Cold Quarry (16 page)

I spent about half an hour looking through all of the documents as well as all the scraps of paper stuffed in the credenza, but came up with nothing. I also found nothing that might incriminate Bo Higgins and his cronies, or Chester or anyone else, for that matter. No hidden diaries with Nazi ramblings. No reading material from white supremacists or anything of that ilk. I felt a little like a peeping Tom after a while, which was saying a lot for a gumshoe. From everything I could tell of his life in this little cubicle, Chester Carew had been a decent man who somehow may have gotten mixed up with the wrong people; and for that he’d paid with his life. It was not a new story. It was one of the saddest ones I knew.

I was just about to pack it in when I noticed a sticky note stuck to one of the envelopes in the credenza. The envelope itself was empty, but on the attached note the following was written in large letters and circled with a red felt-tip pen:

NH
₄
NO
₃
—
Benzene, toluene, and xylene!!!

I knew Chester had been a chemical engineer, of course, but I had no idea what the bright yellow note might have been referring to. Some project he’d been working on? Most likely it was irrelevant, but I copied down the information anyway and put the envelope back in its place.

17

Back in the kitchen, Betty and Jason both sat at the table, where the boy was pushing corn flakes and milk around in his bowl.

“Find anything?” Betty asked.

I shrugged. “Not really. I put everything back the way I found it.”

She nodded as if she’d been expecting this.

“Good morning, buddy,” I said to Jason. “How’re you feeling today?”

“All right,” the boy said. He had a dog-eared copy of a book sitting next to his place at the table,
The Cat in the Hat.

“You’re a reader, I see. That’s a pretty good book for someone your age. Glad to see you reading it.”

“Mamma says I have to. But it’s funny … I kind of like it,” he admitted.

“I tell you what. When you finish with your breakfast, how about heading out to the barn with me to check on Mariah and Torch?”

His eyes grew wide with anticipation. “Sure.”

Ten minutes later, I entered the barn for the second time that morning. Jason was quick on my heels. The boy wore a heavy winter jacket, a ski hat with a long tail that flopped halfway down his back, and rubber boots that were a couple of sizes too big for him.

The birds sat on their respective perches in their separate enclosures. Torch stretched his wings and squawked at our presence, but the big redtail merely stared silently at us.

“Now, Jason. If you want to be a falconer someday, like your daddy probably told you, you understand it takes a certain amount of work.”

“Yes, sir.”

“These creatures aren’t like dogs or cats. You can’t just feed them, give them love and a warm place to sleep and that’s about it. You’ve got to weigh them every day using the scales. You’ve got to keep track of their diet and monitor their health closely.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you’ve got to make sure they get regular exercise and are hunting often during hunting season.”

“Like now,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“How come you and Mr. Jake don’t take Mariah and Torch out hunting then?”

I smiled, thinking again about what the conservation agent had said and wondering what would happen now that she was gone. I expected it would be a little while before her eventual replacement got around to dealing with Chester’s birds. “That gets complicated,” I said. “You see the government has special laws to protect all birds of prey like this.”

“Right. That’s what my daddy told me. That’s why I can’t have one right now.”

“That’s right. And those laws also are pretty strict about who can handle a bird. It wouldn’t be right for Jake or me to come in and start handling your daddy’s birds. The state and your mom have to decide what’s going to become of them first. They might decide to release them back to the wild, which would be okay. A game officer would come and take them away to release them then.”

“Could I go watch?”

“I’m sure you could.”

“What if they didn’t want to release them yet?”

“Then whoever’s going to take care of the birds would get them and begin to handle them and work with them.”

Jason thought about all this for a few moments. Then he asked, “Mr. Frank?”

“Yes?”

“Do hawks go to heaven?”

“When they die you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, I suppose they do.”

“Is that where Elo is right now?”

“I don’t know, Jason. No one’s been able to find him. Why?”

“Because that’s where my daddy went when he died,” he said. “And I’m gonna tell Momma, that’s where I want Mariah and Torch to go too.”

The chemical symbol NH
₄
NO
₃
, I discovered via a quick stop at the Nitro Public Library, stood for ammonium nitrate. Maybe Chester’s little sticky note was not so insignificant after all. The ATF technician working with Grooms had mentioned picking up a minute trace of ammonium nitrate on the road near where the bomb blast had occurred.

Ammonium nitrate, I knew, could be used to build bombs, but that wasn’t what it was made for. NH
₄
NO
₃
was commonly used as simple fertilizer. Millions of pounds of the chemical were sold legally every year. As such, traces might be found in many different places in our environment, particularly near farms, so Grooms was right not to jump to any conclusions regarding the minute quantity his tech had come up with. If more massive traces had shown up, for example, in some more atypical places such as on someone’s clothing or in a nonfarm vehicle, then that might raise suspicions.

I really hit the jackpot though with the second part of Chester’s sticky note. A simple online search pointed me to the fact that benzene, toluene, and xylene were “aromatic compounds” and that they typically made up about 35 percent of another very common commercial product: fuel oil. The potent mixture of fuel oil and ammonium nitrate, commonly known as ANFO, was used for controlled blasting in mining but it could also be used to make gigantic bombs, like the one that had destroyed the federal building in Oklahoma City.

Could this have been what caused someone to murder Chester Carew? Had he discovered that someone, most likely the Stonewall Rangers, was building an ANFO bomb? Had he somehow detected traces of these chemicals on his land?

It all fit with what I’d learned so far and the information, scanty as it was, that Grooms had given me. But if the Rangers were building a big bomb, surely the ATF knew about it from what Grooms had indicated about the Feds being on the inside of their operation. Had Grooms simply discounted the technician’s finding in front of me to try to keep me in the dark? Or was there more to the story?

Dr. Gregory Winston’s office in Dunbar was a long gray rectangular building with rectangular windows at the roofline and a glass entrance. In back, a blacktopped driveway led to a modest two-story colonial home of recent construction. A large sign in front read
K-VALLEY
ANIMAL CLINIC AND HOSPITAL—DR. GREGORY WINSTON,
MRCVS,
and in smaller letters
Member of the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons.

Inside, the rectangular waiting room, empty of any patients at the moment, was filled with dog and cat toys, chewy rawhide bones and fuzzy scratch poles. In one corner was a large electronic scale for weighing the animals before they were taken back to the examining rooms. Peering into a computer screen behind the counter sat a plump, middle-aged woman wearing teardrop-shaped eyeglasses from which dangled lengths of chain on either side of her neck.

“Yes, sir,” she said, looking up at me. “May I help you?”

I handed her one of my business cards. “I was hoping to speak with Dr. Winston if I could.”

She took off her glasses, letting them hang across her ample bosom, and read the card. “A private investigator?” The term seemed to leave a bad taste in her mouth.

“Yes. I was a friend of Chester Carew. My associate stopped by yesterday.”

“Oh, yes … that poor man. Hold on a second. The doctor’s just finished with a procedure. Let me see if he can speak with you.”

She pushed back her chair, rose on seemingly unsteady legs, and left the room. Less than a minute later, a door at the side opened and a casually dressed woman came out walking a bright-eyed golden retriever on a leash who seemed none the worse for wear. She was accompanied by a younger woman wearing surgical scrubs under a short lab coat and they were both followed by the woman with whom I’d spoken behind the counter.

“He said to go ahead and bring you back,” she said.

I followed her as she ambled down a narrow hall to an office in the corner of the building. The door stood open and the vet was seated behind his desk.

“Thank you very much,” I said to the woman.

“You’re welcome.”

The vet rose to his feet and stuck out his hand. “Mr. Pavlicek? I’m Greg Winston.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” I said as we shook.

“The pleasure’s all mine.”

His voice carried a strong hint of a British accent. I made him for early thirties. Athletic, good-looking. Dark hair beginning to go prematurely gray around the temples. The office was tastefully decorated, but nothing overly ornate.

‘Would you like to sit down?” he asked.

“No. That’s okay. I’ll stand.”

“So I understand you knew Chester Carew?” He still held my card in his hand.

“That’s right.”

“And you’re a private investigator.”

“Yes.”

“A falconer too?”

I nodded. “You’re originally from Great Britain?”

“That’s right. I did a lot of work for a falconry school over there when I was in training.”

“How did you end up here in West Virginia?”

“Actually, my mother was born here. I love it. I guess you could say I’ve become addicted to the outdoors.”

“Sure.”

“I’m sorry, but how can I help you this morning, Mr. Pavlicek?”

“You performed some tests on Chester’s falcon when he brought the bird in recently.”

“That’s right. Elo was experiencing respiratory distress and I was afraid he might’ve ingested some kind of toxin, so I drew some blood.”

“What exactly do you think could have caused Elo to take ill as he did?”

“Any of a number of chemicals or liquid agents, if present in sufficient quantities. My guess is something caustic that would have irritated the respiratory tract.”

“Do you have the test results yet?”

“No. Not yet,” he said. “We don’t perform that kind of analysis here. I sent them off to a lab, but I’m expecting them back. Maybe even later today or tomorrow.”

“I’d appreciate it if you would share those results with me when they come in.”

“Why? Do you think they might have something to do with Chester’s death?”

“I don’t know. Just want to make sure I’m covering all my bases.”

“Not a problem. You can call or stop by later if you’d like.”

“Have you heard anything from the police?” I asked.

“No.”

“All right. Well, thanks for your time.” I turned to go. “I hope Elo is all right and that somebody finds him,” he said.

“Me too,” I said.

Later that morning I drove back to Tony Warnock’s office. Ever industrious for a Saturday morning, Warnock was in his office just as he said he would be when I’d met with him the first time. A woman in a brown pantsuit, not the same receptionist as two days before, said Mr. Warnock was just sitting down with the parties for a real estate closing. I told her who I was and that it was very important I talk with him. She smiled and said she thought he might be willing to break away to talk with me for a moment.

Stopping to refuel the truck, I’d had a chance to peruse the Charleston paper. There was a piece on the car bombing that had killed Conservation Officer Gwen Hallston. Thankfully, there was no mention of me or Farraday by name. Good thing Kara Grayson wasn’t a print journalist.

I’d taken a circuitous route to Warnock’s office, pulling in a couple of driveways and doubling back to make sure I wasn’t being followed. I saw nothing, but that didn’t have me convinced the Feds were no longer interested in my comings and goings.

Warnock was tight-lipped and serious when he appeared in the hallway and ushered me into an adjoining empty office and closed the door. He had a sheaf of papers in hand, some kind of legal document, and wore reading glasses that rode down the front of his nose.

“Something to report?”

“Yeah. You’re not friendly with local reporters, are you?”

“No. Why?”

“You heard about the bombing yesterday?”

“Yes. It’s disturbing.”

“I was there.”

“Oh.”

“But that’s not half as disturbing as learning you’re hooked up with the Stonewall Rangers.”

He stared at me over the top of his glasses. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“I really have no idea.”

I said nothing.

He sat down in an office chair next to the empty desk. “So as far as Chester’s death, you think there’s more to this, do you, than some drunk hunter blasting away?”

“More to this? Are you kidding?”

He raised his eyebrows. I decided not to tip my hand.

“Where’s your friend Toronto?” he asked.

“I want to know what your skin in the game is on all this, Warnock,” I said. “You were casting around doubts about Jake a couple of days ago.”

“What do you mean?”

“For all I know, you’ve been playing everybody. What’s your relationship with Bo Higgins, and who else, besides the Stonewall Rangers, are you involved with?”

Warnock made a bridge with his fingers, folded them across his lap, and stared into them. “You’re not making any sense. Higgins? And why would I possibly want to cast aspersions on your friend Toronto? My doubts about him are based solely on some questions I asked about him of the local sheriff’s office. They did some kind of background check and came up with various nefarious dealings he was suspected of being associated with.”