Cruelest Month

by Aaron Stander

  “Like what?”

  “First, he said it was their swagger and their high living, the single malt Scotch and young Eastern European whores that were smuggled in on private jets. And they were answerable to no one. And they used the anarchy of a war zone to enrich themselves. Most were ex-military: Russian, South African, Israeli, French, and American. But here’s the big thing: that first year after the invasion, $12 billion in C-notes were shipped from the U.S. to start the rebuilding effort. Most went missing. That and billions of dollars worth of oil, loaded on tankers and shipped who knows where. X says he doesn’t know what scams Sabotny was running, but he does know that Sabotny soon parted company with the original contracting group and started his own operation. X says Sabotny came into a lot of money, big money, fast, and set up a shipping business. He says he heard Sabotny laundered the profits through an offshore corporation.”

  “And that’s a lot of hearsay,” observed Mackenzie.

  “Yeah, well, I next called this woman who was there the first year. State Department. She’s in Thailand now, still has a 202 area code. She confirmed most of the story. Said the loss of the money and Bremer’s total incompetence was reported long after the fact and never seemed to get any traction in the press. She said she heard that in addition to the no-bid contracts and lack of oversight, some contractors and/or their employees just helped themselves to pickups filled with boxes and bags of bills. And they did it with impunity because there could never be any prosecution. There was no accounting, no tracking of serial numbers. No doubt some of the money was used to pay for legitimate expenses, but most was stolen, and there is no way to trace any of it.”

  “Is this for real?”

  “It is.” Lee paused briefly and Mackenzie could hear him tapping keys on his keyboard. “So I call a friend at the Bureau. This guy owes me, and I know that he was involved in an investigation of a number of things that happened that first year in Baghdad—the theft of antiquities, the missing billions, contractor fraud, you name it. I asked him about Sabotny. He says they gave him a good look, they knew he was a key player, but they didn’t have enough evidence. Then he tells me they just ended up letting it go, the whole thing. The Pentagon and the administration, right from the top, were leaning on them to cease and desist. Too many people in powerful positions had either been in on the take or were complicit with what went down. He said that it could have been a scandal that rivaled Watergate. They wanted to make sure it got buried. Sure enough, in the end, it attracted little attention.”

  “Okay, interesting, but all old news,” said Mackenzie. “What’s Sabotny up to now, and why is he here?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” answered Lee. “But I have a bit more, and some of it I don’t quite understand—offshore corporations, wire transfers, that sort of thing. Sabotny is believed to have several offshore corporations in the Caribbean and Seychelles where he laundered his millions in 2003 and 2004. Since then he’s been living as an expat, mostly in Eastern Europe, seldom coming to the States. He pays for his day-to-day expenses using credit and debit cards issued by offshore banks. Both the Bureau and the IRS have noted his return and are looking into his activities. And the laws are changing for people like Sabotny. They’re not going to be able to live like this much longer. The loopholes are being closed.”

  Mackenzie, lost in thought, didn’t immediately respond.

  “What’s going on?” Ken Lee finally asked.

  “I’m just trying to absorb all of this. I thought Sabotny would be an ordinary up-north guy.”

  “Hardly. He’s a trained killer with anything he needs at his disposal. Sure you don’t want me on location?”

  The offer was tempting. Mackenzie was feeling lonely and vulnerable. “This is my war,” she answered. “You’re giving me plenty of help.”

  “Get me those pics,” said Lee. “And we’ll see if we can find out what he’s up to. In the mean time, I’ll send you everything I’ve gotten so far, including some info on his woman friend, Elena Rustova. Give it a good look.”

  25

  Ray had rehearsed what he was going to say to Joan Barton, Vincent Fox’s daughter, as he drove south on M22 early Monday morning., But once they had settled over coffee in her kitchen, the windows looking out on a small yard busy with birds visiting a collection of seed-filled feeders, he still felt anxious. Joan read his tension. “You don’t have good news, do you?”

  “I know a bit more about your father’s death,” Ray admitted, “and I want you to have that information before we release it to the press.” He briefly explained the autopsy findings, the fact that Fox had two small burns on his upper torso suggesting that the assailants had used a stun gun, probably to control him.

  “Just like him,” she said, giving Ray a weak smile. “When you’re a kid you think your father is the strongest man in the world. My father really was strong, even as an old man. Anyone who tried to force him to do anything was going to have a fight on their hands.”

  “I’m sorry that I….”

  “Don’t be. In fact, this has really helped. I like the idea of my dad going out fighting. That’s what he was, a fighter. He said he did Golden Gloves as a kid. I don’t know, probably just another of his stories. But he fought his way out of a tough Chicago neighborhood, made it through the war, created a successful business, provided a nice home for my mom and us, and put my sister and me through college. He gave us a good life. He was a tough, determined character.” She paused for a long moment. “There was a poem we studied in high school. What was it? The teacher made a big joke about not confusing the poet with the folk singer.

  “Probably Dylan Thomas. Do not go gentle into the good night.”

  “That’s it,” she said, “Do you know any more of it?

  “Do not go gentle into the good night,

  Old age should burn and rage at close of day;

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  I think that’s about all I can do with any accuracy,” Ray said.

  “That’s enough, thank you. He went out fighting. I’m sure he would have picked that over dying in bed. I’m sorry you never knew my father. He was a wonderful character.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” said Ray.

  By 10 a.m. Ray was back in his office writing a press release on the Vincent Fox investigation while Simone nested in the overstuffed chair. He worked through the draft of the release several times, adding a comma, changing a word, putting a sentence into a new paragraph, then changing his mind. Finally, he sent the draft to Jan, asking her to proof it once more before forwarding it to their media distribution list.

  Ray sat for several minutes, running the details of the Fox murder in his head before pulling down the large whiteboard and adding details to the branching case diagram. Slouching into a chair at the conference table, he studied the drawing. All the events and facts were there, but he could not see how they connected to any tangible motive. For the moment, the investigation into Fox’s death seemed stalled.

  Going back to his computer, he reread the notes from his conversation with Ma French. Although logic dictated that these were unrelated events, there was something alluring about the timing, the man on the personal watercraft, the cash. He thumbed through Fox’s book, finding a section that referred to an old estate on the shore of Lake Michigan, many miles below the Sleeping Bear Dunes. Fox wrote that that location once had been a major drop-off point for liquor by the Capone Gang, a possible burial place for part of the treasure, since it was terrain with which the mobsters were familiar. Like the rest of the book, Fox could have been referring to any number of places along the coastline. Not that that would stop the true believers from spending months looking.

  But could it be that the cash Ma French found was connected to the Fox hoax? Ray returned to his desk and pulled up the notes from his conversation with Ma French. He needed to know more about the Hollingsford Estate. French had identified Perry Ashton as the caretaker of the property. He looked
for his number in the regional phone directory. Finding none, he looked back at his notes. Ma had mentioned a Carol Truno in Traverse, and Ray found her number. A sleepy and somewhat irritated sounding woman came on the line. Ray identified himself and explained that he was trying to reach Perry Ashton. His said his call was related to a matter at the Hollingsford estate. Truno gave him Perry’s cell number and added that she knew he was planning to go out to the place in the afternoon.

  A few minutes later Ray was explaining to Ashton that they were looking into a cold case—not mentioning Ma’s recent find—and was wondering if he could show him where he found the body of Terry Hallen. Ashton agreed to meet Ray at 2 p.m. in the driveway of a house just off the highway near the entrance road to the estate. He said he would bring a boat so they could get across the lake.

  Ray wrote a short e-mail to Sue, inviting her along if she was back in the area. Then he and Simone headed out to find some lunch. They shared a lavish sandwich filled with organic chicken, greens, red peppers and a tangy mayonnaise in the parking lot of the Bay Side Family Market, then headed across the county toward the big lake.

  Reaching the designated meeting place almost an hour early, Ray continued to drive south, eventually turning onto a two-track that led to a small parking lot near the shore. Simone followed him out of the car, and they climbed over a small dune to get to the beach. He undid her leash and they walked north near the water’s edge, Simone running ahead, stopping, looking back over her shoulder until he approached, then sprinting forward again ebulliently, repeating the process over and over.

  The wind was blowing out of the northwest, creating a modest chop. The sun in a cloudless sky warmed his back. The last vestiges of winter, the remains of once-deep snowdrifts, were decaying into slush and gradually slipping away into the sand.

  After 15 or 20 minutes, Ray settled onto a large, bleached tree trunk that had been pushed far up the beach by the storms of fall and winter. Simone approached and tried to crawl into his lap, her paws and belly wet and sandy. They reached a compromise: Simone perched beside him on the log, her head on his leg as she accepted head scratches.

  Ray peered out at the lake and concentrated on the scene: the sounds, smells, rhythms, and colors of early spring. He tried to let everything else go and just enjoy the moment. On the periphery of his consciousness were visions of Fox and the disturbing autopsy report. When these thoughts intruded, he would push them back and refocus on the scene. This was one of the times he needed the wild places—empty of people—to refresh and refocus.

  Eventually he looked at his watch, surprised that so much time had slipped by. He reached for his phone to see if Sue had responded to his e-mail. His pocket was empty; the phone was in the car.

  When they arrived at the access road to the Hollingsford estate, Sue was already there, talking with a tall, lean, graying man next to a rusted Ford pickup with oversized tires and a raised suspension. A battered aluminum boat hung out of the truck’s bed, its pram bow extending far beyond the lowered tailgate.

  “Have you met Perry Ashton?” Sue asked as Ray approached, holding Simone in his arms.

  Ray passed the wiggly dog to her mistress and shook hands with Ashton.

  “Was she a good girl?” asked Sue.

  “Couldn’t have been better,” said Ray. Looking over at Ashton, he explained, “The dog was orphaned, and we co-parent her.”

  “Cool,” responded Ashton in a low, raspy voice. “She coming along, too?”

  “If it’s okay with you.”

  “No prob, man,” he said, fishing for a cigarette.

  “Mr. Ashton…”

  “Perry, please.”

  “Perry,” continued Sue, “was just telling me that this property was sold and he’s been terminated as of, what did you say, April first?”

  “That’s right,” Aston agreed. “Got a certified letter last week. Been here 40-some years. All I get is a short letter saying that my services would no longer be needed, and would I please remove my personal things and vacate the property before April 1. My last paycheck was there, too. No thank you, no separation, no nothing other than a FedEx overnight envelope for the keys.”

  Ray could tell by his tone and body language that he was angry and hurt.

  “So, Sheriff, what do you and the deputy here want to know?”

  “As I mentioned on the phone, we’re looking at a few cold cases. One of them involves the death of Terry Hallen. Our records from that time are less than complete, and it’s unclear if any final conclusions were ever reached in that investigation.”

  “How is it that after all these years you’re finally looking at this? At the time, no one seemed to give a damn. As I remember it, they ruled it an accidental drowning.” He paused for a long moment, dragging on his cigarette. “I had to deal with that asshole deputy. I know you ain’t supposed to speak evil of the dead, but….” Ashford stopped and looked embarrassed. “Sorry, Sheriff.”

  “It’s okay. And to answer your question, in the course of another investigation, this case came up, and we decided to take another look.”

  “It’s about time. Poor kid.” He let his last comment hang for a moment, then said, “Let’s get going.” Ashton took a final drag on his cigarette and flipped it into a water-filled ditch. “We should just go in my truck. The frost is coming out of the ground and there’re some big muck holes along the way. Those things won’t make it,” he said pointing at their vehicles.

  Sue climbed in the passenger side of the truck and Ray passed Simone to her before pulling himself up, aided by a step and a handle—both coarsely fabricated from rebar and crudely welded to the side of the vehicle. The interior—old and battered—smelled of tobacco and gasoline. A faded car deodorizer hung from the mirror. Ashton turned the key and the engine sputtered to life. He revved the engine several times, let it drop back to idle, engaged the four-wheel drive, shifted into gear, and started up the access drive, bouncing through low spots, throwing water and mud. Ray, now holding onto Simone, smiled. He hadn’t been in a truck like this since high school.

  Eventually, Ashton made a sharp right turn and reversed toward an opening in the trees that ended at the shoreline of Lost Lake. Ray helped drag the boat off the truck to the water’s edge and stood by as Ashton attached a small outboard.

  They crossed the lake, Simone standing at the bow, Ashton at the stern, Ray and Sue in the middle. Running the front of the boat onto the beach, Ashton raised the outboard, and he and Ray pulled the boat halfway onto the beach. They followed a wide trail, marked on each side by a line of half-buried fieldstones.

  “I used to put fresh woodchips on all these walkways every spring. Haven’t done it in years. No one has used the place in years except me and Carol,” said Ashton.

  “How long has it been exactly since anyone from the family has been here?” Sue asked.

  “A long time, years. Back before my time they’d come up every summer season. That lasted ‘til the 1970s, almost 100 years. Then the kids and grandkids started to build vacation homes in other places: Maine, the Outer Banks, California. Over the years they just seemed to get richer, don’t ask me how. Sometimes other folks, the extended family, would use the place, but the last few years, no one. I suppose it’s old, doesn’t have the stuff people expect these days. Plus it’s all going to hell. Back in the day, I’d submit a list of things that needed to done, give an estimated cost, and the money would come. I still send the lists, but nothing’s been funded for five years or more.” Their march along the path suddenly opened to the view of an imposing log structure. Ashton led them to the enormous front door that was standing slightly ajar.

  “Someone’s kicked in the door again,” Ashton mumbled. “When I checked the place two weeks ago, everything was okay.”

  “This has happened before?” asked Ray.

  “Not in the old days. But seems like every other winter the last years. ATVs and snowmobiles make it easy to get in here.”

  “Have you be
en reporting the break-ins?” asked Ray.

  “I did the first few times, that’s before you were sheriff.” Ashton shrugged. “They weren’t much interested. I took out most everything worth stealing, got it in storage in Traverse.” They followed Ashton into the gloomy interior—the small, widely spaced windows were partially covered by thick maroon curtains. “Just hope I don’t have a big mess to clean up.”

  “Would you switch on the lights?” asked Ray.

  Ashton chuckled, pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, and turned it on. “This is it, Sheriff. If you want the overheads, I’ll have to start the generator. Since it hasn’t been run since last fall, it’ll take a little doing.”

  Ray and Sue followed Ashton on a walkthrough of the main lodge, Sue carrying Simone. There was little evidence that anything had changed over many generations—chintz-covered furniture, worn oriental rugs, shelves lined with faded books. Two snowshoes, bent ash with leather decks, hung above a large stone fireplace. A half-dozen antique duck decoys sat on the dark mantle. The air was damp and heavy and smelled of mildew.

  “Usually I find the remains of a party, probably teenagers,” Ashton remarked as they moved from room to room. “You know, beer cans and cigarette butts, things tumbled over. I don’t know, though. Nothing out of place this time. Maybe they were just looking the property over. A prospective buyer.” Ashton laughed at his own joke. “Hell, it’s not my problem anymore.”

  “So what else is here?” asked Ray as they exited the lodge through a back door.

  “There are four extra cabins left over from the days the Hollingsfords had lots of company. Over there is the staff quarters. In the early days, they used to bring some of their maids and cooks from Chicago, and they also hired lots of locals. That’s before my time; my father told me about it.” Ashton lit a cigarette and surveyed the property slowly, like for the last time. “Just behind the lodge is the main kitchen,” he said pointing. “There’s a bathhouse on the hill below the water tank. The main house wasn’t plumbed at the time it was built. They added two bathrooms later. You can see them,” he said, turning back toward the lodge. “That addition with the shed roof. Everything is gravity feed. And there’s a big old wood-fired water heater up there, too.”