As Emory drove back to Knoxville, Wayne called the medical examiner’s office from the passenger seat. Once he hung up, he informed his partner, “She’ll have a report on Britt Algarotti for us at ten o’clock tomorrow.”
As trees blurred past his periphery, Emory grimaced at the news. “Crap. That means we’ll be late getting back here.”
“So? Why are you so anxious to finish with this case? I don’t think you’re going to have any news cameras waiting for you at the end of this one.”
Wayne’s dig referenced a big drug bust the two oversaw four months earlier – the largest ever in the southeast. At the time, he was very vocal with his opinion that the press coverage focused too much on his younger partner, although an instigative special agent had pointed out that Wayne’s arm was visible in the doorway behind Emory in a now-famous newspaper photo.
“I’m not anxious. No more than with any other case. I just want to solve it and move on to the next.” Emory didn’t give his partner time to retort before changing the subject. “So what did you find out today?”
Wayne thumbed through a small notepad with tattered edges to debrief Emory. “The sheriff…Your dad must be the town historian. He can tell you the story on anyone, and he knows all these details. He filled me in on all the scoop about the Algarottis. The father, Victor Algarotti, might seem to be rich, but he’s not.”
Emory tilted up his right ear. “What do you mean?”
“His first wife, Meredith, was the one with family money. Victor dropped out of college to serve in the Navy, and then he came back to Barter Ridge. He was working as a projectionist at the town’s theatre when he knocked up Meredith. I wonder if he did her up in the booth while a movie was playing.” Wayne made an obscene gesture with his hands and laughed alone. “Anyway, they got married, and her dad gave him a job at the water bottling factory. Victor started at the very bottom, emptying trash cans, filing paperwork – stuff like that – and he had to work his way up. By the time Meredith’s dad died nine years ago, Victor was the vice president, and he took over running the company. It used to be called Barter Ridge Water—”
Emory slapped the steering wheel. “I remember that! And there was a big fuss when the name changed.”
“Well, even though he renamed it after himself, the company was actually inherited by Meredith alone.”
“So she owned it, but Victor ran it,” Emory restated, and Wayne nodded. “Didn’t Victor inherit it when she died?”
“You would think, but Meredith’s dad insisted on Victor signing a pre-nup before he would allow them to marry. Then Meredith left nearly everything to the kids, cutting her own husband out of the company and the house – giving him some token money.”
“Why would she do that?”
“The sheriff didn’t know for sure, but he said there were rumors Victor had been unfaithful, especially since he married his current wife a year later.”
“So let me guess. The inheritance was entrusted to Victor until the kids turned eighteen.”
“Eighteen,” Wayne said at the same time as Emory. “Britt would’ve turned eighteen in three months, at which time, she would’ve taken possession of half the estate. Her father would continue to be entrusted with her brother’s half until he turned eighteen.”
“Now that she’s gone?”
“Victor is in control of everything until the son turns eighteen. Now if the son…” Wayne rifled through his notes. “What’s the name?”
“Ian.”
“If Ian happens to die before his eighteenth birthday, Victor keeps everything.”
“Not just Victor,” Emory pointed out. “His current wife would share in that fortune – a wife Britt apparently hated.”
“Do you think Victor could’ve killed his own daughter?”
“Parents have killed their children for lesser motives, but then why hire a private investigator?”
Wayne huffed. “Yeah. He hired him, but to do what?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was it really to solve the case or for misdirection – maybe to throw suspicion on someone else?”
Emory didn’t say it, but Wayne had brought up a good point. Maybe the handsome PI had more to gain than the reward.
“So what was all that with your dad saying that taking pictures of a murder victim is corpse desecration?”
Emory sighed before delving into the explanation. “You have to understand that my dad hasn’t had any formal legal training. He was first elected sheriff when he was twenty-nine, and before that, he was a ranger at Smoky Mountains National Park. That’s how he and my mom met. Over the years, he’s established a lot of procedures based on his kind of home-spun understanding of the law. He doesn’t back down from his beliefs, so it’s best not to argue with him.”
“Okay then,” Wayne said with a whatever smile. “Apart from that, I have to say I really like the guy. He’s quite the character and a hero to boot. I saw the Tennessee Medal of Honor hanging in his office. A deputy told me it was the only one ever given for heroism while not on active military duty. Of course, I guess you already know that.”
“I remember it.”
“What was it for? The deputy didn’t know, and the sheriff wouldn’t talk about it.”
Emory didn’t like to talk about it either. “It’s a long story.”
Wayne frowned at him. “I guess it runs in the family. By the way, I thought you were from Nashville.”
Emory kept his eyes on the road. “I went to college there.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you grew up in Barter Ridge?”
Emory glanced away from the road to face him. “You never asked where I was from.”
After dropping off Wayne at the office, Emory returned to his apartment, warmed a cup of sassafras tea in the microwave and sat on the couch for a quick self-debrief. He transferred the day’s notes and pictures into a file on his work laptop and bulleted some tasks for the following day. When he was satisfied with his documentation, he typed “Britt Algarotti” into a search engine, and several links to videos of ice-skating competitions popped up.
With the last words of Scot Trousdale, Victor Algarotti’s assistant, repeating in his head, he clicked on one posted two months earlier to see how she skated. About one minute into the routine, Emory mumbled, “She’s really good.” The video ended with the audience united in applause. “I don’t get it. What was he talking about?”
He clicked on a video from a competition in Nashville three weeks ago, titled, “Britt Algarotti, Ass Skater.” This video was much different than the previous one. Britt seemed distracted and, true to the title, she spent more time on her ass than her ice skates. After forty seconds, she gave up and skidded off the ice, where her coach offered her a consoling hug.
Emory cupped his mouth with his hand. “What happened?”