Collateral Damage (27 page)

“That didn't work out too well,” said Jock.

“Let's go back to the house. We might find something there.”

“Might as well.”

“What if somebody calls the police?” I asked.

“Good point. Let's get in and out in a hurry.”

We didn't find much. The house had three bedrooms, one of which appeared to be Stanley's and another where the Asian guy had been staying. There was a suitcase sitting open on the bed, but there was nothing in it other than the normal things a person carries when traveling.

“Looks like he was only visiting,” I said.

“Yeah. Let's see if there's a passport or some other kind of identification.”

We didn't find anything that would tell us who the visitor was. Just some clothes and toiletries. We found a computer in the master bedroom and another in a small office off the living room. I took the hard drives from both and we left the house. We hadn't been there more than ten minutes.

“What now?” Jock asked.

“There are two women who work in the Otto Foundation office. I'd like to talk to them.”

“Do you know how to find them?”

“Let's get into the office. There's got to be some kind of records there that'll lead us to them.”

“Breaking and entering is a felony in Georgia, right?” asked Jock.

“Yep.”

“Okay. Just checking.”

We drove back to the Riverside Drive office. It was dusk by the time we got there. Nobody was around. The small stores that took up the rest of the space in the center were closed. No cars in the lot.

“Can you pick the lock?” I asked.

“Sure.” He pulled a small case from his wallet, extracted his picks.

I parked the car right in front of the office and kept it running in case we had to make an emergency exit. Jock went to the door and opened it as quickly as if he'd had a key. I guess he'd had a lot of practice with that sort of thing.

I got out of the car and went inside. I remembered the table where I'd found Stanley when I'd visited the week before. I turned on the computer and ran into a screen requesting a password. Damn. I thought about for a few beats and then typed in “Bracewell.” Nothing. Just a blinking message telling me that was not the right password. I thought some more and typed in “Lompoc.” Same result.

I didn't have a lot of time to fool with this. I didn't want to get arrested for breaking and entering. I thought some more and tried an old trick Debbie had once told me about. I typed in “copmol” the name of the prison spelled backward. Bingo. I was in.

I did a quick search. Nothing other than what appeared to be normal business files. The bank account statements showed several large checks being written each month to various corporations and foundations. The Otto Foundation seemed to have plenty of money, but I thought it curious that it was sending so much to other entities. Maybe there was some sort of cross-pollination between the foundations and the corporations were supplying goods or services that helped in building the schools.

I found the payroll account. Apparently a local bank handled the payroll, withholding, and whatever else was needed. A monthly report was sent to the foundation. The report included the names and addresses of the employees Bud Stanley, Judy Avera, Maude Lane, and Nigella Morrissey along with their social security numbers and rates of pay.

“This is odd,” I said. I pointed out the payroll entries.

“Probably her dad was Nigel and they wanted to feminize it.”

“I'm talking about the payroll, not the lady's name.”

“What?”

“The foundation pays Bud a hundred twenty thousand a year, which is probably pretty standard. It pays two of the women thirty thousand a year and the third one, Nigella Morrissey, the same thing Stanley makes.”

“What's Morrissey's job title?” asked Jock.

“Don't know. None of them has a job title.”

“Get their addresses. We'll need to talk to them.”

“No address for Morrissey, but the other two are here,” I said. “Let's go pay a visit. See if they know anything.”

I used a coin to unscrew the back of the computer and removed the hard drive. Might as well take it. I didn't think Mr. Stanley would be coming in to work the next day.

Jock plugged Judy Avera's address into the GPS system on the rental. We followed the directions given by the voice of that annoying woman who seemed to run every GPS system in the world. We crossed the Ocmulgee River and turned into a middle-class neighborhood. It was dark now, and the streetlights cast circles of light at every corner, leaving the rest of the street in shadow. We pulled up in front of a house in the middle of the block.

I looked at my watch as we walked up the sidewalk to the small front porch. Almost nine. A little late for a social call, but too early for an emergency worker to be knocking on the door. I rang the bell and in a few moments I saw a shadow move across the peephole. Somebody was taking a look at us. A woman's voice came from the other side. “Who is it?”

“It's Matt Royal, Mrs. Avera. I was in your office a couple of weeks ago visiting with Mr. Stanley.”

“Just a minute.”

I heard a lock turn in the door, and one of the women I remembered from the office was standing there. She was in her fifties or maybe a little older. She obviously took good care of herself. She was wearing a loose housedress, her light brown hair tied in a knot on the top of her head.

“Come in,” she said. “My husband and I are having our one after-dinner drink. Can I get you something? A drink? Coffee?”

I could smell the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting in from
the back of the house. It'd been a long day. “I wouldn't mind a cup of coffee, if it's not too much trouble,” I said. “This is Jock Algren, a friend who is helping me investigate the murder of Jim Desmond.”

She led us into a living room. A man sat in a chair, his feet on a hassock, a glass of red wine in his hand. He stood, shook hands, and sat back down. Judy motioned us to chairs and we sat. She left the room and returned in a couple of minutes with two steaming mugs of coffee. She took a chair next to her husband who had not uttered one word in her absence.

“Poor Jim,” Mrs. Avera said. “Bud told us you were a lawyer trying to help his family find the murderers.”

“That's correct,” I said.

“How can I help?”

“Did you know Jim?”

“Yes. I meet all the kids. I usually work some with them out on the Mercer campus while they're in orientation.”

“Have you worked for the foundation for a long time?”

“About six years,” she said.

“Did you know Bud Stanley before you went to work there?”

“I'd met him a time or two at social functions, but we weren't friends or anything. I heard he was looking for an assistant and I applied for the job. My kids were grown, and I wanted something to do to keep myself busy.”

“Do you know any of these people?” I asked, showing her the pictures of John Nguyen and the other two Asians who were aboard
Dulcimer
the night of the murders.

She studied the pictures for a few moments, then pointed to one of them. “I've seen this one recently. He had a cast on his arm. Ran from his shoulder to his wrist.” She was pointing at the picture of the man who had tried to knife me on the North Shore boardwalk.

“When did you see him?” I asked.

“He was in last week. Thursday, I think. Maybe it was Wednesday.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No. Well, maybe once, but I'm not sure.”

“When would the other time have been?”

“If it was the same man, it was probably back in May or June. Do you think he had something to do with Jim's murder?”

“We're not sure, Mrs. Avera. We're just looking at all possibilities.”

“Did you ever hear the man speak?” Jock asked.

“Yes.”

“English?” Jock asked.

“Oh yes. That's the only language I speak. He talked to me when he first came in.”

“Anything distinctive about his accent?” asked Jock. “Heavy accent?”

“No. He spoke American English. Sounded Southern, too. I think he's from around here.”

“Did he tell you his name?”

She was quiet for a moment. “Now that you mention it, I don't think he ever did.”

“Do you remember what you talked about?” I asked.

“Nothing really. Just passing the time of day. Bud was on the phone, and I was just being nice to him.”

“Was it unusual to have Asians come into the office?” I asked.

“Not at all. We deal with three countries in Southeast Asia, so it's not unusual to have Asians stop by.”

“What is their business here?”

“I don't know. Bud always talks to them privately. Back in the break room.”

“Did you ever ask about any of them?”

“No. It's none of my business. Once, last year, I mentioned to Bud that I thought it a little funny that some of them came around so often. It really made him mad. He told me it was none of my business and that I should keep my nose out of it. So, I do.”

“Was that outburst unusual for Bud?”

“Oh, yes. He apologized later and even sent flowers here to my home. It never happened again.”

“Did you ever hear the name Robert Charles Bracewell?” I asked.

“No, not that I remember.”

“Who handles the money that comes in from donors?”

“Bud does all that.”

“Does he keep a list of donors?”

“I'm sure he does. Probably on his computer. Neither Maude nor I have access to the list, but Maude does the routine bookkeeping.”

“What about Nigella Morrissey?”

“Who?”

“Nigella Morrissey.”

“I don't know her.”

“Doesn't she work for the foundation?”

“No. There's only the three of us, Maude, Bud, and myself.”

“Could she be some sort of outside recruiter or fund-raiser or something like that?”

“I would've met her if she worked for the foundation. We didn't recruit other than to put flyers out in high schools around the state. The only fund-raising that I'm aware of is what Bud gets from some of the parents of the kids who go to Asia. The foundation supports most of our needs.”

“How big is the principle of the foundation?”

“I have no idea. I'd guess it's pretty big to put as much money into our operation as it does.”

“Do you know how much money comes in every year from the Otto Foundation?”

“Not a clue. But it isn't cheap to send those kids to Asia and pay for their upkeep.”

“Does Bud handle all those disbursements?”

“Bud and sometimes Maude. It's all handled electronically. I never see any of that.”

We were quiet for a few moments, sipping the rich coffee. I asked, “Do you know of any other of the kids who were ever part of the program who have died?”

“There was one boy from Hahira who died of cancer a couple of years back. And, of course, Andy Fleming.”

“What happened to Andy ?” I asked.

“Poor boy. Somebody shot him.”

Alarm bells were banging inside my head. “When?”

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Over in Alabama. Outside a bar. I think it was just his being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Was he on the same trip as Jim Desmond?”

“Oh, no. He was there last year. He had just finished up his freshman year at Auburn when he was killed.”

The bells were subsiding. Young Fleming's death didn't fit any pattern I could discern. I'd check it out, but it was probably not connected. “Do you remember the name of the town where Andy was killed?” I asked.

“I think he was in his hometown. Birmingham.”

The clock on the wall told me it was almost ten. “We'd like to talk to Maude Lane, too. Do you think she could meet us early in the morning before she goes to work?”

“Maude's a night owl. She only lives two blocks from here. I'll call her. She'll probably see you tonight.”

A streetlight illuminated the front of Maude Lane's small white clapboard house. Marigolds lined the bricked walkway to the front door. Azaleas flanked the front stoop and lights on either side of the doorway were on. I knocked on the door.

A lady in her seventies opened it. She had a wrinkled face split by a smile of welcome. Her gray hair was in a bun pinned at the back of her head, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. I recognized her from my brief visit to the Otto Foundation offices two weeks before. “Mr. Royal,” she said. “Do come in. This must be Mr. Algren.”

The house was neat and clean and forty years old. The furnishings were of excellent quality, but a bit out of style, as if they'd been there for a lot of years. I smelled freshly brewed coffee as we entered the living room. The caffeine jolt I'd gotten at Judy Avera's wasn't enough to dampen my need. I hoped Mrs. Lane would offer us some more. She did.

“Take a seat, gentlemen. I'll get us all some coffee.”

She returned with a sterling silver set, pot, tray, creamer, and sugar bowl. The cups were porcelain with small blue flowers and a gold band
around the rim. “We used to do this every night,” she said. “My husband, Karl, and me. Late coffee never seemed to keep either of us awake. He's gone now.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Thank you, Mr. Royal. He was a good man, but the cancer ate him up, and it was a relief when he passed on. He was in such pain. But the years go by and the memories fade and every once in a while, like now, they come bounding back with a force that surprises me. But you didn't come here to talk about me. Judy said you're looking into Jim Desmond's death. How can I help you?”

“I appreciate your seeing us so late, Mrs. Lane,” I said. “We're beginning to think there was an Asian connection to his death. Mrs. Avera said there were a lot of Asians in and out of your office. Can you tell me anything about them?”