Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.
Or a cave.
Harry K-turned in a drive and we broke off before passing Burlew’s house. I said, “Pull off somewhere and let’s see what sort of fish we caught.”
We parked behind an elementary school two blocks away. I gloved my hands and dumped out a sheaf of papers and an eight-by-ten envelope. I picked through the papers and found a page torn from the personals section of the NewsBeat. I read it aloud.
“Gorgeous Man Wants A Loving Friend—SWM, twenty-two, bi, safe. Blue eyes, dark brown hair, very good looking and masculine, buff build, beautiful smile, can be mild or wild, traditional or experimental, loves to travel and is a great companion. Seeks older man, distinguished and generous…”
“Nelson’s ad,” Harry said. “Generous? That mean what I think, Cars? Put down some money ’fore you reach for the honey?”
I nodded and kept reading through a few more descriptives and a request for a photo.
Harry said, “Anything else in there, like Cutter’s ad? Or something from Losidor?”
I found another ad, very similar to the other, but aimed at women; they were both compelling ads and I figured Nelson, with a little training, could have been an ad copywriter.
But that was all that seemed to pertain to the cases. Nothing else stood out, like they were simply a wad of various forms clipped together for convenient storage. I set the papers aside and opened the eight-by-ten envelope.
“Pictures of Nelson, I’ll bet,” Harry said. “Smiling for the audience.”
A stack of photos and a wallet of negatives shook out of the envelope. I studied a photo. Another. Then riffled through them like playing cards.
“Shit,” I said, handing the photos to Harry. He glanced at several, then dropped them back in his lap.
“Bales of it and pails of it,” he agreed.
“This is difficult,” Zane Peltier said. He sat on a red velvet sofa and stared at the Oriental carpet. Beside him was the folder. The photos were in a file on a crystal table in front of him, upside down. Harry sat on a piano bench, a black Steinway gleaming behind him. I leaned against an ornate high-backed chair, a Louis the something-or-other. I could never keep my Louies straight.
Clair sat in a wing-backed chair to the side of her husband. Zane aimed his wet eyes at her. She looked away.
Their home was on the eastern shore of Mobile Bay, in Daphne, on a high bluff overlooking the bay. The House of Peltier was an amazement of columns, arches, high embellished ceilings. Chandeliers seemed the norm, light from the tall windows sparkling through countless facets of dangled crystal. The furnishings fit the space: grand piano, looming wardrobes, marble-topped buffets of rare and burled woods. Impressionistic paintings stood easeled at eye height. The snow-white carpet flowed so perfectly, it seemed to have been poured rather than laid. Yet, despite the diversity of objects and effects, I noted no cosanguinity of furnishings, no sense of two human beings living here, and only the barest feeling of life at all. The only hint of breath came from battered running shoes beneath a chaise, women’s shoes.
It was evening, time for moisture evaporated from the Gulf to be dragged inland and dumped. It’s pocket rain, sun splashing the east side of a field while the west side’s beaten flat by raindrops the size of marbles. Through the cathedral window I saw dark clouds lined up to the horizon, cumulonimbus hanging like gravid bellies. Tucked between clouds were thin veins of blue sky, invisible until almost directly above. Harry shifted on his piano bench. I cleared my throat and addressed Zane.
“You were in charge of paperwork,” I said.
Zane inspected his lustrous black shoes through wet eyes. “I’m the businessman, Clair’s the doctor.”
“You set everything up.”
“She occasionally evaluated equipment for manufacturers. I suggested she turn it into a bona fide business, taxes and all. Bayside Consulting.”
I looked at Clair. She was the great stone face and I couldn’t imagine what it was hiding. We’d come to speak to Zane, but Clair appeared and snatched the folder away. She studied three photos, more than enough to tell the story, and handed them to her husband without a word.
Ten very long minutes ago.
I said, “Seeing Nelson’s body in the morgue shook you so much because you recognized it.”
“His hands. His skin. His—” Zane sunk his face in his hands. His fingernails shone like mica. He wore a small gold wedding band and a larger silver pinkie ring. Clair shuddered and looked away.
I said, “When you needed a cover for your trip to Biloxi, you had Bayside pay. Clair never sees the paperwork.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “She signs a few forms at tax time.”
“You met Nelson through the NewsBeat.”
“I was looking through it one day. I saw an ad…” He looked at Clair. “Just for someone to talk to, just talk.”
Clair’s hands began to flutter, the motion quickly staunched. Zane continued. “We met and that’s when it all started. It was—I don’t know…”
“You had nothing to do with his death, did you?” I asked.
His eyes went wide, horrified. “My God, no. Even though—”
“Even though he and Terri Losidor started blackmailing you. You were his big payoff, the one he bragged about.”
I figured that when Terri filed charges against Nelson, he offered to share the proceeds from blackmailing Peltier. By this time Terri would have discovered Nelson’s greed was stronger than his talent for larceny and she wriggled deep into planning the scam.
“Peltier’s wife’s going away for a few days? Jerrold, you get him to take you to some fancy-ass place we can hide one of those little cameras…”
Zane said, “He wanted a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Probably not all that much to you.”
“I knew Jerrold well enough to know he—they, would keep coming back. I confessed my situation to an officer who coordinates security at various events I hold—stockholders meetings, charity benefits…a Sergeant Burlew.”
“One of the perks of being Squill’s spear carrier,” I said to Harry. “You get to cherry-pick the cushy overtime gigs.”
Zane said, “I told the sergeant if he found and destroyed the materials in question, I’d pay him twenty thousand dollars.”
I saw where this road was headed. “But Burlew turned on you, didn’t he?”
“When Jer—Mr. Nelson, was killed, the sergeant said I was now linked to a murdered homosexual with a record of drugs and prostitution, an incredible scandal; I’d be the butt of ridicule.”
“Burlew picked up where Nelson left off, started blackmailing you, right?” The lines were no longer invisible; they were a black picket fence in a field of snow. I figured when Terri was working with Nelson, she’d kept the photos. That she’d retained possession meant Burlew and Terri had forged a new partnership. She was proving a very resilient lady.
Zane nodded. “Sergeant Burlew demanded two hundred thousand dollars. And a job in one of my companies.”
“Director of security?” I ventured.
Zane looked me straight in the eyes for the first time. “He wanted to be a horticulturalist.”
I stared at Zane as if he’d spoken in Swahili.
“Horticulturist? You mean like…”