by Mary Maxwell
I offered a few more words of encouragement. Then I asked him to tell me everything. When he finished the story, I offered to go with him to talk to Dina Kincaid and Deputy Chief Walsh.
“Oh, no way!” Duane barked. “That guy was in the courtroom during the trial that I mentioned! He was in favor of me being charged with perjury!”
“What was the outcome?” I asked, hoping to avoid any discussion about Trent and his role with the Crescent Creek PD.
“Judge Brinker was on my side,” Duane answered. “He knew that I was super nervous, so he let it slide. Although I had to wait, like, forty-eight hours to learn my fate.”
“You know what they say,” I told him. “‘The wheels of justice turn slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine.’”
“What does that mean?”
“Sometimes it takes a while to settle legal disputes,” I said. “But in this instance, considering that you have what sounds like potentially critical information in two open investigations, I don’t think it’ll take very long at all for the wheels of justice to turn.”
Duane chuckled. “Well, I hope you’re right, Miss Reed. And I also hope the wheels of justice don’t roll right over me.”
“I bet you’ll be fine, Duane. Now, do you mind if I ask you a few more questions about what you saw?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ve got all night.”
“Well, I’m on my way to a meeting, so I need to move things along if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, Miss Reed. Why don’t you ask whatever it was you want to know?”
“Can you identify the man that Ira was fighting with the night the fire was set?”
“I can.”
“Do you know his name?”
“I do.”
I smiled at his clipped responses. Then I asked him to tell me the name. And as I listened to his voice, gruff and coarse and slightly distorted by the connection, I felt a triumphant surge of adrenaline spark through my body from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
“Can you pass this along to the police?” Duane asked.
“I can.”
He laughed.
“And do you think it will help bring the guilty party to justice?”
“I do,” I said. “I most definitely do.”
CHAPTER 40
Velma Lancaster stood like a statue in the elevator as we rode up to Trent’s office. Her arms were folded across her chest and the expression on her face was a swirl of insolence and sorrow. After she’d agreed earlier to join us for a meeting with the prime suspect, I’d suggested that we drive from Crescent Creek Lodge to the CCPD headquarters so Velma could meet with Dina and Trent. I was surprised when she instantly agreed, although she insisted on taking separate cars.
Trent was waiting when I followed Velma into his office a few minutes later. There were bottles of water on the credenza along with a platter of cold cuts and sliced egg rolls.
“Anybody hungry?” Trent asked. “We had some food left from our lunch meeting.”
“No, thank you,” Velma said softly.
When Trent noticed the confused expression on her face, he jumped up, hurried around his desk and cleared a spot on the sofa just inside the door.
“My apologies for the mess,” he muttered. “The maid has the day off.”
A faint smile came and went on Velma’s face. She brushed the cushion before carefully perching on the edge of the seat.
“Did Katie explain the idea to you?” Trent asked, returning to his desk chair.
Velma nodded silently.
“And you’re sure this is okay with you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think so. I mean, I think I can do it.”
Dina appeared in the doorway. She greeted Velma with a cordial smile before walking over and leaning against the wall in one corner.
“So?” Trent said. “Where are we?”
“Do you want to review the evidence first?” asked Dina. “Or should I outline the plan one last time?”
He slowly rotated his gaze to where I sat on the arm of the sofa. Then he cocked one eyebrow and said, “The evidence speaks for itself, detective. We’ve got the button that was recovered at the Devane residence in Aspen. It matches the coat our suspect was seen wearing by several witnesses. We’ve got security camera footage from an ATM in Provo across the street from where the plates were stolen. We have the suspect buying gas cans at—”
“Katie mentioned an insurance policy,” Velma interrupted. “Isn’t that more important than those other things?”
Trent sighed. “I believe that all evidence is important, ma’am. But you are essentially correct; the fact that the property policy was recently upgraded to a ten million dollar payout is more than a little suspicious. The insurance company’s investigator was in earlier today for a pretty remarkable conversation. Their attorneys plan to file a civil suit accusing our friend with insurance fraud in addition to the charges that we’ll file for his criminal activity.”
“Isn’t arson for insurance fraud fairly common these days?” Velma asked.
Trent frowned. “Unfortunately,” he said. “The United States Fire Administration believes that tens of thousands of blazes are the result of arson every year designed to generate revenue for business owners, shareholders or other interested parties.”
“So they can pay off debt?” Velma asked casually.
“That’s one motive,” Trent agreed. “Pay off what they owe the bank or other creditors. Or maybe they’re just greedy people.”
“Or jerks,” Velma offered. “I’d say he actually falls into all three of those categories.”
Trent didn’t comment. Instead, he asked Dina to give Velma a snapshot of the tentative case as suggested by the evidence and eyewitness testimony.
“We suspect that the murder of Jacob Lowry was a crime of convenience and chance,” she began. “Based on our conversation with you, Mrs. Lancaster, as well as statements by a customer at the body shop as well as the valet attendant at the hotel, Mr. Lowry’s stop at Ira’s business was a spontaneous decision. He happened to be driving by late that afternoon on his way to meet Kevin Hertel at the Wagon Wheel Saloon. We believe that Jacob noticed that the garage doors were still up at the body shop and decided to pay your father a visit.”
Velma took a deep breath. “I believe you, Deputy Chief Walsh. Jacob had actually talked about meeting with my father to discuss what happened when I was younger. My dad and I have a somewhat civil relationship now, but there are still some things that haven’t been fully resolved. I’d shared them with Jacob over the years, and he wanted to help. I never believed that he would actually go through with it.” She paused. “And now, in the end, trying to help me resolve the lingering trouble with my dad…well, it got him killed.”
“It’s not your fault, Velma,” I said.
She smiled weakly. “Thanks,” she said. “Do you all know who actually shot Jacob and tried to make it look like a suicide?”
“We believe so,” Dina said. “Between our investigation and Katie’s contributions, we have a suspect.”
“One suspect?” asked Velma.
Dina glanced at me, indicating with a faint nod that I should answer.
“Yes,” I said. “The evidence points toward one individual.”
“Okay, fine,” she whispered, brushing tears from her eyes. “Who is it? Who killed Jacob?”
When I told her the name, she gasped faintly and sat back on the sofa. Her head lobbed forward, chin on her chest as she cried.
“Velma?” I said in a hushed tone.
There was no reply, just the muted sobs as she wept and trembled. I waited a few minutes, repeated her name and watched as she slowly lifted her head.
“I can’t tell you exactly why,” she said softly. “But I was beginning to suspect him, too.”
CHAPTER 41
Herman Bright was the first to arrive, carrying a burgundy leather briefcase and a cup of coffee from Java & Juice. When he came through t
he door of the meeting room at Crescent Creek Lodge at that evening, his face was drawn and tight. He put his things on a small side table and asked the question that was on everyone’s mind.
“Do you think this will work?”
Dina glanced at me. “Kate did something like this in Chicago when she was a PI,” she said. “And Deputy Chief Walsh has used the technique on more than one occasion.”
The insurance mogul’s eyes darted from Dina to me and then back. “Okay, sure,” he said. “That’s yesterday’s news. I’m wondering about today, right here, in this room in about…” He checked the time on his phone. “…fifteen minutes or so. Will your idea be successful?”
“We’re confident that it will,” said Dina. “And, before the others arrive, I’d like to commend you for taking part in this effort.”
Herman shrugged. “I want to see justice for the victims just as much as you do, Detective Kincaid. I’ve been in business for nearly twenty years, and never once has a customer tried to defraud my agency or—”
Dina’s phone trilled from where it sat on the table. She offered an apologetic smile to Herman Bright before taking the call. As she spoke in a low, muted voice, I got up and checked the hallway. It was empty. We were now just minutes from our starting time and there was no sign of Velma Lancaster, Carter Devane or Marla Soble. When it sounded like Dina was wrapping up her call, I went back to my seat at the far end of the conference table.
“That was Tyler Armstrong outside in the parking lot,” she reported. “Our guest of honor just arrived.”
“Do you want me to go check on the other three?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Thanks, but they’re on the way, Katie. Tyler also saw them slipping in the side door about five minutes ago. I imagine they’ll be here any second.”
While we waited for everyone to arrive, I pulled out my phone and checked email. There was another YouTube video from my mother—“Cat In A Shark Costume Chases A Duck While Riding A Roomba”—along with a note from Elle Samuelson asking if her naked wedding cake could have alternating layers of vanilla and chocolate with cream cheese frosting. I typed quick replies to both messages and then put away the phone as Carter Devane stepped into the room.
“Detective Kincaid?” he said with an overly aggressive tone. “Velma’s not coming.”
Dina asked for an explanation, but Devane shook his head and told her that neither he nor Velma had any obligation to join in the discussion.
“This is police business,” he said, pulling a chair out from the table. “I’m here strictly as a courtesy.”
“Very well, Mr. Devane,” Dina said, her upbeat and affable tone softening the sharp glint of irritation in her eyes. “I’m sure we’ll reach a successful conclusion with or without Mrs. Lancaster’s participation.”
CHAPTER 42
When Ira Pemberton lurched into the open doorway a few minutes later, I focused first on his eyes: ghostly black beads rimmed with red, glaring at the world from beneath the frayed bill of a dark blue cap. Then I noticed he was wearing the same clothes from the other night at the Minimart: scruffy overalls, gray sweatshirt and the blue jacket that was missing one button.
“What the bull hockey is this?” His voice nicked the fragile silence like a jagged blade sliding against the skin of a ripe peach. “Some kind of intervention? Y’all think I’ve been drinking too much since I lost everything in the fire?”
Trent was up and moving in a flash, his hand outstretched and his smile bright. He invited Ira into the room before offering tea, water, juice or coffee.
“How about beer?” grunted the newcomer. “In one of those frosted mugs they use in the bar.”
“I’m afraid that one’s not on the menu this evening,” said Trent, lightly cupping Ira’s left elbow. “How about a chair over here at the table?”
“And how about you go fly a kite?” Ira hissed.
He took a couple of tentative steps forward and then did a hurried pivot back toward the corridor. As he turned, his eyes locked on Herman Bright.
“What is this, Herman? You said we were getting together to talk about my settlement.”
The insurance broker opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He tossed a concerned look at Trent, who managed two thumbs up before quickly walking over to close the door.
“Have a seat, Mr. Pemberton,” he said, nodding at Dina. “Detective Kincaid’s going to walk us through some—”
“Herman?” Ira rasped. “You going to tell me what’s going on here?”
Dina got up from her chair and moved toward the bewildered man. “I’m going to take care of that,” she said. “As soon as you get comfortable, we’ll go through all of—”
Ira lurched for the exit, crossing the narrow strip of carpet with three oversized steps before his gnarled fingers found the knob and wrenched open the door.
Officer Denny Santiago from the Crescent Creek PD stood in the corridor. He had one hand on his hip and the other raised to chest height.
“Sir,” he said. “It’s in your best interest to hear what they have to tell you.”
Ira’s voice came out like a strangled growl. I couldn’t catch the first part of what he said, but the tail end involved something Nana Reed always referred to as the “naughty, filthy and foul lingo of heathens, rogues and fools.”
“You plan on cuffing me, Santiago?” Ira sniped. “Rough me up and throw me in the back of the patrol car?”
Denny’s expression remained calm. “Not unless you’d like me to, sir.” He took one step toward Ira. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll go ahead and close this door again so you and Deputy Chief Walsh and these other good folks can have a little chat.”
The cranky body shop owner spun around again to face the room. He sneered at Trent and Dina before gliding his angry gaze to Herman Bright and Marla Soble. When he got to me, his mouth flopped open and he said my name with an even sharper edge of disdain.
“What’re you doing here?” he said after I smiled and nodded. “This one of your Dudley Do-Right jaunts?”
“I beg your pardon,” I said.
He flashed an icy grin. “I know about you, Miss Reed. Snooping around. Asking questions. Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“I’m just a concerned citizen, Mr. Pemberton. And like all such local residents, I believe in supporting the efforts of our police officers and the—”
“Save it!” he snarled, turning to Trent and Dina. “Why am I here? What’s this all about?”
Trent gestured at an empty chair in the middle of the conference table. “Why don’t we all take a seat?” he said warmly. “There’s coffee and bottled water if you’re so inclined.”
“I’m not,” Ira said, finally moving toward the table and sitting down. “I’m packing up my truck tonight and heading west. I’ve got lots to do, so let’s see if we can make this snappy, eh?”
Trent slowly lowered into a chair across from the enraged man. He opened a folder, sifted through the enclosed pages and pulled out a large index card inscribed with a few notes in heavy black ink.
“Alright, Mr. Pemberton,” he said. “You want snappy? How about we zip right to the conclusion? How about you confess to the murder of Jacob Lowry and the intentional fire that you set to defraud your insurance company?”
Ira’s face registered a quick storm of emotions: shock, anger, fear and contempt. His eyes widened, the corners of his mouth trembled and he leaned forward while one fist thundered on the tabletop.
“I’m not confessing to a single thing!” he said in a crusty tone. “Because I didn’t do a single thing!”
Trent checked the index card. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, sir. We have evidence that connects you to both crimes as well as some shenanigans that we believe you carried out to somehow implicate your daughter and her friends in the scheme.”
Ira scoffed. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”
“What evidence?” Trent said calmly. “Is that what you’re asking?”
“Well, duh!” Ira jeered, sounding more like a middle school student than a man in his sixties.
“Sure thing.” Trent smiled, squaring his shoulders and inching his chair closer to the table. “Our friends at the PD in Provo sent us some compelling videotape earlier today. It very clearly shows you at a filling station in Provo a few minutes before a set of license plates were stolen from a car that had been left overnight for repairs.”
Ira snorted. “That doesn’t prove a thing, Deputy Dawg.”
“We also have your bright, smiling face on another recording,” Trent continued. “It shows you buying gas cans at a Walmart not too far from the aforementioned filling station. They were the same type of containers found in the office of your body shop after it was severely damaged by a fire that appears to be an act of arson.”
Ira sighed loudly, put his elbows on the table and dropped his chin onto both hands. “This is fascinating,” he said. “But it doesn’t mean a damn thing.”
Trent’s grin expanded. “We also have a witness who saw you assaulting Jacob Lowry in the front parking lot of your body shop, Mr. Pemberton. At the time of that incident, your business was already in flames.”
“Who’s to say that little jerk didn’t take a swing at me first?” Ira demanded. “Maybe I was defending myself, not the other way around.”
Trent shrugged. “I can see how you might like that to be the case,” he said. “But our forensics team also learned something very interesting when they paid a visit to Bernice Sinclair after the fire.”
Ira scowled. “The old witch that owns the property across the way?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Trent. “Mrs. Sinclair owns three hundred acres directly opposite your body shop on the other side of Dunkirk Road.”
“It belonged to her husband,” Ira said. “She probably killed the poor idiot with that spicy fried chicken she used to try and get me to eat.”