Surest Poison, The (8 page)

“Was he a criminal lawyer?”

“He was whatever kind of lawyer you had
the money to pay for. Bronson Fradkin was an expert at sniffing out
technicalities. Whenever I found out he was on a case, I cautioned my
officers to re-read the procedures manual and work like Candid Camera was
watching every move.”

“I don’t suppose he’d be a good candidate
to ask for information about Auto Parts Rehabbers?”

“I doubt he’d give me the correct time of
day. If it becomes necessary, though, I might consider sending you to put on
the squeeze.”

Jaz caught a flicker of movement and
looked around to find Marie Wallace standing in the office doorway, a white
apron tied at her waist. She was a small woman with abundant white hair and
fine lines down her face. Large round glasses gave her an owlish look, but
the expression in her eyes at the moment spelled trouble.

“Hold on a sec, Sid,” Jaz said into the
phone. “Let me see what Marie wants.”

Jaz put her hand over the mouthpiece and
turned to Marie. “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t want to bother you, Miss
Jasmine, but
it’s
Bobby. Connie called about him.
She’s real worried. One of the boys he works with told her he was quiet as a
dead man today. He acted like he was just watching for somebody to come into
the store looking for him.”

“It must have something to do with his
disappearance night before last,” Jaz said.

Marie nodded as she smoothed the apron
with nervous hands. “I want to talk to him. Could you take me out there
after supper? I’ll have it ready in a few minutes.”

It was already dusk. Jaz knew Marie
didn’t like her husband to drive after dark. “Sure. I’ll be wrapped up here
by the time you get things on the table. What are we eating tonight?”

“Salmon fillets.
I fixed a nice caesar salad to go with it.”

Jaz licked her lips. Marie had no formal
training, but she had a natural talent for cooking. She could rival a
gourmet chef. After high school, she had worked in a restaurant as a
waitress, then a cook, picking up valuable tips on preparing food in
quantity. She concocted delectable dishes for large groups back when the
LeMieux’s entertained. Jaz still called on her to prepare dinner for small
gatherings of friends.

She returned to the phone. “Sorry for the
interruption.”

“A problem?”
Sid asked.

“Bobby. Marie wants me to take her out to
see him after supper. Getting back to Auto Parts Rehabbers, the LLC members
were Tony Decker and First Improvement Corporation. I don’t know anything
about the percentages of ownership.”

“But Decker was a part-owner.
Hmm.
What kind of name is First Improvement?”

“It’s a Delaware corporation. I checked
them out and found it was a wholly-owned subsidiary of First Patriots,
Limited.”

When she paused, Sid prodded. “And where
the devil did First Patriots come from?”

“Anguilla.”

“Run that by me again?”

“Anguilla is the northernmost of the
British Leeward Islands, a small blip in the Atlantic that’s a haven for
offshore corporations.
Lots of privacy.”

“Great. Meaning you reached a dead end?”

“For the moment, but I have somebody
working on it. I should be able to come up with an answer in a day or two.”

“Hopefully we can keep Arnie Bailey at
bay for a few days. You did a great job on this, Jaz.
And a lot quicker and probably more thorough than I could have.
Anything else?”

She closed the folder on her desk,
smiling at his acknowledgment. “That’s it for now. What’s your next move?”

“I’m going to try a new tack in the
morning. I picked up a brochure at the Chamber of Commerce that mentioned a
newspaper in Ashland City. Maybe they can give me a lead.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“I thought you had a Board meeting in the
morning?”

“There isn’t too much on the agenda. We
don’t start until eleven. That should give me plenty of time. You’d better
wear your gumshoes, though. Have you seen tomorrow’s forecast?”

“No. What’s on tap?”

“Cool, wet, and windy.”

“Sounds like my kind of weather . . .
‘Into each life some rain must fall.’”

“Who said that?”

“Longfellow.”

She grinned. Mike Rich had told her his
full name was Sidney Lanier Chance, a name chosen by his mother, an American
literature major when she studied for her degree in education. “I’ll come
prepared.”

Jaz hung up the phone and looked around
to find Marie standing in the doorway, the worried expression unchanged. Was
she prepared for what they might find in Ashland City?

10

Jaz and Marie
arrived at the Wallace home a little before seven. The hound next door gave
a loud, throaty bark as they strolled up the sidewalk. Clouds obscured what
little moon there might have been, leaving the house in darkness, except for
a bright glow around the living room window.

Marie knocked. After a few moments, the
door opened just a crack, allowing a thin shaft of light to fall across
their faces.

Connie pulled the door open wider, a
broad grin spreading across her face. “Granny, Miss . . . uh, Jaz. Come on
in.”

The house was warm. The smell of
spaghetti lingered in the air. Across the room, a somber news anchor droned
on beneath a “Breaking News” banner.

“Where’s my great-grandson?” Marie asked.

“In the kitchen with
his dad.
I was just
cleaning up from supper.”

She led them into the bright kitchen
where Bobby Wallace stood with an arm around his son’s shoulder. He looked
like a football lineman too long out of high school to hold down any
position but the end of the bench. A newspaper
lay
spread out on the table where he and Little Bob had been reading it.

Bobby turned to his grandmother and cut
his eyes with a guarded look.
“Hi, Granny.”

“Say hello to Jasmine, too, Bobby,” said
the older woman.

He gave her a slight dip of his head.
“Hello.”

“Hello, Bobby,” Jaz said.
“Little Bob.
You’re getting almost too big to be
called Little Bob any longer.”

The boy grinned. “I’m not near as big as
my dad.”

“What’s in the newspaper?” Marie asked.

“NFL, NHL, NBA,” Connie said from the
sink. “That’s all Bobby reads in the newspaper.
Or
watches on TV.”

“What brings you out tonight, Granny?”
Bobby asked, his look still clouded.

“We need to talk.” She looked across at
the table, where two schoolbooks sat stacked beside the newspaper. “Come on
in the living room and let Little Bob do his homework.
That all right, Connie?”

“Sure. Go ahead, Bobby. I’ll help Little
Bob.”

Jaz and Marie returned to the living
room, with Bobby a reluctant follower. Connie closed the door behind them.

After they were seated, Marie folded her
slender, wrinkled hands in her lap and gave her grandson a stern glare. Born
in a poor home in the early days of The Great Depression, she had lived
through years of shabby clothes and meager meals. It gave her a strong
incentive to see that her family enjoyed their little slice of the American
dream.

“Bobby, I want to know what’s going on
with you,” she said, a note of disgust in her voice. “You disappear all
night, then come back acting like a possum scared to cross the road. What
happened?”

His dark, brooding eyes stared at his
grandmother, then at Jaz. “I can’t tell you, Granny. I’m sorry.”

“What would happen to you if you told
us?” Jaz asked.

A flicker of fear showed in his eyes. “I
. . . I can’t answer that.”

“If somebody threatened you, you need to
tell the police about it. You can get a court order to keep them away from
you.” She knew court orders did not keep people intent on harming others
from carrying out their threats, but she hoped mentioning it might shake
something loose.

Bobby slumped in his chair. “It would
only make things worse. Believe me.”

Marie sighed. She looked drawn, a woman
in distress. “Is it just you, or did they threaten Connie and Little Bob,
too?”

At that, Bobby put his face in his hands
and sat in silence.

After a couple of minutes, Jaz could
stand it no longer. She got up and folded her arms. “Bobby, you have to
contact the authorities. You can’t fight this alone.”

He stood, listless as a sleepwalker. “You
don’t understand,” he said in a whisper. He walked into his bedroom and
closed the door.

Sid had just
turned on the TV to catch the ten o’clock news when the doorbell rang. He
flipped on the light and put his eye to the peephole. Two men stood on the
narrow porch. One was thick and muscular, though not particularly tall. He
had a straight scar on one cheek that looked like a knife slash. His jowly
face sagged like a pair of shorts that had lost its elastic. He looked
vaguely familiar. The other man, tall and thin, stood almost too straight,
as though he might break if bent. Neither looked capable of winning much
cash on a quiz show.

The shorter of the two appeared to be in
his forties. The other might have been a bit younger. One thing was certain.
They were looking for trouble.

Sid pulled open the wooden door and
pushed the metal storm door outward, forcing them to move back to the edge
of the porch. He stepped out onto the concrete pad, his six-foot-six,
230
-pound frame towering over them.

“Isn’t it a bit late for door-to-door
salesmen?” he asked with a nonchalant incline of his head.

“We ain’t selling,” Scarface said. “We’re
news carriers, and the news for you ain’t good, Chance.”

They wore light jackets, open in front.
Sid detected no weapons. “I’m used to bad news,” he said, showing no
emotion. “What’s the old saying, if it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have
any luck at all?”

Scarface clenched his fists for emphasis.
“You’re pissing off our boss with your messing around where you don’t
belong. He wants it stopped . . . now.”

Sid feigned a puzzled frown. “I don’t
understand. Where have I been messing around?”

“Ashland City.”

Now Sid knew where he’d seen that face
before. “You’re the guys who’ve been tailing me the past few days.”

“You noticed.” A wide grin showed the
guy’s yellowed teeth.

Sid glared at him. “I did. And I don’t
like it. You can tell your boss, whoever he is—I’ll soon find out—tell him
threats only anger me. And you don’t want to make me angry.”

The man’s face twisted into a grotesque
scowl. “I’ll show you angry.” He telegraphed his intentions by cocking his
arm.

They stood hardly a yard apart. He lunged
at Sid, prepared to deliver a blow with all the strength he had. He was a
barroom brawler, though, not a skilled fighter. Sid saw the punch coming and
shifted his weight to his left foot. As Scarface began his move, Sid kicked
his right foot out. His number 16 shoe caught the man in the crotch.
Following through, he pushed off with his left foot, propelling his
assailant off the porch, down two steps, where he wound up flat of his back
on the ground.

The taller accomplice stared wide-eyed,
in shock. Sid spun him around, grabbed him by the collar and belt and heaved
him off the porch, too.

Sid stood there, breathing hard, the
blood pumping through his veins, the rage tensing his muscles. His first
impulse was to go after them and finish the job. He still had the skills to
do it, he was sure. But he hesitated, recalling the words of a hand combat
instructor from years ago:

“When you get older, remember, age has
its advantages. You know what to anticipate, how to react. But the
difference is in the timing. The longer a fight goes on, the more chances
you’ll have to screw up. All things being equal, the faster guy will come
out on top.”

The tall, thin man pushed himself into a
sitting position. His partner pulled up his knees and groaned.

Sid reached for the storm door. “I’m
going to call the police,” he said in a voice laced with disgust. “You two
can stick around if you’d like.”

He stepped inside and slammed the door.

11

The mercury
had skidded into the forties overnight. A steady patter of rain made the
morning only a trifle short of miserable as Sid stepped out of his truck at
the restaurant in Ashland City. He shivered despite his windbreaker. Though
he arrived five minutes ahead of schedule, Jaz was already there. She
occupied the same spot as the day before. A cup and a carafe of coffee sat
on his side of the booth.

“I’m having hot tea,” she said. “I
ordered bacon and eggs for both of us.”

He slid into the seat across from her.
“Thanks. My morning run was a challenge.
Too many
crazies out on a slick, dark street.
You worked out in your rec room,
I’ll bet.”

“It comes in handy on days like this.”

“I had no problem with exercise when I
lived at the cabin.”

She arched a well-drawn brow. “That cabin
looked pretty impressive for a one-man job. Mike Rich said you built it
yourself.” They’d first met when she showed up at the cabin door looking for
help with her employee problem.

He poured his coffee. “It took a while. I
saw the plans in a magazine and ordered them by mail. I must have hauled
tons of material up that hillside.”

“It’s a wonder you didn’t break your
back.”

“Twisted it like a corkscrew a few
times.” He took a tentative sip. Fiery hot, just the way he liked it. “Learn
anything from your trip last night?”

She told him what happened on her visit
to Bobby Wallace’s house with Marie.

“So he wouldn’t listen to reason.”

“The boy is almost a basket case.”

“If I could get him into an interrogation
room, he might change his tune.”

Jaz stared into her cup as she stirred
her tea. “I doubt it. He’s determined to keep silent, no matter what. I feel
like I should go to the cops myself, but if he won’t cooperate . . . ?”

She left the question hanging as the
waitress brought their plates. Sid buttered his biscuit and took a bite of
eggs.

After sipping her tea, Jaz looked across
at him. “Have you seen anything else of
whoever
it was that put the tail on us yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“On the way out
here?”

“No. A couple of guys knocked on my door
around ten last night.”

She put down her fork and stared. “What
did they want?”

“Said they weren’t
door-to-door salesmen.”

She squinched her eyes. “What did they
want, Sid?”

“Seems their boss thought I had been
messing around where I didn’t belong. He wanted it stopped . . . now.”

“Do you think they were talking about the
HarrCo situation?”

“What else? It’s the only thing I’m
messing around in currently.”

“What did you say?”

“I said threats only make me angry.”

“How did they take that?”

“Not too well.”

“What does that mean?”

“One of them came at me with his fist
cocked.”

She waited in silence as Sid returned to
his eggs.

“And?”

“And he wound up on his butt in the front
yard.
Along with his buddy.
I told them they
could stick around if they
wanted,
I was going to
call the cops.”

“Did you?”

“No. I knew they would high-tail it out
of there as fast as they could get back on their feet.”

“Did you get their license number?”

His eyebrows went up. “I should have, but
at the moment I was highly pissed. I wanted to get away from them before I
did something I might regret.”

“Did you ask what was behind their
following you?”

“They wouldn’t have known. They weren’t
smart enough to be the brains behind this deal.”

“Who knew you were on this case, besides
Arnie Bailey and Harrington?”

Sid put his fork down and pushed his
plate back. “That’s a question I’ve been asking myself. Bailey told
Harrington about me yesterday morning. I can’t imagine why he would have
told anybody else.”

“So who did Harrington tell?”

Sid pulled out his cell phone and checked
the number he had previously used to call HarrCo Shipping. He pressed the
Talk button and got Harrington on the line. “Did you mention my name to
anyone after you talked to Arnie Bailey yesterday morning?” he asked.

Harrington was silent for a moment. “No.
I don’t recall having any reason to. Why?”

Sid thought of two other possibilities.
Somebody at the law office had provided the tip, which seemed unlikely, or
Harrington’s phone had been tapped or bugged. With the TCE pollution making
news in the papers and on TV, whoever was responsible would have good reason
to want access to discussions between Harrington and his lawyer, or anyone
else involved in the case. If they had intercepted Bailey’s call to
Harrington, they would have known about the lawyer’s planned meeting with a
private investigator named Sidney Chance. It would have been a simple matter
to get descriptions and license numbers for Sid’s car and truck.

“I’m going to send a guy out to see you,”
Sid told Harrington. “Hopefully I can get him there pretty soon. His name is
Jackson. He’ll explain things when he sees you.”

“What’s going on?” Jaz asked when he
closed the cell phone and stuck it back in his pocket.

“I need to call my countersurveillance
guy. I haven’t used him since I left Lewisville. I’m afraid Mr. Harrington’s
phone has sprung a leak.”

Her eyes widened with a knowing nod. “Did
you call him before you came out here yesterday?”

“I did.”

“And the blue car showed up.”

“It did.”

Sid checked Information and got the
number for Jerry Jackson, a technical surveillance countermeasures pro.
After he explained the situation, Jackson promised to call on the HarrCo
owner that afternoon.

Jaz pushed her plate back on the table
and looked across at Sid, biting gently on her lower lip. “You know you made
a couple of guys very unhappy last night.
Particularly
after they had to report back to their boss.”

“True.”

“They’ll likely be back looking for
revenge, and loaded for bear.”

“The bear will be ready.”

“Are you carrying?”

“Private investigators don’t usually go
armed, Jaz. You know that.”

“If I were you, I think I’d seriously
consider revising the rules for this case.”

He held out his cup to the waitress for a
refill. “Okay, I’ll give it serious consideration.”

She looked across at him, her eyes
brightening. “So you threw them both off the porch. I didn’t realize you
were that aggressive.”

He sipped at his coffee. “I guess you
haven’t heard about my tender upbringing. I was always big, even as a kid.
My dad left us when I was a baby, and Mom and I lived with my grandfather,
who was a cop. One of the kids in the neighborhood had some boxing gloves.
He put me up to fighting an older boy who always gave the little ones a hard
time. When he started really
coming
after me, I
put him down for the count. My Mom didn’t like it, but Grandpa just laughed.
He said, ‘Boy, you’d better always fight on the right side.’ I’ve tried to
do that.”

“I’d say there wasn’t any question about
last night.” She pushed her plate back and checked her watch. “I still have
plenty of time, but we’d better get moving.”

Sid paid the check. He told Jaz they
would drive to the newspaper office in his truck. Out in the parking lot,
she hesitated as he held the door open. She cocked an eyebrow. “You sure
this thing will get us there and back?”

“For your information, lady, this thing
is a lean, mean motion machine. It may not be the prettiest pickup on the
lot, but I assure you it will get us anywhere you want to go.”

She grinned. “Okay.
If you’re sure.”

A few minutes later they parked a short
distance past the courthouse in front of a long storefront building that
accommodated several small businesses. The newspaper occupied the end unit.
They hurried through the rain to a glass door plastered with notices. Sid
followed Jaz inside.

An aisle ran down the middle of the
office, with partitioned cubbyholes on either side. At the first desk, a
young woman with sharp-pointed cat-eye glasses glanced up with a smile.

“Are you interested in subscribing or
advertising?”

“Neither.” Sid handed her a business
card. “We’re investigating the chemical spill at the HarrCo plant that’s
been in the news. It appears the spill took place some dozen years back
while Auto Parts Rehabbers occupied the plant. We’re having no luck locating
anybody who was connected with the company.”

She tapped her pen on the desk. “I think
you need to talk to our editor, Carl Norris.”

She led them back to the last cubicle,
where a young man wearing gold-rimmed glasses stared at a computer screen.
Bristles of black hair stood straight like mini-antennas tuned to the
community’s pulse. Tabloid-size newspapers, notebook sheets, and several
photos crowded for space on the desk.

“Carl,” she said, “these people are
investigating that TCE pollution at the HarrCo plant. I thought you’d want
to talk to them.” She handed him Sid’s card.

Norris pulled up a couple of chairs and
invited them to have a seat. “I’m working on a story about the TCE mess.
What can you tell me about it?”

“We were hoping you could tell us
something,” Sid said. “We’ve run into the proverbial brick wall with a
company named Auto Parts Rehabbers. It appears to have been the guilty
party.”

The editor’s eyes widened.
“Auto Parts Rehabbers?
That’s a new one on me.”

“I’m not surprised. We’ve had a problem
finding anyone who had a connection to the company.”

“The people from the state didn’t mention
it. They don’t seem interested in anybody but HarrCo and Mr. Harrington.”

“It’s his property now. He’s the most
convenient target.”

“Look for the deepest pockets,” Norris
said. He glanced back at the business card. “What’s your interest in it?”

“We were hired by Wade Harrington’s
lawyer to find how the TCE got there and who’s responsible.”

“According to my information, it happened
several years back.”

“The state investigators say it was
probably around 1995.”

“The results were horrendous,” Jaz said.
“Have you been out to the plant to look at the site?”

“Yeah.
Somebody really screwed up. I interviewed a few of the people who live in
the area. They had some shocking tales to tell.”

“I heard some of those yesterday,” Sid
said.

He shifted in his chair for a better view
of the office. At the next desk, a young woman twisted her finger around a
curl as she talked on the telephone. Beyond her, an older man who appeared
to have cut his typing teeth on a Remington or an IBM Selectric pecked on
his keyboard with a three-or-four finger system.

Sid looked back at Norris. “We would
appreciate it if you could write something about our problem. Maybe ask
anyone with information about Auto Parts Rehabbers, or their employees, to
contact us.”

The editor scratched his chin. “I might
do a sidebar about your search. I have your numbers on the card.”

“Is yours a daily paper?” Sid asked.

“Weekly. This will be in the issue that
comes out next Wednesday.”

Sid glanced at Jaz, who frowned. That
would only leave a week before the hearing for Wade Harrington. Not a
comfortable margin. He turned back to Norris.

“Do you have any suggestions on where we
might look in the meantime? We really need to come up with some answers as
soon as possible.”

The editor reached for a green water
bottle on his desk and took a swallow. His mouth widened into a smile as if
triggered by a sudden thought. “If I were you, Mr. Chance, I’d go over to
the Citizens Bank and talk to Miss Sophie Bright.”

“Who’s she?”

“As far as I’m concerned, she’s Miss
Cheatham County. It wasn’t long after I took this job that I found out about
her. She can tell you who’s doing what to whom, and why. She’s a walking
encyclopedia of people and things that go on in this county.”

Jaz stared. “How does she manage that?”

“I don’t know. She must have a network of
spies. When I asked her about a minor political hack, she gave me a complete
Who’s Who
biography. She’s unbelievable.”

Sid smiled. Sophie Bright just might be
the silver lining to this clouded search. He recalled a man in Lewisville
with similar talents. It had been a godsend for a rookie police chief. He
suspected you could find one in every small town. “And where is Miss
Sophie’s office?”