“Mom. Sorry, I’ve got to go. Let’s talk this weekend.”
“Okay. But don’t worry, Barry. It’s going to work out.” She hung up.
I started the jeep and jammed down the accelerator, spinning the tires as the vehicle fishtailed onto the blacktop. Within a quarter mile, I had Sinclair’s charcoal Infiniti QX80 in sight. I braked to slightly over the fifty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit so as not to come up behind him too fast, but I dared not lag too far behind in case a truck pulled in between us, obscuring my view. I didn’t want a repeat of what had happened when I followed his wife.
Sinclair turned right onto a two-lane road leading away from Gainesboro. His logical destination was I-26 running west to Asheville or east toward Charleston, South Carolina. Tracking him on an interstate would be easier than navigating traffic on a county road. With no traffic, I would stand out; too much and I could get stopped by a school bus or slowed by some farm vehicle that cropped up between us.
I knew Sinclair’s territory included counties in both North and South Carolina, and so I wasn’t surprised when he took the eastbound access ramp. Once on I-26, I stayed about a quarter mile behind, only drawing closer as we neared exits. We crossed the state line and headed into the interchanges around Spartanburg. I pushed the jeep closer to make sure I didn’t get trapped in a wrong lane. He left I-26 for I-85 and then took I-585 headed into downtown Spartanburg. Trailing him through the city could be difficult as I didn’t know the street patterns if we became separated.
We were on the outskirts when he pulled into a strip shopping center and parked in front of a store with a sign reading ActiveStyle. The show window featured manikins outfitted in tennis, golf, yoga, and other light sportswear. The variety appeared to exclude extreme sports or heavy-duty hiking and rock-climbing in favor of garments with more fashion-oriented designs.
I pulled into a space in front of a nail salon with six empty parking spots between us. Since I’m not much for manicures and pedicures, I waited in the jeep, angling to look across at Robert Sinclair as he climbed out of the SUV.
Climbed was the word because his short height meant the step down was more of a jump. I, of course, attributed his successful maneuver to Susan’s surgical skills.
Sinclair couldn’t have been over five-four with a rotund body that made him a matching bookend for Mayor Sammy Whitlock. He wore a yellow polo shirt over khakis, probably lines of clothing he represented. His black hair was thin on top and the light breeze lifted the errant strands making his round head look like an upside-down jellyfish. This was the man who scrambled up a tree? It must have been more of an overgrown shrub. I thought about his very attractive wife, Janet Sinclair, and what an odd couple they made. Maybe he wasn’t so short and tubby when he was standing on his wallet.
He went to the rear of his vehicle and I saw that the hatch door had already opened. He grabbed a hanging bag and a briefcase, fumbled with his key fob, and clicked the remote to close the hatch and lock the car. Then he disappeared into the store.
In addition to the nail salon, the shopping strip housed a yoga studio, a Chinese restaurant that probably wouldn’t open for hours, and a dry cleaner. I had no clue how long it would take Sinclair to present his wares so I was stuck without an option other than to stay in the jeep. However, ActiveStyle was an end store and I spotted a few parking places along the side. Moving the jeep there would put me in a less-visible position where I could still see the rear of the Infiniti. I parked facing out and waited.
It was nearing ten o’clock. Roger Taylor was probably at his father’s store. I dialed his cell.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“It’s Barry. I need you to do something for me.”
“What’s that?” He sounded wary.
“When you go through your father’s business papers, bring me any files or ledgers that document his accounts receivable and payable. We need to match them to the bank statements.”
“I’m at his office now. The one in the back of the store. He’s got a couple of old metal file cabinets. You know, the vertical ones. I was just starting to go through them.”
My plan to have him bring any ledgers to the funeral home changed on the spot. “Is the store open?”
“No. I put a sign in the window saying we’d be closed till at least Monday.”
“Good. You can go through whatever you need to, but don’t throw anything out. I’ll come to you tonight. Say, eight?”
“Okay. But why at night?”
“I’d feel better if you weren’t seen with me. I’ll park behind the store. Have the back door open.”
“It’s your party, Deputy. Just keep me safe.” He hung up.
Ten minutes later, Sinclair loaded up his samples in the rear of the Infiniti and drove away. I followed him to four similar stores, all specialty retailers that weren’t affiliated with national or regional chains. During his sales calls, he visited only one convenience store and it wasn’t on our list. He pumped gas, went inside, and was out less than five minutes later with a jumbo drink, Slim Jim, and a package of Twinkies. Lunch in search of a heart attack.
We were south of Spartanburg when he returned to I-26 and headed for Gainesboro. I stayed with him until he took the exit closest to his home. I drove on to the main exit for Gainesboro.
Tommy Lee was in his office reviewing budget figures. He looked up as I knocked. “How’d it go?”
“If you need a new jogging suit, I can find you the best deals.”
He rolled back from his desk and patted his stomach. “Make it a jiggle suit and I’ll take you up on it. So, nothing suspicious?”
“No. Looks like he was doing his job.” I gave Tommy Lee a detailed report including the observation that Robert Sinclair must have looked like a giant pear if he was indeed in the tree in the Paterson cemetery.
When I finished, Tommy Lee sat thinking for a few minutes.
“He might have things so well organized that he doesn’t make collections like some mafia bagman,” he said.
“Or at least doesn’t make those rounds every day. He has to be successful enough in his job to keep his manufacturers with him.”
“So, what do you suggest?”
“Maybe he handles the food stamp fraud on the weekends. I’ll stake him out one more day and then move on to my undercover role when the EBT card comes.”
Tommy Lee nodded. “All right. What about Roger Taylor?”
“I spoke with him this morning. He said there’s an old filing cabinet in the store office. I’m going to look through it tonight at eight.”
“You want me with you?”
“No. He’s keeping the store closed till Monday. I’m going to park my car around back.”
“If you’re worried about someone seeing your jeep, why don’t you let me drop you off? You can call me when you’re finished.”
His plan had merit, and I also knew he’d be anxious to learn what I’d discovered.
“Thanks. But I’d prefer to have dinner with my wife. It’s been a hectic week.”
“Then take her someplace nice,” Tommy Lee ordered. “And call me after you see Roger Taylor.”
With a short window for dinner, I could think of no place nicer than home. I stopped at Fresh Market and bought two ribeye steaks, lettuce and other vegetables for a salad, and a carrot cake, which I also counted as a vegetable. Then I chose a bottle of Malbec that I knew Susan would enjoy. This weekend she wasn’t on call.
I beat her home, fed Democrat at five, and started the charcoal. I was tossing the salad when she arrived at five-thirty.
“What’s going on? What have you done with my husband?”
“That debonair fellow has to work tonight. I’m here to see that your evening isn’t a total loss.”
She kissed me on the lips. “And when does my debonair husband get home?”
“He
’s meeting Roger Taylor at eight and it might be close to midnight.” I gave her the plan to go through Rufus Taylor’s business files.
“So, I’m afraid we have to eat earlier than usual. I’ve opened a bottle of Malbec to get you started.”
“Are you having some?”
“No. Not when I’ve got to work.”
“Then let’s both have sparkling water. A full glass of red wine and a voluptuous woman will be waiting for you.”
“Where are you going?”
She gave me an elbow. “In search of that debonair man.”
We ate on the deck, the evening air was fresh and cool, and I regretted setting the appointment with Roger Taylor. I told her of the brief conversation with my mother and my uncle’s willingness to consider moving to the retirement community.
“What would you think about moving into the funeral home?” she asked.
“You’re kidding?”
“No. Maybe we should consider it.”
I looked around me. The forest was alive with crickets. Dusk deepened the shadows and the stars would soon be bright in the dark sky.
“Don’t you like it here? Do you regret selling your condo?”
Before our marriage, Susan had lived in a condo close to the hospital. She’d sold it six months ago.
“It’s beautiful here,” she said. “And the condo wouldn’t have made sense. Too small and you have no family connection to it. I’m just saying that if we need to do something like that for your mother and Uncle Wayne, I’m willing to discuss it. I could put the equity from my condo sale into helping buy the funeral home from your mother.”
Her proposal caught me completely off guard. I was touched by her willingness to help in a way even I hadn’t considered.
“I told Mom we’d talk about it this weekend. Let’s see what she’s thinking before we suggest any possible options.”
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Fine. But I want you to know we’re in this together. As a family.”
She sent me on my way at seven with a kiss and a promise not to run off with my debonair double.
A few minutes before eight, I drove my jeep behind Taylor’s Short Stop. I knocked on the back door. Roger opened it immediately.
“You been here all day?” I asked.
“Pretty much. I ran out for a burger at lunch. Even though the sign says closed, people saw my car and kept stopping to give their condolences.” He smiled. “Guess we should have had the funeral here at the store.”
“That’s the way everybody knew your father.”
Roger led me along a back aisle to the office on the other side of the restrooms.
“Anybody seem a little strange?” I asked.
“No. I had a couple truck drivers stop. You know, the guys who deliver snacks and soft drinks. I told them not to start restocking till next week.”
He stepped into the small office. There was a desk with one rolling metal chair and a battle-gray file cabinet. On the floor behind the chair stood a small safe.
I pointed to it. “You know the combination?”
“No. I looked through the desk drawers, even pulled them out and turned them over hoping he might have written it down somewhere. I tried his birthday, my birthday, my mom’s birthday. No luck. Guess I’ll have to get the lock drilled out.”
“What if I get a warrant to authorize us to search the safe? We’ll get it open for you.”
“But will you take whatever’s inside?”
“Not if it doesn’t relate to our case.”
Roger was probably thinking of the cash we’d found in his father’s closet and the possibility that the safe held a similar stash.
“And I could get a court order without your cooperation.” I realized when we thought the safe hadn’t been robbed, we’d ignored what might be its contents.
“Okay,” Roger grumbled. “When will that happen?”
“Maybe tomorrow. Maybe Monday. I’ll talk to the sheriff.” I moved closer to the file cabinet. “Anything unusual in here?”
Roger pulled out the top drawer. “Nah. He’s got copies of all the invoices by vendor, and they’re in order with most recent at the front of each hanging folder. The middle drawer holds his checkbook and bank statements, and the lowest drawer has taxes and payroll records. Take a look.”
He slipped by me and I looked at the top drawer. The first two folders were payables and receivables. There were no receivables. I guessed since he sold everything over the counter, there was nothing that he sent in the way of bills to others. Perhaps he kept the file for any vendor credits that he might be due. Payables held about fifteen invoices for grocery and other products stocked in the store. These were yet to be paid. I pulled the front sheet from a folder labeled “Aimes Distributors” and saw the invoice was stamped “paid” and a check number was handwritten under the invoice total.
I closed the top drawer and opened the one beneath it. I found the most recent bank statement, looked up the check number and saw that the amount matched the amount of the Aimes Distributors invoice.
I handed the statement to Roger. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll call out the check numbers on the invoices and you tell me the amount posted.”
“What are we looking for?”
“Anything that doesn’t match.” I flipped to the folder after Aimes. “Appalachian Brewers. Check number 1508.”
“Two hundred dollars, eighty-five cents.”
“Correct.”
We moved through the recently paid invoices one at a time, each check matching the billed invoice perfectly. Then I found an invoice for Staples Sources. No total was on the invoice and the description was for miscellaneous non-perishables. That could be anything—canned goods, a quart of oil, a bottle opener, or suntan lotion.
“Find the most recent check to Staples Sources,” I told Roger.
“I’ll need the actual checkbook and stubs,” he said.
I passed him the three-ring book and he flipped through backwards from the first unwritten check.
“Here’s one from August twenty-first for four-hundred seventy-five dollars.”
I looked at the date of the invoice. August twentieth. Fast mail service, if the bill was actually generated that day. The billing address for the company was a post office box in Spartanburg. Not impossible. I looked at the second invoice in the Staples Sources folder. This one did have an amount. Three hundred eighty-six dollars, thirteen cents. The date was August thirteenth with the check written on the fourteenth. The purchased items were identified exactly the same as on the first invoice—miscellaneous non-perishables. I continued going back through the bills. Where most of the others had been a monthly itemized statement, these were weekly and sent every Monday with payment made the next day. Rufus was certainly moving a lot of non-perishable items, or they were sitting on the shelf, being sold and resold as they were fraudulently rung up on the register and swiped for payment through the EBT system.
Staples Sources certainly deserved scrutiny. But how were the amounts paid determined? Some EBT purchases would be legitimate. Rufus must have had some system for tracking the illicit money that came into the store’s bank account via the electronic transfer. I looked down at the safe. Would it contain those records? Or had Rufus Taylor’s killer forced him to turn them over and then executed him?
Chapter Nineteen
I phoned Tommy Lee as soon as I left Taylor’s Short Stop and gave him the information about the safe and the unusual number of invoices from Staples Sources. He agreed to seek a warrant to search the safe’s contents and would authorize drilling out the lock. While he took charge of that aspect of the investigation, I would stake out the Sinclairs and see if Robert’s weekend pattern included making stops at convenience stores.
Having no clue as to when Robert Sinclair might leave home on Sa
turday morning, I decided I should drive by his house to make sure I didn’t sit all day at my surveillance spot only to see him return in the evening. So, at seven-thirty, I cruised slowly by his driveway. Both Janet’s Mercedes and the Infiniti were in the carport. The SUV’s hatch was open and a golf bag leaned against the rear bumper. One or both of them appeared to be getting ready to hit the links.
I returned to my spot down the road from the entrance to their neighborhood. About twenty minutes later, the Infiniti emerged on the main road and headed toward me. I ducked and peered beneath the steering wheel as the vehicle passed. Robert Sinclair was the sole occupant. I followed from a safe distance until he turned into the main entrance of the Gainesboro Country Club. The manufacturer’s rep business must be successful. A Mercedes, an Infiniti, and a country club membership. The funeral business wasn’t so lucrative.
Since I was neither a golfer nor a member of the club, I couldn’t just saunter in and checkout Sinclair’s golfing partners. I also couldn’t sneak along the fairways, scurrying from tree trunk to tree trunk like some demonic squirrel.
I drove to a second entrance closer to the tennis courts, looped back toward the bag drop-off zone as if I’d come from another direction, and saw Sinclair lift his clubs out of the SUV and place the bag in a rack along the sidewalk. He waved to three men sitting at an outdoor table, each one holding a steaming mug of coffee. Their outfits, including Sinclair’s, looked like the designer had combined every color from a palette labeled “neon.”
Sinclair climbed up behind the wheel and drove to a parking area about fifty feet away. I exited through the main entrance and then circled in again from the tennis courts. Sinclair and his three buddies were at the table, talking and laughing as they waited for their tee time. They paid me no attention as I went to the parking lot and cruised by the vehicles. I suspected none of the luxury cars cost less than forty-thousand dollars. The Jaguar next to Sinclair’s Infiniti had South Carolina plates and the bumper sticker—“I do it in ActiveStyle.” Clients, I thought. Sinclair’s on an outing with his clients. I suspected they’d play a round of eighteen holes and top off the morning with lunch and a round of Bloody Marys.
Secret Undertaking Page 17