Dark Waters (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (5 page)

The motive for the murder was up for grabs. Revenge, retaliation, perhaps he’d also stolen candy from a baby — but I wondered if the person responsible had had the same idea as Sam — finding those millions in hidden assets.

Morrow’s car had been found parked in Delaware Park at two in the morning. The jury had been scheduled to receive their instructions for deliberation some eight hours later. And, of course, they never did.

The autopsy conclusively established murder. After all, it would’ve been rather difficult for Morrow to shoot himself in the back of the head — especially as there was no gunshot residue on either of his hands. The police figured the shooter had been sitting in car’s backseat.

Several other articles looked interesting, and I copied the URLs into an email and sent them to myself for later reading.

I was headed for my car when I remembered that Sam had asked me to bring my camera. Damn. I’d have to stop at home anyway.

As I pulled out of the library’s lot I thought about what I’d seen when I’d handled Sam’s mystery envelope the evening before. I hadn’t flashed onto Morrow’s face, but Da-Marr’s.

I needed to analyze that memory a bit further. The kid I’d met was full of swagger, but his expression during that flash of insight had been one of fear and indecision. Unfortunately, it was only his face I’d seen. Nothing in the background, not even the clothes he was wearing.

Part of me didn’t give a shit. I didn’t like the kid and I never would. And yet, from what I’d seen, I couldn’t imagine him ever being scared.

And here I was — deathly afraid of him.

I stopped at the house to grab my camera and managed not to run into Richard or anyone else. Brenda’s car was gone. Maybe she’d taken her guests and gone shopping. That suited me fine.

Despite my unexpected stop, I still made it to the address Sam gave me before he did. But then, I didn’t have a day job to attend to.

The gates were open — not surprising, as someone was expecting us — and I drove through, but parked near the end of the drive to wait for Sam. I gave the big house a thorough once over. What a palace. No wonder this guy had been about to go to stir for stealing mega millions. I guessed the house was worth a couple of million. In another part of the country, it would be worth five or ten times that, and not surprisingly it wasn’t far from Millionaire’s Row, where robber barons from the previous century had gathered along Delaware Avenue.

Maggie would’ve killed to get a look inside the two-and-a-half story Tudor revival made of limestone. Its bay windows, parapets, dormers, arched balustrades, and carved rosettes made Richard’s house look like positively cheap in comparison.

Sam’s SUV pulled up next to my rattletrap and he got out. His work clothes didn’t look all that different from what he’d worn at the bar the night before, except for his tie. It didn’t depict dancing girls, but it wasn’t exactly mainstream, either. Pineapples?

We walked up the drive.

“Have you had any new flashes of insight?” Sam asked, hopefully.

“No. But I did do a little research on Morrow.”

Sam stopped dead and glared at me. “Don’t do that. I want your perceptions to be free of bias.”

“Can’t I just be curious?”

“You can be curious after all this is over.”

“All what?” I asked suspiciously.

“Our investigation.”

So, he
did
think of me as a team player. Funny, I didn’t hold that distinction at my last day-job.

We stopped before a massive oak door tucked under a carved archway. Sam grasped hold of the heavy iron knocker and gave it a good bang, then we waited in self-conscious silence. He knocked again.

Eventually the door opened and an old, gray-haired woman dressed in a long brown skirt, ratty maroon sweater, with sensible shoes and heavy support hose, stood before us.

“Mrs. Walburg? I’m Sam Nielsen. We spoke on the phone this morning.” Sam brandished his
Buffalo News
ID.

She scrutinized it before opening the door wider to take a good look at me.

“This is my colleague, Ernie Pyle,” Sam said with a smirk.

She scowled. “You’re joking, right?”

“It’s a nickname,” I offered. Mrs. Walburg was obviously better informed than the last person Sam had used that line on. And had he just put the old lady off? “I’m Jeff. Nice to meet you.” I didn’t offer her my hand. She nodded.

“Did you work for the Morrow family for long?” Sam asked.

“I worked for
Mr.
Morrow for over thirty-five years. Longer than he was married to either of his wives.”

Did she consider herself to be a walking font of information on the dead man, or was she just angry that she had only been an employee and not something more?

“So this is where Jack Morrow used to hang his hat,” Sam said, looking past her.

“When he was in Buffalo. He had a house on Grand Cayman, and apartments in San Francisco, Chicago, and New York.”

“Did you ever see them?” Sam asked.

She shook her head. “I was their employee — not one of their pampered Pomeranians,” she added bitterly.

Okay. There was major animosity going on there. Had she wished to be more than just an employee, or had the whole bankruptcy thing ruined some kind of financial arrangement she thought she might get as a long-time employee? We weren’t likely to ever know.

“And now you’re a caretaker?” I guessed.

She nodded. “Until it’s sold.”

“And what’s taking so long?” Sam asked, huddling further into his jacket. Wasn’t she ever going to invite us in?

“The price. Do you know anyone with five million bucks?”

Sam shook his head.

I’d guessed wrong on the home’s worth; either that, or the bank wanted to squeeze every penny they could from Jack Morrow’s assets.

“Come in if you’re coming,” she said at last, and ushered us inside where the ambient temperature wasn’t much higher than outside. It was probably set low to keep down maintenance costs.

The place was rather ostentatious with its high-beamed ceilings and stonework, reminiscent of pictures I’d seen of the formal entry at Biltmore in Asheville, only on a much smaller scale. Nothing decorated the space, nor the formal living room to the right. The whole place had probably been stripped of everything that could be sold to pay off Morrow’s creditors and victims. I was beginning to think this little foray would be a gigantic waste of time, as there didn’t seem to be anything other than light switches for me to touch.

Mrs. Walburg motioned for us to follow her. “Come on. I’ll show you the game room.”

“Did Mr. Morrow spend a lot of time in there?” I asked as we followed in her wake.

“He liked to play billiards,” she said, and opened an antique cherry door to what was obviously Morrow’s personal domain. A beautiful old and impeccably maintained pool table stood near the far wall, away from what might have once been a seating area. Above the fireplace was a place to plug in a very big flat-screen TV, but of course there wasn’t one there now.

Mrs. Walburg walked over to the table. “It’s a Brunswick and Balke Exposition Novelty table circa 1880. It’s made of rosewood, with ivory inlays.”

“It’s a beauty,” I said, admiring the intricate patterns along its sides and legs.

“It was completely restored before Mr. Morrow purchased it some fifteen years ago. The baize was replaced to match the curtains five years ago when Mrs. Morrow redecorated,” she recited, as though we were tourists.

The cue sticks were lined up in perfect order up on the wall. A rack filled with balls sat at the far end of the table. “Do you mind if I give it a try?” I asked.

“Yes, I mind. It’s been sold. The new owners will take possession as soon as they hire someone qualified to move it. That in itself is going to cost thousands of dollars.”

“How about you let him just hold one of the cue sticks?” Sam suggested.

Mrs. Walburg looked appalled. “You came here to look — not touch,” she admonished.

How wrong she was.

I snapped eight or nine shots of the table and the room, although I wasn’t sure Sam actually intended to use the pictures to accompany his article. If nothing else, it allowed me to look the part of sidekick.

“Can we continue the tour?” Sam asked.

Mrs. Walburg scowled but led us to the grand staircase. “There are five bedrooms upstairs, all with en suites. The formal dining room and kitchen are this way.” She held out her hand to indicate where.

“Would it be all right if we just wandered around the place and took a few more pictures?” Sam asked. He flashed his most winning smile.

She sighed. “I suppose so. But I’d appreciate it if you could do so as quickly as possible. I do have my regular duties to perform.”

And what would that entail? A stint with a broom — before she rode it?

“We’ll try to take up as little of your time as we can,” Sam said sincerely, gave her another smile, and started up the stairs. I followed. Neither of us spoke until we’d reached the landing. “Getting any vibes?” Sam asked.

“Only that I’m not a fan of Mrs. Walburg.”

He held out a hand, indicating the door to my right. As Mrs. Walburg had said, we found the first of the five bedrooms. The walls were painted a warm apricot with an accent wall covered in what looked like a hand-stenciled fleur de lis pattern in gold leaf. I bent low and scratched one of the emblems and, sure enough, a fleck of gold came off on my thumbnail.

“Expensive,” Sam noted.

“I guess wallpaper was just too gauche.”

No furniture or art graced the room. It wasn’t a large space, but big enough to hold a queen-sized bed and a small sitting area. At least the dents in the carpet seemed to indicate that. I flipped the light switch and a small chandelier glowed overhead, the prisms sparkling like diamonds. Had this been a guest room?

“You said Morrow had kids,” I reminded him.

“A son and a daughter, but I don’t believe either of them lived at home when he was led away in handcuffs.”

I wandered into the bathroom, which was small, but adequate with a shower-tub combo, toilet, and pedestal sink. I turned on the light. The medicine cabinet over the sink was empty. I ran my hand along the doorframe, but got no psychic signals. Touching the faucet handles brought me no information, either.

“Nothing?” Sam asked.

I shook my head.

We turned and went back out into the hall. The next room was a lot bigger, just as empty, and just as clean as the first. Clean in terms of tidiness and of psychic imprints. Though painted and wallpapered in other colors, the next two rooms were just the same. We were wasting our time.

The master suite took up the south end of the second floor. Dual skylights lit the room, with built-in shades, as evidenced by the remote I found sitting on a windowsill. The room was huge, with enough space for a king-sized bed and a formal sitting area with a fireplace and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I wandered around, standing in a number of places to try to soak up vibes … and picked up anger. It took me a few long moments to figure it out. Not so much anger, but frustration. Female frustration. Mr. Morrow, for all his supposed power and position, hadn’t been satisfying his wife for quite some time. Was it because he knew his whole Ponzi scheme was doomed to collapse or was it just the ravages of age? I had no clue.

I wandered around. The room sported two walk-in closets, each bigger than my bedroom over Richard’s garage. I found myself gravitating to the closet on the left, and switched on the light. A ripple of something seemed to crawl up my spine and I suffered an involuntary shudder.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Sam commented. “I take it this was Morrow’s closet.”

I nodded, not that there was any physical evidence to prove it. But it had contained his clothing, his shoes, and they’d left an imprint on the walls and floor. Something flashed in my mind — like a light. Was it that damned near-death vision again? Unfortunately, whatever else I’d picked up wasn’t concrete.

“You’re frowning,” Sam said.

“I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to be picking up. If the guy was a prick, it’s not blasting through me.”

“I haven’t given you too much information because I want
you
to tell me about
him
.”

“I need something more substantial than walking into rooms where he’d been. Let’s face it; he hasn’t been in this house in what, a year or more?”

Sam frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Just what is it you want me to learn about the guy — besides where he hid the millions they haven’t yet found?”

“Anything that will help.”

“Help what?” I practically pleaded.

“I don’t know. And that’s why I wanted you onboard.”

I thought about it for a moment. “The fact that he had a house on Grand Cayman — doesn’t that say it all?”

He shook his head. “There are rumors that he converted money to jewelry, stamps, and coins, and that it’s spread out all over the Buffalo area.”

“Sounds more like wishful thinking on someone’s part,” I commented, switched off the light, and sidled past him to check out the bathroom which was nearly as big as the home’s smallest bedroom.

“Whoa,” Sam said with awe. “Check out that shower.”

The steam shower was not only big enough for half a football team, but had enough controls to outfit a rocket to the International Space Station. Multiple sets of water jets were positioned along the walls. A Jacuzzi soaker tub sat under a window with no curtains or blinds.

“Why is it rich people never have window coverings in their bathrooms?” I mused.

“Maybe they’re all a bunch of exhibitionists,” Sam suggested, looking through the window to the backyard beyond. A large in-ground pool had been covered for the winter, which reminded me that we only had days left to play with Richard’s boat before it, too, would again be unavailable for months on end. That is, if we could play with it at all. I wondered what his insurance agent had said. Maybe I’d call him later to find out. Much later.

Dual sinks sunk in granite lined the east wall, with separate medicine cabinets overhead — both empty. The cabinets below held nothing but cleaning products, extra boxes of tissues, and a couple of rolls of toilet paper.

“Unless the kitchen has anything the guy actually touched, we’re done,” I told Sam.

“Do you think you might get something off of one of those cue sticks?”

“They’re likely the only things left in the house that he touched. How are you going to distract Mrs. Walburg?”

“With my charm and good looks,” Sam said wryly.

Charm he had. Good looks? They had disappeared with his thinning hair. “I’ll corner the old lady and then you make a beeline to that game room. You might only have a minute or two.”

“Got it.”

We left the upstairs behind and went back downstairs, where we found Mrs. Walburg in the kitchen, polishing the already shiny taps. I kept to the far end, feigning interest in the wet bar, while Sam cornered Mrs. Walburg. “I have a few more questions for you, if you don’t mind,” he said smoothly, while I snapped a few more pictures.

“I suppose,” she said, her attention still riveted on the task before her.

I snapped a couple more photos and wandered out of the room. Once out of earshot, I hurried back to the game room. In the minutes since we’d checked out the back yard, it had begun to rain. Already the windows overlooking the yard were beaded with drops.

I set my camera on the pool table and grabbed the first cue from the rack. It had been polished with what seemed like beeswax. She had not only obliterated any fingerprints that might have been on the stick, but any auras left behind as well. They were all like that. No one could say that Mrs. Walburg was shirking her duties. I put the last one back in the rack and heard voices approaching. I went to grab my camera and noticed a well-worn piece of blue billiards chalk in one of the table’s pockets. I grabbed it and stashed it in my jacket pocket before hurrying over to the window so that I would appear to be evaluating the yard.