Michael Koryta - Tonight I Said Goodbye

“If he drove. Could have stolen the plate beforehand, then flown up here, rented a car, and swapped the plates to cover himself.”

“Now why’s a guy from Myrtle Beach come to Cleveland with a phony badge to question Weston’s neighbors? And how the hell does he know about the Russians? Even if he flew in, according to the license plate he couldn’t have been here for more than two days. So we can assume he knew about the Russians beforehand.”

“Knew what?”

He shrugged. “Something, anyhow. He’s asking the neighbors about the night of Weston’s death. Why?”

“Another investigator?”

“Who’s he working for, then?”

I sighed and shook my head. I didn’t have any answers. A dull ache had crept into my shoulders, and I rolled them slightly, trying to relieve the tension. I needed a good workout, or maybe a massage.

“What do you think of Agent Cody?” Joe asked.

“A Bureau boy, through and through,” I said. “Smart, flashy, cocky. And probably full of shit.”

He nodded. “That’s what I think, too. I don’t know if he lied to us last night, but I’m sure he didn’t tell us everything he knew. He says the FBI took over this investigation just because Weston’s name came up on a wiretap? Bullshit. There’s got to be more than that involved.”

“Do you think we should tell him about Dan Beckley?”

“I don’t know. Our first duty is to John Weston. The FBI can make it awfully hard for us to get anywhere with this case if they don’t like where we’re going with it. I don’t want that to happen.”

“We can assume Weston was working for Hubbard, providing him blackmail material to use in his business negotiations,” I said. “Hell, he’s pretty active in city government, too. There’s no telling how many secrets Weston gave him over the years.”

“Enough to make some people mad enough to kill him.”

“Sure. But where do the Russians fit in, then? I can see dozens of people willing to whack Weston for extortion if they caught him, but not many of them would involve his family. That sounds more like a mob tactic.”

“And then we’ve got this guy in the green Olds,” Joe said. “I’m thinking maybe he’s FBI after all.”

“Cody said he wasn’t. And Swanders was pissed about it, when we told him the guy was flashing a badge and claiming to be CPD.”

“Uh-huh,” Joe said. “I believe Swanders is clueless, but I wouldn’t put it past Cody. You know how the Bureau protects their agents, especially if they’re undercover. If he didn’t want to claim the guy as one of theirs, he wouldn’t hesitate to lie about it. And it wasn’t Swanders who left the message about the license plate being lifted in Myrtle Beach. It was Cody.”

“You’re saying he lied about that, too.”

“I’m saying he could have.”

We could have continued throwing questions and complaints about the case at one another for an hour or two, but it wasn’t going to get us anywhere. Joe asked to look over the faxes from Amy again, so I passed those over, and, for lack of a better idea, I pulled out the small case file we had and began to look through it. The contents weren’t particularly awe inspiring: the notebook of recollections from John Weston, the folder of background on the Russians I’d taken from April Sortigan, and notes from my conversation with Deputy Prosecutor James Sellers. I read through it all again, searching for something I might have overlooked originally or for something that might have new meaning after our recent discoveries. I didn’t find much. Sortigan’s file wasn’t especially helpful, just basic notes from her court research. There was nothing I hadn’t already committed to memory, but I read through it anyhow.

My eye caught on a telephone number written on a yellow Post-it note and stuck to the outside of the folder. I tried to remember if it was related to the case or just a personal note she’d neglected to remove when she gave me the file. Then I remembered. Sortigan told me Weston had instructed her to fax information on the Russians to that number while he was out of town.

I turned on the computer and logged on to the Internet. There are a number of good databases for reverse lookups that take a phone number and match it with an address, or vice versa. I went to my favorite of them and typed in the number, then clicked the search button. A few seconds later the database reported there were no matches. I wasn’t surprised. The databases are effective only for listed phone numbers, and most fax numbers aren’t listed.

I stared at the monitor for a while, trying to think of another option. I could send a fax to the number on some pretext and hope someone responded. I couldn’t think of a good pretext, though. Maybe I should just be honest, send a fax with our company letterhead and try for intimidating. When people are intimidated by investigators they generally clam up rather than provide information. I studied the fax number again and then went to a different database. If nothing else, I could find out what cities matched the area code. I entered the three digits into the search engine, and it fed me an immediate match. The area code belonged to a portion of South Carolina that included Myrtle Beach.

“Hey, Joseph,” I said. He grunted in response. “When Weston told Sortigan to check out the Russians, he asked her to fax the information to him long distance. I can’t find a match on the phone number, but I checked on the area code, and guess what city it includes?”

“Myrtle Beach.”

I glared at him. “Do you have to be so damn clever? I was hoping to make a dramatic announcement.”

He leaned over to look at the computer screen. “That’s interesting, though. Maybe Cody didn’t lie about the plate being stolen there after all.”

“What would Weston have been doing in Myrtle Beach just a few days before he was killed?”

“Does he know anyone there?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Joe looked at the monitor and rubbed his jaw idly. “Call John and ask him.”

I picked up the phone and called John Weston. He answered on the second ring, and when I gave my name he said, “Yes, what is it?” with an expectant eagerness that made me want to sink lower in the chair. The days had seemed to go by quickly for Joe and me, but they were clearly passing with agonizing slowness for John Weston.

I explained that we were making some progress on the case, but I said we wouldn’t discuss details until we’d corroborated theories with facts. He did some grumbling about that, but I held my ground. The last thing I wanted was to tell the poor man we thought his son had been an extortionist who’d pissed off the Russian mob. I had a bad feeling we’d have to tell him that sooner or later, but I wasn’t about to rush into it until we were sure that was the case.

“We’ve turned up some connections to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina,” I told him. “It looks like Wayne went down there shortly before his death. We were wondering if you knew of any friends or acquaintances he had there?”

“He went to South Carolina?” Weston said. “Well, he never said anything about that to me. Are you sure?”

“Did he have any friends or acquaintances there?” I repeated patiently. I doubted Wayne Weston had been sharing many things with his father, but apparently the idea came as a surprise to the old man.

“Well, sure,” John Weston said. “Randy Hartwick. I told you about him already.”

“You did?”

“It’s all in the damned notebook,” he snapped. “That’s why I spent all that time writing everything down, so you’d have the information in front of you and you wouldn’t have to waste time calling me with every damn question that came up.”