by Carl Schmidt
“Richard, I have no idea.”
16
Conspiracy Theories
“Jesse, it’s eight o’clock in the morning. Shouldn’t you still be in bed?”
“Getting a jump on the day, Randall. I’m calling for some legal advice.”
“In that case, you probably ought to see a lawyer.”
“Do you know any I can trust?” I asked.
“Not a one,” he replied.
Lately, a number of people were firing off wise cracks in my direction. First there was Holly with her canine polygraph and the doggie whistle. Then there was Archie Lapointe asking me if I “like to fish,” and Richard Merrill’s impersonation of Paul Harvey. Even Father O’Reilly put tongue in cheek with his rubber band remark. Now Randall Bradford, who had always been a steely-eyed, all-business kind of attorney, was getting in on the act.
I expected it from Angele, of course. She rarely missed an opportunity to turn the rotisserie handle when she could get me on the spit. But the others were law-abiding, honest, hard-working folks who, as far as I could tell, came from good families. It occurred to me that at least one of three things was happening: 1) There was a conspiracy afloat to have my legs pulled, 2) I was beginning to rub off on those around me, or 3) everyday Americans were discovering the value of a sense of humor.
Given the nature of the current US political situation, I eliminated #3 without any ado. I decided against #2 for the simple reason that I didn’t want to assume any personal responsibility for the actions of others. That left only #1.
Generally speaking, I don’t snuggle with conspiracy theories. People tend to use them as fallback positions when they’re too lazy to sort through facts. I didn’t consider myself lazy, but I had been rather busy over the past few days. I made a mental note to investigate this more thoroughly just as soon as I could find some spare time. For the moment, I’d put it on the back burner and get on with the business at hand.
“Jesse, are you still there?” Randall asked.
“Sorry, I was just thumbing through the yellow pages for attorneys in the Augusta area.”
“Look no further, Jesse. I’m a changed man. You can trust me from here on out.”
“From here on out?” I asked, as if wondering what that meant.
“Well, at least until noon.”
“That gives me four hours. OK then, I guess you’ll do,” I replied. “Now that we have that settled, I’d like to run something by you and see what you think.”
I paused to gather myself, and Randall was kind enough to wait without disturbing my train of thought. Mentally, I was putting it together as an Italian opera in two-part harmony—Angele’s Christmas calendar gift was playing tricks with my mind.
There was the Nicole “Levesque” Shepard/Father O’Reilly story including the burly guy with the chest hair and gold chains—to be sung in the bass register. And there was the Tina Woodbury/William Lavoilette/Frank Richards love triangle with the unseen child, illegal ivory trade and unpaid alimony—for the contralto.
I emerged from my operatic reverie, speaking in English. I gave him the messy details and finally got down to the purpose of my call.
“Basically, Randall, I have two legal questions for you. First, should I mail Frank a letter requesting that he send twelve thousand dollars plus expenses to Tina, or do you think it would be more effective coming from a lawyer’s office?”
“I think a letter from you would be a good way to start the ball rolling,” he replied. “You are free to mention my name, if you like, and indicate that I am prepared to invoke legal action against him if he doesn’t voluntarily resume payments.”
“Good. That’s what I was thinking as well,” I replied.
“My second question is this: Am I legally obligated to come forward with evidence of possible criminal activity based on the information I have uncovered about Nicole and the likely involvement of my own client, Tina Woodbury? Keep in mind that Father O’Reilly does not want me to go to the police.”
“You are definitely on the spot. You can’t contact the authorities with any of the information about Nicole. That would be a breach of the ‘work-product privilege.’ The situation with Tina is a bit different. She is a client only to the extent that she is attempting to recover alimony from her ex-husband. Privilege does not extend to other criminal activity she might be involved in. The possible extortion of the ex-governor seems a protected matter as well, in as much as Richard Merrill provided this information to you as a client, even though he did not actually pay you for your services.
“Furthermore, the information you have on Tina Woodbury is highly speculative. From what you’ve told me, you have no direct proof of any specific crime she may have committed. It’s entirely possible that Tina and the governor did have a child. At this point, there is too much uncertainty to approach the police. If you happened to be misinformed about any of this, you’d not only be in trouble for a breach of your client’s privilege, you might even be held liable for slander. My legal advice is to sit on your speculations until you uncover some concrete evidence of criminal activity outside the scope of your contract.”
“Thanks, Randall. That’s more or less what I thought, too, but it doesn’t hurt to get a legal opinion, provided it doesn’t cost me an arm and a leg.”
“Your limbs are safe for the moment, Jesse,” he replied. “Why don’t you just clip your fingernails, put them in a Fed Ex envelope and overnight them to me, along with a thousand bucks?”
“You’re letting me off easy again, Randall.”
“For sure,” he replied, and then added, “The reason attorney fees are so high is not because we are good at what we do.”
“That goes without sayin’,” I cut in.
“Thank you for pointing that out,” he replied. “No, the reason is…after tolerating an endless stream of stupid lawyer jokes, we have to spend hundreds of hours in therapy rebuilding our self-esteem.”
“I see,” I replied. “So all the talk about swimming with sharks has got you down?”
“Not any more,” he replied buoyantly.
“Since you’re in such a good mood, I’ll ask you one more question.”
“Shoot,” he replied.
“Have you ever run across this kind of feminine extortion before?” I asked.
“No. I’ve been involved in a number of paternity suits, of course, but in every case I have insisted on a transparent chain of custody for the DNA results. I’ve never heard of a case where the child’s DNA was tested without the child being present.”
“OK, Randall. Sorry if I got you out of bed on a Friday morning.”
“No problem, Jesse. My fees are based on a sliding scale. Consultations before 10:00 AM carry a hefty surcharge.”
“I suppose I’d better hire a lawyer to contest your excess charges,” I replied.
“Good luck with that,” he concluded. “Lawyers love to sue people, but not each other. Professional courtesy, you understand.”
• • •
Angele and I had breakfast and then drove to work in separate cars. She planted a messy kiss on my lips in the parking lot, but reminded me to keep my hands to myself once we reached the office. Reginald Fines, whose last name is plastered on the front door, was scheduled to make a rare office appearance sometime during the morning. It wouldn’t go over well if we were caught frolicking.
“I’m all business today, Angele. Tonight, however, is another story.”
“Will it be R rated, Jesse?”
“I hope so,” I replied.
“Then don’t be late,” she added.
“I’ll try not to be early as well,” I said with a wink.
“That would be nice,” she replied.
It was almost nine in the morning, and already I was getting worked up. It required a fine bit of acting, but I managed to look like the perfect gentleman the rest of the way to the building. I held the door open for Angele, and we waltzed into the law offices of Schroeder, Wilson and Fines.
/> Reginald was easy to spot. There were about fifteen other people in the room, and all of them had one eye on the rotund, bald guy stuffed into a thousand dollar suit. He looked to be a decade or two older than the rest of the crowd. As I drew closer, I detected a blotch of powdered sugar on the end of his nose.
There were enough coffee and donuts inside to compete with Krispy Kreme for the place to be in Portland on Friday morning. I scooped up two glazed bear claws, slipped through the room and made my way to the third floor.
Two employees were hard at work. Holly was on the phone discussing our rates, while Ranger was sucking the marrow out of a hambone.
If I didn’t know better, I’d have imagined that Holly was trying to impress her boss—getting to work on time, being impeccably dressed and keeping things tidy. But I did know better. This was just the beginning of her third day on the job, yet it was crystal clear what kind of person she was. She was her own woman in every way. She was quick to see what needed to be done and did it without a trace of doubt or self-consciousness. Her demeanor over the phone was warm and professional. She stayed on point without being terse. In short, she was perfect for the job.
By the time she completed her phone conversation, Angele and I had sashayed our way through the Museo delle Sinópie in Pisa to admire some late 14th century frescoes and the Triumph of Death, a remarkable, though somewhat disturbing, illustration of hell attributed to Buonamico Buffalmacco.
Holly snatched me from my Italian daydream with, “That was Daniel Fairfield, CEO of Allied Shipping International, from their home office in Bath. They are in the process of filling sixteen new managerial positions for their firm. They want us to do background checks on all of their applicants, which, at this point, numbers almost ninety men and women from the US and a dozen more from Europe, South America and Asia.
“He wants two separate quotes. One would limit our search to criminal activity, including civil suits involving at least $20,000. The other would be a wider, more subjective, analysis of their personal qualifications, temperaments and tendencies.
“I took the liberty of suggesting two possible means of billing. We could either charge them an hourly rate, or we could offer a bid for the entire project after first preparing sample evaluations of two or three of their applicants. He understands that if we proceed with the latter approach, we will bill them the hours for our preliminary work and allow them to assess the results before entering into a contract with us for the entire project.”
She took my breath away. I briefly considered renaming our business “Holly Winters’ Investigative Services” before regaining my composure and wiping the sheepish grin off my face.
“Great work, Holly,” I ventured. “Which method did he prefer?”
“He told me he’d get back to me within the hour.”
“Did he indicate when they needed the full report?”
“He’d like it to be completed in a couple of weeks, if possible, and no later than the end of the month. If we go ahead with this, he’ll provide us with the information they have for all the applicants.”
“Do we have anything new on Frank Richards?” I asked.
“Nothing yet,” she replied.
Ranger gave me a hungry look. I gave him a Milk-Bone.
“I’m going to compose a letter for Mr. Richards and overnight it to his mailing address. If you find a phone number or a physical address for him in the meantime, let me know.”
“Sure,” she replied.
I was halfway through the letter when the phone rang. Holly answered it.
“Thank you, Mr. Fairfield, for getting back with us so quickly,” she said.
This had the potential to be our biggest contract ever, so I stopped typing and listened while Holly worked her magic. Within two minutes, we were hired to complete extensive background checks on three of their potential employees.
“It looks as though we’ll have our hands full for the rest of the day, Jesse,” she said after she hung up. “The preliminary profiles for three applicants are in my email box already. Should I attend to these, or do you want to handle them?”
“Why don’t you do it? I’ll work on the Tina Woodbury alimony case. I want to get back with Archie Lapointe this morning and follow up on something.”
Holly got to it. I finished my letter to Frank Richards and then gave Archie a call.
“Jesse, is that you again?”
“Yeah. I just emailed you photographs of two women. I’m curious to know if either of them is the Jessica Easton you spoke about yesterday on the phone. Could you pull them up and have a look?”
“Sure,” he said.
After a minute he spoke up, “It appears that Jessica Easton is your Nicole Shepard. It was a couple of years ago, but I’m almost certain it’s the same woman.”
“I’m not surprised, Archie,” I said. “Thanks again.”
I spent the rest of the morning trying to find anything on Frank Richards, but nothing surfaced. I decided to give Eric a call.
“Is that you, Jesse?” Eric asked.
“Yes. Have you and Billy been busy this week?” I asked.
“Not so much. I was just about to send him home for the weekend.”
“I have a job for you,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“I want you to do a little surveillance at Tina Woodbury’s house. Her address is on file. You’ll be looking for Nicole Levesque. I assume you saw the video that Billy worked on a couple of days ago, right?”
“Yeah, I did,” he replied.
“I just emailed you a photograph of her. When you get to Tina’s place, find out if Nicole is staying there. She drives a late model silver Camry with Massachusetts plates, 631-FL4. If you see it parked at the house, just drive on by and call me. If not, go back in the evening and look for it again.”
“Will do,” he said.
“There are a couple more things. Let me know if you see a black Jaguar XKR convertible as well. In fact, if you see a car like that anywhere in Augusta, get the license number.”
“OK,” he said. “What else?”
“Take your Glock to work. The Nicole Levesque case is a messy affair. There’s no telling what might happen,” I said.
“I’ve got it right here. The mag is full.”
“I’ll be back in Augusta on Monday evening, unless I get tied up here,” I said.
“You mean…like with ropes…on Angele’s bed?”
“That wasn’t what I had in mind, Eric, but now that you mention it…”
17
The Black Jag
I put the Frank Richards letter in a Fed Ex envelope and skipped downstairs with it. Angele was sitting at her desk, poring over her computer screen.
“Angele, could you put this with the outgoing mail?” I asked, as I laid the envelope on her desk.
“Sure thing, Jesse,” she replied.
“Can you get away for lunch?” I asked.
“Sorry, I have a meeting with Mr. Fines in about five minutes. I have to give him a quarterly report of my work with the freshmen lawyers. I’ll probably be in his office for at least an hour.”
“Do you want me to bring you something?”
“Thanks, but I’ll just go out when I get a chance,” she replied.
“See you later,” I said.
I went out the front door, turned right and walked down Free Street toward my favorite deli a few blocks away. It was overcast, windy and cold, so I wrapped my scarf a second time around my neck. I glanced across the street and my heart skipped a beat. Parked on the opposite side, directly across from our office, was a black Jaguar convertible. I put my hand into my coat pocket and clutched my .38 Special. I tried to do this as casually as possible, but my right toe caught on the uneven brick sidewalk, and I stumbled forward several quick steps. A shiver went down my spine as I came to an uneasy stop next to a delivery van.
I couldn’t tell if anyone was inside the Jaguar. The windows were heavily tinted, and I had al
ready passed the windshield. I decided to continue walking down the street as if nothing concerned me. I turned left at the corner, disappeared behind a building and stopped.
I caught my breath, turned on my cell phone and called Holly.
“Jesse, what’s up?”
“I’ve just spotted a black Jaguar convertible parked on the street directly across from the front door. I need your help.”
“Sure. What would you like me to do?” came the firm reply.
“There’s a small, magnetic GPS tracking device in the lower right drawer of the desk where you are sitting. Do you see it?”
“Got it,” she replied.
“Go downstairs and out the front door. Turn right and walk to the end of the block. Cross the street to your left. You’ll see me. I’m standing just beyond the building on the corner. I want to attach the unit to the underside of the Jag.”
“I’ll be right down,” she said.
“Put your gun in your pocket and make sure it’s loaded, just in case,” I added.
“Will do, Jesse. I’m leaving now.”
A young couple were walking toward me on the cross street. I tried my best to act natural, but they eyed me with suspicion anyway and then disappeared around the corner. A minute later, I caught sight of Holly coming down State Street. She made her way across the intersection and tucked in with me behind the building.
“Here’s the GPS unit, Jesse. Why don’t you let me attach it to the car? No one knows who I am,” she said bravely.
“No. I’ll do it. I’d like you to go back across the street and position yourself behind the car that’s parked on the corner. You should be able to see the Jaguar from there. If it happens to pull away from its parking space, get the number of the license plate. When you’re in position, I’ll attach the unit.”
“All right,” she replied.
When Holly was in place, I rounded the corner and headed back down the street. Suddenly the Jaguar pulled out of its spot and sped away. It turned right at the first corner and was gone. I looked across the street and saw Holly with her hands in the air. From the look on her face it was pretty clear that she didn’t make the plate.