by Jeff Nania
“We are always on the lookout for thieves,” Ron said. “It’s a big problem during the tourist season. They come up or over from the cities figuring that small towns are easy pickings. We all got wise to this long ago. It was your uncle Nick, actually, who helped us design a surveillance system, and Chief Timmy held training during the winter for business owners and staff. Each counter has a hidden switch. When one of the girls sees something they don’t like, they push the button, and the camera locks into a frame-by-frame save mode. Usually I’m in the back working, so I monitor like I did today. If I’m not here, one of the others usually is.
“Our little town lost tens of thousands of dollars to thieves every year before these systems. Now it’s about a tenth of that. I tell my people to never confront anyone and call the law. A couple of years ago, the gal from the leather store went nose to nose with some guy from the city whose pockets were full of her stuff, and he pulled a gun. Not worth dying over something like that. There’s not one damn thing in my store that’s worth more than my employees. The D.A. here doesn’t screw around with these guys either. Many a big city shithead has found himself cooling his heels in the Namekagon County jail for six months. Our local criminals don’t care for the big city boys, so they don’t enjoy their stay very much.”
I was pretty sure that while Ron forbid his sales staff from confronting a thief, the same rules did not apply to him. He was not the kind of guy to watch his merchandise go walking off down the street.
We went back in the office, and Ron got right to it. “So what are we going to do now. What’s our next step?”
“First off, I’m hoping you could answer a couple of questions for me.”
“Shoot. I’m all ears.”
“There are some people around here that are really interested in what I am doing or not doing. You’ve been around a lot longer than I have, so maybe you can help me understand. I have got to ask about my uncle’s choice in lawyers. He was always a remarkable judge of character, yet he ends up with Derek Anderson for a lawyer. What is the deal with that?”
“That’s an easy one. Derek was working as a junior partner for Jonas McMann, a lawyer in town forever. Jonas was a honest and hardworking gentleman. He was still sharp and practicing law in his late eighties but took on two associates to help him with the day-to-day stuff. One of the associates, I don’t remember his name, lasted about a year or so and moved on. Derek was from the general area and stayed.
“Jonas used to love to fish fall muskies. With him, you better make sure you had your legal problems all fixed up before fall. If not, they’d have to wait until winter. One day, he was out musky fishing, and when he didn’t come back by early evening, his wife called the sheriff. A warden found him in his boat a little while later. He had passed on. Interesting thing, he still had his fishing rod gripped in his hands. The warden saw that the tip was jiggling and hand lined it in. At the end of the line was a very tired, but still healthy 50-plus-inch musky. The warden gripped the fish, worked the lure out, and watched it swim off. Nick told me that he was surprised that more people didn’t keel over when they had a big musky on the line. So, Derek just took over the practice and most people who had Jonas for a lawyer stayed with him.”
“Is he your lawyer?”
“Nope. I never liked him much, and when Jonas died, I went to a friend of mine in Spooner.”
“Did Uncle Nick say anything about working with Derek? Derek did all the estate planning, and I assume he and Uncle Nick had to work together quite a bit.”
“Nope. That’s not right. Jonas did Nick’s estate planning. I know because I was a witness to the signing of the papers. I am also listed as the executor in the event that something happened to you. I was supposed to take care of distributing his assets to various things he thought were worthwhile. The property was to go into a trust, and he was pretty specific about its disposition if you weren’t around. He agreed to do the same for me. Matter of fact, he pushed me pretty hard to get my planning done. As I recall, at the time he was greatly concerned that my penchant for riding my Harley fast over these backroads would soon be my undoing.”
“Do you have kids or other family, Ron?”
“No kids that I know about anyway, and I am not married at the moment. That could change any day but I am between wives right now.”
“Does ‘change any day’ mean you have someone special in mind?”
“Not really, but you never know what I am going to do until I do it.”
“Derek was the one that first contacted me about my aunt and uncle. He was pretty cordial to start with but was really pushing me to sell the property. When I told him I wouldn’t, our relationship went straight downhill. He obviously had a vested interest in the sale of the property. Clearly, he has his own agenda. I finally got to the point where I hired my own lawyer to work with him. I am getting strange vibes. There’s something else going on with Derek that involves me. I don’t know what it is, but I think it has to do with the property.”
“What did he tell you about the property?”
I went over everything thing I knew or suspected up to that point. Ron was an attentive listener and didn’t say much during my recount of the activities. After I had finished, he began asking me questions. That’s when I learned something very interesting about Ron Carver. His outward appearance would fool many people into thinking he was just an old rounder, battered by the storm of life, likely unable to string enough words together to make a sentence. They would be wrong. When Ron asked me questions, it was apparent that not only had he been listening but could recount every word I had spoken verbatim. His questions were clear and succinct and in better chronological order than they had been when I presented them.
“So Derek Anderson brought you an offer to purchase the property and recommended that you sign off and take the money?”
“Correct.”
“Did he share with you the name of this most anxious buyer?”
“He told me he didn’t know. He said he was working on behalf of another law firm. That was another lie. Subsequently though, I have met the guy. His name is David Stone.”
“David Stone!? David Stone is the guy who wants the property?”
“That is what he said his name was.”
“Johnny boy, I am going to have the girls make up a fresh pot of coffee. When I get back, I need to hear the whole story. Don’t leave anything out. I want to know about Stone and anyone else you might have met since you arrived. You’ve no doubt met some dangerous characters when you were a cop, but it is unlikely that you’ve ever met anyone as dangerous as David Stone, for he is truly a dangerous man.”
A few minutes later I was telling Ron everything I could think of about meeting Stone, Lawler, the chief, Julie, and Bud. I found that recounting all that had happened since my arrival helped me sort things out. The back and forth discussion that followed blew some of the mist away, and I could see the events more clearly. My investigator’s eyes became focused. The conclusion was simple. David Stone was running this show. Anderson and probably Lawler were doing his bidding for him, trying to get me to sign while scaring me off at the same time. Carrot in one hand, stick in the other. Stone didn’t get to be a wealthy businessman by spending money foolishly. If he was willing to pay more than the property was worth, it wasn’t for his dream home.
Ron didn’t know much about Lawler. He had heard lots of rumors about the guy but didn’t know much else. Chief Timmy was a good man and usually a good judge of character, just like my uncle. But he had hired Lawler, and Uncle Nick had hired Anderson. Two good men hire two bad men, and the bad men have some sort of unknown relationship.
Coincidence or pieces of the puzzle?
I didn’t tell Ron about the safe hidden in the file cabinet. I sensed I could trust him but felt it best to keep some of my cards close to my chest.
Stone, Lawler, and Anderson were our three principals of interest that we knew. The driver of the Expedition was still unknown. At lea
st one of them had something to do with Uncle Nick’s murder; maybe they all did.
We didn’t have a motive. The property was clearly at the center of this, but that didn’t explain why killing Uncle Nick would get them any closer to owning it. Money is a powerful motive. I had seen store clerks shot over the fifty bucks in their register. Someone getting killed over millions is not very hard to believe. Nick wouldn’t sell. Maybe they thought I would just take the money and run. Maybe now they intended to kill me, too. There were too many complications, too many pieces of the puzzle missing. I still needed to know two things: what they were looking for when they trashed the desk and what was in the safe.
Ron had some business to attend to, and we both needed a break. I was going to go out to the lake and move what little I had into the cabin. Before I left, I needed to catch up with the insurance man.
Dennis Targett was in and sitting at his desk, putting new line on a musky-sized fishing reel. I felt like he was genuinely glad to see me.
“Hey, John, pull up a chair,” he said. “I can’t stop now or I will be fighting line loops forever. Changing out your line often is a requirement on a musky rig. Those big boys really stress fishing line, and nothing will make you sicker than to have your line break when you set the hook on a big fish.”
He was talking to me but focused on his line winding technique using every digit available to guide the line onto the reel. He had a clever way of using his thumb to keep tension on the line making sure it was wound on tight.
“Lot of folks use this new braided line, and it does seem to last longer. I am a monofilament guy. I think it’s harder for the fish to see. It doesn’t last as long, but I think I catch more fish. What kind of line do you like?” he continued.
“I don’t know that I currently have a preference. I’m just using the gear Uncle Nick had set up.”
“Hmm, you should probably change that line out. I’ll send you home with a spool of my favorite stuff. It’s called Newton’s Ghost. Best stuff I ever came across. Small company but a top-notch product.”
He finished with his new line and held the tag end in place with a wide rubber band around the reel, and then set it off to the side. He opened a file drawer and pulled out a file that he laid on the desk.
“Your uncle had a life insurance policy that he had paid up years ago. It had a pretty good cash value, but I don’t think he needed the money, so he never asked about cashing it in. He had an option of reinvesting the dividends to pay additional premiums and up the value. That’s what he did, and the company just did it automatically. The value is substantial, and your share comes out to just about $200,000. The remainder goes to the other beneficiary.”
“Other beneficiary?” I asked.
“You were the only one listed for a long time, but somewhere along the way your uncle filed a change directly with the company. He could have done it right here, but for some reason, he decided to work directly with the home office. I have a copy of the form right here,” he said as he slid it across the desk.
I looked at the form, and it took my breath away. Uncle Nick had filed a change of beneficiary form three weeks before he was run down. The person named would receive a half a million dollars upon his death. It wasn’t the money that took my breath away. It was the timing of the change and the name of the new beneficiary: Julie Carlson.
Targett pulled the form back. “Are you okay, John? Would you like some water or something?”
“Does she know? Does Julie know about this?”
“She sure does. We finished up the transfer paper a while ago. Yours is the last disbursement.”
I didn’t, I couldn’t, respond. A dark cloud smothered my mind. Julie Carlson had deceived me. She played me like the fool I was. Why had I even come to this place? I must have been delusional to think that Musky Falls was some kind of nirvana. How stupid could I be? Moving from one place to another doesn’t change the world. Deceit, heartache, and evil are everywhere.
I barely heard Dennis as he told me that by signing the document of receipt I would authorize them to electronically transfer the money to any account, checking, savings, or investment. They just needed the right account number. I gave it to him and signed a check release form. The money would be available within 24 hours.
We shook hands, and I stumbled out the door. I got into the jeep and drove over to Musky Falls Autobody. They were just pulling my car out. I parked the jeep in the lot, and they handed me the keys to my car.
“Good as new. No bill either. Dennis took care of everything. If you want, you can just leave the jeep here. I have to go down to the garage a little later, and I’ll drop it off.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled. I got in, started the car, and backed out, then punched the accelerator as I hit the highway. I needed to get some answers and get them now. I was going to start with innocent, sweet, little treacherous Julie Carlson. I knew she’d be at school for the start of the summer session. It would be better for me to wait until she was home, but waiting wasn’t happening. After driving the jeep, my car seemed like it had wings as I flew east out of town.
18
Hospital
Nurse Holterman walked in and told Presser that he had to leave. I protested that we only needed a few more minutes, but to no avail. Bill—who I believe is wisely terrified of her—got up and left.
“Mr. Cabrelli, the medical team led by Dr. Árnason will be in shortly.”
The team blew into the room, checked my vitals, and mumbled words I didn’t understand. They were joined by another new face, Dr. Jónsdottir.
“Mr. Cabrelli, Dr. Jónsdottir is a neurosurgeon. I sent all of your test results over to her. She found something of concern,” said Árnason.
Jónsdottir, a pretty blonde, spoke with a slight accent that I couldn’t place. “Mr. Cabrelli, when I looked over your test results, I saw that your infection was cleared up by the use of a broad spectrum antibiotic. Subsequent tests showed no further evidence of infection. However, I am very concerned about the weakness and numbness in your lower extremities. It indicates that there may be some serious neurological issues stemming from the bullet remaining close to your spine. In addition, there may be some localized infection in the bone next to the bullet. In my opinion, we should proceed as soon as possible to go in and remove the bullet associated fragments and deal with the infection. There are many risks, but I truly believe that this is the best course of action.”
“How risky?” I asked.
“Mr. Cabrelli, you have been shot twice by a high-powered gun. The damage is as to be expected: significant. So far you have survived everything. Repairing damage due to trauma in close proximity to your spinal column is always risky. You’re lucky that the bullet did not hit your spine less than a half-inch closer to the center. That would have likely resulted in a much more dire situation. There is always risk, but leaving the bullet is not an option.”
“Anyone else want to weigh in?” I asked. “Come on gang, speak up. Since I am six years short of a medical degree, how about you give me some input?”
Doctor Jr., although often quiet in front of his seniors, was first. “I believe that Dr. Jónsdottir is right. The only course to follow is the one she has suggested. Either way, postponing the surgery or doing it now has an element of risk. I think we need to defer to Dr. Jónsdottir. You have been a fighter through this whole ordeal, but you are showing signs of fatigue and weakening. These will only get worse if your body tries to fight off yet another infection. Let Dr. Jónsdottir proceed with some additional tests to get ready for the surgery.”
My answer was based only partly on what the doctors were saying. The need to tell my story had become paramount in my life. It was the only item on my bucket list. The truth needed to be told, wrongs needed to be made right, and the devil needed to get his. I was the only one who knew it all, and I had to get it out; a couple more days was all Presser and I needed.
“Do the tests. I’ll wait.”
“I think
it is a wise choice, Mr. Cabrelli,” said Jónsdottir. “I have some additional questions to ask you. The bullets, when they entered your body, would have carried with them microparticles of anything they had come in contact with. It could be pocket lint if they were carried in a pocket. I am most interested in whether or not you had blood from someone else on your clothing at the time of the incident.”
“Yes, I had blood on my shirt for sure.”
“How long before had you come into contact with it? Was it dried blood?”
“I am pretty sure it was still wet.”
The smile on Jónsdottir’s face turned to a frown at my answer.
She said, “The lab team will be here momentarily.”
Everyone turned and left except for Nurse Holterman. She fixed her eyes on me and said, “Mr. Cabrelli, I have no intention whatsoever of allowing you to succumb to some mysterious infection and die on my watch. You have survived the impossible and shall continue to survive. You will maintain the stubborn and obnoxious attitude that has served you so well. The world cannot afford to lose men like you.”
As she walked out of the room, she paused for a moment to say that Presser could come back in, and our time restrictions were temporarily lifted, providing we didn’t abuse the privilege.
“Bill, we need to get to work. Skip some of the little stuff and get right to it.”