Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) (10 page)

My mouth was dry as cotton. I needed a bottle of aspirin and a gallon of ice-cold Coke. Thankfully, I found myself standing in front of Wilson’s Diner and walked inside. Mr. Wilson was scraping the grill.

“Extra large Coke, please, and scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon,” I said, sitting down and rubbing my eyes. “And do you have any aspirin?”

Wilson nodded.

“You're in luck.”

He went back to his office and came back with a bottle of aspirin. He filled up a large glass with ice-cold Coke and sat it in front of me. I took two aspirin and downed them with a hearty sip — the carbonation bit right into my pasty tongue, quenching my thirst and filling me with hope that one day I might be well again.

The diner had seven or eight customers. They ate their breakfast and drank coffee while Wilson, the maestro, worked his magic on the grill. It took him only a few minutes to scramble the eggs and get them on the plate and set my hangover cure in front of me.

  I began to eat slowly at first, but soon instinct took over. I ate with abandon and in quick order my throbbing noggin and dry mouth were overwhelmed by gastronomic ecstasy.

A few minutes later, I began feeling better. Wilson set a freshly brewed cup of coffee in front of me, already filled with cream. As I sat sipping my coffee, the other patrons finished their meals and paid.

Wilson and I were alone.

Wilson went into the back and turned up the music — he played it unusually loud, which puzzled me and made my head throb.

He came back to the counter and leaned over closely to me.

“This place may be bugged,” he said, whispering. “No way to be sure.”

I nodded. He smiled.

“I hear you were out with the chief last evening,” he said, laughing.

“Word gets around fast in this town,” I said.

“The chief’s a fine-looking woman, but despite her petite size, she’s never met a man yet she can’t drink under the table. Someone should’ve warned you.”

I nodded.

“Look, I want to apologize,” he continued. “I couldn't talk to you the first time you came in. We had to do some checking on you.”

“Checking?”

“We had to make sure we could trust you.”

“What can you tell me?”

“I can't tell you anything now. We'll be in touch.”

“In touch when?”

“Can't talk now. Finish your meal and get out of here. We'll be in touch soon.”

Wilson went back into his office and turned down the music. He went to the sink and began washing dishes.

“Yeah, that Pitt game was something else,” he said.

That was the first I’d heard that Pitt had beat Notre Dame the Friday before. We chatted about the game for a while, then I paid and began my long journey back to the truck. 

I finally got to it, fired it up and began driving back to the pub.

I was a block from jumping onto the highway when I saw Chief Sarafino driving her cruiser. She was headed the same direction as I. I followed her.

She drove back to Pittsburgh up to the peak of the Mount Washington bluff that overlooked the heart of the city — it offered a magnificent view of the Pittsburgh skyline. She parked in front of a contemporary home that hung over the cliff of Mount Washington like some kind of gargoyle.

She got out of her car, walked to the front door and entered. 

As I waited, I mulled the possible reasons she would make a visit all the way to Pittsburgh. Who lived in the house, I wondered? I sat there 45 minutes when the door opened and the chief walked out. I grabbed my binoculars from the glove box and got a closer look. She did not look happy.

Just as she got to her car and opened her car door, the front door of the house opened and out walked Victoria Hall.

Hall was barking at the chief. If only I could read lips. She was angry and she was barking. 

The chief barked back. Then she got into her car and slammed the door. As she roared out of the parking lot, Hall ducked back inside the house.

I didn’t know what it meant, but it meant something.

Maybe it meant I was beginning to make some people very uncomfortable.

I drove to the drug treatment center to visit Erin.

“How is she?” I said to Dr. Joe. 

She's been sleeping fitfully but sleeping,” he said. “Her vitals are a little low, but she's doing well, considering. The worst is still ahead for her.”

“She must have been confused this morning,” I said.

“We told her what you did for her,” said Joe. “She said she feels very bad for bringing you into her mess.”

“May I visit her?” I said.

“I imagine you have some questions for her,” said Joe. “But it’s best to leave her be for the time being.”

Thanks for all you’re doing,” I said. “I’ll stop by tomorrow to see how she’s coming along.”

Mick and Maureen and I sat in the back of the pub drinking coffee shortly after Maureen closed it.

“Bring us up to speed, Kid,” said Mick.

I told them that Chief Sarafino still wouldn’t cooperate with me. That she shared nothing about Preston’s case — before drinking me under the table.

Mick laughed aloud.

“We don’t want that getting out,” he said.

I told him about my visit to Wilson’s Diner and that Wilson suggested something was up and would be in touch.

I told him about the heated argument between the chief and Victoria Hall.

“Good news,” he said. “Sounds to me like you’re making some headway.”

We heard pounding on the rear door of the pub.

I grabbed my Glock, headed into the kitchen and looked out the window to see two men standing in the alley: the Bill Morton and Sam Wilson.

***

They joined Mick and Maureen and I in the back of the pub. 

“We didn't know Erin,” said Morton. “We did see her make the phone call in the presence of the two men we had seen about town, Big Tony and Little Terry. But we didn’t know if she was with them willingly or under duress. And we didn’t tell you because we had to check you out first.”

“Tell me more,” I said.

“You have to know that things have never been the same in Maryville since the steel industry tanked in the mid-1970s. I know that's going back a way, but up until then, we had ourselves a fine little town, full of life and bristling with the energy and wealth that trickled down from all the steel-making and the many industries that supported it.”

“A grand time that was,” said Morton.

“But even after that, as commerce dried up, our town had a nice spirit,” said Wilson. “People watched out for each other. But something changed four years ago, when Preston’s company moved to Maryville. We began seeing people we’d never seen before. That wouldn't have bothered us, until there were a few incidents that caused some alarm.”

“What kind of incidents?”

“Tony and Terry began spending a lot of time in our town,” said Wilson. “They began showing up for meals at the diner, but refused to pay. When I confronted them, they showed me a piece and said I'd be wise to just keep providing those free meals every time they were hungry. I called the chief to report the theft. She did nothing. Bastards are lucky I didn't have my shotgun out front, as I do now.”

Morton chimed in.

“Look, we were all excited at first that Preston’s company was investing in our small town. But the traffic began coming and going at all hours to the one riverfront building on his campus. Cars mostly. We've seen plates on cars from as far away as Texas and California — plates from all over the country, in fact. The cars pull in, spend 20 minutes or so inside, then pull out.”

“You think the chief is covering for some kind of illegal activity taking place inside the smaller building on Preston’s campus?”

“Yes,” said Morton. “Chief Sarafino is a fine woman, but we fear she's covering for somebody.”

“What makes you think so?” I said.

“At a town meeting — this was before Tony and Terry started their shenanigans — some of us wanted to know what was going on down in that building. We wanted to know why trucks and cars were coming in and out at all hours. The noise was very annoying.”

“And?” I said.

“Well,” Morton continued, “we have restrictions on these things. No truck traffic is allowed to pass through town after midnight on weeknights. It's an old ordinance that was put on the books when the town was more populated than now. We wanted the chief to enforce it, but she never did.”

“She’s covering for her father, the prior police chief?” I said.

Morton and Wilson nodded.

“Keep in mind her father was a good man,” said Wilson. “We're not saying he was a perfect man — he may have had the occasional ticket fixed. We had a well-known bookie in town who fed the chief a few extra dollars so that he could continue taking bets. Hell, for as little as we were paying him, nobody begrudged him making a few extra dollars off something that didn't harm anyone.”

“Yes, go on,” I said.

“But we think he cut a deal with some bad people,” said Wilson. “The woman who has been running Preston’s business, Victoria Hall. We think he unknowingly bit off way more than he could chew.”

“What makes you think this?” I said.

“Well, he was in great spirits at first, but his demeanor changed drastically afterwards a few months after Hall moved in. He wasn't the same — everybody in town was talking about it. He was anxious and jumpy. He used to walk the streets and talk to everyone, but, suddenly, he became reclusive. Something was bothering him and that something killed him. He had a massive heart attack.”

“And when his daughter became chief, she assumed whatever the problem was he created?” I said.

“That's how we read it,” said Morton. “We think Chief Sarafino became dreadfully aware of whatever her father had got himself and the town into, and that she is now in trouble.”

“But you have no evidence of any of this?” I said.

“No, but we do have evidence that she may cover up something very big in her police report on Preston’s death,” said Wilson.

“What is that?” I said.

“Peter Hartley, the witness who saw Preston go over the bridge, saw what really happened to John Preston the night he died,” said Wilson.

“What did he see?” I said.

“We’ll let him tell you himself,” said Wilson.

I followed Morton and Wilson to Maryville in my truck. We parked in the small lot near the bank. It was black as coal that night, but the bridge, illuminated by street lamps, sat majestically above the water.

We walked down a narrow path toward the sunken barge. Peter Hartley sat in a fold-out chair. He had a line cast into the river, while he nibbled on a sandwich and sipped on a beer. As we approached him, he turned to us.

“Sit down,” he said. “I've been waiting for you.”

I sat in a second fold-out chair. Morton and Wilson kept their eyes on the hillside for any movement. 

“So we meet again,” he said, reaching over to shake my hand. “Like a sandwich?” he said.

“No, thanks.”

He called over to Morton and Wilson.

“Sandwich?” he said more loudly.

“Just tell him what you saw, Peter,” said Wilson.

Hartley took a sip of coffee.

“I only do my fishin' at night. The fish bite better. They're less wary and they bite better. And I prefer to have this pier to myself and not have to share it with a bunch of knuckleheads who scare the fish away.”

I nodded.

“This spot has been my little slice of heaven for a long time,” he continued, “but it was rudely interrupted the night John Preston died.”

I nodded.

“I was sitting here enjoying the good life,” he continued, “just as I am now, when I see two vehicles pull up to the middle of the bridge.”

“What kind of vehicles?”

“First was a big SUV of some kind. Second was a sedan, dark in color.”

“Preston drove an SUV. Then what happened?”

“I saw a Bit Tony exit the SUV and open the back door. He dragged out a limp body and pulled it to the railing. He threw the body over the railing then jumped in the passenger’s side of the sedan and then drove away.”

“You tell this to anyone?” I said.

“Surely,” he said. “I told the police chief, Wilson and Morton — and now you. But it’s the way Chief Sarafino reacted that is troubling us.”

“How did she react?”

“She said that I needed to keep what I saw to myself,” said Hartley.

“That's it?”

“She told me to leave — that I better not fish here anymore. I told her that was no kind of respectful way to be treating her godfather.”

“Godfather?”

“Me and her daddy were good friends a lot of years. Hell, we fished down here since we were kids. I been her godfather since she was baptized 38 years ago.”

“And she wouldn't believe her own godfather?”

“She believed me, all right,” said Hartley. “But she wanted to protect me from the bad people who have taken over this town. They killed Preston easy enough. I don’t think it would be much trouble for them to kill an old man who witnessed the crime.”

“This is interesting information,” I said.

“We're worried about her. We don't know what’s going on entirely, but she's into something not of her doing and we're worried she might get hurt. We’re only telling you because we figure you can help.”

“I’m not exactly Chief Sarafino’s favorite person,” I said. “She can only help herself at this point by coming clean.”

“We know it and we are working on it,” said Hartley. “She’s as stubborn as her daddy was.”

“In the meantime, you may want to keep a low profile to keep yourself safe,” I said.

“Ain't nothing going to happen to me,” he said. “I fish where and when I want to. It's my goddaughter I'm worried about.”

“I’ll do everything I can to help the chief with one exception,” I said.

Hartley cast his line far out into the water, then picked up his sandwich and began nibbling with his right hand.

“What’s that, sonny?”

“That I never have to drink with her again.”