by Thomas Scott
City traffic made for a slow drive to the bank. Virgil spoke with his dad on the way over. Virgil and his dad owned a downtown Jamaican bar called Jonesy’s. “Listen Pops, I’m going to be tied up tonight, if you’ve been watching the news.”
“Can’t miss it,” Mason said. “Nothing else on.”
Virgil tried to work as many hours as possible at the bar, but when he was on a case, it fell to his father to pick up the slack. “That gonna be okay?”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it, Son. I’ll see you when I see you.”
“I’ll probably be in later if I get the chance. Guy’s gotta eat."
“A guy sure does,” Mason said. “Watch your back now.”
“No worries, Pop. No worries at all.”
A half hour later after consulting the lobby directory, Virgil took an elevator to the fourteenth floor and found Rosencrantz chatting up an attractive mid-forty-something woman with cat-eye glasses and big hair. She wore a conservative dark gray business suit over a thin white blouse. Donatti was across the hall and stood in front of what must have been Dugan’s office, arms crossed, a bored expression on his face. Virgil walked over and Rosencrantz introduced him to Dugan’s assistant.
“Ms. Brennan, on behalf of the state of Indiana, let me express my condolences regarding Mr. Dugan.”
“Please, call me Margery. And thank you. Why don’t we sit?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just walked around the corner to a small conference room. Virgil followed her into the room and discovered Rosencrantz was right. Someone had ordered catering…and a lot of it at that. He pulled out a chair, popped a shrimp in his mouth and sat down. The shrimp was good.
Great, in fact…
Once they were settled: “So, Margery, about Mr. Dugan. I’d like to get a little background on him and I’m thinking you’re probably the best place to start.”
Margery gave a little snort. “I don’t think it matters where you start, Detective. I’m quite sure you’ll get the same sort of background information from anyone you speak with.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Franklin Dugan was a son of a bitch.”
Well, that’s something, Virgil thought.
“Let me guess…not really what you expected to hear, right?”
“Well, I guess not, to tell you the truth.”
Margery took a moment before her next statement. “Look, don’t get me wrong, Detective. I simply don’t know how else to put it. He really was…a son of a bitch, I mean. But everyone knew it. He even referred to himself that way. It’s just a business thing. We’re in a tough business here. People think banks, and then, you know, they think friendly tellers, warm smiles, free toasters with a new account and all that—or maybe not so much anymore, with the economy the way it’s been—but our business isn’t like that. We’re not a regular bank. We deal exclusively with religious institutions. And let me tell you something,” Margery bit into a shrimp and shook the tail at him, “These religious guys? I don’t care who they are…” She started ticking them off her fingers. “You’ve got your Catholics, your Protestants, your Methodists, your Baptists, your Lutherans, not to mention the Scientology nuts—who in my opinion are a whole class of nuts all by their damn self—they’re all some very tough hombres when it comes to their money. So if you’re going to lend them money—and that’s what we do—you’d better be a son of a bitch when you’re dealing with these guys or they’ll take you to the cleaners.” Margery dropped her chin and looked out over the top of her glasses. “All in the name of Jesus Christ mind you, or L. Ron Hubbard or…whatever.”
Virgil liked her immediately. He ate a few more shrimp and thought about what she’d said for a minute, then said, “Huh,” which made Margery giggle, which made her look about ten years younger. “What?”
“When you said ‘huh,’ you sounded just like a cop.”
“I am a cop.”
“You don’t look much like a cop. Your hair’s pretty long. You look like you should be running a bar, or something.”
Virgil’s mouth fell open a little, and Margery smiled. “I’m just messing with you a little. I Googled you before you got here. Your bar is sort of famous, you know. I’ve never been myself, but now I’m thinking I might have to stop by.”
“You should. We are sort of famous, in the city, anyway. So, listen—”
“It’s Google, by the way. Not the Google.”
“Excuse me?”
“I could hear you on the phone when you called for the address. You called it the Google. There’s no the in there.”
“It kind of feels like we’re getting a little side-tracked, Margery.”
“That’s only because I’ve already told you everything I know. The people you really want to talk to are in the boardroom. The Executive Committee. They’re in an emergency session right now.”
“Well, gee, Margery, I haven’t even asked you any of the tough questions yet.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for starters, why’d you kill Dugan?”
Didn’t even faze her. “Oh, honey, I didn’t kill Franklin. He might have been a son of a bitch, but he’s been my meal ticket for over twenty years.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“You know, to tell you the truth, I think I’m gonna retire and lay on the beach. I’ve got a fair amount of stock, a 401K, and a husband who died and left me with a pretty fat life insurance settlement. Life’s too short to punch someone else’s clock. Especially when you get to be my age.”
Virgil popped another shrimp in his mouth. “So let’s go talk to the board.”
“Take me to your leaders, huh?”
“Yeah, something like that.” As they walked down the hallway, Virgil said, “Listen, about those shrimp. Where do you get them? They’re fantastic…”
“They are good, aren’t they?” Margery said. “Believe it or not, they’re farm-raised by a couple of guys up in Elkhart. They took over on a foreclosed RV plant a year ago—over a hundred thousand square feet in all—put in a bunch of tanks and heaters and whatnot and started growing shrimp. Or is it raising? Anyway, they’re doing something right because they’re the best damn shrimp I’ve ever had. You should get some for your bar.”
“I think I might…if you could get me the number. Do they deliver all the way down here?”
“Oh, honey, are you kidding me? They’re shipping these little buggers all over the country. I don’t know what the growth rate of farm raised shrimp are, but they’ve got a three month waiting list last time I checked.”
“Well, shoot. I was hoping to get some sort of quick. I’ve got a Jamaican chef and you wouldn’t believe what he can do with fresh seafood.”
“Get with me before you leave, then. I’ll see what I can do about the waiting list. I’m sort of friendly with one of the owners…”
8
They got to the end of the hall and Margery gave a single knock on a set of mahogany double doors. Virgil followed her in. There were four people at the far end of the room—three men and a woman—all seated in high-backed leather swivel chairs at the end of an enormous, well-polished conference table. The room was windowless and the lights were set at a low level. The man at the head of the table, a tall balding guy with bushy eyebrows and a Jay Leno chin spoke without looking up. “Margery, I was certain I made my position clear. This is an emergency session of the executive committee and we are not to be disturbed. Close the door on the way out and leave it closed. I would prefer not to have to lock it, but if you cannot or will not follow my direction, you will leave me with no other choice.”
The room was long, forty feet or so by Virgil’s estimation, so he thought he could get away with it. He pulled Margery close by the elbow, lowered his voice a little and said, “I thought you said Dugan was the son of a bitch.”
Margery spoke from the side of her mouth. “I did. And he was. That’s James Marriott, absolutely no relation to the hotel Marriott’s even though that’s wha
t he likes everyone to believe. He’s an asshole, but just the regular sort. Whatever you do, don’t call him Jim. It’s James. I’ll leave you to introduce yourself.” She gave Virgil a pat on the shoulder. “Have fun.”
Great. Virgil stood still for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the lighting, then walked the length of the room, pulled out a chair one spot removed from one of the men and sat down. He didn’t say a word. Just stared at the people at the table.
“Who the hell are you?” Marriott said.
They were all well dressed. Expensive suits, gold watches, sparkling jewelry, cuff links for the men, diamond earrings for the woman. In front of each of them was a leather-bound note pad with an embossed golden cross overlaid atop of a more subtle—but still visible—shining sun, with the words, Sunrise Bank at the top. Somewhere in the back of his mind Virgil heard himself say, oh brother.
“I asked you a question, young man. I don’t like to repeat myself. Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Detective Virgil Jones with the Indiana State Police Major Crimes Unit. I’m here to speak with—”
“Well Detective,” Marriott said, “We know why you’re here, and believe me, we are happy to oblige you in any way we can, but at the moment, given everything that has happened this morning, tragic as it is, we hope you’ll understand that in the immediate we are extremely busy. So thank you very much for stopping by. We’ll be in touch at our earliest possible convenience.”
It was a pretty good effort, Virgil had to give him that. He thought of what Margery said…What ever you do, don’t call him Jim. “I understand, and I can even appreciate your position, Jim. But here’s the thing—”
“It’s James,” Marriott said through his teeth. “Not, Jim. James.”
“Yes, well, that’s fine. James, then. So, as I was saying, the thing is, time is sort of critical for us. The quicker we can—”
“Detective, you’re not listening. The loss of Franklin this morning is going to have devastating effects on our company unless we take immediate action. Our stock is already off over fifteen percent since the opening bell an hour ago and our investors need to know—need to be assured—that our company is solid. That’s what we are doing now, or rather, that is what we are trying to do. So, once again, thank you for your interest in this matter. A representative of our organization will be in touch with you and your people as soon as possible. Please close the door on your way out, and take your two thugs out there with you. I have notified our security personnel to assist you and your associates to the door. Last time I checked, this is still private property on United States soil and at the moment, you are not welcome here. That will be all, Detective. Good day.”
Thank you for your interest? “Just out of curiosity, Jimbo, how many of your security staff did you call?”
Marriott’s jaw was clenched, and he hissed through his teeth. “I will not tolerate your blatant disrespect of me and this organiza—”
“How many?” Virgil asked again.
“Six,” Marriott said, his voice smug. “Two for each of you.”
Virgil reached into his pocket and pulled out the papers that Rosencrantz had given him and slid them across the table to Marriott. “That’s a search warrant. It allows us access to this building, your offices, your computers, files, and just about anything else we want or need to look at. Your offices are now part of a crime scene in an on-going investigation. I suggest you forget about your stock for a few minutes, Jim, and start assisting us with our investigation.”
Marriott ignored the warrant. “Who is your supervisor, young man? I want to speak with them immediately.”
“I work for the state, Jim. I already told you that, so maybe you’re the one who isn’t listening. My boss is Cora LaRue. You’ve probably never heard of her. A lot of people haven’t. But her boss is Governor McConnell. I know you’ve heard of him. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, the governor is a past board member of your institution and currently serves as the lead member of your team of advisors. As I understand it, their job is to advise the board. Do I have that right, Jim?”
“Well—”
“In other words, the governor is going to be advising the board as to who might make the short list for Chairman and CEO to replace Franklin Dugan. I’m guessing you’d like to think you’re going to make that list. Maybe even top it. I mean, look at you, you’re sitting at the head of the table already. How am I doing so far, Jimmy?”
Marriott held up his hands in a placating gesture. “So you’ve got some stones and you’re tough enough to stand up to me. I admire that. So ask your questions. No one here in this room, or in our entire organization for that matter has anything to hide, I assure you.”
Before Virgil could respond, the double doors at the far end of the room burst open and Donatti and Rosencrantz marched six uniformed security guards into the room, their hands cuffed behind their backs. Donatti smiled and said, “It’s a good thing they all had their own cuffs. I only carry two pair myself...”
It took a few moments to get everyone calmed down, but once Virgil got Marriott’s assurance that they’d all cooperate with him, he told Rosencrantz and Donatti to take the guards out and un-cuff them. Once that was all done, he looked Marriott in the eye and said, “How about we start over?”
The woman seated directly across the table from Virgil looked at Marriott. “Perhaps we should bring Bob in, James. Don’t you think?”
Marriott snarled at her. “We don’t need Bob for Christ’s sake.”
“Who’s Bob?” Virgil said.
“Bob Brighton. Our in-house counsel,” the woman said. “My name is Gloria Birchmier, by the way.” She nodded in turn to the other two men at the table. “Dick Hawthorne and Thomas Fallbrook,” she said by way of introductions.
Virgil nodded at everyone. “So, lay it out for me. Your organization, I mean. The four of you are the executive committee?”
Gloria answered for the group. “Yes. There are normally five of us. Franklin was the fifth. We have a total of eleven board members. As for the others, two live in Fort Wayne, one in South Bend, and three in Evansville. They are all on their way here of course, but it will be a few hours I imagine.”
“Who notified them of Mr. Dugan’s murder?”
“We all did,” Gloria said. “We have a disaster plan in place. Each of us has assigned duties and responsibilities as defined in the plan. One of those responsibilities in the event of a disaster is immediate notification of the company’s board of directors.”
“What qualifies as a disaster?”
Hawthorne spoke for the first time. “Well, it’s pretty broad. Anything that would affect our operations, like structural damage to our facilities from fire, flood, tornados, things of that sort—to the sudden death or incapacitation of anyone on the executive committee.”
“Were any of you unable to reach the other members of the board?”
Fallbrook raised his hand. “I had a little trouble with one of my assigns. Bill Acker. But eventually I got him.”
“Home or office?”
“It was at home. He was in the shower.”
“So to the best of everyone’s knowledge, the board members who were in town this morning are all in this room, and everyone else, everyone who lives out of town were all…well, out of town?” Everyone nodded.
“Yes, I believe that’s correct,” Gloria said. “Why?”
“Because I’m trying to figure out who killed your boss, Ms. Birchmier.”
Gloria put a hand to her throat. “And you think one of us did it?”
Marriott swore under his breath then picked up the phone and punched one of the buttons. “Margery…get Bob Brighton in here. Now.”
Sunrise Bank’s chief legal officer, Bob Brighton, entered the conference room a few minutes later. Brighton was short, not much over five feet tall, and gone to fat. His hair was gray and kinky, he wore a yellow bow tie and his pants were about an inch too short.
“How do you do, Det
ective?”
“I’m well, thank you, Mr. Brighton. Your executive committee thought it might be best if you sat in for a few of my questions.”
“Indeed. Please, proceed.”
“He thinks one of us killed Franklin,” Gloria said.
Brighton raised his eyebrows at Virgil, a small grin forming at the corner of his mouth.
“That’s not exactly accurate,” Virgil said.
Gloria pointed a finger at Virgil. “It is too accurate. You said so yourself.”
“No, Ms. Birchmier, what I said was that I am trying to figure out who killed Mr. Dugan. You were the one who asked if I thought any of you did it, not me.”
“Well, the implication was quite clear, Detective.”
Brighton cut in. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Detective, but these types of investigations are usually conducted, mmm, what’s the best way to put it? By process of elimination, isn’t that correct?”
Virgil nodded. “That’s often true. But keep in mind, we also look at the question of ‘who benefits?’ So let me ask all of you this: with Franklin Dugan now deceased, who gets the big chair? Who is going to be Chairman of the Board and CEO of Sunrise Bank?”
“The board will have to vote on that,” Hawthorne said. “But undoubtedly, it would be one of us.”
“Okay, so what happens if there’s a tie with the vote?”
“Then we would revert to the question of who holds the most stock. It’s in the charter.”
“So who holds the most stock?” Virgil said, even though he thought he knew the answer.
Marriott rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. “I do.”
Virgil had everyone except Marriott and Brighton leave the room. When they were gone, Marriott shook his head. “I didn’t kill him. Hell, I was up at six and out of the house by six-thirty at the latest. I went to the club, worked out, and then ate a light breakfast in the dining room. Gloria called me on my cell and told me the news. There must have been about ten or twenty people who saw me from the time I walked in the club until I left.”