4 The Marathon Murders (16 page)

Jill rested her chin on her hand. “Now isn’t that interesting.”
I stopped at the main driveway into the property and sat there for a few
moments, staring at the sign, wondering what, if any, significance this might
have for our case.

“Interesting, indeed,” I said.

A few cars sat in a fenced-in
parking area behind a locked gate.

“Might as well try the front
entrance, see if anybody’s home,” I said.

I pulled onto an oval drive and
parked in a Visitor slot. When I got to the entrance, I found the door locked.
There was no bell or any visible means of communication. Staring through the
glass, I detected no activity.

I got back in the car and turned to
Jill. “If we need to contact Hedrick Industries about anything, I suggest you
give Roger
Rottman
a call.”

She smiled.
“Probably
not a bad idea.
Shall we head on to Hartsville and find Pierce Bradley’s
sister?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jill sat quietly for several
minutes as we drove through more wooded areas and farmland with lots of slopes.
It recalled those old tales of cows with short legs on one side grazing on the
hills. She finally voiced her thoughts. “A lot of companies won’t voluntarily
give out information on employees.”

“True,” I said.

“What if I went in there tomorrow
and claimed to be a close relative of Casey, maybe talk to a secretary,
tell
her he had told me some nice things about his boss,
Kayjay
. I’d like to know how to get in touch with him.
Maybe she would give me a name and phone number.”

Looking in the mirror, I saw Warren
shake his head. “You’re a devious lady, Jill.”

“Devious is how PI’s operate,” I
said. “We have to figure out how to get information out of people who don’t
want to give it up. Good plan, babe. Let’s try it.”

When we got to Highway 25, we drove
into Hartsville and turned onto the street where Patricia and A. B. Cook lived.
Upscale homes that appeared to be fairly new lined the street. I asked Jill for
the number, which I found on a mailbox in front of a long red brick ranch that
appeared to be on two levels, following the contour of the lot. I parked in the
driveway. The three of us got out and walked toward the front door.

The afternoon sun drilled down like
a red-hot auger. I had forgotten to bring my Titans cap along, and my scalp
felt ready to sizzle. It was something my dermatologist frequently railed
against, but you do whatever it takes.

We stood on a small covered porch
that offered token shelter from the heat. I rang the bell several times.

“Maybe they’re eating out after
church,” Jill said.

I checked my watch. “It’s after
two-thirty. They must be slow eaters.”

“Could be eating with friends,”
Warren suggested.

“Or visiting with relatives,” I
said. “Why don’t we drop by the sheriff’s office and see if Driscoll’s around.
Maybe he knows something. I think I’ll leave a note.”

I wrote a brief message on the back
of a business card about our investigation of some missing papers from Marathon
Motor Works that had been in her brother’s possession. After sticking it in the
door, I drove over to Main Street and pulled in at the low brick building that
housed the sheriff’s office and jail. Driscoll’s patrol car was parked outside.

He came through the door as I got
out of my Jeep. He stopped and stared, a quizzical look on his face. “What the
hell are you doing up here today, McKenzie?”

“Hi, Sheriff.”
I gave him my best grin.
“Just following up loose ends.
We stopped by to visit with Patricia Cook but didn’t find anybody home.”

“Oh. Okay.” He seemed a bit
relieved by my answer, but I had no idea why. “They’re taking a couple of days
off to get their nerves settled down. Pat and Pierce had their troubles, but
his death seems to have really knocked the props out from under her. He was the
only close relative she had.”

“Did they go out of town?”

“To visit A. B.’s brother in
Lebanon. They’ll probably be back tomorrow or Tuesday. Wayne tells me you picked
up something my boys missed.”

I didn’t want to cause any
problems. I shrugged. “Don’t blame them. It wasn’t in the area where the
cartridge case was found.”

“Well, they need to broaden their minds,
and their area of interest. Think more like investigators. Maybe I ought to
have you come up and give ’
em
a lecture.”

“Don’t know how much I could teach
the guys, but I’m always available.”

The sheriff pushed back his cap and
swiped a hand across his brow. “I just might take you up on that sometime.
Where you headed now?”

“Back to Nashville, I guess. We’re
just out for a Sunday drive.”

He grinned. “Sure you are.”

“See you,” I said.

As I started to turn back toward
the car, his urgent voice stopped me. “It might be a good idea to stay away
from here tomorrow.”

I looked around, puzzled. “Why?”

“That’s all I can say. But you
wouldn’t want to get caught in a multi-agency trap. And forget I said that.”

Jill looked up as I slipped into
the driver’s seat. “What now?”

I tapped my hand on the steering
wheel. I decided not to mention the sheriff’s warning. I hadn’t worked out in
my mind what was going on.

“It’s almost three o’clock and I
haven’t heard from Craig
Audain
,” I said. “Let’s head
for home and I’ll see if I can run him down.”

Warren leaned forward, almost
lunged. “What about Kelli?”

“Why don’t you call the motel and
ask for her room? If she’s there, we can head back in that direction.”

He threw up his hands. “I don’t
know the number.”

I pulled a card from my pocket and
handed it to him. “I got this off the counter while talking to the clerk.”

“Thanks.”

I started the car and turned toward
the main highway while he called the motel. After a couple of minutes, he
handed the card to me.

“No answer. Just take me over there
and I’ll wait.”

“And what if she doesn’t show up?”
Jill asked. “You’ll be stuck up here with no clothes, no transportation,
no
hope of accomplishing anything.”

He heaved a deep sigh. “Yeah, I
guess you’re right. But if I don’t figure out something to do soon, I’m going
to start coming unglued.”

“I’ll dig out my glue pot as soon
as we get back.” I hoped a little frivolity might brighten his mood. From the
look I got, it was levity wasted.

We dropped Warren off at his motel around four-thirty.

“Let’s keep in touch,” I said. “If
you hear anything from Kelli, call us right away. We’ll let you know any new
developments we uncover.”

“I know you’re both going above and
beyond the call,” Warren said. “I can’t overemphasize how much I appreciate it.”

“Don’t give it a thought,” Jill
said. “After what you did for us in Israel, you’re still way ahead on the
ledger.”

As we drove to the office, I told
Jill about Sheriff Driscoll’s warning. We were almost there when Agent Fought
called.

“Have you heard from the lab
techs?” I asked.

“Yeah.
It’s definitely a match.”

“That makes it pretty certain the
guy who whacked Casey Olson was involved in Pierce Bradley’s murder. Did they
find any DNA?”

“No. But I agree with you on the
subject’s involvement. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to put things on hold
for a day. There’s a big operation going on in my territory tomorrow that I
need to monitor.”

“Must be why Sheriff Driscoll
wanted me to stay out of the way tomorrow.”

That set him off. “What the hell
did he say?”

“Nothing really.
He merely suggested I stay out of Trousdale County tomorrow, that something big
was going down.” I made it
more vague
than the
sheriff’s version.

“Damn him. All we need is a leak at
this stage.”

“Well it won’t come from me,” I
said. “And I’ll stay clear of the place. Will you be able to get a diver in the
river up there?”

“I’ve already talked to my
supervisor. He’s taking care of it.”

I told Jill the gist of our
conversation as we walked into the office. She gave me the old raised eyebrow.
“So it looks like we’ll be tracking down where the Dallas Lights were bought.”

“If it’s going to be done anytime
soon, babe, it’ll be up to us.”

First, I dialed the home phone for
Craig
Audain
, the Chamber of Commerce man.

“Hasn’t he called you yet?” his
wife asked in disbelief.

“Not yet. Is he there?”

I heard her yell his name. A few
moments later, he came on the line.

“I humbly apologize, Mr. McKenzie.
I slept late this morning, and I was still half asleep when my wife told me
about your call. I didn’t get home until nearly three A.M., but that’s no
excuse. I simply forgot. Just what was it you wanted to know?”

I reminded him of Pierce Bradley’s
call regarding the papers found at Marathon Village. “Who did you call to find
out that Sydney Liggett’s grandson was Arthur Liggett?”

“Gee. Let me think a minute. I
believe I started out with Irving Glastonbury. He’s a retired lawyer. You may
know him. I remembered he was an antique car nut, so I called and asked if he
knew anything about the folks who ran Marathon Motors. He referred me to Allen
Vickers, whose great-grandfather had been president of the company at one
time.”

I paused after jotting down the
names. “Did you tell these men how the papers were found and that they
indicated Sydney Liggett intended to turn them over to the district attorney?”

“Not with Irving, but I believe I
did go into some detail with Allen Vickers.”

“What business is he in?”

“Vickers runs a software company
that creates computer programs for clinics and hospitals. He said he’d do some
checking around. He called back later the same day with Arthur Liggett’s name.
Said I could find him at the Safe Harbor Nursing Home.”

“Do you know who Vickers talked
to?”

“He didn’t say.”

We had invested so much hope in Craig
Audain
that his call left us virtually speechless. After I repeated “he didn’t say”
for Jill, we sat at our desks like a pair of zombies. Several minutes later, I
pulled my phone book out of the drawer and thumbed through the V’s. I found
AllenVickers
’ listing in Brentwood, an upscale suburb that
straddled the county line along I-65 to the south.

I punched in the number and waited.
After four rings, an answering machine picked up. “You’ve reached the Vickers.
Sorry we can’t take your call, but if—”

I slammed the phone down.
“Nobody home.”

“This case is plagued with a
conspiracy of silence,” Jill said, propping her elbows on the desk.

I switched to the yellow pages and
flipped the phone book open. “
Dammit
, I for one refuse
to sit here and take it.”

I looked up tobacco products and
picked out a store that sounded like something other than a discount cigarette
retailer. I got a grumpy-voiced man who listened to my problem and grunted.

“I doubt you’ll find anybody around
here who handles them,” he said. “A lot of those importers don’t import
anymore, so you’re looking for a needle in a haystack.”

When I repeated that glum forecast
for Jill, she closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. After a moment, she
looked up with an enlightened smile. “I wonder if John Jernigan could steer us
in the right direction. Didn’t he work for a tobacco company?”

“Yes, but they made snuff, not
cigarettes. Still, he’s a confirmed smoker. He might have some contacts in the
business.”

I turned back to the phone book and
looked up John Jernigan’s number. A few moments later, I heard his familiar
“Jernigan here.”

“John, I’m delighted to hear your
voice, you old rascal. This is Greg.”

“What’s up? Have you been prowling
around some old battlefields again?”

“No, but I’ve been battling with a
very troublesome case we’re investigating. I hoped you might be able to help me
out.”

“I’ll certainly be happy to try.”

“Ever hear of a cigarette brand
called Dallas Lights?”

“Is that something the Cowboys’
cheerleaders
smoke?”

I laughed.
“If
they have a name like Chekov or Tchaikovsky, maybe.”

“It can’t be Russian.”

“Sure is. Any idea
who
around Nashville might carry a Russian cigarette brand
like that?”

“I’d start with The
Compleat
Tobacconist,” he said, spelling it out. “They’re
on West End just beyond Vanderbilt. They have a wide selection of products,
both domestic and imported. Talk to a fellow named Ridley. Tell him I sent
you.”

I riffled through the phone book
again and called the tobacco shop. A man answered with an accent that might
have been Russian, for all I knew.

“Is Ridley there?” I asked.

“He has not returned from supper.
Maybe thirty minutes.”

I hung up and swung my chair around
to face Jill. “We’re off to West End, babe. Hopefully, Ridley is our man.”

We found the traffic flow on I-40
heading into town moderate, likely laced with people headed home from a day at
the lake or some venue farther to the east. We took the Inner Loop around to
Broadway, drove up the hill past automobile row and swung onto West End when it
split off to the right. The restaurants seemed to be doing a good business, the
sidewalks populated with strollers of all sizes, shapes and ethnicities, thanks
to a couple of hours of daylight left.

We found The
Compleat
Tobacconist in a row of shops that catered to the Vanderbilt University crowd.
I parked in a space not too distant, and we walked over to the store. The smell
of tobacco slammed me as soon as we entered, overpowering my olfactory
apparatus. I decided this probably wasn’t the best place to linger. At Jill’s
persistent prodding, I had kicked the smoking habit for the second time—the
first didn’t take too well after I became immersed in the quest to find her,
which wound up requiring Warren Jarvis’s intervention.

Cigars, cigarettes, pipes, most any
kind of device you’d need for smoking, and tobacco of all sorts filled every
case, shelf and counter that could be wedged into the small shop. A
white-haired man as thin as a pipe stem stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled
up on his blue dress shirt, a red tie hanging loose from its unbuttoned collar.

“Would you be Ridley?” I asked.

“I not only would be
,
I am.” His furrowed brow accented a thin smile.

I introduced Jill and myself. I
told him John Jernigan had sent us.

“A good man,
John.
Haven’t seen him for a while.
What did he
send you in for?”

“He said you could probably tell us
if there was any place in Nashville where we could find Dallas Lights.”

He reached up to a shelf behind
him, pulled out a red and blue package and set it on the counter. “Sir, you
have just found the place.”

“The saints
be
praised,” Jill said. “We finally scored a hit.”

Seeing Ridley’s perplexed look, I
explained that we were looking for customers who used the Russian cigarettes.

“I’m afraid you can count them on
the fingers of one hand. We started ordering them at the insistence of a good
customer who had picked them up on a business trip to Moscow. I don’t think
anybody else has bought any for a while.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Who was
that?”

“His name is Williams. He goes by
Shelby, but as I recall it isn’t his real name. He’s an international sales
rep.
Travels
all over the world.”

“Who does he travel for?”

“That big medical
equipment company, Hedrick Industries.”