Redemption (A Joe Burgess Mystery, Book 3) (20 page)

"So you weren't surprised at one person hiring you, another writing the check, a third signing the contract, and a fourth being the record owner of the property?"

"Not really," the surveyor said. "Happens all the time, especially when people are thinking of buying a property and want to know can they do what they want if they get it."

Burgess thought it probably did. "I'd appreciate it if you could send me a copy of your contract and a copy of that survey," he said. "If you've got any problem with that, I can have Clayton Libby okay it. Since he's the trustee, and all."

The surveyor sighed wearily. "That's okay, Sergeant. Just give me your address."

Burgess did that, adding, "I appreciate your help. Look forward to getting those papers."

"I can fax the contract, if that would help. Rest will have to wait for the mail tomorrow. I don't suppose you're going to tell me what this is all about?"

"Reginald Libby has been murdered," Burgess said. "Here's my fax number."

Chapter 14

Off the phone, he made sure he had it all in his notes. The day and time of the conversation. The surveyor's name, address, and phone number. The details of the conversation. That poor, hesitant man had no idea how much information he'd divulged or how many new questions it had raised.

Burgess now had some follow-up questions for Star Goodall. Was it collusion, pressure from Joey, or simply her bitter whimsy that caused her to write that check? Knowing she'd been involved, somehow, in Joey's scheme, her wide-eyed statement that she hadn't thought Reggie was organized enough to set up a trust gave him a resonant pain in his gut.

The surveyor had also given him another place to look for Joey. He checked the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife boat registry. Found nothing registered to Joseph Libby, Claire Libby, or Star Goodall. Just to cover the bases, he also checked Reggie, since Joey seemed to be using his father's name quite freely these days, and Clay. He drew a blank. But that didn't mean much. Joey could be staying on a friend's boat. Renting a boat. Or doing a little illegal crashing. There were plenty of boats in the harbor whose owners paid them little attention.

When the fax machine spat out the surveyor's contract, he wasn't surprised to find the signature bore little resemblance to Reggie's handwriting. It was one of Reggie's peculiarities that the large-boned former football player with his big, scarred hands had handwriting as delicate and precise as a Victorian lady's. His handwriting was more legible when he was wracked with the shakes than Burgess's on a day when he envisioned Sister Mary Peter standing over him with a ruler. What he didn't know was whether Joey had signed it, or his possible co-conspirator, Star Goodall. Or even mommie dearest.

He could answer part of the question right now. He unfolded one of the black letters, laid it on his desk next to the contract, and compared the writing. Looked like she was off the hook on forgery, at least. At home in his desk, he had a couple notes Joey had written to him over the years. None that were recent, but they'd be enough for a preliminary match. He also had a couple notes from Claire—her periodic injunctions to leave Joey alone—so he could check those, too.

He looked up the developer the surveyor had mentioned, whose interest in the property had spurred Joey's efforts, and wrote down his contact information. He was almost certain Clay had known nothing about any of this except what he'd learned from Joey that day; almost as sure that Reggie hadn't. Reggie usually confided things about Joey, both because of his concerns about his son and because Burgess was Joey's godfather, which, in Reggie's mind, had given him rights in the boy. Burgess had heard nothing about Joey's visits, either, though, so maybe Reggie had been embarrassed about them. Or maybe Reggie would have told him if Burgess hadn't been neglecting his old friend in favor of his new domestic life.

That was not somewhere he wanted to go. For all the years of his self-imposed emotional and physical celibacy—his "monkhood" as Stan and Terry would put it—he'd quietly yearned for a personal life. He'd just never seen how to fit it in. Now that he had one, he blew as hot and cold as a furnace on the fritz. Some days it struck him with wonder; others, he longed for the simplicity of the single life, the ability to be obsessed with his work without distractions. He thought he was better at that than at this crazy, awkward balance. He didn't understand how you went from the jazzed-up adrenaline high of the chase to the tender domesticity of the dinner table. He certainly didn't see how you'd add kids to the mix.

"Control it," Melia would say. "Box it up." It must work. Melia was a good cop and a good husband and father. Terry Kyle had failed at marriage but was great with his kids. Not without struggle and sacrifice, though. Burgess didn't think Terry was wired differently. Maybe he, himself, was just starting too late. A dog too old to learn new tricks.

Enough. He had a murder to solve and he was a murder police. He pulled out the trust document he'd gotten from Clay. All the legal gobbledygook was difficult to parse. It would have been nice to have a lawyer in his pocket—never mind that he thought most of the breed were flaming assholes—but he didn't, so he forced himself to reread the most relevant paragraphs. From what he could tell, the trust didn't automatically transfer the property on Reggie's death. Clay still retained the authority to decide whether to hold it, transfer it, sell it, or develop it for the benefit of the beneficiaries until Reggie's youngest child turned thirty-five. As Reggie had no wife or other children, the sole beneficiary was Joey.

Burgess picked up the phone and called Clay again. "Mary," he said when she answered, "I need to talk to Clay." When Clay was on the line, he said, "This may be something or this may be nothing, Clay, but I've got to say it. I followed up with that surveyor you mentioned. Seems Joey told him that he was going to come into the property very soon and had a developer who was interested in developing it. Joey ever talk to you about the land?"

"He did. I told him it was in trust."

"He ask for details?"

"Not from me. When we spoke, the boy was his usual charming self. Called me a liar and said I was just trying to keep him from getting what was rightfully his. I offered to show him the documents but he just slammed out, cursing. It's at the registry, though. He could have gone and looked it up. Him or his lovin' mama. Who, by the way, called and reamed me out for renting the place with a long-term lease."

"Do you understand this the way I do," Burgess said, "that you don't have to give it to Joey outright until he's thirty-five?"

"That's right." Clay's voice was slow and deliberate. And tired, like he'd chopped up a whole forest trying to put some distance between himself and his brother's death. "That was Reggie's idea. He kept hoping if he gave it enough time, Joey'd grow out of this young thug crap, become somebody decent."

"Right. Who becomes trustee if something happens to you?"

"Claire."

"You got the power to change that?"

"You bet I do."

"Do us both a favor, will you?" Burgess said. "Today, tomorrow, as soon as you can see the lawyer, name a different trustee. Put it in writing and be sure Joey and Claire know you've done it. Until then, forgive me for saying this, please watch your back."

"Already thought of that," Clay Libby said, something in his voice that was both iron and sorrow. "I'm keeping the truck in the barn at night. Got motion-activated lights around the outside and a loaded shotgun by the door."

Sweet Jesus. And this was his own nephew. "You didn't say anything," Burgess said.

"Hoping I was wrong and hedging my bets." His sigh said it all.

"I'm still hoping we're wrong," Burgess said. "I'm looking, but I can't find Joey."

"I'd guess he's pretty good at not being found if he doesn't want to be and there's no way Claire would help."

"You notice what Joey's driving these days?"

"Audi, I think. Red one. Convertible."

"You know anything about a developer named Charlie Hazen?"

"Hazen's a predatory, scum-sucking son-of-a-bitch. The kind who scares blind old ladies into selling their farms for pin money. Never met a lie he didn't like. Slick, though. Even when you know what the SOB is like, start talking to him and next thing you know, you're thinking he's really a great guy."

"Well, that's who Joey's been talking to," Burgess said. "I'll be in touch. Call me if there's anything I should know."

"Guess I should start planning a funeral," Clay said. "Since I haven't heard word one from the grieving son and ex-wife. Don't know why I thought they might step up, do you, Joe?"

"Wishful thinking? The absurd way we all keep hoping people will do the right thing?"

"I guess that's it." Clay Libby sighed again. "Funeral at the Veteran's Cemetery still sounds right, but I'm thinking Reggie wouldn't want to be stuck in a hole in the ground. You got any idea where we oughta sprinkle his ashes?"

Burgess did. A very good and absolutely outrageous idea. "I got one. What about you?"

"Mine wouldn't be legal."

"Neither would mine." Burgess wondered if they had the same idea.

"We'll talk," Clay said. "You take care, Joe."

"Yeah. You, too."

Burgess wrote a report about his interview with Star Goodall. Another about his conversation with Rob Johnson. He looked up Charles Hazen and got an address, a phone number, the make of his car, and his plate number. He had a feeling that Hazen might be hard to locate if he thought cops were doing the locating. Rather like young Joey.

He drank the rest of the ginger ale, hungry but too queasy to do anything about it beyond the handful of crackers. He was restless. Eager to sit down with Stan and Terry and hear their news. He had time to kill before they were due in and no interest in spending it behind his desk.

It was Monday dinner time. An excellent time to pay a consolation visit to Claire and Joey. He called Chris to say he definitely wouldn't make it home, and humped his sorry self downstairs. The garage was cold and bleak, his steps echoing as he crunched across the cement. One empty cruiser running, its radio talking to no one. Beyond the cold overhead lights, the corners were as dark and empty as his spirit.

His city was quiet again tonight, people resting up after a busy weekend, getting ready to face another work week. The radio said rain for the next three days. Rain would bring down the leaves, changing the bright world to brown. Gray and rain suited his mood better than fall's glory, but he felt a flicker of regret for the fine weekend he'd missed.

He drove past a small knot of ragged men sitting on some church steps, another group clustered in a pocket park. Turning a corner, he spotted a tall man up ahead, wearing army green, pushing a shopping cart. He had the window down, Reggie's name on his lips, when it hit him. He'd never turn a corner and come upon Reggie again; never drive down a side street and see Reggie's big shoulders hulking along behind his trademark shopping cart. He, of all people, should know about life's transience, yet it felt like a blow.

Some instinct made him park around the corner instead of rolling up Claire's street and parking out front. Probably the same instinct that made him unsurprised when he saw Star Goodall's black van parked across the street, and a sporty red car in the driveway. A private wake or a cabal of the wicked? Claire probably didn't carry a stiletto in her girdle, but she'd go to great lengths to protect her son. Joey had no scruples, he knew, and neither did Star. Burgess decided it wasn't prudent to tackle this alone.

He dialed. Got an instant, "Stan Perry."

"You and Terry have any luck tracking down Joey Libby?"

"Fuck all. That kid is slippery as an eel."

"I think I've found him. I'm sitting outside Claire Libby's place." He gave the address. "Joey's car is here. This might be a good time to catch him, but I'd like someone watching my back. You free?"

"As a bird," Stan said. "I was just thinking about some dinner."

"Postpone it."

"Three minutes," Stan said.

"Block the driveway," Burgess said.

He put his phone away and studied the house. What he wanted to do was sneak up and peek in the windows but reality argued against it. Reality in the form of Captain Paul Cote, who operated with one standard for ordinary people and another for those who lived in a nice part of town like this. In Cote's book, folks who made nice political contributions and lived in nice houses had to be treated nicely, even if it meant not asking hard questions and not being pushy. It was all tread lightly and tug at your forelock. Here, Cote might couch it in terms of their obligations toward the grieving family. In reality, the nod was toward the family's pocketbook.