It would be trouble.
I didn’t care.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The older I become the more I have begun to notice not only the evolutionary changes taking place in our society, but the ebb and flow of resistance that comes with those changes, particularly in middle aged men such as myself. Usually, just when I have convinced myself that I am still of the age of a younger and smarter generation, something happens to remind me that time is not just something we measure but something that exists with an unending and ubiquitous rhythm. No matter how badly you would like to slow the clock, you have no more control of such universal mechanisms than you do the beat of your own heart.
When I got back in my truck I had a message waiting for me on my cell. It was Rosencrantz, telling me that he had Dugan’s office sealed and his computer was already on the way back to the lab for processing. Rosencrantz and Donatti were the other two members of my team. I hired both away from the city, Rosencrantz from Sex, and Doantti from Homicide. They are my unofficial leg breakers. If I need muscle, I went to Rosencrantz and Donatti. Rosencrantz answered on the third ring. He sounded bored.
“Uh, listen, you guys haven’t beaten anyone up or anything, have you?” I said.
“Hey, boss, come on,” Rosie said. “Give us a little credit. We’re highly trained investigators. Besides, I haven’t beaten anyone up for over a week.”
“Uh huh.”
“If you were thinking about getting something to eat before coming over here I wouldn’t bother. When they heard the boss was dead someone made an executive decision and catered in about ten grand worth of food. We’ve interviewed Dugan’s secretary, the entire executive team and their secretaries as well. Everybody except the executive committee is walking around here bumping into each other like a bunch of zombies or something. Nobody has any useful information for us at all and there’s a ton of food here that’s going to go bad if someone doesn’t start eating it. I’m thinking maybe I should take some home with me. In fact, you know that Crime Scene tech, big Al, the one that weighs in around two eighty or so? I saw him fill four or five evidence bags with Swedish meatballs and bacon-wrapped shrimp before he left. The bottom line is the only real thing I’ve learned so far is that no one uses the word ‘secretary’ anymore. They prefer ‘executive assistant.’ Who knew?”
I thought for a moment then said, “Didn’t you go to New Orleans last year?”
“Two years ago, but yeah. Went for Mardi-Gras. I got you that Ragin’ Cajun T-shirt, remember?”
“Sure. You flew down, right? How were the stewardesses?
“Fine I guess. I don’t really remember. Why do you ask?”
“Never mind,” I said.
See what I mean?
I pulled away from Sandy’s and after about a block I realized I didn’t know where the Sunrise Bank headquarters were located. I pulled over to the curb and tried to Google the name from my phone, but the signal wasn’t strong enough and I didn’t have the patience to wait. I called Rosencrantz back. He was still eating.
“What’s the address over there. I tried the Google and it wouldn’t come up. I don’t know where I’m going.”
“You know,” Rosie said, “I’m not exactly sure. Donatti drove. I was sleeping.”
“Well, find someone and ask will you?”
“Don’t need to. I’m standing right next to his secretary.” Then obviously to someone else I heard him say “Ouch, hey, that’s assault on a police officer. Okay, okay.” Then, back to me he said, “What I meant to say was, I’m standing right next to his executive assistant. Then a few seconds later: “Okay, Jonesy, got a pen?”
City traffic. A slow drive to the bank. I spoke with my dad on the drive over. Together my father and I own a downtown Jamaican bar called Jonesy’s. “Listen pops, I’m going to be tied up tonight, if you’ve been watching the news.”
“Can’t miss it,” Mason said. “Nothing else on.”
I try to work as many hours as possible at the bar, but when I’m on a case, it falls to my dad to pick up the slack. “That gonna be okay?”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it, son. I’ll see you when I see you.”
“I’ll probably be in later if I get the chance, if you’re still there. Guy’s gotta eat.”
“A guy does,” Mason said. Watch your back now.”
“No worries, Pop. No worries at all.”
A half hour later, I consulted the lobby directory, took an elevator to the fourteenth floor, and found Rosencrantz chatting up an attractive mid-forty-something woman with cat-eye glasses and big hair. She wore a conservative dark gray business suit over a thin white blouse. Doantti was across the hall and stood in front of what must have been Dugan’s office, arms crossed, a bored expression on his face. I walked up and after Rosencrantz made the introductions, he walked over and stood next to Donatti.
“So,” I said, “Ms. Brennan, on behalf of the state of Indiana, let me express my condolences regarding Mr. Dugan.
“Please, call me Margery. And thank you. Why don’t we sit.” She didn’t wait for an answer, just walked around the corner to a small conference room. I followed her into the room and discovered Rosie was right. Someone had ordered catering, and quite a lot of it at that. I pulled out a chair, popped a shrimp in my mouth and sat down. The shrimp was good.
Great, in fact…
Once we were settled: “So, Margery, about Mr. Dugan. I’d like to get a little background on him and I’m thinking you’re probably the best place to start.”
Margery gave a little snort. “I don’t think it matters where you start, Detective, as I’m quite sure you’ll get the same sort of background information from anyone you speak with.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Franklin Dugan was a son of a bitch.”
Well, that was something, I thought.
“Let me guess…not really what you expected to hear, right?”
“Well, I guess not, to tell you the truth.”
Margery took a moment before her next statement. “Look, don’t get me wrong, Detective. I just don’t know how else to put it. He really was. A son of a bitch, I mean. But everyone knew it. He even referred to himself that way. It’s just a business thing. We’re in a tough business here. People think banks, and then, you know, they think friendly tellers, warm smiles, free toasters with a new account and all that-or maybe not so much anymore, with the economy the way it’s been-but our business isn’t like that. We’re not a regular bank. We deal exclusively with religious institutions. And let me tell you something,” Margery bit into a shrimp and shook the tail at me, “These religious guys? I don’t care who they are…” She started ticking them off her fingers. “You’ve got your Catholics, your Protestants, your Methodists, your Baptists, your Lutherans, not to mention the Scientology nuts and the Mormons-who in my opinion are a whole class of nuts all by their damn self-they’re all some very tough hombres when it comes to their money. So if you’re going to lend them money-and that’s what we do-you’d better be a son of a bitch when you’re dealing with these guys or they’ll take you straight to the cleaners.” Margery dropped her chin and looked out over the top of her glasses. “All in the name of Jesus Christ, mind you.”
I couldn’t help but smile. I liked her immediately. I ate a few more shrimp and thought about what she’d said for a minute. I said, “Huh,” which made Margery giggle, which made her look about ten years younger. “What?”
“When you said ‘huh,’ you sounded just like a cop.”
“I am a cop.”
