Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) (2 page)

“Are you all right?” said Maureen, kneeling beside me, cradling my head with her left arm. My face and shirt were damp. Maureen held an empty pint glass in her right hand.

“I was fine until you doused me with a perfectly good pint.”

“What happened?” said Maureen.

“Where’d they go?” 

“Where did who go?”

“The two men in suits,” I said. “Where is Erin Miller? Where’d they take her?”

“I don’t know.”

I rolled onto my knees and slowly stood. I felt dizzy. My head throbbed. I staggered out the back door to the alley. I looked up and down but saw nothing. Nobody moving, no vehicles driving away. I went out front hoping Erin’s car might be parked there. No cars were there.

I walked back inside. 

“What’d you see?” I said. 

“I was in the cellar,” she said. “I heard commotion upstairs. I came up to investigate and saw you lying on the floor like a puddle of spilt soup.” 

I walked behind the bar and washed my hands and face. I packed a McClanahan's napkin with ice and pressed it on the lump on the back of my noggin.  

“Tell me what happened,” said Maureen.

I opened the bar drawer and found a bottle of aspirin. I chewed four and washed them down with a glass of water, then told her what happened.

“I can’t believe it,” she said.

“That it took two men to knock me out?”

“No, that it took them so long.”

Pittsburgh Police Sargent Jim Modrack entered the front door of the pub with two other officers. His precinct was located only four blocks from the pub.

“Thanks for coming so fast,” said Maureen.

“What happened?” said Jim.

I told him all I knew.

“Let’s file an assault report,” said Jim. “Give me a description of the two men and I’ll alert my officers to keep an eye out.”

I nodded and gave him my best description.

“You get knocked out like that, it’s a good idea to seek medical treatment,” said Jim.

“I’m OK,” I said.

“I’ll keep an eye on the stubborn fool,” said Maureen. “There’s no way he’ll go to a doctor.”

“I wish there was more I could do,” said Jim. “You see these men again, call us in. Don’t do what you normally do and try to take them out yourself.”

I smiled and shook his hand.

I went into the small office by the kitchen and retrieved Maureen’s laptop, then returned to the booth.

Maybe we’ll get lucky and find something online,” I said, searching the words “Erin Miller” and “Donora, PA.”

The Internet has been a boon to the private eye business. Lots of useful information is public record and fairly easy to access — real estate records, birth certificates, marriage licenses, voter registrations, post office boxes, phone listings and more. Social media sites, such as Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, make it easy to not only track down individuals by name, but to also find family members and friends and lots of photos.

“Unbelievable,” said Maureen after our search turned up nothing. “Miller” being a common name brought up several prompts, but we found no Erin Miller in Donora. We did find a half dozen Erin Millers in WhitePages.com, but none were in the 30-to-40-year-old age range.

“Try Facebook,” said Maureen.

Still, nothing. Again, there were lots of Erin Millers, but none that lived in Donora and none who displayed profile photos that looked like Erin Miller.

“I wish I could afford subscriptions to the expensive database search engines that successful private eyes can afford,” I said.

“I wish you could afford a new boiler that successful pub owners should be able to afford,” said Maureen.

Database firms offered access to information that simple Internet searches were not likely to turn up. The database firms spend millions buying detailed information from credit card companies, social media sites and pretty much anyone who has detailed records that include phone numbers, addresses and, the granddaddy of them all, Social Security numbers. Once a private eye gets ahold of a subject’s Social Security number, it doesn’t take long to track that person down.

“Maybe Bob can help,” said Maureen.

Maureen referred to Bob Meinert, one of my mentors, who, after retiring as commander of Allegheny County’s Homicide Unit, co-founded one of Pittsburgh’s most respected private-investigation firms.  

“He visits his grandchildren on the weekends and leaves Friday morning,” I said. “I can’t reach him until Monday. There’s really only one thing I can do today.”

“Go jump in the river?”

“Yes, and talk to the Maryville Chief of Police.”

I Googled the phone number for the Maryville police department and called the chief. The dispatcher put me into the chief’s voice mail. I left a message.

I poured myself a fresh pint of Guinness and returned to my booth. As the pint settled, I stared at the phone, hoping my gaze might make it ring.

“Did Erin Miller remind you of Lauren?” I said to Maureen.

She shrugged.

“What happened to your wife wasn’t your fault,” said Maureen. “This woman has nothing to do with Lauren. You need to put it out of your mind.”

The front door opened and a woman entered. 

As she walked toward us, graying roots were beginning to show in her bright blonde hair — I doubted that blonde was her natural color. The skin on her face was taut like a drum, her Botox-injected lips swollen. I placed her well in her early 60s, though she was fighting it every step of the way. 

“May we help you?” said Maureen.  

“I'm looking for Sean McClanahan.”

Maureen raised her paw and pointed at me, then headed back down to the basement. The woman walked toward me and smiled. 

She looked familiar.

“You are
the
Sean McClanahan?” she said.

I nodded.

“How may I assist you?”

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” she side.

“Give me a try,” I said.

“John Preston did not commit suicide.”

I should have recognized her from her television appearances: Mrs. Elizabeth Preston, wife of the recently deceased John Preston.

“Please sit,” I said.

She slid into the booth. I sat across from her. 

“May I get you something?”

“No, thank you. Please call me Elizabeth.”

My head was throbbing. I decided to get right to the point.

“Would you happen to know a woman named Erin Miller?” I said.

“The young woman who visited me this morning?”

“Erin Miller visited you this morning?”

“Yes. She said she knew John.”

“Did you know her?”

“No.”

I decided, for the time being, to leave out the part about Erin claiming to live with John Preston in Donora.

“Did she leave contact information with you?”

“No.”

“What did she say to you?”

“That John didn’t commit suicide — that he was murdered.”

“Anything else?

She shook her head.

“She seemed strange to me and she scared me,” said Elizabeth. “John’s fame caused all kinds of people to show up at our front door. I had to come up with something to get her to leave. So I sent her to you.”

“Why did you send her to me?”

“You’re the only private eye I know. I love your TV reports. Besides, I told her I was going to hire you anyway.”

“Hire me?”

“There’s no way John would commit suicide,” she said. “I want you to find out who killed him.”

“I don’t mean to be short with you, but I advise you to share any questions or concerns you have with the Washington County Coroner and the Maryville chief of police.” 

“The coroner said he couldn’t do anything until the autopsy report and police report were done. And when Chief Sarafino interviewed me about John’s death, she mentioned that a witness came forward who saw John park his car on the bridge, then jump.”

Which is probably exactly what happened, I thought. Family members often think loved ones who committed suicide could never do such a thing.

“She said some of John’s coworkers said he was depressed,” said Elizabeth. “That’s a lie. Victoria Hall is making those people lie.”

“Victoria Hall?”

“John’s business partner. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had John killed. He’d never jump from any bridge.”

I started rubbing the bumps on my head. My Father often rubbed his head when he got antsy.

“I understand that the details in these cases can be very difficult for the loved ones of the deceased.” 

“You don’t believe me?” she said.

She began sobbing. 

I got up from the booth and retrieved a stack of McClanahan’s napkins from the bar. I returned and handed them to her.

“John and I had a lunch date planned for the same day he was going to have his press conference,” she said.

“Tell me about this press conference.”

“He told me he had big news to announce. He was so happy — happier than I’ve ever seen him. Happy people don’t jump off bridges. I sat there at lunch waiting for him but he never showed because he was murdered.”  

She began wailing. She got up from her side of the booth and squeezed in next to me on my side of the booth.

“Hold me,” she said, wrapping her arms around me.

I found it odd that a woman whose husband just died could be so frisky, but, then everyone handles grief in her own way.

“I really don’t think —”

“Hold me,” she said.

I held her, hoping Maureen would come up from the basement and help me fashion an excuse to end this discussion.

“I don't know where else to go,” said Elizabeth.

Maureen finally appeared.

“Maureen will take down your information and I’ll follow back with you as soon as I can,” I said.

It took me a few minutes to extricate myself from Mrs. Preston’s embrace. I ran up to my apartment. I washed up, changed my shirt and strapped on my Glock. I put on my oversized sport coat to conceal it, then ran down the back steps to the alley. I fired up my truck and floored it. 

There was another woman I needed to meet in Maryville.

Forty five minutes later, I arrived in Maryville and parked on Main Street.

To my right the Maryville Bridge stood majestic and proud. A horn from a river barge blasted up the river, a bell clanged down river, a tractor-trailer spewed out diesel fumes as it descended the highway on the other side of the river. The trees covering the hills were just beginning to turn orange, yellow and red.

I walked up Main Street a few blocks to the red-brick municipal building. Inside the foyer, a bulletin board displayed a framed newspaper article about Chief Samantha Sarafino — the first female chief in the Monongahela Valley. It said her father had been the chief for 25 years — that a few months earlier she’d moved back from Gaithersburg, Maryland, where she’d been a distinguished cop, to take over when her father died.

I walked down the hallway toward her office.

“I’m looking for Chief Sarafino,” I said, poking my head inside.

She leaned back in her office chair, her hands clasped behind her head. She had short brown hair and bright blue eyes. I couldn't help but notice how nicely her black uniform contoured to her curves.

“I’m Chief Sarafino.”

“My name is Sean McClanahan,” I said, moving toward her and reaching out to shake. “I left a message for you.”

There was a hint of agitation in her eyes — then recognition.

“Ah, Sean McClanahan, the goofy private eye on the news?”

I smiled.

“What do you want, McClanahan?”

I told her about my morning — about my wonderful jog along the railroad tracks, my perfectly poured Guinness and my fun-filled meeting with Erin Miller, the fellows who clobbered my noggin and Elizabeth Preston.

“You’re working for Elizabeth Preston?” she said.

“She wants me to investigate her husband’s murder.”

“Murder?” she said, laughing. “Go ahead and give a grieving woman false hope that her husband didn’t end his own life. It ought to make you feel good, taking her money like that.”

“I have no desire to work for Mrs. Preston or to investigate Preston’s death,” I said. “All I want is to find Erin Miller and get her back on whatever meds she should probably be taking. She told me she visited you this morning. I wonder if you have her number or address.”

“Visited me? Do you have any idea how many quacks have come out of the woodwork since Preston jumped off that bridge? Phone calls, emails, walk-ins — all of them with kooky conspiracy theories and absurd leads and tips.”

“So Erin Miller didn’t visit?”

“I’ve been out patrolling the streets since early this morning. I don’t know if you noticed but we are a small town with a small police force. Even if I had the time, this office won’t waste another moment talking to quacks.”

“She said two men followed her after she left your office. One was big with black curly hair, the other small with red hair. Ring any bells?”

“You’re asking me if this fictional woman was followed by two fictional men?”

“The men are real, as the lumps on my noggin can testify,” I said. “You never saw these men in your town?”

She shook her head.

“Sorry, I can’t help you.”

“Maybe your investigation has turned up Preston’s phone records or emails or something that might lead me to Ms. Miller?”

“Are you deaf, dumb and blind?” she said.

“Just dumb. What about the witness who saw Preston jump? Could I talk to this person?”

“That information is not yet public.”

“But it will be,” I said. “Who was the witness?”

“You’re trying my patience,” she said.

“You told Elizabeth Preston that John was depressed, according to his coworkers. Elizabeth disputes that. She said that he was about to make a major announcement at a press conference. She said he was happier than she’d seen him in years. She thinks his business partner may have whacked him. Will that be in your report?”

“Who the hell do you think you are coming into my office and challenging the integrity of my investigation?”

“I’m just saying that Mrs. Preston is a public figure. If she wants to question your investigation, with a little guidance from me, I’m sure the press would be all over it.”

“You’re threatening me?”

“I’m just trying to find Erin Miller.”

“Out,” she said, pointing to the door.

“Phone numbers or email addresses are all I need.”

“Out.”

She was on her feet now. She looked even better standing.

“Once I find Erin Miller, I promise I will never bother you again.”

“Out. Out. Out.”

Well. You don’t need to tell me to leave more than five or six times.

I turned toward the hallway and left.