Killing Frost Read online

‘Survival. Whatever it takes. He used to be violent. Armed robbery. Later, he changed strategy. His line is what we used to call “bunko.”’

  ‘How do you figure he got your sister to let him in like that?’

  She shook her head ‘no’ again and again. ‘You’ll find out, won’t you?’

  And there it was. Out of the blue. The estranged brother returns in time to benefit from his sister’s death.

  Charles got into a plain Nissan, a rental. Harold slowed, pulled into a vacant space next to a fire hydrant and waited for the prey to pull out, and if they were lucky, he’d go to the place he called home rather than, say, an afternoon movie.

  Shanahan noticed that Harold’s ear bud was not fully pushed in. Was he worried he wouldn’t hear Jennifer Bailey’s instructions? Or did he want to make sure he could pick up the conversation? Was he being protective or too curious?

  Charles went around Monument Circle, where major east–west and north–south corridors intersected. One could go round and round forever. Charles, a cautious fellow, went around three times before doubling back, taking Meridian to 38th Street, and then 38th out to Shadeland Avenue and Pendleton Pike, eventually ending up in a cheap motel. The front of the building looked decent. The rooms were behind a concrete block structure that should have reminded Charles Fournier of prison. They waited a moment. Shanahan walked around back. There, among a battered pickup and a hand-painted, shark-finned Cadillac convertible was the Nissan, parked in front of number 107.

  ‘Are you going to talk to him?’ Jennifer Bailey asked.

  ‘I’ll need to talk to you first.’

  She instructed Harold to take her home. They went by a strip mall, a Dunkin’ Donuts and a liquor store, more than enough and probably a desirable selection for a man who spent much of his time behind bars in Michigan City.

  ‘You are the executor, yet you didn’t have a copy of the most recent documents?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I had what Alexandra gave me four years ago. She had it drawn up shortly after her husband died. I didn’t think any more of it.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘My copy lists Tyrus Investments among the assets. The new one doesn’t.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Apparently she owned it and whatever it is, or was, it’s not coming to me as initially intended. I knew all major cash and assets would be allocated to the Center. But this strange Tyrus Investments was to come to me. However, it appears she split it out and gave it to Charles. He ran a con on her,’ Bailey said, baring her prosecuting attorney persona.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘His look when I asked. The attorney knew nothing, but Charles did. Ever since he was a kid, I could see right through him. That’s why he went to Alexandra.’

  ‘Why didn’t you know?’

  ‘There’s only two months between the drawing of the first trust, the copy I had, and the one read today.’

  ‘Different law firms?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jennifer Bailey said. ‘She didn’t tell me she re-did it or that she talked with Charles.’

  ‘What’s Tyrus?’

  ‘I don’t know. I asked her when she gave me that first copy. She said I’d know when I needed to know.’

  Bailey seemed to want a little solitude, perhaps to sort things out. Shanahan went outside. Harold stood by the car.

  Shanahan asked if they could stop for lunch.

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Harold said.

  ‘MCL.’

  ‘Over on Arlington?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  It was a short trip. Harold backed into the parking space.

  ‘Can I buy you lunch?’ Shanahan asked.

  ‘Brought my own.’ Harold held up a brown bag.

  ‘Be good tomorrow, won’t it? You’ll be ahead of the game.’

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘This isn’t a black and white thing, is it?’

  ‘A you and me thing,’ Harold said.

  ‘Good. I’m used to that.’ Shanahan opened the car door and started to get out, changed his mind. ‘Why didn’t she let you do the investigating? She’s already bought your time.’

  ‘You’re not as dumb as I thought,’ Harold said. But it didn’t change anything. He stayed put.

  MCL was a small cafeteria, homey except for the steam table set in the midst of an aluminum cave. He ordered the turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes and peas. He also picked up a plate of biscuits. At the cashier, he pulled out a twenty from his wallet after fumbling and dropping it once. A small scrap of paper fell on his tray.

  ‘Do you want help with your tray?’ the cashier asked.

  ‘No.’ He didn’t wonder why people found him unfriendly. His ‘no’ came out like a warning. Truth was he could carry the tray. He might not be able to operate his left hand, and he had the broken plates to prove it, but once it got hold of something, the grip was solid as a vice. It was also hard to let go.

  He found a small table and arranged his lunch, putting the tray on another table. He looked at the note, the pencil scribbles.

  ‘Damn,’ he said, loud enough to turn heads. It was the address he found in Alexandra Fournier’s purse. He forgot he had it. He hadn’t followed up nor had he turned it over to the police. There was no question. He was slipping. Seriously slipping.

  He had overestimated his hunger.

  ‘That was quick,’ Harold said, stuffing half a sandwich back into the bag.

  Shanahan handed him the address.

  ‘And then let’s go talk to Charles.’

  The address was on 10th. All they had to do was pull out of the lot and turn left and they’d be on their way, descending from a modest, well-kept middle-class neighborhood – keeping its real estate value because of a golf course – to a run-down stretch and eventually to an area in the midst of abandonment.

  There was nothing there. It was a parking lot. For what, Shanahan couldn’t imagine. This wasn’t a thriving retail center. Within a few blocks there were some gas stations, tire shops, liquor stores, and a place that billed itself, in pink neon, as a ‘cocktail lounge.’ Maybe the parking lot was merely a place to meet. No more significance than that.

  Shanahan opted for the lounge. He motioned his intentions to Harold, who communicated he understood by flashing the headlights.

  ‘J.W. Dant and a Guinness,’ Shanahan said to the guy wearing a Colts baseball cap and a sweatshirt. Shanahan believed that the death penalty should be reserved for guys over twenty who wore that kind of cap backward.

  ‘You win the prize. Got neither of them,’ the bartender said. ‘You wanna go at it again?’

  ‘Surprise me.’ Shanahan sat.

  He got a jigger of Jim Beam, a bottle of Heineken and very little information. Finally a tidbit: ‘I pay my rent to Circle City Rental Management. Month to month.’

  ‘Thirty-day notice? You afraid of being thrown out?’

  ‘They’re lucky to have me.’

  ‘Doesn’t make you insecure?’

  ‘Life makes me insecure. Not much to do about it but roll with the punches. I’d be happy to sell if you’re interested. We could work out a deal on the inventory, equipment, decor, goodwill.’

  Shanahan looked around. ‘Goodwill?’

  ‘You’d be surprised what happens here on Saturday night.’

  ‘Past my bed time.’ He decided to change the subject. ‘For Sale sign over by the parking lot. What do you know about that?’

  ‘Yeah. New sign, old listing. Group of do gooders trying to spruce up the neighborhood. Made them put up a new sign.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘I don’t remember. A neighborhood group. Their big project is the restoration of the Rivoli Theater. Got some funding. Doubt if it will be enough.’

  ‘And all the boarded-up buildings?’ Shanahan asked, downing the shot. The heat felt good. It also took the edge off the stale smell of the ‘cocktail lounge’ in the
afternoon. He took a heavy draw on the beer.

  ‘Probably given up selling, just waiting for times to get better. Who is going to live that long?’

  ‘Good point.’ Shanahan looked at his watch.

  The bartender smiled. ‘You could do worse than die on a barstool.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll rent that one, over there by the door. I’ll let you know.’ He finished the beer.

  Harold wore sunglasses today. He looked particularly formidable. Shanahan couldn’t tell for sure, but he was likely carrying. He was the other day. Habit. One doesn’t retire after thirty or more years with the state police without feeling naked without gun. Shanahan felt better knowing this because he was about to break into Charles’ motel room. The rental car wasn’t there and no one answered the knock. Still, it was important in this line of work not to make too many assumptions.

  Charles was a neat kind of guy, which meant he might be more likely to know his domain had been searched. Maybe that would be a good thing. Make him nervous and more likely to make mistakes. Or make him run. Shanahan didn’t want him to run, at least not quite yet.

  Wrappers from a couple of fast food sandwiches, drinks and fries were stuffed into the sack, folded and put in a wastebasket. Last night, probably. The bed hadn’t been made, but there had been an attempt to straighten out the blankets. Toiletries were store brands. Two prescription-pill containers. He recognized the names. Charles had arthritis serious enough to need beyond over-the-counter relief, and high blood pressure, despite his slight build, no doubt a family trait.

  His suit was in the closet, carefully placed. There were two books on the bedside table, both by Chester Himes. There was a bookmark in one. It was a copy of a form Charles signed to acknowledge his receipt of a watch, a ring, a wallet, cell phone, keys and some cash when he was released from Michigan City. The date was four days before his sister was shot in the back of the head. Curious timing.

  Stuck in the back of the book was a street map of Indianapolis. Several areas of the Eastside had been outlined. Shanahan wrote down the neighborhoods he identified and replaced the map. What was Charles Bailey doing? Plotting some sort of scam?

  Shanahan’s energy started to fade. He wanted to check in with homicide, check out anything with the word ‘Tyrus’ in it, the rental company the cocktail lounge paid its rent to and the real estate firm trying to sell the parking lot in a dying neighborhood. Phone work. He could do that from home. Computer work, if he belonged in today’s world. Even so, Shanahan believed he had enough pieces to start making connections.

  TWELVE

  They stood in Shanahan’s front yard. The older detective had gathered a pitiful pile of leaves in an attempt to eventually get all of them before winter landed. He was giving lead homicide cop Collins just about everything he learned; except the map. Collins promised to track down when Charles Bailey was in and out of prison and any known associates, criminal or otherwise.

  ‘Anything new on Leonard Card?’ Shanahan asked.

  ‘Trying to stay invisible until after the hearing. Word is that those who brought the charges are backing off.’

  ‘Why?’

  Collins shrugged. ‘Why are you interested?’

  ‘Alexandra Fournier was on the committee.’

  ‘So are thirteen other people. And they have more than a few other cops under the microscope.’ Collins looked down the lawn to the patch of green that hid the shooter that morning. ‘I’ll find out more. I don’t know. If we find a connection between Card and Charles, who knows? I can check Card’s cases.’

  ‘I’ll catch you later,’ Shanahan said, heading back to the house.

  ‘Shanahan,’ Collins called out. ‘I’m playing a little fast and loose with you and the murder investigation. I can’t imagine what they’d think if you were caught meddling in the police oversight committee case.’

  ‘You mean “we,” don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yeah, a big, dead “we.”’

  Shanahan had already called Circle City Rental Management and Crossroads Real Estate. The rental company did what rental companies do: managed property for out-of-town landlords, for estates or for people who simply didn’t want to be bothered with the day-to-day business. Crossroads provided nothing. They had more questions than answers and neither knew of a company called Tyrus Investments. Information had no phone number for them.

  Shanahan plied Maureen with a rum and tonic and reservations for dinner at the Black Market, a trendy restaurant Maureen had been begging to try and Shanahan was trying to avoid. Tonight, he thought, was the perfect time and a fine, expensive restaurant the perfect place.

  ‘So, I’m going to have to sing for my supper?’ Maureen asked.

  ‘I thought I was being subtle.’

  ‘You always think you’re being subtle.’

  ‘How else could I have gotten where I am today?’

  ‘And where are you?’

  ‘Sitting across the dinner table from the most beautiful woman in the world.’

  ‘You call that subtle?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ll take it. What do you need from me?’

  ‘Rental management companies. Legit business?’

  ‘Same as others. The people who build or own office parks or apartment buildings may not have the resources to manage them. Maintenance, vacancies, evictions, rent collection.’

  ‘Crossroads Real Estate. Have you heard of them?’

  Maureen paused a moment. ‘Yes, kind of a bargain basement brand.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Let’s say Madonna wanted to move to Indianapolis, she’d call your girlfriend, Regina.’

  ‘Regina?’

  ‘Regina Thompkins. Remember, your girlfriend who works for a hotsy-totsy real estate firm. She knows the expensive market, homes most people don’t even know are for sale. Crossroads is at the other end. They have properties that have been on the market for decades. They specialize in foreclosures, fixer-uppers, and lots in rundown neighborhoods.’

  ‘How do they make any money?’

  ‘No overhead, no staff. Just a long, long list. Law of averages means something on that list will sell sometime.’

  ‘Tyrus Investments.’

  There was a long pause. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Never heard of it.’

  Dinner interrupted the interrogation. Shanahan had already finished half his glass of Floyd’s Gumballhead beer, brewed in Munster, Indiana and was about to order a bottle of Founders Double Trouble from Grand Rapids, Michigan when his flat- iron steak arrived. Maureen looked lovingly at her plate of fried perch and corn waffles.

  The crowd was certainly younger, many of them sharing great, long tables. It was a happy, trendy place serving brewpub beer and such delicacies as roasted marrow bones and something called a beef tongue cocktail. Sides included collard greens and grits.

  ‘What do you think?’ Shanahan asked, looking around.

  ‘Love it,’ she said. ‘I’m surprised. Thank you.’

  ‘So is this the wave of the future?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘For this area? Is the Eastside movin’ on up?’

  ‘You’re asking me this as a real estate agent?’

  ‘Would I be wise to buy property, let’s say on Tenth Street? This area seems to be blossoming.’

  ‘No. You’d never see a return.’

  ‘Too old?’

  ‘Yes. You’re not really …’

  ‘No.’ He explained his fuzzy concept as best he could. There was another neighborhood buried beneath the debris of urban decay of East 10th Street. Not only was Irvington just a few miles east but here was more. Old architecture that, if not harvested soon, would be in ruins. There was a movie theater amid the boarded-up stores and there was Woodruff Place, an incredibly grand old neighborhood with grand old homes in various stages of upkeep. Three long, wide streets, each separated by grassy islands with mature trees, quaint turnarounds for buggies and later, cars. In the center
of each turnaround was a fountain. This was the setting for the classic Booth Tarkington novel and Orson Welles’s film, The Magnificent Ambersons. History on top of history.

  ‘With the proper management and a plethora of grants, subsidies and tax exemptions, this part of town could take a giant leap into desirability,’ Shanahan said.

  Fortunes could be made. And there were reputations to be built by the young and aspiring.

  Shanahan finished his draft and sipped from the newly arrived bottle. Talking about it made it seem more viable.

  Tenth Street also ran into Massachusetts Avenue, where they dined at the moment with the city’s future leaders. And Massachusetts Avenue was adjacent to downtown, which was enjoying its own rejuvenation, shopping, restaurants, new hotels and sport stadiums. There were already quaint and charming historic districts housing – high-quality renovations for the newly wealthy – in Lockerbie and Chatham Arch.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ she said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, look how long it took for Mass Avenue to take root. Look at Fountain Square. It sits there begging for this kind of development. Not much is happening. If there were a lot of property changing hands on the Eastside, I’d know something about it. Irvington is pretty hot, but where you are looking, nothing. And that whole area. It’s huge. There is a movement toward urban living. It’s becoming fashionable and it’s also efficient. It’s also slow. The city is working on mass transit with some seriousness. How did you come up with all this?’

  ‘The sisters have a brother, Charles, the con man. He apparently worked his more gullible sister to give him something called Tyrus Investments.’

  Maureen nodded.

  ‘I checked his current dwelling and found nothing helpful except an Indianapolis street map that had the areas I’ve mentioned to you outlined as if they formed something united.’

  ‘You think Tyrus and this map are connected?’

  ‘I don’t have much more than that. I have a dirty cop who is on the verge of losing his pension and a very unsuccessful criminal who wants one last con to take him into his golden years. Each has ties to the victim.’

  ‘How about to each other?’ Maureen asked.

  Maureen brought her laptop to bed. Maureen and Shanahan took the satellite-view tour outlined on Charles’ printed map. The more they looked at it the more it made sense. It could work, but as Maureen reminded him, Indianapolis’s power players weren’t noted for great leaps in creative thinking. On the other hand, he reminded himself, Charles could use this kind of pie-in-the-sky plan connection to the mysterious Tyrus Investments to run some sort of scam, independent of anything real or even possible. It occurred to him that at the reading, Charles received nothing else. Nothing in terms of tangible assets, nothing even sentimental. If Alexandra had bad feelings toward her brother, how did he get Tyrus? Shanahan would have a serious talk with the man. Even Margaret Tice, the overseer of the Second Chance Community Center, personally received $10,000 from Alexandra’s trust. Perhaps they had been close. He would have a serious talk with her.