Dangerous Undertaking (17 page)
Waylon Hestor spoke with conviction. If pressed for a judgment, I would have said he told the truth. I had also heard so many good liars that I refused to suspend my skepticism. Hestor admitted the Willard land made a difference to his bottom line. For a business man driven to succeed, there might be no other priority.
“Carl had a buyer for the land at three hundred thousand ten years ago,” I said. “What’s it worth today?”
“Ten times that. I’ve offered three million.”
“Your other investors, the limited partners, how many are there?”
“Thirty. Each has put in an additional fifty thousand. I’ve made up the rest.”
I turned the numbers in my head. One and a half million from the partners, the same from Waylon Hestor. Dallas stood between his brother and sister and three million dollars. Three million dollars that went to Talmadge Watson as soon as the gun smoke cleared in that cemetery.
“Would any of the other investors have approached Dallas? Tried to get him to sell?”
“No one would have gone around me,” said Carl. “The limited partners are legally prohibited from any management or strategic decisions. That protects their liability to their original investment.”
“Yes. That’s the downside, but on the upside, what do you estimate the removal of the camps and the lake frontage to mean?”
“A thirty to fifty percent increase in the price per lot,” said Waylon Hestor. “Throw in the more expensive homes that will be built on the more expensive property and the total revenue from the development jumps ten-fold. We’re talking a thirty million dollar deal.”
“Well, you may not be greedy, Mr. Hestor, but out of thirty people who plopped down fifty thousand for the Willard property, you’re saying none of them wants to earn as much as he can? That no one would engineer steps to make that happen?”
“I’m afraid you still don’t understand,” said Hestor. “Engineer what steps? When I say everything changed, I mean everything changed up in that graveyard. With no Willard heirs, the property will eventually be auctioned off. Ridgemont Power and Electric has pockets as deep as that reservoir. We can’t compete.”
I shot a glance at Carl Romeo and felt guilty about my accusations against him. He had kept Waylon Hestor in the dark about Talmadge Watson.
“How did you expect to compete at all once the power company became interested?”
“I’m a real person,” he said. “Yes, I’ve been financially successful, but I was born up on Yellow Mountain and had the good fortune to develop my family’s property instead of simply selling off when the first land speculators came in thirty years ago. The Willards liked talking to a homegrown, not an institution of suits. I thought I had a chance to work out a deal even Dallas would have been happy with, until I realized he was mentally ill. Then we tried to work around him.”
I looked down at the tract surveys. They could as easily have been the locations of lost gold mines given all the money at stake.
“And you’re sure none of your investors would have thought they could intimidate Dallas into selling and thereby aggravated his unstable condition.”
“No, I can’t say that with certainty,” conceded Hestor.
“I think it’s important the sheriff know who those thirty people are. You have my word any inquiries will be handled discreetly.”
“And if we refuse?” asked Carl.
“I expect Sheriff Wadkins will decide how he wants to incorporate you and your limited partners into his open investigation of Dallas Willard. Discretion will become a public inquiry.”
“Make up the list, Carl.” Hestor pulled a slim billfold from his hip pocket. He extracted a business card and handed it to me. “Here are phone numbers for home, office, and car. In return for my cooperation, I’d appreciate a call if you learn anything.”
I looked at the string of numbers under
HESTOR ENTERPRISES
before slipping the card in my own wallet. “Certainly,” I said.
It was after 5
P.M
. when I left Phoenix House. Carl Romeo handed me a folded sheet of white paper which I tucked unopened into the front pocket of my slacks. On it, he had written the names of the thirty investors, and although I was eager to read them, I waited until the first stoplight on Vance Avenue before unfolding the paper against the center of the steering wheel.
I scanned the list. Most were unknown to me, probably cronies of Hestor in Asheville. A few were familiar, moneyed individuals who lived in Gainesboro. Doug Turner’s name was near the top although I didn’t believe Carl had listed them in any particular order. The last name surprised me. Dr. Alex Soles. Did the psychologist have a very practical and profitable reason for not helping Dallas Willard? Or was there more to it than that? What kind of mind games could he have played if he had seen Dallas after Martha Willard died?
I called Tommy Lee and laid the whole thing out. Dr. Alex Soles would be getting an unexpected visitor.
The breakfast crowd came in shifts at the Cardinal Cafe. Most of the construction workers arrived between six and six-fifteen, wolfing down tankards of hot coffee and platters of eggs and grits. They were replaced by the shopkeepers and tradesmen whose livelihood enjoyed a more leisurely start on the workday. Finally, the retirees arrived, meeting a crony or two and lingering over morning coffee and sweet rolls; by nine-thirty, the bustle had faded to a few tables of gossip and refills.
At seven forty-five Monday morning, the triple bells over the front door announced our arrival. Helen, the head waitress, glanced back over her shoulder and saw Tommy Lee and me entering the diner. The sheriff raised two fingers and pointed to an isolated booth along the wall. We were between the shifts of shopkeepers and retirees, and the restaurant would fill up again before eight. With a nod, Helen grabbed a pot of coffee and two cups from the counter.
I followed Tommy Lee’s example and kept my voice low. We also avoided names whenever possible. “So, what did you learn from our doctor friend?” I asked.
“Not much. I called on him at his house yesterday afternoon. As soon as I mentioned the Hestor project, he started blubbering about how he didn’t mean to avoid Dallas. He started psychoanalyzing himself. Subconscious motives he didn’t recognize. He was more concerned I would report him to a licensing review board than that he was a murder suspect. Psychologists! They’re all crazy.”
“Crazy like a fox. He had a conscious motive to push Dallas to sell. I’m concerned he did see him and tried to manipulate him. I don’t know much about dealing with someone like Dallas, but I suspect it can be playing with fire. He would have a good reason to lie to you if he talked to Dallas right before Dallas shot his brother and sister.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Tommy Lee said. “Our doctor said he hadn’t seen Dallas since he quit the Alzheimer’s meetings. Kept saying Dallas was not his patient. And I heard the tape of Dallas Willard’s voice, the messages he left trying to reach you the night before the funeral. Dallas didn’t say a thing about him.”
“Okay,” I admitted. “That’s a point in his favor.”
“He was also aware that with Lee and Norma Jean dead the power company holds the cards and the cash if the property goes to auction. You told me Carl Romeo has kept mum about Talmadge Watson’s connection.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Waylon Hestor didn’t know anything about Talmadge. I’m surprised someone in the Ridgemont Power and Electric legal department hasn’t discovered Martha had a brother.”
“Why should they look? The line of descendants was uncontested down to Dallas, Lee, and Norma Jean. No one anticipated a whole family would be murdered.”
“But they will look now,” I said. “There is too much at stake.”
“Probably. Carl Romeo found Talmadge because he went back to the hard records. The county hasn’t computerized those early twentieth century birth certificates yet. Maybe Martha’s birth record will be entered when her death certificate is being processed. But birth records don’t list siblings and Martha was born before Talmadge.”
“Without an heir, the benefactor will be the power company, and it’s the least likely to be a murder suspect.”
“We’re talking about people,” said Tommy Lee. “Not an institution.”
“Then who personally benefits?” I asked.
Tommy Lee stared into his coffee cup, as if the answer were to be found there. “I’m afraid the Feds are going to have to break that case for us. We need to learn if Dallas was killed because of his land or because he witnessed the dumping of the toxic waste.”
“Again, that comes back to the power company. We’ve got Fred Pryor, Bob Cain, and those Kentucky men who were late Friday morning.”
“Yeah. Pryor doesn’t want the EPA delaying construction. That could cost hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions of dollars at a time when he needs to look like the corporate heir apparent. We know Cain is a hothead who acts first and thinks later, and we know those Kentucky families depend upon the power company for both a paycheck and housing. Pryor’s right-hand man, Odell Taylor, tells them what to do. That could include loading and unloading the drums.”
“Taylor,” I said. “He’s the guy Pryor depends on when dealing with the crew. Have you heard anything from that EPA investigator Kyle Murphy?”
“No. Finish your coffee and let’s see if he had a nice weekend.”
Kyle Murphy pulled a report from a file on the desk where Jane Cummings had organized materials. Evidently, Jane was attending to her normal Monday morning duties for Fred Pryor in the other trailer.
“They all said they were with Leroy Jackson at a morning prayer meeting,” said Murphy. “They just ran long.”
“On a Friday morning?” I asked.
“That man keeps them in line,” said Tommy Lee. “I hear even Odell Taylor’s fallen in with them. What else have you got?”
“We were busy all weekend working through the federal computer networks. I’m not going to give you the written files, not unless it’s needed for prosecution, but I will tell you we traced a path that had some interesting turns and twists.”
“Money,” said Tommy Lee. “You followed money.”
“Too bad I don’t live here, Sheriff. You just got my vote.”
“What do you have?” I asked impatiently, anxious to hear names.
“Where does this path begin?” asked Tommy Lee.
“Excellent question,” said Murphy. “Where it starts is always as important as where it ends. This trail begins with a discretionary account controlled directly by Fred Pryor. Now there is nothing wrong with that. I made a quiet inquiry in their Charlotte office and learned project managers often have access to funds not earmarked for any particular budget line. Ridgemont Power audits them quarterly and the expenditures are assigned to a job cost. It gives the manager of a major project like this one faster reaction time without being tied to purchase orders and computer checks, especially when you’re isolated in the mountains, three hours from the home office.”
“How much money are we talking about?” I asked.
“Only six thousand. That was the budget for the quarter. It is wired into the local branch and Pryor can manually write a check for cash.”
“So, what’s unusual?” asked Tommy Lee.
“He isn’t a full month into the quarter and the account’s nearly depleted. We got photocopies of the canceled checks. Only one stub has a reference, a hundred dollar check to Luke Coleman for bereavement written Sunday, October twenty-first. Two checks were written Friday the nineteenth. One for a thousand dollars, the second for two thousand. Both made out to cash. The last check was issued Wednesday the twenty-fourth. It was also for two thousand dollars.”
“Any endorsements?”
“The Coleman check cleared Friday with Luke Coleman’s signature on the back. All of the other checks were cashed by Fred Pryor. The local teller remembers the one last Wednesday. Pryor came running in just at closing, and she had to get the funds from the vault.”
“That was the day he came back from Charlotte,” said Tommy Lee. “And it was late that afternoon when he learned about the dumping and Dallas Willard’s death.”
“Then he was called back to Charlotte the next day to help set the strategy for dealing with you guys,” I said.
“It doesn’t cost two thousand dollars to drive to Charlotte,” said Tommy Lee. “He must have needed it for something that night.”
“So, not counting the Coleman check, five thousand dollars has disappeared,” I said.
“No,” said Murphy. “The FBI did a routine check on the bank accounts of the people who came in contact with Pryor during that period. Sheriff, your mention of Bob Cain turned up a cash deposit last Monday in his personal account. One thousand dollars.”
“One of the checks Pryor cashed on the previous Friday,” I said.
“I’d bet on it,” said Tommy Lee.
“Four thousand is still missing,” said Murphy. “We haven’t said anything to Cain or Pryor because we don’t want to tip our hand until we trace more possibilities.”
“And you’ve examined all Pryor’s personal accounts?” asked Tommy Lee.
“And then some. In the last six months he has borrowed the maximum on his 401k, taken a second mortgage on his home, and depleted his savings.”
“What’s he buying?” I asked.
“Nothing yet. The money has gone into a holding account for a limited liability company, a real estate venture named New Shores.”
“Who else is in it?” asked Tommy Lee.
“We’re running the name through the North Carolina Secretary of State’s office now.”
“New Shores,” said Tommy Lee. “We know of some new shores soon to be created, don’t we, Barry. I smell a sweetheart deal. A little inside profiteering.”
“If that’s the case, I’ll be turning the information over to the SEC,” said Murphy.
“And if that doesn’t lead anywhere?” asked Tommy Lee.
“When it looks like a dead-end, we’ll confront Cain and Pryor with the checks.”
“How was Cain normally paid?” I asked.
“Monthly retainer. That’s not due until the first of November and he is not paid in cash but by check.”
“Hush money?” I asked.
Kyle Murphy shrugged.
Tommy Lee smiled. “Maybe. Or maybe he actually earned it in a way Pryor wants to keep hidden.”
“Toxic waste dumped in a quarry,” I said.
“Toxic waste and a body. Two bodies—Dallas Willard and Fats McCauley. And I still can’t see the connection.”
“I’m glad I don’t have your problem, Sheriff,” said Murphy. “That’s why I’m giving you all we’ve got.”
Tommy Lee shook the younger man’s hand. “You’re all right, Murphy. For a Fed. Think I’ll drop in and brighten Fred Pryor’s Monday morning.”
We actually brightened Jane Cummings’ day first. At least she had to smile when Tommy Lee said, “Would you tell the tight ass I’m here to see him?”
She picked up the phone and buzzed his extension. “Mr. Pryor, Sheriff Wadkins is here to see you.”
We heard some garbled, muffled reply come from the receiver. A tinge of color spread over the woman’s cheeks. She hung up the phone.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff. Mr. Pryor says you’ll have to make an appointment for later this afternoon. He’s reviewing material he has been ordered to give to the EPA immediately.”
“Did he really say that, Miss Cummings?”
“Not in those exact words. More like if I can’t get rid of you, he’ll get rid of all of us.”
“Nice guy.” Then Tommy Lee took in a deep breath and bellowed, “Tell Mr. Pryor he will be charged with impeding the investigation of a double homicide. Tell Mr. Pryor if that door doesn’t open in ten seconds, I will place a phone call to
The Charlotte Observer
and report that a senior executive of Ridgemont Power and Electric is stonewalling evidence which links a public utility to the brutal murders of a mentally deranged young man and an elderly furniture store owner. Tell Mr. Pryor the EPA acknowledges the magnitude of the crime of murder even if he does not. And tell Mr. Pryor—”
The door opened and Pryor stood shaking with fury.
“What do you want? Just tell me and then get the hell out of here.”
“Good morning,” said Tommy Lee. “Thank you for clearing your busy schedule. I want to ask you a few questions.”
Pryor closed the door behind us and we sat in the same chairs as during our earlier visit. The office décor was beginning to grow on me.
Before Tommy Lee could say a word, Pryor stated, “I know nothing of how those containers wound up in Hope Quarry. I have no idea who killed Dallas Willard or why his body would have been dumped either separately or with the toxic waste. I had never heard of Travis McCauley. His murder is regrettable, but I challenge you to find any connection to this project. Furthermore, I know of no direct links between work done on this site and any of the deaths that occurred. Frankly, such a suggestion is unsubstantiated and irresponsible.”
“Are you finished?” asked Tommy Lee.
“I am, but the legal counsel of Ridgemont Power and Electric may not be,” he said with undisguised contempt.
“I doubt they are finished or will be for quite awhile. Especially with the real estate hanging in the balance.”
“Real estate?” Pryor’s curiosity got the better of his self-righteous indignation.
“Yes, although he forfeited his legal claim when he shot his brother and sister, Dallas Willard definitely can’t inherit the property as a dead man.”
“Well, the state will take care of that,” Pryor said. “I imagine there will be a buyer.”
“The state?” Tommy Lee asked.
“With no heirs.”
“Who told you there were no heirs, Mr. Pryor?”
“Well,” he stammered for a few seconds, “I don’t know that anyone told me. I must have read it in the newspaper.”
“Ah, well, I wouldn’t believe everything I read in the paper. I suspect the Willard land will stay in the family. These mountain people love to hunt on their own ground. Hell, they’ll be able to fish in your new lake. You know, with all those new shores you will be making for them.”
If I hadn’t been staring intently at Fred Pryor’s face, I probably would have missed the quiver of his lower lip as Tommy Lee casually said “new shores.”
“Are you here to question me about real estate?” he asked.