Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5) (16 page)
Read Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5) Online
Authors: Jerusha Jones
“Hell in a handbasket,” Clarice muttered.
I scowled up at her then tugged the page from Emmie’s hand. “Let’s save this one for later, sweetheart,” I murmured. I folded it into a tiny square and stuffed it in my pocket with the lawyer’s contact info.
A phone on the kitchen counter rang. Clarice’s apparently, given the way she lunged for it.
“What?” she answered. “Uh-huh. Right.” She emitted a dry, prolonged cackle. “Yes, well, the FBI’s not trusting her with phones right now.” She thrust her phone under my nose. “Josh wants to know why you’re so hard to get ahold of.”
It took some explaining.
“Damn,” Josh muttered when I finished. “Guess we don’t need those recordings now.”
“Nope.” I agreed. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Ah, well, you’re wrong there.” Josh perked up. “The night before last, the ATF raided that barn we found, right while the Mongrels were holding church.”
I blinked. “Church?”
“What they call their weekly club meetings. Gives the confab an air of piety, doesn’t it?” He guffawed rather raucously.
I felt like I was on the wrong side of an inside joke. “Josh?”
“Yeah. So guess who that barn belongs to, besides a CHP dispatcher?” Another chuckle.
“I have no idea,” I replied dryly. “How about we quit with the Socratic method and you just tell me?”
“One William Robinson,” Josh announced.
“Who is—?” I prompted.
“Reggie Bolton’s son-in-law.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. I’d never heard of these guys before, but I already felt sorry for the wife/daughter who linked them. “Josh—” I tried again.
“Reggie Bolton, also known as Roots Bolton, is the current national secretary-treasurer of the Mongrels Outlaw Motorcycle Club. Ebersole likes to keep his top officers close—under his thumb I guess you could say, both positionally and geographically. Guess where Roots keeps all the club records—membership, finances, the works? You know, because he sure wouldn’t want those items in his own house, given how incriminating they are.”
“In his son-in-law’s barn?” Now I felt a little giddy myself.
“You got it. Along with about twenty guns, including a couple automatic rifles, a bunch of knives, and some C-4. Naturally, the ATF is hyperventilating and engaged in a mad dash of indictments. The early analysis indicates Ebersole was skimming big time, pocketing the bulk of the membership dues from the Mongrels chapters. The IRS is going to want to get in on the fun too.”
“Wait,” I blurted. “People pay for the privilege of being a Mongrel?” The idea was appalling.
“You got it. Twenty bucks per member per week, usually, collected during their chapter’s
church
service. Unless Ebersole was facing a cash crunch, then he’d levy additional fines for trumped up reasons, or just because he could.”
“He was extorting his own people?” I asked, just to make sure I’d understood correctly. No wonder he could afford to buy all those rounds of beer.
“Makes the law-abiding life look pretty good, doesn’t it?” Josh’s laugh was infectious.
In fact, that’s what I was still doing when a very tired looking Matt strode into the kitchen, forgoing knocking as per his usual method of entry.
“Gotta go,” I whispered and disconnected the call.
I slipped the phone to Clarice, and she dropped it into her apron pocket. Then she set about preparing coffee with Matt’s permanently-loaned French press.
And when I said I had something I needed to do first, he gave me a nod of approval with absolutely no hesitation.
I stumped, one slow step at a time, up the stairs to my bedroom. Because I was sick of secrets. I had a burning ache to turn everything—everything, everything, everything—over to him. But I had to read the note first. Just in case. Since it was written to me.
I sprawled on the bed and unfolded Skip’s final missive.
Darling Nora,
You were never meant for me. I’ve always known this. But if I could go back and change things, including meeting you, I wouldn’t. Even though I had no right to draw you into my plans, the short time we had together before it all went haywire is my sweetest memory.
It’s my hope that these documents offer some relief in the form of explanation. The rest of the explanation—if there is one; I’m not entirely sure some days—is my debt to you, one which I will never be able to repay. Please forgive me.
Thank you for caring for my mother. You’re in a good place. A much better one than I would ever have been able to give you.
Always and forever, all my love,
Skip
Nothing new, really. I wasn’t sure what I’d been hoping for—a signed confession? From the little I’d seen of jail when I’d gone to visit Lutsenko, I could understand why someone—Skip in particular—wouldn’t want to spend any time there.
I scooted off the bed and eased my way back down to the kitchen only to find that Clarice had marshaled everyone into the large main room. It seemed the task before us warranted extra hospitality. Or maybe knowing that everything said in the kitchen wasn’t exactly limited to the kitchen creeped her out.
Regardless, she’d laid out a lovely spread of cookies and a couple Bundt cakes and a full coffee service at one end of a long banquet table, and she, Loretta, Walt, and Matt were already seated.
“Sent Emmie out with table scraps for the pigs,” Clarice murmured as I hobbled behind her, and I squeezed her shoulder appreciatively.
I slid into the empty chair next to Walt and stretched over to lay Skip’s note on top of the packet in front of Matt.
“That’s all,” I whispered. No more compartmentalizing. No more partial truths. No more scheming.
Matt quickly read Skip’s handwritten note and lifted his head, brows arched. “Has everyone seen these?” He tapped the packet of papers.
I shook my head and shot a sidelong glance at Walt.
Matt shoved the papers across the table to Walt, and we all waited awkwardly, and perhaps breathlessly—those of us who knew him well—while he skimmed them, because there was one component of the packet that would thrill his heart. Talk about getting hit with a sledgehammer broadside.
I leaned into him and laid my hand on his tense thigh. “It’s yours,” I whispered. “Mayfield’s all yours—for the boys’ camp.”
He refused to look at me. His Adam’s apple slid down and up as he swallowed, and he shuffled through the pages again as though he was trying to refresh his memory. I glanced down and discovered that the papers trembling in his hands were the copy of my marriage annulment.
“All right, then.” Matt cleared his throat and took a big slurp of coffee as though he needed the lubrication. “I’ve come to the realization that the best questioning goes both ways. Also, I’m not keen to repeat myself, which is why you’re all here. So I’m going to run through the rough time line we’ve put together regarding yesterday’s events. You can ask me whatever you want. Then I’m going to ask you whatever I want.” He narrowed his eyes at me.
I got the point and smirked back at him.
“Good. Let’s start with Judge Trane’s calls. I’m just going to read the transcript of the message she left for you, Nora, since it’s self-explanatory. And since you didn’t get to hear it the first time around.” Matt cleared his throat again, and I wondered if he was getting sick.
He pulled a paper out of the expandable file he’d brought.
“Nora? This is Nancy Trane,”
he read.
“I’m mortified beyond description. When I told you I wanted there to be no shadow of suspicion hanging over any of my rulings, and I therefore requested that you restrict your actions, I had no idea that the shadow of suspicion would actually occur within my office.”
“I have fired Theo. It has come to my attention that he has been communicating—on his own initiative—with the corporate lawyer of record for Turbo-Tidy Clean. Since I had appointed you with power of attorney for this two-week period, any communication with Blandings could be considered—well, definitely outside the best interests of the company and its recognized creditors. Personally, I consider it treason. He’s also been communicating with others about your case. A man named Felix Ochoa for one, but there may be others.”
My heart missed a few beats. Even though this was old news, it was terrifying to hear about it in Judge Trane’s own words.
Matt glanced up to make sure I was still following and then continued,
“He scrubbed the emails from his directory before I grasped the full extent of his indiscretion, but I think his first contact with Blandings and Ochoa was on Monday morning—in other words, almost immediately after the ruling was filed. I’m working with our technical support people to see if we can retrieve the emails and read all of their contents. In the meantime, it would be safest for you to assume the worst. I am sorry. Deeply sorry.”
“I know it won’t affect your outcome, but please know that I will bring the full weight of the law and his employment contract to bear on Theo. His behavior is inexcusable, a dereliction of duty of the severest magnitude, a professional betrayal. There aren’t enough words. I’m sorry. I will notify the FBI next.”
“Which she did,” Matt said. “I have to give it to her, she’s one tenacious lady. Because the first two times she called the San Francisco office, the receptionists politely took messages and said they’d have someone get back to her. Finally, she annoyed one of the operators so much that she was forwarded to Special Agent Jeremy Biddle—one of the agents who happened to be in that conference room with us. He realized just how bad of a meltdown this might be and started triage. They really haven’t been able to track Ochoa’s movements down there, but Biddle made the right call in also assuming the worst—that possibly Ochoa had left the state.”
Matt piled a few cookies on a paper napkin and carefully positioned the little serving square next to his coffee mug. He was the only one of us who was even considering eating.
“Biddle was partly able to connect the dots because when Martin Zimmermann turned himself in, he also submitted a nice library of audio recordings in an effort to bolster his request for a lenient plea deal. Some of those recordings are of transactions between Zimmermann and Ochoa a few years ago. They would have provided the cornerstone of a strong racketeering case against Ochoa.”
“Would have?” I asked.
Matt gave me a tight smile and broke a cookie in half. He placed both pieces back on the napkin and wiped his fingers on his pants. “I’m getting there.” He nodded thanks to Clarice as she refilled his mug. “Agent Biddle called me in Seattle shortly after our recording technician notified me of Judge Trane’s message to your phone. I called you—” Matt directed a glare at me, “but didn’t get an answer. I called Violet. But, given the expanse of Mayfield and the fact that no one could confirm where Ochoa was, she decided to establish a perimeter as best she could but wait to begin the search for you until we could provide backup for her small team. She followed standard operating procedure exactly as she should have. Needless to say, hearing small arms fire while she was rallying her troops was her worst nightmare.”
I cringed and forgave Violet for yelling at me.
“Which brings us to Ochoa,” Matt continued. “He never regained consciousness, and he was pronounced dead around four o’clock this morning. Therefore, no racketeering case needed.”
I gasped. “Then—then—” I squeezed my eyes shut and saw Skip all over again, with his arm outstretched, gun bucking with the force of the shots he fired into Ochoa’s abdomen.
“There’ll be an autopsy,” Matt said gently. “He had four entry wounds. Two in his lower torso, one under his left arm, and one in the back of his neck, at a downward angle.” He gestured with his hand, forefinger pointed down at his cookie collection, thumb up for the trigger. Then he thought better of it and shoved both of his hands under the table. “The lab will try to match the bullets recovered from Ochoa’s body with specific guns, but that might be a challenge since we only recovered two of the four reported weapons. The ME will tell us which bullets were the primary cause of death. Could have been any one of them, possibly, or, more likely, some combination of the four.”
Across from me, Loretta was gnawing the inside of her cheeks, her gaze hollow, and I knew I needed to change the subject.
“What about the similarity in approach? ATVs? Like Joe Solano’s men?” My questions bumped against each other, but I’d been mulling over the idea all during the basement search.
“Right.” Matt straightened in his seat and finally popped one of the cookie halves in his mouth. “Both of the men who accompanied Ochoa are talking. Once they learned their boss was dead, they became extremely eager to cooperate. We’re going to have to verify, but one of them—the one with the broken leg—claims that the hit on Solano was ordered by Ochoa, that Ochoa turned some of Solano’s men, put them on the payroll, and they did the hit for him. They bragged to him about kidnapping you and how weak Solano was for letting you go. Trumping themselves up, probably. It sounds like there has been a series of power struggles between Numeros, and it’s not always clear which ones were fighting and which ones were cooperating at any given point in time.”
“And they brought Solano back here and buried him in my cemetery,” I murmured.
“One way to impress the new boss, I guess.” Matt shrugged.
“So you’re leaving then,” Clarice announced in a tone of finality. She flitted her gnarled fingers in the direction of the woods that still teemed with evidence-collecting FBI agents. “For good.”
Matt nodded. “Soon. All the Numeros on Nora’s—Skip’s—list are either dead or in jail and facing charges that will keep them incarcerated for a long time. I think the shortest term is—” He pawed through his file folder and slipped out another sheet of paper. He ran his finger down the list. “Eighteen years. For Neil Byrnes, for attempted murder, embezzlement, fraud.”
Matt even managed a little chuckle. “None of these guys want to go before a jury. I think we’ll see a whole slew of guilty pleas in the next several months.”
“Are you saying Nora won’t have to testify?” Clarice asked, her eyes wide behind the cat’s-eye glasses. I could have hugged her.
“That’s a possibility. Although we’ll hold that option in reserve, in case the defense teams for any of these mobsters get frisky.”
When Matt starts making jokes, it’s definitely time to wrap up the meeting. “My dad?” I asked.
“Is enjoying his Jell-O brand chocolate pudding in peace”—Matt checked his watch—“as of three hours ago. His protection detail has been assigned elsewhere.”
I wasn’t sure Dad would really notice one way or the other, but I beamed at Matt. “Thank you. First for placing them at the care facility, and now for removing them. But I do have a special request—there’s a nurse named Arleta and an agent named Antonio Hackett—”
“Noooo.” Matt waggled a finger at me. “No. We are not going there.” But he was grinning. “No favors. Any other questions?”
“What about the bankruptcy?” Loretta piped up. “Since Nora’s not married to Skip anymore, she doesn’t have to be involved in that, does she?”
“Correct. No further need for bankruptcy proceedings. The federal government’s seizure of assets stands, and the company will be completely dismantled since we don’t want any other crooks getting bright ideas about how to use the car washes for money laundering. The US Marshals Service will handle the sale of any tangible property.” Matt actually looked a little sheepish.
“And the proceeds will go into the FBI’s crime-fighting coffers,” I added.
“That’s how it works,” Matt admitted.
“Good. Maybe that will help make up for the runaround I gave you.” I decided Clarice’s pecan shortbread cookies were far too tantalizing to go unscathed and helped myself.
“You could show me out,” Matt said.
My mouth fell open, and then I snapped it closed, crumbs intact. “What about your questions?” I mumbled around chopped pecans and butter-rich cookie.
“I got what I came for.” Matt rose. “And I know how to get ahold of you should I need to.”
“Well, except”—I gestured vaguely—“you have my phone.”
