“That’s it,” Louie said, suddenly sitting upright, kicking an empty over on the floor and spilling beer down the front of his shirt in the process.
“What do you mean, that’s it?”
“Cash donations, the post office box. That rant, if it’s picked up and beamed across North America, how many crazies you think send them cash?”
“I don’t know, one or two, who would…”
“What if it’s more than that?”
“More?” I said, sitting up.
“What if it’s one or two percent?”
“Percent?”
“People send them cash, it’s untraceable. That’s what they used to fund your drug guy…”
“Doctor Death?”
“Yeah, and that’s another cash business,” Louie said.
“But Thompson Barkwell? The guy was a flake, but I don’t think he was into drugs, well unless they were suppositories.”
Louie groaned, then said, “Maybe Barkwell found out they were skimming funds. It’s all cash coming in, I’ll lay you odds they didn’t put it in a bank. Maybe Doctor Death wigs out when Barkwell’s killed. Maybe that was why they tried to pin it on you and…”
“Jesus, Louie, maybe the guys in black helicopters did it, you know, the real government. Just like Farrell rants about, international bankers or whatever it…”
“The post office box,” Louie said.
“What?”
“Where the money goes, their post office box. She’s still collecting cash donations, Dev, that’s why those rants are still running on the radio. Cash is still coming in and your girlfriend Kiki is collecting it.”
All of a sudden Louie didn’t sound so far fetched.
Chapter Sixty-One
We took Louie’s car to the KRAZ parking lot the following morning. We didn’t expect to see Kiki, but on the off chance she showed up, we’d be there waiting for her. There was no sign of her. The broadcast came on, Farrell’s usual monotone drone. As soon as he mentioned the address to mail cash donations Louie turned off the radio.
“Let’s go, man.”
“Go where?”
“Five-five-one-oh-seven, the zip code.”
“You’re going to drive around a zip code area?” I asked.
Louie gave me a long dead-pan-look.
“No, I thought we’d maybe go to the post office there, check their box, you know. Maybe grab her when she picks up the mail.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I said, not sounding too sure.
“And you’re the private investigator?” he said.
The post office KRAZ used was on Eva Street. The building looked fairly small from the front and if I had to guess I’d say it was built in the late seventies. It sat just off of Plato Boulevard, across the river from downtown in a light industrial area. As you walked in the front door there was a sort of lobby with a couple hundred post office boxes set into the wall, each one numbered. Beyond that a door that led to a counter where you could buy stamps and conduct business.
From what we could tell there were three sizes of postal boxes, the one for KRAZ, number fourteen-seventeen, was the largest size.
“That can’t be because they’re getting so much mail coming in, can it?” I said.
“Maybe they’re subscribing to Penthouse or the New Yorker,” Louie said.
There was a small glass window in the box and we could see envelopes when we peeked in. Lots of envelopes.
“Jesus, frightening,” I said.
“Let’s wait in the car. She sees us in here, she’ll run.”
“I got an even better idea,” I said. “We park in the lot across the street.”
We did that, parked in the lot across the street, then sat there for the rest of the morning. Then we waited all afternoon. A guy locked the inside door to the postal counter promptly at five, then turned out the lights. At seven, another guy locked the door to the outer lobby where the Post Office boxes were and turned out that light.
“Any other bright ideas?” I asked.
“I thought that was your department. Yeah, actually I got one, let’s find a bathroom, with a bar attached.”
“Not the Coal Bin,” I said.
Chapter Sixty-Two
At seven the following morning, we were parked across the street from the post office, hiding behind a five inch wide tree trunk. Around eight-fifteen we watched a half dozen people arrive for work at the building behind us. Then watched the nine-o-clock rush at the post office, by nine-forty-five things had settled down and customers were barely dribbling in.
At my prompting Louie called Detective Manning a little after ten and left a brief message mentioning the finger tip and Farrell Early.
About ten-forty-five a guy came out of the office behind us and walked up to Louie’s window. He was dressed in nice khaki slacks and a starched, open collar blue shirt, shinned shoes. He wore a gold wedding band, had closed cropped hair and looked to be in his late thirties. He also carried a cell phone in his right hand and I guessed he was ready to call nine-one-one at the least provocation.
“May I ask what you two gentleman are doing here?”
The words were polite, but the way he said gentleman suggested anything but.
I pulled out my wallet, reached past Louie, flashed a badge then counted to four and snapped my wallet shut.
“Sorry, we’re working surveillance. We’d appreciate it if you kept this under your hat.”
“Someone’s gonna rob the post office?” he said, then gazed across the street as a woman wrestled a baby stroller out the door.
“No, just looking for an individual, I think we’re drawing a blank, but you can never be too careful, appreciate your help all the same.”
“Let me know if you guys need anything, name’s Bob Ross,” he said, nodding and backing up.
“Where’d you get that bullshit badge?” Louie asked, once Bob went back into his office.
“Toy store, six of ‘em in a bag for a dollar-ninety-eight.”
Louie shook his head.
Bob came back out about fifteen minutes later with two steaming mugs of coffee.
“Listen you guys need anything, feel free to come on in, bathrooms, coffee, hope you take it black, I didn’t think to ask cream or sugar?”
“Thanks Mister Ross,” Louie said.
“Appreciate you looking after us,” I said.
Bob ducked back inside.
“Nice enough guy,” Louie said, and sipped his coffee.
His phone rang sometime after three that afternoon and jerked both of us awake. He glanced at the number.
“Christ, my former office, probably calling to give me the date on my disbarment hearing. Hello,” he said, after letting it ring two more times.
I was about six inches from Louie so it was impossible not to listen. Not that I learned anything.
“Yes. No. I have no idea. I see. I understand. Did they? Oh really. No. Yes. What time? Thank you.”
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact better than okay. They want to meet with me tomorrow, seems some things have been brought to their attention.”
“Such as?”
“I’m guessing the autopsy report for starters and that finger, just a guess. Mentioned they got a call from Manning. He wanted to know how to reach you?”
“Did you tell them?”
“You’re sitting right next to me, did you hear me tell them?”
“Guess not.”
“If they want to know how to get a hold of you they can talk to your attorney, if they can stand her attitude.”
“Was it Daft who called?”
“No, Jerry Hamel, he’s the big cheese. He didn’t mention Daft, but I’m guessing she’s going to be getting a lot of personal attention in the near future. Her advice that you plead guilty, which by the way, would give you life with no chance of parole, is against all rational thought. If Hamel hasn’t heard about it I’ll lay it on him tomorrow, anyway meetings at eleven.”