"Fred's involvement in the burglaries or thefts never came up," said Art. "They may be grief-stricken, but they aren't stupid. Which means that we still have only his word that he drove for them." He stood. "I have to be getting back to Cedar Falls. We're going to be doing a polygraph on a suspect in a murder from Mason City. I have to be there."
Understood.
"When will you be back up?"
"Tomorrow, I hope. Why don't I just touch base with Davies, while I'm there?"
"Did you talk to Sergeant Thurman in Oelwein?" I asked, as Art was going out the door. He hadn't. I put in a call to him. Phil Thurman was an excellent officer, and had originally worked for our department before transferring to Oelwein PD. More money, better hours. His first cop job had been with us, I'd been sort of his training officer, and he'd been a real breath of fresh air. We'd hated to see him go.
"Sergeant Thurman."
"Phil, it's Houseman. How are ya?"
"Dad! Hey, understand you had a cool double murder up there! You got all the luck…"
"Sorry you left?"
"Just about! What can I do for you guys?"
I asked him about the dead Colson brothers. He certainly knew them. "Yeah, those two been a pain in the ass for five years or more."
I asked him about Fred. He knew him, too. "The quiet one. He was with those two a lot. Not a bad kid, you know? Just not too smart about who he hung with."
I asked him about the impersonation of an officer story. He hadn't exactly heard about that one. "Sounds just like 'em, though. Hell, it sounds just like half our store owners, for that matter." He did think that, since the store was open after dark, at least in the account I had, he might be able to track it down. Most stores in Oelwein, as in Maitland, closed at five o'clock.
"Good enough," I said.
I told Lamar what Phil had said and asked Lamar if he'd like to have lunch at the buffet in the pavilion of the General Beauregard, moored at Frieberg. He declined, but I decided to drive up anyway. Hester Gorse was working the gaming boat up there, and I really wanted to discuss the case with her. I needed an unbiased opinion. I also needed a really good meal, out of the reach and notice of the local media. It was only twenty miles or so.
I called Hester at her office at the boat.
"Houseman, by God! You been busy?"
Just hearing her voice cheered me up. "'Busy' ain't the word for it. Like to do lunch? I can bring you up to date, and see if I can get Art assigned to Minnesota."
"Yeah," she said, "I heard. Things okay other than that?"
"Things are interesting. Two corpses, no real suspects. How 'bout it?"
"Oh, you do know how to convince a girl. Sure. Love to." I could hear the grin in her voice.
The General Beauregard was moored in the Mississippi River, separated from its associated pavilion by a railroad track and a highway, both of which paralleled the river. The bluffs that formed the prehistoric banks of the river rose to over 100 feet, within a block or two of the boat. It was really a pretty setting. Even with the river frozen over, and the stark black trees outlined against the white snow.
The pavilion was a combination theater, office, and restaurant complex, containing everything to make the boat into a casino, as opposed to a simple floating slot machine. Iowa law forbade gambling on the land, so the boat was more or less a dedicated gambling platform. The pavilion provided the rest of a mini-Las Vegas aspect to the operation. Nice, in a way. Families could use the pavilion facilities without being near gaming, which some seemed to prefer.
Iowa also required that the Division of Criminal Investigation maintain a presence at each and every casino. The legislature neglected to provide any additional agents for that purpose, so General Crim. had to spread itself even thinner than usual to accommodate the mandate. They accomplished that by three-month assigned tours. No exceptions. This was Hester's turn in an eighteen-month rotation.
I hadn't seen her for several months, and hadn't actually worked a case with her for over a year. She was one of the best agents I'd ever worked with, and totally reliable. And very, very smart.
She was also a few years younger, and very fit. Something I tried never to bring into a conversation, and something she brought up every chance she got. She was waiting near the buffet entrance.
"Hi." She grinned broadly. "Looks like life agrees with you."
"Everything but work," I said. "It's a tough one this time. Great case, though. Fascinating."
We spent about half an hour in her office, and I ran through the basic details of the double murder. She was into it instantly.
"I don't think it was Fred, either," she said, "based on what you've given me. Does Art think it was him?"
"Yeah."
"You've got to understand, he thinks he's under pressure to produce a conclusion." She held up her hand, forestalling my protest. "I know, but it's true. You know him as well as anybody does. He's always wanted to be the best, and in his mind, the best is also the fastest to get the bad guy."
I finished up by telling her about everybody assuming that it was a pair of cops who'd been killed.
"That's what we call a clue, Houseman," she said, seriously.
We found a table in the main dining room, off in a corner. A couple of people spoke to me as we walked through the place, and a couple more eyed me closely. People I knew. I was with an attractive woman, not my wife. They were checking Hester out, and could be relied upon to keep an eye on us throughout lunch. I loved it.
I was in a fine mood. Hester noticed. "The case really tripped your trigger, didn't it?"
"Oh, yeah." I smiled. It really was good to see her. "I'll buy."
"Wow, Houseman. This must be the case dreams are made of. It's affected your mind."
We put our coats on the chair backs, and hit the buffet line.
I gave in to my conscience, and had the grilled chicken plate, with whipped potatoes, peas, carrots, and a roll. $4.50. Hester just picked up a taco salad. $2.98. Less than $10.00. I was encouraged. Easily affordable. Not that I'm cheap…
Just as the food arrived, so did our favorite reporter, Nancy Mitchell. She'd been through a particular kind of hell on our last murder case. She'd not only witnessed a murder, she'd also been threatened and generally put through the wringer. Helping us out, at out request. We owed Nancy, and we owed her big-time.
"How're my favorite cops?"
"Have a seat," I said. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Well, since you can't provide any information, it was time to work on a feature article about the boat. And have a great lunch, at the same time." She pulled out her chair.
"Lunch is on Carl," said Hester. "Great to see you again."
"I'd like you to meet Shamrock," said Nancy. "She's my photographer this week."
"She's welcome to join us, too," said Hester, standing and reaching out her hand to the pretty blonde with the cameras. "I'm Hester Gorse, DCI, and this is Carl Houseman, Nation County. He's buying lunch today."
I stood, as well, and shook Shamrock's hand. She was about twenty-two or -three, small, slight, and about as pretty a young woman as had graced Nation County in years. Really small, I noticed as I stood. More than a foot shorter than I was. Not more than ninety pounds, I'd guess. With camera. She looked like she was in junior high. Well, from my perspective, at any rate.
"Shamrock really your name?" Cops. We say things like that.