Voodoo Daddy (A Virgil Jones Mystery) (8 page)

Marriott snarled at her. “We don’t need Bob for Christ sake.”

“Who’s Bob Brighton?” I said.

“He’s our in-house council,” the woman said. “My name is Gloria Birchmier, by the way.” She nodded in turn to the other two men at the table. “Dick Hawthorne and Thomas Fallbrook,” she said by way of introductions.

I nodded at everyone. “Alright, so, lay it out for me. Your organization, I mean. The four of you are the executive committee?”

Gloria answered for the group. “Yes. There are normally five of us. Franklin was the fifth. We have a total of eleven board members. All from within the state, except that the others are all from out of town. Two live in Fort Wayne, one in South Bend, and the other three in Evansville. They are all on their way here of course, but it will be a few hours I imagine.”

“Who notified them of Mr. Dugan’s murder?” I said.

“We all did,” Gloria said. “We have a disaster plan in place. Each of us have assigned duties and responsibilities as defined in the plan. One of those responsibilities in the event of a disaster is immediate notification of the company’s Board of Directors.”

“What qualifies as a disaster?”

Hawthorne spoke for the first time. “Well, it’s pretty broad. Just about anything from any sort of natural disaster that would affect our operations, like structural damage to our facilities from fire, flood, tornados, things of that sort—to the sudden death or incapacitation of anyone on the executive committee.”

“Were any of you unable to reach the other members of the board?”

Fallbrook raised his hand. “I had a little trouble with one of my assigns. Bill Acker. But eventually I got him.”

“Home or office?” I said.

“Oh, it was at home. He was just in the shower.”

“So to the best of everyone’s knowledge, the board members who were in town this morning are all in this room, and everyone else, everyone who lives out of town were all…well, out of town?” Everyone nodded.

“Yes, I believe that’s correct,” Gloria said. “Why?”

“Because I’m trying to figure out who killed your boss, Ms. Birchmier.”

Gloria put a hand to her throat. “And you think one of us did it?”

Marriott swore under his breath. “Aw, Jesus Christ.” He picked up the phone and punched one of the buttons. Margery…get Bob Brighton in here. Now.”

* * *

Sunrise Bank’s lead council, Bob Brighton entered the conference room a few minutes later. Brighton was short, not much over five feet tall, and gone to fat. His hair was gray and kinky, he wore a yellow bow tie and his pants were about an inch too short.

“How do you do, Detective?”

“I’m well, thank you Mr. Brighton. Your executive committee thought it might be best if you sat in for a few of my questions.”

“Indeed. Please, proceed.”

“He thinks one of us killed Franklin,” Gloria said.

Brighton raised his eyebrows at me, and a small grin formed at the corner of his mouth.

“That’s not exactly accurate,” I said.

Gloria pointed a finger at me. “It is too accurate. You said so yourself.”

“No, Ms. Birchmier, what I said was that I am trying to figure out who killed Mr. Dugan. You were the one who asked if I thought any of you did it, not me.”

“Well, the implication was quite clear, Detective.”

Brighton cut in. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Detective, but these types of investigations are usually conducted, um, what’s the best way to put it? By process of elimination, isn’t that correct?”

I nodded. “That’s often true. But, keep in mind, we also look at the question of ‘who benefits?’ So let me ask all of you this: with Franklin Dugan now deceased, who gets the big chair? Who is going to be Chairman of the Board and CEO of Sunrise Bank?”

“The Board will have to vote on that,” Hawthorne said. “But undoubtedly, it would be one of us.”

“Okay, so what happens if there’s a tie? In the vote?”

“Then we would revert to the question of who holds the most stock. It’s in the charter.”

“So who holds the most stock?” I said.

Marriott rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. “I do.”

* * *

I had everyone except Marriott and Brighton leave the room. When they were gone, Marriott shook his head. “I didn’t kill him. Hell, I was up at six and gone by six-thirty at the latest. I went to the club, worked out, then ate a light breakfast in the dining room. Gloria called me on my cell and told me the news. Plus, there must have been about ten or twenty people who saw me from the time I walked in the club until I left.”

Nothing’s easy.

I had a few more follow up questions for Marriott, none of which went anywhere at all, so I pulled at another thread. “I’d like to ask you about Samuel Pate.”

Marriott snuffed at the mention of Pate’s name. “So ask.”

“Well,” I said, “What I’d really like is your general, overall impression of the man.”

Marriott leaned in, his forearms on the edge of the table. “Detective, we have a rather unique business model here at Sunrise. No other financial institution in the country does what we do. Now, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying—there are plenty of banks out there that lend money to churches and religious institutions all across the U.S. But we are the only one that does it exclusively.”

“If you have a point, Mr. Marriott, so far it’s lost on me.”

“My point is simple, Detective. We are as close as you could come to being called a private bank. We vigorously protect our assets and those of our clients. Confidentiality at our institution is held at the highest regard. I’m quite sure you understand.”

“I’m not asking for his financials, Mr. Marriott. I’m asking for your general impression of the man.”

Marriott looked at me for a full minute before he spoke. “He doesn’t let much get in his way, I’ll say that about the man. But that’s all I’ll say.”

* * *

When I was finished with Marriott I stepped out of the conference room and found Rosencrantz and Donatti seated in the reception area waiting for me, two empty plates of shrimp tails on the coffee table by their knees.

“Get what we needed?” I said.

“Right here boss,” Donatti said, and handed me a file folder. Pate’s financial history with the bank.

“Alright, I want you guys out at the scene to help with the canvass. Ron should still be there. Widen it out as far as possible. All we’ve got so far is Sandy’s report of a white panel van of some kind. If we can get a plate, or even a partial, we’d have something solid.”

The two men stood up and Donatti picked up their plates, looked around for a trash can, didn’t see one, shrugged, and set them back down on the table.

“You know,” Rosencrantz said, “If you let that Jamaican chef of yours, what’s his name, again?”

“Robert,” I said.

“Right, right, Robert. If you get Robert some of this shrimp, and he put some of that jerk sauce on them and sort of sizzled ‘em up in a pan, you’d have something right there.”

Donatti was nodding. “He’s right. That sauce of his is something. You’d pretty much have the crack cocaine of shrimp.”

I nodded right along with them. “Yeah, I know. I’m already on it.”

* * *

Before I left, I found Margery at her desk. “Margery, listen. I’ve got something I want to run by you.”

“Sure,” Margery said. “But wait, before I forget, here’s the number of the seafood place in Elkhart. They’re expecting your call.” She handed me a slip of paper with the info. “They said, and I quote, ‘as a favor to me and because you’re a new customer, they’ll move you to the front of the line.’ They’ve got a truck coming to Indy today. If you could call them soon enough, you’d be all set.”

“Aw, jeez, Margery, that’s great. But, uh, I probably won’t have time to call them.” I pulled one of my cards out of my wallet and handed it to her. “Do me a favor? Call the number on this card and ask for Robert. He’s my chef. Tell him I said to order whatever he needs, okay?”

“Sure. That’s no problem. You said you wanted to run something by me?”

“I do. Look, I usually don’t ask this, but you seem to sort of have your ear to the ground around here, so I was sort of hoping you could let me know if you hear of anything that might be, uh, let’s say, out of the ordinary.”

Margery looked around, like someone might be listening. “Like what?”

“Anything really. Something out of place, someone acting strange, uptight, saying something out of character, something they wouldn’t normally do or say. Don’t do anything about it, but call me and let me know, will you?”

“Sure, sounds a lot like what I do already.” She gave me a little eyebrow wiggle. “And, as long as we’re trading favors, how about you do a little something for me?”

“Uh, maybe,” I said, a little skeptical. “What is it?”

“Oh don’t get all coppish on me.”

“No, no. I’m not. What is it?”

“Well, earlier I told you I was thinking about retiring and spending some time on the beach.”

“Yeah? Boy I could tell you about some great places in Jamaica. I go every February for a month.”

“No, no. I was wondering…your two guys?

“Yeah?”

“Well, you know….the cute one. Is he attached or anything? I was hoping you could put a word in for me.”

I sort of puffed out my cheeks. “Margery, I’ll be the first to admit I’m not very religious, and I mean not at all. But with God as my witness, I don’t know which one qualifies as the cute one.”

Margery huffed a little. “You know….the tall one. What’d you call him? Rosie?”

“He’s the cute one?”

Margery gave me a slow blink. Twice. “Oh, honey, are you kidding me? I’d like to buy him a few of those rum punches and get him into a man thong on the beach. You might not ever see him again.”

“Aw jeez, Margery.”

“What?”

“I’ve got to work with the guy pretty much every day. Now every time I look at him…”

CHAPTER NINE

I could feel the day starting to slip away. I had a court appearance scheduled from a previous case in a little over two hours. I thought about calling Sandy—even picked up my phone to do it—but then tossed it back on the passenger seat of my truck. The doctor had told her to get some rest. No sense in bugging her if she was actually doing what she’d been told her. My thoughts of Sandy made me think about what she’d said about the Governor’s wife being out of town…how she’d been there with the Governor at his home, at night, just the two of them…

But those thoughts were nothing more than basic jealousy.

So, Sandy. People say that there is no such thing as love at first sight, and on the whole I used to be one of them, but when I met Sandy everything changed. I’m not sure I can adequately explain the connection between us, but there is something more to her, to us, than a physical lust or even an emotional bond. I am drawn to her in ways that are foreign to me. In truth, I felt a little like a dopey school boy. A middle-aged dopey school boy. The politics of it could get complicated. We are on the same unit, I’m her boss. There are rules about these sorts of things.

But…
maybe fuck the politics
.

* * *

I had never seen Samuel Pate’s residence, but I had a rough idea where his house was located. One of the television stations in town did a feature story on his home a few months ago and I remembered the story mostly because I was amazed at the grandiosity on display from someone who had made their fortune by instilling the fear of God into people who probably could not afford to buy a second-hand bible.

I had not yet looked at the documents I collected from Franklin Dugan’s office and wondered if maybe I should at least glance at them before trying to talk to Pate about a murder he might know more about than I did. I turned into a gas station just off the highway, picked up the papers from the passenger seat and began to read. I spent the better part of an hour trying to make sense of what I saw in the documents, but after reading through them three times, I had no more detailed information than what Cora had given me earlier. The bottom line was Samuel Pate was under investigation for insurance fraud out of Texas, he was talking publicly about running for the office of Governor of the state of Indiana, and he apparently had a banker who’d been either very generous or foolhardy. Maybe both.

When I turned into Pate’s drive I realized the story I had seen on television a few months back did not do justice to the level of extravagance and excess to which this man lived his life. On T.V. he preached the way to heaven was to give most, if not all of your earthly belongings to God through his ministry, yet it appeared he lived his life as if the very rules he preached somehow did not apply to himself.