sinclairs—from the purchase of their home to the transfer of the insurance policies. We also had what information we could collect on the Santona crime family.

  I’d worked late at the department going through law enforcement data banks, New Jersey newspapers, and whatever Internet sources seemed credible. What was most intriguing was the speculation that Bobby Santona’s son, Robert, might have been murdered just before the older Santona was arrested. Or he had gone into hiding to avoid similar charges. We now knew both those conjectures were wrong.

  As I followed Tommy Lee up the front walk, I noticed a bumper sticker on the Escape that read, “Semper Fi.”

  “Brookshire was a Marine?”

  “Yes,” Tommy Lee said. “An MP. He went into police work before becoming a marshal.”

  “You sure you want to wake up a Marine? Maybe you ought to phone and give him a two-minute warning. No sense waking up the whole household.”

  “He is the whole household. Luther and his wife split about two years ago. Casualties of the job.”

  I knew the long, irregular hours of law enforcement took their toll on a married couple. I’d vowed to Susan that if we ever headed down that path, the deputy duties would go. I’d bury bodies, not our marriage.

  Fortunately, for Brookshire’s neighbors, there was a doorbell and Tommy Lee didn’t need to announce our presence with a booming knock. He pressed the button several times and we heard a corresponding buzz echo through the house.

  “Hold your horses! I’m coming.” The raspy, shouted words sounded like the speaker’s first ones of the morning.

  Tommy Lee bent over and picked up the newspaper lying by the threshold.

  Luther Brookshire threw open the front door and squinted against the light. He looked to be in his late forties and wore a pale blue terrycloth robe loosely tied around his waist. His brown hair was streaked with gray and retreating from his forehead.

  “Tommy Lee. What the hell’s going on?”

  �
��Training a new deputy how to serve papers.” The sheriff handed Brookshire the Asheville Citizen-Times.

  The marshal laughed in spite of himself. “You son of a bitch. Come in and I’ll make some coffee. Although I doubt I want to wake up and hear whatever troubles you’ve brought to my doorstep.”

  While the pot brewed, Brookshire put on clothes. Then we sat around the kitchen table, and, after Tommy Lee and our surprised host caught up on old times, Brookshire asked, “What do you need? I assume you’re working something that’s crossed my path.”

  “Not something, somebody.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Your friend Robert Santona and his wife, Joan.”

  Brookshire’s eyes flickered slightly as he tried to fake a quizzical expression. “Is this the guy supposedly killed in New Jersey? I think his father was convicted on racketeering charges.”

  “No. This is the guy parading around my county as Robert Sinclair. The one who might have whacked a key witness in my murder investigation Monday night.”

  Brookshire nearly choked on his coffee. “You know I can’t confirm or deny something like that.”

  “I’m not asking you to. I have the proof.” Tommy Lee nodded to me.

  I set the file on the table, opened it, and then slid the contents to the marshal. “He told an informant he was in WITSEC. Here are some insurance policies that he evidently hid back from your people and is now trying to get at the cash values. My informant also happened to mention the name of our witness, the witness who was executed in his bed that night.”

  Brookshire rapidly scanned through the documents. “Interesting. Let’s say, hypothetically, Robert Sinclair is who you say he is.”

  “Who he says he is,” Tommy Lee corrected.

  “All right. Who he says he is. What motive would he have? Was your witness a threat to anyone else? Did this informant leak to anyone else?”

  Tommy Lee gave Brookshire a broad-stroke summary of the food stamp scam case. He shared the network of stores, the threats to store owners, and the potential cover Robert Santona’s job offers in that he travels throughout the region.

  Brookshire shook his head. “All circumstantial. I don’t hear anything that ties him to any wrongdoing. And if he is Robert Santona and you expose him, then his blood will be on your hands.”

  “Like I said, he is Santona. But neither I, nor Barry, nor our informant have said anything to compromise his new identity. He’s done that to himself.”

  Brookshire waved a hand dismissively over the file. “What? Because his name appears on some policy and as an officer of an obscure company no one’s even looking for?”

  “No. Because Robert Santona went back to Paterson, New Jersey, for his father’s funeral. He tried to hide in a tree, fell out, broke his leg, and then escaped from his pursuing family members by the skin of his teeth.”

  “What?” This time Brookshire wasn’t faking his bewilderment.

  “Yep. Barry’s wife’s a doctor and she set the broken bone. So, Santona alone shot to hell any little rumors that the marshals or the prosecutors started about his being a vanished murder victim. The only blood on my hands will belong to my informant if word leaks out that we know Robert Sinclair’s true identity.” Tommy Lee pointed to the file. “An identity we could have discovered only through those documents.”

  Brookshire stood and paced the kitchen. “Let’s say Robert and Joan Santona are protected witnesses. What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Nothing,” Tommy Lee said. “Absolutely nothing.”

  Brookshire stopped and threw up his hands. “Then why the hell are you brightening my morning?”

  “Look, Luther. If we start getting close to your guy and he is dirty—”

  “He’s not my guy.”

  “Okay. Hypothetically, if he is your guy and he knows he’s screwed up, I figure he’ll come running to you for help. I don’t want you whisking him and his wife away into another set of identities. I don’t know what damning information he gave on his father, but your WITSEC witness brought organized crime from Jersey to Gainesboro. And created a pile of bodies in the process. Bodies whose blood is on the hands of the U.S. Marshals. So, when he shows up, you’ll tell him he’s imagining things. Or if he’s admitting to a crime, you, as a sworn officer of the law, will have to arrest him and turn him over to the appropriate jurisdiction. In other words, you’ll hand his ass to me.”

  “All right, hypothetically speaking. But from what I’ve heard from…how shall I say it?…from unnamed sources, your theory overlooks one important fact.”

  “What’s that?” Tommy Lee asked.

  “Your food stamp scam demonstrates a very clever and creative mind behind it. Robert Santona has never been accused of being the brightest bee in the hive. So there’s a good chance he has nothing to do with this whole thing. I don’t want his blood on my hands because I didn’t make that clear. An IQ that hovers slightly above room temperature isn’t going to mastermind such a complex operation. That fact I can unequivocally confirm.”

  “All right,” Tommy Lee said. “Then we’ll also keep our eyes open for other bees.”

  “You do that.” Brookshire’s words carried the tone of an order, not a suggestion. “And if any of this heads back my way, I’d appreciate being in on the sting.”

  Tommy Lee shook his hand. “Then I guess we’re done.”

  “Yes,” Brookshire replied. “And you were never here.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  We returned to Gainesboro a few minutes after eight. Friday morning traffic was light since most vehicles were headed into Asheville. During the drive, Tommy Lee and I laid out our plans for going forward. I’d try to get in position to follow Robert Santona, aka Sinclair, as he left his home. I’d also check in with Roger Taylor, and although Ferguson and the SBI had given us his father’s bank statements, Tommy Lee thought it wise to see the actual books and any files of payables and receivables that Roger might find as he immersed himself in the convenience store’s business.

  My undercover role as a food stamp recipient would begin as soon as my EBT card arrived from Commissioner James. Then my next step would be to approach Buddy Smith, the owner of Wilmer’s Convenience Corner.

  As we neared the department, I asked, “Why didn’t you press Brookshire for more information on what Robert Santona had provided that enabled him to enter WITSEC?”

  “Because I pushed him as far as I could. He went as close to admitting the Santonas were in the program as I could expect. The marshals follow a strict adherence to protecting their witnesses’ anonymity. Luther now knows I found the information elsewhere. I’ll first pursue anything I can get on the Santona family and their operations in New Jersey. Lindsay Boyce will be good for that. Meanwhile, I think we should continue to refer to them as the Sinclairs. Less chance anyone could overhear the name Santona.”

  Special Agent Lindsay Boyce was resident agent for the FBI’s Western North Carolina district. She was also Tommy Lee’s niece.

  Tommy Lee pulled the patrol car into his reserved spot. “If I think I need more than Lindsay can provide, I’ll circle back to Luther. He left the door open when he said he wanted in on any sting.”

  “You trust him to put our case first?”

  Tommy Lee opened the driver’s door and then leaned back toward me. “Hell no. I’ll give him a heads-up just as we start to move on Sinclair. Minimal lead time with little chance for him to jump the gun. Once we’ve made our bust, Luther will want to keep his hands off and trust me not to embarrass him or the marshals. He knows we’re friends even though I think the WITSEC program is a mixed bag. It has unleashed violent criminals on unsuspecting communities. Robert Sinclair’s not the first one to have gone back to a life of crime. So, I’m not counting on any help from Luther, not when I’ve got ace detective Barry Clayton hot on Sinclair’s tail.”

 
“Thanks for putting it all on me.”

  “You’re welcome. You know the old saying.”

  I groaned as I knew what was coming. “I do. So don’t say it.”

  He did anyway. “Barry Clayton. Undertaker. The last man ever to let you down.”

  I pulled onto the edge of the side road and parked where I’d been the day before. It was eight-thirty and the ground was free of morning mist, giving me a clear view of the entrance to Arbor Ridge Estates. I placed a quick call to Mom’s cell phone. She reported that Uncle Wayne had a good night and was being transferred to the rehab floor later in the morning. They’d do an evaluation, prescribe a course of physical therapy, and hopefully have him ready for discharge early next week.

  She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Your uncle’s in the bathroom but I want you to know we had a talk last night.”

  “About what?”

  “I brought up the subject of moving to Alderway. I put the need more on me. The physical strain of going up and down the stairs. I told him I’d had some near falls.”

  “You’ve had near falls?”

  “No. But you know how proud your uncle is.”

  “Yes. I also know you never want to be a bother, so I hope you’d tell me if something like that was happening.”

  “It’s not. But why not take proper steps while I’m in control?”

  “What did Uncle Wayne say?”

  “That he’d think about it.”

  The answer surprised me. I’d expected my uncle to build up an instant defense like when Mom pushed him to sell his house and move into the funeral home. But then I remembered she’d used the same argument, that having her brother live with her would be better for her safety.

  “So, he might mull it over for a while?”

  “I don’t think so. A unit’s available the first of October. That’s less than four weeks away. Another one like it might not be available any time soon.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. Things were speeding up and I hoped Mom wasn’t rushing a decision because of Uncle Wayne’s condition. Before I could respond, a reflected flash of sunlight swept across my jeep. I looked down the road and saw Robert Sinclair’s SUV turn onto the highway and head away from me.