A Priestly Affair (Jesse Thorpe Mysteries Book 2)

by Carl Schmidt

  The weight of our discussion with Father O’Reilly pretty much nullified any lingering requirement I might have to apologize for my “infomercial” remark. Angele knows when to use a hammer, and when to keep it in reserve. It also pretty much nullified any chance of a late night amorous escapade.

  It was just as well. We both needed a good night’s sleep. Something was bound to come up in the morning.

  13

  Canine Polygraph

  Whenever I sleep with Angele, there’s no need to set an alarm. An internal clock wakes me long before it’s time to get out of bed. It’s more like a heat-seeking missile preparing to fire, but I don’t use that euphemism out loud in Angele’s apartment.

  At 6:00 AM it was still dark, but I was fully awake. The missile system was locked and loaded, so to speak. All I wanted to do was negotiate the space between us on her king-sized bed. The crevasse seemed a little wider and more hazardous than usual due to the unresolved blowback from my “infomercial” remark the afternoon before. I knew better than to pretend that the coast was clear, but I was hoping to avoid beginning a new day with begging and groveling.

  There’s a famous painting of George Washington standing in a boat, crossing the Delaware River. Although it depicts his voyage on Christmas night, 1776, it seemed quixotically apropos that their most difficult crossing occurred during the early morning hours of January 2nd, which just happened to be the same day of my own imminent excursion, albeit two and a half centuries later. On that historic and auspicious morning in 1777, George and his men defeated Lord Cornwallis and the British army in Trenton, New Jersey.

  The success of our beloved first president suffused me with an energizing mixture of courage and urgency as I prepared for my trek across the mattress. My fortitude, however, was undermined somewhat when Angele broke the predawn silence with a single word, uttered in the form of a question.

  “Infomercial?”

  I took a deep breath and replied, “Angele, imagine how different things would be if Martha Washington had waved a finger at George and restrained him from leaving Pennsylvania with, ‘And just where do you think you’re going in the middle of the night?’ Today we’d probably be speaking with English accents and purchasing cups of tea with pound notes.”

  It was, I believe, the most successful ruse I have ever employed in my personal history of lovemaking. Angele was so disoriented by my unexpected historical reference, that by the time the heat-seeking missile had completed its trajectory, her memory of my verbal faux pas was all but obliterated. During a climactic moment of our amorous reenactment of America’s struggle for independence, she blurted out, “Remember the Maine.” I took it as a compliment, but why she uttered a battle cry of the Spanish American War remains unclear.

  “Let’s have one of those delicious vegan breakfasts,” I said with relish, after we both regained consciousness.

  “George Washington, eh? Where did that come from, Jesse?”

  “I must have been hallucinating again. You’re so sumptuous that sometimes I forget where I am in time and space.”

  Angele prepared blueberry muffins, granola with almond milk, and a pumpkin gingerbread smoothie. From an arterial point of view, I couldn’t have been better fed. It may have lacked butter, grease and animal flesh, but it more than made up for those losses by adding days, and perhaps weeks, to my overall life expectancy.

  The day was off to a robust start. I brimmed with confidence at the prospect of a successful morning of private investigating. Nicole Levesque’s name was at the top of my to-do list.

  I had phoned Billy Mosher the night before and asked him to synchronize the audio and video of Nicole’s conversation with Father O’Reilly in the park. I wanted two versions. The first one would include everything we recorded as clearly as possible. The second would blur Father O’Reilly’s face and alter his voice to protect his privacy. I wanted to have the second one cued on my computer by the time Tina Woodbury returned to my office, which, I discovered, would be 10:00 AM. Billy had them ready by 8:30 and sent both files to me through an FTP program that we use for our website. The video and the stills of Nicole walking through the park were compelling evidence of something suspicious and, quite possibly, criminal. I was eager to see Tina’s reaction.

  But, all in due time. It was important to play our cards in the right order. That meant signing a contract with Tina, securing a $500 deposit for our initial efforts to locate her ex and—only then—making a discreet inquiry into the life of her lovely college girlfriend.

  Holly opened the office at 9:00. I arrived five minutes later. Holly was at the desk going through our phone and email inquiries. Her dog, Ranger, a well-mannered, male German shorthaired pointer, was lying next to her chair on a padded bed.

  Ranger’s coat is predominantly brown with a hint of rust. His upper chest has a splotch of white, which runs halfway up to his jowls. His yellow eyes have small dark pupils that watched me closely as I entered the room. His look was confident, rather than menacing, but there seemed little doubt that he was capable of rearranging his disposition in a heartbeat if he perceived any threat to Holly or himself. I liked him immediately.

  “So this is Ranger,” I said as I moved toward the desk. “I brought him a treat. Is it all right if I give it to him?”

  “Absolutely,” Holly replied. “He usually gives out a single bark when he thinks something gourmet is coming. Make him sit first. He will offer a paw if you hold out your hand.”

  We shook appendages, and I gave Ranger a strip of beef jerky that I had picked up on my way to work.

  “I like to get on the good side of large canines,” I said, “especially when we are trying to establish a mutually beneficial, long-term relationship.”

  “He’s good with children too,” Holly added. “There’s no worry when toddlers enter the room.”

  “Can he track down criminals?” I asked.

  “He’s been with me for three years doing security work in New York. He recognizes the difference between a guest and trespasser. I tried to get him a social security card, but Uncle Sam won’t accept a paw print for a signature.”

  “We’ll keep him off the books, but I’ll write off the jerky as a business expense.”

  “Tina Woodbury confirmed her appointment for 10:00 AM,” Holly said. “Is the video of Nicole ready?”

  “I watched it on my laptop earlier this morning,” I replied. “Start our FTP program, locate the file, NL-video-2, and download it to the Nicole Levesque folder. When the time is right, I’ll ask Tina what she thinks.”

  “I’ll get that started and then respond to a number of calls and email inquiries that came in over the past two days,” Holly said.

  While Holly attended to that, I repositioned the furniture in the room and began unpacking and setting up a new computer. By 9:50, it was online and networked with our primary computer.

  “Holly, I’ll interview Tina from the front desk,” I said. “While she’s here, you can work from the desk in the back, but keep tuned to our conversation. Feel free to interject if you think I’m overlooking anything significant.”

  We switched places, and I started a pot of coffee. Tina Woodbury walked through our door at ten o’clock sharp.

  • • •

  “Nice to see you again, Tina,” I said, extending my hand across the desk.

  “I enjoyed your band,” she replied as we shook hands. “You guys rocked the Rusty Tavern.”

  “Amanda is the real star,” I said.

  “She’s quite good,” Tina replied.

  “This is Holly Winters,” I said, pointing to the back of the room. “She joined our firm just yesterday.”

  Holly got up from her desk and came over to greet Tina. Ranger stayed put, but kept an eye on our guest.

  “How do you do, Miss Woodbury,” Holly said.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Tina replied. “Is that your dog?”

  “He’s mine, and I’m his.”

  “Does he do any t
ricks?” Tina asked

  “Ranger?” Holly responded, “Well, let’s see. He doesn’t roll over, if that’s what you had in mind, but he does have one special gift.”

  “What’s that?” Tina asked.

  “He’s a canine polygraph.”

  “Really?” Tina replied. “How does that work?”

  “Whenever he hears someone tell a lie, he lets out a single bark.”

  “You must be pulling my leg,” Tina replied, rolling her eyes.

  “No, not at all. Allow me to demonstrate.” She turned to me and said, “Jesse, look Ranger in the eye and tell him you’re all out of beef jerky.”

  “Ranger,” I said, getting his attention, “I have no more beef jerky for you.”

  Ranger barked once.

  I threw up my hands and said, “That’s some dog you’ve got there, Holly.”

  I reached into my desk drawer and tossed him another piece of Jack Links’ finest.

  “Ah ha! The three of you would have made a great team,” Tina replied, “had you been born during the vaudeville era.”

  “Oh? Like Groucho Marx with a sister and a dog?” I suggested.

  “Something like that,” she said, with a quizzical look on her face.

  I wondered if Tina had even heard of Groucho. I knew him only because my dad often recited his one-liners when the fish weren’t biting on Great Pond. I couldn’t resist… “I believe it was Groucho who once said, ‘Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.’”

  Both ladies groaned.

  Undeterred, I tried one more. “He also said, ‘Marriage is a wonderful institution, but who wants to live in an institution?’”

  It must have struck a chord, because both ladies laughed at that one. Then Tina replied, “Ain’t that the truth?” It sounded as if she meant it.

  “While we’re on the subject of marriage,” I said, “let’s talk about your ex. Did you bring the missing person questionnaire with you?”

  Tina grinned, dug into her purse and put the questionnaire and signed contract on the table in front of me. A $500 check was attached with a paperclip.

  “Let’s get down to business,” she said.

  “Absolutely,” I replied, hoping to restore a level of professionalism in our office.

  I made copies of Tina’s papers and handed them to Holly.

  “Give us a chance to look this over, and then we’ll discuss the details. If you’d like, you can pour yourself a cup of coffee; it’s fresh.”

  Tina poured a cup and sat down. Holly returned to her desk in the back. Ranger took his treat and nestled near Holly’s feet.

  The first thing I noticed on her questionnaire was that Tina Woodbury was born “Christina Landon.” Her second husband was Frank Richards. Apparently, Christina Richards became “Tina Woodbury” after her divorce from Mr. Richards. I decided to read further before asking about her name.

  Frank and Christina were married for five years. They had now been divorced for a little more than three. I took a moment and opened the file I had on Tina from the William Lavoilette murder case. Tina had had an affair with the former governor. It began almost four years ago and lasted for about nine months. That meant that Tina and Frank were still married for the duration of her affair, but William knew her as “Tina Woodbury” at that time. Very curious, I thought.

  Frank was born in Hartford, Connecticut and was ten years older than Tina, who now was thirty-six. Frank’s parents still lived in Hartford. Tina had contacted them trying to locate Frank, but they were not willing to tell her anything about their son. Tina referred to Tom and Edie Richards as “hostile witnesses.”

  Frank made his living in the importing business. He frequently traveled to China and had established a number of trading partners. He dealt in finished clothing, cut crystal and handcrafted items of porcelain, bone and ivory.

  The divorce agreement stated that he was to pay her $1500 per month for seven years or until she remarried. Tina had not received an alimony check for eight months.

  Tina listed a number of Frank’s business contacts; most of them were in San Francisco, and a couple were in China. She had not been able to get information about Frank’s whereabouts from any of them. Her notes indicated that several of his business associates hung up the phone the moment she identified herself. None of Tina’s friends had any idea where Frank might be.

  Tina was sipping her coffee when I looked up and said, “Your given name is ‘Christina Landon.’ Where does the name, ‘Woodbury,’ come from?”

  “I started calling myself ‘Tina Woodbury’ even before Frank and I were divorced. On paper, our marriage lasted five years, but it was essentially over after the third year. We were having major squabbles, and Frank had had at least two affairs before I began seeing other men. He was away so much of the time, in San Francisco and China, that we didn’t bother getting a divorce until he decided to start living with another woman. When she left the west coast and moved here to be with him, I filed for divorce. The court fight was ugly, but I was awarded $1500 a month for seven years.”

  “If so much of his business centered in San Francisco, why didn’t he live there?” I asked.

  “Because of the ivory trade. An international trade ban on ivory went into effect in 1990, but it did allow for some specific exceptions. He told me that his sales were legal, but I always suspected that he brought illegal pieces into the Bay area. I’m guessing he felt safer living 3000 miles away.”

  “Have you listed all of his business contacts on this form?”

  “Those are all I know,” she said. “His LLC is, or was, Asian Rim Traders. The first thing I did after he disappeared was to check his business address at the Maine Bureau of Corporations. He dissolved that company in July.”

  “Private investigators sometimes can gain access to tax records in the case of criminal or civil wrongdoing. Failure to pay alimony may be enough for us to view his latest filings. Has Frank always filed business and personal tax returns with the IRS?”

  “He did while we were married.”

  She hesitated. I could see there was something more she wanted to say, so I gave her time to gather her thoughts.

  “I know you aren’t an attorney, but I would like to know if I am protected by something like the attorney-client privilege.”

  “You are,” I said, “but it’s not exactly the same thing. Your protection is called the ‘work-product privilege.’ Did you read the contract?”

  “I skimmed through it, but I didn’t read the fine print,” she admitted.

  “Our work for you is geared toward litigation, so your privilege is secure, but it is not quite as binding as the attorney-client relationship. Our contract prohibits us from volunteering anything you tell us to anyone outside our firm, without your permission. It also protects you against discovery attempts by any legal adversary, except in those circumstances where there is no other way for them to obtain the information they are seeking.

  “So, for example, if you explained to us that you were involved in some kind of illegal activity relating to your divorce settlement, we could not pass that information along to any authority—the police, the courts, the press, or even private citizens. However, in a court of law, if your husband’s attorney sought that information, and he or she could demonstrate that there was no other possible way to actually obtain it, we could be compelled to reveal it.

  “But the most important thing is that you have hired us to help you. That’s what we are going to do. We respect the privacy of our clients.”

  “I see,” she replied. “I guess that’s safe enough.”

  She took a deep breath and continued, “Frank is a very wealthy man. My alimony would have been a lot more, except for two things. First, we were married for only five years. The more significant reason, however, is that Frank hid a great deal of his income from the IRS. I was not a partner in any of his companies, so I did not have to sign any of those bogus LLC returns
. But we filed our 1040s jointly, and I was a co-signer. Technically, I didn’t sign any illegal document, but I was aware of them. If the divorce court knew how much he was making, I would have been entitled to a lot more money. But in order to get the settlement, I had to swear before the court that his IRS documents were accurate and that I had no knowledge of any other source of income.

  “He threatened me in a number of ways. The settlement really boiled down to a collection of mutual threats. In the end, we were both sufficiently afraid, so we agreed to a ceasefire.”

  “Isn’t he concerned that by stopping the payments, you might follow through on your threats?” I asked.

  “Well, to some degree, yes,” she replied. “But Frank is a stubborn son-of-a-bitch.”

  It seemed clear that Frank had something on Tina that she had not told us. I decided not to pursue it, at least not at the moment. I needed to gain her confidence. That might prove to be important when we got around to discussing Nicole Levesque.

  “You’re entitled to your money,” I said forcefully, “and we’re going to see that you get it.”

  That made her smile.

  “OK,” I said, “You’ve indicated that he doesn’t own any real estate.”

  “Right. We owned a home together in Augusta, but it was sold when we got our divorce. After that, we both lived in rentals.”

  “You’ve listed ‘Jane Weston’ as the woman who moved in with Frank just before your divorce,” I said. “Was she living with him when you last saw Frank?”

  “I think Frank has moved through a few women since Jane. You might be able to track her down, but I doubt she’d be much help. When Frank breaks up, he does a royal job of it.”

  “How about Frank’s car? Do you happen to know the make and model, or perhaps his license plate?”

  “He had a black BMW when we were divorced. I don’t know the plate number, and it’s very likely he has had a couple of new cars since. I never saw him around town. Checks in the mail has been the only contact I’ve had with him over the past two years, and they stopped coming eight months ago.”