Authors: Mark de Castrique
“Francis Tyrell. Kevin says Tyrell would recognize him so he's hoping you can get in the game and watch Tyrell. He asked me, but I told Kevin you're the best card player I know.”
“What are the stakes in this game?”
“I don't know. Kevin's going to back you.”
“Can I keep the winnings?”
“Come on, Archie, it's police money. And I'm sure he has a limit so don't lose it.”
Archie grinned, his despondent mood cast aside. “Sure. I'll be glad to help. Certainly can't have you sitting in that game. You'd lose calling heads if you tossed a two-headed coin.”
I left Archie devouring his waffle and I delivered Joan's egg sandwich on my walk back to the department.
My next priority was to find out why Darren Cransford had lied to his father about his employment. Since the PR firm was a dead end, I needed his home or cell number. Luther should have it, but he would wonder why I didn't reach his son at the office. I decided to approach Darren's sister Sandra.
Wakefield gave me her work number and I debated whether to announce myself as a deputy or the family's funeral director. I decided calling as Barry Clayton, town undertaker, would be less likely to stir up office gossip.
In a soft, southern accent, a woman answered, “G.A. Bridges.” I asked to speak to Sandra Cransford and was immediately transferred to her assistant. I was surprised by an authoritative baritone voice announcing, “Sandra Cransford's office. How may I help you?”
“This is Barry Clayton of Clayton and Clayton Funeral Directors in Gainesboro, North Carolina. We served Ms. Cransford's family this past weekend and I have a few things I need to discuss with her.”
“I'm sure she'd be happy to speak with you, Mr. Clayton. Let me check her schedule.” He paused a moment, and then said, “She has a fifteen-minute window from four forty-five to five o'clock this afternoon. Will that work?”
“I'm sorry but it won't. This is an urgent personal matter that I'm sure she'll want to handle immediately. If she prefers to delay our conversation after I've informed her of the situation, then that's fine. However, I neither want to be responsible for keeping her in the dark nor do I want you to be in that same position.”
I knew the man must have been a very efficient gatekeeper, but no one wants to make a solitary decision when it involves a death in the family of the boss.
“Hold, please,” he said, and my ear was filled with elevator music.
After an orchestral version of “Da Ya Think I'm Sexy?” Sandra came on the line.
“Barry, what is it? Has something happened to my father?”
“Have you spoken with him since you returned to Atlanta?”
“Sunday night. To let him know I made it home safely. I should have called yesterday, but the day got away from me.”
Her assistant probably couldn't work in a fifteen-minute window, I thought. “Jimmy Panther was killed Sunday night. His body was found on your mother's grave.”
I heard her sharp intake of breath. I waited for her to speak.
“Nine thirty. That's when I spoke with Daddy. He said he was going to bed.”
Sandra was jumping to the conclusion that her father was a suspect and she was trying to alibi him.
“On his cell?”
“The home phone. Surely you don't think he's responsible.”
“No. But your father was pretty shaken when I told him. I wanted you to know.”
“Thank you. I'll check in right away.”
“And you're sure about the time on Sunday?”
“Yes. I'd just come in. I knew if I didn't call immediately I'd get bogged down preparing for a Monday morning breakfast meeting.”
I jotted a note referencing Sandra's location during the estimated time of the murder, and that her call didn't alibi Luther. “One other thing. I tried to reach your brother, but his office said he no longer works there.”
“He and the PR firm had a parting of the ways. Darren's working on his own now.”
“Any reason your father didn't know?”
“Darren wanted to wait until he was more established. He didn't want Daddy to worry.”
“This parting of the ways. Did it have anything to do with the Catawbas?”
Sandra was silent a moment. When she finally spoke, her tone was cold and guarded. “Barry, are you investigating my brother?”
I ignored her question. “Mack Collins said Darren was working for the Catawba tribe. There seems to be a lot of contention swirling around their casino proposal and I'm just trying to understand all the pieces.”
“Then you'll have to talk to Darren or Senator Collins, but I don't see how any of this ties into the shooting of that Cherokee.”
“At this point neither do I.”
“But that doesn't mean you stop investigating, does it?”
“No.”
She laughed, and the earlier tension in her voice disappeared. “Well, I'll help any way I can. Let me get you Darren's cell number. I have to read it off my own phone. With speed-dial, no one memorizes numbers anymore.”
She gave me a Washington DC area code, and I wrote it down along with a few more notes on our conversation.
“Thank you for calling in person,” she said. “I'm afraid Daddy's going to be a lost soul without Mom. I'll be coming to town more often. Maybe we can grab a cup of coffee.”
“I'm a regular at the Cardinal Café.”
“Then it's a deal. Thanks, Barry.” She hung up.
I added one more item to my to-do list: Check the time of Sandra's call to Luther on Sunday night.
“Darren didn't answer, so I left him a voicemail. If he hasn't called by mid-afternoon, I'll try again.” I flipped my notepad closed and waited for Tommy Lee's reaction to my report.
We sat in a small conference room in the department where Tommy Lee could escape from his phone. He'd listened without interrupting while I summarized my conversation with Sandra Cransford.
“OK,” he said. “I think I should run out to see Luther while you're in Cherokee.”
“I can delay going to the reservation if we're ready to confront him.”
“No. Let's stay with the plan. I'm Luther's generation. He might open up more to me one-on-one, especially if I tell him his car was reported returning well after midnight on Monday morning. He won't have to face you with his lie.”
“Are you going to say anything about Darren?”
Tommy Lee shook his head. “We need more information. Did Sandra say how the PR firm learned Darren was moonlighting for the Catawbas?”
“I didn't think to ask. Should I call her?”
“No. It's probably better to get that information straight from Darren. Let him know you learned about it from Sandra but you haven't told his father.”
“Are you trying to create friction between brother and sister?”
“I'm looking for a wedge between father and son. If Luther and Darren are involved together, we need something to pry apart their story. I'm going to get authorization to obtain their phone records. We'll see if they match what Luther tells me.”
“And what Darren tells me,” I added. “Can you get the tracking of the cell towers to recreate his location Sunday and yesterday?”
“Good point,” Tommy Lee said. “That will take longer but will verify their truthfulness. Check with me as soon as you talk to Darren.”
With our immediate plans confirmed, we set out on our separate assignments. I reached Detective Sergeant Romero who informed me Eddie Wolfe would meet us at the Cherokee police station at two. Susan dropped Democrat off with Mom and we headed for the reservation.
***
“My God. This room is the size of a football field.” Susan stepped onto the ground floor of Harrah's where rows and rows of video gaming machines filled the space.
The sheer scale overwhelmed us. I stood with an overnight bag in each hand and my mouth agape. Susan walked ahead, and then turned around. “Come on, Barry. You look like a rube who just jumped off a truckload of cabbages.”
Trying to project the nonchalant air of a seasoned gambler, I followed her into the cavernous realm of lights and luck. There were no “one-armed bandits” like I'd envisioned the slot machines would be. Instead, people pushed buttons and their winnings and losses were adjusted against their running balance with each play. The screens contained colorful icons, combinations of playing cards, and other moving graphics that gave me no clue either as to what was the game or how to win it. Maybe I should climb back up on a truckload of cabbages and stick with Friday night poker at the mayor's house.
Then the sea of machines transitioned into live gaming tables. At least now I recognized roulette and blackjack. A number of players gathered at tables identified as three-card poker. I'd never heard of the game, but figured the fewer the cards, the fewer the ways I could lose.
We found our way to the hotel registration desk and realized we'd taken the long route through the casino when we could have simply pulled up to the hotel entrance. The woman at the front desk was Asian. I took a quick look at our surroundings and noticed very few of the staff were Cherokee.
She asked if we were first-time guests, and when we answered we were, she suggested we acquire Total Rewards cards that would activate the gaming machines and create an account. We also qualified for a five-dollar credit so we could play with house money. In my case, the house money would never leave the house.
Although it was only one o'clock, we were able to check in early. Our room was on the fourth floor. Kevin Malone was on the sixth. I wondered if either room had been booked in close proximity to Francis Tyrell's. That would have required the assistance of the hotel management, and I didn't know if Kevin had announced his presence as an officer of the law. If I had to make that wager, I'd say no. And I doubted he'd checked in with the Cherokee police.
Susan slid the electronic keycard into the slot and opened the door. “Nice,” she said. “Spacious too, but not so alluring that a serious visitor would forego the action in the casino.”
The room was big enough that the king-size bed left space for a conversation area including a small leather sofa and two chairs. A wide window overlooked a view of the forest where leaves displayed a rich palette of reds and yellows.
“Do you want to hang out here while I see Romero?”
Susan set her valise at the foot of the bed. “No. I want to explore. Why don't I drop you at the police station and you can call me when you're finished?”
“OK.” I started unbuttoning my shirt.
Susan looked at the suitcase by my feet. “Are you changing into your uniform? What if Tyrell sees you and remembers you?”
“Who says I'm getting dressed? Since we've got forty minutes and we're at a casino, I thought maybe I'd get lucky.”
***
Susan leaned across the jeep's console and kissed me. “I could grow to like this casino life,” she said. “So, don't spend all your energy investigating.”
I returned the kiss. “Then don't wander out of cell coverage or your sugar daddy won't be able to call you.”
I climbed out of the passenger's seat and watched Susan drive down the hill toward the village. If Eddie Wolfe's interview was short, we could be back at the hotel with plenty of time before our six o'clock meeting with Kevin. Nurturing that hope, I buzzed the door of the police station.
The receptionist behind the sign-in window recognized me. “Detective Romero asked for you to wait.” She punched an intercom button and spoke too softly for me to hear. Then she motioned me to take one of the steel chairs. “He'll be right out.”
I opted to stand and in less than thirty seconds, Hector Romero's bulky frame squeezed through the door. His leather jacket was the first thing I noticed after his smile. Evidently we were going somewhere.
“You undercover?” he asked, noting I wasn't in uniform.
“I figure you're intimidating enough for both of us.”
Romero laughed a deep rumble that sounded more like a landslide. He pumped my hand. “I can see you hold your own against Rooster Cogburn.”
“Tommy Lee sends his regards and asks that you keep me out of trouble.”
“Now where's the fun in that?” His face turned serious in answer to his own question. “I've taken the liberty of changing our schedule. We've got a missing thirteen-year-old boy who lives close to Eddie Wolfe. I've got to interview the parents and thought we would save time if we bundled the two together. I hope you don't mind.”
My vision of Susan and the king-size bed vanished. “No. I just need to call my wife. She dropped me off and was going to pick me up. We're having dinner at Harrah's.”
“No problem. I can bring you to the casino when we finish.”
Being seen getting out of a patrol car wasn't an ideal way to stay undercover, but the odds were probably good Tyrell wouldn't spot me.
“OK. I'll give her a call.”
I hit speed-dial as we walked around the station. Susan's voicemail picked up and I left a brief message.
When we were heading out of the village, I asked, “What's the story with the boy? How long's he been gone?”
“Swifty was last seen yesterday morning.”
“Swifty?”
“Daniel Swift. Everyone calls him Swifty. And the kid's really a fast runner so the nickname fits two ways.”
“Has he run off before?”
“Not that his parents reported. He's a good kid. Active in the Cherokee Boys Club. Never been in trouble that I know of.”
“The Cherokee Boys Club is where Jimmy Panther worked.”
Romero considered the connection. “Yeah. But most of the tribal kids are involved there in one way or another. Swifty excelled at sports so he's on every team.”
“Who are we seeing first?”
“Eddie Wolfe. He's working a four-to-midnight shift at the box factory. I don't know how long you'll need with him, but we could go as late as three thirty before he leaves for work.”
“That should be plenty of time. And I don't want to hold up your meeting with the boy's parents.”
“Thanks. But I'll be surprised if Swifty hasn't returned home by the time we get there.”
Again, we wound up deep in a mountain cove, but still on the reservation. A strip of terraced land held about ten mobile homes. Some were singles, others double-wides. A few had window boxes with late-blooming marigolds and painted latticework around the foundation while the rest looked liked they'd been hauled into place and left without any landscaping improvement.
“Are these all rentals?” I asked.
“Some. Some are occupied by owners. No one possesses land on the reservation because it's all a federal trust, but there's a housing shortage, what with outsiders moving here to work in the casino.”
“My wife and I walked through it earlier. I didn't see many Cherokee there.”
“A lot of us like outside work. When you grew up in the mountains, standing behind a roulette wheel's not particularly appealing. And then there's the per capita.”
“That's the casino's profit sharing?” I asked.
“Yes. Twice a year one half of net gaming income is distributed to about fourteen thousand tribe members. Payments average over seven thousand dollars per person a year. Not a ton of money, but it provides a jolt to our economy every June and December. Banks have to bring in extra tellers and lots of cash.” Romero pulled in front of one of the trailers and parked beside a shiny red Camaro. He turned toward me. “We go on alert because it's the perfect time to knock off one of the branches whose vaults are overflowing the day or two before payout. If you want to moonlight, you could pick up security work during per capita week.”
“Thanks, but Tommy Lee keeps me busy enough.” I unsnapped my seatbelt. “Still, seven thousand is way below the poverty level.”
Romero pointed to the Camaro. “Eddie Wolfe's in his late twenties. I bet he bought that car out of his coming-of-age trust.”
“What's that?”
“When I said all tribe members get per capita, I meant everybody. Even minors. Some of the kids coming out now have trust funds of over one hundred fifty thousand dollars. They qualify to collect at age eighteen if they've graduated from high school and have taken a money management class. Or they get the money at age twenty one with no strings attached. Not all of them make good choices with their nest egg.”
“Eddie Wolfe's employed,” I said.
Romero opened his door. “And so am I. Let's get to work.”
Stairs of treated lumber led up to a front door located in the middle of the single-wide trailer. It opened before we could reach the steps and Eddie Wolfe stepped out on the small landing.
During our previous encounters, I'd not paid him much attention. Panther had been the focal point on both occasions and Eddie had blurred into the background. I guessed he was younger than Jimmy, probably around Skye's age. His hair hung to the collar of a green flannel shirt, and his black jeans rode low on his scrawny hips. A pair of black ankle boots were laced over the ends of his pant legs, and I suspected their rounded steel toes were part of a mandatory safety wardrobe for his job.
“May we come in?” Romero asked.
Eddie stared at me, clearly surprised by my arrival. “What's he doing here?”
“Deputy Clayton's heading the investigation.”
“I know. Skye told me, but I thought I was just talking with you.”
I stepped forward. “Detective Sergeant Romero will be present during our whole conversation, but unless you don't want to find who killed your friend, you have no reason not to talk to me.”
Eddie Wolfe wiped his hands on his thighs. “No one wants to catch that son of a bitch more than me. Come in.”
I followed Romero into the mobile home. A waist-high counter divided the center space into a living room and a rudimentary kitchen. A MacBook Pro laptop sat on the counter and two stools were tucked beneath it. The screen saver was a series of Indian artifacts drifting across the display in random motion.
The living room had just enough space for a sofa and a recliner. On the far wall hung what must have been a fifty-inch flat screen TV. The frozen image of some video war game showed we'd interrupted Eddie in the middle of a fantasy battle.
“Take a seat. I'll get an extra chair for me.” He retrieved one of the stools and placed it between the sofa and recliner. The taller height brought Eddie to the eye level of Romero seated on the sofa, but would have left me looking up at him.
“I'm good to stand,” I said. “I've been in the car for hours.”
“Suit yourself.” He perched on the stool and looked at me.
Although he tried to appear calm, I saw the glisten of sweat on his upper lip. He rocked back and forth, waiting for me to begin. I stared at him until he glanced down at his hands.
“Well, you going to ask me something?” he mumbled.
“Like what?” From the corner of my eye, I saw Romero's broad forehead wrinkle. He probably thought I had to be the all-time worst interrogator.
“Hey, man, you came to talk to me.”
“I came to listen,” I said. “What do you want to tell me?”
“I didn't have anything to do with Jimmy's death.”
“Because?”
“Because I was at work.”
“Not because he was your friend?”
Eddie flushed. “Of course, he was my friend. What kind of question is that?”