Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) (9 page)

I returned to the pub for a quick sandwich, sitting at the bar as Maureen polished pint glasses and Mick drank some coffee.

“Let’s go over all the details again,” said Maureen.

“Speculation is one of my favorite hobbies,” said Mick. “Go on.”

“Well, with the scuffs that Doc found on Preston’s shoes,” said Maureen, “maybe Big Tony and Little Terry drowned Preston in the river, then carted him up to the bridge and tossed him over — or maybe they drugged him like they did Erin and tossed him over the bridge. With enough drugs in his system there’s no way he’d be able to swim.” 

“Motive?” said Mick.

“Well, Sean caught Hall in a big lie, didn’t he? Hall said she hadn’t seen Preston in weeks, but Rosie said they met the day before he went into the river.”

“That is true,” said Mick.

“And like you speculated before, Mick, Preston likely told Hall something during that meeting that she didn’t like. Maybe it was related to that hand-written ledger Rosie mentioned  — or maybe he kept that information to himself to protect Rosie and simply talk Hall he was going to authorities to report unusual activities in the building by the river. Whatever the case, we know that Tony and Terry work for Hall and she could have had them kill Preston.” 

“All in the realm of possibility,” I said.

“Then Erin Miller comes out of the woodwork,” continued Maureen. “Preston had been leading a secret life with her that nobody knew about. So Hall goes into a panic mode and worries that Erin knows whatever it was that Preston knew — and maybe is in possession of that ledger. So Hall sends her men to abduct her.”

“All of that may be true,” I said. “We’ll know more when Erin is able to talk. But Erin will not be safe until we get to the bottom of this mess and stop who is behind it from hurting her.”

“Well, your next move is clear to me.”

“I’m listening,” I said.

“Look, like Mick figured, Maryville is the nexus of this whole situation. Preston’s company is there. Preston died there. Erin first saw the men who would later abduct her there and on and on.”

“Which means?”

“Which means the Maryville chief of police is your next move,” said Maureen. “She’s either incompetent or complicit. Hall is clearly doing something illegal in the secured building she is leasing out. And Rosie says Hall has been keeping a coded ledger? Hello! I’ll bet the chief is on Hall’s payroll.”

“She’s only been chief of police for a few months,” I said. “She came back from the suburbs surrounding Washington D.C. to take the job when the sitting chief, her father, suffered a fatal heart attack.”

“And how long has Hall being doing business from in Maryville?”

“About four years,” I said.

“So maybe this is what happened,” said Maureen. “Hall comes into Maryville four years ago, cuts a deal with the long-time chief of police to look the other way. He’s been a cop a long time. He has never made much money. He’s probably thinking he needs to plan ahead for retirement, so he makes a terrible mistake and goes on the take.”

“It happens,” said Mick.

“So the chief’s daughter takes over after he dies and discovers what her father had done,” said Maureen. “She wants to protect his good name and has to double down. Then, let’s say, whatever she agreed to with Hall has spiraled out of control — covering up a murder surely wasn’t what the chief’s father thought he was agreeing to do.”

“I like your train of thought,” I said.

“Then, just when things are at their worst, Chief Sarafino has to deal with a private eye who is poking around,” said Maureen. “And to make matters more challenging for her she is a female chief of police.”

“I am not sure I understand what being a female has to do with anything,” I said.

“That doesn't surprise me,” said Maureen, rolling her eyes. “Being a female chief virtually guarantees that someone will tear her investigation apart to ensure she did it correctly or simply to make her look like bad. Trust me, I know how hard it is to be a lady cop. So she fears she’ll get more scrutiny than a man ever would. And the truth is, she will.” 

“And this means?” I said.

“It means one of two things,” continued Maureen. “If she’s corrupt, you need to find that out. But if she’s trapped in a situation that her father created, you need to find that out, too. If it is the latter, then she can help you.”

“So how do I find out whether she’s a bad cop on the take or a good cop who’s in a bad situation?” I said.

“Do I have to spell everything out for you?” she said. “Look, if I were in her position, I’d want to know everything you have found. She wants to compare notes — at least hear your side of it. That’s your angle. She thinks you're a two-bit PI — and I can't imagine how she might come to a conclusion like that — but she's also curious to learn what you know.”

“What are you getting at?” I said.

“It’s easier to catch flies with honey than with vinegar. Go talk with her.”

“Not a bad idea, Kid,” said Mick, nodding his head.

Maureen was correct as usually. I picked up the phone and placed a call to a certain police chief in Maryville.

She answered. 

“Hello, Chief Sarafino, have I got an offer for you.” 

Angelica’s Ristorante is located within an old Victorian home that sits high on the bluff above the Monongahela River in Maryville’s southern neighborhoods a dozen blocks from the heart of town.

The sun was beginning to set as I sat out on the patio waiting for the chief. The trees on the surrounding hills were a tinge more red, orange and yellow than they were a few days before when I found Erin. Tiki candles flickered with the Indian summer breeze. The sun reflected off the river surface. I sat there taking it in while sipping a good cabernet wine. 

Twenty minutes later, the chief finally arrived. The hostess led her to our table.

Chief Sarafino wore a silky black dress that wrapped her curvy frame like a bandanna. It was cut just high enough above her knees to be sexy, but not too low to be tasteless. She wore a gold-linked chain around her neck that conformed itself to the roundness of her bosom — it rose and fell gently with every breath. Her long, full hair fell over her shoulders like velvet.

“Chief?” I said.

I jumped up to pull her chair out for her. 

“What?” she said, glaring at me.

“You look terrific,” I said.

“Sit down,” she said, glaring at me.

The waiter brought water and menus as she sat.

“Would you like some wine?” I said to the chief.

“Are you my waiter?” she said, smiling.

She ordered a glass of cabernet, then began reviewing the menu.

“Everything is delicious here,” she said. “In particular, the grilled salmon.”

When the waiter returned, the chief ordered grilled salmon. I did, too.

We made small talk at first — I wanted to ease into the information pertaining to Erin Miller and John Preston, so I directed our conversation toward the weather and the river and how it was she became chief of Maryville.

“After I graduated college,” she said, “I couldn’t get away from Maryville fast enough. My father had been the chief here and everyone knew everyone else’s business. I studied criminology at Indiana University and took a job as a cop in Gaithersburg, MD. I quickly moved my way up the chain.”

“Police work is in the blood, then?”

She nodded.

“My grandfather and an uncle had also been cops. I was on the fast track in Gaithersburg, but when my father died suddenly, and I was offered the position of Chief of Maryville, I had to accept.”

“You must be proud to carry on your father’s work.”

She nodded and took a sip of wine.

“But it is very hard,” she continued. “Everything I do, I am compared to him. Some in this town still cannot accept a woman as its head cop. Is that why you decided to take on the Preston case yourself, without the help of the State Police?”

She looked hard at me, but said nothing.

Our dinner arrived and it was delicious. We concluded it with some delicious Tiramisu and coffee. The sun had set by then. 

“OK, it’s your turn to talk,” she said, as I sipped coffee. “Our deal was that you are to tell me everything you know about the Preston situation. Then I speak.”

I nodded, then told her most of what I’d experienced and knew.

“Erin Miller is safe now,” I said. “The short of it is this: She told me she’d visited you and that Big Tony and Little Terry followed her after she left your office. Why didn’t you tell me the truth about that?”

She said nothing.

“Here’s what I’m thinking. Victoria Hall had John Preston killed for reasons that are not yet clear. She staged it to look like a suicide. By managing the case yourself, you are able to help her cover her tracks. Which means you are on her payroll — because your father, albeit a widely respected chief, made the mistake of going on Hall’s payroll. Essentially, you are helping Hall make Preston’s murder look like a suicide in order to protect your father’s reputation. I’m guessing Hall has information that can do just that and she is using it to control you.”

Her face grew red.

“I’m thinking that this entire situation has rapidly spiraled out of your control and you have not yet figured a way out of it. I’m here to tell you that I can help you. And now it is your turn to tell me what is really going on in your quaint little town.”

“Waiter,” she said loudly.

The waiter came out to us.

“Bourbon,” she said.

She stared at me unblinking until the waiter returned. He opened a fresh bottle of Knob Creek and filled two rocks glasses halfway to the brim.

“Drink,” said the chief.

She lifted her glass to her lips, then drained it.

“That stuff is 100 proof,” I said.

“Drink, you wussie.”

I lifted my glass and drank.

I felt the slow burn pass through my digestive tract. In a moment I experienced a momentary sense of warmth and wellbeing. Then I looked into the chief’s eyes, and was filled with a sense of impending doom.

She picked up the bottle and filled both glasses.

“Again,” she said.   

The hell if I was going to let a 120-pound police lady kick my Irish posterior in alcohol consumption. I picked up the glass and drank. And we did it again, then then again.

And then — I didn’t remember exactly what happened then.

Chirp, chirp, chirp.

It was the loudest bird chirping I’d ever heard. Its high-pitched screeching banged around the throbbing emptiness of my skull like buckshot fired from a revolutionary-war musket.

I opened my eyes.

The sun shone brightly through the open window. A cold morning breeze made the drapes dance. Under more sober circumstances, this is the kind of morning I would have cherished.

But I didn’t know where I was.

Chirp, chirp, ccchiiiiirrrrpppp.

I began to acclimate to my environment. I was on a peculiar couch in a peculiar room. I lifted the blanket and took a peek. I was fully dressed — still had my boots on.

I heard the shower running in the next room. The water shut off. I heard the sound of someone drying off with a towel. Then I heard humming — a woman’s voice, cheerful and humming.

Then Chief Sarafino walked into the bedroom. She was wrapped in a towel, her hair pulled back.

“Get up, McClanahan, it’s almost 7:00 a.m.”

It was all coming back to me now. The drinking contest. I didn’t remember much more after that. I vaguely remembered stumbling back to the chief’s apartment — I remembered her mocking me as we walked.  

“What happened?” I said.

I lifted my head more.

“Nothing happened,” she said.

She laughed aloud and almost dropped her towel. I forgot for a second how hung-over I was as I anxiously hoped for her towel to drop.

“You’re such a lightweight,” she said. “You could barely keep up right as we walked to my apartment.”

I pushed myself off the couch and set my feet on the floor. My legs felt like lead weights.

“It’s such a beautiful morning,” I lied, as I pushed myself onto my feet and moved awkwardly toward the window.

“It’s a gorgeous morning,” she said.

“Gorgeous,” I said, slamming the window shut.

She went back into her bathroom and closed the door. It stayed open one foot, though.

“Why don’t we go have some breakfast and talk?” I said, wanting to do neither.

“I have things to do,” she said. “Police work, tracking down bad guys. You wouldn’t understand,”

She walked into the back of the bathroom, unaware that I could see her reflection in the mirror. She dropped her towel to reveal a gorgeous female form. I forgot about my hangover.

She looked up into the mirror and saw a disheveled me peering into the bathroom.

“You dirty man!” she said, laughing, as she slammed the door shut.

She came out a few minutes later in her chief uniform. Her hair was pinned behind her ears. It was amazing to me how the same woman who had been a voluptuous feminine creature the night before was again transformed into a tightly-wound law-enforcement professional.

“It’s time to go, McClanahan.”

“Go?” I said.

“You’re dismissed,” she said. “I'll call you the next time I’m in a need of a man who can’t hold his liquor.”

“Think about what I told you last night. I can help you get out of this mess.”

She walked out her front door, slamming it hard. The slamming produced a lightning-bolt sensation that exploded what was left of my skull.

“Well, that was interesting,” I said to myself, every day puzzled a little more by all things female.

I fished around my pocket for my keys, then made my way out her front door and into the world. The longest eight-block journey of my life awaited me.

I began to walk, keeping an eye out for a black Crown Vic — this time hoping it would put me out of my misery.