Incentive for Death, page 18
“Show them in, please. And no need for you to hang around. We’re closed for business after I talk to these folks.”
“Then I’ll lock up and disappear.”
The Chief pulled over a third chair in front of his desk. “Ms. Reese, good to see you again. I hear that you’ve been helping Mac and Oliver with their case.”
Oliver said, “Indeed she has. She went with us to Portland Life Solutions this afternoon and participated in interviewing the CEO. She asked some questions that sparked some nervousness and ultimately led to us getting financial and background data on Vincent Morehead, who is one of the individual investors in Portland’s Funds Five and Six.”
Chief Whittaker said, “Good to hear.” He looked at her. “More fun than crunching numbers in Brady’s shop?”
Simone smiled. “Beats the hell out of my usual CPA drudgery.”
The Chief replied, “Maybe you should consider becoming a detective.”
Simone replied, “I’ll definitely think about it.”
The Chief looked at me. “So, Mac, bring me up to date on your progress.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll give you the highlights, and Oliver and Simone can jump in whenever they want. First, you’ve already seen the photographs of the two people we suspect are the murderers of Weldon Van Damm and Eugene Rollins, the guy killed at the ballpark.” I laid copies of the photos in front of the Chief.
“One of the cleaning crew ladies saw the blonde lady leaving the law office shortly after Van Damm’s death. We’ve also had a further confirmation related to the guy from the ballpark that Oliver tracked down.”
Oliver took over. “We’ve been focused on Portland Funds Five and Six, which the CEO confirmed this afternoon had been the subject of calls between him and Van Damm over the past several weeks. The Portland CEO is named Parker Winston. He and Van Damm were on the phone Monday evening, just minutes before Van Damm was murdered. Winston confirmed they were discussing an unusual number of death claims in Portland’s Funds Five and Six that had drawn Van Damm’s attention.”
Oliver paused to catch a breath. “Van Damm monitored all twelve funds and noticed that Five and Six had a spike in death claims over the last six months.”
Oliver swallowed, out of his comfort zone, reporting to the Chief. “Simone sorted through Van Damm’s investment records and came to the same conclusion in fairly short order. We then had her search for the names of the investors in those two funds. Simone found what we needed from Portland’s most recent SEC filings.” Oliver then passed the torch to Simone.
She picked it up and continued. “Based on the SEC filings, two-thirds of the investments in Funds Five and Six were basically large institutional investors and trusts. About one-third of the investors in Funds Five and Six were a combination of Weldon Van Damm, Parker Winston, and a third individual by the name of Vincent Morehead.
“Van Damm was a 15 percent investor in those two funds, as well as the ten other funds. Winston was a 10 percent investor in all twelve funds. Vincent Morehead was a 12 percent investor in Five and Six but was not an investor in any of the other funds.”
I said, “When I asked Winston questions about Morehead, he claimed to have little knowledge about him, at which point Simone asked Winston about Morehead’s investor qualifications sheet. Winston claimed that was confidential information. We pressed him for copies of it, and he said he had to talk to their corporate counsel. We pushed him on it, and he got on the phone with their in-house counsel.”
“After talking to his corporate counsel,” I continued, “Winston said they would produce Morehead’s financial qualification sheet, if we subpoenaed it.”
“I called Beverly,” Oliver said, “and she got a subpoena prepared and emailed it to Portland.”
Oliver raised a finger. “As they say in the infomercials,” he said. “‘Wait, there’s more.’ We tracked down one of the death claims in Fund Five. A colorectal surgeon from GW Hospital who died while on a ski trip in New Hampshire last fall. An obit led us to the local M.E. in New Hampshire who gave us the name of the woman who was with the doctor.
“Her name is Marie Osborne. She said they were having drinks at the bar at the ski lodge and were having a conversation with a sandy-haired man. She went to the restroom. When she came back the guy was gone, and Dr. Dudley was shaking violently at the bar. They called for an ambulance. The local M.E. could not determine a cause of death.
“Our own M.E., Courtney Vaughan, had told us that shakes are a side effect of injection of sux, the chemical which she suspects was involved in the deaths of both Van Damm and Rollins.
“So, Mac and I put together a six-pack of photos of sandy-haired men, including the suspect from the ballpark. We asked Ms. Osborne to look at the photos. Our suspect was the fifth in the lineup. We did nothing to influence her. After carefully considering all of the photos, she pointed to number five and said she was fairly certain that was the man from the bar.”
I rejoined the narrative. “Dr. Dudley had sold his life insurance policy of $500,000 to either Fund Five or Fund Six, as had Rollins. So, we continued to home in on those two funds. Plus, we now have the male suspect likely connected to two deaths related to those funds.”
The Chief asked, “Didn’t you tell me Van Damm also sold a two-million-dollar life insurance policy to Portland?”
Oliver answered, “Yes, Chief. But he sold his policy to Fund Eight. We have a working suspicion that Van Damm’s death was not related to collecting on his life insurance. It’s our tentative premise at this point, but his death may be related to his raising a question about the larger-than-usual death claims in Funds Five and Six.”
“We have no connection at this point,” I added, “between our two suspected doers and Portland. What we do have is a connection between Vincent Morehead and the two funds. Now, if only we find a thread between him and our two suspects, things would start to get serious.”
“Chief,” I said, “I’d like to have Simone use her CPA and audit skills to scrutinize whatever she can find on Morehead. Not just his investment qualification sheet, but other sources as well. We need to get this done over the weekend, if possible.”
“I’m available,” Simone said.
The Chief said, “And I’ll authorize the overtime.” Simone smiled at that.
“While I haven’t discussed this with Oliver, I think he and I need to pound through the list of decedents connected to Funds Five and Six over the past six months.”
Oliver didn’t look surprised. He knew when I got hold of a thread, I just kept pulling.
So did the Chief. “I think this also justifies overtime. But with the budgetary crisis, if you gentlemen would take comp time instead of overtime, it would help my numbers.”
“Fine by me,” I said.
Oliver added, “Me, too.”
The Chief stood. “Really good progress, folks. Now, I think I’m going home to see if my wife still lives there. Have a productive weekend. Keep me posted.”
With that, we headed back down to the fourth floor and locked our stuff up. I said, “Since we’re all working this weekend, Oliver, I think we should introduce Simone to our favorite neighborhood bar.”
He smiled. “Capital idea, guv.” We both looked at Simone.
She smiled. “Indeed, a capital idea.”
We headed down to the Jeep and made our way to Northeast D.C. Once we were headed east, Simone spoke from the back seat. “So, where is this secret place?”
I replied, “We can’t let you know. In fact, we should probably ask you to wear a blindfold or, at least, make a double-secret vow not to disclose our destination to another member of MPD for fear they would taint its humble character.”
I looked in the mirror. She smiled and crossed her heart and said, “Done.”
Living with my Irish luck, I found a parking space in front of Burton’s. As we entered the front doors, Shirley spotted us. Her eyebrows went up a hair at our inclusion of Simone, but Shirley asked, as usual, “Business or pleasure?”
And, as usual, Oliver and I simultaneously said, “Business.” We’re like twins in answering some questions. Shirley waved us to the booths. The last two of which were empty. We took the last booth for privacy.
Not knowing the proper etiquette for the situation, Simone slid into one side by herself. Oliver and I looked at each other, and I pulled a quarter from my pocket. Oliver said, “Oh no, not again.”
I said, “Yep. Heads you get the wall and I get the outside on tails.” I flipped the quarter and let it land on the table. It was heads.
“Wait,” Oliver said. “That was a heads-you-win and tails-I-lose flip. Do it again. Heads I get the wall and tails I get outside.” Having been caught, I flipped again. It was heads.
Oliver mumbled, “Of course,” and slid in first. As soon as we were seated, Shirley was standing there, quietly waiting for our orders.
I told Simone, “This is Shirley, the lady who owns this fine establishment. She is patiently waiting for your beverage of choice.”
Simone smiled at Shirley and said, “I would like a double Angels Envy on the rocks.” Shirley nodded her approval.
Oliver said, “I would appreciate an ice-cold Yuengling.”
Shirley turned to me.
“Please make mine Jack Single Barrel on the rocks.” Shirley smiled and departed.
Given the lack of preparation time required for any of our drinks, they arrived rather expeditiously. We held our beverages up for an air toast, but no clinking of glasses.
“Was our outing as educational as you had hoped?” I asked Simone.
She nodded once. “It truly was. It was amazing watching you two work together and finesse your cards out ever so subtly. Poor Mr. Winston was fricking out of his league. I’m sure he went into the meeting thinking he could deal with a couple of bush league detectives.”
“Guess he didn’t know that we were called up to the pros a long time ago,” Oliver said and pointed to Simone. “Your sense of timing on the investor qualification sheet was on the mark. It really threw him off.”
“It was obvious that he was hedging and stalling on any information on Morehead,” she said. “I had a definite feeling that he was hiding something there.”
“What you don’t know, Simone, is that Mac and I have worked together at MPD for thirteen years and before that when we were in the military at the same time.”
“What did you both do in the military?” she asked.
“I was a Special Agent in the Air Force Office of Special Investigations,” I said.
“And I was a Special Agent in the Army Criminal Investigation Division,” Oliver added. “We were both in Qatar at the same time.”
“So,” Simone said, “what don’t I understand about your working relationship?”
Oliver replied, “I’m the listener. Kind of like a horse whisperer. I listen for undertones that tell us as much as the spoken words. What I heard was exactly what you just said. Winston was holding back big-time on Morehead.”
“There’s more there than he wants us to see,” I added. “I have a gut feeling that (a) he told Morehead more about Van Damm’s concerns than he let on and (b) that he harbors suspicions that Morehead may be behind the mysteries related to the two funds. He has to wonder who is behind the increase in deaths and who is behind Van Damm’s death and why.”
Simone pushed the ice around in her drink with her finger. “Your jobs are far more challenging than the stuff I’ve done in my career, including MPD.”
I put on my serious face. “Be careful digging on Morehead,” I told Simone. “We have already determined that the two people in those pictures are not in any governmental facial recognition system, which we’re told could well mean they work for some black ops agency of the government. If Morehead is connected to those people, he could also be connected to that arena.”
“I have a suspicion,” Oliver said, “that Winston will tell Morehead that we are focused on him. That could make Morehead a very nervous person right now. Mac is right, remember they now know your name and that you are working on the case. Be careful.”
“You know what I would like to know about Morehead? What does he do for a living?” Simone said. “And where did he get the money he invested in Portland? And, something else, what has he been doing with the money he is getting out of Funds Five and Six?”
Shirley appeared with refills and a bowl of Hub’s peanuts. Simone tried the peanuts and noted how good they were. I explained that they come from a family peanut farm in Virginia.
Then she turned to both of us and asked, “If I were to take Chief Whittaker up on his suggestion about applying to be a detective, what would be involved?”
Oliver responded first. “There’d be some testing,” he said. “They might cut you some slack on the police academy requirement, given your education and experience, as well as your time working for MPD. I’m not sure what else would be involved.”
“Do you guys have to shoot guns very often?”
“I’ve been an MPD detective for thirteen years and have never fired my pistol once in the line of duty,” I said. “You probably wonder why we wear suit coats to this fine establishment. It’s because MPD regulations require us to carry our weapons, even when we’re off duty. I’m probably the worst shot on the entire force.” Oliver just nodded in agreement.
Women being the more curious of the species, Simone looked at me and said, “Mac, how did you get the scar next to your left eye?” In all the years that I’ve known Oliver, he had never asked about my scar.
I gave her the same answer as I’d given to anyone else who ever asked. She seemed skeptical about my supposed sword fight with a pirate in the Caribbean. “Really?” she replied. Why is it women always say that when they don’t believe something you’ve said to them? I didn’t respond further.
We finished our drinks and took Simone back to the headquarters’ parking lot where she’d left her vehicle, which turned out to be a navy-blue Cobra Mustang. She could see we were both drooling over the car.
“Not to worry, guys. It’s not an original. It’s a reproduction. But it makes a lot of noise and goes really fast.”
She climbed out of the Jeep and jumped into her car. We just sat there for a minute with the windows down and listened to her fire it up. Just to show off, she laid some rubber as she peeled out. The engine gave off the throb of a dragster as she drove it out of the lot.
CHAPTER FORTY
AS I DROVE Oliver home he said, “I sure hope we’re pulling the right threads here. It seems to me it’s the first time that we’re getting some pieces to come together.”
“I’m kind of feeling the same way.”
After dropping Oliver at his house, I lingered at the curb to send Mags a text. HEADED HOME. THINKING ABOUT A PIE FROM PIZZA WALAY. INTERESTED?
She replied about ten seconds later. SOUNDS GOOD. HOME IN 15 MINS.
I called Pizza Walay and ordered a large thin crust with half pepperoni and pork—for me—and half everything but anchovies—for her. I headed back west on H Street to the pizza shop. After I got the pizza in the Jeep, the smell made me seriously hungry. I hadn’t eaten lunch again.
When I pulled down the alley behind our row house, I saw Maggie’s Speedster ahead of me about five car lengths. She had already activated the door opener on her side of the garage. I hit my garage remote before her door had come down completely. Not often we both end up in the garage at the same time.
I handed her the pizza box and gathered my coat and work file. I was rewarded with a smile and a “Merci, monsieur.”
“Pizza is Italian, not French.”
“There is some serious question whether pizza really comes from Italy,” she replied.
Once inside, she pulled down two plates while I went to the fridge for beers. I looked at her. “Preference?”
“Got any Italian beer?”
“Let’s see.” I squatted down and pushed some cans around in the back of the bottom shelf. “Aha! We have three cans of Birra Moretti. No vouching for how old they are.”
“That will be perfect.”
We took the pizza box, plates, and three cans of beer to the breakfast table. We each snagged a slice of our preferred kind and popped a can of Birra. As usual, Mags clicked on the local news channel for background noise.
I quickly consumed all four of my slices. Proof of hunger. Mags ate three pieces and put her last slice in a Ziploc baggie. As she was putting it in the fridge, she must have read my mind when she said, “Hands off, buster.”
She then came back to the table and poured half of the last beer into a glass and passed it to me. She took the can and proceeded to finish it off in three long gulps, followed by a small belch covered with the back of her left hand. She gave one of those little expressions that passes as an apology, without really being one.
“So, any progress on your case?” she asked. “And what was so exciting that made you forget about lunch?”
“Who said I forgot lunch?”
“Odds are, based on how you inhaled the pizza.”
I explained the highlights of the case so far. “Actually, we have photos of the woman we think killed Van Damm, which you’ve already seen, and multiple photos of the guy we think killed the engineer at the ballpark. But we haven’t been able to identify either one. Even after running them both through facial recognition software.”
Mags said, “Lots of difference in the quality of facial recognition programs. Does MPD have a good system?”
“Actually, we don’t have one at all. We usually sponge off the Bureau if they decide to like us that day.”
“Did the Fibbies come up with anything?”
“No, we decided we didn’t want to deal with the bureaucratic hassle. We used a source Oliver and I have developed over the years.”
“What does that mean?”
“Not to go any further than here.”
She nodded her agreement, which was enough between us, and I continued. “We’ve got a guy who can get us into a lot of systems.”
