Collateral Damage (29 page)

“Are you police officers?”

“No, but we're working with them on a case.”

“I think it'd be better to wait for the cops,” he said.

“Okay. The chief will be here soon. You wouldn't happen to have any coffee around, would you?”

The clerk grinned. “I've always got a pot going in the back. You're welcome to it.”

He returned with two mugs of steaming brew just as Bill Lester entered the lobby. “Did you get Cassidy?” he asked.

I gestured to the young man behind the reception desk. “He wanted to wait for the police,” I said.

“Probably a good idea,” said Lester. “You two don't exactly look wholesome.” He pulled out his ID and showed it to the clerk.

The clerk gestured toward a phone at the end of the counter. “If you'll pick up that house phone, I'll connect you to his room.”

Cassidy answered after several rings, the remains of a deep sleep in his voice. “Fred,” I said, “this is Matt Royal. I'm sorry to bother you, but there have been some developments that we need your help with. Can you come to the lobby?”

“Developments? In the disappearance of Mr. Desmond?”

“Yes.”

“I'll be right down.”

We were seated in a group of chairs in the lobby overlooking the swimming pool. Bill Lester showed Fred the picture from the security camera at the convenience store. “Do you know this man?”

Fred took the picture and peered closely at it. “He looks like a guy who flew with me last week for a couple of days.”

“Who is he?” asked Lester.

“His name is Tom Telson.”

“How do I reach him?”

“I don't know. He doesn't work for our company.”

“Then why was he flying with you?”

“He was a fill-in. My regular copilot, the one upstairs asleep, was out sick and Federal Aviation Regulations require that I have a copilot. I called an agency that supplies pilots and he showed up. Had the proper licenses and type ratings. He just worked with me for two days until my regular guy came back.”

Lester asked, “What's the name of the agency Telson works for?”

“Pilots on Demand. They're based in Atlanta. We use them occasionally if one of our regulars is sick or on vacation.”

“How many regular pilots does Desmond have?” I asked.

“Just the two of us. It's usually not a problem, but we keep a working relationship with Pilots on Demand in case we need a fill-in.”

“Do you have a phone number for Pilots on Demand?”

Cassidy pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through the phone book. He gave us the number. “I doubt anybody's there this time of the morning,” he said. “There's an answering service that you can use in emergencies, but it doesn't work too well. It still takes about three hours to get a pilot out of bed and to the airport. If you need one sooner, you're screwed.”

The chief said, “I don't think we can do much more tonight. You guys get some sleep and we'll start again first thing this morning.”

“Fred,” I said, “what time do you have to let Macomber know whether you're going to pick him up?”

“No later than nine o'clock.”

“Okay. I may need you to take us to Birmingham. I'll get back to you before nine.”

“What's in Birmingham?” the chief asked.

“That's what I want you to find out,” I said.

“Another one of the Otto Foundation kids was killed a couple of weeks ago in Birmingham,” I explained to the chief. We were standing outside the hotel breathing in the humid air. The traffic on Tamiami Trail a block to the east was light, the city quiet in the wee hours as if resting before plunging into the tumult of another hot day in August. “He was shot in what might have been a bar fight. It's probably nothing, but I'd like to talk to the detective investigating the case.”

“You think there's a connection between Desmond's murder and this boy in Birmingham? Did they know each other?”

“Probably not, on both counts. I doubt there's a connection and the boys probably didn't know each other. Jim Desmond was in Laos five years ago and this kid in Birmingham, Andy Fleming, was there last year. He might not even have been in Laos. He could have been in Cambodia or Vietnam. I didn't think to ask Mrs. Avera about that. But it's a loose end that I'd like to tie up.”

“I'll call Birmingham P.D. Nobody's going to roust the detective from bed this time of morning, so why don't you guys go home. I'll call them at eight. They're an hour behind us, so I'll probably catch them right at shift change. I'll let you know. Now go home.”

Much to my surprise, I slept hard. The jangle of the phone brought me out of a deep sleep. I looked at the bedside clock radio as I reached for the phone. It was a little after eight. I'd slept for almost four hours. I looked at the caller ID. A blocked number. I answered.

A man's voice dripping an Old South accent said, “Matt Royal?”

“Yes.”

“This is Detective Bagger Dobbs, Birmingham P.D. Your chief called mine and mine told me to call you on the Fleming case.”

“I appreciate the call, Detective. Did your chief tell you what our connection is?”

“Only that it might have to do with a kidnapped cop.”

“This may be a wild-goose chase, but what can you tell me about the case?”

“It's pretty cut and dried. The kid was at a titty bar called The Booby Hatch. It's a rough place out on the edge of town. Bad neighborhood. He was walking out of the bar when he was shot in the back.”

“I had the impression there was some sort of altercation at the bar.”

“No. Nothing out of the ordinary. It looks like the kid was on his way home. He'd had a couple of drinks, but his blood alcohol was only zero point three. He was shot just as he was opening his car door.”

“What kind of gun?”

“A rifle. Big slug. We think a thirty-caliber.”

“We had a shooting here on the island. Used a thirty-caliber rifle. Did you find the bullet that killed Fleming?”

“Yeah. It was embedded in the front seat of his car. Went clear through him.”

“I'd like to see if the slugs match up as coming from the same weapon,” I said.

“I'll send the information down to Chief Lester. He'll have it in the next few minutes.”

“Thanks. Any other leads?”

“We have one witness, but he's not much help. He was pretty drunk coming out of the bar, but he said he saw a car rushing out of the parking lot right after he heard the shot.”

“I guess he didn't get a tag number.”

“No,” said the detective, “he didn't even notice the make of the car. All he could tell us was that the driver appeared to be Asian. Maybe a woman.”

Jock and I were sitting in a small office in the Birmingham police station at ten o'clock central time, three hours after my telephone call from Bagger Dobbs. I'd called Fred Cassidy and told him we needed to go to Birmingham. We lifted off at nine and landed in the Alabama city an hour later. A rental car took us downtown.

We were sitting on folding chairs that had once been part of a set that likely included a card table. The detective was behind a metal desk painted a pea-soup green. Probably military surplus. There were no windows and no wall decorations. A fan hung from the ceiling, barely turning the air that smelled of old cigarette smoke.

Dobbs was a big man, befitting his voice. He was in his early fifties, burly, brusque, and black. He was intrigued by the possibility that the Fleming and Brewster murders were tied together and that they somehow had a bearing on the disappearance of J. D. Duncan. I told him everything we had unearthed so far.

“I got a call from Chief Lester about the time we landed here,” I said. “The slugs that killed Fleming and Desmond likely came from the same rifle. He also got an address for the copilot who we think bought the phone. The Atlanta police are trying to locate him.”

“Any ideas as to why some Asian dudes would be killing young men who'd helped build schools?”

“Maybe. Did the name Souphanouvong Phomvihana ever come up in your investigation?”

“That's a mouthful. But, no.”

“How about Soupy?”

“No.”

“What can you tell me about Fleming's family?”

“His dad's a big-time lawyer downtown. Mom spends most days playing tennis at a local country club. They show up at charity balls, get their pictures in the papers. Two other kids, both older than Andy. The oldest one is a man who practices law in his dad's firm. The other one is a woman who is married to a lawyer in the same firm. They kind of keep it in the family. Andy was planning on law school after he finished at Auburn.”

“We need to talk to Andy's father,” I said. “How can I get hold of him?”

At eleven o'clock we were sitting in the corner office of Harrison T. Fleming, Esquire. Dodd's office would have fit into a small corner of this one. The expansive windows on two sides gave us a view of downtown Birmingham and the surrounding hills. One wall had a large oil painting of General Lee marching through Hagerstown, Maryland, on his way to his Waterloo, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. The other wall was filled with diplomas and awards.

Jock and I had been shown in by a professionally dressed woman who identified herself as Mr. Fleming's assistant. She brought us coffee and assured us that someone would be in shortly. He was finishing up a meeting in the conference room.

I was idly scanning the ego wall, discovering that Harrison T. Fleming had graduated from the University of Alabama and its law school and had been editor in chief of the law review. He was admitted to the Alabama Bar and several federal courts including the United States Supreme Court. My eyes moved over the rows and then stopped, backed up, and homed in on one framed set. I got up and walked to the wall to get a better view. It was actually a shadow box that contained the brass insignia of the U. S. Army Special Forces and the shoulder patch showing the familiar blue background with a gold sword and three gold lightning flashes diagonally across the sword. The Airborne and Special Forces rockers topped the patch. Below that were the three golden chevrons of the U.S. Army sergeant, a blue-and-silver combat infantry badge, and ribbons denoting combat service in Vietnam.

The door opened and a tall man entered. He wore a worsted wool suit, blue with a subtle pin-stripe, a red-and-silver regimental tie, a head of iron-gray hair, and a big smile. “Sorry I'm late, gentlemen. I'm Martin Caine, Mr. Fleming's law partner. Unfortunately, he isn't in this morning and I haven't been able to reach him by phone. He's out West somewhere playing golf. When Detective Dobbs called his secretary, she assumed he'd be in today.”

I was still standing by the wall, my back to it now. I'd turned when I heard the door open. Jock had risen from his chair. “I'm Matt Royal,” I said, “and this is Jock Algren and Detective Dobbs.” I returned to my chair. Caine took the chair behind his desk.

“Mr. Caine,” I said, “I'm a lawyer in Longboat Key, Florida, and I'm looking into a murder down there for the family of the victim. There are some troubling aspects of both that murder and the murder of Andy Fleming. There seems to be a connection, and it's important that we talk to Mr. Fleming today.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Royal, but I don't know how to get hold of him. He hasn't been himself since his son's murder. He called me Saturday evening and told me that he would be out of the office this week and that I should see that his calendar was cancelled. He said something about a golf trip out West, but that's all he told me. Apparently, I wasn't clear to his secretary that he would be gone all week. Otherwise, she wouldn't have made the appointment for you to come in this morning. Perhaps I can help. I was Andy's godfather and we were very close.”

I told him about the bullets probably being from the same rifle and the fact that we have identified some Asians who may have been involved in the shooting in Florida. He knew about the Asian seen leaving the scene of his godson's murder.

I asked, “Did you ever hear the name Souphanouvong Phomvihana or maybe Soupy?”

“No. I think I'd remember that name.”

“Andy went to Southeast Asia with the Otto Foundation last summer.”

“Yes.”

“Where did he go?”

“Cambodia.”

“Did he get to Laos at all?” I asked.

“Not to my knowledge. I think he stayed the whole six months right in the little village where they were building the school.”

“Can you think of any reason some Asian person would want to kill Andy?”

“None,” he said.

“A lawyer from Jacksonville, Florida, named Peter Garrison was killed in Longboat the same night as my client's son. Do you know that name?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Can you think of any connection that there might have been between Andy and the Desmond boy?”

“Did you say Desmond?” he asked.

“Yes. He was twenty-three and was killed the day after his wedding.”

He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “I'm sorry. I wish I could help. I'd give everything I have to find the bastard who killed Andy, but I can't see the connection between the two murders. The rifle makes it seem pretty open and shut, but as far as I know, Andy never met the Desmond boy.”

I pointed to the wall. “I see that Mr. Fleming did a little time in Southeast Asia.”

“Yes. We both did. A lifetime ago.”

“Do you know where he was?”

“Pretty much all over. He doesn't like to talk much about it. Did you serve?”

“Yes. Fifth Special Forces out of Camp Connor at the tail end of the war.”

“That's when I was in-country. A grunt in the First Cav,” he said, rising from his chair.

We were being dismissed. He shook hands with us and we turned to leave. As we reached the door, Caine cleared his throat. “Mr. Royal,” he said, “thank you for your service.”