The ice house murder, p.1
The Ice House Murder, page 1
Books by Bruce Hammack
* * *
The Smiley and McBlythe Mystery Series
Exercise Is Murder
The Long Fall
The Ice House Murder
Jingle Bells, Rifle Shells
Pistols and Poinsettias
Five Card Murder
* * *
The Star of Justice Series
Long Road to Justice
A Murder Redeemed
Want to know how Steve Smiley got his start in homicide? Sign up for my newsletter and get a free copy of Seeing Red!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Jingle Bells, Rifle Shells
Books by Bruce Hammack
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
“If this lawyer is as shady as you say he is, why are we talking to him?”
Steve pushed his chair away from his desk and scooped up his white cane. “Let’s hear what he has to say. If we don’t like it, we can tell him to take a hike.”
Steve’s partner in their private investigator firm, Heather McBlythe, swiveled in her chair and looked at the heaps of files threatening to avalanche from the shelf behind her desk. She used her index and middle fingers to pull a stray lock of auburn hair from her face. “I do need a break from all this.” Her hand waved over mounds of papers and blueprints, as if that would make them disappear. “Three weeks of fourteen-hour days of research has me cross-eyed.” She looked at Steve. “And you’ve been home listening to audio books and sleeping through programs on the weather channel.”
Steve walked toward the conference table with confidence gained through repetition. Heather took a good look at him to make sure he hadn’t mismatched his clothes. She mused that the geriatric barber he used never seemed to cut his brown hair short enough. Steve contended the one-man shop, with its seasoned patrons occupying seats for hours at a time, provided him with more news than television and radio combined.
“I must admit it’s been a little slow around the house with only Max to talk to. A nice little murder to solve, that’s what we need,” said Steve.
The intercom buzzed, indicating their prospective client had arrived.
Megan, their long, lanky receptionist with tomato-red hair swung the door open for their guest. Heather gave Judson Witherspoon a quick once-over. An exceptionally broad forehead and a retreating hairline made his head look too big for his neck. Combed straight back and held in place with a shiny gel, his plastered-down hair only accentuated his oversized head. A salt and pepper beard hid the lower half of his face. Expressionless slate-colored eyes roamed behind half-closed lids. He neither smiled nor frowned. The double-breasted suit looked custom-made and covered what appeared to be mushy contours of a forty-five-year-old man.
Heather lifted her chin and wished decorum didn’t require her to shake his hand. He waited until the hand came his way and gave it an uninspired shake. She fought an internal voice that told her to wipe it on her skirt.
“Judson Witherspoon,” he said in a tone that indicated he thought she should know the name. “Thank you for seeing me.” He cast his gaze upon Steve and said, “And thank you, Mr. Smiley. It’s good to see you again.”
Steve acknowledged the introduction with a weak nod as Heather and Mr. Witherspoon settled at the conference table.
“Did you have a good trip coming up from Houston?” asked Steve.
“The last twenty-five miles of traffic from the airport to The Woodlands wasn’t bad. It’s the usual bumper-to-bumper heading into Houston at this hour of the morning.”
Heather wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat. “What can we do for you, Mr. Witherspoon?”
He reached into a leather briefcase and handed her a file. “My client has been arrested for murder in this county. I need the services of private investigators to find the true killer.”
Steve leaned back in his chair. “Before we go any further, I think we need to put some cards on the table. Before I lost my sight, you and I had a couple of encounters in court. Do you remember?”
“I do indeed. Your testimony was consistently unshakable. You never overstated the facts, and you were as interested in the innocent going free as you were the guilty serving time. That’s why I’m asking you and Ms. McBlythe to take this case. You did well in choosing a partner who is a Princeton graduate, an attorney and a former detective in Boston. I believe you two have the perfect skill sets to make quick work of this case.” He leaned forward. “You may find this hard to believe, but this is one time my client is innocent.”
“And who is this innocent client?” asked Heather.
“Mr. Reuben Moscovitch, a cashier at a small bakery in Conroe.”
“The Ice House Murder?” asked Steve.
Witherspoon flipped the fingers of his left hand like a fly had landed on them. “You know how the press likes to sensationalize.”
“I’ve not kept up with local news,” said Heather. “You’ll have to explain.”
He handed Heather a file folder. She scanned a copy of a police report while Witherspoon gave an oral recitation of the document. “On the morning of Saturday, July twenty-first, Mr. Peter Grayson was found dead in his locked ice and water vending business. This building is adjacent to a convenience store, not far from Lake Conroe. He’d been shot in the back with a bolt from a crossbow.”
“A bolt?” asked Heather. “That’s a rather unorthodox way to kill a man. Murder by crossbow doesn’t happen every day.” She made a note on her legal pad.
Steve asked, “What else can you tell us concerning the murder?”
“It wasn’t a robbery. Several hundred dollars in coins and bills remained untouched. Also, Mr. Grayson’s wallet, containing over four hundred dollars, wasn’t taken.”
Steve said, “The police must have convincing evidence against your client if they’ve already arrested him.”
“It has to be circumstantial. I know Mr. Moscovitch didn’t commit this crime.”
“How are you so sure?” asked Heather.
Witherspoon leaned back in his chair, a little too comfortable. “Mr. Smiley will be able to answer that question for you.”
“I’m asking you, counselor. How do you know?” asked Heather.
Steve reached a hand to Heather, but she’d leaned back in her chair to match Witherspoon’s posture. “Heather, Mr. Witherspoon represents a prosperous Russian family. They conduct a variety of enterprises in the United States. Some border on being legitimate.”
Heather formed her hands into something that looked like a church, the steeple of index fingers touching her lips. “That explains why a noted Houston attorney is representing a doughnut shop cashier.”
Steve turned his head in the direction of Mr. Witherspoon. “Does Mr. Moscovitch have anything to do with illegal activities involving women or girls?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
“That leaves gambling.”
“Mr. Moscovitch is in the country continuing his formal education.”
“I understand,” said Steve. “Mr. Moscovitch is one of the family’s special employees. He couldn’t have committed the crime because he was somewhere else collecting on an overdue debt. That’s why you’re so confident he’s not the killer.”
A smile pulled up the cheeks of the attorney. “You’re a smart man, Mr. Smiley. You and Ms. McBlythe both know I’m skilled enough to not divulge too much. After you accept the case, I’ll be protected by attorney-client privilege.”
Steve leaned forward. “I strongly suspect that if we take this case, you don’t want us to find out where Mr. Moscovitch was at the time of the murder.”
“Like I said, you’re a smart man, Mr. Smiley.” He waved a hand as if to dismiss the issue altogether. “You won’t be able to place him anywhere other than at his apartment, but discovering his whereabouts at the time of the murder is not within the parameters of what you’ll be hired to do. If you accept the job, you’ll restrict yourselves to finding the killer of Peter Grayson. If that proves too difficult, finding enough evidence against another person or persons to produce sufficient grounds for the police to drop charges will suffice. We’d much prefer the former to avoid any additional publicity. A quick and permanent shifting of blame away from Mr. Moscovitch will be your assignment if you can’t discover who committed this crime.”
The mood of the room had changed from benign business to something with long shadows. Heather clenched her hands together under the table as the attorney’s gaze locked on her.
Steve’s next words came slow and tentative. “If, and I emphasize the word ‘if’, we agree to take the case, it will be understood that our only goal will be to discover the identity of the killer. We will follow the evidence, no matter where it leads. If it points to Mr. Moscovitch, so be it. Also, we will not be a party to destroying the reputations and lives of persons not responsible for Peter Grayson’s death. Any evidence we uncover of a sensitive nature concerning anyone other than the killer will be held in confidence, even from you.”
A pause heightened the tension in the room. Mr. Witherspoon’s gaze passed f
His voice hardened. “Reuben Moscovitch will not go to trial. That is a promise I can make with complete confidence.”
Heather’s mind raced through a series of possible scenarios. Evidence could be manufactured. Reuben Moscovitch might be killed in jail. That didn’t seem likely, but witnesses could disappear or be bribed.
Steve’s voice broke into her thoughts. “How much time do we have?”
The attorney rose. “That’s what I like about you, Mr. Smiley. You get right to the heart of the matter.”
“How long?” asked Heather with a firm voice.
“I’ll give you a week to find the killer. After that, I’ll take whatever steps I feel are necessary to find enough evidence to exonerate Mr. Moscovitch. If that proves fruitless, I’ll be forced to consider other measures.”
“Two weeks,” said Steve.
Mr. Witherspoon’s head tilted to one side as he considered Steve’s counter-proposal. “Ten days, Mr. Smiley, for old time’s sake.”
Heather rose and met the man’s gaze. “Before you go, you’ll need to know our rate so you can decide if you desire our services.” She kept talking at a quick clip. “You’ll be charged ten thousand dollars a day for our services. That’s ten thousand for each of us per day.”
The attorney’s head dipped to one side, like a puppy looking at something he couldn’t figure out. “Twenty thousand dollars a day? That seems excessive.”
“I assure you I’ll be losing money if we take this case. The stack of files and blueprints on my desk are related to this firm acquiring a series of assisted-living facilities worth exponentially more than the paltry amount I’ll glean from you. That project will need to go on the back burner. As they say, time is money.”
“I’m well aware of your family’s reputation for accumulating wealth and philanthropy.”
“If you wish our services, Mr. Witherspoon, those are the terms. If not, we understand. I’m sure there are others who could do a good job for you,” said Steve.
“Let’s not quibble,” said Witherspoon. “Solve the case quickly, and the people I represent will be satisfied. However, let me issue a word of caution. They expect results.”
Steve rubbed his hands together. “And results they will get.” He lowered his voice. “Unless Mr. Moscovitch is guilty or you’ve lied to us.” Steve rose. “I believe I can speak for both of us, Mr. Witherspoon. We accept the case.”
“Yes,” said Heather. “I like a challenge and a deadline to get the juices flowing.” She gazed at Mr. Witherspoon. “And to clarify the terms: Ten days to find Peter Grayson’s killer, at twenty thousand dollars a day.” Heather paused. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to our office manager. She’ll have you sign a standard agreement. You’ll need to wire the entire two hundred thousand to our account before we start. Should we solve the case before the end of ten days, you’ll receive a refund in the form of a cashier’s check for full or partial days.”
“And if you fail to find the killer?”
Heather spoke in a flat voice, meeting his steely gaze with one of her own. “You’re an attorney. So am I. When was the last time you guaranteed a client you’d win a case?”
“I hardly think the comparison of hiring private investigators and conducting legal proceedings is equivalent, Ms. McBlythe.”
“You came to us, Mr. Witherspoon,” said Steve. “The terms of the agreement are yours to accept or reject. We’ll lose no sleep if you go somewhere else.”
The chin of the Houston lawyer rose. “I’ll expect daily updates.”
“That will not happen,” said Heather. She softened her tone. “This is not directed to you alone, Mr. Witherspoon. It’s our policy to never give progress reports to clients on the cases we choose to take. You’ll find that clause on page two of the contract.”
Judson Witherspoon held his hands up in a sign of surrender. “If you two are half as tenacious in finding the killer as you are in contract negotiations, I should be receiving a substantial refund.”
“I’ll take you to our office manager,” said Heather.
She returned to find Steve holding an index finger perpendicular to his lips, the signal not to speak. He motioned as if he held a pen in his right hand and used his left palm as make-believe paper. Having lost his sight only two years prior, Steve could post written notes to Heather if the occasion required. Heather retrieved her legal pad and a pen. Ink met paper and read, “Check for bug.”
Heather pulled the chair Judson Witherspoon had been sitting on out of the way. She kneeled and craned her neck. Sure enough, a round transmitter had been affixed to the underside of the conference room table. She considered removing it but stopped.
She needed to speak in code so she said, “You asked me earlier if I fed Max this morning. Yes, I did.”
He scrawled on the pad. “Leave it.”
Chapter Two
Heather and Steve made small talk concerning different ways to approach the case until Judson Witherspoon had enough time to sign the contract and slither away from the office. “Let’s get a cup of coffee,” said Steve.
The break room became a confessional booth of sorts, away from the prying ears of Mr. Witherspoon, or, more likely, a confederate. Heather retrieved two mugs of stimulant. “I thought I’d pushed that slimy lawyer too far. It was like I couldn’t get him to go somewhere else, no matter what I tried.”
“You did push too hard. I almost choked when he agreed to pay two hundred grand up front for ten days work with no guarantee of success and no daily reports.”
“That’s not counting expenses. We can bill those later.” Heather took a sip of coffee. “I know you’re asking the same thing I am. Why did he choose us? He could have gone somewhere else and received better rates and people who’d do exactly what he wanted. We’ve only handled a few cases so far. You have a great reputation from your years in homicide, but I’m from Boston and have only been in the area for months, not years.”
Steve pulled a thumbnail across his chin. “A blind former detective and an attorney who spends most of her time acquiring properties wouldn’t be my first choice either.” He slipped his fingers through the mug’s handle but didn’t lift it. “Perhaps he heard how hot you are and wanted to check you out.”
Heather almost choked on coffee. “There are too many comedians out of work for you to be making jokes like that.”
“Seriously,” said Steve. “You’re thirty years old, you have long auburn hair, green eyes, you work out daily, and you turn heads everywhere we go. You may not pay attention to it, but there’s nothing wrong with my hearing and believe me, you get men’s attention.”
Heather shook her head. What was Steve up to? He reminded her of a chess player who’d strategize moves far in advance. She put her wonderings aside. “Let’s get back to the case. How do you want to proceed?”
“I think we need to approach this with a totally clean slate. Let’s start by verifying what Witherspoon said.”
“Other than a standard background check of Reuben Moscovitch, the crime, family and friends, where do you suggest we start?”
“Let’s go to the county jail. We don’t need to tell them we’re acting as private detectives. Flash your attorney credentials. All we have is Witherspoon’s word that Moscovitch is an enforcer for that Russian crime syndicate.” He tapped his fingertips together. “Come to think of it, we reached that conclusion on our own. We don’t know who or what Reuben Moscovitch really is.”
“Do you want to talk openly about our going to the jail when we return to the office?”
Steve sipped his coffee and lowered his mug. “If I were Witherspoon, I’d expect us to start with Moscovitch. Let me know what you find on the internet. What Witherspoon hears needs to sound legit.”
