Travellin' Shoes Read online

  “Thomas Warrendale was brilliant. He set up a series of accounts and routed funds in and out of banks.”

  “It’s like following an artist,” Hogan said. “He used every loophole, every exception, and every trick in the book.”

  “Are you saying everything Warrendale did was legal?” I asked.

  Hogan had the common decency to at least fidget. “Not exactly legal, but not exactly illegal either.”

  “We traced some of the funds,” Mallory said. “We’ve found a few that are going to offshore banks.”

  “So?”

  Mallory smiled as if humoring a child. “Well, most individuals in St. Joe don’t use offshore banks in countries that don’t share information with the United States. It’s a technique called layering, and it’s commonly used by money launderers.”

  Now I was starting to see where this was heading. “Are you saying Thomas Warrendale was laundering money?”

  No one seemed eager to answer the question. Hogan finally responded. “Actually, no.”

  For one of the first times since his initial introduction, Mr. Reed, the attorney, jumped in. “That’s what is so unusual, Detective Franklin. The techniques used are not illegal. But they are unusual, especially when dealing with a local church. Most local churches of this size would not need to have multiple offshore bank accounts.”

  “Not unless they are trying to hide something,” Mallory said.

  “These techniques are often used by companies with ties to terrorists and drug cartels,” Reed said. “Or by individuals who have been laundering money.”

  “So, where did the money go?” I said.

  Shrugs all around. Finally, Mrs. Thomas said, “Hence, my call to you, Detective Franklin. Obviously, Mr. Warrendale was involved in activities of a suspicious nature. All signs point to some type of deception. I promise to keep you posted as we continue.”

  After my visit to First State Bank, I swung by one of Paris’ salons to see if she was free for lunch. Hair 2 Dye 4 Salon was a flurry of activity.

  The salon was located in a transitional neighborhood on River Park Avenue, which featured neither a river nor a park. The side streets were predominately residential, with smaller single-family homes and converted duplexes. In spite of the excessive number of cars that went up and down River Park Avenue, it reminded me of Cheers, where everyone knew your name. It was lined with churches and small neighborhood diners, bookstores, and second-hand furniture shops. There was limited parking on the main street, but Paris had a narrow lot behind her shop.

  The salon was a small brick storefront with a waiting area that consisted of an old sofa, folding chairs, and tables with outdated hair magazines strewn all over. There was also a television broadcasting one of the many daytime court shows, a pop machine, and vending machines with snacks. I stepped into the inner sanctum, where eight styling stations were arranged. Each station was small but serviceable. Hair dryers lined the walls. All the stylists who worked in the shop were African-American, as were the clients waiting. It was loud, and there was a lot of laughter and talk. I stuck my head in to look around, and one of the stylists came forward and looked me up and down.

  Wearing pink flip-flops and smacking her gum, she cocked one hand on her hip and said with the warmth of an iceberg, “Help you?”

  I gave her a big smile. “I’m looking for Paris Williams.”

  “She ain’t here today.” She smacked her gum and then shuffled back to her customer.

  “Do you by any chance know where she is?”

  I got a shrug. One of the other stylists, noticing my consternation, put down her curling iron and came over.

  “I’m sorry for that. Tamika don’t have no manners. My name’s Khamela. Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Paris.”

  She pulled me aside and whispered, “She at her other salon.”

  “Can you tell me where it is?”

  Reaching into her smock, she pulled out a business card and handed it to me. “It’s downtown in the old Fullers Building.”

  I pocketed the card. “Thank you.”

  I debated making the trip to the other salon. It wasn’t far away, but I was starting to feel self-conscious. I decided to drive by the shop. If I found a parking space, then I would take it as a sign I was meant to go in. But given the time of day and the location, I most likely wouldn’t find one and would just keep going.

  The old Fullers Building was a converted warehouse downtown on the river. In former days, it was the home of a cheese manufacturer. Fullers Cheese used to be a big favorite in St. Joe and a major employer. In the eighties, the factory closed down the St. Joe location and moved all operations to Wisconsin. The warehouse was converted into a retail space with small specialty shops, a restaurant, and now apparently a hair salon.

  Remarkably, a car pulled out of the parking spot immediately in front of the building, and I pulled in. Here was my sign.

  Inside the warehouse, I saw a sign that indicated Un Jour à Paris was located down a flight of stairs. I might not have recognized the name if it hadn’t been for the small icons of blow dryers, scissors, and curling iron. The entire lower level looked like a Paris street. In direct contrast to Paris’ other salon, this one was more upscale—a high-class spa. Plush carpeting, soft music, dim lights, and a pleasant receptionist greeted me enthusiastically.

  “Bonjour, et bienvenue à Un Jour à Paris. May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Paris Williams.”

  “Your name, please?”

  “Just tell her RJ is here.”

  “Certainly. Please have a seat, and I’ll let her know you’re here. Can I get you a beverage? Coffee? Water? I have candy.” She smiled as if enticing me with forbidden fruit. This receptionist was seventy-five if she were a day. She was happy, perky, and sported a bright-red hat. Her enthusiasm was refreshing. The atmosphere was the exact opposite of the other salon.

  I took a seat in one of the comfortable guest chairs that lined the waiting area and declined the offer of refreshments. After a few minutes, Paris came out to greet me.

  Any doubts about my welcome were quickly dispelled as she smiled, genuinely glad to see me. I found myself smiling too as she gave me a quick kiss. She smelled like orange blossoms.

  “What a pleasant surprise. What brings you down? I certainly hope it’s not business.”

  “Actually, I just thought I’d see if you were free for lunch.”

  I saw the smile vanish as she turned to check with Amy, the perky greeter, who reviewed the appointment book and shook her head.

  “Sorry. I have an appointment due here any moment. I wish I could, though. Why don’t you come back to my office until she gets here?”

  I followed Paris to her office. This salon looked expensive and appeared to cater to all the senses. It was relaxed and Zen-like, with thick, sumptuous drapes, high-tech chairs, soft music, and the light aroma of jasmine and lavender.

  Paris’ office was a modern, Asian-inspired room with a fountain, a large Palladian-style window, and a high ceiling. On the glass desk was a slim laptop. The office fit the space but contrasted with the old-fashioned, traditional décor I knew filled her home.

  “This space is a surprise.”

  “It’s my new venture. I’ve always wanted to open a high-class, full-service salon. I’ve only had this shop for six months, but it’s doing very well. Of course, the renovations cost a lot more than I originally planned, so I’ve had to scale back a little.”

  “Doesn’t look like you’ve scaled back at all. Very elegant and classy.”

  “People pay for the atmosphere in a place like this, so I had to cut back on services. At the moment, we only offer the basics, hair and nails. But eventually we’ll offer spa treatments—Shiatsu massage, facials, the works.”

  “I’m impressed.” And I meant it too. Paris was a good businesswoman and an entrepreneur. Just then her phone rang, and I knew it was her expected client. I started to head to the door as
she came around her desk to go out.

  “I’m really sorry to be missing out on lunch,” she said, “but if you’re free later, maybe we can have tea or coffee. I try to take a break around four each day to get refocused.”

  “Not sure yet, but I’ll try.”

  “Good enough.”

  I saw Paris’ client, an extremely well-preserved older woman, waiting for her in the lobby.

  “If you can make it,” she said, “I’ll be at the St. Joe Chocolate Factory for tea at four. If not, that’s fine. I’ll eat a chocolate scone for you anyway.” She winked at me then turned and escorted her client to the back of the salon. The receptionist gave me a friendly wave on my way out.

  I grabbed a quick sandwich and headed back to the precinct to finish up some additional paperwork. The mayor had scheduled a meeting at two, and I wanted to make sure I had all my ducks in a row.

  Just before two, Harley, Chief Mike, and I walked over to the mayor’s office to meet with the district attorney. It went about as well as expected. He refused to make any commitments, first wanting to ensure they had reviewed all appropriate statutes. Mayor Longbow thanked everyone for their time and ushered us all out.

  Back at the precinct, I waded through a ton more paperwork, some related to Thomas Warrendale, some related to other cases. There was no report from Detroit on Tonya Rutherford. If I didn’t hear something soon, I was going to have her picked up for questioning.

  Though I wondered why she was avoiding answering my questions, I found myself unable to concentrate. Harley asked, “Do you have some place to go? You keep looking at your watch.”

  I was annoyed with myself. Paris Williams was turning into a big distraction. I thought about her a lot and that wasn’t good for a lot of reasons. First, she was part of an ongoing murder investigation, and although that thread was pretty loose, there were still rules about cops getting involved. Second, she was a successful businesswoman and I was … a cop. Apart from the adjunct teaching class I’d just committed to, I didn’t have much going for me. A bum leg, nightmares, and insomnia weren’t great assets.

  “I need to ask Paris Williams some questions … about the case.” I saw the grin Harley didn’t try to hide and grabbed my keys.

  If I was honest with myself, I would have acknowledged I just wanted to see her. But I didn’t want to be honest with myself.

  I walked into the St. Joe Chocolate Factory at four and saw Paris standing at the counter. Bypassing the people in line, I added a coffee to the order and paid.

  The St. Joe Chocolate Factory is a local company that started with a license from SMACU and made three items that were sold through a catalog. A couple of decades later, the St. Joe Chocolate Factory makes over five hundred items and has shops throughout Indiana and Southwest Michigan.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” Paris said in between bites of her scone and sips of Earl Grey tea.

  “Me too. I like this place. It’s pretty close to the precinct, but I rarely get to come here. Too busy, I guess.”

  “I used to be the same way. I worked a lot of hours and drove by this place all the time. I’d say, ‘I should take time to go there,’ but I never did.”

  “So, what changed?”

  “Me. I went to the doctor and had a physical. She told me my blood pressure was sky high. My cholesterol was through the roof, and if I didn’t slow down, I would be dead before I hit forty. So, I decided to make some changes.”

  I laughed. “Like coming to the Chocolate Factory every day?”

  “You have to start someplace. I needed to slow down and make time for myself. I still work a lot of hours, but I realized I didn’t have to do everything myself, and I got some help. I hired a maid service to come in and clean my house once every two weeks. I contracted with someone to do the yard work at home … and someone to do my books.”

  “Ah, so that’s how you got involved with Tyrone Warren?”

  “Warren?” Paris looked confused before the light bulb came on. “Oh, yeah, that was his real name, wasn’t it? Yeah, I hired him. I started walking in the morning. And I come here every day and treat myself to tea.” Leaning in, she whispered, “And if I’ve been especially good, then tea and a scone.”

  “Sounds like a plan. How’s it working?”

  “My cholesterol is down a little. My blood pressure is down a lot. And I have a lot more energy and am enjoying my life more.”

  “That’s good. You should enjoy life. It’s pretty short.”

  “Exactly. I get so busy working and taking care of others, I rarely take care of myself. This is one thing I do just for me. And I’m glad, because otherwise I wouldn’t be enjoying a tea break with you.” She smiled.

  I took a drink of coffee, trying to dial down the enormous grin I knew was plastered on my face.

  “How is the investigation going? Or are you not allowed to talk about it?”

  “I can’t comment on an open investigation.”

  She nodded.

  “I feel like we’re missing something, but I can’t put my finger on it. Normally, I zero in on someone right away. But this is harder, probably because I know a lot of the people involved.”

  “It must be hard to suspect people you have known your whole life.” Paris sipped her tea.

  “Not everyone is a suspect, but you’re right. Can you remember anything different or unusual that happened recently?” I asked.

  “Like what?”

  “It’s difficult to believe that Tye Warren—ah, Thomas Warrendale—had been here for almost a year with nothing strange happening. Then all of a sudden, he’s murdered. There had to be something that led up to that moment. Something that changed recently and led to his murder. Was there anything different at choir rehearsal?”

  Paris thought for a moment, but then shook her head. “Honestly, I can’t think of anything different or unusual that happened in the last few weeks. Certainly nothing that would lead to someone getting killed. But maybe if I think about it, I’ll remember something.”

  We sat and talked for about thirty minutes and then Paris looked at her watch and got her things together.

  “Well, this has been pleasant. I’ve enjoyed the company, but I have an appointment in fifteen minutes and have to get back to work.”

  I walked Paris back to her shop, which was just up the block.

  The remainder of the afternoon was filled with paperwork. I’d finally gotten a report from Detroit on Tonya Rutherford. Her statement said she’d only seen Thomas Warrendale at church. She also denied she was pregnant by him. Only time would tell. It was possible she was telling the truth, but my money was on Mama B and her gossip network.

  “Let’s see if we can locate the key players from Warrendale’s life. Maybe that’ll help eliminate someone.”

  Harley and I got to work trying to physically locate the people connected to Warrendale. We knew Mrs. Warren was here in the city. We learned Bryce Chandler was out of town on business, although no one at Benson, McCormick, and Chandler would tell us where he was. Harder to find was Mrs. Hartford-Graham. We had Detective Hastings working quietly to see if her location could be pinpointed.

  Ascertaining several of the key suspects were no longer in Cleveland wasn’t exactly a breakthrough in the investigation. However, it gave us something to focus on. Next, we tried the local hotels. Given the lifestyles of the parties involved, there were only a few I thought likely. St. Joe boasted only two four-star hotels. I couldn’t see Mrs. Warren—in her condition—parking her own car or carrying her own bags to her room. She was a valet-parking woman if ever I’d seen one, and there were only two hotels in town that valet-parked. I lucked out and got the right hotel with the first call. Feeling today was my lucky day, I decided to try my luck a little further. Calling back, I learned not only that Mrs. Warren was a guest at the St. Joe Hilton, but Bryce Chandler was also a resident. Imagine that? Two for one.

  Mrs. Hartford-Graham wasn’t checked into any of the hotels in St. Joe. Two hour
s later, I learned she also wasn’t checked into any hotel within a hundred-mile radius of St. Joe, at least not under her own name. Sometimes in police work what you don’t find is just as important as what you do. This wasn’t one of those times. There were probably a hundred possibilities for Mrs. Hartford-Graham’s whereabouts, including safely back home in Ohio. St. Joe’s geographical position—ninety miles from Chicago with its extensive list of grand hotels, stores, theaters, and high-rise condos, thirty miles from the beaches of southwestern Michigan, and a couple of hours from Detroit and Indianapolis, meant she could conceivably be staying within a very short drive of St. Joe. The notion that she might be using a different name also crossed my mind. No, Mrs. Hartford-Graham wasn’t going to be easy to track down. Unless Detective Hastings was able to get a visual confirmation she was in Cleveland, I was going to assume she was here. And why not? Everyone else involved in this case had managed to make their way to St. Joe. Why not her? I was becoming a bigger skeptic as each day of this open murder case passed.

  The best way to locate her would be to track her credit card use. Most people paid for hotels, flights, and rental cars by credit card. In fact, most of these establishments required one just to make a reservation. I would try to get a subpoena, but that would take a few days. It would give me something to do. However, someone with her resources would easily be able to slide through by using cash.

  A middle-class person like Mrs. Warren and an upper-middle-class person like Bryce Chandler most likely flew first class. But the truly rich either owned their own jet or they knew someone who did. Bryce Chandler and Mrs. Warren might stay at the nicest hotels in whatever city they chose. The Mrs. Hartford-Grahams of this world owned the hotel. Of course, if Bryce Chandler or Mrs. Warren were looking for something, they could come to St. Joe and look personally. But Mrs. Hartford-Graham was different. Would she come herself, or would she pay someone to come in her place? Someone like her man, Gerald. Or she might have hired someone else to find whatever it was they were all looking for. Regardless of whether Mrs. Hartford-Graham was in St. Joe, the bottom line was, she had to be someplace. I was determined to find her, so I kept working.