CHAPTER 21

 

The ringing of his phone awoke Alan early the next morning. He turned on his side and glanced at the time, squinting his eyes to read the caller ID. It was only five-thirty; the caller was Mike Draker.

“Sorry to call this early but I just heard something that might be important to your case.”

“What’s that?”

“Andrew Morrow’s home in Cleveland blew up last night—foul play suspected. They’ve only done a preliminary investigation but it looks very fishy. Morrow just so happens to be the CEO of UrbanGroup.”

“Wow, that’s weird. So he wasn’t killed?”

“No, there was nobody in the house at the time. But it’s pretty certain that the explosion was no accident since they discovered that every one of the natural gas valves in the home were turned on prior to the blast.”

“That’s very interesting indeed. I’ve been doing some snooping around since we last spoke and I’m all but certain that Chloe’s death was a revenge killing. Somebody at UrbanGroup was pissed off at Travis McPherson—enough to murder his child. Now I wonder if the company’s CEO is on his list as well.”

“Could be. Listen, I gotta go—I barely have enough time to take a piss any more with the goddamn drug case I’m on now. I’ll get back with you when I get a chance and you can bring me up to date on your investigation.”

“Will do. And thanks for the tip, Mike. I appreciate it.”

“No prob. Later.”

As he disconnected, Alan couldn’t help but think that UrbanGroup’s CEO may very well have been targeted by the killer. He wasn’t exactly sure how it all tied in at this very moment but he knew that a cup of strong coffee would help the cause—or at least help him focus on the cause.

“Might as well get up, pooch,” he told Pan, lying beside him on the bed. “No way we’re going to get back to sleep now.”

Pan hopped off the bed, wagging her tail. Alan slipped into his house slippers, threw on a sweatshirt and headed for the kitchen.

While waiting for the coffee to brew he opened up Safari on his iPad and Googled Andrew Morrow. Seconds later several hits filled the window, he clicked on the first one and began reading.

 

Last Night’s Home Explosion Looks “Suspicious”

 

Investigators suspect that an explosion last night that destroyed the home of finance tycoon Andrew Morrow may have been deliberate. Authorities say that although it is too soon to positively determine the cause of the blast, there are possible indications of foul play.

Morrow, head of the financial institution, Urbangroup, was not home at the time of the explosion, which could be heard from as far as a half mile away in this upscale Shaker Heights community. Mr. Morrow was visibly shaken when he arrived at the scene, telling reporters, “My priceless art collection has been utterly destroyed! How could this ever have happened?”

Police and fire officials continue their investigation into the explosion.

“If this wasn’t indeed an accident, we need to catch the perpetrator and bring him to justice,” Detective Dan Oberlin said at a news conference yesterday.

 

Alan studied the photo accompanying the article. The home was virtually leveled by the blast, with nothing but a single wall jutting up from the debris. Most of what remained of the house was either smoldering or still in flames. He jotted down the detective’s name and read another article pertaining to the explosion, which offered little new info.

He fed Pan, then poured himself a mug of coffee before heading into the living room. His first impulse was to call Travis McPherson, but he decided against it. Besides the fact that it was too early to call anybody at this ungodly hour with a clear conscience, he wanted to avoid speaking to the man unless it was absolutely necessary. He put McPherson on hold for now.

It was chilly in the house, so he fired up the gas fireplace and sat down on the sofa. Pan had finished her breakfast and hopped up beside him. Taking a sip of coffee, he stared pensively across the room at the blazing logs.

He recalled the night before, and his decision to take a close look at Gerald Thomas today. Now that he’d learned about the suspicious house bombing of UrbanGroup’s CEO, he saw the case in a different light. He hadn’t thought of it until now but it made perfect sense: Travis McPherson wasn’t the only person the killer might seek vengeance upon. McPherson would have to answer to somebody further up the food chain when it came to major decisions about the company. And that person would be Andrew Morrow.

Although he didn’t claim to understand the hierarchy of a big corporation like UrbanGroup it stood to reason that any decisions pertaining to cost cutting within the company would come from the top. Then it would trickle down to the subordinate execs like Travis McPherson. So if Morrow deemed that there had to be cuts within the infrastructure of the corporation he would in turn leave it to his underlings to determine what needed cutting and where to cut.

Or perhaps Morrow had been more specific than that, ordering the layoff of certain positions within the company to cut down the costs. Alan imagined that payroll for its employees was the greatest expense for a company like UrbanGroup. So the most logical way to deal with the struggling economy and get quick results would be the elimination of the least necessary members of the work force.

Whether it was McPherson or Morrow who ultimately chose which personnel to cut was a moot point. The man holding the grudge would assume that the big cheese had something to do with the elimination of his job, because that’s the way things worked. By targeting both Number One and Number Two, he would be assured that he'd covered all bases.

The question was why now? Why had the killer waited nearly an entire year since murdering Chloe McPherson to target Andrew Morrow? That didn’t make much sense. And why had he destroyed Morrow’s home instead of killing him? Of course he may have thought Morrow was inside his home when he bombed it but the killer seemed too organized, too thorough, to have allowed that to happen.

And what about James Wielding? How did he figure into all of this? Or did he? If he had also been one of the killer’s victims, why was that? The man hadn’t ever worked at UrbanGroup. But his wife had. Why would the killer seek revenge on her husband?

And again, if Wielding was one of his targets, why would the killer wait this long to murder him? The timing made no sense.

Alan tried to clear his head. He needed to chill out and take one step at a time instead of letting all of these loose ends cloud up the water. For now he had to continue with his game plan and see how it panned out. He would come back to Morrow and Wielding when it seemed like the time was right.

Right now the focus had to be on his prime suspect: Gerald Thomas.

 

An hour later he was driving south on Indianola toward campus. The address Charlie had given him for Thomas was just north of Ohio State—in fact, not very far from Alan’s home in Clintonville. When he reached Hudson Street, he took a right, drove a couple of blocks and pulled into the street he was looking for.

He drove a block and then started looking for the street number of Thomas’s home, eventually spotting it on the right side of the street—a worn-down two-story house with a postage stamp sized front yard.

He drove by and made a left at the first intersection, turned the Pilot around and drove back toward Thomas’s house. He parked a few doors down and shut off the engine.

He wished he had asked Charlie to find out if Thomas had a car, even though the guy had no legal right to drive. Then Alan could tell if he was home or not. There was no driveway, and several cars parked out front. He decided he would have to just sit it out and hope to catch some sign of the man.

Alan staked out the house for over an hour and was just about to end surveillance until after dark when he saw the front door swing open. A man wearing a gray OSU hoodie and camo pants pushed a bicycle onto the porch and locked the door behind him.

Alan recalled a photo he’d seen of Gerald Thomas and knew if was him, but he was almost unrecognizable. This man had shoulder length greasy hair and week-old beard stubble. Even from this distance Alan could see that the guy had ingested more than a fair share of alcohol or drugs in the past. His face was ruddy and bloated with excessive worry lines for a man in his late thirties.

Thomas hopped onto his bicycle and headed south. Alan started the car and turned around in a nearby driveway. He kept Thomas in his sight as he drove, not wanting to follow too closely behind. After a few blocks Thomas swung a right, heading toward High Street. Before he reached High he turned left and proceeded to Lane Avenue where he turned right for a block and then left again.

Alan had just rounded the corner as Thomas cut onto the sidewalk and came to an abrupt stop in front of a duplex home. He drove past Thomas and looked for a place to turn around. In his rear view mirror he saw Thomas hauling his bike up the steps onto the porch.

He turned the Pilot around and parked on the other side of the street as far away from the duplex as he could and still be able to keep an eye on the front. He wasn’t sure if Thomas had noticed his car before now and he didn’t want to take any unnecessary chances.

He shut off the engine and grabbed his Nikon, aimed it at the duplex and zoomed in until he could see the address printed above the mailbox. He snapped the shutter, zoomed back out and took a wide-angle shot of the house as well.

As he sat there, Alan contemplated Thomas being the suspect and was disappointed. The fact that he had used a bicycle as transportation made Alan wonder if Thomas still owned a car since losing his driver’s license. If he didn’t own a car, then how could he have made the three-hour trip to Cleveland and return this soon after blowing up Andrew Morrow’s home the night before? Obviously he hadn’t ridden his bike up north and it was doubtful he would have taken a bus. It was possible he’d taken a cab to the airport and flown to Cleveland but he would have had a hard time pulling off his crime unless he had rented a car. And that would be next to impossible to do with a suspended driver’s license.

So maybe whoever lived in the duplex had driven Thomas to Cleveland. Was it possible that Thomas wasn’t working alone and the occupant of the duplex was a collaborator? It seemed unlikely that two ex-Urbangroup employees were in on this together, although he supposed it was possible.

Another red flag that went up was the man himself. Judging by his past and his outward appearance, Gerald Thomas didn’t seem with it enough to be the shrewd, methodical person who had, thus far at least, pulled of a perfect murder. Tack on to that the house bombing and the Wielding hit in Philly and the odds seemed even slimmer that Thomas could be his man.

But certainly it wasn’t impossible. Looks could be deceiving and just because Thomas was a drunk who was down on his luck didn’t mean he didn’t have enough faculties remaining to pull off a couple of murders.

The front door of the duplex swung open. Alan peered through the viewfinder and watched as Thomas came out, followed by another man. The man was carrying what looked like a large piece of framed artwork neatly wrapped in brown paper. Thomas held the door open for him and then the two headed toward an older model Ford Bronco. After placing the artwork in the back, the two got in and took off.

Alan looked away as the SUV drove by and then started up the engine. After turning the Pilot around he tailed the Bronco from a safe distance. Thomas and his companion reached Lane Avenue and proceeded west past High Street and over the bridge.

As he followed the Bronco west to Riverside Drive, Alan recalled what Andrew Morrow had said at the sight of his leveled mansion—that his priceless art collection had been destroyed.

Could this be one of the paintings from Morrow’s collection?

If so, then Thomas was either collaborating with the man driving the Bronco or the man was a fence for the stolen piece. Whatever the case it seemed just a little too coincidental for Thomas to be seeking a buyer of a painting the day after a house full of art had been ransacked and destroyed.

Thomas had to be the killer!

Feeling his pulse begin to race, Alan had to concentrate on his driving to avoid being detected by the driver of the Bronco without losing him. When he reached the intersection of Route 161, the driver turned left into Dublin and eventually headed north on Muirfield Drive. They had entered one of the most expensive areas in the Columbus metro area where million dollar plus homes were the norm.

Ten minutes later the driver turned onto a street and began slowing down. Alan pulled over to the side and waited to see what the driver was going to do. The Bronco crept along until it finally stopped about a half dozen homes ahead.

Alan grabbed the camera and zoomed in on the Bronco as it pulled into the driveway of an enormous home. He saw the driver get out of the Bronco, take the painting out of the back and carry it up to the porch. Alan shot a couple of frames, making sure to get a clear shot of the driver’s face. Then he gave it the gas and pulled away.

Because it was broad daylight, all he could do was drive by and hope to get a shot of the owner of the house as he answered the door. Otherwise he would have to settle for a street address. With the Nikon zoomed out fully and propped against the back of the passenger seat, Alan drove by, snapped a couple of shots, and kept on going. The door had still been closed but at least he got a half decent shot of the address and the man holding the painting.

Not wanting to push his luck, Alan drove back toward Columbus. He could resume his surveillance when it was dark if need be. Right now he wanted to find out who the man driving the Bronco was and who had just taken a piece of stolen art into his home.

He called Charlie Ling and waited a few rings for him to pick up.

“Hey Charlie, I need you again. You got a few minutes?”

“Yeah, I’m cool. What do you need?”

“Two names. The persons living at 2305 Campus Lane and 38 Cotillion Court in Muirfield Village.”

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll call you back.”

“Thanks.”

Alan smiled to himself as he drove along Dublin Granville Road. If he were to expose a stolen art ring in the process of solving Chloe McPherson’s murder case, he would be ecstatic. He would probably have to hire some help with all the job offers he’d be getting afterwards. Sweet!

But he had a long way to go before fantasizing about it. He had to remind himself that this case was anything but solved and the whole stolen art angle could quite possibly be a red herring. It never hurt to dream a little, though.

It took him twenty minutes to arrive at his home and he still hadn’t heard from Charlie. He decided to fix some lunch in the meantime. He let Pan out and had enough time to wolf down a sandwich with some chips before Charlie finally called back.

“Sorry it took so long. Knowing you, I took the liberty of researching the names of the respective occupants of the residences you gave me. You taking notes or do you want me to email you with what I have?”

“Both please. Let me get my notepad.”

Alan went into the living room and sat down at his desk.

“Shoot”

“There are two people renting the place on Campus Lane: John Chandler and Isabella Farner. The girl is a student at OSU and the guy is some kind of artist.”

“Shit. So he paints?”

“Don’t know what sort of art he does but it looks like he has his own studio down in the short north. I’ve got the address here.”

“Okay, just email it to me. What about the Muirfield home?”

“A really rich and successful attorney—you’ve probably heard of him. David Liebowitz, of Liebowitz, Wente and Delaney.”

“Fuck it.”

“Not happy with my info?”

“Nope, not at all. I have a feeling that I just hit a dead end street.”

“Sorry, my friend. You know how I hate to be the purveyor of negative data.”

“Yeah, I know. Well, thanks anyway. Send me the bill in the mail.”

“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself! You’ll catch the bad guy—you just got to hang in there, buddy.”

“I guess. Gotta admit, I really thought this was going to pan out. Oh well, back to the drawing board as they say.”

“That’s the spirit. Hey, why don’t you just give it a rest and go have some fun for a change? Sometimes that’s the best thing to do when things aren’t going so good.”

“I just may do that, Charlie. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Alan felt like the life had been sucked out of him as he sat there staring at the blank screen on his iMac. His investigation had hit yet another snag and this one was particularly hard to accept.

In the span of a half hour he had gone from ecstasy to agony. His prime suspect was a wash.

There was very little need to follow up on what he had learned from Charlie. The artwork they had delivered to David Liebowitz had not been stolen from Andrew Morrow’s home. It was most likely a piece that John Chandler the artist had painted. Probably in his fricking studio in the Short North, no less.

Whatever made him think that somebody would actually deliver a piece of stolen art to a respectable residence in Muirfield in broad daylight? Wishful thinking? Perhaps.

Or desperation.

His initial gut feeling had been right all along. Gerald Thomas had no more blown up Morrow’s house or murdered Chloe McPherson than the man in the moon. One look at the guy and anyone could see that the guy was fried and couldn’t snuff out much more than a match for his crack pipe.

Fuck!

Alan felt the familiar pang of failure take hold of his entire being for a fleeting moment. As had happened a few times in the past, he had hit a point in a case where he began to doubt his ability to do what he was being paid to do. He knew from the get-go that this case was as frigid as cold cases get, yet he had felt confident enough to take it on and achieve a positive result.

That sure wasn’t happening.

He grabbed the list of names he had so expertly analyzed. He went down the list again, hoping for something to pop out. It didn’t. Instead, he decided he would take his associate’s suggestion. He picked up his phone and placed a call.

“Amanda Linville, please.”

A moment later she came on the line, her voice sounding like a sweet song in a dark void.

“You have any plans for tonight?” he said.

“Nothing that I can’t put off until another day.”

“Let’s go out and get drunk.”

“Oh-oh. Somebody is down in the dumps.”

“Your perceptive skills are right on the mark.”

“Care to talk about it?”

“Maybe. Later. Right now I just want to see you and throw back several beers until I feel good again.”

“I’m genuinely flattered that I matter so much to you! Where would you like to go?”

“How about the same place we went last week?”

“Mockingjays? Sure, that would be fine.”

“How about nine?”

“Perfect.”

“See you then. And thanks, Amanda.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Alan. I’m really looking forward to seeing you.”

“That may change after you see me sobbing in my beer.”

She laughed. “I doubt that.”

“We’ll see. Nine o’clock at Mockingjays.”

“I’ll be there.”

For the first time in what seemed like a very long time, Alan felt a huge wave of longing for somebody. The last time he had felt that way had been back when his wife was still alive.

He smiled at the prospect of seeing Amanda Linville again.