by Carl Schmidt
“It seemed real innocent at the time, like he might have dated her a decade before or something. I didn’t want to tell him her name, but it would’ve sounded suspicious if I held back—like I had something to hide. So I told him.”
“You told him her real name?” Tony asked angrily.
“He’s a private investigator, Tony. If I gave him a fake name, he might find out, which would make things worse. I figured it wasn’t going to matter. She never used her real name anyway. I was on the spot. I just blurted it out.”
“So you told him you were with ‘Nicole Shepard’?” Tony asked to confirm it.
“Yes.”
(More silence.)
“So what happened then?” Tony asked.
“He said he thought her name was Nicole Levesque.”
“God almighty,” Tony erupted.
“He had a client, Tony. It could have been the priest. I don’t know his name, but Nicole laughed about that one many times. She used to say that she ‘nailed a man of the cloth.’ She said he was the perfect John—trusting and vulnerable.
“Jesse was there at the payoff. He has a video and photographs of the guy handing her a sack of money.”
“Jesus!” Tony shouted.
After a long silence, Tony said, “Maybe Thorpe is the bodyguard for Xavier LaGrange.”
“Why do you think that?” Tina asked.
“He knew my name,” Tony shouted.
“I didn’t tell him your name,” Tina shouted back.
“Yeah, but maybe he got Nicole to talk,” Tony said.
“I don’t think so,” Tina replied. “I called Nicole right away—after I left Jesse’s office. She said she had a tail when she left Portland with the money on New Year’s Day, but she lost him somewhere in Boston. As soon as I told her about the video, she split from her apartment and came back to Maine. She stayed with me for a day or so. All she wanted to do was make one last score with Xavier LaGrange, and then go to California—and maybe leave the country. She was finished working for you, Tony. It was all over.”
“Well—it’s all over for her now,” Tony said with a sense of finality.
(It was quiet for the next several minutes. I could hear various sounds in the house. A door slammed, a toilet flushed. The audio was coming through remarkably well.)
“Eric, are you there?”
“You bet, Jesse.”
“Can you get over there in a hurry?”
“I guess so.”
“Tony’s car must be in the driveway. See if you can put that GPS tracker under his bumper.”
“In broad daylight?”
“I realize that could be tricky,” I admitted. “But while I’m monitoring their conversation, I might be able to tell if they go to the kitchen or the back of the house; their voices would be more faint. You could wait in your car until the time was right and then slip in and out. If it doesn’t look safe, wait until dark or follow him if he drives away. He might go to see Joe Dunham and Sophia, whoever they are. We need to find out about them too.
“Call Angele’s number when you get there. I’ll let you know what I’m hearing at that time.”
“I’ll give it a shot, Jesse. But this is not just overtime; it’s double time plus hazard duty.”
“I’ll make it triple time, Eric. Xavier is paying plenty for our help.”
“I’m already gone,” he said.
And he was.
• • •
Ten minutes later, Angele’s phone rang.
“Where are you now, Eric?” I asked.
“I’m parked down the block,” he said. “The black Jaguar is in the driveway. What’s happening in the house?”
“It’s been pretty quiet since you left. I can’t tell what room they’re in. Sit tight for a bit, until I get a better read on what’s going on.”
After a couple of minutes, I heard Tony talking again.
“I’ve tried calling her four or five times now. She doesn’t pick up. Maybe I should just drive down there and have a talk with both of them,” he said. “Christ, I just drove all the way here because I thought you’d know something.”
I figured it was now or never, so I hollered to Eric, “Go do it now. He might leave the house any minute.”
Eric hung up. I hoped he was on his way, but I hoped even more that he’d make it back safely to his car.
Three minutes later, Eric called back—out of breath.
“It’s done, Jesse. The tracker is under his rear bumper. We’re on him like white on rice…or in this case, like white on snow.”
“Great work, Eric. Now get the hell out of there.”
And he did.
36
Snow on a Jaguar
Eric monitored the location of Tony’s car from the GPS signal during the afternoon and evening and called me periodically with a report. In the meantime, I listened to what was going on inside the Woodbury home.
The Jaguar left Augusta at 2:40 PM, got on the turnpike and headed south. Shortly after that, I picked up a conversation between Tina and Leo.
“Leo, do you think we should call Sophia and warn her that Tony is on his way over?”
“I suppose, but he tried calling her several times. If she’s checked her caller ID, she knows he called. She might figure he’d be coming over anyway. But, sure, give her a call. Tony is hot as hell. He might explode if he thinks she and Joe killed Nicole.”
(pause)
“Do you think they killed her?” Tina asked.
“Could be, I guess. But Nicole wasn’t always completely straight with you. Maybe someone else was in the picture. Maybe she had a boyfriend we don’t know about.”
“Possibly. But she usually told me stuff like that.”
(There was another pause, and then Tina began talking to Sophia over the phone.)
“Sophia, Tony tried to get hold of you.”
(pause)
“Well, he just left here. He’s driving to Worcester. He should be there in about three hours. He thinks you and Joe might have murdered Nicole. He’s mad as hell.”
(pause)
“No. I have no idea who could have done it.”
(A minute later, Tina was talking with Leo again. She must have hung up without saying “goodbye.”)
“Well, she’s in Worcester at home. She said she doesn’t know who killed Nicole.”
“Was she worried about Tony?” Leo asked.
“That’s the strange part of it. She didn’t sound worried at all. She didn’t pick up when he called and had already assumed he was on his way over. She seemed a little relieved that he wasn’t calling from Boston. It would ‘give her more time,’ she said.”
“Time for what?” Leo asked.
“I don’t know. To split, maybe. I’m not sure.”
“The important thing is that Tony knows we didn’t do it,” Leo said.
“If he believed us,” Tina pointed out.
“Tony talks tough, but he’s no poker player,” Leo replied. “He lays it all out. He’s not hard to read.”
When the talk in the Woodbury home had quieted down, I decided to monitor the location of Tony’s car directly on my iPhone. The Jaguar did, in fact, drive to Worcester. At 5:23 PM, it stopped in the driveway at 25 Lavender Avenue just west of Indian Lake.
I went on both Google Maps and Zillow to locate the house. It was a nice looking modern place with a two-car garage. It had recently been purchased for $325,000. A little checking indicated that the new owner’s name was Sophia Stockbridge.
At 7:35 PM, the Jaguar left Sophia’s home and headed east toward Boston on the Massachusetts Turnpike. At 8:30, it stopped in the driveway of an upscale home in the northwest section of Waltham. Zillow indicated the house was worth about $600,000 and, on another site, I discovered that the owner was Anthony Doyle.
I slid the Google Map over to Waltham and took a close look at the place. It was a beautiful home with a two-car garage.
The accuracy of the GPS unit allowed me to pinpoin
t the location of Tony’s car within a couple of feet. It was parked in the driveway—not inside the garage. That was puzzling. It was the middle of winter with lots of snow on the ground, and the weather report called for more snow at any moment. At first, I assumed he would be going out again fairly soon. But when I checked at 10:30, I found that the car hadn’t moved. Apparently, Tony had decided to leave it uncovered for the night.
Just before midnight, I checked again before turning in. Tony’s Jaguar convertible was outside, and, if the weather report was correct, snow was falling on its roof.
37
Calling the President
There was a loud and persistent knock on the door at 9:15, Monday morning. I didn’t have to leave my chair to see who it was. The top half of our office door is glass. There were two guys on the other side. One was a Maine State policeman; he had on the complete outfit—hat, collar, insignia, weapon, and single-minded look on his face. His silver badge announced that he was a sergeant. The other man was in plain clothes, but not all that plain; he wasn’t wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. His eyes told me that he was the one in charge. Clearly, he was a detective.
“Come in fellas; the door’s not locked,” I hollered, waving them inside.
They entered the room and both nodded politely to Holly, who was sitting at the front desk. Ranger let out a low growl and watched them with keen interest.
The plainclothesman initiated the proceedings by saying, “Ma’am,” and then turned to me. In a polite but firm tone, he asked, “Are you Jesse Thorpe?”
“That’s what my mother tells me,” I replied. “What can I do for you?”
He paused for just an instant to weigh my response and then said, “To begin, we can do without the wise cracks.”
Then he continued, “I’m Detective Art Wilhelm. This is Sergeant Vance Weathersby. We are investigating the murder of Nicole Shepard. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“I see,” I said, but I really didn’t.
Strictly speaking, my vision was just fine, but I had no clue at that moment why they were here to see me.
“We received a call from your office at 1:45 PM, Friday, January 3rd. A Ms. Holly Winters reported that Nicole Shepard was in possession of a Maine license plate that had been stolen.” He stopped briefly to look at a small note pad in his hand and then continued, “The number on the plate is 7-2-5-8 P-L.”
Suddenly, everything came into focus. I had totally forgotten about that call.
“We’d like to discuss your involvement,” he said.
I certainly didn’t care much for the word, “involvement,” but I decided against pulling out my thesaurus to discuss alternatives with Detective Wilhelm. Instead, I responded with, “A client of ours wanted me to investigate Nicole Shepard about a private matter. We made the license plate on her car, and later discovered that the plate belonged to a doctor who lives in Portland. So I asked Holly to contact the BMV and let them know.”
“Who is your client, Mr. Thorpe, and why were you investigating Miss Shepard?” he asked.
“At the moment, detective, that’s privileged information,” I replied. “I’d have to get permission from him—or her—before I can discuss that with you.”
“This is a capital murder case, Mr. Thorpe. Perhaps if we hauled your ass downtown, you’d be more willing to talk about it.”
“Not really,” I thought, but I didn’t say that. In fact, I said nothing for a spell. I wanted to, but my tongue seemed to be tied up at the moment.
“This is capital murder, Mr. Thorpe,” he repeated.
“I heard you the first time, Detective Wilhelm. I just don’t want to break any of Maine’s laws by revealing information that would breach the work-product privilege statutes. That would give you a legitimate reason to haul my ass downtown.”
Before he could respond to that, I hastened to add, “But I would be happy to contact my client to see if he—or she—is willing to disclose his—or her—involvement.”
Detective Wilhelm glared at me for a moment, pointed to my desk phone and said, “Why don’t you make that call before I lose my patience?”
It seemed to me that he had already lost most of that, but I obliged him anyway.
I picked up a legal pad and shielded the officer’s view of the buttons on my phone as I punched them; he was not yet privy to my client’s phone number either. He frowned at my security measures but said nothing.
Privately I heard, “This is Father O’Reilly, may I help you?”
“Hello, George,” I replied. “This is Jesse Thorpe.”
Father O’Reilly was slow to respond, a little surprised, perhaps, that I had called him by a Christian name, especially one that had never been given to him in the first place.
When he got his bearings, he replied, “Hello, Jesse. What’s this about?”
“There is a Maine Police Detective in my office asking questions about Nicole Shepard,” I replied. “I explained to him that you are my client, but that I cannot reveal your identity without your permission. You are legally entitled to remain anonymous, so I don’t want you to feel any pressure or obligation to give that up. However, I do believe it is the interest of justice for you to describe to him the nature of your involvement with Miss Shepard and the reason you hired me in the first place.”
“Why don’t you put him on the phone, Jesse?” he said. “I’d be happy to clarify some things for him.”
“Certainly,” I replied, and I gave the phone to the guy with an outstretched hand.
“This is Detective Art Wilhelm of the Maine State Police. To whom am I speaking?”
For the next five minutes, Art hardly got a word in edgewise. On four separate occasions, he said, “I see,” and ended his half of the conversation with, “That won’t be necessary.” At that point the detective handed the phone back to me.
“George, it’s me again,” I said.
“Jesse, I have not divulged my name to the detective. He doesn’t know I am a priest. I referred to myself as a public servant and told him that I have chosen to remain anonymous for the time being. I did tell him, however, that you are free to describe all the details of my involvement, provided you don’t reveal my identity.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “I’ll take it from here. By the way, I’ll drop in to see you the next time I’m in Kennebunkport. And please, give my regards to the missus.”
Father O’Reilly chuckled and replied, “Please do. We’ll go fishing on my yacht.”
“I’d love that. Perhaps Jeb and Junior could join us.”
The two officers stared at each other. Wheels were spinning.
“Detective Wilhelm, my client had a one night stand with Nicole Shepard three years ago. A year later, she convinced him that he was the father of her child. After that, she bilked him out of $45,000 in support payments for a child that never existed.”
Art raised his eyebrows noticeably, while Vance remained stoic, suggesting to me that nothing I might say would get a rise out of him.
“I’ll be happy to show you a video of George handing her a package containing $15,000 in cash on New Year’s Day of this year,” I said.
“Please do,” Art said.
I initiated the version that blurred the padre’s facial features and distorted his voice. After the clip was done, I told them the rest of the story—essentially that I tailed Nicole to Boston and then lost her shortly after she exited the Interstate.
At that point in the interview, I had hoped we were finished. I did not want the discussion wending its way to Xavier LaGrange and his relationship with Nicole Shepard. Under normal circumstances, I would have been delighted to help them locate the killer, but that would almost certainly have compromised Xavier’s privacy, not to mention Tina Woodbury’s. Detective Wilhelm, however, had something else to discuss before taking his leave.
“Mr. Thorpe,” he went on, “we understand that you spoke with Mrs. Andrea Arnold in Burlington, Massachusetts on the second of Januar
y. She and her husband manage the Bedford Hills Apartments where Nicole Shepard lived. Do you remember having a conversation with her?”
“Yes, I do,” I replied.
“Is there some reason you didn’t mentioned this to us?”
“Yes there is,” I said. “I assumed you already knew that, in as much as Miss Winters provided Nicole’s address when she reported the stolen license plate.”
“I see,” he replied. “It seems to me that your client, George, had ample motive to kill Miss Shepard. At this point in time, we have no other suspect.”
“Then, Detective Wilhelm, I can assure you that you have absolutely no suspects whatsoever. There is not even the slightest chance that George murdered Nicole Shepard.”
Curiously enough, I knew of five better suspects myself, and while three of them were rather unlikely, the other two were definite possibilities. But I was not yet in a position to offer those names. Perhaps there’d be a proper time to spill those beans, but that moment had not yet arrived.
“On the other hand,” I continued, “we are very interested in doing what we can to help our client recover his $45,000. Do you know if Miss Shepard left behind an estate?”
“That is a civil matter, Mr. Thorpe,” he replied. “Perhaps you should retain a lawyer and file a lawsuit. That might, however, be a difficult case to win, in as much as your client wishes to remain anonymous.”
At that point, the detective turned to Holly and asked, “Are you Holly Winters?”
“Yes I am, officer,” she replied.
“Can you shed any further light on this case for us?” he asked.
“No, I cannot,” she said matter-of-factly.
Detective Wilhelm was clearly unhappy. His partner, Sergeant Vance Weathersby, hid his feelings from us like a professional. Ranger, however, read them both like an open book and barked before sidling next to Holly, ready to spring into action at the first sign of real trouble.