Hair of the Dog Page 8

  “Place of birth?”

  “Ackley, Iowa. That’s in Hardin County, I believe.”

  “Family members?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Last known address?”

  “As I mentioned, Palm Coast, Florida. But he didn’t live there for very long—less than five years. I think he retired there and then his wife died and he took off.”

  “Do you have a specific address?”

  “I think I could get one.”

  “Good. And his Social Security number would be good, too.”

  “I’ll have to work on that one. But I could get a copy of his driver’s license. Maybe his passport, too. And I do know he’s a Republican. More TP than moderate.”

  “TP?”

  “Tea Party.”

  “Of course. Oh, I almost forgot, wife’s name and date of birth?”

  “Patricia, but I don’t know her age.”

  “What did he do before he retired?”

  “Owned a small business in Ames—he made specialized hinges and hardware for doors. A lot of his business was online.”

  “Name of business?”

  “I’ve only seen a screen shot…the banner read, “See EVERs for EVERything!”

  “This should be enough to get started. I’ll give you a call if I need something else.”

  After another cup of coffee and catching up on Carolyn and Philip, Maggie begged off waiting around to see Dan. Elaine walked her to her car and swore she wouldn’t utter a peep. This was their secret and would stay that way. Another air-kiss and Maggie backed out of the driveway. The car had Florida tags so it must be Stanley’s. On a whim Elaine jotted down the license plate. Motor Vehicle Departments were good for basic stats. What an unexpected afternoon.

  Yet, Elaine couldn’t help but feel elated over her very first assignment. How tough could it be to find information on someone from Ackley, Iowa? She was sure Stanley was who he said he was but still how smart of Maggie to check. And even though she was certain that Maggie didn’t really need her help—not in today’s world of computers and easy online research—it was still easier to have someone do the legwork for you. She had three days before she met with Scott. It would be nice to show him a tidy research project completed all on her own.

  Chapter Eight

  Elaine decided there were a number of things she could find out locally. At least double-check Maggie’s information as to full name and date of birth. Death certificate for the wife, voters registration, home ownership, car registration—all would either give credence to Maggie’s story or throw up a red flag. Dan was busy with interviews at the track; Sadie was happily back with Fucher; and Elaine’s time was her own. Dan didn’t question her working on an assignment. He was really supportive about her going back to school. She didn’t have to divulge for whom she was working. And she didn’t have to fib about her whereabouts. Conscience-free snooping—she could learn to like this.

  She was getting good at buzzing up Highway 1 to Palm Coast. An old highway but without the push and shove of I-95. The tax collection office and voter registration were housed in the same place—in a strip mall off of Old King’s in the Staples Plaza. GPS made things easy to find but this commuters’ village of seventy-six thousand was a dream to navigate. Thirty-five minutes door-to-door from Daytona and she didn’t even have to take a number and wait for service.

  But how disappointing. For all of his supposed staunch Republican leanings, Stanley was not a registered voter. Available as public record, the voter registration office would have been a source for name and date of birth. But then maybe not being a voter wasn’t too unusual, but he did come from the group age-wise that AARP claimed had the most people active in their government. The voting record was unknown to start with so maybe it would work better to check on known facts—deaths recorded in the last five years. Patricia Evers, wife to Stanley Richardson Evers of Palm Coast, Florida. Off to the public library and the obituaries for the last five years.

  Nothing. No Evers, Patricia or otherwise, had died in Palm Coast in that timeframe. Had he even been married? A trip to the clerk of the court’s office would give marriages—the original if the couple divorced, as well as, possible others. No one with the last name of Evers divorced a Patricia or married anyone else. But then he was probably married to Patricia in Iowa and was telling the truth about only being married once. That was positive anyway. No divorces or remarriages. Yet this felt like another dead end. She was beginning to feel foolish. She’d spent a morning running around with absolutely nothing to show for it. So, what now?

  Driver’s license information wouldn’t be handed out to just anyone, so Elaine could only hope Maggie would be able to get a copy. But what could she tell Maggie as the result of a morning’s sleuthing? One last avenue—surely he’d owned a house if he lived in the area for up to five years. Off to check the real property tax rolls—again public record and available. She ended up searching the local property appraiser’s records just to double-check the lack of info uncovered by a look at the tax rolls. Maybe if he lived in the area, he rented, and that probably meant paying utilities. Another lead.

  She looked up the address of Palm Coast Water and Sewer and headed toward Utility Drive. Maybe if she told them that the family had lost track of her uncle and they feared he had Alzheimer’s, and all she wanted was a “yes” or “no” as to whether he’d lived in the community, she could get information. And it worked. Only the answer was “no.” No record of a Stanly Evers paying a water/sewer bill in the last five years. Or ever, for that matter. The clerk was absolutely certain. So, still nothing. For all intent and purposes, the man never existed—at least not in this part of the world.

  She couldn’t just give up. Think. Maybe it would make sense to just start at the source. How big could Ackley, Iowa, be? Would the hospital have records of births from 1955? She thought they probably would. And wouldn’t there be other Evers in the town? Brothers, sisters, maybe? At least aunts, uncles, or cousins. She needed to go home, pick up a phone and do some calling. The one area that she was avoiding was anything having to do with criminal activity. Many counties put their criminal records online. She could take a look at Flagler County, and stop wasting gas.

  ***

  She made a pot of coffee and lost the battle to ignore the last cheese Danish in the fridge. She had to wait until Beverly Simpson in the Ackley, Iowa, courthouse got back from lunch, so she might as well use her time to fortify herself. Eastern Standard Time meant Ms. Simpson was an hour behind and had just left. Elaine requested voicemail and hoped the woman would check her messages first thing. And she wasn’t disappointed.

  Elaine started to explain that she was trying to track the family of one Stanley Richardson Evers, born in Ackley in 1955 and later moved to Ames, when she was interrupted.

  “There are no Evers in this community.”

  Elaine, afraid she was going to hang up, asked her to check the record of births for that year.

  “Ms. Linden, this is a town of thirty-nine hundred and three people. To say we’re a close-knit community doesn’t even begin to capture it. One hospital is shared with two other towns within a twenty-mile radius and a high school is also shared. In 1973 fifty-four students graduated from that high school. I was one of them. Don’t you think I’d remember if I’d gone to school with someone named Evers?”

  Elaine felt the click as well as heard it. Ms. Simpson had hung up. Elaine was completely without direction—other than checking county criminal records, she had no other places to go. Instead of having answers for Maggie and a star report for Scott Ramsey, she had nothing. How could she have flunked her very first assignment? Then again, maybe no news was good news. If Stanley didn’t exist, there must be a reason. He had something to hide. Maybe her fruitless morning had really saved Maggie from making a big mistake. She was starting to feel better.

  C
hapter Nine

  Dan was nursing a third cup of coffee at the track’s restaurant while waiting for his fourth interview of the morning. Was he sabotaging himself? So convinced that Fucher was innocent that he heard only what he wanted to hear? UL&C was getting a little antsy without a concrete reason for continuing to bankroll the investigation. His email updates were leaving a little to be desired. But they trusted him. He’d asked for one more week with a final report due Friday a week from today. And if he didn’t have the info that his gut told him was out there…Well, he had a week didn’t he?

  He used the first half hour to get better acquainted with Fucher’s mentor and supposed guardian, Fred Manson. He made this more of a friendly unofficial chat, no recorder, no note-taking. Dan motioned for him to take a chair across the table from him. He took in the fluffy white hair, graying beard, and hard, squinty brown eyes that looked up through shaggy brows—an odd little, muscular man somewhere in his fifties who took his work home with him if the dirty fingernails were any indication. And how odd a pinky ring so mud-encrusted that Dan couldn’t name the stone but a hefty amount of gold peeked through the grime. The diamond stud in his left ear fared better—it was sparkly clean—a diamond a little too big to be real, Dan thought. A little ostentatious none the less even for a Zircon.

  “Coffee?” Dan had ordered a carafe and several set-ups.

  “Tea man myself this early in the morning.” A pleasant smile. At least his bottom denture was in place, Dan noticed.

  “Have you worked for the track long?”

  “A few years now. I did some work for Dixie Halifax and she steered me in this direction.”

  “Maintenance always been your line of work?”

  “No. I’ve been a Master Gardener most of my life. Orchids are my specialty. Put ninety-six points on the dendrobium, Andree Millar, in ’97. Beautiful plant over one hundred buds or fully open blooms the day of judging.”

  “That’s impressive. Do you still raise orchids?” Dan had no idea where this was leading; he needed to get back to information about Fucher.

  “No, nothing on a big scale anymore. Ms. Halifax hired me to bring the track up to snuff—I’d done some work in the area—that and the grounds here keep me busy. I have a crew of twenty including those doing track maintenance.”

  “So you’ve known Fucher for three years? Or longer?”

  “More like five. I used to date his mother. God rest her soul. Beautiful lady, just devoted her life to her son. That boy wouldn’t read or write today if it hadn’t been for her. She schooled him all at home—never sent him away.”

  “That’s commendable.”

  “I’ll say it is. Women don’t put family first anymore. Out traipsing around, working full time—home takes second fiddle nowadays.”

  Dan wasn’t going to comment on that. “Give me your take on Fucher. His ethics, his ability to do his job here at the track. And anything else you want to share.”

  Fred reiterated more of the same. Honest, natural with the dogs, didn’t have any enemies—none that were worthwhile mentioning, anyway. He’d trust Fucher with his life.

  That seemed to be about it. Once again, Dan thought how lucky Fucher was to have friends like Mel and Fred. Dan thanked the man and accepted an invitation to take a look at the maintenance barn one of these days. Fred was pretty proud of his state-of-the-art grounds equipment. Dan stood and shook hands, then motioned the next interviewee over and turned his attention to the young man pulling up a chair opposite him. Dirty jeans, unwashed hair, fingernails chewed to the quick…he was down to running grunt labor through the interviewing process, that was for sure. But who knew where and when he’d get the break he knew was coming. Convinced himself was coming.

  “Pete Ellis?” Dan got a nod, switched on the recorder and established location, those involved, and procedure before he began. The initial questions were all the same—date of hire, job description, name of supervisor. Answers all rattled off without hesitation. Then for the good stuff…

  “Would you consider Fucher Crumm a friend?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess so.”

  “Define friend. What do you mean by the word?”

  “Uh, you know, someone you can trust, someone who helps you out.”

  “Can you give me an example that proved you could trust Fucher?”

  “Well, when my mom needed implants, he gave us the money.”

  Dan didn’t blink but quietly prayed that Fucher hadn’t invested in chest enhancement. “She needed dental work?”

  “Yeah, she’d broken her jaw when she was a kid—got kicked by a horse—so dentures were out. It was implants or nothing. She was pretty sick. Infections and stuff.”

  “Did Fucher pay for everything?”

  “Came in with a wad of cash. Forty thousand worth and just gave it to my mom.”

  “How’s your mom doing?”

  “Great! She just got the crowns on and they look better than her real teeth ever did.”

  “That’s good to hear. Will you repay Fucher?”

  “He doesn’t want money. Mom works the front desk here and she sort of takes care of him. She brings him food and looks after Sadie if he has to go out of town.”

  “Did you know Jackson Sanchez?”

  “Yeah, everyone did.” Dan made a mental note of the slight wrinkle of the nose—in distaste?

  “Describe him for me.”

  “For starters no one liked him. He always wanted something for nothing. He’d get you to stay overtime to do some shit-work and then not even offer to pay.”

  “What kinds of things did he ask you to do?”

  “A couple months ago, he brought in two pups from The Farm—that’s his kennel over by Palatka—these were young but someone had screwed up the ear tats. Took me two hours of my own time with a pen to correct them. He didn’t even say thank you.”

  Something was trying to surface in Dan’s brain—correct mistakes done to ear tats…“How often did something like that happen? I mean where someone would have to go back and redo a tat?”

  “Hardly ever. You got a good litter of runners you’re not going to screw ’em up by trusting their ears to just anybody. Unless you’re too cheap to pay for someone who could do it right the first time. I used to do tat art so I get called on a lot.”

  “Did Fucher kill Jackson Sanchez?” Dan always tried for the element of surprise. Get the witness to talk about one topic and then change mid-stream. Don’t give them time to formulate an answer. Go for “off the cuff” or nothing.

  “No way. Fucher didn’t want anything to do with him. One time he had Fucher wash down some cages and then blamed Fucher for breaking a latch. That latch had been broken for months—we all knew it.”

  “What did Fucher do?”

  “Nothing. He just laughed it off. Even if he’d threatened to fire him like people are saying, Fucher wouldn’t have taken Jackson seriously. Nobody did. The guy drank like a fish.”

  Dan turned off the recorder, thanked Pete, gave him a card and asked him to call him if he thought of anything that might have something to do with the case—anything—even if it seemed inconsequential. He’d be the judge of that.

  Boy, if he had a template for interviews that would be what he’d used for the last eleven people. Cookie-cutter stamp-outs. They all sounded alike. Most had gotten handouts from Fucher but everyone seemed to accept him. All talked about what a good worker he was. And the word, “honest” came up over and over.

  He’d read the fire chief’s report—arson—someone had emptied a can of gasoline along the back of the building. So, was the death of the five most heavily insured dogs just an accident? Wrong place, wrong time? Even though no other dogs were even seriously injured? Just seemed far too coincidental to Dan. He needed that break more than ever.

  ***

  A call at the last minute from
the class sponsor at the shooting range and conference facility in Daytona—there had been a dropout and a spot was open in the gun-safety class starting at nine. Yes, she could make it—if she hurried. Jeans, a bright coral linen shirt with a few more wrinkles than even linen was supposed to have, and she was out the door. Joan could drop Dan off at the track and Elaine would pick him up. All set.

  Twenty-two people ranging in age from twenty to seventy-five packed the small classroom. Folding chairs arranged in a horseshoe pattern all faced the VCR. For some reason she hadn’t thought getting a permit to carry would be this popular. And women in attendance? Over half. There were just too many news stories about car-jackings at filling stations, or break-ins in the middle of the night. Most of the women listed living alone as the reason they were seeking extra protection.

  The instructors were two FBI agents and two ex-policemen. Classroom instruction in the morning and an hour on the range right after lunch. The sheriff’s department even had someone there to do fingerprinting. Because she, as well as six others in the class, were unfamiliar with firearms, there was a brief lecture and discussion after the general workshop ended. How to load and unload a revolver, how to safely pick up a handgun, and carry it was practiced before each individual was assigned a mentor to continue the hands-on training outside at the range. Elaine was impressed. The courses were well planned and seemed to basically cover everything she would need to know.

  Target practice, however, was another story. The .38 felt clunky and heavy. The instructor suggested larger grips if she chose a .38 to carry. Hitting the target was a real challenge—anticipating the recoil threw her off and she was pulling her shots to the right but the instructor had patience and tips and by the end of the hour, she was pretty much dead on. Impressive enough that she asked if she could have the paper target. Dan would want to see. And she needed some evidence for bragging rights.

  A certificate of class completion included a sign-off on gun handling. She knew Dan would scoff at that and give her a teensy lecture on how important it was going to be to practice. And she agreed. She still had to work on being comfortable carrying.