In the newsroom Skip Hunter paced the aisles around his cubicle. The Wellington case had gone cold. During the week Skip and Detective DuBois made another trip to Carlson’s condo hoping to find something they missed but turned up nothing.
The paging system bellowed throughout the newsroom. Hearing his name to pick up line 3, Skip hustled back to his cubby, flopped down in his chair and yanked the receiver from its cradle.
“Hunter.”
“You Skip Hunter?”
“The one and only. How can—
“Saw obit for Lester Tweed. Couple weeks ago. Thought you might be interested to know that Tweed roomed with Jack Carlson a few years ago.”
The line went dead.
“Hello, hello. Who are you?” Skip jumped from his chair, yelling into the phone, but the caller was gone. He ran over to Benny Tucker who handled the obituary page. Benny, hunched over his keyboard, phone in his ear, was typing rapidly. Skip tapped him on the shoulder, Benny looked up and then quickly back to his keyboard. Skip tapped him again harder, but all he got in return was a glare. He backed out of the cubicle, ran his hand over his head, hit his fist into the palm of his hand, and waited for Benny to finish his call.
“Hunter, for God’s sake, what do you want?”
Skip rushed into Benny’s cubicle shouting. “I need the obit for a Lester Tweed and whatever notes you have on how the notice came in. It’s urgent.”
“Okay, okay, calm down, I’ll get it to you after I write up this man’s obit.”
“No. Benny, I need it now. It has to do with the gold heist.”
“Why didn’t you say so? I’ll have it on your computer by the time you reach your desk. Go. Get out of here.”
Skip ran back to his desk, slammed into his chair and opened Benny’s email.
“The Edmonds’ police reported that Lester Tweed was found dead in an alley as the result of an apparent overdose. No next of kin could be found.”
“DuBois, Hunter here. Just received a tip.” Skip stood in back of his desk chair, feet rocking from side to side.
“What? What kind of tip?”
“A person called asking for me.” Skip felt himself hyperventilating. “Couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Tried to disguise his voice.”
“You think it was a man? You said his voice? Slow down. I can barely understand what you’re saying.”
“I said I don’t know. Listen. Lester Tweed. He said Lester Tweed roomed a few years ago with Jack Carlson. I got the obit. It’s was from the Edmonds Police Department. A police report that Lester Tweed was found dead in an alley of an apparent overdose.”
“That’s what it said?”
“Yep, I’m reading the notice just as we printed it. Our obit guy said it came in as a routine report from the Edmonds department. Can you get any more information on the cause of death?”
“Hang on. Let me see if I can dig up the coroner’s report. Blast. My screen’s black. My computer is having a meltdown. Let me call you back.”
Skip ran to the coffee machine, poured the last of the overheated, nasty black liquid into his cup, hustling back to his cubby. A wave of the stinky coffee flowed over the edge as he smacked his cup down on his desk. “Shit. My calendar.” Grabbing a paper napkin he began mopping up the mess as coffee soaked through October. His phone rang and he lunged for the receiver, knocking the cup over. “Goddamnit.”
“Hunter. That you?” DuBois asked.
“It is. Just had … never mind. What did you find?”
“The coroner’s report stated that Tweed had been dead eight to ten hours when he was brought into the morgue about 5:05 a.m. He had enough coke in his system to kill him. There was a needle mark in his left forearm. Only one—no tracks, so I doubt he was a user. His death was deemed a suicide, and there was no investigation. The coroner’s report added that his ankle had what appeared to be a dog bite on his ankle. The report is dated a couple of weeks ago.”
“I think we should have another talk with the Wellingtons and that Sacco guy. Don’t you?” Skip asked as he dragged his desk pad over the wastebasket. Positioning his knee on one side he bent the pad pouring the last of the coffee into the basket.
“You read my mind. I’ll meet you there in twenty. I’m not calling, we’ll just show up.” DuBois hung up.
Two hours later Skip and DuBois returned to their cars in the Wellington driveway. “Well, it appears we have another dead end,” Skip said, leaning against his car door.
“Ya. What does your reporter’s instinct tell you?” DuBois asked retrieving his car keys.
“Their lying!” Skip looked at the pavement, moving the toe of his shoe around in a tight circle. “Your detective’s nose?”
“One of them is lying. I don’t think it’s Philip Wellington. He said he’d never heard of a Lester Tweed.”
“Sacco had a bad case of the sweats when you questioned him.” Skip looked up at the blue, cloudless sky, fingers locked on the top of his head.
“I noticed that. I also noticed a look in Mrs. Wellington’s eyes. But a look, of what? Not alarm, more of recognition when I told her about Lester Tweed’s death and did she know him, or had she ever heard his name mentioned by Jack Carlson.”
“Ya, I saw that too. But what does Tweed’s connection with Carlson mean? Nothing? Or did they team up to steal some gold? Keep in touch, Detective.”
“You, too, Hunter. We’re still no closer to finding the bullion, but darned if you aren’t coming up with the tips—that’s the second time. We’re at a dead end so let’s hope you get another one. You know what they say.”
“What?”
“Third time’s a charm.”
Chapter 44
───
LIFE AT THE WILDER house in Hansville had settled down to a new normal. Gilly was either at school, the casino, or sewing non-stop in the guesthouse. Maria’s hours at the spa had increased. Interning for a permanent position as spa manager required overtime allowing her to soak up every nuance of the operation. Anne was back at the Tea Room and Will had picked up a maintenance position at a condominium complex in Port Ludlow, seventeen miles from Port Gamble and a forty minute drive from Hansville. Agatha remained by Gramp’s side, a raw-hide bone never out of her reach.
Today everyone had gone their separate ways leaving Gilly and Gramps to fend for themselves. He had brewed a pot of tea, and was enjoying the morning paper at the kitchen table. Gilly sat across from him, making yet another list of what she had to accomplish for her class on Monday.
Out of the corner of her eye Gilly saw Coco scoot down the hall to the bedroom at the same time Agatha jumped up from a sound sleep in the living room doorway and started barking. She ran to the patio, back to the kitchen, back to the patio—barking.
“For heaven’s sake, Aggie, what’s the matter with you,” Gilly asked.
Agatha continued to bark.
“I’ll let her out,” Gramps said. “Maybe someone drove—
They both felt the room move.
“Wait! Gramps, it’s an earthquake. Quick. Under the table.” Gilly jerked his chair away as he landed on his knees and crawled under the table, Gilly diving next to him. Agatha, whimpering, scooted next to them leaning into Gilly’s side.
The motion continued.
A cupboard door swung open.
Glasses smashed to the floor.
Plates, canned goods, the kitchen clock, all crashed to the floor.
Gilly, eyes clamped shut, clutched Gramp’s hand with both of her hands.
What seemed like hours, but was only forty-five seconds, the motion stopped.
“Is it over?” Gilly asked afraid to move.
“I think so. Let’s wait a minute to be sure,” Gramps said still on his knees hunched under the table.
They waited.
Felt nothing.
“I think it’s over. Come on, Gramps, let’s get up. See what’s broken.”
Gilly backed out from under the table. Gramps did the same, l
ifting his hand to grasp Gilly’s as she bent down to help him to his feet when the wall phone rang.
“At least the phone is working. Hi, mom. Yes, we’re okay.” Gilly looked over the debris. “A couple of cabinets opened in the kitchen—glasses and a few plates. The cuckoo clock fell. Broke apart.”
“It’s bad, Gilly,” Anne said. “Our china cups and saucers fell. Most were on open shelves, part of the Tea Room display. Have to run but I wanted to be sure you were okay. I’ll try to get home early, before you go to work. Bye.”
“Gilly, come here,” Gramps called out, his voice strangled in his throat.
Gilly hurried into the living room to find him kneeling on the floor staring down at the urn that had tumbled off the mantel. The lid covering the urn had popped off and some of her grandmother’s ashes were in a small mound on the carpet.
“Gilly, look. A key.”
Gilly knelt beside her grandfather to see what he was talking about. He turned, looking at his granddaughter.
“Gillianne, I think I know how this key got into Betty’s ashes.”
Gilly looked into her grandfather’s blue eyes, her eyes puzzled.
“John Doe. That night. I came into the living room. I was waiting for the tea to steep, and he was at the mantel. He had the urn in his hands. I told him about Betty and then I went back into the kitchen. That’s when you came home.”
Gilly stared down at the key, carefully picked it up, and put it into her jeans pocket. “Stay there, Gramps. Let me go get a spoon from the silver chest. We’ll put Grandma Betty’s ashes back in the urn. Is that okay with you?”
“Yes, sweetheart. I’ll wait right here.”
They returned the ashes to the urn as best they could and nestled it safely in an overstuffed armchair in case of any aftershocks. Returning to the kitchen, Gramps slumped in his chair, bent forward, elbows on the table, head in his hands. Gilly put the kettle on for tea. Waiting for it to whistle she pulled the key from her pocket.
“Gramps, look. The key has some letters and a number chiseled into the metal.”
“Read them to me,” Gramps said, looking up at the key in Gilly’s fingers.
“U-S-T-O-R and the number 719. I’m going to call, Skip. Tell him how you think it wound up in Grandma Betty’s urn. Oh, my God, I wonder how bad the quake was in Seattle.”
Gilly went to the patio letting Agatha out as she punched Skip’s number on her cell.
“Gilly, you okay?” Skip shouted into the phone.
“Yes. It was scary. How about you? The building?”
“Frightening here, too—bookcases emptied onto the floor. I ducked under the desk.”
“Gramps and I did the same … under the table. We haven’t checked everything yet, but so far only a few dishes, and, well—
“What’s wrong? You sound funny.”
“You’re never going to believe this.”
Gilly told him what Gramps had found—the letters and numbers that were etched on the key, and his theory on how the key got into the urn.
“Wait a minute,” Skip said. “Let me check something.”
Gilly heard him shuffling papers, and let Agatha in the house while she waited for him to come back on the line.
“Oh my God, Gilly.”
“What? Now you sound funny.”
“There’s a storage facility by the name of U-Stor in Edmonds. I bet your grandfather’s right, and that John Doe, excuse me, Jack Carlson was afraid someone was following him and he hid the key in your grandmother’s ashes. I’m calling Kracker. I’m sure he’ll be at your house as fast as he can. Well, unless there was damage and he can’t get through. Let’s assume he’ll be there within the hour unless I call you. You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. You?”
“Fine … fine … I’ll call you later.”
Chapter 45
───
TWO SQUAD CARS AND a Seattle Times SUV were parked side-by-side at the office of U-Stor in Edmonds, a few blocks away from the ferry terminal. The manager, Miss Darden, dressed in black trousers, white blouse and a gray sweater around her shoulders, appeared flustered with the sudden presence of two police officers, a newspaper reporter, and a very agitated civilian staring at her across the counter. But, she stood her ground. She was not going to be bullied—rules were rules. She was on the phone to the owner of U-Stor, explaining that a police detective had the key to unit 719 but not the code to open the gate.
Hanging up the phone, Darden looked at the four men. The Seattle police detective tapped, again, the paper he had laid in front of her—an executed search warrant for storage unit number 719. Of course, the search warrant trumped all of the above.
“I’ve been given permission to let you access unit number 719, and to assist you with any further requests. Number 719 is in default on rent payments for the past two months. In thirty days whatever is in the unit will be sold at auction. I’m to escort you to number 719 and remain in your presence until you leave.”
Miss Darden pulled herself up tall, head in the air, and picked up a large ring of keys. “Follow me, gentlemen.” She stepped from around the counter, opened the door to the parking lot and held it for the men to pass. She then locked the office door, walked to the chain-link fence, and tapped in a code. The ten-foot tall gate slid open.
The entourage walked down the wide asphalt pavement passing three rows of long skinny buildings. At the fourth building, Darden pulled opened the heavy steel door and walked through without a backward glance. The group followed single file—Deputy Kracker, Detective DuBois, reporter Hunter, and Philip Wellington.
Darden came to a halt at a metal door, 719 painted in the center, and stood to one side. “You are to use your key. If it works you may enter. If it doesn’t work you have to speak with the owner.”
Deputy Kracker slipped on a pair of polyethylene gloves, removed a small zip-locked plastic bag from his case and shook the key into the palm of his hand. He inserted the key into the lock. Turning the key the latch gave way and he opened the door.
The men stepped inside.
Number 719 was empty.
DuBois was the first to speak. “Miss, no one is to enter this unit until an officer has an opportunity to dust for fingerprints. I noticed a security camera at the gate and another in the hallway of this building. I would like those tapes for the last three months. Also, is there a log of when an access code is entered at the gate? Date and time of access?”
“Yes, but I don’t know how to retrieve the files from the computer. The owner will have to do that for you.”
“Understood. Please call him immediately,” DuBois instructed. “The officer charged with dusting for fingerprints will pick up the files, as well as the camera footage. Mr. Wellington, is there anything you want to add?”
The three other men looked at Wellington who remained frozen in the middle of number 719. “Mr. Wellington, is— DuBois began.
“No, nothing,” he whispered.
Wellington turned around, his face ashen, walked between the officers and out of the building.
DuBois placed a call giving instructions to an officer on what needed to be done as soon as possible. The group retraced their steps to the office. Before catching up with the others, Skip took photographs in the storage unit, inside and outside of the building, as well as the front gate. Kracker said goodbye to Skip, shook hands with DuBois, and left to catch the next ferry to Bremerton.
Wellington stood next to the Seattle squad car, leaning back, lost in thought. DuBois and Skip exchanged glances and approached Wellington. DuBois addressed the shaken man leaning against his car. “Mr. Wellington, is there something you want to tell me? I’m sorry your gold bullion wasn’t in the storage unit. I hoped it would—
“My wife hasn’t been home for four days. I thought she just wanted to get away for a rest. She does that sometimes. But now …”
“You think she had something to do with the robbery?” DuBois asked. His voice remained calm.
Skip’s stomach lurched.
“I don’t know. Also, Detective, Gerald Sacco hasn’t been in the house for the last four days.” Wellington spoke slowly, barely audible.
“I’m calling an officer to meet us at your house. I think we’d better search your wife’s things—if she has an office, and her private quarters, as well as Mr. Sacco’s suite. Do I need another search warrant?”
“No, Detective. You may have full run of the house.”
“Hunter, you can join us if you want … on background.” DuBois turned his back to Wellington and addressed Skip—eye-to-eye. “As per our agreement, I okay any story before it goes to print.”
“Agreed. I’ll follow you.”
On the drive to Wellington’s house, Skip tuned the car radio to the news.
“A 4.5 earthquake on the Richter scale shook the Seattle region this morning, rattling a wide area of Western Washington. Reports indicate minimal destruction—windows rattled, items toppled off shelves. Further reports are anticipated later today.”
───
TWO OFFICERS FROM THE Seattle Police Department swept through the Wellington mansion. Skip stuck close to the man leading the investigation, Detective DuBois. He and DuBois sat in the library with Wellington waiting for his officers to report.
“Mr. Wellington, do you believe your wife is with Gerald Sacco?” the detective asked sitting back in the straight chair.
“Mr. Wellington, would you like me to bring a coffee service?”
“Yes, Gladys. Please.”
“Mr. Wellington?” DuBois leaned forward, waiting for an answer to his question.
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.” Philip replied.
“Detective.” An officer burst into the library, waving a piece of paper sheathed in a zipped bag. I found this in the bottom of Mrs. Wellington’s drawer, her dressing room, nightgowns and stuff.”
DuBois looked at the paper and then handed it to Wellington. Philip read the printed sheet with a copy of a receipt attached, and handed it back to DuBois. Skip put out his hand and DuBois handed him the clear-plastic bag: U-Store Storage Contract, Renter: Jack Carlson. The sheet was date-stamped two days before Carlson turned up dead.
Murder by Design Trilogy Page 20