Darkness, Sing Me a Song--A Holland Taylor Mystery Page 6

  “I know.”

  “Now, Devon Barrington—what a sweetheart. Always polite, always respectful, always smiling; never acts like she owns the place. When she talks to people, it’s Mr. This or Ms. That. She refuses to call anyone by his or her first name. She says it’s presumptuous. I love her to death. Everyone does.”

  “I’m interested in the meeting…”

  “The meeting you asked about. Let’s see.”

  The receptionist consulted the appointment calendar on her computer.

  “Here it is—eleven A.M. to eleven forty-five A.M. U.S. Sand. Richard Kaufman. Allen Palo. They brought a secretary with them, too. Young woman. I don’t have her name.”

  I transcribed the names she did have into my notebook and asked, “What was the meeting about?”

  “I don’t know. Something about digging up fracking sand, I guess. That’s what U.S. Sand does. Operates fracking sand mines.”

  * * *

  I dropped a few bars in the elevator car, yet the signal was strong enough that I could use my smartphone. It rang twice before Freddie answered.

  “Fredericks and Taylor Private Investigations,” he said.

  “I still say we should have done best two out of three when we decided on our name.”

  “Quit your whining. You’re the one who said tails never fails.”

  “Say, I’ve got a quick research job for you.”

  I told him what I wanted.

  “How quick?” Freddie asked.

  “Tomorrow morning is soon enough, I think. I need to run down to the jail and work crowd control while Helin springs Mrs. Barrington.”

  “Is there going to be a crowd?”

  “Depends on the county attorney, I guess.”

  “Should I tell you what I discovered about the Denys girl or wait until tomorrow?”

  “Tell me now.”

  By then I had escaped the elevator and was passing through the building’s opulent lobby.

  “I checked with the bookstore where she worked,” Freddie said. “They might not have talked to me except the po-lice had already been there, so now they figured it was okay. What they told me, their employment process starts with an online application. If they like what they see, they bring the applicant in for an interview. If that goes well, the applicant gets a second interview. Somewhere along the line, the applicant must produce a photo ID. In Denys’s case, she used a Minnesota driver’s license. The store also conducts criminal background checks, something they do for every employee. Don’t want no cokeheads, no embezzlers. ’Course, if that’s all they do—”

  “They’re only checking the name the applicant supplied against police arrest reports. If the name is false, nothing will show up.”

  “Exactly, so she gets the job. Now, the Denys girl has to fill out a W-2 form listing her Social Security number, which she does, but after thirteen months of employment, of paying taxes to the man, of actually filing a return and getting a refund check, there ain’t a single hiccup.”

  “Which means the number is probably legit. How is that possible?”

  “What I’m saying, Taylor—the woman was ghosting. She did the cemetery thing, strolling among the headstones till she found someone who died who woulda been roughly the same age that she was, and stole her name. She obtained the dead person’s birth certificate and used it to create a new identity—Social Security number, driver’s license, what else?”

  “Ghosting, Freddie, is based on the premise that government agencies don’t share information, and maybe that worked fine before computers, when birth certificates were stored in one room and death certificates were stored in another down at the ol’ county courthouse. Now, though, it’s relatively easy for a clerk to use a search engine to see if a death certificate had ever been issued to the person listed on a birth certificate. Besides, a ghoster who applies for a replacement of a Social Security card issued to someone who died ten years ago, who claims to be that individual—the government is going to ask why she hadn’t filed a tax return in all that time, why she didn’t report any wages.”

  “Are you done? Because seriously, you’re embarrassing me.”

  “Explain it, then.”

  “It’s lots easier for a woman to take over a dead person’s identity than it is for a man. You know that, Taylor, c’mon. What she does, she steals the ID of a dead female who was married and used her husband’s name. That way the birth certificate and the death certificate will have two different surnames, which makes detection tougher, okay? Plus, the gaps in the ghost’s employment history are gonna cause less suspicion because the ghost can claim that she spent those years workin’ as a housewife, as a stay-at-home mom who made no wages.”

  “I like it.”

  “’Course you do.”

  “Except—”

  “Here it comes.”

  “Ghosting only works if no one asks questions. Once you start looking like I did…”

  “That’s the thing. No one was looking. The cops, you say they ran the Denys girl’s fingers through the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, which means she’s never been arrested. A search through the National Crime Information Center’s missing persons files and the Minnesota Missing and Unidentified Persons Clearinghouse must have proved inconclusive, too.”

  “Which tells us what?”

  “There was no drama. She didn’t just disappear, making people wonder what happened to her, if she was kidnapped or murdered or hiding from an abusive husband or what. She was never declared a missing person; no one called the cops, said ‘Find the girl.’ She must not have left any debts behind, either, leastwise not big ones, cuz you know those guys, debt collectors, they never stop looking, and our girl wasn’t that clever she couldn’t have been found out by now.”

  “What you’re saying, Emily was ghosting behind a new name and a new identity, even though no one seemed to be looking for her.”

  “What I’m saying.”

  “So why was she hiding?”

  By then I was standing at a street corner with a dozen other pedestrians waiting for the light to change.

  “I don’t know,” Freddie said. “But she was hiding, there ain’t no doubt of that, is there?”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “By the way, we’re running low on K-Cups.”

  “Okay.”

  “Get the ones with cinnamon.”

  * * *

  I was expecting a classic media frenzy like the kind you see on television. Certainly the CA had worked hard to create one. She must have informed every local TV station, news radio outlet, and newspaper, not to mention a couple of online news sites, of the exact time Eleanor Barrington was to be released from the Ramsey County Adult Detention Center, because each had representatives waiting in the lobby. Still, this was Minnesota, after all, and what I found more accurately resembled guppies nipping at the food flakes you sprinkle on the top of a fish tank than a shark attack.

  The representatives stood politely along the walls, trying hard not to impede the progress of people who came and went through the front doors. They spoke quietly to themselves; there was laughter, but it was muted. The scene reminded me of visitors to an art museum who were having a wonderful time yet didn’t want to disturb the patrons around them.

  A long-legged blonde who looked better on TV than she did in person thought she recognized me and whispered, “Are you Holland Taylor?”

  “I’m sorry, who?”

  “The detective?”

  I acted as if I had never heard the word before. At the same time, I thought: I don’t have any plans for tonight …

  “Never mind,” she said.

  Oh, well.

  Finally, Eleanor Barrington stepped out of the elevator clad in a conservative business suit and holding the hand of her attorney. Film lights flicked on and camera flashes went off as if she were stepping onto the red carpet at a Hollywood premiere. The TV and radio reporters surged forward, micropho
nes leading the way. I moved to insert myself between them and Mrs. Barrington. The print reporters hung back, probably out of courtesy to their broadcast brethren. The TV and radio reporters shouted. They wanted to have tape of themselves asking their questions for the ninety-second news holes they would fill later. Nobody actually expected Mrs. Barrington to answer the questions, though, which is why they were as surprised as I was when she slowed to address the reporters, walking at about ten feet per minute and speaking in a clear, almost melancholy voice.

  “I adored that young lady. I wish this was over so I could mourn her death properly.

  “No, I most emphatically did not kill her.

  “Yes, I made that stupid remark. It was a turn of phrase taken out of context. I’m sure you’re all guilty of saying the same thing at one time or another.

  “It haunts me. I wish I could take it back.

  “My son is heartbroken as are we all.

  “Locked in jail for a crime I didn’t commit—no, I don’t feel justice is being served.”

  David Helin pulled on her hand, which served as a signal for Mrs. Barrington to stop speaking and pick up the pace.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s been a terrible ordeal, and I just can’t answer any more questions.”

  I pushed forward, creating a path to the front door. I expected resistance. There was none. The reporters seemed more than happy to step aside. It was a little disappointing. I would have been happy to accidentally nudge the long-legged blonde into a wall and then later apologize and offer to make it up to her.

  The reporters kept asking questions.

  Mrs. Barrington kept saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  I reached the door and yanked it open. Mrs. Barrington and Helin stepped past me. The door closed behind us. The reporters did not follow; I couldn’t tell you why.

  Helin was parked in the first row of the parking lot. He led us to his car, unlocked it with a remote, and opened the passenger door for Mrs. Barrington. She slid inside.

  “I have questions, too,” I said.

  The expression on her face suggested that she wanted to hear them. Helin shut the door.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. He rounded the car and opened the driver’s side door. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Helin started up the car and drove off as I walked to my own vehicle. He paused at the exit, his turn signal blinking, while a second car drove past him into the parking lot. I recognized the driver and watched the car as it moved quickly along the big curve and came to a sudden stop in front of the entrance to the detention center. County Attorney Marianne Haukass opened the passenger door and was stepping out even as the car rocked to a halt. She walked toward the building as if she were late for a very important date.

  Then I understood—the reporters had remained inside the lobby so they could record the CA’s promised rebuttal to Barrington’s remarks, no doubt using the federal, state, and county flags as a backdrop.

  Martin McGaney had been driving the car. He slipped out, leaned against the body, and settled in to wait for the CA. I called to him.

  “Don’t you just love politics?” I said.

  “Marianne said I’m not to socialize with you anymore,” he said. “You’re the enemy, she said, and don’t you forget it. And yes, I just love politics.”

  * * *

  I lived about ten miles from the detention center, yet because of the rush hour traffic, it took me nearly thirty minutes to get home. I used a security code to get inside the building and a key to enter my second-floor apartment. I stood behind the closed door and contemplated the immediate future. I had a well-stocked refrigerator but didn’t feel like cooking. So I left the apartment and ordered takeout from Dixie’s down on Grand Avenue, brought it back, and ate it. Amanda Wedemeyer didn’t knock on the door asking to play with Ogilvy. Anne Scalasi didn’t drop by in search of stress relief. The phone didn’t ring.

  The Twins were playing the White Sox, and I watched a couple of innings. I turned the game off when I realized I didn’t care if they won or lost. I used to love baseball. I found a book and started reading. Cynthia had always been amazed by the size of my library, literally thousands of hardcovers and paperbacks in bookcases and stacked on the floor. She asked me once if I had read them all, and I answered, “Why would anyone want a library filled only with books they’ve already read?” Yet it took me only twenty pages before I realized I had read the book before. I set it down and searched for another. I couldn’t find any that didn’t sound like something I had already read twice. I thought about heading for a bookstore to restock. Only I couldn’t think of any titles or authors that I just had to have.

  I opened a bottle of Maker’s Mark, filled a tall glass, and turned on the TV again. Between the bourbon and a couple of sitcoms, I was numb in no time.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I was usually the first to arrive at the office in the morning, mostly because I couldn’t think of a reason not to be. I brewed a K-Cup, the Cinnamon Sugar Cookie from Cameron’s Coffee that Freddie liked so much, and watched as downtown Minneapolis came alive outside the window. Freddie had mentioned more than once that we should find new digs once our lease expired, somewhere that provided easier access for walk-in clients and where, as my mom would say, you don’t have to pay a man twenty dollars to park your car. I was hesitant. Partly because we would be further removed from the law firms that provided so much of our income. And partly because I would miss the hustle and bustle of the city; I would miss the view. Who wanted to stare out the window at the parking lot of some crappy corporate office complex in the suburbs?

  Freddie arrived and called my name. I called his back, which was how we greeted each other.

  “Anything on the agenda I should know about?” I asked.

  “Sackett called right after we talked yesterday. Company might be expanding.”

  “Good for them.”

  “They want to set up a time next week to talk about investigating the guys they’re buyin’ out, make sure they’re on the up-and-up. They’re also talking about maybe forty employee background checks, investigate every one of their new employees.”

  “Sounds lucrative.”

  “What I was thinking. About the frackin’ guys—wait. I gotta tell you first. I mighta laid it on a little thick when I got home late last night, so if’n Echo seems a little icy next time you see her, that’s on me.”

  “Swell.”

  “Just sayin’.”

  “What about the fracking guys?”

  “U.S. Sand. It’s based in Chicago with fifteen offices scattered around the country and Canada. It specializes in mining and processing silica sand. It used to be silica sand was like the main ingredient in making glass. ’Course now it’s all about fracking. They pump this shit into the ground to open cracks and fissures that let the natural gas and oil flow out.”

  “Which is controversial.”

  “Which is way controversial. Week or so ago, thirty folks were arrested in Winona for protesting against frackin’ on land owned by U.S. Sand. Which is probably why the website doesn’t list names of the executive board members. They don’t want people camping outside their mansions with protest signs. ’Course, they’re not hard to find, you know? Just takes a couple of extra steps. These two guys—Richard Kaufman and Allen Palo—they’re both directors of development, what they call themselves. They work out of an office near the state capitol building in St. Paul. Want to be close by so they can lobby them legislators.”

  “Why were they talking to the Barrington family, I wonder?”

  “You know what we don’t do that we should do? We don’t give out bonuses. Cuz seriously, I deserve a bonus for this.”

  “For what?”

  “U.S. Sand has a major operation going in a town called Arona in western Wisconsin. Lots of fireworks going on over there. Anyway, the Barrington family owns two hundred and fifty-four acres of land along the Trempealeau River just outside of Arona. I’m guessing U.S. S
and wants to buy or lease some of it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I accessed the county’s property tax records.”

  “My God, you’re getting good at this.”

  “About that bonus…”

  “I bought the cinnamon K-Cups you wanted.”

  “Wow. That’s all I got t’ say to you. Wow.”

  “Emily sees Joel negotiating with U.S. Sand, and it upsets her enough that she bolts from the office.”

  “Could be she was a die-hard environmentalist,” Freddie said. “These sand frackers, they strip the land, turning it into, well, a giant sandbox. So when she sees the boyfriend and them it pisses her off.”

  “Okay so far.”

  “She confronts Joel, calls him a few dirty names. Joel loses it and shoots her with the old lady’s gun and decides to let her take the rap, piling on with this incest shit to make sure she goes down hard, leaving him to inherit the estate.”

  “Sounds like an episode of Law and Order.”

  “If you don’t like that—you said the receptionist told you that Joel wants to be big man on campus. Okay, how ’bout he’s hot for the deal with the sand frackers, but Mom’s against it, so him and the frackers knock off the girl and frame Mom so Joel can take over and make the deal.”

  “Why kill Emily? Why not just pop the old lady?”

  “Because then the cops will be all over Joel. This way Joel and the sand frackers are in the clear.”

  “That’s awfully thin, too.”

  “My understanding, Plan B ain’t about proving Mrs. Barrington is innocent, it’s about throwing enough shit at the jury to create whatchacall reasonable doubt.”

  “Yeah, but I doubt if Mom will let us throw her son under the bus like that.”

  “Why not? He’s doing it to her.”

  “Still…”

  “Okay, I got another theory. What if it ain’t about the fracking company at all but the fracking guys themselves that made her run? They’re from Chicago. Could be the Denys girl was from Chicago, maybe a prostitute in a previous life and they were her johns, something like that.”