by Rich Foster
Of course, it's possible the killer checked the suitcase as a means of dumping it. But why not leave it with Alison’s body? And where the hell had her body been for twenty years?
Questions piled up faster than answers. He could only tug on a thread and see where it led; drugs, extortion, and jealousy were his three points of investigation.
Harry drove home on autopilot, before he knew it; he was pulling into his drive. Paula was cooking dinner.
“I’m going to drop a hook in the water, babe.”
Paula waved. This time of day she translated that to, 'I plan to drink a beer, dangle my toes off the dock and try to solve the logjam in my head.'
Harry did just that. He caught a small perch dumb enough to bite, but the big bass were hiding in the deep cool water. The logjam remained.
Chapter 14
“Why the fuck should I talk to you?”
Jimmy Verro was small and wiry; wearing prison denims and a number on his back.
Would probably fight tough as nails in a small town, but in prison he’s probably somebody’s bitch, Harry thought. Aloud he said, “To pass the time or because you’ve got a parole hearing next month.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
Jimmy’s got a limited command of adjectives.
“A private eye from Red Lake.”
“How the fuck can you help me with parole?”
“I can’t, unless you give me something that helps solves the crime I’m working on. If you give me something that works out, I’ll write a letter to the parole board.”
“That’s a lot of maybes. So, fuck off.”
Harry was tired of Verro’s repetitiveness. “I’ll also put a c-note into your prison trust account just for talking with me.”
“A c-note? Are you shitting me? That’s chump change!”
Harry rose. “Okay, thanks for coming down.”
Verro became animated, “Hey why the fuck you leaving?”
“You don’t want the cash, that’s fine. Good bye.”
“Hell, we're just negotiating.”
Harry sat back down.
“It’s a take it or leave it offer. Answer some questions and you get the $100. Help solve my case and I will say something nice to the parole board.”
“I ain’t no snitch.”
“How about if I ask my questions and you choose which ones to answer?”
“Do I still get the bread if I don’t answer?”
“Within reason. For example, if I asked did you killed Alison Albright, I wouldn’t expect you to answer.”
“What the fuck you saying? I didn’t kill no bitch!” Verro’s anger was barely contained. In the corner the guard moved closer. Verro caught the shift from the corner of his eye and settled himself.
“That was an example,” Harry said. “I’m not suggesting you did.” Maybe he did? Never thought of that before? “Alison Albright disappeared in Red Lake twenty years ago. Recently her body was found at Rocky Nook Point wrapped in plastic. Someone said you were dealing back in 1992. I wondered if you knew her.”
“Someone’s got a big mouth.”
“Mitch Conners.”
Verro shook his head. “Prick used to be okay until he became a cop.”
“So is he right? Were you doing business?”
You expect me to fess up to dealing?”
“It's twenty years. The statue of limitations is long expired, you know that Mr. Verro, you’re a smart guy.”
A sneer sprawled across Jimmy’s face. “And you’re a fucking suck up! Mr. Verro, my ass!”
“Don’t know you well enough to call you Jimmy. Besides, it never pays to diss a man.”
Jimmy knew about being ‘dissed’ and the dangers of ‘dissing’ the wrong people, especially in the joint. His vanity liked being called smart.
“That’s cool. I can respect that.”
Harry figured respect was something Jimmy got little of in prison.
“Did you know her?”
“Yea. I remember her. Somebody really iced the bitch?”
Harry nodded.
“A fucking waste of a nice piece of pussy!”
“Was she dealing?”
“Dealing shit? Hell no. She was buying from me.”
“Enough to be cutting it and doing some resale?”
“Naw, not that I remember. She bought for herself. Besides I think she was selling pussy, not shit.”
“What made you think that?”
“The last time I saw her, the bitch had a roll of cash. If she was dealing I would have heard, so I figure she was selling head or rolling on her back.”
“Did you ever hear anyone say she was turning tricks?”
Verro thought. “No, but if she ain’t pushing what else does a bitch got to sell?”
It seemed odd to Harry that Verro would recall a small time customer so clearly twenty years later.
“Why does she stand out after all this time?”
“First of all, she was hot. I tried to get a piece of her ass in trade, but she was too damn good for me; you could see it on her face. Secondly, I sold her some ecstasy right before she disappeared. Didn’t think shit about it at the time, but a month later the newspapers made a stink about her being missing. I sweated it for awhile, didn’t want to be tied to her.”
“You know when you last sold to her?”
“Sure, last day of school. I was graduating; I asked her if she wanted to do some partying. Stupid cunt was cold as ice, said she had plans. That’s when I saw her money roll, it was a sweet piece of stash. Almost took it from her.”
“Sure you didn’t?”
Anger flared in Verro’s eyes. Then the blaze died.
“You’re good at pissing people off, mister. You best be careful! But no, I didn’t take her bread; I figured I’d get it from her one buy at a time. Move her up from pot into coke, skag, or crack. In time I’d get both her money and her ass. Thought if things worked out I might diversify and work both sides of the street. Sooner or later every bitch user needs a pimp. If I knew she was gonna’ disappear things might of gone down different.”
Harry stood up. “You’ve got your century note. I’ll deposit it on the way out.”
“You better, buddy, I got friends if you stiff me.”
Just try! Harry thought. But it was a moot point. Verro earned his hundred.
As Harry reached the door Verro called, “Don’t forget that letter either, bro.”
*
The trip upstate to the prison, clearing security, seeing Verro, depositing the cash, and getting out again burned most of the day. Harry could barely imagine families making that trek on a regular basis. Some people's lives must suck.
Harry called the office while he drove.. Paula answered on the first ring.
Fingernails must be dry, he thought.
“I’m heading home from the prison, be there in an hour or so. You have anything I need to know?”
“I found Otto Moyer. He is living in a retirement community in Ft. Myers, Florida.”
“How’d you do that?”
“Called the bus company’s employee benefit branch and lied my teeth off. They didn’t want to risk Otto not getting the annuity that was left him. They gave me the address.”
“Nice. What about Helen Smith?”
“I haven’t gotten to it.”
“Let it go for now. I don’t see where she could tie in.”
“What about you, Harry? Did you learn anything from Verro?”
“I think the drug angle is out. Alison used, but only recreationally. I doubt the money probably came from dealing. I’ve been thinking extortion, but Verro made me consider another possibility I overlooked. Maybe Alison was turning tricks.”
“At sixteen?”
“It’s a possibility. It would explain where the money came from and how she turned up dead.”
“How’s that?”
“Suppose she was holding out on her pimp, where would she end up?”
“A bod
y bag?”
“Bingo!”
There was a brief silence, then Paula asked, “But why did her body turn up now?”
“Good question. I’ll see you soon.”
It was three o’clock when Harry got to the office.
The heat in the Edison building was enervating. He opened the window turned on the fan, and for the umpteenth time swore he was going to buy an air conditioner for the office.
There was a neat stack of notes on his desk. Mostly contact numbers for the people Paula tracked down. Harry glanced at his wristwatch, six o’clock in Florida, worth a try. He dialed the 239 area code and Otto Moyer’s number. It rang a half dozen times, no answer and no machine.
He sorted the others then looked at the last note on his desk, clipped to it was a background check on Raymond Holland. No arrests, no warrants. Credit not so good. A resident of Denver. Curiously, Holland worked at a dozen different private schools over the past twenty years, his longest stay was three years, his shortest four months. A number of schools had the word “Girls” in their name.
He thought about giving Holland a call, but decided against it. Going to prison for statutory rape was as good an excuse for murder as most. It would be best to see Holland’s face when they spoke.
Harry went online and made a reservation for a flight to Denver. Short notice was pricey, but his travel was on Travis Parks’ tab. It was worth the trouble; Harry considered Holland the strongest suspect he had. Gotta catch up on my expense account. Need to get a bill out to Parks in case he gets cold feet. I’ll talk to him on my way back from Denver.
Rather than do paper work, Harry closed up shop and went home where Paula had mixed up a pitcher of cocktails. She handed Harry a tall glass. He took a sip.
“Mmmm. That’s good. What’s in it?”
“1 shot sloe gin, 1 shot vodka, 1 shot Southern Comfort, 1shot of Galliano, 1 shot of orange juice.” Paula said.
“Hmm. Candy’s dandy but liquor’s quicker.”
“The O.J and vodka makes it a screwdriver, the Sloe makes it a sloe screw, the tall glass makes it a long screw, the southern comfort makes it comfortable and the Galliano, as in a Harvey Wallbanger, finishes it off, A Long Sloe Comfortable Screw Against the Wall.”
And that is what they did.
Chapter 15
The plane lifted off. The wheels thunked under the cabin sole. A few moments later they climbed out of the deep early morning shadows and into the sunshine. Harry yawned. He hoped they would serve coffee quickly. He twisted in his seat in an attempt to get comfortable but the small turbo prop defied his best effort.
Between catching up with Paula and catching the five-thirty flight out of Beaumont, Harry got little sleep the night before. He closed his eyes and was asleep before the steward brought coffee.
There was a bounce and a skip as the plane caught a crosswind and sat down hard at Denver International. Harry bestirred himself, he was stiffer than when he sat down. Five minutes later they pulled up to the gate and Harry went down the steps and hurried across the tarmac toward the open door. Behind him a voice called out, “Thanks for flying with us today.”
Inside the terminal he stopped to buy a coffee that he could have had for free while in flight. Then, while trying not to burn his fingers he began hoofing it down to the Hertz desk.
After a half hour of waiting, paper work, and declining supplemental insurance three times, he found himself in possession of a key for a non-descript car. Who manufactured it, he could not tell, nor did he care. He studied the map for the Denver area, memorized the highway numbers, and headed for town.
Ten miles up the road he found himself in bumper-to-bumper traffic as commuters made their way into the city. His cell rang.
“Hello.”
“It’s me.” Barton Dirk’s voice was familiar. Dirk almost never said his name.
“What’s up?”
“I was thinking about flying up for a visit.”
“I’m not home. I’m in Denver for the day.”
“Why don’t I pick you up?”
“I have a return ticket.”
“Cancel it.”
“Its non-refundable.”
“My airplane is more comfortable.”
“No stewardess though.”
“I could bring one.”
“Paula wouldn’t like that.”
“I’ll meet you back in Red Lake.” Barton rang off.
The Carlton Academy for Girls was located on the north side of Denver. Harry spent an hour and a half inching his way toward it, past two fender benders, a car that broke down in the center lane where the female driver sat helplessly terrified, afraid to get out of her car as commuters honked and shouted obscenities as they passed, and a five mile construction zone.
The school was on a wooded property that would be barren and slightly Gothic come winter. The buildings were brick, an attempt to evoke the feel of an Ivy League school. Girls in plaid skirts and blue blazers or vests strolled between buildings. Thought they’d be on summer vacation.
Harry found a place to park and followed the signs to the administration building. The grounds were neat in a utilitarian way, but Harry smelled money. He suspected people paid a lot to warehouse their offspring at Carlton.
In the lobby he found another plaid skirt and blazer, this one had perfect teeth as he suspected all Carlton girl’s must have.
“May I help you, sir?”
Her hair flounced and eyelashes bounced the way some girls do.
“Raymond Holland’s office?”
“Mr. Holland is in the Wainwright Wing.”
“I suppose the Wainwright’s are big donors to Carlton?”
“Oh yes, sir. All of our alumni are very generous, especially the Wainwrights.”
Such gratitude among the offspring of the well to-do!
The girl drew a line on a map of the school. “Enjoy your visit to Carlton Academy, sir!”
Harry was not in the mood for perkiness. His irritation was a reminder that he hadn't eaten breakfast.
The Wainwright Wing was part of another building. To Harry’s eye it was built by low bid contracts. As he walked through the building he found every room bore a donors name, the theater, the gymnasium, some conference rooms, he suspected even the bathrooms offered naming rites.
Holland’s office was on the second floor at the end of a narrow hall. A sign beside the door read, Dr. Raymond Holland, Comparative Religious Studies.
The door was open a crack. Inside he heard voices. Harry leaned against the wall and waited. Ten minutes later a blonde haired girl came out. Could be interchangeable with the one at the front desk, same hair, same perfect teeth, same tan, all scented by Channel and money, he mused.
Harry rapped on the door frame.
“Come in!”
Holland was handsome in a boyish way that did not suit him as well as it might have a dozen years back. Now it lent a hint of immaturity to his face. The blond hair was swooshed up in a small wave and his blue eyes hinted at a streak of mischief.
“Harry Grim,” Harry said thrusting out his hand.
Holland grasped it. “Ray Holland. Are you a parent?”
Rather than let go, Harry held his hand firmly. Holland tugged gently but Harry tightened his grip.
“I want to talk about Alison Albright.”
Harry felt the tension as Holland’s arm flinched. The light went out of his eyes.
“I don’t know her.” He tried to jerk his hand away.
“You don’t know the girl who broke up your marriage?”
Harry finally let go.
“Oh, her.” Holland looked as if he might be sick. “I haven’t seen her in twenty years.”
“That’s reasonable in that she has been dead that long. She died about the time you left Red Lake.”
Holland slid down into his desk chair and buried his face in his hands.
“Did you kill her?”
Holland’s head snapped up. “Of course not!” he
almost shouted. “Who the hell are you anyway?”
Just then a head popped in the door. “Everything okay in here, Ray?”
Holland flushed. “Yea. Sorry we disturbed you.”
The head left and Holland shut his office door. He looked at Harry with malice. “Are you with the police?”
“Private. I’m investigating Alison’s death. What do you know?”
“Nothing! I swear to God!”
“Did you fuck her?”
“Holland’s face went pale. Of course not, she was just a girl! What sort of person do you think I am?”
Harry shrugged. “Someone who seems to like working around young girls and has a tough time holding onto a job. Why’d you suddenly leave so many private schools?”
“None of your business!” Holland snapped defiantly. “I don’t have to talk to you, so get out!”
Harry shrugged again. “Okay. But I’ll probably be back. This Albright thing isn’t going away.”
It was a long trip for what he learned, but if he persisted, Holland would simply call school security or the police.
*
The Red Lake Airport is an unlit strip west of the lake and tucked close to the mountains. Barton Dirk flew north, up the center of the lake, banked west toward the Lazarus Mountains and then just before the foothills he turned south onto his final approach. He touched down and taxied to the visitor’ apron at the south end of the strip.
After securing the plane and checking in at the general aviation office, Barton strolled out into the late afternoon.. The mountain’s shadow was already creeping across the lake. A horn honked. Paula waved to him from the wheel of her black SUV. She stepped out and gave him a hug.
“Nice to see you.”
“Back at you,” Dirk said.
They climbed into the car and rolled out of the lot.
*
Harry arrived home as the last piece of pink cotton candy clouds faded to dull gray in the evening sky. Dirk greeted him with in iron grip and a slap of the back. Paula greeted him with a kiss and a drink.
Harry studied the dark mixture she put in his hand.
“It's in honor of Barton, a Black Russian,” she said with a grin. “Invented in 1949 at the Hotel Metropole in Brussels, three parts vodka and two parts Kahlúa.”