Another Dead Republican (22 page)

I checked my watch. Nearly 8:30. Todd would be in the back of his Lincoln Town Car being driven to work by the house boy. I filled him in.

His first question was, “Did she kill him?”

“No.” He was silent for several beats. I said, “She’s my sister. I know she wouldn’t.”

Todd said, “You’ve described Edgar and his family as the kind of people who would be leading the cheering section as each person arrived in Dante’s circles of hell, and Edgar as the kind of person who, if hell had a brass band, he would be the entire trumpet section. They sound like people who would cause a saint to contemplate murder.”

“What can we do to avoid an unfounded accusation by the police?”

He had me go over what Adlow and then Achtenberg had said. He listened carefully then said, “It’s Friday. I have a few appointments then I’ll drive up. I’ll make calls during the day. Unfounded indictments are something I like to keep track of on the spot.”

I didn’t question his willingness to drive up. He offered, and Scott and I paid him a hefty retainer every year, and he’d bill us for any extra hours. If it took money to keep my sister away from Edgar’s family’s clutches, then I’d spend it. He said he’d be up late that afternoon or early evening.

I said, “What about this company that designed the computer program?”

“If I was a detective still on either case, I would pay a visit to their company.”

“We’re not doing anything right now.”

Todd hesitated. “Be careful. Very, very careful.”

Veronica had said she wanted me to find out who murdered her husband. Now I might have to take action to be proactive to keep her out of jail.

THIRTY-FIVE

Friday 8:48 A.M.

There was a crowd in the kitchen having breakfast. Mom was making omelets. Veronica was talking with Patricia. Dad and Gerald were discussing comic books. David was playing with a hand-held electronic device. Darryl and Lionel were discussing the Grums.

Veronica, Scott, and I stepped into the pantry. I told her what I learned except the part about their possibly trying to arrest her. Veronica said, “Good, I want you to get those goddamn Grums. I knew all the police couldn’t be in their power.”

“Do you need me here?”

“I think I’m not going to have so many people here today. It was nice these past couple days, but I need to take a rest.”

I said, “We’ve got more boxes to go through but we’re around half done. We’ll finish before we leave. We’ll stay as long as it takes.”

Veronica stamped her foot. “Why haven’t they found the killer? Why haven’t they told us anything?” As per my discussion with Enid Achtenberg, I didn’t say
because they’re trying to pin it on you.

I asked, “Do you know if Edgar owned a Colt Mustang Pocketlight .380 Auto?”

“What’s that?”

After I described the gun to her, she shook her head. “I have no idea. He never showed me any of his guns. I never wanted to see any of his guns.”

“Okay. As long as you don’t need us here, we’ll be able to spend the day asking questions.”

“Good. You haven’t found out anything yet?”

I didn’t say,
we found out that your husband was a shit
, but then again I already knew that. I did say, “Nothing that says who did it.”

She went back to the family.

We stood in the front room. Scott asked, “Are you sure you can trust this detective?”

“It’s what we’ve got so far. I can’t give him information about the murder because I don’t have any. He hasn’t asked me for information about Edgar because he knows him and his family far better than we do.”

Scott said, “Would investigating this with you be on an equivalent level as me doing skateboard tricks yesterday afternoon, possibly dangerous, even career ending, kind of not too bright?”

“Well, yeah, sort of, maybe. I hope not.”

I watched his eyes get their mischievous twinkle and his mouth form a bit of a grin. He said, “Well, then count me in.”

We stopped in our room. I used the laptop to connect to the Internet to Google the names that Adlow had given me. That done, we left to try to stop the Grums from destroying Veronica’s and our lives.

THIRTY-SIX

Friday 9:17 A.M.

Two blocks past the gate to the subdivision, I was watching in the review mirror the black wrought-iron sides of the gate clang together when a black SUV came out of a side road. It hung back, but it made turns when I did and didn’t close the distance. I made an abrupt turn and pulled up to a fast-food drive through and ordered some coffee. It was there again as we pulled away.

I said, “We are being followed.”

Scott checked his mirrors. “I noticed him. Who would follow us and why?”

I abruptly cut into another fast food parking lot and got in a long line. The SUV kept going. I cut across the low curb that was meant to keep cars in line. The car bumped and scraped over the curbs. I took a back exit, doubled back the opposite way and parked behind a bank.

“What the hell is going on?” Scott asked.

“That’s what I’d like to know. Adlow didn’t mention any surveillance directed at us, but then I think he’s completely cut out of the loop by now.”

“Or we shouldn’t trust him,” Scott said.

“He gave us information. How much choice do we have?”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Friday 10:38 A.M.

I checked carefully as we drove away. For the moment at least, we had ditched the tail. Frank Smith, whose name Adlow had given us, had a home on Lake Michigan just south of Sheboygan. We drove up a circular, tree-lined drive to a rambling, red brick, ranch home. We’d called ahead and were expected.

A handsome young man answered the doorbell ring. He led us into a sunken living room that looked out over the gray lake. He asked if we wanted refreshments. We declined. He said he’d be back in a moment.

He came back leading Frank Smith - old and dumpy, sad jowls hanging, too much weight lost too quickly on a stooped frame, jeans too big, held up by a belt with holes cut in the strap by hand. A flannel shirt that had seen more washes than my underwear. He looked all of his ninety years as he leaned on a cane.

The young man lingered next to him with a hand out to help. The older man smiled at us. He ran his eyes up and down Scott’s torso, stopped at the bulge at the front of his jeans then moved up to his eyes.

He staggered to Scott and touched his face the way a blind person would, lingering carefully on chin, lips, eyebrows. His mottled hand trembled as he lowered it to his side. Smith said, “Will your arm be okay?”

Scott said, “I hope so.”

“I go to every game you pitch, no matter where it is in the country. When you’re old and a fool and you win over a hundred million dollars in the lottery, you can do stupid things. I never thought I’d meet you. You are someone every gay person should be proud of.”

Scott said, “You’re very kind.”

The old man half coughed, half cackled. “I’m a horny old fool.”

The old man looked at me and swept his eyes over me from head to crotch, lingered at the bulge in the front of my jeans. He smiled and licked his lips. He switched his cane from right hand to left, then held out the right to me.

We shook.

With his cane, Smith nudged the younger man’s leg. “This is my assistant, Brendan Bowers.” The far younger man helped him to a seat. Bowers hovered as his meal ticket lowered himself into a chair. The young man wore faded, skinny-leg, blue jeans, black running shoes, a black T-shirt, covered by a black and gray letterman’s jacket that he may actually have worn in high school not that many years ago.

Scott and I sat. I said, “We’re here because my brother-in-law Edgar Grum was murdered. We’re staying with my sister to help her. We think there might be something odd with the investigation. We were told you had an intimate knowledge of the campaign and might be able to give us some information about him and about Zachary Ross.”

His eyes got teary. He coughed and hacked then leaned back in his chair. “Zachary was a dear, sweet boy, an angel.”

I said, “We’re sorry for your loss.”

Smith coughed again, then sat up. “I can tell you everything about Zachary, about Edgar Grum, and that goddamn election. They stole it. I know they did. They stole it electronically. Absolutely, for sure, they did. I want you to get proof, and I want you to stop them. I can pay you. I won the lottery.”

He pointed at his outfit. “I’m used to the clothes I’ve always worn, but I’ve got more millions than I can spend in my lifetime. It’s hard to even find an escort who is willing to touch a saggy and fragile old man in his nineties. And I’ve got plenty to pay. Plenty. I’ve bankrolled the Jacob Nerz campaign. I gave a million to him in the primary. I gave a million to the general election. I gave a million to the party. I gave a million to the Unions.”

We sat and listened. I had no idea of what, if anything, we’d find out from him about Edgar’s death, but he was old and sad, and he might say something important to the subsequent investigation. Bowers kept his eyes on his boss.

What Smith said now mostly confirmed information I’d seen on the web before we left, but he was rambling and I was waiting.

He smirked. “I’m so glad I won the lottery. A hundred million, fifty after taxes. I got no family. I got no friends. I’m not very nice. But I’ve got causes. Lots of them. Liberal. Do-good. Gay causes. And I’m going to do what I can before I die. I gave a million to the Trevor Project. I gave a million to Lambda Legal. I’m going to make those straight people pay. If I can. I might not be as rich as those assholes trying to steal the election, but I can target my money specifically.”

I wondered how many more times he’d mention winning all that money. No doubt his identity was caught up in it. He’d been a set designer for years at theaters throughout the Midwest and according to the Internet never earned enough to have more than a marginal existence. I wonder if the good fortune coming late in life ever caused him to be bitter.

Smith finally ran down. He let his eyes rove over the walls which were filled with paintings that looked to be Michael Breyette originals. Then his eyes rested on my crotch for a few moments. I spread my legs slightly. If it was giving the old guy a thrill to look between my legs, who was I to deny whatever thrill he got from it? I wasn’t planning to ask him out on a date
,
and his looking cost me nothing. And he was in his nineties. What could it hurt?

He broke the silence. “Someone has to investigate the theft of the election. Someone has to prove it.”

I said, “Aren’t people filing law suits and going to court? We don’t have that kind of expertise.”

“But they don’t know what I know. That Mary Mallon has got to be stopped at all cost. Do you know how rotten she is?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll tell you how rotten she is. You remember those incidents of cops pepper spraying peaceful protesters in California?”

I nodded.

Smith asked, “You know what she did?”

I shook my head.

“She made it her business to call them and offer them jobs as security guards on the state of Wisconsin payroll.”

“Nobody’s heard about this?” I asked. “Nobody’s made a stink about it?”

“I tried. It was during this recall. The Grums have control of the media.”

“Not the Internet.”

“They’ve got their people hacking into every anti-Mallon site on the Internet. They go after every anti-Mallon posting, blog, Facebook page, and Tweet.”

“I heard about that. Didn’t they stop?”

“They got sneakier about it. Hired expert hackers instead of attacking directly. They learned from that idiot governor of Kansas when that eighteen-year-old attempted to express an opinion to sixty-five friends. That attack on an innocent kid backfired, but these guys here in Wisconsin,” he shook his head, “this is money, real money. Hackers have been hired from all around the globe to fight anybody who opposes them.”