The Pursuit of Justice

I resisted telling him that "not much" was two words.

"So, right. Couldn't find him on Facebook, Twitter or any of the other social media. His website is there, and we have an email address for him, Gmail, but only the phone number is of the office. We could find barely a mention of him elsewhere on the web. He's mentioned in a few blogs of the local rich and famous, a couple of recommendations, not much else. We did find that he graduated from Concordia College 25 years ago with a degree in accounting and he has been a licensed CPA for 23 years. The address on his license is his current office and has been for the last 15 years."

I nodded. Seemed par for the course, right now.

"But here's the thing. We can't find a driver's license, we can't find a voter registration, no criminal record, and there's no current passport we can find. He had one that expired almost 15 years ago but he never renewed it. We can't find a fucking home address, for god's sake. This guy is virtually a ghost. He barely has a footprint at all. We can't even find a picture of him. In his college yearbook, he was one of the ones who had a blank picture. And that is basically what he is -- a blank picture."

Now that was interesting. 'Who was this guy?' was the question on everyone's face. He was looking stronger and stronger as our perp every minute. I glanced at Miranda, who echoed everyone's interest in her expression.

"But, we do have records going back five years of him paying the local taxes. Obviously we can't get federal records without a warrant, but we do have a "friend" in the state tax department. And while we can't see those taxes, we do know they exist." He did the finger thing with the word "friend." I had no doubt that "friend" was female. Vince Dorsey was a hell of a smooth operator when the opposite sex was involved.

I chewed the inside of my mouth for a second. Miranda asked the obvious.

"Do we know if his company is actually filing taxes for other people? I mean, doing what it's supposed to?" It was a valid question; was this just a front? If he'd been filing taxes for at least five years, that was a long time for a cover if that's what it was. If he was filing taxes for other people, then yeah, he probably wasn't a spook. Generally, spooks have better covers that stand up to more scrutiny than this, anyway.

Vince answered her. "We don't know. I didn't think to ask. I'm not sure our source would tell me even if they could. It was a risk telling us even this. This is not something we can know, officially."

"Official or not, it's a good fact to know. Thanks Vince," I said, "Anyone else got anything?"

No one seemed to, so, time to call it a day.

"Okay, so, we've not got much to go on. Vince, can you organize some of your guys to go door to door around both Newton's and Polk's office neighborhood? And also Newton's home neighborhood? The usual; do you know this man, if so, what do you know; heard anything unusual, all the basic stuff. See if you can't get that done in a couple of days. Also, a deeper look-see on Polk's receptionist, one Debra Gustav, would be good, too. See what background we can get on her. In the meantime, Miranda and I here will conflab and see what avenues are most promising for us to follow up."

After they'd all filed out, Miranda said, mockingly, "'Promising Avenues'? We haven't got bumpkiss here. We've got nothing; there's nothing in the crime scene to follow up on, Polk is a no show and we aren't going to get a warrant on what we have now. What do you suggest we follow up on?"

"Well... yeah, we don't have much. I think we should still try for a warrant, if only to serve on the phone companies to see if we can't get a phone number on this guy. I would say let's pull Gustav in for a sit down, scare her a little, see if we can't get her to give up his number, but I suspect she'd lawyer up, and once she does that, we'll get nothing more. Probably not worth that just yet, not to just get a number."

Miranda nodded in agreement. "So that leaves, what, the clientele?"

"Yeah, that's where I was going. I think we need to start rattling their cages a bit, see what is going on here. I mean, it's a question, right? Why would these high society people be using some solo no name CPA, when they have an army of accountants, lawyers and god knows what else on retainer? Most of them have large companies they own or manage, why aren't they using them? What's their relationship with Polk? And more to the point, do any of them either know where he is, why, or have that direct number? Worth checking out, right?"

"Yeah, I think so. We've got nothing else to do anyway. First thing tomorrow?" she agreed.

"I'll get in early, brief the captain, and then we can go see a few mansions." I grinned. I never grinned. I had no idea why I did then.

We broke for the day, and I went home, calling Clarice on the way and getting her agreement on some Chinese food for dinner.

We spent a pleasant evening, and then, since the stars were aligned, we got down and dirty. Which was nice.

The next day, I breezed in early and caught the Captain as he came in. I briefed him on what we'd seen, - Lucky Tyrone, - and what we learned, which wasn't much and then let him know our next moves.

And then Miranda showed up, looking very hung over, drinking coffee like it was going out of fashion. Upon asking, I was told, "It was a night," and she was really hoping the lucky lady called her again. Feeling a little more human after three cups, we loaded up for bear and headed out to the first of our society ladies.

It was an interesting day, but to be honest, it didn't significantly move our investigation along. Although to be clear sometimes the absence of something is actually data all by itself. Pretty much all the interviews went along the same lines, and later in the afternoon it became clear that some of these women had been calling around to each other and some were ready for us.

The first interview, Dorothy Hamill, set the tone for the day. We marched up to the front door of her rather large mansion; the kind that has a driveway where you can't see the house from the road.

We rang the bell, some man servant answered the door, and we were heralded in to a parlor, where we sat, trying not to get the Louis the XIV French chairs, - or whatever they were, - dirty with our cop asses. Then the lady of the house floated in on an air of perfume, chiffon and arrogance, sat down and enquired how she could help us. We identified ourselves and boom, we got her full attention and it was clear she was nervous. It wasn't that surprising; the hoi-polloi don't usually consort with the plods, like us, and when they have to, well, there's usually a cupboard full of skeletons somewhere, if you look hard enough.

"Mrs. Hamill? I'm John Tulley, this is my partner, Miranda Faulkner. We'd like a little of your time to cover a couple of things. I want to make it clear, you are in no way under suspicion of anything. I want to reassure you of that. We just think you might be able to help us with a case we are investigating. Can we ask you some questions?"

Dorothy fluttered some extremely long eyelashes at me. She was blond and looked like she'd just stepped out of a 1940's detective movie, as the femme fatale. Blond luxurious hair, all shiny and lots of body, well made up, a waist that I could have probably had my hands meet, if I put them around her, long legs, 4-inch heels, long dress and a chiffon neck scarf. Money, breeding, expectations and attitude.

"I won't need a lawyer, will I?" she asked, anxiously, all breath and nose.

I glanced at Miranda, who was fighting to keep a smile off her face.

"No, ma'am, you won't. If you want one, we can do that, too. But no, you shouldn't need one."

I was tempted to make a joke about "yet," but it wouldn't fly here.

"What can I do for you officers? Can I offer you a coffee? We have some good stuff here?"

"Thanks, but no," I countered, realizing yet again, I was leading when we talked to a woman.

"What could I possibly help you with?" she wondered. She was visibly tightening up as she did an internal review of what we might be there for. Anything from parking tickets to who knows what.

"Actually, it's to do with your accountant? Ashton Polk. He is your accountant, isn't he?"

I had my pocket notebook out, and was looking at it, as though I was reading from it. It's an old trick; make them believe that you already know the answer, that you've got it from another source, and they are more likely to tell you the truth. And then talk about other things they think you already know.

She tightened up very visibly at that. We'd hit a nerve there, no question.

"Why, yes. Yes he is."

If he was, it wasn't the only thing he was, that much was clear. Might he be some on-the-side lover? Was our person of interest a Casanova?

"Can I ask when you last saw him?"

She looked up to the right; that indicated she was scanning memory rather than trying to construct something. People usually look up and to the left when they are building a lie.

"It was a couple of weeks ago. I did visit his office a couple of days ago, to talk about a matter we have under review. He wasn't there, though. No, the last time was two weeks ago. A Thursday. That's the day I get new flowers for the house."

I believed her, and I glanced at Miranda, whose expression made it clear she did, too.

"May I ask, why is he your accountant? I mean, your husband runs a big company, they have several branches, don't they? Hotel management or something? Surely, they have accountants who could handle this? Why a small-time operation like his?"

That's where she got majorly uncomfortable and started stammering an answer that was a non-answer. Eventually she said, pointedly, "My husband and I, for tax reasons, file separately. I have charity things on my taxes and he prefers that I don't pollute his filing, so I use Mr. Polk. He comes highly recommended and he's done a good job for me."

I nodded when she said this, as though I totally understood it. However, I know bullshit when I smell it, and the room reeked of cattle right then.

"May I ask who recommended him?" Miranda suddenly interjected. Smart question, not one I'd thought of.

"I'm sorry?" asked Dorothy, somewhat confused. She was definitely still rattled by our line of questioning; that much was clear.

"Who told you about him?"

"Oh, that was Tracy. Tracy Miles. She's on the Women's Institute charity panel. I think it was her. Err, yes, I'm fairly sure."

Miranda and I exchanged glances; she'd been one of the women we'd seen visiting Polk's offices on the last day of our stakeout. That was a factoid we'd be looking at later. She was slated for a visit tomorrow.

"Might I ask what you went to review with him two days ago?" I asked.

Dorothy returned her eyes to me, and I could see her struggle with what to say.

"I... I think. No, I think not. I think that's private. I'm sorry officers, I don't really see why you would need to know that," was what she eventually stammered out.

I nodded, acquiescing. I couldn't make her tell me, but I would bet a large sum of money that it was the contents of that meeting that she was so nervous about.

"I see. Well, of course, that is your right. I'm sorry if I was impertinent," I said. Impertinent was such a great word to use with people like this. It totally affirmed their views on people's station in life, and relaxed them, since I was acknowledging it. I shrugged and said, "These are things I must ask as a detective. I'm sure you understand."

I spread my arms apologetically. Now, to be clear, I couldn't give a fragrant shit what she thought of my line of questioning. Her judgement of me and how I do my job is of supreme indifference to me. I was just setting the stage, so that if there was to be a more in-depth interrogation later, - if we really needed to get something out of her, - I could play good cop. I'd already apologized, and elevated her position, so she'd feel more predisposed to give me something than Miranda, and Miranda knew exactly what I was doing; we'd done this many times in the past.

At this point, though, we'd asked all we really could, effectively. Dorothy was ready for us to leave, that much was obvious, and if we stuck around it would only make her more and more defensive until she ordered us out, and at that point, we'd have lost any goodwill we might have otherwise had. It never hurts to be prepared for the future.

Miranda and I rose and took our leave, thanking her profusely that she would deign to spend any of her precious time with lowly functionaries such as we, and how grateful we were that she gave us favor. It's a skill, projecting appropriately grateful but not obsequious.

We sat in the car, talking it over, and both of us agreed that something was rotten in the state of Denmark. There was something going on with Dorothy Hamill and Ashton Polk, some dependency situation, something held over her, and Miranda noted she would not be surprised if we got the same reactions from the other people we had to see.

Miranda was right. To a person, they had the same kind of mannerisms and responses. Some were more worried about what their spouse might think. One sent us away, because her husband was present, asking us to come back later that afternoon.

We spent three days interviewing these people, and got the same stymied responses from all of them. Including the two men we interviewed, who were effectively trophy husbands. It was apparent from some of them they'd been primed for our questions; the silver spoon club had obviously been whispering behind our backs.

Yes, just about the same result from all, except Tracy Miles. We saved her for last. Now she was interesting. She wasn't interesting in a "hey, this furthers our case" point of view. She was interesting in that she exhibited the opposite in behavior to everyone else.

She just stood there, smirking at us the whole time, her innate superiority complex manifesting itself and oozing out over and over again. We had to stand by the service entrance, around the side of the house. We were not invited inside. There was no offer of refreshments. She did everything she could to make sure we knew we were not welcome was done. When we arrived, she had obviously just showered and was wearing those tight black pants with all the mesh in them that are so much the fashion right now. She was also drying her hair and kept doing it while talking to us, showing us exactly what she thought of our importance.

Every question was responded to with either a "no" or a "why do you need to know that?" or even, twice, a scornful laugh. We got a "If you think I'm going to tell you anything, think again. You don't need to know that and I certainly don't need to tell you."

Both Miranda and I were frustrated, and I even went as far as to do the Light Threat, as we call it, where I said, "Ma'am, I get that you don't want to talk to us, how about we just take a trip to the station right now, and you can drink so crappy coffee and refuse to talk to us there?" which often works, particularly on high society types who absolutely do not want to be seen in a cop car going to the station. Tongues will wag, after all.

But this one, she just stared at me, gave another laugh and then said, "My lawyer would be there before we got there, and after she was done with you, you wouldn't be able to get near me for months. I'd have a harassment lawsuit slapped on you in less than a day." Unfortunately, she was right. It was a threat with no teeth, so we wouldn't be doing that.

Eventually she made a big show of looking at her watch and said, "Much as I have enjoyed ignoring your questions, I have things to do, so don't break the speed limit on your way out," and then shut the door in our faces.

That was interesting. Annoying and rude, to be sure, but also interesting.

We had a pow-wow in the car on the way back to the station.

"What do you think that was all about?" I asked Miranda, who I could tell was mightily pissed off by the blatant disrespect.

"Well, she does a good Spoiled Rich Girl act, for sure," replied Miranda, carefully choosing her words, "but there was more to it than that. There was bravado there, but for what? There was no one to witness her putting us in our place. I think she's mixed up in this, somehow. I've no idea how, but she is. I'll put money on it."

I tended to agree, and nodded. "I think you are right. But, as we know, it's a capital crime to theorize before we have more evidence and data."

Miranda laughed and finally relaxed a bit. "Okay, Sherlock," she said, making the point that she got the reference.

We talked all the way back to HQ, and when we got there, the captain was waiting.

"Give me an update. I'm having questions asked," he opened. While he was a great guy, he was also straight to the point. I idly wondered what his golf game was like. God knows I can't play it, nor do I want to, nor would I know which knife to use in the fish course. It was right and proper he was captain and I wasn't, even though he kept encouraging me to go for it, sit the exams. He could mix with folks I would be mentally sizing up for either a strait jacket or the drunk tank. Plus, my sense of justice isn't always the same as the law's definition of justice. It helps to have a Captain reigning me in on this when he can.

I nodded at Miranda and she launched into what we'd learned so far. Or more to the point, what we hadn't learned. At the end, - which wasn't long, - the captain nodded, thought for a moment, then said simply, "Speculation?"

Despite what I'd said in the car, we did have some possible theories.

"Well, there's obviously some link between all these high society people we've been seeing coming and going. And I don't honestly think it's taxes. You'll note that none of these people are breadwinners; sure, some of them come from old money that the spouse is using to good effect to increase business wealth and all the rest of it, but none of them are out there in the work-force. They all have something to lose in terms of perception of position. The last one, Tracy Miles, she's mixed up somehow, but we aren't sure how, yet. I think, though, this Ashton guy has something on them. Some shared secret, perhaps. We did speculate that perhaps he's someone's lover, or maybe the father of an illegitimate child, but that doesn't really fit for all of them one. Maybe he had something on Newton, too, although what, I can't begin to guess, and Newton didn't want to come through with whatever scheme Polk had going, so Polk offed him. Or had Lucky Tyrone do it. That seems plausible. Really, though, there are a bunch of things it could be. The only thing we can say for sure is that something ties these people together, and it might well be death instead of taxes."

Miranda nodded along. "Yeah, there's something here, for sure, boss."

"Okay, I buy that," said the captain, again, thinking through what we'd said. "So, we are liking Polk for the murder of Newton, then?"

I shrugged. "It fits what we know so far, but we don't really know that much."

"Yeah," he agreed, pushing his glasses up his nose. "So, what's your next move?"

"Well," I said, uncomfortably, "We were kinda of hoping we might try and get a warrant out of a friendly Judge? Turn Polk's work place over? See what we can find?" I glanced at Miranda; we didn't expect the captain to go with this. We had nothing but circumstantial and it was slim at that. Polk had done something clever, inadvertently. We had no familial connection, no relatives, that we could find. He'd been gone for almost a week now, we called Debra Gustave every working day, asking if Polk had been in contact, and each day it was a no -- but still no one had reported him as missing. We couldn't take the fact that he was missing to a judge, because for all we knew, he was on an extended holiday and just hadn't told anyone. Since no one had reported him missing, he wasn't officially missing. If he was 'on vacation', it was in the continental USA; he didn't have a current passport, at least not one we could find. We just didn't have enough to really convince a judge to get us a wiretap of his office phone or toss his office, and we knew it, but we had to ask, because we really didn't have any other leads.