It was the only photo showing the unknown male. The rest were of a portly fellow who just had to be Mr. Brainerd.
I was standing damn near on top of Shamrock, peering intently at the photos. "They aren't looking at you, are they?"
"No. I don't think they knew we were there right away."
"Really?"
"Nope. Good old Hubert had walked us down the lane for a ways. They couldn't see us from the house. When they came up the lane, on foot, I don't think they were aware we were where we were." She stopped. "That wasn't very clear, was it?"
"I got the gist," I said. I was looking at the next photo. "This must be Hubert."
"Yep."
"Looks friendly enough."
"Oh, he's friendly, all right. Downright gushy."
I laughed. "Wiles are one thing, but you gotta learn to use them in increments. You don't want Hubert asking you to marry him."
"Good photos, aren't they?" she asked.
"They're great! Really good."
"Thank you." She smiled very sincerely.
I got back to the office just before lunch, and almost literally bumped into Art in the entrance.
He greeted me with "You know when I forgot to tell you about the lab finding a shell casing?"
"Yeah?" I said.
"Well, anyway, they did, as you know. A strange one, but my sources…" The way he said "sources" implied that his were much better than mine. I'll never know just how he does that. "… tell me that good old Fred would go to a gun show occasionally. Opportunity, again."
I smiled. With my telephone evidence, I felt I could be magnanimous. "Still have to link him with a gun of that sort, though." I held up the copy of Borglan's phone bill. "I think this might change the, uh, direction of your investigation?"
Art looked at it for a few moments, and at first seemed gratifyingly startled. Then he lowered the phone bill, and gave me the best example I'd ever heard of bending the evidence to fit the theory.
"Insurance scam." That was all he said, but he did it with such conviction I wondered if I'd missed some printing at the bottom of the bill.
"What?" I truly didn't understand.
"Insurance scam," he repeated, patiently. "They called Borglan to tell him they were inside. He must have commissioned them to break in while he was gone, and was going to split the insurance take with them."
I was speechless. So was George, who'd been in the rest room, and had stepped back into my office just as I'd showed the phone bill to Art.
"I'm thinking that, when Fred heard just how much the take was going to be," continued Art, "he decided to kill the brothers and keep it all for himself."
Ignoring, of course, the likelihood that Fred wasn't in the house. That there wasn't enough "take" in the whole house to make that worthwhile, anyway.
Any thoughts of clueing Art in evaporated. So, that left me right where I was, with the additional burden of keeping Art busy, but also keeping him ineffective. The last thing I wanted was for him to pop up at the wrong time, and blow the whole case. Accomplishing that could be a career in itself. Getting rid of him temporarily, though, turned out to be pretty easy.
Lamar stuck his head in the door and asked where we wanted to eat.
"Let's go up to the boat," I said, "and have lunch with Hester." My unstated plan worked, as Art excused himself by saying that he wanted to talk with Fred's attorney about an interview with Fred. Fat chance. But a distraction for him. All well and good.
We went in my car, and on the way, I handed the photos that Shamrock had taken over to Lamar and George.
"Check out the dude in the rear. I never saw the man, but I'm told that might be Gabriel."
Lamar just shrugged. He'd never actually seen Gabriel, either.
George had seen at least a photo. He was pretty quiet as he looked at the photo. Then he put it down and leaned up into the front seat between Lamar and myself. "I believe it's him," he said. "When was this taken?"
I told him, and he got on his cell phone. We could hear him talking softly in the backseat, but couldn't quite make out what he was saying. I knew it had to be Volont, though. Just by the tone of George's voice.
As we drove down the bluff-side road into town, you could see the General Beauregard tied up at her own dock, all white and glittery in the sun. The Beau, as they called her locally, was a Mississippi River boat, a false side-wheeler, with the tall, almost delicate smokestacks that Mark Twain would have seen every day on the river. She was a false side-wheeler because she was really driven by a screw at the stern, with two bow thrusters for maneuvering. The big paddle wheels were for show. The main deck was about three feet off the water, with the top of the stacks clearing at about seventy-five feet. She was especially pretty from a distance. As you got closer, the red neon tubing on the side-wheels got a little much. She'd been glitzed up for the gaming trade.
She was moored alongside her own pier, which also supported a large restaurant and entertainment pavilion, with offices on the third and fourth floors.
We three walked down the dock, and I was, as usual, amazed at the number of people on and around the boat. She was about two hundred and fifty feet long, and three decks were full of gaming machines, tables, and bars. They told me that she could carry nine hundred gamblers, and I had no reason to doubt them. Thing was, it was always crawling with patrons. Not nine hundred every time, of course, but she averaged about four hundred and fifty, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
She featured three decks of gambling, from about five hundred slot machines to blackjack tables, poker, dice… well, just about everything, I guess. Glittery, glitzy interior, complete with chandeliers, a gift shop, and a day-care center for children of gamblers, all surrounded by double-pane glass, attended by about ten crewmen and fifty dealers and assorted casino personnel. They said that if she ever sank, the hardest rescuing would be prying the hands of the sixty-five-year-old ladies from the handles of the slot machines.
The best thing about her was that she provided about three hundred jobs for our area. Not too bad. She was, in fact, the largest single employer in Nation County.
We entered the pavilion, and went directly to the third floor. Iowa DCI maintained an office for the gaming officers up there. One "real" DCI agent, and two "gamers" per shift. Most of what they did was check the electronic gaming machines, and make sure they paid off at the right odds. We could hear Hester as we got close to their office.
"… and the reports on the applicants for dealer will be on this desk no later than ten A.M. Understood?"
DCI had to do background checks on every boat employee. Including deckhands.
Lamar knocked on the door. It opened rather rapidly, revealing Hester and two young gamers. "Hi," he said. "Is this where we can apply for a job…?"
Hester was glad to see us, and surprised we had George in tow. She also was ready to eat, and took us down to the pavilion buffet. God. About a hundred yards of great food, all hot and steaming, from ham to potatoes to soup, to scrambled eggs and sausage, to glazed chicken… I was in heaven. I only took the low-fat offerings, of course.
"I see," said George, "you found the low-fat fried shrimp."
"But I took rice. If I take the rice…"
"Oh, look, Carl. Fat-free chocolate eclairs…" Hester even pointed them out.
Lamar suggested the four-inch-thick Iowa chop. "Low-fat gravy, isn't it?"
Dine smart. That's me.