by LENA DIAZ,
“Remind me to ask him for investment advice. Did Damon die before, or after, Mrs. McKinley’s father?”
“A week or two after.”
Casey frowned. “Why would a man fake his death, when his wife just inherited millions of dollars?” He clicked an icon on his desktop and performed another search.
“I agree it doesn’t make sense.”
A few searches later, another document filled Casey’s screen. “We can rule out insurance fraud. He didn’t have insurance, none that I can find anyway, unless it was an amount too small to show up on federal radar. Kind of unusual not to have life insurance. Self-employed?”
“From what little Madison would tell me on the way here, I gather he was an entrepreneur. He invested in small businesses up and down the East Coast. But he was very private about his work, and Madison wasn’t all that interested in it. She focused on her own work as an assistant curator in one of the museums in New York.”
Casey relaxed in his chair. Pierce leaned back against the desk.
“Did she tell you anything about the marriage? Why she thinks her husband would want to kill her?”
“She isn’t exactly confiding in me right now. The only reason she agreed to come here is because she feels guilty about me getting shot, and she’s worried I’ll tell her brother about it. She says she doesn’t want to ruin his honeymoon, but I don’t buy that. She’s hiding something. Damned if I know what it is.”
Casey tapped his fingers on the desktop. “When you went to the station to talk to Hamilton, did you discuss whether this could be related to the ‘Simon says’ case? I haven’t heard anything about that killer stalking his victims before he kills them, but it’s possible.”
“He didn’t think the two were related. He still hasn’t invited the FBI in on that case?”
Casey shook his head. “Hamilton’s stubborn. He wants to handle it himself. Honestly, he’s got some crack detectives over there. They might solve it without our help anyway. Hopefully soon, before more bodies pile up. There’ve been three murders now.”
Pierce shook his head. “What about Madison? Can you think of an angle that would give us jurisdiction to look into her husband’s death? If Damon’s alive, someone else died in his place. We might be able to convince NYPD to invite us in to investigate.”
“Maybe, but exhumation is expensive. Without credible evidence, I don’t see NYPD paying for it. I sure can’t justify it in my budget. I suppose we could ask Mrs. McKinley if she’d be willing to cover the cost, sounds like she could afford it. But what would be the point? It’d be nearly impossible to confirm the vic’s identity. The fire most likely destroyed any viable DNA. Does Damon have any blood relatives, so we would have a DNA profile to compare against?”
Pierce shook his head. “Damon was adopted.”
“Dental records?”
“Madison said her husband refused to go to the dentist because he’d had some kind of bad experience as a kid.”
“This is all beginning to sound rather convenient.”
“My thoughts exactly. Body burned beyond recognition, no DNA, no dental records. I’m inclined to understand why Madison believes he could still be alive.”
Casey steepled his hands over his chest. “How long were they married?”
“A little over a year.”
“They should have still been in their honeymoon phase, and yet she thinks he’s trying to kill her. What kind of marriage did they have?”
Good question, one that had gnawed at Pierce since yesterday morning. “I haven’t had much of a chance to ask her all those details yet. It was a struggle getting her to answer just a few questions on the drive over.”
“Why is she so reluctant to involve law enforcement?”
“I’m not sure if she’s reluctant to involve law enforcement, or if she’s just frustrated over the police’s handling of her nine-one-one calls, and reluctant to involve me.”
Casey pursed his lips. “What did Damon have to gain by faking his death?”
“I think the only person who might be able to answer that is Madison.”
Casey punched the clear key, erasing the contents of his screen. “The police didn’t find any evidence to back up her reports that someone was stalking her. The only verifiable facts are that she chased a man and he shot at her. Playing devil’s advocate, I can think of several explanations, and none of them involve her former husband faking his death and coming after her.”
Pierce let out a long breath. “I agree. The most obvious explanation is that the man she chased was casing the house to rob her. When he couldn’t shake her, he shot at her so he could get away. I can ask Hamilton if there have been any burglaries in the area, but I think he would have mentioned that when I spoke to him earlier.”
“Fledgling burglar? Casing his first house? It could explain why she saw him watching her house so many times. He was nervous, not sure what to do. Where does she live?”
“East Gaston Street. One of those historic mansions, worth a cool million, easy. Might be closer to two.”
“A burglar’s dream.”
“I don’t want to dismiss this without a thorough investigation,” Pierce said. “I want to make sure she’s not in danger. If your theory is right, then no one is after her. The burglar will move on to an easier target. He won’t want someone to spot him in the same neighborhood after all the attention caused by the shooting. But if your theory is wrong, anything is possible.”
Casey nodded and glanced past Pierce, as if making sure the door was closed, before looking up at him.
“Any chance you’ll let this go, leave it to the locals?”
“None. Metro PD doesn’t have the resources to put someone on guard duty over Madison, or to dig into this and figure out what’s really going on.”
“What do you think is going on?”
He thought for a moment. The facts pointed to this as a one-time event, most likely the burglary scenario. But Madison was too nervous. She was hiding something. She was convinced her husband was after her. He didn’t see how she could be that sure without having a really good reason.
Like being certain her husband wasn’t the one who’d died in the car crash.
He shook his head. “You’re probably right about all of this. But I have to follow up and make sure she’s safe. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to her when I could have prevented it.”
Casey’s brows rose. “Because you’re still hung up on her?”
He clenched his hands beside him. “Because I promised her brother I’d keep her safe.”
Casey didn’t look like he believed his excuse.
Pierce wasn’t sure he believed it either.
“Well,” Casey said, “unless new evidence comes to light, I can’t classify this as federal. And unless Savannah-Chatham Metro PD invites us to participate in the investigation, there’s nothing we can do. If you work this case, it will have to be as a civilian, on your own time. Now that your undercover work is wrapped up, you’ve earned some time off.”
“Shouldn’t take more than a few days.”
Casey gave him an arch look. “I’m not thrilled about this. I think you’re still emotionally involved with Madison McKinley.”
Pierce stiffened. “My past relationship, emphasis on past, is not relevant.”
“I’ll spare you the standard lecture. But if you do something stupid because you’re distracted, and get yourself killed, don’t expect me to cry at your funeral.”
Pierce gave him a bland look. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do understand there’s no way I can officially help.”
“Understood. But, if you were to look into this, hypothetically speaking, what do you think you could do?”
“Well, hypothetically speaking, of course, I could operate on the assumption the shooter really is Damon McKinley. I could build a dossier on him, see what’s lurking in his background, follow the paper trail, starting in New York.”
; “When will you have something for me?”
Casey grinned. “Give me twenty-four hours.”
MADISON STEPPED OUT of the taxi onto East Bay Street, clutching her heavy purse to her side. Since Pierce had refused to give her back her Colt .380 unless she produced a concealed weapons permit, she’d had to go home after leaving the FBI building to retrieve her much bulkier, heavier, .357 Magnum. And just to be sure his police buddies couldn’t track her down again, she’d taken a cab instead of her flashy red convertible.
She’d also printed out a list from her computer, a list that detailed some of Damon’s investments that she’d found while snooping on his computer. That was the first time she’d seen his irrational temper.
And the first time she’d realized something was very, very wrong.
Some of the legal documents she’d copied from the folders in his desk drawer all those months ago were also in her purse. He’d supposedly sunk money into small businesses in most of the major East Coast cities, including a handful here in Savannah.
The few investments Madison had looked into after her husband’s estate went through probate had turned out to be bogus. She didn’t expect the ones in Savannah would be any different, but it was a starting point. If he knew the businesses well enough to write fake contracts about them, Madison figured he knew the area. As her brother had often told her, people tend to follow patterns, whether they realize it or not. They return to the familiar.
Hopefully that meant someone at one of those businesses knew him, and might have seen him recently. It was the only way Madison could think of to try to track him down. The alternative was to sit in her house and wait, and worry when he might show up again.
And what he might do.
Sitting around, being on the defense, had never been her style.
She sidestepped a group of slow-moving tourists, maneuvering her way down one of the bumpy, stone access ramps to East River Street, taking special care with her weak ankle. The brisk air coming off the Savannah River had her wishing she’d brought a scarf to cover her neck. She flipped her jacket collar up and hurried past the outdoor market to a brick building with a black and orange sign out front boasting its name, MacGuffin’s Bar & Grill.
The restaurant hadn’t opened for the lunch crowd yet, and no one answered the door when she knocked. She’d been a waitress in more than her share of restaurants to earn her way through college. If this place was typical, there were probably at least a couple of staff members inside getting the restaurant ready to open. Which meant the service entrance was probably unlocked so the staff could easily come and go.
She headed around the side and found the service door. As she’d expected, it was unlocked. She stepped inside, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior. The smell of roasted peanuts and stale beer hit her nostrils.
“We’re closed,” a tall man said, standing in the narrow hallway, blocking her way. He wore faded jeans and a black T-shirt with the restaurant’s name on it. “We’re not open for another hour. And it’s customary to use the front door.” He pointed toward the front of the restaurant.
Madison gave him her best smile. “Sorry to bother you. I’m Madison McKinley. I have urgent business with the owner. Is Mr. MacGuffin around?”
“Is he expecting you?”
“I didn’t get a chance to call ahead, but it’s very important.”
“If you’re a salesman, he’s not buying.”
“I’m part owner of this restaurant, and I need to talk to Mr. MacGuffin.”
His eyes widened. “Part owner? Well, that’s a new one. Come on. I’d like to see his face when you tell him that.”
Madison frowned at his retreating back, and followed him as he weaved his way through the tables to another door at the end of the hallway. He entered a large, cluttered office and ushered her inside. An older man was sitting behind the desk that took up a good portion of the room. Papers littered nearly every inch of the wooden surface. More papers were piled in stacks on the floor.
“Boss, this lady wants to talk to you, says she’s part owner.”
MacGuffin looked just as surprised as the other man had. But his look of surprise smoothed into a smile as he held out his hand. “Joshua MacGuffin.”
She shook his hand. “Madison McKinley.”
The look on his face didn’t change when he heard her last name. Madison took that as a bad sign.
“Have a seat.” He motioned to the chair in front of his desk. “Close the door, please, Todd.” He smiled at the man in the doorway.
Todd didn’t look happy to be left out of the discussion, but he didn’t argue. He closed the door with a solid click.
Mr. MacGuffin leaned forward. “Well, now. Since I’m the sole owner of this establishment, I’d be very interested in knowing why you believe you have a stake in the place. I do hope someone hasn’t rooked you out of some money, young lady.”
Madison was fairly certain how this would end, even before it began. But after being such a bad judge of character with Damon, she no longer trusted her instincts. So even though this man’s kind face and gentle way of speaking reminded her of her father, and she sensed he was telling the truth, she plunged ahead with her questions.
“My husband, Damon, bought half of this restaurant for two hundred thousand dollars. I’ve got the paperwork right here.” She took a sheaf of papers out of her purse and placed it on the desk.
MacGuffin studied the contract, pushing his thick glasses up on his nose before turning the top page. He scratched his balding head, his lips moving as he read. When he looked up at her again, he was no longer smiling. He grabbed a piece of paper from one of the piles on his desk and set it down in front of her. “This is my signature here.” He pointed to the bottom of the paper, then flipped to the signature page on the contract she’d brought. “And this is supposedly my signature on your paper.” He looked at her over the top of his glasses. “I’m no handwriting expert, but—”
“They aren’t the same.”
He smoothed his fingers across one of the pages. “What did you say your husband’s name was?”
“Damon McKinley.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever met him. Name doesn’t sound familiar. But I’m sure my lawyer will be interested in meeting him.”
Madison pulled the sheaf of papers toward her. “Damon died in a car accident.”
Sympathy immediately flooded Mr. MacGuffin’s eyes. “My sympathies, Mrs. McKinley. I hope you have some other means of income besides that alleged investment.”
She shoved the papers into her purse. “I didn’t have any plans to liquidate his holdings in this restaurant in any case. But I can’t understand why he’d go to such lengths to pretend that he’d invested in your restaurant, why he’d create a fake contract.”
“Two hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money. Perhaps he needed a way to explain away some kind of loss. A gambling debt, something like that.”
“He never showed me this contract. I found it on my own. So it’s not like he tried to use it to explain any losses to me.” She didn’t tell him she’d found it by snooping through her husband’s things. Instead, she let her statement hang in the air so that Mr. MacGuffin would assume she’d found it after her husband died.
“Forgive me, but did your husband engage in . . . illegal activities?”
She clutched her purse in her lap. “Not that I can prove. Although, I do admit that I suspected as much.”
He nodded. “Then it’s entirely possible he planned to use that fake contract to try to take my restaurant from me. Perhaps he was going to approach my heirs someday, to place a lien against my estate. There are all kinds of schemes con artists use. Unfortunately, I’ve seen quite a few of them. This one, however, is new to me.”
He stared at her curiously. “You said you didn’t plan to liquidate. If that’s the case, may I ask why you’re here?”
She considered lying, but she’d done far too much of that lately, and it was leav
ing a bitter taste in her mouth. “I have reason to believe my husband may have faked his death, and that he’s in Savannah. I’m trying to track him down.”
“Oh dear.”
“I forgot to bring a picture of him with me.” She’d been in too much of a hurry to leave the house before Pierce caught up to her. “But if you’ve seen him, or if you see him in the future, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.” She described him as she scribbled her name and cell phone number on a piece of scrap paper from her purse. She slid the paper across the desk. “He has distinctive, extremely light blue eyes, hard to forget.”
MacGuffin took the paper and slid it into his top drawer. “I don’t interact with the customers much these days. I spend most of my time in the office doing the ridiculous amount of paperwork the government requires from small businesses.” He smiled ruefully. “I can’t say that I’ve seen him, but I’ll have Todd put the word out with the staff.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Of course. I hope I can help, as long as you don’t plan to try to take half my business with those fake documents of course.”
The hint of steel underlying his tone surprised her. He was obviously more suspicious of her motives than she’d realized. She pulled the contract back out of her purse. She held the pages in the air and tore them in half before setting them on the desk.
“Does that satisfy you, Mr. MacGuffin?”
“Almost.” He picked up the torn pages, swiveled in his seat, and Madison heard the unmistakable sound of a paper shredder in action. Mr. MacGuffin turned back around. “Now I’m satisfied.”
Chapter Six
THREE HOURS LATER Madison was suffering from a chronic case of déjà vu. She hopped off the trolley, giving the driver the bribe she’d promised him so that he’d let her on board without a ticket and drop her off in front of a bed-and-breakfast that wasn’t on his tour route.
Damon had supposedly sunk fifty thousand into this particular investment, but Madison expected that was as much a lie as the five other places she’d visited today. Everyone she’d spoken to told her the same story. They didn’t know who Damon was and the papers she had were fake.