Murder on the Front Nine

by Steve McMillen

  He sounds sincere about not knowing Paul so I tell him no thanks but I do ask him if he knows what type of a vehicle Paul is driving. Lee says he is driving a white Highlander with Nevada plates. The fact that he knows this does not surprise me because most gamblers are very observant people and Lee is definitely a player. From the look of his tan, he probably plays golf five or six days a week.

  Jimmy and I gather up our golf bags. I tell the starter to save out ticket and give it to the next twosome that comes by. We leave Lee wondering what is going on; he is now a single with no one to play with. We approach the lot cautiously just in case Paul is waiting to ambush us. We look around and see no white Highlander. The assassin is gone.

  As we drive back to River Hills, Jimmy wants to know what I am going to do now. I tell him I have done my job by figuring out who the assassin is although I did it a lot faster than I had anticipated. Good thing there is that $5,000.00 bonus because I did not make a whole lot on two days of per diem work.

  I will report my findings to SIL and go back to my average every day way of life. At least I didn’t get shot, I didn’t have to shoot anybody and I now know that I’ve still got that investigative sense about me. This could be the start of a new career as long as the demons continue to stay away. So far, so good.

  Chapter 20: Paul’s Revenge

  The closer Paul gets to the North Towers, the more upset he becomes. Not only has his two weeks of golf in Myrtle Beach been ruined, his cover may have been blown.

  He needs to make sure he cannot be traced. He paid for his condo at the North Towers in cash and the address he used is a post office box in Vegas. He is good up to that point. He has another set of tags for his vehicle and he has two other condos he owns outright if things get warm in Vegas. Only the condo in Vegas is in his real name, the other two are not. Bogus bank accounts have been set up to make automatic monthly withdrawals for POA fees and utility bills. He makes all deposits in cash and in disguise. He has done his handicap through an online handicap service company so they can’t trace him back to an actual golf course. This could become a problem if he were to win. He hopes he has covered all of his bases, but only time will tell.

  He decides he should not go back to Vegas right now; he will be better off at one of his other condos. He owns one in Charleston and one in Panama City Beach, Florida. Charleston is too close to Myrtle Beach so he opts for Panama City Beach, which is home to one of his favorite courses, The Hombre.

  He goes out to his SUV and changes his Nevada tags to Florida tags. He loads up his clubs and luggage. However, before he leaves town, he wants to leave Mickke D a little taste of what happens when you mess with the assassin.

  He remembers seeing the name Mickke D somewhere so he looks in the phone book and discovers Mickke D Real Estate and Landscaping on Sea Mountain Highway in North Myrtle Beach. He finds no other Mickke D listed so it has to be him. He rips out the phone book page and stuffs it in his pocket.

  He puts on his disguise, buys a one-gallon plastic gas container at the local Ace Hardware Store along with tape, rubber gloves, wire, a bag of rags, and a kitty litter box. He stops at a gas station, fills up his SUV and the container.

  His next stop is the nearest mall and Radio Shack where he purchases a new disposable cell phone and an extra battery. The manager at Radio Shack asks him for a lot of personal information and Paul finally says as his gaze sharpens, “Look, Frank,” gazing at the man’s nametag, “do you want me to buy this or not? I can go to Circuit City and get the same thing for less.”

  The manager looks into Paul’s eyes as chilly fingers dance along his spine. The manager blinks first and rings up the sale. Paul pays in cash and leaves.

  He next drives out behind the mall and parks in the middle of nowhere. He needs to assemble his present for Mickke D. He puts on the gloves, places the rags in the kitty litter box, and soaks them with gas from the one-gallon container. He places the soaked rags and some gas in a large sealable lined plastic bag, which he had in his vehicle. He wires the new battery to the cell phone, twice the power, tapes the phone to the plastic bag, and then runs a wire to the battery and phone and another wire inside the bag. He seals the bag but is sure to leave plenty of air inside the bag.

  He has just constructed a firebomb, which he can set off at any time just by dialing the disposable cell phone number. The spark from the battery will ignite the fumes and the rags. The air inside the bag will allow it to burn and melt the plastic bag. The rest is history. Even if by chance it doesn’t work, Mickke D will get the message when he finds the bomb. Sometimes just the thought of what may have happened can be very scary but if it doesn’t work there can always be another time and place for Mr. Mickke D.

  Next, he puts on some coveralls, gets his 9mm Luger from the glove compartment, screws on the silencer and puts the gun in his pocket. He puts on a different ball cap and drives over to Sea Mountain Highway. He drives past the address on the phone book page several times and notices just one car in the parking lot. He figures Mickke D is still on the golf course. He elects to take a chance. He places the firebomb in a large canvas tote bag and marches in the front door.

  Once inside a very attractive, tall, thin woman with medium brown hair, feverishly working on her nails, meets him. She introduces herself as Jean. Paul, in a very charming way and with a big smile, explains that he is here to service the copy machine for Mickke D Real Estate. Jean tells him to follow her and she takes him down a poorly lit hallway to the last office on the right. The reception area was bright and airy but the hallway leading back to the other offices is just the opposite. He says he won’t be long and thanks her for her help.

  Suddenly she wrinkles up her nose and blurts out, “You smell like gasoline. What have you been doing?”

  Paul has to think fast, “Oh, the smell. I was filling up a container for my mower and I spilled some gas on me. Sorry, I guess I didn’t get it all cleaned off.”

  Either Jean is very lucky or Paul is very lucky. Maybe both of them are very lucky, because Jean is about to ask him for his business card and ID. He anticipates her question and reaches into his pocket for his gun. Both turn when they hear a noise outside. They look out the window as the UPS truck pulls up in front of the office.

  Jean turns and excuses herself but says she will be right back. Paul takes this opportunity to place the firebomb under a desk and out of sight. If she does come back into the office, she will not be able to see the device and if she smells gas, he hopes she will think it is just a lingering smell from him being in the office.

  Once she leaves and he has planted the bomb he finds the copy machine, opens and closes the top a few times just to make some noise. He leaves the office, shuts the door and walks toward the reception area with the empty tote bag.

  He tells Jean, who is talking to the UPS driver, while working on her nails again, that he needs a part and will come back tomorrow to finish the job. He smiles again and asks her what time she opens in the morning. She tells him she will be there at 9:00am. He says he will see her around 10:00 tomorrow.

  Jean has no idea how close she has just come to buying the farm. Paul does not like to kill someone without a contract and payment, but if push comes to shove, he will. He will justify it in his mind simply as survival of the fittest. He hopes she gives the UPS driver a big Christmas bonus this year because he may have just saved her life.

  He stops a few blocks away from Mickke D’s office next to an out of the way dumpster and removes his coveralls, puts on gloves and gets rid of everything he has left over from building his fire bomb. He empties the remainder of the gas into the dumpster and throws in a lighted match, props open the lid with a small stick, and slowly drives away. The police will just think some kids started the fire.

  He elects to go through Charleston on his way to Panama City Beach. He will spend the night at his condo and maybe play some golf before going on to Florida. He is still angry. He will get back at SIL somehow, someway.

&nbs
p; Chapter 21: Mickke D & Barry

  After dropping Jimmy off next door, I go home and place a call to Barry. “Barry, it’s Mickke D. How are things in Culpepper?”

  He answers in a very subdued voice, “Not much going on here, do you have any good news for me?”

  “Yes. I know who the assassin is.”

  There is silence on the other end of the phone. Finally Barry says; his voice slightly perky, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Paul Hills.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m 99.9 percent sure. He recognized me at the golf course and left before I had a chance to talk with him. He must have remembered me from the airport when I was taking pictures of the crowd.”

  There was silence again on Barry’s end, “Okay, great, nice job. Fax me your statement and a written report on exactly what took place with names, dates, and times. I’ll have your check in the mail this week along with the bonus.”

  I thought I would feel elated after talking to Barry but I have just the opposite feeling. He is keeping something from me. He knows more than he wants me to know. This whole thing is beginning to smell and it isn’t the kind of smell you lick your lips over.

  I had no more than ended that thought when my phone rings. “Mickke D, its Barry. I have one more small favor to ask you. A possible witness in an ongoing investigation of ours died in Murrells Inlet a few weeks ago. It was a hit and run accident. He had no family. I contacted the police down there about our case and asked them to send me his personal effects. They told me they could not mail them to me, that someone would have to pick them up and sign for them. Could you stop by, pick them up, and mail them to me? You can bill me for another day plus expenses.”

  “Sure, do I need any paper work?”

  “No I already faxed them the paper work. Tell them who you are and that you’re from SIL. Tell them you want the personal property of Rusty McRichards.”

  “No problem, I’ll go down tomorrow and pick them up.”

  “Thanks Mickke D, I really appreciate this.”

  Now I’m really confused. What is Barry up to and who is Rusty McRichards? Why didn’t he pick up Rusty’s personal property while he was in town and why is he asking me to pick them up now? I’m beginning to think this investigation is not quite over so I guess I’ll see what I can find out on SIL’s quarter.

  Actually, Barry had just found out that Rusty McRichards had no family and that he may have had something on him, which could lead SIL to the mapmaker. Barry doesn’t trust his informant to pick up Rusty’s belongings because he has a long record. Mickke D is the next best thing, clean, local, and completely controlled by Barry. Or so he thinks.

  Chapter 22: The Fire

  Paul is sitting in his condo in Charleston, around 1:00am in the morning and he has just finished watching one of his favorite movies, “Caddy Shack”. He arrived in Charleston about 7:00pm, had a nice dinner and has just been chilling out in his very comfortable condo. He smiles, picks up his cell phone and dials the number of the firebomb cell phone.

  My phone rings. I gaze at the clock and 1:45am is flashing into my blurry, sleep-filled eyes. Who in the world could be calling me at this un-godly hour? Nothing good has ever come from a call in the middle of the night. My first thought is that it is one of my ex-wives. Maybe she got into the sauce and decided to call and harass me.

  Again, I blame my ex-wives unfairly. Actually, it is Jean from the office, “Mickke D, sorry to wake you up but the office caught on fire and you need to get down here right away.”

  “What happened?” I ask her in a rather confused and sleepy tone of voice.

  “We don’t know. Thank goodness the fire department got here quickly and put the fire out before the whole building went up in flames.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  As I’m getting dressed, I have a spine tingling thought. Maybe the assassin is trying to send me a message. If I’m right, I guess I should be thankful he didn’t blow up or burn down my house, at least not yet.

  I get my .45 from the dresser drawer below the clock. I place the gun in the small of my back and put on a tee shirt and light short-sleeve windbreaker. This could be an ambush but I doubt he would try anything in front of a crowd of people. I am very observant as I leave my house to go to my vehicle. I notice nothing out of the ordinary.

  I pull into the parking lot at the office about twenty minutes later. I notice fire trucks, police cars and a small crowd milling around. There is a strong smell of smoke in the air and I can still see burning embers inside the building and on the roof. I spot Jean with her husband Bob and walk over to them.

  “Hey guys, is anyone hurt?”

  Jean replies, “Not that we know of.”

  “Does anyone have any idea how the fire got started?”

  “We don’t know but the police said they want to talk to you when you get here,” Bob says.

  Before I start looking around for the person in charge, I go back to the Trailblazer and hide my 45 under the seat. It is probably not a good idea to talk to the police with a loaded gun on me. I find a police officer and tell him who I am and that I need to talk to the guy in charge. The officer laughs and says I need to talk to Sam. He directs me over toward a group of firefighters and police. I walk over and ask for Sam. No wonder he laughed, Sam is not a he but a she.

  I introduce myself to Sam. She pulls me aside and asks point blank, “Mr. MacCandlish, do you have any enemies?”

  “Please call me Mickke D and why do you ask officer,” I look at the badge hanging from her neck, “Concile?”

  “Please address me as Detective Concile. And I’m asking because the fire department found evidence of a fire bomb in your office.”

  I smile and say, “The only enemies I may have are several ex-wives but I don’t think any of them are smart enough to do this,” as I point to the smoldering building.

  Detective Concile does not smile back. This is just what I need, a police detective without a sense of humor. “No detective Concile, I can’t think of anyone right off hand.” This time I do not smile.

  She stares at me for a few seconds and then says, “Aren’t you one of the guys who had their plane blown up Sunday at the Grand Strand Airport?”

  When I first met her tonight, I thought she looked familiar. Now I remember, she was with the police investigating the plane explosion, but she was not one of the detectives who interviewed me.

  “Not really, I drove my friends to the airport but the plane belonged to them, not me. They were old Army buddies of mine who came down for the weekend to play golf. I lost a very good friend in that explosion.”

  She looks at me and says she is sorry for my loss. She actually sounds sincere.

  She asks me a few more questions and then tells me in a very authoritative tone of voice that she will expect me at the North Myrtle Beach Police Station tomorrow morning between 10 and 11 to give a written statement. Again, she is not smiling.

  I smile and say, “Yes, Detective Concile, I will be there.”

  I go back to where Bob and Jean are standing.

  I ask both of them if they saw anyone strange around the office yesterday and Jean says, “Oh, my goodness, a man came to work on your copy machine.”

  “What did he look like?” I ask.

  “He was white, about six feet tall, had on coveralls, goatee, moustache, ball cap and dark sunglasses,” she blurts out. “He sounded like a really nice man. He didn’t stay long, said he needed a part and that he would come back tomorrow. However, do you know what? He smelled like gasoline, said he had spilled gas on himself while filling up his mower.”

  “Did you tell the police about him?”

  “No, I didn’t think about it ‘till right now.”

  I point in Sam’s direction. “You should probably tell Detective Concile over there about the man.”

  Jean and Bob go over to see Sam and I go home to try and get some sleep before my grilling at the police station tomorrow.
I probably was correct. The assassin was in the crowd watching at the airport. He did recognize me at the golf course from being at the scene of the explosion. He knew I had something to do with SIL.

  Chapter 23: Sam

  I am on my way to the police station and after giving my statement today, I am going to go on down to Murrells Inlet and pick up the belongings of Rusty McRichards and ship them off to Barry. I have a funny feeling Rusty is also a part of the puzzle.

  I am not concerned about giving my statement to Sam. After all, I took hundreds of statements myself while working for Army Jag at Fort Bragg.

  Sam takes me into her office, which is rather small, poorly lit, and very cold. It’s then that I get my first up-close and personal look at Detective Sam Concile. She is a very attractive woman probably about my age, mid forties. She has bleached blond hair. Even in the dimly lit room, I can see the dark roots and she is dressed more like a real estate broker than a police detective might be. However, as we all know, looks can be deceiving.

  “Please be seated Mr. MacCandlish.”

  She doesn’t beat around the bush. She pulls out a folder, lays it on the desk and launches her attack, “Mickke MacCandlish, aka Mickke D, former Army Special Forces and Investigative Officer for Army Jag at Fort Bragg. I haven’t found any record, not even a speeding ticket since you’ve been in the Myrtle Beach area. Real estate broker, landscape architect, golf teaching pro. Seems like the all-American boy. Anything else I should know about you, Mr. MacCandlish?”

  I cannot believe she has all of that information and nothing about the helicopter landing in the fairway behind my house or the altercation at Crab Catchers.

  I answer, “Not that I can think of, that about covers it, except you didn’t mention my three ex-wives, maybe they are still not happy with me.”

  “I have that information, but I don’t think it has anything to do with the case, does it? Were any of your divorces messy enough for them to want to get back at you for any reason?”