The Voxlightner Scandal Page 11

  “Civil or criminal?”

  “At this point who knows? There were nine fatal shootings by cops in 2010, and four so far this year.”

  “Some of them were on your watch. And you hate to bail when things are tough for your brother officers.”

  “That and the fact I might need to protect my own ass before this is all over. Being given homicide after taking down the sex trafficking ring last year was a curse dressed up as a blessing. Bolton was up to his elbow in alligators even without the sex trafficking thing.” Lt. Chester Bolton was Gene’s predecessor at homicide.

  “What’s the promotion they’re talking about?” I asked.

  “Two possibilities. Northeast Area command and Criminal Investigations Division.”

  “Hell, either one of those is commander rank. And CID simply bumps you straight up the line. You’d not only have homicide but sex crimes, organized crime, robbery, the whole shooting match.”

  “Yeah. That’s the most logical move. But then I get the full brunt of the DOJ investigation, if there is one.”

  “Is your rabbi going to survive?” Gene’s mentor in the department was the current police chief.

  “Touch and go. This thing might eventually take him with it.”

  “Sorry to hear that. How does Glenda feel about your decision?”

  “She won’t say so out loud, but I think she’d rather I take my 90 percent retirement pay and run.”

  “Any way I can help, buddy, let me know. By the way, I turned the mayor down on the oversight board appointment.”

  “Good. Other than all that shit, how are things going?”

  I filled him in on the Voxlightner case as it presently stood.

  “Good progress, man. Looks like Hardwick Pillsner might have got his wick caught in the doorjamb.”

  “That’s the way it’s pointing, but I don’t have the evidence to bring a case.”

  “Not yet. Damn, I miss that part of the job. You know, getting out there and chasing the perp to ground.”

  I looked at my old partner—my best friend in the world—and thought about discussing Paul. I valued Gene’s levelheaded common sense. But somehow it seemed wrong to bring up my relationship problems. So I held my tongue.

  Gene left before Paul returned home from checking Dr. Herrera’s computers again. Paul found a document on the good doctor’s personal laptop labeled Current Events with nothing in it. Paul explained that Herrera deleted everything in the file, making it the likely document he used to pass messages back and forth. I left a call for Sgt. Anderson in Chillicothe to look for an identical blank document on Rider’s machine.

  “Isn’t there some way to recover deleted files?” I asked.

  “Yep,” Paul acknowledged, “but it takes more expertise than Socorro PD has. They signed out the laptop to Roy so APD can have a go at it. I’m hungry. You want me to fix something or go out?”

  “The Cooperage sounds good to me.”

  Paul hesitated before agreeing. Don’t tell me something wasn’t wrong. He loved their roast beef.

  Chapter 14

  THE NEXT morning—what I had hoped would be a lazy August Saturday—Mrs. Wardlow rang my doorbell around 10:00 a.m.

  “I need a moment of your time, BJ. I learned a smidgeon about your firebomber.”

  I invited the widow inside, where she declined refreshments as we settled in the den. Paul came in from the kitchen and gave her a peck on her powdered cheek.

  “Mr. Elderberry”—the neighbor three doors to our left—“said he was having trouble sleeping Wednesday night and went out to sit on his porch. He has those big wicker wingchairs out there, you know. He was debating on lighting up a cigarette. His wife forbids him to smoke in the house, you see. Anyway he noticed a car approaching from the east. I say noticed, but he actually heard it. The motor, that is. The lights were off as it drove by. It stopped in front of your house, and someone opened the door, lit a torch, and threw it on your porch.”

  “Did he see who it was?” Paul asked.

  “Couldn’t tell at that distance. He’s getting on, you know. The arsonist must have turned off the interior lights because it was dark until the torch flared. When the man got back in, he stepped on the brakes, and the rear lights flared enough for Mr. Elderberry to see it was a New Mexico license plate. Couldn’t read it, I’m afraid.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “Bulky. Like an SUV.”

  “Man or woman driving it?” I asked.

  “Couldn’t tell. Too dark. He referred to the driver as he, but upon questioning, Mr. Elderberry couldn’t be sure he was right.”

  “Why didn’t he report this to the police last night?”

  “Poor dear didn’t want to be involved. But he was the one who called the fire department Wednesday night.” She covered a smile with her hand. “He didn’t know he’d end up on the dispatcher’s screen, anyway.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Afraid not.”

  I gave her a nod. “Thank you, Mrs. W. I knew you’d find something.”

  She smiled, rearranging her wrinkles pleasingly. “SUV. That doesn’t match the make of Mr. Pillsner’s vehicle, does it? I suspect he drives a Mercedes or something similar.”

  Sly old gal. She’d sought to lessen the impact she knew I was looking at Wick by tacking a question onto her stunner.

  “Silver Cadillac CTS. And I warned Paul not to talk to you.”

  “Don’t blame him. He’s no match for someone with my experience. I’m afraid I can’t overcome my DEA training.”

  I glanced at Paul’s flaming cheeks, but he had sense enough to change the subject. “That doesn’t mean Pillsner couldn’t have rented or borrowed or even stolen another car to do his dirty work.”

  “True.”

  “But it makes one think, doesn’t it?” Mrs. W. said.

  “Once again… true.”

  PAUL BOXED my ears on the golf course Sunday. After the game we enjoyed a quiet day. More relaxed than it had been in a while. I’d like to say I got some rest, but Paul’s victory on the links fired up Pedro’s libido, and I almost cried “uncle” on that front too. If I couldn’t claim to be rested Monday morning, at least I was sated.

  As soon as I arrived at the office, I put Hazel to work searching the motor vehicle files for vehicles owned by the characters populating our little drama. I was taken aback by the number of SUVs she returned with. In this day of gas prices north of $3.00 a gallon, who could afford to operate one of those boats? Every Belhaven in New Mexico owned one, as did Sarah Thackerson. Spencer Spears drove a muscle car.

  I considered phoning Spence to repair the fire damage to my porch but ended up calling the handyman who usually kept my abode in good working order; I tried to put the incident out of my mind and concentrate on what was at the root of the problem, the Voxlightner Metals recovery scam.

  Hazel located and engaged a Las Vegas investigator to interview Abner Brown and verify his recollection of Wick Pillsner as the individual who purchased the cashier’s check for the payment of the first month’s rent on 2551 Georgia Street. She also asked him to caution Brown that someone seemed to be cleaning up after himself on the Voxlightner scandal.

  I asked my partner, Charlie, to ride herd on Lt. Lanny Johnson’s AFD arson investigation on both the Belhaven residence and my own. After that I talked Paul into going to the Albuquerque Journal on Jefferson Street NE to prowl the newspaper’s morgue in search of photographs and articles about Hardwick Pillsner. Once everyone was dispatched in pursuit of his or her own task, I picked up the phone and dialed Gene. Once I brought him up to date, I asked the question I’d called to ask.

  “Do we have enough probable cause to get subpoenas for Wick’s office and home?”

  Before answering he asked me to walk him through Abner Brown’s declaration Wick was the purchaser of the William Stark money order to pay the lease on the Georgia Street address.

  “Brown knew Wick?” he asked.

 
“Knew him by reputation, seeing him around town, and in newscasts. That sort of thing. Remember, Wick was a jock with a rep back in his younger days.”

  Doubt was evident in his voice. “If I was the judge, I’d ask this Brown fellow how he remembered a single money order he sold eight years ago.”

  “He has the answer. Believing Wick Pillsner to be the purchaser, even though he had ID with Stark’s name on it, prompted Brown to note in the register Wick paid for the money order.”

  “Refresh me. Money orders aren’t filled out, are they? You buy an MO for, say, $100, and that’s all the money order confirms. The purchaser fills out the rest, right?”

  “Correct. However, the seller keeps a log of who bought the MO and asks for proper ID.”

  “And this was done?”

  “Smith’s Food and Drug says so.”

  “Okay. Tell you what. You get me this Abner Brown’s affidavit plus the Smith’s Food and Drug log showing the notation, plus a photocopy of the completed money order, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Deal. I hope the supermarket keeps copies of money orders that long. But we know they do have logs from back in 2003. Do you have any suggestions in the meantime? I hate to twiddle my thumbs while I wait for the Brown statement and the store’s information.”

  “You interview everyone?”

  “So far as I know.”

  “I’m sure you caught all the principals, but how about some on the edges? Like the KALB-TV host Wilma Hardesty.”

  Gene had been doing some digging of his own, or else he was reading Roy Guerra’s reports. “Paul did that.”

  “The accountant and the two attorneys?”

  I frowned. “Two attorneys? I talked to Zach Greystone, but Everett Kent’s dead.”

  “How about Hilda Hastings?”

  “Zach’s partner?”

  “Yep. The Hastings in Greystone and Hastings LLC.”

  “How was she involved?”

  “Started investigating after Kent was killed in their office,” Gene said. “She might have some info.”

  I hung up the phone and asked Hazel to contact Ted Donaldson at LMZ to ask him to reach out to the REIT’s bank for a copy of the Stark money order. That would be faster than going through Smith’s Food and Drugs. They were taking their time coming up with the money order register.

  ALTHOUGH THESE August days were some of the hottest in recent history, the temperature on Tuesday the thirtieth wasn’t one of them. The thermometer wasn’t expected to get over 95 or 96 degrees. The day was overcast, which meant the vaunted—but not infallible—New Mexico monsoon season was trying to do its job. So far the humidity only served to render our oft-repeated mantra—yes, but it’s a dry heat—false. But this great state, which I loved dearly, had one advantage over many other dry, dusty places: our summer nights were cool and comfortable, almost without fail.

  I entered the Greystone and Hastings law firm precisely at 1:55 p.m. to meet my two o’clock appointment. A smiling receptionist with silver tips to her hair took my name and let Hilda Hastings know I was here. I deliberated over how to treat her as I waited. To my mind she wasn’t a candidate for being in on the scam—although Zach Greystone needed a look-see. She’d only become involved after her partner, Everett Kent, was murdered. Even so my professional paranoia demanded caution.

  I knew Hilda casually through mutual acquaintances at family picnics and various other social venues. She was small but big-boned, which rendered her shape… shapeless was the only word I could come up with.

  She entered the receptionist’s area offering a handshake and a welcoming smile on her pleasant features. “Hello, BJ. I haven’t seen you since the country club party last Christmas.”

  “Where I seem to recall we shared a polka.”

  “A waltz,” she corrected. “My old bones won’t put up with a polka.”

  We moved into her office, where the atmosphere became more businesslike.

  “I hear you’re looking into the Voxlightner thing.”

  “You hear right, Hilda. What can you tell me about it? How did you get mixed up in it?”

  “Everett Kent was a friend of mine, as well as a colleague.”

  “Any clue to who killed him?”

  She spread her hands in frustration. “He was killed in an office just down the hallway. He often worked late after his wife passed on, but he always kept the outside door locked when he did so. He admitted his own killer to the offices.”

  “Remind me how he was involved.”

  “You know about our senior partner, Zachary Greystone, being a big promoter of the whole deal. Once he was convinced the assays were accurate, he was sold, as were Wick Pillsner and Barron Voxlightner and some other movers and shakers. When things went wrong, Everett wanted to know why. He went to Arizona, got a pickup bed full of the tailings, and took the material to an independent lab for a series of analyses. Paid for the tests out of his own pocket. All of them showed traces of precious minerals, but not in commercial quantities. He raised such a stink that Barron Voxlightner and Walther Stabler up and disappeared. But not before….”

  “Not before taking care of Everett Kent.” I completed her sentence for her.

  She lifted her gaze and met my eyes. “I stepped in where Everett left off.”

  “Didn’t you fear for your own safety?”

  “Barron and Walther had already disappeared. There wasn’t much to fear.”

  I met her green-eyed stare. “Everett Kent wasn’t killed because of his assay tests, Hilda. He was killed for something else he knew.”

  She jumped as if poked. “What? What did he know?”

  “I’m not sure. But I found a reference to three meter readings in spring 2003 in Belhaven’s appointment book. And he made a cryptic note saying so that’s what he meant. I suspect the ‘he’ referenced was Everett Kent. I assume you’ve been through his files.”

  “Not much of them left. Whoever shot him in the back of the head made off with most of them. We talked about his findings not long before his murder, but he gave me no clue. Although….”

  I waited her out.

  “When we were talking about the fire assays he’d paid for, he was surprised by the way they were done.”

  “He was surprised at least one of the furnaces was electric.”

  Her eyes widened. “Which means the meter readings have significance.”

  “Do you know if he asked Pierce Belhaven to do any research for him at the utility company? Like look up some meter readings?”

  “He and Pierce were friends. Friendly acquaintances is probably more accurate, so it’s possible he approached Pierce.” Hilda frowned. “This means….”

  I left her alone this time, preferring she make the connections on her own.

  “BJ, Kent was killed sometime on the night of March 10, 2004. That was a Wednesday. Barron and Stabler disappeared the following Monday evening.” Her gaze hardened as I watched her start thinking like a lawyer. “And Pierce Belhaven was killed three weeks ago.”

  “After he announced on TV he’d found a clue to unravel the Voxlightner Metals scam.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “Everett’s clue.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “Have the police made any progress in solving Pierce’s killing?”

  “Not much,” I said. “How about Kent’s murder? How far did they get?”

  “Murder by person or persons unknown. After all the folderol, that’s all it means.”

  I pressed her. “No clues at all?”

  “None. The police took this office apart, but it’s a place of business. There were scads of fingerprints, stray hair. All kinds of forensic evidence leading nowhere.”

  “No gun or shell casings?”

  “No, although they said it was a small caliber. A popgun.” She stood and poked the desk calendar with a finger. “Are… are we suggesting they were killed by the same man? But Barron Voxlightner and Walther Stabler have been gone fo
r seven years.”

  “There are a couple of things you might not know. Thelma Rider, who was a clerk in VPMR, was killed in Chillicothe, Texas, last December. And Dr. Damon Herrera, who conducted the assays for the group, was killed two weeks ago in Socorro.”

  “I read about Herrera. A mugging, I believe.”

  “That’s what it was made to look like. But I have my doubts.”

  “Are you saying someone else was in on the scam?” She paused for a moment. “Or have Barron or Stabler come back?”

  “I seriously doubt that, Hilda.”

  WHAT A difference a few days makes. September opened with a projected 72-degree high, as measured at the Albuquerque Sunport. Any Albuquerquean will tell you the rest of the city is totally different from our airport. I was pretty sure it would hit ninety or better downtown, which sits in the belly of the Rio Grande Valley. On Friday a parcel arrived UPS from Las Vegas.

  The private investigator I’d hired did a good job. He’d questioned Abner Brown thoroughly and repeatedly, asking the same question in half a dozen different ways. Upon reading through his notarized statements, there was no question in my mind Brown knew Wick Pillsner, at least by sight, and recognized him as the purchaser of the money order in question.

  That same day an attested photocopy of the money order log for March 31, 2003 arrived from Smith’s Food and Drug headquarters in Salt Lake City in response to Hazel’s request. The log showed a $750 money order, number 881166515, sold to William Stark with a notation by the clerk that the purchasing party was believed to be Hardwick Pillsner, an individual known by reputation to the clerk.

  I put those, as well as the copy of the actual money order Hazel ran down for me, in my attaché and hied myself over to APD headquarters, documents in hand.

  WICK PILLSNER remained a genial glad-hander Monday morning, even after we handed him a subpoena for the search of his offices on Lomas NE. Gene took this as an opportunity to get out of APD headquarters and served the document himself. He allowed me to accompany his team. Paul was with Roy and another crew serving a similar subpoena on Wick’s home on Rio Grande Boulevard NW.