Mayhem & Mistletoe, стр. 54
Fish’s eyes went wide. “Please tell me you didn’t kick him in public.”
I scowled. “Why would you think that?”
“Because I’ve met you ... and him. More importantly, I’ve seen you together.”
“Yes, well, it was a perfectly pleasant interlude.” I frowned at the memory. “He actually thanked me for saving his life.”
Fish’s lips curved. “Now, that’s more like it ... other than him thanking you. Do you think he meant it?”
“I don’t know. He seemed sincere. It was freaky.”
“It’s a good tip, though. What are you going to do?”
“Eliot is trying to come up with some names for me, people who lived in that halfway house with Beau. I’m going to do some general digging.”
“And Farrell still isn’t releasing the other names?”
I thought back to my meeting with Jake. “No, but whatever they’re sitting on is big. He didn’t come right out and say it, but he alluded to it.”
“And you’re leaning toward a mob hit?”
“I don’t know. Using the word ‘mob’ makes me uncomfortable.”
“Since when do you care about stuff like that?”
“I said it makes me uncomfortable, not that it’s the wrong word. Still ... that might be an overreach. So far, all I know is that Beau romanced women for money, which could be motive for murder. I also know he was apparently selling a drug called Hypno and he likely got other people at the halfway house involved. That’s it. That’s all I have.”
“And no names on the other victims,” Fish mused. “Has Farrell at least confirmed the number of dead?”
I nodded. “Seven. There were seven bodies total. One was separated from the pack.”
“Beau Burton.”
“I don’t know that. I couldn’t really make out his face. I can’t even hazard a guess. There’s a possibility that the one body was separated from the others because that guy made a run for it. Maybe he tried to beat the train and died in the attempt.”
“And Farrell is being unusually tight-lipped.”
“He most definitely is.”
“Have you considered that’s because he’s getting pressure from above?”
“The state police? I’ve considered it.”
“It could be the FBI, too, especially if you’re talking about significant drug sales.”
“All I know is that he’s acting squirrelly. He doesn’t want me down there.”
“I’m not sure it’s smart for you to go down there either.”
“Oh, don’t start.” I made a face. “Between you, Eliot and Jake, I’ve just about had my fill of bossy men. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”
“I never said otherwise. Perhaps it’s not bossy as much as protective.”
“You sound like Eliot.”
“How is the long-haired wonder? Is he regretting his future plans yet?”
I shot him a withering look. “Not last time I checked.”
“Give him time.”
“I’ll have you know that some people think I’m a catch.”
“Nobody sane.” He winked at me and then went back to his computer. “Keep digging. I know you’ll find something.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you’re you. I’m pretty sure you don’t know how to fail.”
And that was the nicest thing he could’ve said to me.
I DUG INTO MORE RECORDS ON BEAU. The guy had a horrible reputation, and it wasn’t hard to read between the lines on some of the stories. In one, the prosecutor mentioned a woman who sold her share in a private plane. That had to be Greta Hamilton, a rich widow who lived in Grosse Pointe. She’d made the news recently when that plane crashed and everyone thought there was a chance she’d been on it. At the time of the crash, she reassured the public and mentioned selling her share of the plane.
I didn’t know much about Greta. I’d met her at a few charitable events. She was a big supporter of the arts and gave regularly to the Anton Art Center in Mount Clemens. Most of the memories I had of her revolved around a couple of art fundraisers, where she never gave me more than a few seconds to offer a quick quote on how valuable art was to the community.
Leslie Firestone was another possibility. She lived on Harsens Island and had ties to the community through her father, a former mayor of Warren. Her husband served on the county board of commissioners for decades and was a big deal when he died a few years ago. Leslie was rich and liked to attend swanky events in four-figure evening gowns, which meant having a man on her arm was a must. I’d never known her to keep anyone around for more than a few months. It was possible Beau was one of those flings.
On a whim, I ran Cal’s name. I wasn’t expecting much, but I got a hit right away in the county court system. At first, I assumed he was simply listed as a witness for one of the men who lived in his house, but when I pulled up the file, I found something else entirely.
Cal Shepperly — the age looked right — had been arrested for intent to distribute meth ten years ago. He’d been arraigned in District Court in Warren, his bond set at one-hundred thousand dollars, high for a standard drug case. I dug for details but there wasn’t much. That was years before I worked for The Monitor.
I rolled my chair to Marvin’s cubicle. He was all smiles.
“Anything good on your story?” he asked. There was little Marvin loved more than a messy murder.
“I’m working on it.” I held up my phone so he could see the mugshot I’d found on the county’s website. “Does he look familiar?”
Marvin leaned closer. “Should he? I mean ... he looks like any garden-variety pimp down on Eight Mile.”
I couldn’t disagree with that. “He runs a halfway house in Detroit. I did a search on his name out of curiosity. Says he was arrested for meth in Warren — his bail was set at a hundred-grand — and yet the charges against him were dismissed at the circuit court level. I thought