Footprints of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #1)

by Tim Ellis

  “Very helpful.”

  “I like to give people the benefit of my experience.”

  They rounded the corner of the hotel. Allegre was sitting in her rocking chair outside her own rear-facing suite of rooms. Rattlesnake growled at her feet.

  She took a puff on her clay pipe. The tobacco smoke seeped out of her mouth and nose and swirled about her head.

  “Well, if it ain’t Mister pretending-to-be-on-site-security-and-leaving-old-Allegre-Gabbmonte-in-danger-of-her-life Gabriel. I’d be better getting me one of those pet alligators on a chain for all the good you been these last couple of days. And I see you got your lady of the night with you again.”

  Rae showed her middle finger, but didn’t say anything.

  He looked around, but there was nowhere to sit. “You want to get some chairs out here, so that people could stop by for a visit.”

  Allegre cackled. “I don’t want people thinking they can come visit anytime they want. I got to put up with idiots all day long, and I don’t want to talk to more of them in the evening.”

  “I’ve decided to get my Private Investigator’s license, and I think you need to hire someone else as on-site security. I’m happy to pay for the room.”

  “Is that right, Mister take-advantage-of-a-poor-old-woman-whenever-he-feels-like-it Gabriel. Well, maybe I don’t want someone else doin’ my on-site security. Maybe I don’t want no one payin’ for that room. Maybe I’ll just throw you out into the street and get me a proper man.”

  “You let me know when you decide what you’re going to do, Allegre. I’ll carry on with my checks until we’ve agreed what will happen, but I’m investigating a case now, so I might not be around much during the day.”

  He began walking away.

  “Don’t you worry none, Mister do-what-you-want-whenever-you-feel-like-it Private Investigator Gabriel. I’ll be sure to let you know when and if’n I decide pretty damned soon, let me tell you.”

  “I think you made the right decision,” Rae said.

  “Maybe, but I like living here.”

  “You need an office.”

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. I haven’t even got a license yet.”

  As they passed the restaurant, Tom said, “I haven’t done any shopping for the last few days. We’ll eat here tonight. That okay with you?”

  “I suppose.”

  When they were sitting in a booth looking at the menu, he said, “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know. I was just wondering how long I’ll have to sleep on a camp bed in your utility room. I’ll need to go back to my own apartment tomorrow and get some more clothes, and I’m running out of underwear.”

  “I do have a washing machine, you know.”

  “I’m not doing my smalls in your washing machine.”

  He pulled a face. “Are they not nice?”

  She laughed, and slapped him on the arm. “That’s not what I meant. I just don’t want you looking at my panties.”

  “Is there something different about the panties you wear?”

  “Different in what way?”

  “Well, I’ve had a wife and two daughters. I’ve seen plenty of panties in my time. Yours must be really strange if you don’t want me to see them.”

  “They’re just normal panties.”

  “I see.”

  “All right. I suppose I could use your washing machine, but I don’t want you putting my clothes in, or taking them out of the washer or the dryer.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Good. I still need to go back to my apartment and get some things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Am I a suspect?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, stop asking me so many questions then.”

  He smiled. “What do you want for dinner?”

  ***

  Rae showed him the analysis she’d done. There were four pages of pie chart in her notebook.

  “The main bank account is a joint account with his wife, which is made up of his real estate income and living costs, just like you said. There’s nothing unusual there. He’s four hundred ninety-five dollars overdrawn. There’s a credit card account, which has two cards, one in his name and one in his wife’s. This account is five thousand two hundred and eighty dollars in the red. They barely make the minimum payment each month from the joint account. Expenditure here is on life’s little luxuries, but they can’t afford it. He also has a second bank account in the name of O.B. Gibson, and there’s been hundreds of deposits into this account from numerous numbered other accounts. The deposits are always in the amounts of either $25,000, $35,000, or $45,000. It has a total of over $17 million in the account.”

  Tom’s eyes opened wide. “So he’s overdrawn on his two main accounts, but has an absolute fortune stashed away in another account?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has there been any expenditure or withdrawals from that account?”

  “None”

  Tom rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Blackmail?”

  “That was my first thought, but . . .”

  “. . . why the different amounts? And why the different accounts?”

  “Unless he’s blackmailing a number of different people.”

  He sat back on the sofa and put his hands behind his head. “When are the payments into the account dated?”

  Rae’s brow furrowed. “We’ve only got the last three months remember, but what we have got doesn’t add up to $17 million. I would imagine that the payments into the account have been going on for some time.”

  “Looks like Mr. Gibson has got a little scam going on. He’s building up his retirement pot, a nest egg for his old age.”

  “A scam?”

  “Well, it could be related to his job. He might be doing some favors for clients . . .”

  “Favors! Like what?”

  “Off the top of my head, by-passing local planning, circumventing by-laws, tax avoidance, things like that.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Now, I’d be tempted simply to send Mr. Gibson’s bank statement to the Revenue Service – even though that goes against the grain of a sane person, but then we have his connection to Osip Lemontov . . .” He stood up, walked to the kitchenette, and filled his coffee mug up. “More coffee?”

  She shook her head. “I think, if someone came along and pulled all the caffeine out of your body, you’d just be a bag of wrinkly skin on the floor. You’re probably ninety percent caffeine and ten percent skin.”

  “I never thought of it that way before. You’re probably right. We’d better keep the door locked. Caffeine must be my Achilles heel, my sliver of kryptonite. You’d better keep it to yourself though. If my enemies found out, well . . . who knows what would happen.” He pulled a face and ran a finger across his neck.

  ‘You’re crazy.”

  “What about the telephones records?”

  Rae flipped over a page in her notebook. “Most of the calls are to and from the same numbers, but there are two calls to his mobile from throw-away numbers, and . . . remember the Antonio de Natali Gallery on Columbus Street?”

  “One of Mercy Hebb’s encrypted files? The art gallery we have a receipt from?”

  “Someone bought ‘The Smile’ for $25,000 from the gallery.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “There’s a ninety-second call to Gibson’s mobile from the gallery.”

  “Ninety seconds isn’t very long. Maybe it was a wrong number?”

  “Except . . . ‘The Smile’ was bought on the seventh of August this year, and one of the deposits for the same amount into Gibson’s second bank account was on the same day.”

  Tom closed his eyes. “My head hurts.” He disappeared into the bedroom.

  “Are you getting tablets?”

  “No.”

  He came back with a roll of paper.

  When he opened it out to lay it on the coffee table face down, the details of the poster were revealed.


  “Oh my God!” Rae said. “You didn’t tell me you liked Blink-182. I love their –”

  He held up his hand, turned the poster around, and saw that it was advertising Blink-182 at the Ponte Vedra Concert Hall on November 17, 1998. “Do I look like a person who knows anything about music? Unbeknown to me, my wife let her two daughters go to the concert. I was on a stake-out. If I’d have been made aware –”

  “You wouldn’t have let them go?”

  “Hell would have frozen over first.”

  “Aren’t they your daughters as well?”

  “Not when they go to Blink-182 concerts without my permission.”

  “They only went to one concert, and they probably knew they wouldn’t get your permission anyway. Wasn’t your wife qualified to give her permission in your absence?”

  “Absolutely not. She was emotionally involved.”

  “And you weren’t?”

  “I’ll take the fifth. Can we move on now?”

  “Your daughters sound pretty cool.”

  “Cool towards me.”

  “That’s hardly surprising.”

  “Which means what exactly?”

  “Well, you’ve got to admit, you’re not much fun.”

  “If you want fun, you should go to the amusement park. Let’s move on.”

  “That poster is probably worth about $250.”

  “I’m not going to profit from my daughters’ disobedience.”

  “Well, you could give it to me seeing as how I like the group so much.”

  He had to go back into the bedroom and find another poster. It was of a young-looking Michael Jackson – before the surgery. He saw her eyes light up.

  “And no, you can’t have this one as well.”

  “But I can have the Blink-182 one?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You’re ace.”

  “A minute ago, I wasn’t much fun.”

  “You’re not, but you’re still an okay guy.”

  “I’m underwhelmed. Now, let’s try and tie some of these ends together.”

  He began drawing a spider diagram on the back of the poster. The body of the spider was Oscar Gibson. The first leg was made up of: Osip Lemontov and A.N. Other, who were directly connected to the deaths of Harry Hall and Dulcie Carrick, the fire at the St. Augustine Record, and they were probably responsible for searching Mercy Hebb’s apartment. Were they working for Gibson or someone else? Apart from Lemontov having Gibson’s telephone number in his wallet, was there even a connection between them?

  The second leg was the Antonio de Natali Gallery. Someone at the gallery had made a ninety-second phone call to Oscar Gibson’s cell phone. Who? And why did Mercy Hebb have a copy of the receipt for the purchase of ‘The Smile’? Why was it encrypted? Who had bought the painting? And how did it connect to Gibson’s account?

  Gibson’s account was the third leg. What were the deposits for? Why were the deposits of different amounts? And why were they made from different accounts? Why numbered accounts? Was the $25,000 that was deposited on the seventh of August connected to the purchase of ‘The Smile’? If someone had bought the painting from the gallery, how had the money ended up in Gibson’s account? Had the gallery sold the painting on Gibson’s behalf? What was Gibson doing owning a $25,000 painting? In fact, what was Gibson doing with over $17 million in a secret account? Was he laundering money?

  Rae put her chin in her hands and leaned forward. “It’s not making any sense, is it?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t see any connection to the missing children either.”

  “No, neither do I.”

  “Maybe we’re going down the wrong road.”

  “I thought a spider diagram would make things easier, but it hasn’t. There are still too many unanswered questions. The more we find out, the less sense it makes.”

  “It might be better to sleep on it.”

  He glanced at the clock. It was quarter to midnight. Where the hell had the time gone? “Yes, let’s call it a day. Tomorrow, I think we’ll visit the art gallery.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday, September 16

  He got up early. Sleeping on the problem hadn’t made the slightest bit of difference. In fact, he couldn’t even remember thinking about the spider diagram at all. Sleep had come almost immediately, and his only thoughts were of Carrie.

  Would a trip to the gallery today reveal anything worthwhile? He was certainly finding it difficult adjusting to being a PI. Before, he’d either been in uniform or flashed his detective badge. He’d had the authority of the state behind him. If he’d needed to, he could have threatened them with arrest, locking them up in a police cell with no hope of privacy and an open toilet, or an investigation which would have turned their lives inside out. Most times though, people had cooperated. He hadn’t needed to threaten them with anything much.

  Now, what did he have? He wasn’t even a PI yet. He had no leverage. People didn’t have to talk to him – he was just Joe Citizen sticking his nose into places it wasn’t wanted. If he did threaten suspects, he’d probably find himself locked up. He had to be more resourceful, more wily, use different methods to those he had used as a police officer. And paying for everything wasn’t going to turn a profit either. He’d be living in a cardboard box before too long if he kept on doing that.

  At eight o’clock he shuffled down the hallway to get a shower. The utility room door was open, but Rae wasn’t there. As he passed his room, he saw she was in his bed again. What the hell was that all about? Maybe it was something to do with her childhood, her dead mother, and her father – the senator. Just as long as it wasn’t something more sinister. He’d have to get that out into the open. The last thing he wanted was a young woman having desires for him. Yeah, he was still good-looking, suave, a good catch even, but he just wasn’t interested in other women. Carrie had been his soul mate, and that was the end of it.

  Mabel was in the bathroom.

  “What’s going on, Mabel? I’d much rather you stayed in the bedroom in the mornings, especially when I’m about to take a shower. Yes, I know I’m a hunk, but you know Carrie was the only one for me, so if it’s all the same to you, I’d like you to leave now please.”

  Unmoved, she stared at him.

  “I know that young woman’s in my bed, and don’t ask me what it’s all about, because I haven’t got to the bottom of it yet. But you know very well there’s nothing murky going on. I think she’s just a bit . . .” He twisted his index finger into his temple, “. . . you know, a sandwich short of a picnic. So, get back in the bedroom, and stop trying to catch a glimpse of me naked.”

  Mabel disappeared.

  After his shower, he went into the bedroom and squeezed one of Rae’s big toes to wake her up.

  “Normal people sleep in on a Sunday,” she mumbled from under the quilt

  “You’re not normal people.”

  “You’re not, you mean. Go away and let me get my beauty sleep.”

  “You sure need plenty of that, but as you well know we’ve got a woman and twenty children to find and not much time to do it in.”

  She sat up. “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s time to get out of my bedroom so that I can get dressed, and while we’re talking about it being my bedroom – what the hell are you doing in my bed? If someone came in, they’d get completely the wrong idea.”

  “I like it.”

  “Nothing more than that?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, but I don’t want you getting any strange ideas that we’re going to be sleeping together anytime soon.”

  “I don’t want you getting any strange ideas either. As much as I think you’re an okay guy, you’re a million years old and as ugly as an old boot. I just feel safe with you.”

  “Okay, now that we’ve established where we both stand, get the hell out of my bedroom so I can get dressed.”

  She sc
rambled out of his bed and pulled the bedroom door shut on her way out.

  “And keep looking out of the window until I say otherwise, Mabel. It’s getting so a guy can’t get any privacy in his own bedroom.”

  ***

  Going anywhere was a full-time job these days. After getting dressed, he had to wait for Rae to get ready. She wore her new dress, and pirouetted in front of the full-length mirror for ages. Then they had to have breakfast with plenty of coffee in the restaurant. Afterward, he made a point of showing his face around the hotel as on-site security. It wasn’t until five to eleven that they climbed into his Dodge and set off to the Antonio de Natali Gallery on Columbus Street. He wondered how he’d ever gone anywhere before with a wife and two children to drag along.

  The art gallery was not only a thriving business, but also a tourist attraction that was therefore open on Sundays. The building had been built in the late 1800s, and used to be a sprawling house, but was donated by the Mercer family to the St. Augustine Art Association in 1916. Now, it contained rotating exhibitions of locally and nationally known artists. It also housed a permanent collection of antique German and French bisque dolls from the nineteenth century and a small collection of early Native American pottery.

  Tom paid ten bucks each for them to enter.

  “Aren’t we going to question the manager, or somebody?”

  “And say what?”

  “Well, you could tell him that we know about ‘The Smile.’”

  “The painting that he sold?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what art galleries do.”

  “Well, we could ask him who he sold it to.”

  “Clients are confidential.”

  “We’ve got a copy of the sales receipt.”

  “It doesn’t belong to us. They’ll want it back, and can you explain to the police how you came by it?”

  “What about the ninety-second phone call to Oscar Gilbert?”