Legwork (17 page)

“It could be true,” Waters admitted.
“I can’t find a single photograph or mention of Thornton Mitchell meeting with Boyd Jackson or Maloney.
But that alone makes me suspicious.
I think they’ve been hiding the relationship for years—and there has to be a reason why.
I know there’s a connection between them.”

“Because of the special treatment Mitchell received?” I asked.

“Because over the past twelve months, Mitchell started getting turned down for the first time.
He’d submit proposals and get nowhere with them.
He lost his magic touch.
His rezoning requests started getting denied.
Investors started losing money as soon as his cash flow took a big dive.
He always funded cash distributions for past projects by dipping into seed money for new ones.
It was a legal pyramid scheme.
But the house of cards started collapsing as soon as his new projects started stalling.
And I started thinking about the timing…” His voice trailed off.

“That was when you realized that Thornton Mitchell’s fall from grace coincided with Boyd Jackson’s dying from stomach cancer?” I asked.

Waters nodded.
“The family’s been trying to keep it quiet, but everyone in government knows that Jackson is going down fast.
He’s been missing tons of committee meetings in Washington, pops up for votes but skips all the debates, and has all but disappeared after hours.
His aides keep up the press releases and public appearances, but if you look closely you’ll see how gaunt he is when he does appear in public.
They save his strength for the most visible occasions and I think he’s probably bedridden in between.”

I could have told him more, but the semi-promise to Stoney weighed on what little shred of conscience I had.
I kept it quiet for now.
“The family’s been waiting it out until after the election,” I said.

Waters nodded again.
“If Jackson had pulled out a year ago when he was diagnosed, the governor would have been able to appoint his replacement.
And the governor is not aligned with Jackson at all.
In fact, they hate each other.
Stoney Maloney would not have been the appointee.”

“Meaning someone else would have inherited an incumbent spot and been sitting pretty for this election?”

“I think so,” Waters agreed.
“Anyway, the point is that I think there’s an arrangement between Thornton Mitchell and Boyd Jackson, whether Stoney Maloney knows it or not. First, Boyd Jackson goes down for the count, then Thornton Mitchell follows.
That’s not a coincidence.
But I think the connection has to go way, way back because I’ve looked into forty years of Mitchell’s dealings and forty years of North Carolina politics and I can’t find where their paths cross yet.”

“So go back even further,” I suggested.

“Look,” he said and I noticed a fine sheen of sweat on his brow.
“I won’t kid you or pretend to be brave.
I’m scared shitless.
This is getting pretty hot for me.
Like I say, I’ve been getting these phone calls.” His voice trailed off as he regrouped his resolve and tried to regain his breath.
The guy was starting to make me nervous and I’m pretty unflappable.
“I’m not running away, but I am taking a breather,” he said.
“I’m heading out for a week or two, some place quiet and far away.”

“And you want me to do your dirty work for you while you’re gone?’” I suggested.

“You can look at it that way,” he said.
“Or you can look at it as me giving you a lead you’d never think of otherwise.”

“A lead or a theory?” I countered.

“A lead,” he said emphatically.
“I think the whole key to this mess lies in unofficial connections, like family ties.
Family is family in North Carolina.
You know how it is.
Those are not ties to be taken lightly.
You have the resources to track them down as well as me.
Isn’t it your job to find missing people and investigate birth records and stuff like that?”

“Mostly I spy on unhappy marriage partners,” I pointed out.

“Perfect,” he said.

“And you want me to give you the information for your story when you come back?”

He shrugged.
“Maybe.
But I don’t even know about that.
Mitchell is dead.
And I’m not sure I’m comfortable being the one who picks at his corpse.
But there is a story in this and it’s whoever killed Mitchell.
Someone murdered him and even if I didn’t agree with his politics, that’s crossing the line.
I think they ought to be caught.
And that could be a bigger story than the one I was working on.”

He had a point that had gotten lost over the last few days.
Maybe there weren’t a whole hell of a lot of people mourning Mitchell’s death, but someone had crossed the line big time.
And that line protects us all.
Whatever he’d done, Mitchell deserved justice as much as the rest of us.
Whoever had appointed themselves his judge and jury ought to be brought down.
Before they did it again.

“Okay,” I agreed.
“Thanks for the tip.
I’ll start looking into family ties tomorrow.”

His smile transformed his face from mournful to boyishly handsome.
The intellectual look wasn’t so bad after all, I decided.

“That’s great,” Waters said, leaping to his feet and pumping my arm like he was trying to bring up water.
“I’ll call you in a couple of days to see if I can help with whatever you find.”

“I could call you,” I offered hopefully, tricky as ever.

He shook his head.
“No thanks.
I don’t want anyone knowing where I am.
No offense.”

He was out the door before I could argue.
I watched him hurry nervously down the deserted sidewalk, looking over his shoulders as he dashed past the forlorn concrete buildings of downtown Raleigh at night.
I wondered just how much real danger he was facing.
The guy wasn’t a goof.
He might have a point.
That meant I could be in real danger, too.

I unlocked my top drawer and took out my .380.
It had been awhile since I had even held it and it lay heavy in my hand.

I don’t like guns.
Too many morons wave them around.
Especially since the wise leaders of North Carolina voted to let any yahoo with a permit carry one concealed on their person (not on state property, of course, the legislators aren’t stupid enough to allow guns near their place of work).
But I don’t like walking into trouble unarmed, either.
I slid the clip from the grip and removed the first bullet, just to be safe.
Then I reloaded and dropped the gun into my pocket for the trip home.
It almost tore the thin knit cloth.
It didn’t matter.
The pantsuit was history.
I could burn it while I made myself a nice tall gin and tonic.
Maybe I would even wrangle another piece of pizza from Bobby on the way out.
After all, now I was armed.

Bill Butler was the strong-and-not-very-silent type.
The next morning, he left a message on my answering machine that would have curdled the milk in my coffee had I not been the black, no sugar type.
I was smart enough not to pick up the phone.

“Damn it, Casey, that little trick of yours last night was not funny,” he said.
“Randy was one of my best undercovers.
He damn near dislocated his shoulder.
It cost me three hours sorting out what the hell happened and voiding the arrest of the poor drunken bozo who thought he was protecting your dubious honor.
The guy started blubbering, for chrissakes.
His mother had to come pick him up from the station.
It was pathetic.
I hope you’re happy.”

I was happy.
Just the sound of Bill Butler’s voice made my toes tingle.
I listened to another few minutes of his lecturing while I dressed once again for maximum respectability.

Bill’s harangue was followed by an equally hostile phone call from Mary Lee Masters.
I decided not to pick up on that one either.
“Casey?
Remember me?
I’m the person paying you triple your usual fee.
It might be nice to hear from you once in a while.” There was an ominous silence before she continued.
“These press idiots are driving me crazy and Maloney is up three points in the polls.
Plus, I got another one of those obscene phone calls today.
Could I have a little help here?
Call me or you’re dead meat.”

Maybe she had a point.
She was paying my fee.
I would fill her in on the highlights but keep some of the tidbits to myself.

“About time,” she barked when I called her back.
“I knew you were standing there listening.
Make it quick.
I have some stupid appearance at a peanut factory in thirty minutes.”

“Nuts!” I said.

“Just give it.”

I gave it.
She didn’t like it when I got to the part about investigating Thornton Mitchell’s past, starting when he went to the University of North Carolina.

“What the hell good is going through old school records?” she demanded.
“Half the state went to UNC.
Big deal.”

“True,” I conceded.
“You did, too, as I recall.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” It was a challenge and I wondered what was eating her.

“Look, Casey,” she continued.
“That’s a complete waste of time.
I don’t like my money going for a wild goose chase.”

And I didn’t like my clients telling me what to do.
What was the big deal about me spending the morning in Chapel Hill?
What the hell was she trying to hide?
Ooops, there goes my lack of trust again.

I changed the subject.
“Bradley is in the clear.
He was in the Bahamas.”

“I should have known,” she said bitterly. “How old was she?”

Oops.
I changed the subject again.
“They have a suspect in custody,” I said.
“His name is Ramsey Lee.”

There was a short silence.
“He didn’t do it,” she said flatly.

“I know,” I agreed, silently wondering how she could be as sure as I was.
Did Mary Lee know him?

“So, if he didn’t do it, find out who did!” She hung up before I could ask her any questions.
Talk about PMS.

There are some things you simply cannot do on a computer.
I could cruise school records and hack into transcripts, but without names to search for, it would do me little good.
What I needed to know would take some old-fashioned legwork and that meant paging through dusty school yearbooks.
There was no way around it.
Carolina here I come.

Chapel Hill used to be a quaint college town.
Now it’s overcrowded with rich white retirees and urban professionals who have highly inflated ideas about property values. Housing developments and shopping centers have replaced the sleepy farmlands that used to welcome you into town.
My grandpa would have puked at it all.

Fortunately, the University of North Carolina had resisted the changes around it.
Huge oaks and massive stone buildings surrounded grassy central lawns where hundreds of students dawdled between classes, basking in the sun and smiling at each other, free from any worry greater than their next term paper. Enjoy it, I thought as I passed a group of retro-hippies lounging on the lawn.
It ain’t gonna last long.

The student library was dark and cool.
I was tempted to curl up in a corner and take a nap.
Instead, I trundled my butt up to the third floor and pulled out several year’s worth of what was now called the Yackety Yack, the dopey annual put out each year for the graduating class.
It was frightening how little life on campus had changed over the years.
Or maybe I was envious. I don’t think I’ve ever been isolated from reality in my life.
I knew when Thornton Mitchell had graduated, so I started a few years earlier and worked my way up.
As I suspected, he had pledged a fraternity by the end of his freshman year, was active in intramural sports and a member of various business-oriented campus clubs.
I noted that even back then he had preferred to work behind the scenes: I spotted him in several photos, lurking in the background, always just a little too soft-looking, a little too overweight, but with an amiable grin on his face that never faded.

After I found Mitchell, I concentrated on identifying his old buddies.
Thanks to the deeply ingrained fraternal system still thriving in the South, it wasn’t hard.
He had been inducted into the Order of the Golden Fleece, ostensibly an academic organization.
But a quick glance at their page in the annual told me that, even back then, parties had been their real priority.
Those Golden Fleecers looked permanently disheveled, slightly shame-faced, and most definitely hung-over in nearly every shot.
The girls hanging onto their arms in the casual photos looked like female versions of the same: smart and spirited party girls brought in from nearby women’s colleges for conversation—and cocktails — with Carolina’s intellectually inebriated.
The girls were all a little too plump and not quite blonde enough to have made it within a more traditional sorority system.
On the other hand, they didn’t look like a bunch of tight asses.

I photocopied several year’s worth of group shots for names of people that might have known Thornton Mitchell way back then, before he’d turned Golden Fleecing into his lifetime’s work.
I’d zip back to Raleigh and get on the phone, trying to track down former classmates.
I knew that in the South, college was the time-honored place for sowing the seeds of your future good old boy network.

Just for the hell of it, I looked up Mary Lee Masters in her senior yearbook.
I was curious as to why she had made such a stink about it and I wanted to know more about her possible connection to Ramsey Lee.
I knew from the newspaper accounts of his original sabotage arrest that he had briefly attended UNC around the same time as Mary Lee.

I didn’t know Mary Lee’s maiden name, so I scanned the entire graduating class of 1974.
When I found her, I was in for a big surprise: Lee was her maiden name.
All this time, I had thought she was simply afflicted with the Lee syndrome, a southern tradition that dictates the use of the name Lee after virtually any first name in the world: Ricky Lee, Bobby Lee, Jordan Lee, Linda Lee, Jerry Lee.
You get the picture.
But damn if Lee wasn’t her last name, her full maiden name being Mary Watson Lee.
I knew she was a member of the moneyed Watson clan, but I hadn’t realized that Lee was an offshoot of that hallowed crew.
I stared at her face carefully, looking for signs of her future in it.
She was ridiculously perky-looking and her fifties housewife flip stood out as particularly dorky in a sea of 70’s shag haircuts.

Then it hit me: I had been incredibly stupid.
Mary Lee was related to Ramsey Lee or I’d eat my Hanes Her Way underwear.
Why hadn’t she told me?
Half the South was named Lee, of course, but none of them had any money except for those Lees.
Ramsey had money, plenty of it.
And so did Mary Lee Masters. They had to be from the same gene pool.
No wonder she’d been so sure Ramsey hadn’t been the one to set her up.

I couldn’t find Ramsey Lee in the annual but I paged forward to see if Mary Lee’s husband, the vapid and vain Bradley Masters, had also attended her fair alma mater.
He was there, all right, looking like a cross between Dudley Do-Right and one of the Beach Boys.
How could anyone have teeth like that for real?
I wondered if he and Mary Lee had been engaged by their senior year.
Or did people like that schedule engagement and marriage for the summer after graduation?

I considered Xeroxing their embarrassing photos, perhaps for blackmail purposes, but decided I’d get started tracking down former classmates of Thornton Mitchell instead.
After one more small errand, that is.

I knew Thornton Mitchell had a daughter who attended Carolina.
Maybe she would know something about her father’s death or, at the very least, be able to steer me toward some of his friends.
I looked up Andrea Mitchell’s address in the student directory then set out for the center of campus where her dorm was located.
I felt as old as the hills by the time I got there, not to mention overweight and out-of-style.
Silly me, I should have worn my shredded blue jeans.

The girl who answered the door could not possibly have been Andrea: she was tall and slender with a dancer’s grace.
She was also the color of light brown leather and had a headful of dreadlocks bound back by strips of brightly colored cloth.

“I’m looking for Andrea Mitchell,” I told her.

“Go away.” The girl tried to slam the door on me but I was used to this kind of treatment.
Big feet are good for something.
She barely got it closed another inch.

“I’m not with the press,” I explained.

“Then who are you?” the girl demanded. Geeze, UNC must have imported her from the Bronx.

“I’m a private investigator looking into her father’s death,” I explained.
I flashed my badge but she didn’t look impressed.
Where was my .380 when I needed it?

“Do you want to talk to her, Andy?” the girl called back over her shoulder.
Her arms were crossed resolutely, as if it would take a battering ram to get by her.

A slender blonde emerged from the back of the large sunny room, dressed in a pink terrycloth bathrobe.
She was drying her hair with a towel.
She paused in her scalp scrubbing to stare at me, her face an immovable mask of suspicion.
“I don’t believe you,” she finally said.

“Look, I’m not with a newspaper.
I’m not with a television station.
I work for myself.
I’ve been hired to look into your father’s murder by someone who was originally suspected of it but has since been cleared.
Don’t you want to find out who did it?”

“The police will find out,” she said calmly, rubbing the towel over the back of her head.
I could smell peroxide in the air.
Ah, another sister in subterfuge.

“You believe that?” I asked.
“Do you really think the cops are on the right track?
Have you even been reading the newspapers?”

Her gaze was defiant.
“I have faith in the police.
And no, I haven’t had time to read the papers.
I’ve been a little upset, know what I mean?”

“You seem real broken up,” I said dryly.

“You don’t know how she feels,” her roommate interrupted angrily.
“She’s been crying herself to sleep for days. Now go away and leave us alone.” She was mad, and fury lent her strength.
This time she succeeded in slamming the door shut and nearly took off my big toe in the process.

“I’ll just slip my card under the door,” I hollered calmly through the heavy wooden panel, acutely aware that other doors were opening up and down the hall so the residents could get a better peek.
Didn’t anyone ever go to class around here?
I slipped my card under the crack of the door and a shadow passed over the sliver of light as someone reached to pluck it from the rug.

“Can’t you at least give me the names of some of his friends?” I asked her.
Silence.

“Call me if you want to talk to me,” I said. I was greeted with more silence and left.

Bobby was on the phone when I returned to the office and ignored me completely.
Even more unusual, he was ignoring the double cheeseburger sitting on the corner of his desk. Perhaps he was on to something big.
That made one of us.