Travellin' Shoes Page 10

  “Oh, then it must have been Marla. She called, of course, to tell us of his death. She was, as you would imagine, very distraught. Poor woman.”

  “You know Mrs. Warren well?” I asked.

  “No, not well. She was married to one of my employees. That’s all.”

  It was time to turn up the heat. “Since you seem to be on a first-name basis with her, I have to wonder how well you knew her.” Based on how quickly the color rose up Chandler’s neck and face, I’d say he was starting to simmer nicely.

  “What are you implying? I knew her, yes. But, that’s it. We belonged to the same country club. Her husband worked here. We went to functions, company functions, fundraisers together. That’s all.”

  Chandler’s cheeks were on fire. He took another drink of water.

  “Mr. Chandler, do you know anyone who would want to see Mr. Warren dead?”

  “No, I don’t, but I wasn’t very close to him. I don’t know what he did in his personal life. Perhaps someone from his past … I couldn’t say.”

  “I thought you said you belonged to the same country club?” Harley asked.

  “What are you implying?”

  “I’m not implying anything, sir. You just said you didn’t know what he did in his personal life. But you belonged to the same country club.”

  Chandler just stared.

  “What about one of his clients?” I said. “What accounts was he working on before he left?” I could tell by the frightened look on Chandler’s face I’d made a hit. Bingo.

  As quickly as the blood had rushed to his face, it drained away. “I doubt very seriously if any of our clients would sink to that level. I mean, really, we are a highly respected CPA firm that has been in business for more than sixty-five years. We service some of the largest, most well-respected companies in the world. Our clients are not murderers.”

  Chandler took another drink, and I noticed his hand was shaking.

  Whether by prearrangement or as a result of a well-placed panic button located on the underside of Chandler’s desk, there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” Chandler yelled. The door opened, and our stunning escort entered.

  “Mr. Chandler, I’m sorry to bother you, but your three thirty appointment is waiting.”

  Chandler came around the desk and held out his hand. Obviously, we were being dismissed. Harley and I stood. Taking Chandler’s hand, I held it in my grip, looked him in the eye, and said, “Rest assured, we’re going to find out what happened to Mr. Warren. We’ll be back to finish our discussion.”

  I released Chandler’s hand and left him standing there with his fake smile. I hoped one day I’d get a chance to wipe it off his face.

  Later, over dinner, Harley and I discussed the case and tried to make the pieces fall into place. Bryce Chandler was hiding something. I just wasn’t sure what he was hiding was murder. I didn’t have anything to base that on other than a gut feeling.

  “Where do we go next?” Harley asked.

  Before I could answer, my cellphone rang. It was Chief Mike.

  The call didn’t take more than five minutes; Chief Mike was a man of few words. When it was over, I filled Harley in.

  “Several of the companies Warren worked with had a large supply of cash. More than could be explained by receipts. They suspected money laundering but couldn’t prove anything.” I felt my blood pressure rise at the thought that Reverend Hamilton and Paris might be involved in this scheme, but I knew the danger of jumping to conclusions without getting all the facts straight.

  “They thought there was a link between drug traffickers and a casino owner, but were never able to prove anything.”

  “So, what happened?” Harley asked.

  “Nothing. They worked on it for months, but in the end, they just didn’t have enough for arrests.”

  Harley shook his head. “This whole thing sounds big. It’s a lot bigger than a small-town choir director getting himself killed. What did Chief Mike want us to do?”

  “He said to remember why we’re here. We’re not here to bring down an international drug cartel. We aren’t here to investigate money laundering. We’re here to find the murderer of Tye Warren, aka Thomas Warrendale.”

  “But how do we do that without looking into the other stuff?”

  I shrugged before adding, “He’s right. We can’t get sidetracked. We do our jobs. We interview suspects and follow leads. I think the two cases are tied, but if we follow the clues to the murder, maybe the rest will fall into place. Tomorrow, let’s get a copy of his client list, start running some names.”

  We scoped out a plan of attack for the next day and went back to the hotel.

  First thing the next morning, we stopped by Chandler’s CPA firm and got the list of clients that Tyrone Warren had been working on before he left. I thought we would have a hard time getting the information. Almost every company you deal with tries to claim the same confidentiality privileges as doctors and lawyers. But Chandler must have preferred to comply quickly and avoid another face-to-face meeting. By the time we arrived at the reception desk, an envelope with our names on it was waiting for us.

  “I can’t believe Chandler just gave us the information without a subpoena,” Harley said as we returned to the car. “Either Chandler isn’t concerned about the names on the client list, or the list he gave us isn’t complete.”

  “Almost all Tyrone Warren’s clients were publicly traded companies, those required by law to make some information available to the public.”

  “We’d have gotten the information one way or another. He just saved us a little time,” Harley said after he scanned the names.

  I nodded. “Looks like Benson and friends are good, law-abiding citizens who are eager to help the authorities.” I started the engine, which hadn’t even had a chance to cool off.

  Harley and I went back to the station and got to work. We logged on to the computers they’d set up for us and pulled up records. We cross-referenced names; we compared company staff with known criminals. It was a slow, tedious, time-consuming, and exhausting job. By late afternoon we had no hits. Not surprising really, since most companies require extensive background checks before hiring a janitor, let alone someone who handles money.

  “Take a look.” I shoved a printout at Harley.

  After hours of looking over records, Harley seemed happy to get away from the computer.

  “One of Tyrone Warren’s clients, Cuyahoga Citizens Bank, had a subsidiary company that owned a hotel and resort casino.”

  “So what?” Harley asked.

  “Chief Mike mentioned the casino connection over the phone last night.”

  “We must be getting closer. At least it’s something. I haven’t found anything.” Harley sounded discouraged.

  “Another holding of the bank is a coffee plantation in Columbia.” I pointed to it on my screen. “Columbia could mean drugs.” It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing.

  We were both excited to find some possibility, no matter how remote.

  At dinner that night, we discussed the case.

  “I think we should visit the Casino Warren was working on,” Harley said.

  “And do what? Ask if we can review their books? Or maybe we should ask if any of their staff killed Tye Warren a few days ago?”

  “Well, we’ve got to do something.”

  “Let’s review what we have.”

  “We have a dead choir director.”

  “We have a successful accountant who ran away from his job, his wife, and his friends and hid in St. Joe, Indiana.”

  “That’s not much.”

  “We also know he changed his name and took on a new identity. Why?”

  Harley thought for a moment. “He didn’t want to be found.”

  “But why? We know someone has broken into two places where he had a connection. Why?”

  Harley shrugged, but I could tell by the look in his eyes his wheels were starting to turn. “We know he wa
s having an affair with at least one girl from the church but probably more.”

  “Those are the facts. Now we make some assumptions. I think Warren was running from someone.”

  “Makes sense,” Harley said.

  “And I think he was hiding something. That’s why the break-ins. I think they’re looking for whatever Warren had.”

  “Any idea what?”

  I hadn’t fully worked out a theory yet. “I don’t know for sure.”

  “Hey, if you have even the germ of a theory, throw it out there. It’s got to be better than anything I’ve got, which is nothing. At least it will give us a starting point. We’ve been here three days, and I don’t know if we’ve gotten anywhere.”

  “I think Warren may have been laundering money. That’s what the police thought—that’s why the investigation. And, I think he stole some of it.”

  “How do you figure?” Harley looked puzzled.

  “A leopard doesn’t suddenly change his spots. We think he’s been stealing from his clients in St. Joe, so maybe he was stealing before he got there. I think someone found out and he ran. But old habits are hard to break. So he gets to St. Joe and starts in again. He steals from the church and he steals from Paris.”

  “So you think he was killed because he stole laundered money? And someone came looking for it?”

  “Yeah, maybe.” I hesitated because something didn’t seem right, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what was bothering me. A piece was definitely missing. “I think it’s the way he died that bothers me.”

  “The way he died?” Harley looked puzzled.

  “The type of people involved in drug cartels would have done a better job of killing him. First off, they wouldn’t have killed him until they found out where the money was. They might have tortured him, but they wouldn’t have killed him until they had what they were looking for.”

  Harley nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “This murder is too messy. They would have hired a professional hit. It would have been a lot cleaner than this obviously botched arson. Do you remember what the coroner’s report said?”

  Harley thought for a moment and then held up his fingers and ticked off the information, “Blunt trauma to the back of the skull. Death caused by bullet to the side of the head. Body soaked in gasoline and set on fire.” Harley nodded. “Seems like overkill.”

  “It screams amateur. Whatever is going on, murdering Thomas Warrendale didn’t solve the problem. Why break into Starling and Schuck and Paris’ salon?”

  “Someone was looking for something. But what?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, but if I had to guess, I’d say he must have had written records.” I tried to reason through the logic of the case.

  “Records? Accounting records?” Harley was starting to see the picture that had been floating around in my mind.

  “Yeah. I think he had records or documents someone wants pretty badly.”

  “Bad enough to kill.”

  “And if they’ve killed once ….”

  “They’ll kill again.”

  Chapter Eight

  Back in the hotel, I was pacing and trying to figure out exactly how to word my call to Paris when my cellphone rang.

  “Hello.” To my surprise, it was Paris. Again, I grinned, then the policeman in me kicked in. “Is anything wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Listen. I’m sorry to bother you, but Mrs. Bethany was adamant.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned about, but I’ve noticed a strange car parked near the salon.”

  Okay. Now my radar was up and my heart was pounding so hard I had to strain to hear.

  “What does it look like? Did you get a license plate number?”

  “It’s just a car. I’m not really into cars. It’s white. I can’t see the license number. Whenever I try to get close, it takes off.”

  “How many times have you seen it?”

  “Well, this is the third time. I noticed it yesterday twice and now it’s back today. When I went outside, it took off, so I thought maybe I was just imagining things. Now it’s back.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No. I don’t think it’s important. I wouldn’t be calling you if Mrs. Bethany hadn’t insisted. It could be some poor guy waiting for someone on the street. It may have absolutely nothing to do with this whole mess.”

  “Paris, I don’t want you to look at the car or go near it. Promise me?”

  I could almost hear her hesitating. “I promise.”

  “This is important. I really need you to do this.”

  “I promise. I won’t go near the car. What do you want me to do?”

  “Are you still staying with Mama B?”

  “Yes. But I want to go home. I don’t want to inconvenience her. She’s been wonderful, but ….”

  “I know. She’s pushy and opinionated. But that’s the safest place for you right now.” That was definitely not my best choice of words.

  “Safe? What’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me? Am I in some kind of danger?”

  I probably should have lied and told her she was safe and there was absolutely nothing to worry about. But that just stops people from panicking; it doesn’t keep them safe. If they are on guard, they’re better able to protect themselves and tend not to walk into situations unprepared.

  “I do know you are safer if someone is with you. If someone is following you, then I don’t want you to be alone. I want you to stay with Mama B. Okay?” I waited for an answer, then added, “Paris, I need you to trust me.”

  A heavy sigh, a long pause, and finally, “Okay. How long before this is over? When are you coming home?”

  For some reason that question put the silly grin back on my face. “I should be home in a day or two.”

  A few more minutes of small talk and she was off the phone.

  The next day was the memorial service for Tyrone Warren. On TV shows, the detectives show up at the funeral and wait for the murderer to give themselves away by dropping a clue of some kind. This has some truth to it. Most murderers don’t have to make much effort to go to the funeral, because most murderers are related to their victims and are already there. Most murderers kill the ones they love.

  Smart murderers don’t return to the scene of the crime, unless they’re looking for something. Pros rarely use the same spot or method more than once. Patterns are too easy for the police to recognize. Thomas Warrendale’s home was set on fire, but I doubted seriously if it was the act of an arsonist. The fire that destroyed Warrendale’s home was set by an amateur. A professional would have used a different accelerant, something harder to detect than gasoline. Thomas Warrendale was killed first and the fire was set to try and hide the murder. Or, they may have been trying to destroy evidence. I didn’t believe there was an arsonist loose in the city of St. Joe just waiting for an opportunity to set another blaze.

  “Remind me again why we’re going to a funeral?” Harley asked.

  “We’re going to observe. FBI reports state that more than half—fifty-four percent—of all murder victims were acquainted with their assailant.”

  “You think the murderer will show up?”

  I shrugged. “Odds are in our favor that Warrendale’s murderer knew him.” Chances were he or she knew him well enough to attend the memorial service. Whether the murderer would give us a clue that would lead to their capture was unlikely. Still, it was worth a shot. “Maybe it’ll give us another path to follow. Regardless, we’re going.”

  He nodded. “Okay, then show me what a highly trained investigator can learn by attending a funeral.”

  He was joking, but there’s a lot that can be learned by observing. “Sometimes who doesn’t show up at a funeral can be as important as who does show up. How people interact with each other can tell us a lot too. I once got a line on a murderer because he seemed too distraught at the funeral service of his wife’s best friend. His reaction wa
s enough to get me to cross-check the numbers on her cellphone. Once we knew what direction to look, it didn’t take long to figure out they were having an affair. She tried to end it and he killed her. Sometimes all you need is a spark.”

  We drove to the funeral home where the memorial service was to be held. It was a massive place built to resemble a Southern plantation house. Four huge, white marble columns lined the porch while a circular drive led to the brick paved stairs and heavy mahogany doors.

  “This place makes the white house look like a nice little summer cottage,” Harley whispered as we walked up the stairs and stood in line in the marble-tiled entry. There was a short line of people waiting to sign the guest book. It didn’t hurt to have a quick glance up and down the page to see if any of the names were familiar. Seeing nothing that leapt off the page, we followed the crowd to the parlor where Tyrone Warren was to be memorialized.

  The parlor was large and open, with furniture set up to resemble a real home rather than a funeral parlor. Paris would have appreciated the heavy rugs, which muffled the noise. I don’t know a lot about antiques, but the heavy furniture that dressed the room certainly looked old and expensive. Strolling by a side table, I noted the intricate detail some craftsman had probably spent months, if not longer, hand-carving.

  There weren’t a lot of people at the service. The women were conservatively and fashionably dressed. They were deeply tanned and well-preserved with jewels that sparkled as only the real ones can. The men wore dark suits and white shirts, looking as if they had just left an important board meeting. Who knows? Maybe they had.

  In the front of the parlor was a table with massive floral sprays and plants lined up on each side. Directly in front of the table, a large picture of Tyrone Warren rested on an easel. The Tyrone Warren in the picture looked conservative and reserved, unlike the Thomas Warrendale who sang, danced, and directed the choir with total joy and abandon. It was hard for me to reconcile that man with the Tyrone Warren in the picture.