Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery) (6 page)

I turned my truck off and climbed out, staring at the car in amazement. I was standing beside it, running my fingers over some of the larger dents, when Amy came out of her apartment.

"Pretty, isn't it?" she said. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, holding her arms tightly around herself, seemingly more to offer comfort than warmth. Her eyes were dry and she was calm, but at the same time I sensed a quality of tension and fear that I had never seen in her before. As long as I had known Amy, she'd always presented an attitude of confidence and bravado. I was surprised to see her this rattled.

"What happened?" I said.

She smiled. "I got a little too eager to help."

"Excuse me?"

"When you gave me those names this afternoon, I ran them through the archives and didn't find much. There was a story about the robbery they were involved with, and that was about it. But I didn't want to report back with nothing, so I decided to do a little investigating on my own. I located addresses for two of them and drove out to talk to the neighbors." She forced a tight-lipped smile. "Apparently, that wasn't the wisest choice."

I stared at her. "They did this? The guys on the list I gave you?"

She nodded. "Yeah. The neighbors weren't real helpful, and they all seemed nervous. I left without learning anything, went back to work for another hour, and then came home. When I pulled into the lot, four men were waiting for me. Three of them had bats, and they started hitting my car, smashing the windows. I was screaming and trying to get my cell phone to call the police, and then the fourth one, this big blond guy, leaned down beside the driver's door and smiled at me." She gritted her teeth and frowned, angry. "People in the parking lot were
screaming, someone was yelling about calling the police, and this guy, he's smiling. Completely nonchalant. He hands me my own business card through the broken window and says, 'I think it would be a good idea for you to forget all about us, ma'am.' And then they left. They just got inside this fancy SUV and drove away."

I looked at the car again, at the thousands of dollars of damage done so casually, and I took a few long, slow breaths, pushing down the rising anger.

"How are you so sure it was the guys on my list? Could it have been people from the trial you're covering, or some other story?"

She shook her head vehemently. "No, Lincoln, it couldn't have been anyone else. First of all, I'd been handing out my cards to all the neighbors, which is probably where that asshole got his. And he had a definite accent. His English was flawless, but it was spoken in this clipped, careful voice. It was obviously a second language for him, and I'd be willing to bet he was Russian."

"Did the police come?"

"Yes. They filled out a vandalism report, which should help me with the insurance company, but I told them I had no idea who the guys were. I don't think they believed me, but that's fine. I figured I'd talk to you first." She cocked her head and looked at me. "Who are these guys, Lincoln?"

"I don't know," I said, wondering the same thing. "I know they're criminals who were of interest to Wayne Weston shortly before his death. That's all I know, so far." I tapped on the side of her car. "I'm really sorry, Ace."

She waved me off. "Don't be, Lincoln, it wasn't your fault. All you wanted was a computer archives check. It was stupid for me to go around asking questions without knowing what I was getting into, but that's my job, so it was a pretty natural response."

"I suppose you could press charges, if it really was the Russians," I said. "But I think it would be best if you let me look into things first."

"No way I'm pressing charges. I mean, I just asked some questions,
and they did this." She gestured at the car. "It probably wouldn't be wise to do anything else to piss them off."

I looked away. Intimidation is a powerful and ugly tool. And an effective one. They'd intimidated Amy, and she'd never struck me as the type of person readily susceptible to such tactics.

Apparently, she was thinking similarly.

"I'm used to thugs," she said softly. "I deal with con men, murderers, thieves, and rapists. I write stories about them, I push their personal affairs into the public eye, and I upset them. And I've never really worried about it. But with these guys, it wasn't the same. They were totally indifferent, you know? The one who talked to me, he looked just . . . I don't know . . . empty. He looked like he could have raped me, killed me, or given me roses and felt exactly the same about all of it." She took a deep breath. "Who are these guys, Lincoln?" she asked again.

I was saved from reaffirming my ignorance by a white Lexus coupe that squealed to a stop beside my truck. Amy and I both turned, and she put her hands to her head.

"Jacob," she said. "I completely forgot he was coming over."

Jacob Terry stepped out of the Lexus and looked at us with a wide smile. He was a tall, good-looking guy, with perfect teeth, eyebrows, and nails, and a haircut that said "beauty salon" where mine said "barber shop." He's supposedly the most popular news anchor in the city, but I remember a time when Pee Wee Herman and Geraldo Rivera were successful television personalities, so that's not saying much.

"Hey, babe," he said to Amy. "And you're Lincoln Perry, correct?"

"Uh-huh."

He beamed at me and offered his hand, apparently thrilled with the pleasant surprise of my company. "Good to see you again, Mr. Perry."

"Likewise, Mr. Terry," I said, realizing for the first sickening time that our names rhymed. Maybe he could join me when Joe retired. Perry and Terry Investigations. Yikes.

Terry was still smiling, completely oblivious to the wreck that was Amy's car. "What brings you here?" he said.

"The smashed-up vehicle two feet in front of you," I answered, releasing his hand. "Geez, for a professional journalist, you're not the most observant guy in the world, are you, Jake?"

Amy fought to hide a smile while Terry fought to keep his in place.

"I guess not," he said, looking past me and seeing the car for the first time. "Amy, what in the hell happened? Were you in an accident?"

I glanced back at the car myself, studying the damage and trying to comprehend how anyone could think it came from an accident. Maybe he thought she had rear-ended a semi that spilled a load of Louisville Sluggers onto her car.

"No, not an accident," she said. "My car was vandalized."

"What? That's awful. Do you know who did it?"

She glanced at me and shook her head. "Nope. Probably just some kids, drunk and high and looking for a good time."

"I'm sorry, baby," he said, crossing over to her and kissing her, rubbing her back with his hands. I returned my attention to the dented Acura.

"It's fine," she said. "I'm fine."

"Are you still up for dinner?" he asked.

"Sure," she said. "Lincoln, would you like to join us?"

I looked at her and Terry, sorting through all the responses that came to mind and trying to select an option that wasn't a wise-ass remark. It took a while, but I finally came up with one: "No, thanks."

"Okay. Well, thanks for coming over. And, um, let me know what you find out, will you?"

"Sure thing." I nodded at Terry. "Nice seeing you again, Jake."

"Jacob," Amy said. "He hates being called Jake."

Terry seemed to blush, but he didn't deny it. I bowed in apology. "My mistake, Jacob. It won't happen again."

I climbed into my truck and drove away, glancing at the rearview mirror and noting that Terry's arms were still around Amy. It didn't
bother me, though. Did it? No. Why should it? No reason. I turned the music up louder.

Back at the apartment, I called Joe and filled him in.

"Is Amy okay?" he asked when I was through.

"I think so. She was a little shaken up, but she's tough. Jacob Terry is there now to comfort her."

"Don't say it with such bitterness."

"I didn't."

"Sure. Well, I have some news of my own, LP. I checked out the real estate agencies, the construction companies, and the law firm. The law firm refused to talk to me, saying they could have an associate attorney call me back on Friday if I'd like. Helpful folks. Officials at each of the real estate agencies, as well as the construction companies, seemed truly confused by my questions. They all claimed I must have been misinformed, but when I insisted I had accurate information, they told me they had no idea what I was talking about and promised they weren't aware of anyone at the company hiring an investigator."

"They're lying."

"I don't think so," he said. "Initially, I did. But when they all were singing the same song, I sat down and thought about it and decided I should check out the companies a little more. Assuming the managers didn't cut Weston a check, then who else would be able to?"

"If it wasn't a company president or manager, then I'd say it could have been a company accountant."

"Or?"

"Or?" I thought about it. "Who else is there, Joe? Company officials, company accountant, and the owner. Those should be the only people with access to the checking accounts."

"There you go," he said. "The owner. Turns out both the real estate agencies and the construction companies have the same owner. And you'll never guess who that owner is."

"No," I agreed, "I won't. So just tell me."

"Jeremiah Hubbard."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

Jeremiah Hubbard was one of the richest men in the city. He was a self-made multimillionaire who built his fortune in real estate--Cleveland's answer to Donald Trump. He was also, not surprisingly, one of the most influential private citizens in town, a man who supposedly held great sway with the city government.

"You think Weston was working for Hubbard."

"It's the only thing that makes sense so far," Joe said. "And, with a little bit of research, I confirmed that the law firm that paid Weston also represents Hubbard."

"Why did he pay him through the companies, though? Why not just cut him a personal check?"

"Maybe," Joe said, "he wanted to keep it a little more discreet."

I didn't say anything for a while, just sat and listened to Joe's even breathing and the faint sound of the television in the background.

"A dead detective, a missing family, Russian thugs, and one of the city's richest," I said eventually. "A compelling little mess, isn't it?"

Joe sighed. "Do you have the feeling that this case isn't just about gambling anymore?"

"Yes," I said. "I do, indeed."

B
AT-WIELDING THUGS
might be able to intimidate Amy, but even they couldn't keep her rattled for long. When I arrived at the office the next morning, the fax machine tray was filled with copies of the articles involving the Russians, along with a personal note from Amy: "When you find them, kick some ass for me."

I read them carefully before setting them aside with disappointment. Most of the charges had been petty stuff, basically ignored by the
Journal
reporting staff. The most serious charge was armed robbery, but that case had been dropped before it ever got to trial.

I was considering going to the county clerk's office in search of more details about that charge when Joe walked in. He shrugged out of his jacket, and I saw he was wearing a snubnose .357 in a holster beneath it. I looked at it and raised my eyebrows.

"You paranoid about something or just hoping to be the heir to Charlton Heston's throne?"

"Call me paranoid if you want," he said. "I don't like anything about the way this case is developing. And if we should happen to bump into those Russian assholes, I'd be happy to express my displeasure with the way they've treated our associates."

I smiled. "I knew you loved Amy."

"Uh-huh." He sat down at the desk beside me and nodded at the faxes. "What do you have there?"

I passed them over and sat while he read, wondering about the gun he was wearing. When I'd worked with Joe on the street, he'd always
possessed an uncanny sixth sense for impending trouble. If he thought he should wear a gun, I probably should join him. Or take a vacation.

"Not a whole lot of help there," Joe said, handing the articles back to me. "I'm working on Hubbard. I called Aaron Kinkaid last night. He was Weston's partner for a few years, lives out in Sandusky now?"

"Yeah."

"He said he remembers Weston working a case involving Hubbard, but not for Hubbard."

"Say again?"

Joe shrugged. "I don't know. I asked for details, but he was on his way out the door and said he couldn't talk. He agreed to meet me this afternoon, though."

"In Sandusky?"

"Yeah."

"Long drive."

"Could be worth it."

"Take anything we can get at this stage."

He nodded. "You want to come along, tag-team the poor guy?"

I shrugged. "I will if you'd like, but maybe we can make more progress if we stick to our plan and pursue different angles on this, at least at first."