Travellin' Shoes Read online

  “Like what?”

  I shrugged “Did they pay particular attention to Warrendale’s office?”

  “Sure did. And Warrendale apparently worked from home most of the time. He was more of a subcontractor than an employee and rarely came into the office. He mostly helped out during tax season. He didn’t keep much there, but since his was the only office ransacked, I thought there might be a connection.”

  “Wonder what they were looking for?”

  “Don’t know, but here’s a copy of my report.” Detective Lawrence handed me the case folder. “Maybe it’ll help.”

  “Thanks.” I added the file to the others on my desk.

  Harley and I would need to interview someone at Starling and Schuck sooner or later. Might as well be sooner.

  Starling and Schuck was a mid-sized CPA firm started in St. Joe almost fifty years ago by Fred Starling and Robert Schuck. Over time, this two-man business grew to the almost a thousand employees who operated out of five Midwestern branches. Never aiming to compete with the big international firms, Starling and Schuck built a solid reputation and a large client base by providing quality services at reasonable prices. It was a local fixture. I learned this by watching the video that played on a continuous loop in the lobby while we waited for Abigayle Bennett, chief operating officer. She narrated part of the video, so we recognized her immediately.

  The lobby was elegant and modern, with large windows and vaulted ceilings. The furniture was high-end and extremely uncomfortable. Fortunately, we didn’t have to wait long.

  “Detectives, I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Abigayle Bennett. How may I help you?”

  She handed out business cards and instructed us to call her Abbi.

  After escorting us to a small meeting room located right next to the reception desk, she started right in. “I’ve been expecting someone from the police ever since I read about Thomas Warrendale’s death.”

  “How long did Warrendale work here?”

  “Mr. Warrendale hadn’t been with us long. He was a contractor, not an employee, so I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of information.”

  “Perhaps you can tell us what you know of Thomas Warrendale’s background?”

  “Well, that’s just it. We relied on the contract agency that recommended him to ensure he met our criteria.” Mrs. Bennett slid the two folders she’d brought with her to the conference room across the table to us. Harley and I opened them and flipped through the paperwork inside.

  “Mr. Warrendale was temporary. December through April fifteenth is our busy tax season, and we hire a lot of people to help us process tax returns during that time.”

  Harley glanced over the skimpy files. “Did he have any friends or perhaps co-workers who might know more about him?”

  “Mr. Warrendale worked out of his home. Most of the work we do is electronic, anyway. With a laptop, high-speed internet, and a fax machine, there’s no reason to come to the office. In fact, I don’t believe he actually showed up at the office more than once or twice. We keep a desk for our contract employees in case they want to come in for whatever reason, but few of them take advantage of it. I doubt very seriously if most people here would even recognize him if they saw him.”

  “So why did he have his own office?” I said, thinking about the police report I’d seen earlier.

  “He had a lot of experience and was working at a senior level. I believe he requested an office, and we had the room and were happy to accommodate.”

  “Isn’t that unusual?” I tried to think of a reason Warrendale would ask for an office and never use it, but I couldn’t come up with anything.

  Mrs. Bennett smiled. “Not really. This is a profession where walls and doors signify status, even if you aren’t using them.”

  The file showed Warrendale used his real name with the contract company and on his CPA license. However, he also included a written request to go by Thomas Warrendale, as he was officially changing his legal name. Apparently, neither the contract company nor Starling and Schuck thought that strange. We tried coming at Mrs. Bennett from several different angles, but there was nothing useful she could tell us. There were no discrepancies in previous returns from one year to another. No complaints from clients, nothing unusual in any way whatsoever. She was polite, but she wasn’t able to shed light on why anyone would want him dead. It didn’t take long before we were on our way. I wouldn’t say it was a totally wasted trip. I had no doubt Warrendale’s work was now being checked and any discrepancies with his accounts would be identified, but nothing had come to the surface yet. So, any threat from Warrendale’s illegal activities might not be connected to his accounts with Starling and Shuck.

  St. Joe, Indiana, was a mid-sized town. St. Joe lacked the skyscrapers, the crowds, and the energy of big cities. One thing it had in abundance was banks. Warrendale was making deposits into Paris Williams’ bank, St. Joseph Bank and Trust, and the church’s bank, First State Bank. I don’t know if there was a link, but it was a starting point. First State Bank’s corporate headquarters were close to the precinct, so I started there, while Harley went back to the precinct to try and put a dent into some of the paperwork and forms that were piling up.

  The main branch of First State Bank was located in the largest building in St. Joe; at twelve stories, that wasn’t saying much. Most of the building was now a hotel. The executive offices were on the second floor, and that was where I waited for the bank president, Henrietta Thomas.

  Mrs. Thomas was not only the president of First State Bank but the first female bank president in St. Joe’s history.

  “I need your help.”

  She looked hesitant. “Well, I’ll certainly try.” She directed me to take the seat facing her large mahogany desk. “Without a warrant, I may be limited on what type of information I can provide, but I’ll do my best to help if I can.”

  It was clear that Henrietta Thomas was sharp as a tack. In her mid-forties, she was only slightly shorter than me at about six-one and probably over two hundred pounds. Although she looked solid as a rock and had the physique of an athlete, she had glossy dark hair that might have softened her appearance if she hadn’t worn it pulled back into an unflattering bun.

  I gave her a rough sketch of the situation before asking, “Have you noticed anything unusual?”

  “I suppose that depends on what you mean by ‘unusual.’ I certainly haven’t noticed anything that would be of importance to a police detective. You’ll have to give me a bit more to go on.”

  “I’m wondering if you noticed anything unusual relating to withdrawals—money transfers, deposits, money laundering.”

  She leaned closer. I now had her full and undivided attention. Clearly, this was not what she’d been expecting to hear.

  “I thought you said you were investigating a murder.”

  “I am. But I’ve run across some inconsistencies that led me to believe there might be illegal transactions.”

  “That’s very serious, Detective Franklin. May I ask what led you to this conclusion?”

  It only took a few minutes to explain what I knew about Warrendale. Mrs. Thomas asked some pertinent questions but allowed me to relay the facts, such as they were.

  “Detective Franklin, I don’t know if I can help you. I can certainly look into the accounts he had access to. It sounds like Mr. Warrendale—or Warren, or whatever his name is—may have been involved in something unusual. Embezzlement is more common than you’d think, but money laundering isn’t something we see a lot of in St. Joe.”

  We talked for a few additional minutes and ended with Mrs. Thomas promising to launch an investigation.

  “Typically, we would have our CPA firm take care of this, but under the circumstances, I think we’d better use our own internal audit team.”

  “Why? Who’s your outside CPA firm?”

  Mrs. Thomas smiled. “Starling and Schuck.”

  She was indeed a sharp cookie. She had picked up on the fact that Thomas Warre
ndale worked for Starling and Schuck, and if there were illegal activities happening, it was possible Warrendale had run them through the auditing firm.

  “I’m not implying Starling and Schuck are in any way involved in illegal activities,” I said.

  “I know, Detective, and I certainly am not accusing them of anything either. Since one of their employees or contractors is possibly implicated in criminal behavior, they are required by law to abstain from involvement.”

  “I understand. We’ll do what we can and let you know if we find anything.”

  I rose to leave and Mrs. Thomas offered her hand.

  As I left the bank, I felt inexplicably heavier—more weighed down than before my meeting. Finding a murderer was my number one priority. However, Reverend Hamilton and FBC were like family to me. Something inside me didn’t want to find a link between the murder of Thomas Warrendale and the church’s missing money. If my hunch was right, these two things were linked together, and that meant someone I knew was a cold-blooded murderer.

  The talk with the president at St. Joseph Bank and Trust, Paris’ bank, went roughly the same way. Both bank presidents were concerned and agreed to initiate internal investigations. Since 9/11, rules around money and deposits were much stricter and more regulated. I didn’t believe the former choir director was a terrorist, but I wasn’t ruling anything out. Where was the money? Unless Warrendale left a paper trail, I doubted we’d be able to find anything. Between the forensic accountant, our anti-fraud and money laundering experts, and the resources of both banks, I hoped we’d find out something soon.

  Harley was finishing up a special assignment with another detective, so I was on my own for the day. Leaving no stone unturned, I decided to interview the women Mama B mentioned as possible paramours for Warrendale.

  I wanted to get the worst over with first. Mercedes Jackson worked at the Department of Motor Vehicles, so that’s where I went. Mama B described Mercedes Jackson as ghetto fabulous. Her clothes were cheap, trendy, and two sizes too small. Leopard-print leggings and three-inch heels were a common look, with an excess of big, gaudy jewelry and long, elaborately decorated nails. Despite the youthful attire, Mercedes seemed older than her twenty-five years. Something in her eyes made her look hard and worn out. Maybe it was the cigarettes. She was a chain-smoker, and her teeth and skin bore the signs.

  “Hey, RJ. I ain’t seen you in forever. You looking fine.” She looked me up and down like a piece of meat she was about to devour, and I wondered how she fit in with the other choir members.

  I forced a smile. “I need to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “You can ask me anything you want.” Mercedes snuggled up closer, overwhelming me with the odor of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. I hoped my clothes wouldn’t reek of it after I left.

  “I heard a rumor you were involved with Thomas Warrendale.”

  “That just goes to show you shouldn’t listen to every rumor you hear, doesn’t it?” Mercedes laughed and took a fingernail file out of her pocket that looked like a straight razor. But given the length of her nails—which were so long they curled down and included diamonds and what appeared to be tiny hundred-dollar bills—she’d need something long to tackle those claws.

  “So, you never had a relationship with Thomas Warrendale?”

  “Nope. He wasn’t my type, if you know what I mean.” Mercedes smacked her gum and leaned in. “I prefer the tall, dark, and handsome type. You know, someone about your height and color. Minister Warrendale was too short and too yellow.”

  “I also heard you and Moe Chapman were an item.” I didn’t need to mention that Moe Chapman’s four-hundred-pound frame didn’t fit that description either.

  “Yeah, me and Moe been hanging out lately. He’s a big man, but he knows how to treat a woman.” She flashed a sly smile and patted the expensive purse flung over her shoulder. “He got me this purse just the other day.”

  “Have you ever heard Thomas Warrendale mentioning money to you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you hear anyone threaten Thomas Warrendale?”

  She shook her head.

  “Where were you on Friday night?”

  “Umm, well, Moe took me out to dinner. Then we went to the movie, and then … he took me home. You wanna hear what we did when we got home?” She asked the question with a wicked grin, which told me everything I needed to know.

  “No, I think that will be all.”

  She laughed. She didn’t have any ideas on what might have happened to Warrendale or who wanted to harm him, but before I left, she asked for a card with my telephone number just in case any ideas came to her later when she was home alone and had time to think about it. I gave it to her reluctantly. Thankfully, it only included my work number, where my associates monitored the answering machine, but she definitely knew enough people at the church that she could track me down if she needed to.

  Next on the list from Mama B was Francis Montgomery. I caught up with her at the mall, where she worked at a local department store. Business was slow, so she was able to talk to me while she folded towels.

  “I’d like to ask you some questions about Thomas Warrendale. You don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to. And you can have an attorney present if you’d prefer.” I waited. Francis was scared, but that was normal. Most people are nervous when talking to the police.

  Francis Montgomery was a sweet young girl of about nineteen. She was rather plain and dressed a tad frumpy compared to other girls her age. But her parents were older and known to be rather strict. “I thought he loved me,” she whispered so softly I barely heard.

  “What happened?”

  She continued to fold in silence, and then I noticed the tears trickling down her face and handed her a handkerchief.

  “He told me he loved me. He told me he wanted to marry me. But then I heard he was messing around with Mercedes and Tonya, and I knew he was just playing me.” Excusing herself, she went to the break room, returning after a few minutes. She’d reapplied her makeup but still looked tired and worn.

  “I said I wasn’t going to waste any more tears on him.” After a final sniffle and a shrug of her shoulders, she was back in control.

  “How did it end?”

  “I confronted him about the rumors. At first, he tried to deny them, but there was too much evidence. He admitted it finally. And I told him we were done.”

  “When was this?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Did you have any further contact?”

  “Only at church. I dropped out of the choir. I couldn’t stand seeing that hypocrite pretending to be so dedicated to the Lord. Singing and dancing and praising the Lord in church when I knew what a lowdown skunk he was. I knew something like this would happen.”

  My antenna went up. “What do you mean? You knew he’d be killed?” I liked Francis; I really hoped she hadn’t done something stupid.

  “I know you can’t play in the Lord’s house. The Bible says, ‘God is not mocked, whatsoever a man sows, that also shall he reap.’ I don’t know where it is in the Bible, but I know it’s in there. He was mocking God, and God wouldn’t put up with that.”

  Like Moe Chapman, Francis Montgomery saw God as an avenger. I took a moment and thought how busy God would be if he murdered every man or woman who cheated or lied.

  “So, you think God killed Thomas Warrendale?”

  “I know God works through people, and someone killed him. God may not have actually struck him down, but He allowed him to die. So, yeah, God killed him.”

  “What did your parents think about you dating Thomas Warrendale?”

  “They didn’t know. They still don’t know. He said it would be best if we didn’t tell anyone at the church. I thought he was protecting my reputation. Now, I see it was his own reputation he cared about, not mine.”

  We talked for a few more minutes, but she had been out of town at her family reunion last Saturday. In fact, her
entire family was about six hundred miles away. I would get someone to verify her alibi, but it looked like Francis and her immediate family were off the list. That meant Mercedes Jackson was back on top. I’d have to look into Francis’ claims that Mercedes and Warrendale were involved. This was the second time I’d heard that allegation. I was not looking forward to that. Maybe I could send Harley. The thought brought a smile to my face that I had a hard time removing.

  Tonya Rutherford was harder to track down. According to her mother, she was visiting a sick aunt in Detroit. She was expected back in a couple of days. Her interview would have to wait.

  Chief Mike arranged for a quick flight to Cleveland for Harley and me. But I had one stop to make first.

  The sun was going down and had taken most of the heat with it. Mama B wasn’t sitting on the porch, but the front door was open. I found her in her favorite chair just inside the house.

  “I fixed a snack for you to take with you to Ohio.”

  “They have food in Ohio, you know. Besides, I’ll only be there for one or two days.”

  “You don’t want the food, just leave it in the kitchen. One of the boys will eat it.”

  The “boys” Mama B referred to were the ballers who played at the recreation center across the street. Most people took one look at those rough-talking kids and clutched their purses, locked their doors, and called the police. But Mama B fed them sweet tea and banana pudding. Thirty years she’s lived on that alley, and no one has laid a hand on her or her property. I’d like to think that somehow they knew she was connected to the police and that knowledge kept her safe. But the truth was Mama B had connections of her own.

  Mama B befriended a kid most people ran from. Taz was a thug with a rap sheet about a mile long. Breaking and entering, disorderly conduct, and a few other charges had kept Taz—I can’t even remember his real name—in and out of juvenile detention most of his life. Maybe Mama B reminded him of his mother or grandmother. Maybe she was the only person who took an interest in him. Whatever the reason, Taz put the word on the street Mama B was protected, off limits. I found out about it when I ran into a group of kids drinking lemonade on the porch one afternoon. I waited until Mama B went into the house and then threatened to come down on them like stink on a skunk—one of Harley’s favorite sayings—if they so much as looked at Mama B crooked.