The Crafty Teddy (16 page)

Pushing myself to my feet, I extended my hand. “Mr. Ota, I want to thank you for your cooperation. You and your
kobun
are free to go.”

Ota shook my hand. “May I ask you a question?”

“If it’s about the murder, I can’t really share any information.”

“No, it is about your wife’s bears. Do you have a website?”

I grimaced. “Not yet. We’re working on it.”

Ota pulled a business card from a gold cardholder and bent over the desk to write his email address on the back. “Would you be so kind as to email me when your site is on the Internet? I am always interested in finding new teddy bear artists.”

Thirteen

Once Ota left the office, I said, “I believe him, but even if he wasn’t telling the complete truth, talk about an ironclad alibi, especially if there’s video. We need to chat with those Keystone Kops out there.”

Tina put her notebook in her breast pocket. “Which agency do you think it is?”

“Considering they were burned within minutes by their target, my money is on a FIST.”

“A what?”

“A Federal Inept Surveillance Team.” I reached for the phone. “I’ll call Ash and have her meet us downstairs.”

By the time I telephoned and we rode the elevator down to the ground floor, Ash was waiting for us in the lobby. She held a large brown Boyds shopping bag and there was a nutmeg-colored plush bear with a pink gingham bow behind one ear peeking out the top of the sack.

Ash said, “It wasn’t them, was it?”

“No, but we learned a lot. Merrit was alive when they left and the counterfeit bears you spotted are definitely involved,” I said.

Tina added, “An unknown suspect pretending to represent the museum was selling them over the Internet. Mr. Ota bought an identical set of fakes and came to get his money back.”

“So, how many fake bears are there?” Ash asked.

“Four that we know of right now, but this counterfeiting operation could be a lot bigger than we thought.”

“Which probably means they’re selling fake antique quilts too. But, it’s kind of hard to believe that anyone in town could be involved,” said Ash.

“It’s possible they aren’t. The bears were mailed from Shefford Gap,” said Tina.

“But there has to be a connection with the museum, so we’re going to have to take a much closer look at Neil Gage and Marie Merrit.” I looked at the bear in Ash’s shopping bag. “I see that you were successful too.”

“I just had to have her. She was too cute,” said Ash. “Are we going home now?”

“Right after we finish talking to the rolling surveillance team that’s been following the Yakuza since they arrived here.”

“You mean there were police at the museum yesterday?”

I held the door open for Ash. “Yeah, and apparently they can confirm that Merrit was alive when the Yakuza left.”

We went out to the parking lot, where we found the white Dodge that Ota had described. It was parked about twenty yards from the Hummer. I could tell the engine was running and the air conditioner was on because there was a large puddle of condensed water on the pavement beneath the van. Scanning the parking lot, I noticed several other suspicious parked vehicles, occupied by clean-cut pairs of occupants, all pretending with varying degrees of success to not be paying close attention to the store. There was a young man slouched in the van’s driver seat holding up a newspaper as if reading it. I hoped the guy didn’t think he was fooling anybody, because a coma victim would have made him as a cop from two hundred yards away.

Tina tapped on the window. “Excuse me, sir. Can we talk to you?”

The driver lowered the window and pulled a small black badge case from his shirt pocket. Lazily waving his FBI identification card in front of Tina’s nose, he made no effort to conceal his annoyance. “Hey, County Mountie, we’re on the job here. Take off before you burn our operation.”

Already irked over Ota’s rudeness, Tina was in no mood for this kid’s calculated insolence. She snapped, “And I’m on the job too, you little snot. Oh, and don’t worry about being burned. That happened on Thursday night when you left the airport.”

The agent sat up straight. “How do you know about that?”

“Because we just got done talking to Mr. Ota.”

A man’s voice came from the van’s passenger compartment. “What’s going on up there, Wadsworth?”

Wadsworth called over his shoulder, “Uh, sir, we have some local law enforcement here and they’ve…uh, apparently been talking with our…um, target.”

“What? Tell them to come around to the other side of the van.”

As we walked around, we heard the side sliding door open. Inside, there were two men. We didn’t get a very good look at one, because he was operating a video camera that was pointed at the front of the barn. The other guy looked tired and wired, like a seven-year-old who’d been Halloween trick-or-treating way past his bedtime but was still riding a major league sugar buzz.

“I’m Special Agent In Charge John Bartle and, pardon my French, but what the hell is going on here?”

“I’m Sheriff Barron and I might ask you the same question,” said Tina. “You were operating in my county yesterday and didn’t bother to let anybody know.”

Bartle tried to suppress a snort of amusement. “Sorry, Sheriff, but we’ve been through a lot of jurisdictions and it’s been our experience that…well, don’t take this wrong, but the locals sometimes get in the way.”

Tina put a hand out to lean casually on the side of the van. “Well, then I reckon this time the locals are
really
going to get in the way. We had a murder at our museum, right about the time it was surrounded by FBI agents.”

“What?”

Before she could continue, Tina’s mobile phone trilled. Pulling it from her belt, she looked at the screen, and frowned. “It’s the chairman of the county board of supervisors and it says nine-one-one. I’ve got to take this call. Brad, can you carry on until I finish?”

“My pleasure.”

“And who are you two?” Bartle asked.

I flipped my badge case open. “Bradley and Ashleigh Lyon. We’re investigative consultants for Massanutten County.”

Bartle looked from my ID card to my cane and then to Ash’s new teddy bear. “And precisely what qualifications do you need for
that
job?”

“Check the badge out, G-man.” I love using that expression because most feds hate it. “I’m a retired San Francisco PD homicide inspector and I’d also advise you to stop looking down your nose at my wife, because she’s got more natural investigative ability than a dozen FBI agents. Not that that’s anything to brag about.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything.”

“Of course not. Look, I’ll keep this short and sweet. The museum director was found murdered not long after the Yakuza and your road show left there. Mr. Ota says that you can confirm our victim was alive when he and his
kobun
left the museum. Is that true?”

“Mr. Lyon, I’m sorry, but this is a confidential investigation and I’m not prepared to be interrogated over what we might or might not have seen.” Bartle folded his arms, a nonverbal cue that he considered our conversation finished.

“Fair enough. Ash, could I borrow the phone for a second?” She handed it to me and I pressed the long-distance directory assistance number for New York City. When the operator answered the phone and asked whose number I wanted, I said, “The Columbia Broadcasting System.”

Bartle’s face went white. “Who are you calling?”

I held my hand for silence, covered the phone’s mouthpiece with my thumb, and whispered, “
Sixty Minutes
. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Who do you think you’re kidding? It’s Sunday. There’s nobody there.”

“Yeah, but when I leave a message offering to share the unsavory story about how the FBI sat outside a museum while a murder went down and then told the investigating cops to pound sand, I’ll bet I hear back from them.”

“You’re a devious son of a bitch.”

“Ouch. Nobody’s ever called me that before. So, will you talk to me or Lesley Stahl?”

“Hang up and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

I disconnected from the call. “What time did you guys arrive at the museum?”

Bartle grabbed a clipboard and flipped through a couple of pages. “It was ten-fifty-seven.”

“Was there anybody else there?”

“No. There was only one car in the lot: a Toyota registered to a Franklin Merrit. Was he the victim?”

“Yep. How long did the Yakuza stay there?”

Tina snapped her cell phone shut and rejoined us.

Bartle said, “They left the museum at eleven-eleven hours. When the Yakuza came out, there was a Caucasian male following them. He stayed on the porch and waited until the Hummer was gone.”

I said, “Lucky for the FBI, that means the victim was alive when your surveillance targets left. Did any of your people go inside the museum to find out why Ota went there?”

“No, we figured we’d follow up on that later.”

Tina nodded in the direction of the video camera. “I’m assuming all of this was videotaped.”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll be sending you a formal request for a copy. During the time you were there, did anyone else come to the museum?” asked Tina.

“Not to the museum, but a truck pulled into the driveway and then did a turnaround and left.”

“What kind of truck?”

Bartle looked at the clipboard again. “A beat-to-crap older model Ford pickup, green in color. It looked like a decommissioned army truck and it was occupied by a white male adult.”

“Did you get the license plate?” I asked.

“There wasn’t one. It had ‘Farm Use’ placards. We figured some local farmer used the driveway instead of making a U-turn on the road.”

It was getting hotter and hotter as we stood there on the asphalt. Wiping some sweat from my upper lip, I said, “After the Yakuza finished at the museum, Mr. Ota said they went out to Shefford Gap. Is that correct?”

“Yeah, and then they went to a teddy bear shop in Leesburg.” Bartle rubbed his eyes wearily. “Now we’re here. It’s the damndest rolling stakeout I’ve ever seen. What’s with the friggin’ bears?”

“Mr. Ota collects them.”

“How about a little more information sharing? Can you tell me anything about the murder?”

I looked at Tina, who gave the agent an icy smile and said, “I’d really like to, but…well, don’t take this wrong, sometimes the FBI gets in the way. We’ll be in touch.”

As we walked across the parking lot to Tina’s patrol car, I said, “That’s going to leave a mark. Where did you learn to be so sarcastic?”

“Oh, I wonder,” said Tina with a humorless chuckle.

Ash took my hand. “She’s been hanging around you too much.”

“So, what did Captain Queeg want?” I asked, using our private nickname for County Board of Supervisor Chairman and resident megalomaniac, Kelvin Stieg.

Tina unlocked the doors to the cruiser. “It seems that Marie Merrit has been calling members of the county board of supervisors all morning. She wants to know when she’ll receive the payout on Frank’s county employee life insurance policy.”

Ash narrowed her eyes. “My God, what kind of wife would do that? Her husband has been dead for less than twenty-four hours.”

Getting into the car, I said, “If she knew about those steamy letters in Merrit’s desk, maybe she’s the kind of wife that figured she’d better get the money now, before Linda Ingersoll makes a claim.”

Tina said, “Or maybe she found out about the affair and killed him. In light of this news and the fact that she’s deliberately withholding information, I think we have to strongly focus on her as a possible suspect.”

“Absolutely. But before we approach the grieving widow again, we need to learn more about Merrit’s relationship with Ingersoll.”

“And find out whether she has a husband who might have objected to her teaching Sex Ed classes in local motels,” Ash said.

“Or if she killed him because he wouldn’t leave Marie,” said Tina.

“Both excellent points. So, let’s head back. We’re back to square one and we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

As we headed southward, I telephoned OnStar to advise them that they no longer needed to track the Hummer. It took about three hours to get back to Remmelkemp Mill. Along the way, I finally convinced Ash that it was necessary for me to read the love letters before we contacted Linda Ingersoll, which we planned to do on Monday.

As we came into town, Tina said, “Is it okay if we stop at the station for a moment, before we go home? I’m briefing Supervisor Stieg a little later and I need to pick up some paperwork.”

“No problem,” I said.

We went into the station and as we filed along the hallway behind Tina, she stopped suddenly and darted into the tiny report writing room. When I got to the doorway, I understood why. The battered remains of a personal computer and monitor stood on the table and it looked as if the machine had been used for batting practice. The metal body of the CPU had more dents than a bumper car and there was a large jagged hole in the glass monitor screen. A deputy sat next to the computer, filling out a crime report.

“A Gateway?” I asked.

Tina tilted the CPU to look at the back. “Yes, and it has Massanutten County identification stickers.”

“Is that the computer that was supposed to be at Merrit’s house?” said Ash.

“I’d be willing to bet a year’s worth of retirement checks it is. Isn’t it interesting how it looks like someone worked it over with a hammer…just like its former owner?”

Tina turned to the deputy. “Where did this come from?”

“The trash transfer station. It was one of the calls holding from yesterday,” the cop said.

Tina massaged her forehead. “Jeez, that was the call I told dispatch to hold yesterday afternoon.”

“Hey, you had no way of knowing,” I said.

“I don’t understand, Sheriff. This is just an unlawful dumping case,” said the deputy.

“No, Tommy, that may be homicide evidence,” said Tina. “What happened at the trash station?”

The deputy stared at the broken computer in awe and then replied, “Yesterday morning, the guy running the trash compressor saw a man dumping this stuff in the big trailer they have for metal items.”