The Case of the Running Bag - Chapter 8

Chapter 8

A Puzzle With Too Many Missing Pieces

I flagged down a cab. National was located in a smarter part of town; it was too far to walk, and I wasn't familiar enough yet with the Muni schedule to get where I was going on time. It was then that I realized there was another anomaly in this case.
Why wasn't National working it? They had been instrumental in helping Mrs. Stanton reach her husband every other time, though they never really got eyes on him since New Orleans. What happened in New Orleans? I started to laugh at myself. I had been an MP for the Army, doing investigations and detective work, but as a shamus on my own, I was in very unfamiliar territory.
I survived an ambush on the dock, but that was more luck and reflexes than skill. And although the police thought Perfume Eddie was a button man, I thought he was just a thug looking to improve on his reputation.
There must have been something in my office he was determined to get. Unfortunately, he exercised really bad judgment in trying to get it. From the description about him, I got from the police, he didn't have the mental capacity to be the "brains". He was muscle. I wonder if he was looking for the bag? So, who sent him? Hopefully, Mr. Hart would be able to give me some answers to my questions.
The office for National Investigators, Inc. may have been small, personnel-wise, but they still took up the whole second floor of the office building they were in. The layout was pretty fancy, too. Their reception area was bigger than mine, and they had smaller offices off to the side to quickly escort people to after they identified themselves for their appointments.
When I walked in, the receptionist was quick to confirm who I was and move me into another office. It was down a hall and on the window side of the building. It was small but comfortable with a couple of overstuffed chairs, a writing table, and a table lamp as well as a dimly lit overhead. The artwork on the wall was some kind of nondescript serene landscape. I sat and waited.
The door opened after about five minutes. Someone was letting me cool my heels. Five minutes must have been their stock wait time. I might be new to being a P.I., but I'm familiar with interview techniques.
Hart was a thin man, late twenties, clean-shaven, about average height, in a three-piece suit with full-Windsor knotted tie. He had a piece under his coat on his waist, probably a thirty-two. He carried a large notebook, even though he wasn't sure why I was here. He was seeing me as a favor for the police department.
“Mr. Watcher, my name is Richard Hart," he said.
I stood up and held out my hand.
Hart fumbled with the notebook and put out his hand. I took it, he didn't offer much of a grip. Maybe he moonlighted as a piano player. His hand was clammy. I fought the urge to clamp down and simply smiled. I sat back down.
Hart looked at me for a moment and took the other chair. I took out a business card, leaned forward, and handed it to Hart. Then I sat back just enough to let the Colt shape be apparent. He looked at the card. Then he gave me the once over and cleared his throat.
"What can I do for you?” he asked.
I wasn't sure how much the police had told Hart, and I wasn't in a giving mood. I decided to take over the interview and see what I could learn.
“Can you tell me why National is no longer handling the search for Mrs. Stanton's husband?” I asked.
“Who says we aren't?” he stammered.
“Mrs. Stanton,” I lied.
That hit Hart right between the eyes. If I ever see him in a poker game, I'm joining in because this man’s tells were all over the place. He was either someone's flunky or he hadn't spent any time in the field. Odd that Lieutenant Sanders sent me specifically to him. Was Hart the one most likely to give me information? Maybe he so low in the organization, that interviewing him wouldn't raise any red flags. I decided to push a little harder and see what I could get.
“I have Mrs. Stanton's version, but maybe you can give me National's response to why she was unhappy,” I pressed.
“Unhappy, uh, I suppose the events in...”
He was temporizing, so I knew I was on the right track.
“In New Orleans? Yeah. You were there, right?” I finished.
I thought Hart might wet himself, but he took a couple of breaths and started his monologue, it's amazing what a few well-placed words can accomplish.
“I am not a field agent,” Hart said in a loud whisper trying not to blurt it out.

He took another deep breath.

“I am a forensic accountant.”
“What, you're a CPA for dead people?” I asked.
Hart was taken aback, and he smiled at the humor in my question. He relaxed and went into education mode, which was fine with me. I leaned forward and took out my notebook and pencil. This was going to be more informative than I had hoped.
“How is forensic accounting involved with the Stanton case?” I asked.
“Initially it wasn't. When Martin Stanton went missing the first time, two operatives were assigned the case to locate him.”
“Who were they?”
“William Mason and Sam Parrish. They worked out of the New York office. They contacted the various offices and put out a flier on him. The Miami office responded very quickly with where he was. Mrs. Stanton went down with Mason and Parrish. They returned to New York, Mrs. Stanton stayed in Miami, and that seemed to be the end of things. Mrs. Stanton spent about a month with her husband in Miami, a second honeymoon maybe.
“Anyway, she eventually returned to New York. He stayed in Miami. She set him up with a studio and a monthly allowance of a grand.”
I whistled
“He was there for a while. He painted and kept a pretty low profile. He had a couple of local art shows, actually sold some paintings. Then he was gone.”
“So how does a forensic accountant get involved?” I asked.
“I’m getting to that. Mason and Parrish were brought in again. They pretty much followed the same pattern for searching for him. They weren't having as much luck. Then the head of National put out a request for ideas. I had just started here in the San Francisco office. We do more accounting than detective work here.”
“Auditing, looking for embezzlers?” I said.
“Very good, Mr. Watcher. Not many people know that financial crime is bigger than most other crimes monetarily.”
I didn't either, but I was learning.
“Go on, Mr. Hart,” I encouraged him.
“With Mrs. Stanton's help, we got some financial information on her husband. His bank accounts, credit use, property owned and some financial activities. His savings and checking accounts provided most of the information needed to track his movements. He also had an odd need to make credit purchases, and that was also helpful.
“With that information, I was able to discover that he was doing business in St. Louis and New Orleans, but mostly St. Louis. National doesn't have an office in St. Louis, so it was assigned to Chicago. But that office dispatched Mason and Parrish from New York. Within a couple of weeks, they reported back that he was in New Orleans, but we couldn't physically locate him.”
“Why Mason and Parrish?” I asked.
“They were familiar with the case. They felt that it was their case. They convinced the boss in Chicago to let them find him. They went to New Orleans, and it seemed they were successful in contacting him. Then, poof! He disappeared like an erased line item. They were recalled to New York and assigned to another case.”
“How did they find out he went to Los Angeles?” I asked.
“Martin Stanton contacted his wife directly. She got a post-office box address from him and she continued to send him money. National was taken out of the loop.”
Hart paused, and I knew something was wrong. I looked around and I didn't see anyone or thing to bother about, but Hart was thinking, too hard. I was starting to like the kid, but I wasn't sure what his look was about. He was conflicted. He was looking at the lamp. Overhead light and a lamp. I folded over a page in my notebook and wrote down one word, and I showed it to him. The word was bugged?
He nodded.
I knew the story changed in New Orleans, but the kid was scared, so I decided we needed a change of venue. All of this happened very quickly so I temporized for a moment.
“Thanks for letting me catch up on my note-taking, Mr. Hart,” I said. “I see the repetitive nature of all of this. I got that Mr. Stanton must be in San Francisco somewhere. I think Mrs. Stanton just wants to make sure he continues getting his checks. Thanks for your time.”
While talking I made several notes and showed them to Hart. The first was anyone listening now? He shook his head, No.
Next, I wrote; We need to talk somewhere more private. He nodded with enthusiasm.
We stood up and shook hands. His hand was less limp this time, not so clammy. We exited the small room.
“I'll walk you out, Mr. Watcher," he said. "I have some personal business to take care of.”
He turned to the receptionist.
“Jennifer, I have to go out. I won't be back until tomorrow morning.”
He turned to me.
“Wait for me at the elevator, Mr. Watcher, and I'll go down with you.”
I walked to the elevator. I unbuttoned my coat and stood so I could see all the exits, just in case. Richard Hart came out of the office and we entered the elevator.
“I hope I haven’t made a mistake with you, Mr. Watcher,” he said.
“If it is worth anything, Lieutenant Sanders will vouch for me,” I said.
He nodded. I suggested we take a cab and go to my office.
“Oh, no, that won't do,” he said, “I'm sure your office is being watched.”
“How about a gunsmith on South of Market?” I asked.
“Excellent. There is no notation in the file of your going there,” he said.
“What about Marlon Apartments?”
“No. No notation for there, either,” he said. “You’ve been seen entering a diner in the same building as Mickey Philips’ office, the police station, and of course the office itself. No one has been tailing you as yet.”
When we entered the gun-shop, that stupid bell rang, and Fritz entered from the back room.
“Is there something wrong with the gun?” he asked.
“No, Fritz. I just need a less public place to continue a discussion with Mr. Hart, here.”
“But, of course. My backroom is at your disposal. I can busy myself out here. Do I need...”
“I think we are okay, but sitting with a little firepower within quick reach might be advisable,” I said.
Fritz merely smiled and nodded. As we entered the back room, Fritz sat on a stool at the end of the counter away from the door with cover and what appeared to be a small arsenal within easy reach.
We both sat down on stools facing each other.
“So, what happened in New Orleans?” I asked.
“I need to back up a bit,” he said. “Mason and Parrish were on a case and they went to New Orleans, even though I suggested the financial trail was in St. Louis. It should have been a simple contact and forward information, but it seemed to last for a month or more. Then Mr. Stanton vanished from New Orleans. The problem was that my data indicated that Martin Stanton was in St. Louis more than he was in New Orleans. But Mason and Parrish insisted he was in New Orleans.
“While they were there, some guy they were trying to get information from did a swan dive off some bridge under construction in New Orleans. Mason and Parrish contacted both the Chicago and New York offices and said they had sighted Stanton in New Orleans. They played cat and mouse with him for a couple of weeks; they supposedly cornered him, and he agreed to communicate with Mrs. Stanton, but he didn't want to see her. He telegraphed her directly, talked with her on the phone a couple of times, and they set up the same arrangement.
“While this was going on, Parrish and Mason returned to New York. Parrish quit National and headed back to New Orleans. Then Stanton took off for Los Angeles, but this time he gave Mrs. Stanton a forwarding address.”
“Any chance it isn't Stanton,” I asked.
“Mrs. Stanton said it was him. He was even thinking of returning to New York and the art scene there. He had some business in Los Angeles to complete.
“Mason thought something was wrong and wanted to follow him to Los Angeles, but the boss said that Mrs. Stanton was okay with things. Mason got pissed and quit, and then he disappeared.”
“What aren't you telling me here?” I asked.
“Two things that seem unrelated. The guy running a successful office in Chicago requested a transfer to run San Francisco. I like San Francisco, but we mostly do accounting stuff. The Chicago office is three floors, twenty-five operatives, and they're into everything. How come Steven Jaxom wanted to go to San Francisco?”
“And the second thing?”
“I was still doing some forensic accounting on Mr. Stanton. There was stuff going on in New Orleans, but not very much. However, there was a lot of activity going on in St. Louis. Banking, credit, and property transfers. It was like he was in two different places at once. Initially, I thought he was traveling back and forth between the two cities and I was told to drop it. There was no active case. But when he contacted Mrs. Stanton from New Orleans and told her that he was going to Los Angeles, my data indicators indicated that he was in St. Louis.
“When he went to Los Angeles, everything cleared up. He rented an apartment. He was seen by several people and everything seemed fine. I looked at the financial activity just before he went to Los Angeles. And there was a lot of it. He was liquidating, building his capital. It looked like he was getting ready to leave the country. The activity that showed up in Los Angeles, didn't match with what had been liquidated.”
“So, what did you do?”
“I told the boss in New York, but he said I was putting too much emphasis on the numbers. Besides, we were off the case. So, I called Mickey Philips. I had met him before. I told him what I had. He contacted Mrs. Stanton. He told her there might be some irregularities, and asked if he could have a copy of the National file on her husband. He said he would do some work on spec. He also asked me for my file information, so I sent everything I had.”
“Why aren't you dead?” I asked.
Hart looked at me with a shocked expression.
“What do you mean, dead?” he asked.
“Look, kid,” I said. “You may well have put two guys in the frame and another hovering around it. If what you’ve just told me is close to the truth, it may well be what got Mickey Philips killed. So how come you’re still walking around? Where’s your boss?”
“Mr. Jaxom? He's in Sacramento on an unrelated case. Some kind of land swindle. I hadn't been filing reports after he said we were off the case. But I hadn't sent my report to Mr. Philips until after he left for Sacramento. It should have been in Philips' office mail.”
There hadn't been any mail in the office, which means Philips either had a P.O. box or he had his mail held until he got back from Sacramento. Why did he go to Sacramento? Why was Jaxom really in Sacramento? I don't believe in coincidences.
“Who went to Sacramento first, Philips or Jaxom?” I asked.
Hart shrugged, he didn't know.
I had to get to the office, I needed to put Hart on ice and I Couldn't let the police know about him just yet. There was too much that wasn't right. I decided to put him up in my place. It wasn’t on anyone’s map yet, so it would probably be the safest place for him. I gave him my keys and directions to my apartment. I told him no phone calls except to call my office. He was only to talk to me or my receptionist. He should let either of us know if there was anything he needed.
“Oh, yeah, if a man answers, and it isn't me, hang up! Then sit tight.”
“Do you think I am in danger?” he asked.
I gave him a look.
"Are you kidding?"
Then he took the keys and headed for the door.
“Kid, no side trips," I said. "You are in danger. Someone is either looking for you or will be soon.

Hope it's the latter. That means we're one step ahead.”
“I have had some training," He said. "I'll watch for tails. Straight to your place.”
Then he was gone.
I felt bad sending him off by himself, but Betty was in the office and there might be some real danger there. When I got to the office building, I went up the stairs and waited by the fourth-floor stairway entrance to catch my breath. If I was going to be doing this, I needed to get in better shape. I opened the door a crack, and when no one appeared to be in the hallway I headed for the office. I opened the door, and all seemed to be okay, Betty looked up and smiled.
“Been to the bank yet?” she asked.
“No, I'll do it tomorrow. Any calls?” I asked
“Mrs. Stanton. She’s back in San Francisco at The Palace. She wants you to stop by. Also, Lieutenant Sanders says you should stick around. He wants to talk... about a couple of things.”
“Anything else?”
“I got the mail delivered that had been on hold. They complained, but I told them the police wanted the mail delivered today.”
I looked in the inner office, there was a small stack on the desk, I could see the large envelope with Hart's reports in it. I unbuttoned my coat. Betty watched me.
“We expecting trouble?” she asked.
“Maybe. You afraid of guns?” I asked.
“If that's a cute way of asking if I can shoot, yes I can. I was on the force, and although their policy is women do not carry, I had a boss who wanted everyone to know how to shoot.”
Just then the phone rang, I motioned for Betty to let me pick up.
“Watcher,” I said.
It was Hart on the line. He had gotten to my place without incident. He was hungry. He wanted some magazines and the evening paper. I described Betty and told him she would stop by in a little while. I hung up.
“Mr. Hart is at my place,” I said writing down my address on the back of a business card. “I need you to deliver him something from the diner. You know, burger, fries and some kind of soft drink. No booze, he needs to keep all his faculties. He wants some reading material, a newspaper, and some weeklies. Then go home. You're good for the day.”
“Okay if I have dinner with my daughter?”
“Works for me,” I said.
I handed her a double sawbuck.
“Tomorrow before you come in, stop by Fritz's. He's a gunsmith, south of Market.”
“I know the place,” she said.
“He's a friend. He'll give you a piece for the office. Tell him you want a holder behind the vanity panel of your desk for whatever weapon you choose.”
“You didn't tell me the job was dangerous,” she said.
“Well, let’s see, a dead guy on my first day, the old owner is dead, you're kidding, right?”
She put on her coat and hat. As she walked to the door, she stopped, turned, and smiled.
“I'll keep an eye out. Don't worry, I'll be okay.” She locked the door when she left.