The Pursuit of Justice

That night, I did. I was interested in what she might know, anyway.

As she was ladling up the beef stew, - it was cold out and this was just what the doctor ordered, - I said, "So, nasty case last night. Sorry I didn't get back until late."

She carried on filling my bowl and said calmly, concentrating on the task, "Well, it wasn't the first time and I doubt it'll be the last."

She dropped the spoon back in the saucepan and sat down opposite me, looking at me and said, "Nasty one?"

"Not any more than normal. Seen one dead body, you've seen them all. But nasty in that I think finding the perp is going to be hard. Very little to go on right now."

She had no response to this, only passed me the bread to go with the soup.

"The interesting part is that he was an accountant," I said, trying the stew. It was too hot and I had to blow on the spoonful I had.

"Oh, really?" she replied, now genuinely interested. "Anyone I might know?"

"I wouldn't think so," I said, "it was a mom and pop operation. Not your kind of thing."

It was true; Clarice dealt with larger scale situations at her law firm. She did forensic accounting at scale, dealing in multimillion-dollar corporations. She generally dealt with domestic situations, but on occasion she did get her feet wet with international ones. She usually had to travel when that came up, which wasn't that often. Usually she dealt in home grown companies: builders, service companies and the like. She wouldn't be slumming it with any one-man operations. Still, it was worth seeing if she had heard of this guy. You never knew.

"Still, who was he? Can you tell me that, or is it still blacked out?" she wanted to know.

"Name was Sidney Newton. Heard of him? I can tell you about it, it's going to be in the papers tomorrow anyway. I saw Audrey lurking around as I left." Audrey Romero was one of the local hacks from the StarTribune. She was on the crime desk and I'd no doubt she had been listening to her bank of radio scanners. If she didn't have it all by the time she got there, she'd have it before she left. The local beat cops loved to talk to her, since she had an expense account the newspaper didn't ever question. She was very good at her job, sometimes to the department's detriment, since she didn't take requests to back off very well.

Clarice had no reaction. I didn't really expect one, but you never know, so I was watching her anyway. She was one hundred percent focused on the soup.

"Never heard of him. Want me to ask around?"

I didn't hesitate when answering that. You Did Not Get Your Family Involved Asking Questions Regarding A Murder. All capitals. I didn't want her asking around for more than one reason, the first being that these were bad people and having her mixed up would not be good for anyone's health. The second being that any evidence we uncovered because of her asking would be tainted and any good defense lawyer would both shred it, and the department, for not following protocol. They'd be right, too.

"Nah. Not good for anyone. We can make inquiries. Plus, we have computers and databases and stuff. It's what I'm paid for, Hun, you know that. Best stay out of this."

She nodded and that was forgotten. So Sydney Newton was definitely small time, and now he'd never be anything else but.

We ended up watching a couple of episodes of Game of Thrones -- it just wasn't a "Wire" night. We were up to season six, and then it was off to bed. We were the image of domesticity.

The next day, I was up early, seven AM, and at the office by eight. I wanted to get a start on the paper work and write up a preliminary report for the captain of everything we knew, so far. Our captain, Murphy Matlock, - yeah, he got a lot of stick for that, - was a stickler for reporting. He wanted it on paper, so there was no "he said/she said" situations when investigations were scrutinized, as homicide cases very often are.

Lots of TV shows have captains who are perpetually harassed, wearing shabby suits, and upset most of the time. Viewers are conditioned to captains screaming, "I want your gun and your badge," and "I have the mayor on my back! You have 48 hours, and then you are off the case!" and so on. Ours was, thankfully, nothing like that. Captain Murphy had risen the ranks, was no political appointee, and knew exactly what we were going through, since he'd done it himself for almost fifteen years before "being kicked up-stairs," as he put it. He was supportive, believed in his crew and had our backs. He did demand by-the-book reporting, and we all gave it to him. It's easier to do it than not to, no point in drawing a target on your back for the years to come.

I wrote the report, left it on his desk and waited till Miranda came in. She arrived at nine-thirty, and by ten we were on our way to the offices of Ashton Polk.

Spoiler alert -- the trip did little to advance the investigation. Ashton Polk was a no-show. His receptionist, though, that's another story. There she was, large as life and twice as ugly, as my mother used to say, although that was just a figure of speech. Debra Gustav, as she identified herself, wasn't really ugly. Severe was the word I'd use. Pulled back tight hair, so her face was bare, large forehead, glasses, very teased eyebrows, thin lips with quite the wrong shade of lipstick on them (according to Miranda, anyway), she looked like a cross between a skeletal librarian and a 1950's school teacher. Even down to the thin body and tightly grasped cardigan wrapped around her. The only thing missing was some glasses with a chain on them so they could dangle around her neck. She actually reminded me a lot of Cloris Leachman in Young Frankenstein.

As severe as she looked, she was even more so in personality. She clocked us immediately on entering the office space; she had a little reception area, and there looked to be an open space in the corridor behind her. There was even a back lit sign on the wall, "Ashton Polk, CPA".

We did the usual, asked her if the boss was in.

"Good Morning miss..." I asked. I usually led the questioning when it was a woman, Miranda did it when it was a guy. I don't quite know why; it was just something into which we had fallen. We will probably get #MeToo'd on this if anybody noticed.

She just looked at us.

I glanced at Miranda, sighed and we both fished out the badges. Some people just won't talk to you unless you do that. She inspected both of them, which wasn't the usual. Usually only one badge gets looked at, not both. Ms. 1956 here wanted to see them both. Committing both our badge numbers to memory, no doubt.

"Gustave. Debra Gustav," she eventually replied, after satisfying herself we were the real deal. High voice, a soprano, if I was any judge.

"Miss Gustav," I tried again, noting she didn't correct me. No rings on her fingers either. "We are looking for your boss, Mr. Polk. Is he around?"

"Mr. Polk is not currently at the office," she said, stiffly. I could tell she didn't like cops. I wasn't surprised; there were some I didn't much like either.

"When might he be back?" I enquired.

"I couldn't rightly say. Mr. Polk often keeps irregular hours," she said, looking me right in the eyes and not blinking. It was enough to make your eyes water on her behalf.

"Does he do this often? Just not show up?" asked Miranda. Debra Gustav transferred her laser eyes to Miranda and I furiously blinked once her gaze was removed.

"Mr. Polk has clients all over the city. All over the state, in fact. It's not unusual for him to not be in the office for days at a time. He also takes in a lot of conferences."

She transferred her eyes back to me again. "He's a much sought-after accountant. Very popular."

"Do you have a number at which he can be reached?" asked Miranda, a split second before I could.

"Mr. Polk is a very private man. Only his clients have direct access to him."

That was a non-answer, and Miranda challenged it before I had time.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"Do you have a warrant?" Gustav asked acidly, still looking at me.

"Not currently. I think you misunderstand Miss Gustav, we just want to talk to him. We are investigating a murder, and we believe Mr. Polk may have information that could help us. He's not being accused of anything. We just want to ask him a few questions and leave him alone. That's it."

Debra Gustav looked at me like I was a simpleton.

"Mr. Polk employs me to ensure that he is not disturbed by anyone but his clients. He has some high-end clientele and I dare say they would not be pleased to see the police wandering around his offices or trying to get hold of him. I have been specifically asked not to hand out his contact information, and as such, I must decline to give it to you. That said, if Mr. Polk does call in, then I will pass on your contact details, if you would be so good as to leave me a card." All delivered very mechanically. She seemed almost bored.

"So, I guess a quick look around the office is out of the question then?" I was trying to be good natured about it, but she was making it hard.

"I think we'd better wait for a warrant, Detective Tulley. There is just too much in the way of confidential information back there to allow visitation without it."

I nodded. She knew her rights. Too much CSI on TV these days.

"Can we ask you something?" piped up Miranda.

"Well, I'm sure you can ask," replied Debra to Miranda, even more icily. I guess she didn't like other women. Or lady cops. Or people who breathed. It was hard to tell which.

"Did you have a visit from a Sydney Newton two days ago? We have reason to believe he came by here during working hours."

Debra pushed her face back, in the style of someone who is told something they don't think is true.

"I don't believe that is a name I am familiar with. However..." We could both see her calculating internally whether giving us this information was within her remit or not. Abruptly, she decided.

"Let me look at the calendar. I pride myself on keep track of Mr. Polk's appointments."

She sat down and starting using the computer. A few mouse clicks and some typing and she looked up.

"No, I don't have any record of that name. I can't tell you who he met with that day, but I can tell you Mr. Polk was in the office. I can't find any reference to that name in our registration system; he's not had an appointment here since I've been here, I can assure you of that."

"How long have you been here?" I asked, since she brought up.

"Seven years," she replied, promptly.

"I see. Okay, well, here's my card. Please ask Mr. Polk to call me the moment you hear from him. This is a murder investigation, and there is some urgency, obviously."

She took the card and remained standing. "I will."

Then her unblinking eyes followed us as we left the building.

"Think she explodes in sunlight?" asked Miranda, as we walked to the car.

"What?"

"She looks like a vampire. All hair pulled back like that. I kept expecting her to go for your neck."

I grunted in response. Miranda was a good cop, but her sense of humor was sometimes a little overt. We were investigating a murder. Although, I did get that at times you needed to vent a little, blow off steam, so I let it slide.

Once we got in the car, the conversation really started.

"You think she's on the level?" asked Miranda. She didn't even buckle her seat, she knew exactly where my mind was going.

"Probably. In so far as she knows anything."

"What are you thinking about this guy?" Miranda wanted to know. She had her own thoughts, I'm sure, and just wanted to match hers to mine.

"I honestly don't know. I think the fact that he was there on the day Newton came to visit matters. I think the fact that he's not been seen since is worth looking into."

"You think he could be our perp?"

"Hard to say. All I can say is that the coincidence of him pulling a disappearance the day after our victim is found is worthy of investigation, right? Whether or not this is something he does regularly. It's not like we've got much else to look at right now, anyway."

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly. So, what's our next move?"

"What would you do?" I asked her, knowing full well what it was. Same thing I'd do.

"Well, if she's not going to let us in, no law against us just sitting here and waiting, see who comes by?"

"Yeah. Time for a stakeout. You wanna go for coffee, or should I?"

"There's somewhere local?" she asked, turning around to look.

"Yeah, a Starbucks two blocks back. Noticed on the way in. I'll get the coffee, you let the office know what we are doing and why."

And that's what we did. I went to get coffee, - and made sure I visited the bathroom while I did so; stakeouts are hard on the bladder and bowels, - and she called it in. We got permission from the captain for three days of observation, no more. Three days would be enough, I hoped.

So we sat there for the rest of the day, and the next, and the next, and what we saw was interesting, to say the least.

Debra Gustav was not kidding about Ashton Polk's clientele. We witnessed four different upper society women show up to his office the first day we sat there. The next day, two of the same women showed up again. Why they couldn't just call him, we didn't know. Maybe they didn't have his number either. Who ever heard of an accountant who didn't want his clients to call him? We also saw one new society woman show up, and one society dude, and on the third day, yet more. Mostly women. Interesting.

These were news-worthy people, the kind who had debutant balls, loved charity events, flew in chartered jets, and used people's last names as identifiers. They all had money, - old money, usually, - and their families were staples of the area. Long established businesses, political connections, charity stuff. We'd obviously under-estimated Polk and his dealings. We did speculate on how it was that a single accountant was doing the work for such high-end people. We'd seen no other office occupants come or go, apart from Debra Gustav, who spotted us on day three and narrowed her eyes at us as she crossed the road to the office. She knew what we were doing there.

The guys at the office were looking into Polk's background for us, and so far they'd only found his website, and at no point did it mention anyone else in the practice.

But by far the most interesting visitor was on day three. A large gentleman well known to us.

I was reading. Yeah, reading. The reality of a stakeout is that it's boring as hell, and if the both of you are trying to watch all the time, eventually both of your attention tends to wander. So we did an hour on, an hour off, switching who was watching where on your hour off, you are present but doing something else with your eyes. It did wonders for our ability to remain concentrated on the task. I was reading a book, "When We Were Married," on my kindle -- when Miranda suddenly nudged me and nodded at the doorway of Polk's office space.

"Is that..." she started to ask.

"Lucky Tyrone, as I live and breathe," I interrupted. Miranda quickly raised the department-issued Canon Rebel SLR, with long range zoom and started snapping, as we had for all the people who'd shown up at Polk's office.

Lucky Tyrone was the muscle for Macey Phillips, our local mobster. He was a good deal more sophisticated than your average muscle, to be sure. Educated, well-suited, eloquent, but vicious and easily riled, nonetheless. His showing up made us suddenly sit up and take notice. This was important.

We'd previously pulled Tyrone in on a few counts of Grievous Bodily Harm, Assault and so on. His alibis weren't your usual "I was at a poker game." No, he was at the damn Opera, or the Ballet. The man was as slippery as his boss, and just as nasty.

We waited as he entered the office, then not seven minutes later, he left, not looking very pleased.

I jumped out of the car and went over the office, just to make sure that Debra Gustav was okay. When Lucky Tyrone was unhappy, people around him tended to be made unhappy, too, only their unhappiness often required medical attention.

I entered the office, and she was there, unharmed. Shaken, obviously, but unharmed. And definitely not pleased to see me. So nothing new there.

I walked up, palms out in a gesture of peace. "Not looking for trouble, just making sure you are okay. Still not heard from Polk?"

She just looked at me and shook her head.

"I get the picture. I'll be on my way. Does he come in here often?" I threw in, as I turned to go.

"No, not often. I think he's looking for Mr. Polk, too. It's not usual for him to be out of contact for so long."

"Hmm..." I said, and then just left. Debra Gustav was pulling herself together and she was looking at me like I was the problem. I didn't need any harassment complaints, so discretion was the better part of valor right then. She was okay, and that's what I really needed to know. Plus I'd got a little extra.

I got back to the car and climbed in.

"She's fine. I think he was a little brusque with her, but she's okay. I did get from her that this is not the first time he's been here, so there's a definite relationship with Polk, which puts a different complexion on the whole thing. Whatever is going on here is not good."

"You wanna call it?"

I looked at my watch. Four fifteen. "Yeah, let's get back to the office, see if our guys have dug up any more on Polk, like a telephone number. Something tells me we've got all we are going to get, sitting here."

We drove back to the office and ensconced ourselves in the briefing room, waiting for the uniforms we'd asked to look into Polk to show up, helping ourselves to the stale Danish, still sitting there from the morning.

They showed up, fifteen minutes later. Patrolman Vince Dorsey was running their little group. Strictly speaking, we were not supposed to just grab these guys to do our grunt work, but they wanted to help out; they saw it as being a "Detective Lite," and were only too happy to do it. I'd learned early on that making everyone feel included was a massive plus in investigations. The patrol guys put in that little bit extra for you, and you never know where your next lead may come from. Having been one myself, I knew their perspective on things. Ask nicely, and they'll fall over themselves to help. Order them, and good luck getting more than the very least out of them.

I was sitting on the edge of the table finishing the Danish and wondering if my stomach would ever forgive me. Stakeouts are never good for the waist or the health. Miranda was sitting on a chair next to me, going over the photos we'd pulled of the people visiting Polk's office.

"Hey, Vince. What you guys got for me?"

Vince had a sour look on his face, so it wasn't good, whatever it was.

"Not a whole lot I'm afraid, boss. Are we sure this guy is involved, cus he's a ghost."

"Oh, he's involved all right. Up to his sweaty armpits, no question about it."

I nodded at Miranda who, while I'd been stuffing myself, had pulled the pictures off the camera, got them onto her laptop and was currently configuring the projection system to actually show what we'd obtained.

"Take a look at this. Look at who showed up at Polk's office."

The picture of Lucky Tyrone walking in the door popped up, there was a slow whistle from Dorsey, and the three other guys who had walked in behind him. Tyrone was well known to all of them, as he was to every cop in the Twin Cities, given his propensity for violence and mayhem.

"Yeah. Anyone want to bet on this being a coincidence? If so, I have a bridge you might be interested in buying?"

There was a stunned silence for a moment, then I asked Dorsey, "So, what have you got?"

Vince looked at the folder he had in his hands and then replied, looking at me, "In a word, not much."