by Blair Howard
I looked at August. “Have you heard anything?”
“Only around here.”
Involuntarily, I glanced around the room. I saw no evidence of untoward attention. At least not then. I was in no way ready for what was to come.
Less than ten minutes later, a whirlwind arrived, followed by a tempest of cosmic proportions. An obviously irate Mary Ann Warren stormed toward us from across the room, followed by her equally angry husband.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She didn’t quite yell at me, but she might as well have; every head in the room turned to look at her.
“Hello, Mary Ann,” I said. “Can I get you and Ellis a drink? I already have a tab open.”
It was as if I’d poured gasoline on a raging fire. Her face, already red, turned puce. I was suddenly worried she was about to have a heart attack.
Larry Spruce was sitting right in front of where she was standing and, fearing for his own safety, he moved his chair to one side and gazed up at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind and closed it again.
She took another step forward, into the space that Larry had just vacated; she was now less than three feet away from me, and I was now worried she was going to try to do me physical harm. I couldn’t help but be impressed by her presence—and by her beauty, too, even as angry as she was.
Her three-inch heels made her even more imposing, that and the way she was standing: feet apart, hands clenched into fists on her hips.
“You’ve petitioned the court to have my husband exhumed, you son of a bitch,” she snarled.
“Whoa. Easy now,” August said. “That’s my son you’re talking to and his mother, God rest her soul, was no bitch. Try to keep a civil tongue, woman. Ellis. You need to put a stop to this, right now.”
But there was no stopping her. Nor was Ellis disposed to try. He simply stood behind her, his lips pulled back, his teeth bared.
“Your husband?” I asked quietly. “I thought Ellis was your husband.”
“You know what I mean. Why? Why would you do such a thing after all these years? Peter’s death was an accident.”
I was tempted to stand and face her, but I really didn’t want to dignify her argument, or her.
I looked up at her, glanced around her at Ellis, then said, quietly, “I’m acting on behalf of Peter’s mother—”
“You can’t. I’m Peter’s next of kin, not her. You need my permission, and you can’t have it. I won’t have you disturbing him.”
“In normal circumstances you’d be right, Mary Ann: only you could petition to have Peter exhumed, but these are not normal circumstances. You see, I don’t think it was an accident, and neither does the Hamilton County Medical Examiner, or Sheriff Walker. That, along with newly discovered evidence, requires a medical examination to establish the true cause of death. I think he was murdered… by one of his friends.”
I was watching Ellis closely as I said it, and I thought for a minute he was going to explode. Instead, he took his wife by the arm and pulled her away, then stepped forward into her place.
“What new evidence? There is none. I was there.”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” I said easily. “You say you were there? Maybe you were; maybe you killed him. If so, we’ll figure it out. I do know this: if your friend Israel Hands had allowed his detectives to do their jobs back then, one of you, maybe all of you, would be sitting in jail right now. Well, it’s not too late to find out the truth, which is all Mrs. Nicholson wants… but—” I smiled up at him “—as you well know, Judge, there’s no statute of limitations on murder.”
He was all but apoplectic. “You bastard, you—you—you piece of…. I ought to smack you right in the mouth, you arrogant, self-righteous son of a bitch,” he snarled. He was so angry he could barely spit the words out.
I twisted in my seat, shook my head, and looked up at him. He hadn’t yet invaded my space, but I was ready for him if he did.
“Ellis,” I said with a sigh, “you really should be careful who you threaten, especially in front of witnesses, and even more especially when the person you’re threatening might hurt you… a lot, if you were stupid enough to try. Now why don’t you take your… take Peter’s next of kin and leave us to eat our lunch in peace.”
The next of kin didn’t like that one bit. “How dare you,” she screeched, then seemed to realize where she was. She looked around the room. It was a sea of grinning faces—the Warrens were not a popular couple.
“How dare you,” she repeated, lower, but no less furiously. “I loved Peter dearly. He was my life. I was devastated when he died, and it was an accident. The sheriff and Dr. Bowden both said so. It’s on the death certificate.”
I should have kept my mouth shut, but I couldn’t help myself. “You loved Peter? He was your life?” I was shaking my head in disbelief. “You have the gall to stand there with his best friend, who you married less than two years after his death, and tell me that?” I didn’t wait for them to answer. “How about this? How about I have sworn statements from witnesses that state you two were having an affair at least a year before your husband died, and that he knew it, and that he’d threatened to divorce you if you didn’t break it off with him?” I waved a hand in Ellis’s direction and stood up. I was angry now.
They both backed away a step. The room was silent, and so were the Warrens.
They stood for a moment, staring at me wide eyed. Then Ellis took her arm, pulled her away, and steered her out of the door and down the stairs.
I watched them go, then sat down again. I had a horrible feeling I’d gone too far, way too far, especially in front of the members.
“Well,” August said, waving a hand to call for drinks. “That was interesting.”
Judge Strange emptied his glass. “It was indeed.”
For a moment, everyone at the table was quiet, then Rose put a hand to her mouth and burst out laughing.
“Well,” she said, through her fingers. “Why didn’t you tell them how you really feel, Harry?”
I shook my head, grimaced, then smiled. “I have a feeling I haven’t heard the last of them.”
I was right.
Chapter 20
Monday, January 16, 9:00 a.m.
Henry Strange was right about the media, as I found out when I arrived at my offices the following morning. I hadn’t been inside more than a couple of minutes when the front door opened and in walked Channel 7’s Charlie Gove—Pit Bull Charlie, to those who know him well, which I did. He was, or had been, one of Amanda’s closest allies and friends during the years she’d worked at the station. Why, I had no idea.
He was a mean little man, short but in extraordinarily good shape, and clean-shaven except for a prematurely white mustache that made it look like he dyed his shock of dark brown hair, which he didn’t.
I’d never really liked the man, though I could think of no good reason why. He was always friendly toward me, and had treated Amanda with respect, though I did have an idea he had a thing for her. I’d even mentioned it to her once, but she’d simply laughed and said the idea was preposterous. Maybe for her.
I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him, but I was.
“Charlie,” I said, offering him my hand. “Long time no see. To what do I owe this rather dubious pleasure?”
“Come on, Harry. You’re back in the news again. In the past it would have been Amanda, but following your recent nuptials, any reporting she might do where you’re concerned would be a conflict of interest. Besides, she doesn’t return to work until after the first, and she said it was okay for me to talk to you. So here I am. Ready to listen or do battle, whichever you prefer.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Charlie was nothing if not forthright. A loudmouth, nosey son of a bitch, he was, in Amanda’s words, “about as popular as a wet dog at a wedding.” Be that as it may, he was extremely good at what he did, which was to put the screws, on air, to any and all businesses, small or la
rge, that he felt might have taken advantage of one of Channel 7’s viewers. Just a hint that Pit Bull Charlie was sniffing around was usually all it took to bring justice to the masses. Love him or hate him, he got the job done, and he brought in the ratings.
“Okay, Charlie,” I said. “I’ll bite. What is it you want?”
“I want the skinny on your Nicholson investigation—you want to dig him up, so I understand—and I want the exclusive you would have given to Amanda.”
So Henry was right. The word was out and Charlie, I was sure, was just the first.
“You do, huh?” I looked at him, appraising. This might be an opportunity. “How about some coffee?”
“Sure. Why not. Decaf, please.”
So I made him a cup. I made myself sixteen ounces worth—of Dark Italian Roast, black—and we headed to my office.
“Take a seat, Charlie,” I said, as I dropped heavily into the throne behind my desk. He did.
I tilted my chair back as far as it would go, held the big mug in both hands, and stared across the desk at him.
“Charlie,” I said thoughtfully. “I don’t mind giving you an exclusive, might take some of the heat off me, but….” I paused.
He waited.
Savvy son of a bitch.
He kept waiting.
“Well,” I said, “Charlie, I could always rely on Amanda to….”
“Spin things the way you wanted them? That’s not me, Harry. I tell it like it is; always have. If you’re not happy with that… well. Tough.”
He sipped on his coffee, watching me as I thought about it.
“No, that’s not what I want. It’s just, two things: if I give you what you want, you can’t broadcast anything unless and until I say you can. Agreed?”
“Hmm… I suppose. Agreed. What’s the second thing?”
“I know you, Charlie. They don’t call you Pit Bull for nothing. You’re like a dog with a bone. You never give up. You’ll dig and dig. You’ll get into places I can’t go, and find out things I never would be able to. I want you to share those things with me… and other than me, I want you to keep them to yourself and, per our agreement, broadcast nothing of it unless I give you the go ahead.”
Oh, that made him unhappy, but I stopped him before he could object.
“I know, I know; that’s not the way you do things. Well, if you want me to cooperate with you, it is now. Think of it as being a part of the investigation. You can even take some of the credit; Amanda always did, as well you know. Come on, Charlie. When you know what I know, you’ll be one happy pit bull. What do you say? This could be a big one for you.”
He stared at me. I could almost hear the wheels turning inside his head.
Finally he looked down at his cup, then up at me, and said, “Deal. Let’s talk.”
And we did.
I had Jacque join us—she already knew Charlie quite well—and then I spent the next thirty minutes filling him in on what we knew and where we were with the investigation. He already knew the official version of what had happened that day in 2002, but he had no idea how Hands and Bowden had shoved the accident theory into the records, and when I showed him the evidence he couldn’t believe it had happened.
“Charlie,” I said finally. “I’m deadly serious. No one outside of this office except for Doc Sheddon, Amanda, and my father, who drew up the exhumation petition, know what you now know. If any of it leaks, I’ll know it was you, and I’ll shut you out. You hear?”
He heard all right, and he nodded, but I could tell his mind was on the enormity of what he’d gotten himself involved in.
“Harry,” he said. “Warren was having an affair with Mary Ann Nicholson, but about two weeks before he died she called it off.”
I stared at him. “And you know this because….”
“When I heard you were looking into Nicholson’s accident, I did a little digging—yeah, yeah, I know. Anyway, I talked to their neighbors too. I also talked to some of his friends. He was a popular guy. Played a lot of golf. He always played with the same three guys… no, no, not those three. Three other guys. Anyway, I talked to two of them—the third wouldn’t give me the time of day. It seems that on the Wednesday two days before the accident, the four of them were in the male-only bar. I can’t believe they still have one of those.” He shook his head, then continued.
“Anyway, they got to talking, and drinking, and Nicholson had a few more than was good for him and he told them about Warren and his wife, and apparently he was pissed off, and I mean really pissed off. He told them he’d only known about the affair a few weeks, but he’d put a stop to it; threated to divorce her unless she quit fooling around.”
Hmmm, so Heather was right. Now we have it from a different source. Peter Nicholson did know about the affair.
“I knew she’d supposedly called it off,” I said, “but what we don’t know is if he confronted Warren.”
“Yeah, we do,” he grinned. “From what my sources tell me, they had a ‘gentlemanly conversation’—Nicholson’s words—a week before he died. Apparently Nicholson told Warren he was willing to forgive and forget, but that if Warren went near his wife again, or contacted her in any way, Nicholson would ruin him.”
“Whoa, that’s new. Did he say how he would do it?”
“He didn’t tell his golfing buddies, but he did let it out that Warren wasn’t the squeaky-clean attorney he made himself out to be. Sounds to me like he had something on him, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said thoughtfully, “but what?”
“I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t know if there’s any way to find out after all this time.”
“Okay, so let’s think about it for a minute,” I said. “It couldn’t have been Warren’s womanizing. Everyone already knew about it. So what else is there?”
“Money.” We both said it together. And then we were both silent.
“It’s always the money,” I said.
“Yeah, but how?”
“Well, we know he’s a greedy, rich bastard. We also know he was heavily involved in stock trading and that Nicholson was his broker. You remember the Dot-com thing, right?”
“Oh yeah. Got caught in that one myself, as did everyone else I know.”
I smiled at him, nodding.
He looked puzzled, tilted his head, and screwed up his eyes; the question was there but unasked, and then he got it.
“No. Not Warren.”
I nodded. “Yep. I had one of my guys look into their financial histories. Nicholson made money on the burst and… so did Warren. Their two friends, however, lost big time. How does that happen? One for all and all for one, right?”
He nodded. “But not in this case. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking insider trading. I couldn’t figure out how Nicholson could have been savvy enough to see it coming—from what his mother told me, he wasn’t that good at what he did—but if he somehow got the word and then passed it on to Warren….”
“And,” Charlie said excitedly, “if he did, and if he didn’t pass the word to his other two friends, Myers and Harrison—I wonder just how friendly they all were.” He shook his head. “If he didn’t let them in on it, and they lost big, they’d be really pissed, especially if they found out that Nicholson and Warren made out like bandits. That alone would be more than enough motive, right?”
“If they knew about it, yes, which makes the answer to your question… significant. But here’s another question: Why didn’t he include them? You’re right; just how friendly were they all, I wonder…. No, Charlie. He had to have known something, and he must have told Warren, but not the other two.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yeah. We may just have stumbled on the answer; that’s what Nicholson had on Warren. Hell, if it got out that Warren had been insider trading, not only would it have ruined him, insider trading is federal. He would have gone to jail for at least a couple of years, maybe more. That by itself would have been mot
ive enough for him to kill Nicholson, let alone the loss of the love of his life.”
Charlie nodded, got to his feet, tipped up his cup and poured the dregs of the now cold decaf down his throat and said, “I need to do a little more digging. See what I can find out.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “I’ll have Ronnie dig a little more too. Let me know if you find anything. In the meantime….”
“Yeah, don’t call me, I’ll call you, right?”
“Something like that. See ya, Charlie.”
After he’d gone I called Ronnie into my office and asked him to dig deeper into the investment histories of Warren, Harrison, and Myers and, as an afterthought, into Peter Nicholson’s investments and who his friends in the world of finance had been.
“Go all the way back to 1997,” I told him.
“What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“Anything out of the ordinary.” I didn’t tell him I was looking for evidence of insider trading. Ronnie can get a little one-track minded, so I try to give him as much latitude as I can; if Nicholson and Warren had been up to any monkey business, Ronnie would find it.
That done, I called Helen Nicholson and arranged to take her to lunch two days later, on Wednesday. I tried for Tuesday but she had a prior commitment. At first I was a bit bothered about the delay, but of course there was no hurry. The case was fifteen years cold, and nobody was going anywhere. I had all the time in the world. And I had to wait: for DNA results, for the court hearing…. Aw hell. I’m going home.
Except I couldn’t. It was only ten thirty in the morning. I sighed, straightened my computer screen, adjusted the position of the keyboard, then the mouse, then I picked up the phone and called Kate.
“You’ve reached Lieutenant Gazzara, Major Cri….”
I hung up without leaving a message, flopped back in my chair, stared up at the chandelier. I’ll call Dad… nope, he’s in court today.
I stared around the room, spotted my shoulder rig and PV9 hanging on the coatrack. That’s it. I need some range time…. Maybe Amanda’d like to come with me.
I called her.
“Hello. This is Amanda Starke, please leave me a….”