“Likewise, Mr. Terry,” I said, realizing for the first sickening time that our names rhymed. Maybe he could join me when Joe retired. Perry and Terry Investigations. Yikes.
Terry was still smiling, completely oblivious to the wreck that was Amy’s car. “What brings you here?” he said.
“The smashed-up vehicle two feet in front of you,” I answered, releasing his hand. “Geez, for a professional journalist, you’re not the most observant guy in the world, are you, Jake?”
Amy fought to hide a smile while Terry fought to keep his in place.
“I guess not,” he said, looking past me and seeing the car for the first time. “Amy, what in the hell happened? Were you in an accident?”
I glanced back at the car myself, studying the damage and trying to comprehend how anyone could think it came from an accident. Maybe he thought she had rear-ended a semi that spilled a load of Louisville Sluggers onto her car.
“No, not an accident,” she said. “My car was vandalized.”
“What? That’s awful. Do you know who did it?”
She glanced at me and shook her head. “Nope. Probably just some kids, drunk and high and looking for a good time.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” he said, crossing over to her and kissing her, rubbing her back with his hands. I returned my attention to the dented Acura.
“It’s fine,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“Are you still up for dinner?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said. “Lincoln, would you like to join us?”
I looked at her and Terry, sorting through all the responses that came to mind and trying to select an option that wasn’t a wise-ass remark. It took a while, but I finally came up with one: “No, thanks.”
“Okay. Well, thanks for coming over. And, um, let me know what you find out, will you?”
“Sure thing.” I nodded at Terry. “Nice seeing you again, Jake.”
“Jacob,” Amy said. “He hates being called Jake.”
Terry seemed to blush, but he didn’t deny it. I bowed in apology. “My mistake, Jacob. It won’t happen again.”
I climbed into my truck and drove away, glancing at the rearview mirror and noting that Terry’s arms were still around Amy. It didn’t bother me, though. Did it? No. Why should it? No reason. I turned the music up louder.
Back at the apartment, I called Joe and filled him in.
“Is Amy okay?” he asked when I was through.
“I think so. She was a little shaken up, but she’s tough. Jacob Terry is there now to comfort her.”
“Don’t say it with such bitterness.”
“I didn’t.”
“Sure. Well, I have some news of my own, LP. I checked out the real estate agencies, the construction companies, and the law firm. The law firm refused to talk to me, saying they could have an associate attorney call me back on Friday if I’d like. Helpful folks. Officials at each of the real estate agencies, as well as the construction companies, seemed truly confused by my questions. They all claimed I must have been misinformed, but when I insisted I had accurate information, they told me they had no idea what I was talking about and promised they weren’t aware of anyone at the company hiring an investigator.”
“They’re lying.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Initially, I did. But when they all were singing the same song, I sat down and thought about it and decided I should check out the companies a little more. Assuming the managers didn’t cut Weston a check, then who else would be able to?”
“If it wasn’t a company president or manager, then I’d say it could have been a company accountant.”
“Or?”
“Or?” I thought about it. “Who else is there, Joe? Company officials, company accountant, and the owner. Those should be the only people with access to the checking accounts.”
“There you go,” he said. “The owner. Turns out both the real estate agencies and the construction companies have the same owner. And you’ll never guess who that owner is.”
“No,” I agreed, “I won’t. So just tell me.”
“Jeremiah Hubbard.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
Jeremiah Hubbard was one of the richest men in the city. He was a self-made multimillionaire who built his fortune in real estate—Cleveland’s answer to Donald Trump. He was also, not surprisingly, one of the most influential private citizens in town, a man who supposedly held great sway with the city government.
“You think Weston was working for Hubbard.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense so far,” Joe said. “And, with a little bit of research, I confirmed that the law firm that paid Weston also represents Hubbard.”
“Why did he pay him through the companies, though? Why not just cut him a personal check?”
“Maybe,” Joe said, “he wanted to keep it a little more discreet.”
I didn’t say anything for a while, just sat and listened to Joe’s even breathing and the faint sound of the television in the background.
“A dead detective, a missing family, Russian thugs, and one of the city’s richest,” I said eventually. “A compelling little mess, isn’t it?”
Joe sighed. “Do you have the feeling that this case isn’t just about gambling anymore?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do, indeed.”
CHAPTER 5
BAT-WIELDING THUGS might be able to intimidate Amy, but even they couldn’t keep her rattled for long. When I arrived at the office the next morning, the fax machine tray was filled with copies of the articles involving the Russians, along with a personal note from Amy: “When you find them, kick some ass for me.”
I read them carefully before setting them aside with disappointment. Most of the charges had been petty stuff, basically ignored by the Journal reporting staff. The most serious charge was armed robbery, but that case had been dropped before it ever got to trial.
I was considering going to the county clerk’s office in search of more details about that charge when Joe walked in. He shrugged out of his jacket, and I saw he was wearing a snubnose .357 in a holster beneath it. I looked at it and raised my eyebrows.
“You paranoid about something or just hoping to be the heir to Charlton Heston’s throne?”
“Call me paranoid if you want,” he said. “I don’t like anything about the way this case is developing. And if we should happen to bump into those Russian assholes, I’d be happy to express my displeasure with the way they’ve treated our associates.”
I smiled. “I knew you loved Amy.”
“Uh-huh.” He sat down at the desk beside me and nodded at the faxes. “What do you have there?”
I passed them over and sat while he read, wondering about the gun he was wearing. When I’d worked with Joe on the street, he’d always possessed an uncanny sixth sense for impending trouble. If he thought he should wear a gun, I probably should join him. Or take a vacation.
“Not a whole lot of help there,” Joe said, handing the articles back to me. “I’m working on Hubbard. I called Aaron Kinkaid last night. He was Weston’s partner for a few years, lives out in Sandusky now?”
“Yeah.”
“He said he remembers Weston working a case involving Hubbard, but not for Hubbard.”
“Say again?”
Joe shrugged. “I don’t know. I asked for details, but he was on his way out the door and said he couldn’t talk. He agreed to meet me this afternoon, though.”
“In Sandusky?”
“Yeah.”
“Long drive.”
“Could be worth it.”
“Take anything we can get at this stage.”
He nodded. “You want to come along, tag-team the poor guy?”