by Carl Schmidt
She rushed over to me and said, “Sorry, Jesse. He was too far away and moving too fast for me to get the complete number. It was a Maine plate and began with either 368 or 363. That’s all I could get.”
“Let’s stay alert, Holly. He might come around again.”
We both looked for the Jaguar, in case it was circling the block. I gripped the revolver inside my coat, removed the safety, put my finger on the trigger and held my breath. After a minute, we retreated down the street and slipped across the threshold of our building.
Once inside, Holly said, “I should have gone straight to the back of the car and made the plate.”
“I didn’t want to put you in harm’s way,” I replied. “I couldn’t see through the tinted windows, so I had no idea if anyone was in the car or not. Let’s go upstairs and consider our next move.”
We were both a little overcharged when we reached our office. Ranger picked up on it right away. He approached Holly quickly, and stared up at her with high expectations.
“Everything’s all right, Ranger. We’re fine,” Holly said as she stroked the top of his head.
Ranger wasn’t buying it. He let out a bark.
I chuckled and said, “He’s a canine polygraph all right.”
Holly looked at me and said, “But we are fine, Jesse. That was no lie.”
“Yes, but is everything all right?” I asked.
“Well, you have a point. He’s picking up on our heart rates. Do you have any more of that jerky in your desk?”
“I think there are a few pieces left,” I replied.
Holly found one and gave it to him. Ranger eyed her one more time and took his prize hesitantly back to his place beside Holly’s chair.
“I’m going to call my friend, Sergeant Brock Powell, in Augusta. He’s a state trooper. He was very helpful during the Lavoilette murder case. I’ll see if he can run the plate for us. But I’ll bet it was stolen too. The Jaguar is probably registered in Massachusetts.”
I made the call to the Kennebec County Jail.
“Jesse, long time no see,” Brock said. “What’s up?”
“Brock, can you do me a favor?”
“Anything, as long as it’s legal,” he replied.
“I’d like you to check on a license plate for me.”
“What’s the number?”
“All we have are the first two or three digits.”
“How am I going to run a plate like that?” he asked.
“It’s on a black Jaguar XKR convertible. That should narrow the field. It begins with either 368 or 363. It’s a Maine plate.”
“I’ll see what I can find out for you. I can’t get to it right away. I’m at the front desk, and the room is full of suits. We’re transferring a high profile prisoner to the courthouse in a few minutes. I’ll call you as soon as I get anything.”
“Thanks, Brock,” I said and hung up.
“Speaking of plates, Holly, could you check to see if we’ve received the report on Nicole Shepard’s plate? I’m guessing it must be stolen, but I want to see what shows up.”
“The response came in this morning,” she replied, “but I was busy with Allied Shipping. It’s definitely stolen. The number, 7258 PL, belongs on a 2010 Hundai Sonata, registered to Marcus Billings of Portland.”
I found a Dr. Marcus Billings in the phone book and gave him a ring.
“Hello, this is Doctor Billings,” he said.
“Hello, sir, my name is Jesse Thorpe. I’m a private investigator in Portland. I’d like to ask you about your car.”
“Is this about the license plate?” he asked.
“Yes it is.”
“It was stolen either Tuesday or Wednesday,” he replied.
“I thought as much,” I said. “Was your car parked in the garage by the Congress Street Medical Building on Wednesday?”
“Yes.”
“I’m virtually certain your plate was removed from your car in that lot at 1:30 in the afternoon.”
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“Because we followed a silver Camry leaving the garage at that time. It had your plate on the back bumper.”
“Where did the car end up?” he asked.
“Somewhere in Massachusetts.”
“Somewhere?” he asked further.
“Yes, but I’m afraid there’s very little chance of getting your plate back.”
“I see,” he said.
“Have you reported it missing?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I noticed it was gone yesterday and called the Maine BMV. They said I’d need to get new plates.”
“Sorry to trouble you,” I said.
“No trouble, Mr. Thorpe.”
Holly nodded and said, “I think we should report that the plate was stolen by Nicole Shepard of Massachusetts. What do you think?”
“I think we should. This is unrelated to the privilege of our client, Father O’Reilly. Why don’t you call this in? You’ll find the address of her Burlington apartment on file. Tell the BMV that it is unlikely that Nicole lives there anymore.”
“Right,” Holly said.
“When you’re done, I’m going to call Tina Woodbury,” I said. “It will be interesting to observe her current state of mind.”
“It certainly will,” Holly replied.
After Holly made her call, I got on the landline and put in a call to Tina. She didn’t pick up. I was put through to her voicemail.
“Tina, this is Jesse Thorpe. Please call me back when you get a moment. We have located a mailing address for your ex-husband in California. I sent a strongly worded letter to him today requesting that he resume his alimony payments. Unfortunately, the address is a postal box. We don’t have a street address or a phone number for him yet. He’ll get the letter tomorrow, Saturday. We’ll see if, and how, he responds.”
I didn’t mention Nicole or the XKR. If I left that on the message, she’d have lots of time to fabricate a response. I wanted to catch her immediate reaction to that inquiry face-to-face.
Angele was probably still in her meeting with Reginald Fines, so I left her a text, “Don’t leave the building until you talk to me.”
Holly and I sat with our thoughts. I don’t know what was running through her cerebral cortex, but I kept hearing the words of Archie Lapointe reverberating in mine, “Those who don’t think…wind up marinated in tartar sauce.”
“This stinks like three-day-old fish,” Holly said, as if she were reading my mind. “We can’t trust a word that Tina Woodbury has said.”
“You’re right about that,” I concurred.
“I’ll be real interested to hear from Frank Richards,” she continued. “It might be that he’s on the lamb for his own safety, and not just to avoid paying alimony.”
While I was nodding in agreement, Angele flew into the room.
“Don’t leave the building? What’s up, Jesse?” she asked, a little out of breath.
“A black Jaguar was parked just outside the front door,” I replied. “When I approached it from behind, it sped off down the street and around the corner.”
“Whoa,” she remarked.
Now all three of us were thinking—four, if you count Ranger who seemed every bit as worked up as the three Homo sapiens.
“Keep Rhonda with you at all times,” Angele insisted.
“Rhonda?” Holly asked, furrowing her brow. “Who’s Rhonda?”
“That’s the name I gave to my .38 Special,” I replied. “Well, actually, Eric Cochrane is responsible for the christening. Years ago I dated a fiery redhead named Rhonda Giannini. Suffice it to say that my life became a whole lot calmer and safer after she left me for Bradley Windgate, a restauranteur from Bar Harbor.” I then added, “I should mention that I really wasn’t looking for ‘calm and safe’ at the time, but I got it anyway.”
“You’re safe with me, Jesse,” Angele said.
“So far,” I replied.
“Lots of my coworkers on the force named their we
apons after women,” Holly said. “It must be a guy thing. In fact, there is some reason to believe that the word, gun, is derived from an Old Norse woman’s name, Gunnhildr, dating back to the fourteenth century.”
Angele and I stared at her.
“You’re full of surprises, Holly,” Angele remarked.
Holly shrugged off the compliment with, “Enough for the history lesson; what should we do now?”
“I’m going to call Eric again,” I said. “I told him to drive by Tina’s home in Augusta and look for both Nicole’s Camry and the black Jaguar. I want to impress upon him the need to be cautious. Now that the Jaguar made its presence felt, it’s clear that we have disturbed the status quo with our surveillance of Nicole Shepard.”
I added, “By the way, I forgot to mention it, but Archie Lapointe identified her as ‘Jessica Easton.’ She might be using a different alias for every mark.”
“We need an alias of our own,” Angele suggested.
“For each of us?” I asked.
“No,” she replied, “for the driver of the Jaguar. We can’t keep calling him ‘the burly guy with chest hair and gold chains.’ Let’s just call him ‘Vince’ until we figure out his real name.”
“OK. ‘Vince’ it is,” I said. “Vince is probably armed. We all need to proceed with caution. If Tina calls back, don’t mention him or the Jaguar. Let’s wait to see if Frank Richards gets in touch with us first. He should receive my letter tomorrow. We’ll give him till late on Monday before we even consider putting pressure on Tina.”
The ladies nodded and I added, “I’m going to call the managers of Nicole’s apartment house and advise them not to mention my name to Nicole or to Vince, just in case either of them drop by asking questions. The less those two know about our investigation, the better.”
Angele and Holly chatted while I put in the call to the Arnolds. Bill answered the phone, “Bedford Hills Apartments, can I help you?”
“Is this Bill Arnold?” I asked.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Bill, my name is Jesse Thorpe. I met your wife, Andrea, yesterday.”
“Yes, she told me. We’re keeping an eye on Nicole Shepard’s apartment. No one has come by, and the place is still empty.”
“I’m calling to pass on a word of caution. We have good reason to believe that Nicole is involved in illegal activity, and the guy in the black Jaguar convertible may be involved. If either of them come by and talk to you, don’t mention that I was there. It’s important for everyone’s safety to keep this confidential.”
“Should we contact the police?” he asked.
“No. As yet, we have no actual proof. We also have clients to protect. For the time being, it will be best if you just keep on the lookout for anything suspicious.”
“All right, Mr. Thorpe. Andrea and I will do just that. We won’t touch anything, either, in case there’s a legal search of the residence during January. But when February first comes ‘round, if we haven’t heard from Nicole, we will prepare her apartment for a new tenant.”
“OK. Thanks for your help,” I said.
Next, I put in a call to Eric.
“Jesse, I’m on my way to Tina’s house. What’s up?”
“We’ve seen the black Jaguar. It showed up a lot sooner than I envisioned. We don’t know who the driver is, but for the time being we’re calling him, ‘Vince.’ He’s a stocky man, about fifty with dark hair and gold chains. Consider him dangerous.”
“Sounds like the Mafia, Jesse.”
“Exactly. So don’t do anything stupid. First and foremost, protect your ass.”
“I always do, Jesse. But thanks for the reminder.”
“He just drove away from here, so even if he’s going to Augusta to see Tina, he won’t be there for at least an hour. I’d like you to park near her home and keep an eye on things for the rest of the day and into the evening.”
“There’s a huge storm coming tonight, Jesse. It’s turning colder, and they’re expecting a foot of snow by midnight.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that. You’ll have to put up with a little cold, I’m afraid. This is important.”
“All right, Jesse, but this should qualify for ‘hazard pay.’”
“For sure,” I replied. “I haven’t been to Tina’s place, so I don’t know if there’s a convenient place for a stakeout. Call me when you get there, and we’ll discuss your options.”
“Will do, Jesse. I’ll get back with you ASAP.”
After I hung up, Angele said, “Let’s get some lunch, Jesse. I have to be back in the office in less than an hour.”
“I was headed to the Delhi Deli when I saw the Jaguar,” I said. “How does Indian sound to both of you?”
Holly nodded, and Angele replied, “Sounds good.”
“It might be safer if I go out first,” I said. “Stay a minute behind me. There’s no point in giving Vince any more information about our firm than he already has. Holly, you and Angele can watch my back.”
“Of course,” Holly replied.
Rhonda and I made our way out the front door. There was no Jaguar in sight. Before I got to the end of the block, it occurred to me that if Vince really meant business, he’d probably be driving something less conspicuous. I began imagining rental cars parked everywhere on the street. The mind will conger up all sorts of things once a threat is detected. My senses were on high alert. I felt like a trophy buck on the first day of deer hunting season.
The deli was crowded, so we kept our conversation low key. We didn’t want to arouse any unnecessary interest. We were halfway through our meal when I received a call from Eric.
“I’ll take this outside,” I said.
“Eric, hold on while I find a quiet place to talk.”
I stepped through the door and into an alcove where I could avoid some of the street noise.
“OK,” I said. “What’s it like at Tina’s house?”
“She’s got a pretty big place with a two car garage. The garage doors are solid, so I can’t tell if anyone is parked there or not. There’s no good place to hang out on the street. If I stake out her house in my car, I’ll get spotted in no time. What do you think?”
“How about at night? Once it’s dark, is there a secluded place to park where you’d be able to keep an eye on her place?”
“Probably,” he said. “Her street is a cul-de-sac. There are a couple of spots near the corner where I’d be inconspicuous, but I wouldn’t have a very good view of the house. She’s midway down a long block, but at least I could see every vehicle that passes by in either direction.”
“It’s almost two o’clock now,” I said. “If Vince is on his way, he’ll probably arrive in about forty-five minutes. For the next hour-and-a-half, park at that corner. That way his car would have to drive past you. After that, take a break, warm up and get some supper. When it gets dark, drive there again. If you can manage it, have a look inside the house and see who’s there.”
“Jesse, I had a thought. Fred and Marge Johnson live next door; I saw their names on the mailbox. I could knock on Tina’s door and pretend I’m looking for the Johnsons. I might be able to see who’s inside.”
“If nothing else works, you can try that,” I said. “Better yet, you could take your Hoover with you and pretend you’re a vacuum salesman. If she let’s you inside, you could search the place while you clean up.”
After ten seconds of silence, Eric let out a snort and replied, “Are you messin’ with me again, Jesse?”
“Who? Me?”
“Do you remember Mr. Stefanoff, our physics teacher in high school?” he asked.
“How could I forget?” I replied. “His crewcut and wide-eyed look are emblazoned on my memory.”
“One day in class we were all about being rowdy. He stared us down until we finally got quiet. It must have taken 5 minutes.”
“Yeah. I do remember that,” I said.
“Do you recall the first thing that came out of his mouth?”
Eric asked.
“Not at the moment,” I replied. “What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Nature abhors a vacuum.’”
While I was contemplating that, Eric added, “That’s why I never bought one.”
There was nothing much left for me to say. I closed my eyes, caught my breath and replied, “Eric, keep your eyes open and your head down.”
“Will do, Jesse.”
And we hung up.
18
Snowed In
The snow started coming down at 7:30 that evening. We had just finished supper. Angele and I were snuggled in her living room streaming an episode of Breaking Bad when the phone rang. The caller ID read “Kennebec County Jail.”
“Sorry I didn’t get back with you sooner,” Brock said. “There was a lot to do. I’m still at the office. I ran a search on that plate and found one match. There’s a black Jaguar convertible with a license plate, 3684 RE. It’s an XK, not an XKR. The owner is Kyle Mercer. I did a little checking. He’s thirty-two years old, blond hair, blue eyes, married with two children, and owns a number of office buildings in downtown Portland.”
“Really. That’s interesting,” I said.
“How so?” he asked.
“It doesn’t match the description of the guy I’m looking for. Maybe I got excited over nothing.”
“It happens to us all the time,” he replied. “There are a lot of dead ends in our line of work.”
“OK. Thanks, Brock,” I said.
“See you later, Jesse.”
I turned to Angele and said, “Apparently, it wasn’t Vince’s Jaguar after all. I don’t know whether to be upset or relieved.”
“At least we can stop looking over our shoulders.”
“I guess so,” I said.
Just then, the phone rang again. This time it was Eric.
“The snow is piling up, Jesse. Nothing much is happening at the Woodbury house. There’s a light on inside, but I haven’t seen a soul. As far as I can tell, no one has come or gone all day. Should I just go home?”
“Yeah. Call it a night,” I said.