The Visible Suspect (A Frank Randall Mystery) Read online

  The Visible Suspect

  Steven Ehrman

  Copyright © 20113 Steven Ehrman

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:1490396683

  ISBN-13:978-1490396682

  DEDICATION

  To Matthew and Michael

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to all the great hard-boiled detective writers for leading the way

  Chapter One

  I parked my car on the street three blocks from the office. I normally used the garage around the corner from the office to keep it out of the weather, but it was a clear day so I thought I would save a little scratch. I had a day old taco for breakfast and washed it down with two cups of bad coffee at my apartment that morning. I felt a little groggy from a tussle with a bottle from that night before and I thought the walk might clear my head.

  It was early and the streets were just beginning to fill with traffic. As I was waiting at a cross street I saw a couple of the neighborhood toughs go by in a gray Chevy sedan. They were on the edge of organized crime, I assumed, and helped to shakedown some of the local merchants for protection money. How connected they were I was not certain, but they never would have been allowed to operate without some juice. They called themselves the neighborhood watch. They were watching all right. I had run into them before, and although they had done me a good turn they were also dangerous. I gave the car a wary nod when they passed.

  I walked into the building and crossed the lobby to the elevator. I pressed the up key and waited. The elevator in the building was on the fritz half the time. The doors didn’t open and the brass half circle over the top of the elevator had the arm pointed to the lobby. I pressed the button a couple of more times, that never worked, and decided on the stairs as I was only on the sixth floor anyway. No reason that should be a death march. On the first landing I stopped to light a cigarette, and then continued to the second floor. I remembered why I didn’t take the stairs too often. The stairwell was filthy and it looked like someone had been doing some drinking, as I kicked away two beer bottles and an empty pint whiskey bottle just on my short trip. I made a mental note to call building maintenance, for all the good it was likely to do.

  I opened the sixth floor door and made my way down the hall to my office. The door had Frank Randall, Discreet Investigations, painted on it and I noted that the paint was fading. It was the first thing people saw when they came to the office and I liked to keep up appearances. I made another mental note to call the painter. The office set up was a two-room affair. The outer office had two bookshelves, with various tomes I had picked up at a bookstore when I had first opened the place. It was an eclectic collection with classic novels, references materials, and the odd biography, that was available on the cheap at the time. There was a couch and three upholstered chairs arranged for customers to be seated if I was busy, and a desk and chair for my secretary. The secretary was an off and on addition to my detective firm and the position was open at the time. Two filing cabinets on a wall to the right of the desk rounded out the accruements. I passed through into the inner office, hung my jacket up, stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on my desk, and sat down.

  My office was a roughly half again as large as the outer office. Immediately to the left of the door was a large couch for my clients and it also doubled as a bed for me at times. My mahogany desk dominated the room and there were two chairs in front of it for clients. On one wall was a huge map of the city and it was flanked by two more bookcases with a large potted plant by the window. A television, a radio in the corner, and a sink and mirror behind a partition in the back of the office, filled out the rest of the room.

  I had a pile of mail from yesterday that I had not gone through as of yet. I loosened my tie and grabbed my ornate brass letter opener. Slicing each envelope neatly, I began to plow through the pile. I was hoping to find a check, but there seemed to be only bills and advertisements. I looked at one letter that was shilling toothpaste and tossed it in the trash. The next letter was advertising answering machines. I put that one in the maybe pile, and it reminded me to call the service and have them send my calls through. I thought I heard the elevator stop. At least it was running again. As I was hanging up the phone, I heard the elevator door open and then someone walking in the hallway. They seemed to pause at the door to the office. After a moment had passed, they continued on. I had noticed in the past that some customers needed a couple of runs at the door before they came in.

  Sometimes the investigation they wanted to commission was embarrassing, and sometimes it just seemed that private eyes were low on the social level and that in itself was embarrassing. I could wait until they steeled their courage up. I stepped behind the partition to splash some water on my face and check out my appearance in the mirror. My 170 pounds was spread out over a frame of some six feet. I shaved the day before and I had a clean shirt on. I heard the door to the outer office open. I dried my face and walked over to my office door. Before I reached it the door opened and a woman steeped in.

  “Mr. Randall?” She asked, in a raspy voice with just the hint of an accent.

  “I’m Frank Randall. How can I help you?”

  She strode up to me and firmly shook my hand. I motioned for her to a seat in front of my desk, and sat down myself.

  “I am Glenda Peterson,” she said. “I have been married for just over a year and my husband has disappeared”

  She spoke calmly. I pulled a cigarette from a package in my front pocket and lit it. I drew in a lungful of smoke and studied her. She was a finely dressed woman of perhaps fifty with well-groomed hair, perfect makeup, and manicured nails. She had on a gray jacket and a gray skirt. She carried an attaché case and looked like money.

  “Mrs. Peterson, most husbands who disappear don’t want to be found and when they are the wives usually don’t like what they have found.”

  “Mr. Randall,” she said, still in a calm tone. “I am a woman who is used to getting what she wants. I have been told you are a competent and discreet investigator. I want Tony found. I’ll deal with any consequences that such an investigation might produce.”

  I drew in another lungful of smoke, blew it out, and stubbed the cigarette.

  “Okay. You win, Mrs. Peterson. I was only spelling out one of several possible outcomes, but if you want to investigate your husband’s disappearance, I am for hire. How long has your husband been missing?”

  She looked shrewdly at me and seemed to make a decision.

  “Perhaps I should give you some background. I was a widow, and a wealthy one, when I met Tony at the racetrack some eighteen months ago. He was dashing and handsome and ten years younger than me. We began an affair almost immediately, and we were married several months later”

  “What did he do for a living, Mrs. Peterson?”

  “Of course, you have to ask that, but I honestly do not know. I rather fancied he had inherited some money. He was closely guarded about his business life, but I always assumed he was involv
ed in stocks. Money was never a problem and he didn’t marry me for mine”

  That last part was said in a rush and she sat slightly flushed and was breathing hard.

  “I apologize, Mr. Randall,” She said as she regained her composure. “Tony and I had separate bank accounts and if he was after my money he disappeared before he got any of it. We were happily married until about six weeks ago.”

  “What happened then?” I asked, as I grabbed a pen and began to take notes.

  “Tony would not admit to it, but he was nervous. He became argumentative if asked, so I stopped. About a month ago he left in the morning and said he had business to take care of and would be back in the evening. I have not seen him since.”

  “I take it you have notified the police.”

  “Of course, but they ran into a problem and that is why I have decide to hire my own investigator.”

  I waited. She seemed on the verge of changing her mind and then plunged ahead.

  “Mr. Randall, when I reported my husband missing the police had a surprising bit of information for me.”

  She paused again and then continued.

  “They told me that Tony Peterson died thirty five years ago.”

  Chapter Two

  I felt a slight irritation.

  “Mrs. Peterson, my rates are the same for investigations as well as practical jokes.”

  “It’s no joke, Mr. Randall.”

  She met my eyes with steely determination. If she wanted to pay the freight I was willing to play along.

  “Very well, Mrs. Peterson. As it happens I am available right now. Let’s hear it from the beginning.”

  She arranged her hands across her knees and went on.

  “As I said, Tony and I had a whirlwind courtship, I suppose you could say, and there were the usual whispers about a young man taking advantage of an older wealthy woman.”

  “How wealthy are we talking about, Mrs. Peterson?” I asked politely.

  Her nostrils flared.

  “That is an impertinent question, Mr. Randall.”

  “It is not impertinent, Mrs. Peterson, and you should know it,” I said with a sigh. “You must understand that I could find out easily. Why not tell me now and save yourself the expense, since you’re hiring me?”

  She saw the logic of it at once.

  “Of course, you need all the facts. I apologize,” she said. “I am the owner of Hawkins Industries. My late husband was Virgil Hawkins.”

  I whistled under my breath. Everyone in the state knew of Hawkins Industries. They had started as an oil company and had spread into a large conglomerate. I realized Mrs. Hawkins must have a net worth measured in the millions. Maybe, even tens of millions if she liquidated.

  “I met Virgil some twenty years ago when he himself was a recent widower. He had a young son named Thomas and we lived happily together until his death four years ago. So you see, Mr. Randall, I heard the same whispers about myself. That I must be a gold digger, but our happy marriage put those whispers to bed after a time.”

  “What happened to your stepson?”

  “He runs a subsidiary of the corporation and still lives on the estate.”

  “A subsidiary of the company? Why not the entire company?” I asked.

  “That really is impertinent, Mr. Randall. Do you always antagonize clients?”

  “Just the ones that are holding out on me, Mrs. Peterson. I go to the mat for my clients and you can expect me to run a lot of interference, and maybe even take some shots to the chin, but I need the truth. It is hard to tell what might eventually have a bearing on the case. Your family relationships are surely not out of bounds.”

  She considered that and made her decision. I had seen clients walk at this point, but Mrs. Peterson was a lady of business and she knew how to read a balance sheet. I could see she decided the pros outweighed the cons.

  “Very well,” she said, “Thomas runs a small part of the firm, because I do not trust him with any larger stake. He was a boy when I married his father and he has always hated me. I am afraid if he had a larger slice of the pie he might attempt to take it all. He has always been a greedy boy.”

  “Then why allow any of it and why allow him to live in your home? He’s obviously a grown man. Why keep him around if he hates you?”

  “You’ve never been married or had children have you, Mr. Randall?” she asked. I grunted a negative. “If you had, you would know the answer to that. Even though Thomas is a terrible person and has always hated and resented me, my late husband asked me to watch over him. It was a dying request and that is a sacred bond.”

  “Who inherits your estate, Mrs. Peterson?”

  “Why does that matter? Oh, very well. Neither Tony nor Thomas inherits anything, aside from small endowments. The bulk of my estate is to be split between various charities. That is how my deceased husband wanted it. He advised me before his unfortunate passing”

  “All right,” I said. “How did Thomas feel about your new husband?”

  “He hated Tony too, of course,” she replied. “He was afraid that I would turn the company over to Tony, a younger man, and that he would lose out on the company completely. I asked Tony to set up some overseas corporations to relieve some of our tax liability, and Thomas made quite the fool of himself. He practically accused Tony of fraud.”

  “I thought you and your husband kept business separate.”

  “But I needed him, Mr. Randall. I may not have known much about Tony’s business affairs, but it was apparent to everyone that Tony was well versed in business matters. My accountants assure me that the corporations were set up in my favor. Tony did myself, and the corporation, a great service. Thomas was simply letting his hatred of Tony run amok.”

  “Did Thomas hate your husband enough to, perhaps, have a hand in his disappearance?’ I asked.

  Mocking laughter filled the room. I was surprised such a cultured lady could let go as she did.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Randall,” she said, as she regained control of her mirth. “Thomas is a weakling and a drunkard. The idea that he would go up against a real man such as Tony is ludicrous. Oh, I have heard stories of what Thomas says when he is in his cups, but believe me he had nothing to do with this. Now, that doesn’t mean he is not happy that Tony is gone. He may even think the company will be his one day, but I have only left him a small trust. When I am gone the money all goes to various charities. My departed husband set up his will that way. I have living control of the company and upon my death the only winners are charitable organizations. So you see, Thomas has no motive and Tony had no ambitions of controlling my millions after my death either.”

  I wondered if Thomas could have a role, however small, in the disappearance. He may be playing a long game. Get the new husband out of the way first, and worry about the long-term future later. In any case it seemed a bad idea to me to have a viper like that in her home.

  “Tell me about the staff at your estate.”

  “We have a rather modest staff,” she began. “We have gardeners, of course, a cook, cleaning people, and Rodgers my butler.”

  “Are these all long time employees?”

  “No, not all. The gardeners and cleaning people are contracted and change often. I don’t really interact with them. Our cook Helen has been with the family for over thirty years, she’s quite a dear, and Rodgers, the butler, has been with me for almost twenty. Virgil asked me to find a manservant after we married. He thought it would make me feel like a queen. I thought it was silly at first, but Rodgers is invaluable. I do not know what I would do without him.”

  “So those two are the only live in help? The only ones Mr. Peterson might have had regular contact with?”

  “Yes,” she said hesitantly. “But really only Rodgers. Tony paid little attention to the staff.”

  “What about close friends? People you socialized with? People who knew him before the two of you met”

  “Tony never spoke of old friends. He was guarded about his p
ast. I assumed it was an unhappy one and left it be. We all have our secrets, don’t we, Mr. Randall? As to my friends and our social circle, well, you see, Mr. Randall, when you are a rich widow you have no friends. You simply have people who want a piece of you. Tony and I socialized at the club, the track, and at various galas, but we had no close friends or acquaintances.”

  “Did you bring photos of Mr. Peterson I could see?”

  In answer, she picked up the attaché case she had placed by her side, opened it, and handed me a manila folder.

  “This is everything the police have. Photos of Tony, our wedding license, dates, and places, at least to the best of my recollection, and several letters he wrote me in the beginning of our brief courtship.”

  I had started cases with much less evidence than this. Mrs. Peterson was evidently an organized lady. Tony Peterson was a man of medium height with sandy colored hair with a shrewd expression. In several photos his lip was curled in just a bit of a sneer that made him look vaguely dangerous. There were only six photos and Peterson was wearing sunglasses in all but the wedding photo. The wedding looked to be of the cheap Mexican variety, and a glance at the license proved that surmise correct. He had no outstanding physical characteristic that stood out. He was a guy you could pass a dozen times on the street and not pick him out of a line up.

  “I’m sorry there are so few pictures of Tony,” she said. “Tony did not like to have his picture taken. I assumed it was the vanity of a man approaching middle age, but, of course, now I wonder.”

  “These pictures will do just fine,” I said, putting the material back in the folder and setting it on my desk. “It only takes one to make an identification. As you say, the reluctance to be photographed seems suspicious now, but here we are.”

  Mrs. Peterson snapped her attaché case closed and seemed prepared to end our interview.

  “Our local police and the Missing Persons Bureau at the capital have been notified that you are my representative and they are expecting you. I have been assured that you will be given their full cooperation.”