Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery) (5 page)

"Gives some credence to the gambling problem, maybe."

"Uh-huh. I also asked for the details about the recent checks cashed by Weston's agency account. Five checks in the past two months, from five businesses." He glanced at a notepad in front of him. "Two real estate agencies, two construction companies, and a law firm."

I frowned. "The law firm makes sense, but I wonder what he did for the real estate agencies and construction companies?"

"Maybe he ran some checks for wiretaps or installed electronic surveillance equipment," Joe offered. "There are some firms that do that type of thing."

"Maybe, but why would the real estate agency request it and not the homeowner? It seems strange to me."

He waved his hand indifferently. "Any individual and any business can hire a private investigator."

"Fine. We probably ought to look into the jobs, though, and see what we can learn. On the off chance Weston stirred something up with his work, it makes sense to check the most recent jobs first."

"I guess." Joe didn't sound enthused.

"You got a better idea?"

He shook his head. "Not really. Let's check on those jobs and check on the Russians."

"What are you thinking?"

"That this guy didn't kill himself," he said. "If it was just Wayne Weston, I'd say forget about it, this case isn't worth messing with. But the family bothers me. It takes one kind of guy to run up some gambling debts and eat a bullet for the easy way out. It takes a different kind of guy entirely to murder his own family. And if he murdered them, how'd he do it? When did he do it? Where are the bodies? Most
murder-suicide cases I've heard about, both acts are usually done in fairly close proximity, you know?"

"Yeah."

"And," he said, gathering steam with his argument, "if he killed them, he obviously took great pains to hide the bodies, which doesn't fit the thinking of a guy who was planning on suicide. Why bother hiding the bodies if you're not going to be around to worry about it?"

"So you think we should operate on the assumption he was killed."

He gave me a tired grin. "I don't know. But regardless, I'm not so worried about Weston. He killed himself, or someone killed him. Fine. We've got the body lying there, you know? But what the hell happened to that woman and her little girl?"

"That's what we're supposed to find out, old man."

"I know." He waved a handful of papers at me. "Swanders kept his word and faxed the crime scene report over."

"And?"

"And the physical evidence makes it look like a suicide. They did a damn thorough job of checking the house, and they've also got no evidence of an intruder or any sort of struggle. Weston was killed with his own handgun, fired into his temple at point-blank range."

"No chance someone else could have shot him, wiped the gun for prints, left it in his hand?"

He shrugged. "Well, there wasn't any gunshot residue on his hand, no real convincing evidence he fired the shot himself. That doesn't always exist in a suicide, though. So your idea is possible but unlikely. I mean, the guy was a pro, right? A Force Recon vet and a professional investigator? It's hard to imagine a scenario where someone takes Weston's gun away from him and shoots him at point-blank range so easily, then deals with the family, all without causing enough noise to attract attention from the neighbors. You don't think the mother and little girl would get out even a scream?"

"Maybe the guy kills them first."

"While Weston sits around chewing on his fingernails? You kidding me?"

I sighed and scratched my head. "When were the mother and girl last seen?"

"Neighbors said they were in the backyard at seven that night."

"So they leave the house, meet with some kind of trouble, and then the guy or guys head back to the home and finish off Weston."

"Weston wasn't killed until after midnight. Probably closer to three or four than midnight. While his wife and kid are out missing that late, he sits around the house relaxing?"

"Maybe he was asleep, didn't realize they hadn't come home."

"Guy sleeps wearing a shirt and tie?"

I was running out of maybes. "I guess we're going to have to leave the office for this."

"Depressing, isn't it? We're not so good after all."

In the next hour, Joe and I agreed on a preliminary plan of action. He thought it would be more efficient if we worked separately on the early steps of the investigation, allowing us to tackle multiple angles as quickly as possible. He would look into Weston's most recent cases and pursue the possible gambling connections. I would check out the three Russians and talk to Weston's closest friends, whose names were in the notes provided by John Weston. I hoped that at least one of them would give me a better idea of Weston's gambling tendencies.

Amy called, wanting an update on the case. Patience was never her strong suit. I told her about our meeting with Swanders and Kraus, then explained the questions that were nagging at Joe. She didn't have any solutions.

"Anything I can do to help?" she asked.

"I'm not giving you a story, Ace."

"I don't want the story, Lincoln, I'm just asking if you could use any help."

"Okay," I said. "If you're so eager to be helpful, you can run the names of my three Russian friends through your archives and see what you find. My guess is there will be at least one story. The robbery charge probably warranted some sort of attention from you guys."

"Give me the names."

I did, and she promised to check them out and get back to me. That settled, I began to call some of Weston's closer acquaintances. John Weston had listed six names under the "Friends" category, along with the phone numbers he had for the five of them who lived in the state. The sixth was an old Marine buddy who lived in Florida. I'd try to find a number for him if I couldn't turn up anything productive from the others. I assumed the police would have talked to all the same individuals, but it was still the place to start.

Four hours later, I'd conducted five interviews. Three of the "friends" John Weston had listed told me they weren't really that close to Wayne Weston, just casual acquaintances who sometimes played golf with him. When asked about the gambling, they all claimed limited knowledge.

"He'd make bets on the golf course fairly often," one man told me. "Never big money, just betting ten or twenty bucks on a round, or maybe five or ten on a hole. It was just something he did to make it a little more fun, increase the competitiveness a bit."

The other two admitted being close with Weston, but both dismissed the idea that he might have had serious gambling debts, saying betting was nothing more than recreation to Weston, and not something he did recklessly. I stuck with them for a while, searching for other motives or sources of trouble, but found none. I finished the afternoon with no leads but with a growing list of questions about Wayne Weston. His father had provided names of the people he felt his son was closest to, yet none of those people seemed to know the man intimately. Even the self-proclaimed "close" friends had only casual relationships with Weston, and all of them described him as a private person, not given to a great deal of socializing or conversation
about his personal affairs. It was not the response I had hoped to generate.

Joe left the office while I was doing the last of my interviews. It didn't sound like he had made much progress with the Windsor calls. By the time I hung up, it was growing dark out on the street. Amy, for all her burning desire to help, hadn't called back with any information about the Russians. I decided to call it a day and head to my gym for a mind-clearing workout, hoping to return the next morning with a fresh focus and some better ideas.

I own a gym called Sweat Alley just a few blocks from our office. After I was dismissed from the police department, I invested the meager inheritance left from my father's estate in the gym and attempted to make it as a small business owner. Since then, I'd turned the management over to Grace, my middle-aged and sharp-tongued employee, but you could find me there most evenings.

When I arrived, the parking lot was fairly crowded. I had to admit Grace had more of a knack for running the place than I did. She'd started cardiovascular classes and generated a good-sized turnout for them after she began targeting the senior citizens' centers in the area with advertising. The result was that the gym was making me more money than ever before, and I had an odd mix of burly power lifters and white-haired grandmothers.

It was after five, so Grace was gone and the office was closed. I used my keycard to enter, then did some light stretching and headed for the free weights. A black guy named Alan Belle was on the incline bench, pressing a pair of eighty-pound dumbbells, and we exchanged nods. Alan had been coming to the gym for a few months now, and we talked occasionally. As I started in on my own workout, I remembered that he'd served in the Marines.

"Hey, Alan," I said when he had finished his set.

"Yeah?" He turned to me, wiping sweat away from his eyes with a towel. There were lots of guys in the gym who were big, or in great shape, and then there was Alan Belle. He wasn't power-lifter thick but
lean and cut, with an athlete's hard muscle. He was tall, at least six-four, and he'd been a star in both football and basketball at St. Ignatius, Cleveland's perennial high school powerhouse.

"You were in the Marines, right?"

"Six years, Marine Expeditionary Unit," he acknowledged.

"Same group my father was in," I said. "Guy I was named after was a Marine, too. Saved my dad's life in Vietnam. You know anything about Force Recon?"

"Recon." He grinned and rubbed his shaved head. "Yeah, I know Force Recon. Those boys are flat-out badasses, that's all there is to it. I was recruited for Recon, but I wasn't planning on making a career out of it and I liked my unit, so I passed."

"They go through pretty tough training?"

"
All
Marines go through tough training, Perry. Force Recon boys go through specialized training. They get taught all the dirty tricks, the special ops techniques. That's what they are: special operations. See, I was in an expeditionary unit. We were considered special operations
capable
. There's a difference. And as far as the training is concerned, yeah, they're pretty well taught. They've got to pass airborne training, combat diver training, escape and evasion training, close-quarters combat--all the fun stuff."

"I see."

"Why are you interested?" he asked.

"I met a guy who was with Force Recon, and I was curious," I said.

Belle laughed. "Sure, Perry. I just hope you're on this fella's good side. You don't want to be pissing off any Recon boys."

I returned my attention to my own workout, beginning with military presses, then moving on to shoulder shrugs and lateral raises. I concentrated on steady breathing and careful form, trying to make each repetition identical to the last in motion and power, like cylinders working in an engine. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and the muscles began to ache. It wasn't a bad pain, though, but one that promised better things ahead.

I finished my weight workout and then went outside and ran. The air was cold; it was only March, and in Cleveland March feels a lot more like the end of winter than it does the beginning of spring. There were still traces of snow in the parking lots, but the sidewalks were clear and the footing was safe. I ran regardless of the conditions, but it was nice not to have to worry about the slick patches of black ice that blended with the shadows.

I ran four miles, my body becoming hot under the sweatshirt despite the cold, the sweat beginning to drip down my face. When I returned to the gym I remained on the sidewalk until my breathing was back to normal, and then I went upstairs. I live in an apartment above the gym, and sometimes, late at night, I can hear the distant thuds of dropped weights and the clang of metal on metal from some night owl's workout.

I showered and changed clothes, then stood in front of the open refrigerator debating what to make for dinner. The phone rang while I was considering the limited options and thinking it was time for a trip to the grocery store. I picked up the receiver, expecting it was Joe and hoping it wasn't Angela calling again to question my judgment in ending our short-lived relationship.

"Hello?"

"Lincoln, I need you." It was Amy, and she wasn't happy.

"What's wrong?" I said. Silence. "Amy? What's wrong?"

"Just come over. I'll explain when you're here."

She hung up, and I sighed and let the refrigerator door swing shut. So much for dinner. I grabbed my keys and left.

I'd driven a Jeep until recently, when I'd traded it in and purchased a four-year-old Chevy Silverado pickup truck. I like big cars, and the two settings of four-wheel drive meant I could handle any weather the Cleveland winter chose to dish out, but both Amy and Joe ridiculed the truck constantly. On the other hand, when I wanted to drive fast in the big truck, as I did on the way to Amy's apartment, people tended to get out of my way.

The first thing I noticed when I pulled into a parking spot in front of Amy's apartment was her car. The Acura was parked in its customary place but that was where the normalcy ended. The side panels and trunk were covered with large dents, all four windows had been broken out, and the windshield was spiderwebbed with cracks.