FATED TO THE PURPOSE (Richard and Morgana MacKenzie Mysteries Book 2) Page 7

  “Are you expecting Al Capone?” I asked.

  “What? . . . Oh, because I have my sidearm on. Well, I am officially on duty now. And one of the rules of the game is that I must have on my person my side arm. Besides, would you rather have me leave my weapon on the chair?”

  No, I didn't. But I just felt more comfortable when Kyle was in his sheriff’s uniform packing a gun than when he was dressed as some type of psychedelic Zouave. Guns make me nervous. They should be treated with respect; therefore, people should dress accordingly, when they carry them.

  As Kyle adjusted the folds and creases of his robe to conform to his belt, holster, and belly, there was a knock on the door.

  “Who would that be?” Kyle asked with some concern. “Morgana?”

  “Possibly, but I can’t image her escaping Mrs. Prosper,” I said going to the door. A quick look through its peephole gave me the answer. “Bo!”

  “Oh, great!” Kyle exclaimed and proceeded to duck into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

  “Open up you two,” commanded the voice in the hall. “Open up. I need to talk to Kyle.” A persistent series of thumps followed the stern request.

  I gently slipped the chain into position and then opened the door as far as the slack would permit.

  “Hi, Serena, what can I do for you?” I said calmly.

  “I need to talk to your brother.”

  “He is . . . indisposed at the moment.”

  “What?”

  “He’s in the bathroom. . . . You know, eh, busy.”

  Bo just stood with her arms crossed staring at me in the hallway—unfazed. Several long awkward seconds had gone by before she spouted, “Well, Sport let me in. I'm not waiting in the hallway until your brother finishes whatever he is doing in the john.”

  “It’s his clothes. He doesn’t have anything decent to put on.”

  “Kyle’s deputy told me about your brother’s wardrobe issues. It doesn’t matter. When you have been on as many stakeouts that I have been on, you see a lot of things — many of which you wish that you hadn’t. But as I said, whatever he has on. It doesn’t matter. Have him wear the drapes for all that I care. I have to talk with him.”

  Bo paused and took a breath, as one would before downing a shot of whiskey. “Believe me when I say that it’s difficult for me to even grasp the idea, much less to say it, but I must speak to your brother in an official capacity about Foley. I need to talk to him alone . . . away from the others.“

  Others? I puzzled moment over that concept. What others? Is Morgana an ‘other’? And if she is an ‘other,’ shouldn’t I be an ‘other’ too? I definitely didn’t want to get any more involved with Mr. Foley — or, for that matter, with the law. That’s Kyle’s and Bo’s job, not mine; I’m retired.

  I saw no point in prolonging my participation in this conversation or this messy affair. “Sure, come on in,” I said in resignation. I undid the chain lock and called out to my brother, ”Company!” Bo unabashedly brushed against me as she entered the room, and I couldn’t help but to catch a whiff of vanilla — a familiar fragrance that instantly brought to mind memories of several late night study sessions.

  Closing the door, I turned and saw Bo sitting on the bed, her back and head leaning against the bed’s mirrored headboard. “Come on out, Kyle. I can’t wait all day. I have to talk with you. It’s official stuff,” summoned Bo, as she picked up the directory left on the bed and flipped through its pages.

  “Well, I think that I’ll leave you and Kyle alone with your . . . eh, official stuff.”

  As if on cue, the bathroom swung open and Kyle, in all his glory, popped into the room, “Stay, Rich.”

  “I really shouldn’t. . . . I leave law enforcement to you professionals.”

  I don’t know if Bo detected it, but Kyle had that ‘please help me’ look on his face. “I would like your assistance with this, Rich. After all, you are an approved and a sworn-in consultant to the sheriff’s department. Your advice will be greatly appreciated.”

  “Really?” sparked Serena, “How did you become a consultant to the county’s sheriff’s department?”

  I grimaced and shrugged my shoulders.

  Then looking at my brother, she asked, “And an even more intriguing question is, how on earth did you ever become sheriff? I remember you just being a fat, bratty kid that pestered us when your brother and I were dating. . . . Somehow, Kyle, your mother emotionally blackmailed your brother to take you on some of our dates.” She punctuated her comment with a broad, forced smile.

  Reluctantly, Kyle and I quickly briefed Bo about my brother getting himself elected county sheriff as a result of a freak accident when a rabid moose killed off the initial candidates running for the position. We also told Bo about my joining Kyle’s investigative team about a year ago to help him to solve two murders at our old alma mater.

  After our tale had been told, it became my turn to probe our inquisitor.

  “What brings you to these parts, Serena.”

  “As I said downstairs, I’m on a little holiday, so I planned to some business in the area, and I wanted to attend the meeting that your wife and Mrs. Prosper had organized.”

  Bo’s response was too pat for my liking.

  “That’s all?”

  “I always try to attend the Stark fundraising meetings, when I can.”

  “It is my understanding that the board meetings are usually attended by retired alums. You’re not retired.”

  “But my grandmother was. And with the promise of large amounts of money to the school via a trust created upon her death, she earned a permanent seat for that trust fund on The Heroic Daughters of Molly Stark fund raising committee. And as the executor of that trust, that seat is mine.”

  “But what is the nature of that other business that you said brought to this part of the world?”

  She smiled and ignored my question. “Well, I guess we’re off then. Let’s go guys.” Ignoring my question, Bo sprang from the bed in a fashion that belied her age.

  “You’ve kept in shape,” I remarked and quickly wished that I hadn’t.

  “Glad you noticed. I think I’ve done a better job keeping fit than you have, Old Sport.” She impishly patted my stomach on her way to the door.

  “Where are we going?” Kyle asked.

  “To visit Foley in his room,” Bo answered from the hallway.

  Kyle protested, “I'm not leaving this room looking like—”

  “A hot air balloon?” Bo didn’t mince her words. She coldly stared Kyle in the eyes. “You are the sheriff, and your deputy is waiting for us in Foley’s room.”

  “Whatever it is that you want to tell me, Serena, you can say here,” Kyle countered.

  “It’s better that I show you.” The quality of Serena’s voice became more serious than insistent. “I don’t believe Foley’s death was a mere suicide.”

  Kyle stood in his flashy togs and stammered. He looked at me for guidance. I had nothing to offer.

  “You are the local authority, Kyle.” Bo continued in a firm, yet encouraging voice, “It’s your job to investigate a potential crime scene. Let’s go.”

  My brother straightened the part of his robe that had toppled over his belt and threw his shoulders back. With a couple of deep cleansing breaths, he concluded, “Okay, Serena, let’s see what you've got. Lead the way.”

  #

  CHAPTER 4

  There was no time wasted in going to Foley’s room. My brother, usually the slowest in any foot excursion, briskly kept pace with Bo, so much so, that he almost challenged her lead. Kyle didn’t even know where he was going, but he definitely wanted to get to where ever it was in a hurry. He was puffing as we reached the open door of room 245. We were welcomed by Deputy Peterson, who was sitting on the bed and waved a brown paper grocery bag when he saw us. On the floor, near Peterson’s feet, lay Foley’s body with a dull green blanket spread over him.

  “Sheriff,” the young deputy stood up and started
to dig into his bag. “I got the things that Agent Boswell wanted me to ask Mr Hograve for.” Peterson pulled out a box of from his satchel.

  “Sandwich bags?” said Kyle.

  “Good job, Deputy,” said Bo as she took the box, briefly examined it and tossed it on the bed. “For clues . . . that’s if we find any.”

  “And Hograve also gave me a container of disposable plastic gloves.”

  “We don’t want to contaminate the scene of our investigation, now, do we Kyle?” said Bo taking the container.

  “Peterson, you’ve done okay,” commented my brother. “It’s always best to be prepared. Agent Boswell seems to have everything under control. But, I don’t know what else there is to be done on this suicide investigation.” Kyle self-consciously tightened the sash on his robe. “Unless Agent Boswell has other ideas.”

  Hmm, ‘Agent Boswell.’ My mind toyed for a moment with that thought. The intimate excursions of our youth would have taken on a wholly different path if I had addressed Bo as Agent Boswell back in the day. Of course, Bo would play the agent role to the hilt with all that would entail — handcuffs, strip searches, interrogations, and such. Yeah, not my cup of tea . . . but for Bo, well —

  Bo’s voice put the brakes on my runaway thoughts.“I think Foley’s death could be a suicide.” Serena paused, proceeded to close door. “But it may not be a regular suicide.” And with her statement hanging in the air, she withdrew a pair of circular thin rimmed glasses from her pocket.

  I immediately started to speculate if any suicide could be labeled as ‘regular,’ and then I tried to remember whether if I have ever seen Serena wearing specs before today. She pulled out a pair of plastic gloves from Peterson’s container and put them on, and without a word, she motioned to the rest of us to do the same.

  Kyle, Peterson, and I wrestled with the gloves while we waited for Bo to continue speaking her thoughts about Foley’s suicide, but she didn’t. Instead, she went to the far corner of the room and picked up a suitcase, which I assumed was Foley’s. She put it on the bed, and with the sound of two clicks, it opened.

  “Is that Foley’s suitcase?” Kyle asked with some trepidation in his voice.

  ”Well, it’s not mine, Kyle,” Bo snapped as she rummaged through the dead man’s things.

  “Is it legal to go through his things without a warrant or something?” I asked.

  “He’s dead. Do you really think one serves warrants to dead people? — Ah, what’s this?” From what appeared to be was a hidden compartment in Foley’s luggage, Bo pulled out a handgun and a Canadian passport. “Besides, if I’ve done anything illegal, Kyle would have stopped me. He is standing right next to me.” Bo’s attention went back to where the gun was. “Strange, there seems to be room for two guns, but only one gun was stowed away.”

  I saw my brother’s mouth drop open.

  I asked again, “Is this legal?”

  My brother’s eyes widened and his mouth moved, but no words came out of it.

  “Kyle has all the legal authority and bears all the legal liability concerning the investigation of Mr.Foley’s sudden termination. So, if anything is amiss legally, they go after Kyle first. Isn’t that so, Sheriff?” Bo gave us a quick grin and went back to her examination of the gun.“Thank you for coming here with me, Kyle.”

  I saw Kyle swallow hard.

  “I have seen our Mr. Foley’s face before,” muttered Serena as she held the gun and tapped it with her fingernail, apparently, trying to learn something from the sound.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Where what?” Serena replied.

  “Where did you see Foley?” I asked again.

  She looked up from the gun in her hand and said flatly, “From a photograph.”

  “What photograph?” I was getting a little peeved.

  “If I told you that, I would have to kill you . . . as the expression goes,” said Bo in a half-mocking tone. “And if I kill you, I would have to kill Kyle and Peterson. And I really don’t want to kill anyone.”

  “That’s a lot of nonsense,” I countered. “You’re from the FDA, the Food and Drug Administration, not from the CIA.”

  Bo’s attention went back to the weapon she was holding in her hand, but her other hand, went to her hip pocket, and withdrew a black leather ID holder wallet and handed it to me. I flipped it open.

  There, next to a badge, in bold blue were the initials FBI.

  Confused, I gave her back her ID. “The last time we were in this room, you showed me and everyone else an FDA identification. Now what is this FBI thing?”

  Bo gave me her enigmatic smile.

  “Don’t try to scam me. I know that you work for the FDA. You had me read your acceptance letter.”

  “Keep your voice down. I was in the FDA, Old Sport, but about twelve years ago, I was asked to switched firms, so to speak, and joined the FBI. The reasons are too complicated to talk about now. Let us say that because of my unique credentials, I was temporarily released from the Bureau and sent back to the FDA on special assignment to assist an old friend at the department.”

  Peterson, who was all this time quietly exploring our surroundings, suddenly jumped into our conversation with the question, “Why not the gun, Agent Boswell?”

  “Shouldn’t your question be, Deputy, something like, Why is there a gun here with Mr. Foley in the first place?” Bo replied a little too smugly for my taste.

  “Of course that is a very important point,” Peterson continued with a detectable quiver in his voice, “definitely a more important line of inquiry, no doubt, than mine. I only asked, being reminded after stepping over Mr. Foley, that if he, Foley, had a gun, why didn’t he just blow his brains out. I would think it would have been less painful and quicker than hanging.”

  Bo’s face went into its pondering mode.

  “Good question, Peterson,” complimented Kyle.

  Score one for the home team, I said to myself. And then I proposed to the group, “The issue could be resolved if we are able to find out if the gun were actually Foley’s.”

  Bo put the gun down on the bed and examined the accompanying passport. “I get the impression that the gun is our dead friend’s. But does it belong to a Mr. Foley? That is a different question.”

  “That doesn’t even makes sense,” muttered Kyle.

  Bo handed me the passport. It had Foley’s picture in it, but the name listed in it was Charles Fitzgerald. I gave the little book to Kyle.

  Upon his inspection, Kyle summed up the situation very succinctly. “Damn, this is becoming very confusing.”

  “Isn’t it though . . . especially when Mr. Foley's friend, our Mr. Smith, is very set on taking possession of Mr. Foley’s things . . . suitcase, computer, papers, and such. I had to tell him that he couldn’t until the local authorities gave its okay for him to do so. He wasn’t happy.”

  “How did you persuade him to wait?” Peterson asked.

  “I showed him my credentials.”

  “The one from the FBI?”

  “No, the one from the FDA and . . . my Sig Sauer.” As Bo spoke, she materialized a pistol from under her jacket.

  “You waved a gun in his face!” I said.

  “No, Old Sport, of course not, but I discreetly let him know that I had one.”

  “Is that a P229 model?” Kyle asked.

  “Good guess. It’s a P229 with a .40 S&W chamber,” proudly declared Serena.

  “I have a Glock. . . .”

  As Frick and Frack chatted about their sidearms, I looked around the room and thought about escaping. Foley’s death had now entangled me with a gun-toting ex-girlfriend, of multiple law enforcement organizations, and God only knows what else. The plan to have a peaceful getaway at a romantic country inn with Morgana during her down time from the fund raising committee meeting had definitely taken a wrong turn. Looking upon the blanketed body on the floor, I felt a cold chill squiggle down my back. I became determined to take control of the situation, steer away from the
shoals of police work, and head back to those seas of tranquility and social disengagement.

  I watched Kyle follow Bo around the room like dog would follow its master who was holding a handful of treats. Peterson opened up Foley’s laptop computer. The sound of the device’s start-up chord echoed in the room, cueing the deputy to start punching keys.

  “This is strange,” remarked the Deputy. “There is nothing here.”

  “How do you mean? ” asked Serena as she went to the computer.

  “What I mean is that there is nothing saved on it. No emails, or addresses, or files. It's like the computer just came out of the box.”

  Serena took the laptop from Peterson and had a go at it herself. “This is inconvenient, but I’m not surprised.” She tapped the keys herself.

  “Serena, what is this all about?” I said.

  “What’s that, Old Sport?”

  “You being here, is no coincidence. You recognized our dead friend on the floor, and then there is your FDA identification.”

  “But I am working for the FDA.”

  “Is this some kind of act for . . . eh, Mr . . . What’s-His-Face who you showed your gun to?”

  “Mister who?”

  “You know, Foley’s friend.”

  “Oh, Mr. Smith,” replied Bo.

  “Smith, hmm,” interrupted Kyle, “That’s a suspicious name if I ever heard of one.”

  “Why is that, Sheriff?” said Peterson. “His ethnicity appears to be of Northern European extraction. If his name was something like Elewa Sekibo, a fine, upstanding West African name, now that would raise an eyebrow of mine.”

  “Peterson,” said Kyle, “how on earth would you know a West African name from a name of an herbal hair treatment product?”

  “Oh, I have a free subscription to Amandla, a South African magazine,” innocently answered the young deputy.

  “Free, you said?” — My brother’s is always looking for a bargain.

  “I got it when I was taking my International Law Enforcement course in college,” Peterson said with pride.

  “Free?” Kyle’s interest was still piqued.