Lies Still Told: An A.L. McKittridge Novel, #3

By Beverly Long

When Platt Waymann is found murdered in his own home, Detective A.L. McKittridge has a personal interest in solving the case. Oddly enough, A.L.'s father and his uncle Joe, who should be outraged at their good friend's death, urge him to look the other direction and let this one go.

 

When a second murder victim surfaces in the local lake less than 24 hours later, A.L. and his partner Rena Morgan initially dismiss any connection to Platt's murder. But then, irrefutable evidence is found that links the two crimes.

 

A.L. and Rena dig deep and realize that secrets and lies from the past are very much a part of the recent deaths. It becomes evident that A.L.'s father and his uncle Joe are at the center of those deceptions. A.L. has decisions to make but none of his choices are good. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beverly Long
• Release date: May 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985807110

Beverly Long

Beverly Long"s writing career has spanned more than two decades and twenty novels. She writes romantic suspense with sexy heroes and smart heroines. She can often be found with her laptop in a coffee shop with a cafe au lait and anythiing made with dark chocolate by her side.

Book preview

Chapter One

Thursday, Dec 20

A.L. tossed the invitation onto his desk. Unopened. He knew what was inside. His partner, Rena Morgan, had already opened hers.

You have to go, Rena said.

"Au contraire," he said, pulling out his chair. There was a stack of files in the middle of his desk begging for attention.

The French lessons are paying off, Rena said, settling into her own chair. Their desks faced each other. Across the big room were two identical setups that housed all six detectives employed by the Baywood Police Department.

The day I take French lessons–– A.L. said.

Will likely be after the day you rent a tux and attend the mayor’s fundraiser. Come on, it’s for charity and Tess will want to go.

A.L. leaned back in his chair. Would she?

It’s New Year’s Eve, Rena said. What else are you going to do?

I have no idea.

What do you usually do?

In the middle of Wisconsin, New Year’s Eve could be twenty below zero with six inches of snow on the ground with a one-inch layer of ice forming on the top. In his opinion, it was a good night to stay home. Last New Year’s Eve, he’d done just that. He’d watched a movie with his teenage daughter, Traci. But then, that had been pre-John. Or at least, before A.L. had known about her boyfriend. Now that the relationship was out in the open, the two of them would surely have plans. It had also been pre-Tess, whom he’d saved from a serial killer last spring.

Has Tess ever seen you in a tux? Rena asked, not waiting for his answer.

I’ve never seen myself in a tux, A.L. said.

Not even at your wedding?

Well, that was a long time ago, but I’m pretty sure I wore a black suit. Or maybe that’s what I wore when I saw the divorce attorney. It’s hard to remember.

Well, I’m going. I’m getting a new dress, and a pedicure, and…

A.L.’s phone rang. He looked at Rena. Oh, thank God. For a minute there, it seemed you thought I actually gave a damn.

She smiled, and he picked up the phone on the third ring. McKittridge. He listened, scribbled down an address and hung up. Come on, he said, pushing back his chair. We caught a murder on Elm Street.

"Remember the movie A Nightmare on Elm Street?" Rena said as she put on her winter coat.

No. A.L. was already moving toward the door, shrugging on his jacket as they walked. He had gloves in his pocket, and he put them on. It had gotten cold early this year. Not yet Christmas and Wisconsin had already had four days where the high didn’t get out of the teens. He made a mental note to check when the battery in Traci’s car had last been replaced. He didn’t want her getting stranded somewhere.

She was halfway through her senior year. She’d had finals two days ago and now was off school the next couple weeks for Christmas and New Year’s. Then she’d be in the home stretch. Unbelievable.

Once in A.L.’s SUV, Rena plugged the address into the GPS. Twelve minutes. He knew Elm Street. It was only five or six blocks over from where he’d grown up on Ficus Avenue and where his father still lived. Twenty-five years ago, when he’d been roughly Traci’s current age, the neighborhood had already been changing. Sporadically, additions got put on the two-bedroom, one-bath boxes, turning them into four-bedroom, three-bath outliers. The net effect was to make the boxes look even worse.

His parents had been one of the offenders. It meant that the McKittridge kids—he and Liz—each had a bedroom, as did their parents, and they had an honest-to-goodness guest room. Not that there were many guests. But his mom had been proud of that room. His dad had insisted on staying in the house after his mom’s death. A.L. would bet his life savings that the guest room hadn’t been used since the funeral.

The GPS told him they were a minute away. He didn’t really need any further instruction, because he could see the yellow crime tape around the perimeter of the second house from the end of the block. It was a small ranch. Beige vinyl siding. Tired-looking brown shutters. Not a Christmas decoration in sight.

They parked, checked in with the officer at the door and followed a path to the body. They didn’t have to go far. The man was just six feet from the front door. Facedown, his head turned away from them. He had gray hair, not much left on top. His blue jeans and flannel shirt looked relatively new but now nonreturnable. Nobody wanted a shirt with a bullet hole.

A.L. squatted down. Entry wound. He’d been shot in the back, had fallen forward.

A.L. moved around the body so that he could see the victim’s face. And felt his chest tighten.

What? Rena asked.

A.L. didn’t answer. Just stared at the dead man. Remembering.

Do you know him? Rena demanded.

Yeah. I used to call him Uncle Platt.

The door opened, and Carrie Stack, the coroner, arrived to do her thing. A.L. nodded in her direction and stepped away. He looked at Rena. Her eyes were big and full of questions. Look around, he said. He needed a minute.

He took the front of the house. She took the two bedrooms. Ten minutes later, they reconvened in the small kitchen. Anything? he asked.

A .38 in the bedside table.

Not surprising. Uncle Platt was his father’s age. Figured the best security was a loaded gun. Maybe he was on his way to get it. It would get tagged and bagged and examined to make sure it hadn’t been recently fired.

Maybe. And if the killer knew him well, he or she might have known that he had one and where he kept it. Cut him off at the pass, so to speak.

Appropriate, A.L. said, another memory hitting him hard. "After poker, my dad, Uncle Joe, who really is my uncle, and Uncle Platt used to watch westerns in the living room. Drinking beer. Eating nachos. Pissed my mom off because she was trying to sleep. Uncle Platt especially liked Lee Marvin. Used to repeat his best lines."

Rena said nothing.

There’s no blood connecting us, A.L. said, attempting to provide some context. But he was around a lot when I was a kid. Uncle Platt wasn’t a big guy, but he had a big laugh and told filthy jokes that my dad laughed at but generally didn’t repeat. Definitely not when my mother was in the room.

Why did you call him Uncle Platt? Rena asked. And that’s an odd name, by the way.

I guess. I never thought about it. It was just his name. And I called him that because he told me to. ‘Call me Uncle Platt,’ he said when I was six or seven. ‘But never call me a rat.’

Another odd thing to say, Rena said, looking out the window over the sink into the small backyard.

Again, didn’t waste much time thinking about it. That wasn’t exactly true. He had a distinct memory of dreaming about Uncle Platt with a rat’s head and face for several nights straight.

Did he always live in this house? she asked.

No. He lived down the block from us on Ficus Avenue. He must have moved here pretty recently.

Married? Family?

Divorced. Maybe ten years ago. Pretty sure he never remarried. Had a son and a daughter. I’m not sure what their marital status is. The son’s a few years older than me, so maybe forty-six. His name is Hank. Veronica, the daughter, is a few years younger than me.

In Baywood? Rena asked.

I don’t think so. I haven’t seen Uncle Platt for four or five years, and his kids weren’t living in Baywood at the time. My dad or Uncle Joe might know.

When my mom was living, she could never remember my address, Rena said. I told her to put it in her phone. She never did. She walked over to look at the scraps of paper attached to the refrigerator by magnets. Got it, she said.

There were three sets of names on the papers. Hank Waymann, Veronica Host and Virginia Trotter. There were full addresses and phone numbers for all three. Hank was in Ames, Iowa; Veronica and Virginia were both living in Wausau, Wisconsin but at different addresses. His ex-wife’s name is Virginia. She must have remarried, A.L. said. I’ll try the kids, see which one I reach first. They can tell the rest of the family. A.L. took out his cell phone and snapped a photo of the information.

Rena was studying the other things on the refrigerator. Here’s another name. No address, just a phone number.

A.L. looked. Tawny Lane. Think that’s a real name? he asked.

His name was Platt, Rena said.

A.L. rolled his eyes and took a photo of the information. Then he studied a newspaper clipping. It was from the Bulletin about a year earlier. Platt’s bowling league had won the championship game. There were three other men in the photo. That’s my uncle Joe, A.L. said. I don’t recognize the other two.

Happier times, Rena said. It would have been nice if the newspaper had identified the men in the photo.

Yeah. Both he and Rena took a photo of the clipping. They wandered back to the hallway, where Carrie was just finishing up.

She looked over her shoulder. You need anything else before I move the body? she asked.

A.L. glanced at the photographer, who was now working in the living room. I’m good, the man said.

Okay, we’ll transfer him, Carrie said. Next of kin?

Daughter and a son. We’ve got names and numbers, A.L. said, not giving the whole explanation. I’ll do the notification and text you their information. I’ll let them know they can follow up with your office on release of the body.

I should be able to get you a report by tomorrow, Carrie said and turned back to supervise the loading of the body.

You got a feel for time of death? he asked.

I think he’s been here awhile. Right now, I’m guessing this happened last night, maybe late.

He’s dressed, A.L. said. Not in his pajamas. But he’d seen enough dead bodies that he was pretty sure she was close.

Carrie shrugged. I might be able to get you more once I check the contents of his stomach.

A.L. appreciated Carrie Stack. She was an excellent coroner and always professional. After he’d met Tess, he’d rather quickly ended the sporadic relationship they’d shared over the years. She never brought that to the job.

Over the next hour, A.L. and Rena walked through every inch of the house and then continued their inspection outside. They met near the front door.

No forced entry, Rena said, looking at her notes. Victim answered the door with his socks on but no shoes. Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.

Or hadn’t had time to put them on yet. What we know for sure is that at some point, he turned his back. Maybe to go get his shoes or retrieve a beer from the fridge, or maybe because he’d told the visitor to go to hell.

I didn’t see a shell casing. No bullet yet, Rena said.

Carrie will retrieve that. There’d been no exit wound. Bullet was lodged somewhere in some unsuspecting and now nonfunctioning organ.

No obvious home security or cameras, she said, looking around.

He had his .38.

Are you going to go tell your dad? Rena asked.

I think I better, A.L. said. Plus, he might have some idea of who Uncle Platt trusted enough to turn his back on.

You know there are people in this world that don’t think twice about turning their back to someone, Rena said.

Not you or me, A.L. countered.

Rena sighed. True. Make your calls. I’m going to do one more loop of the house.

A.L. dialed Hank’s number. It rang four times before switching over to voice mail. This is Hank. Please leave a message.

A.L. hung up. He’d try Veronica. She answered on the second ring.

Hello, she said.

Is this Veronica Waymann?

Uh…yes.

Veronica, this is A.L. McKittridge calling. He paused, gave her a minute to place the name. I’m a detective with the Baywood Police Department.

Of course, she said. I remember you.

I have some difficult news to share. A friend of your dad’s initiated a wellness check on him after he didn’t show up for a meeting. The police responded, and we found him. He’s dead, Veronica. I’m sorry.

Radio silence. He couldn’t even hear her breathing.

Veronica? A.L. prompted.

Thank you for calling, she said, her tone polite, distant.

Huh. For most people, the first question was, What happened? He decided to skip that for a minute. I have the coroner’s name and number so that you can make arrangements.

I don’t need it.

Veronica, I’m really sorry to have to do this over the phone, A.L. said.

It’s fine, A.L.

Everything was definitely not fine. It was weird as hell. I tried to call Hank but didn’t reach him. You’ll let him know?

No. Look, I’m at work. I need to go.

He remembered Veronica as a fun little kid who used to ride her bike in her pajamas. Not this automated version of a human. Well, you’ve got my number if you need it, he said.

I won’t. She hung up.

A.L. stared at his phone. He’d been a cop for over twenty years and had seen his share of strange shit. This was going on the list. He dialed Hank again. It went to voice mail, and this time he did leave a message. Hank, this is Detective A.L. McKittridge with the Baywood Police Department. I need to speak with you. Please call me as soon as possible.

He went to find Rena and brought her up to speed on his conversation with Veronica. She was frowning by the time he was done. Was the water bad on Ficus Avenue? she asked.

Funny, he said. Are we done here?

Yeah. Drop me off on the way to your dad’s house, and I’ll get started on pulling Platt’s phone and bank records.

Look for information on life insurance, A.L. said. And maybe any recent legal bills. Checks might be to the Ted Fisker Law Firm. That was the guy his dad and Uncle Joe used. He’d been around forever.

Fifteen minutes later, A.L. was alone in his SUV, headed toward his old stomping grounds. He parked in the driveway. They’d had cold this year, but thus far, not much more than a drifting of snow. Last year, after an early big snowfall, he’d driven over, intending to snow-blow the pavement for his dad. The old man had refused to let him help, had practically pushed him back into his vehicle.

Francis McKittridge was sixty-seven. Still working full time at the button factory, but since A.L. figured the alternative was hitting the casino every day with Uncle Joe, he kept his mouth shut about retirement. He checked his watch. Almost four. His dad worked the seven-to-three-thirty shift, so he should just be taking off his shoes and popping the cap on his first beer.

A.L. knocked on the door. When his mom had been alive, he’d just walked in.

His dad opened the door. Beer in hand. Hey, he said. I wasn’t expecting you.

I know. A.L. walked in as his dad stepped back from the door. How’s it going?

Another day, another dollar that the government takes thirty-three cents of, his dad said.

A.L. had heard that more than once. His dad was watching him closely. Perhaps he’d gotten his suspicious nature directly from the old man. Something has happened, A.L. said. Best to get right to it. Platt Waymann is dead.

His dad set his beer on the old kitchen table that still bore A.L.’s initials in one of the wood legs. He called me just the other day, less than a week ago.

A.L. knew that the weekly poker games had ended a few years back when a couple of the players had married younger second wives who didn’t have a built-in tolerance for cigar smoke in their basements. He wasn’t sure how much the old group still communicated. His dad pulled out a chair and sat down.

I’m sorry, A.L. said. I know he was your friend.

He was. Somebody should let his kids know.

I found contact info for both Hank and Veronica. I’ve already talked to Veronica. He paused. How did Platt get along with his family?

He provided for them.

I’m not asking about food and clothing. I’m asking whether there is some reason that Veronica wouldn’t give a damn that her dad is dead.

He shook his head. Veronica was a pretty girl when she was a teenager. Hung around with a bad group. Caused Platt some grief.

That was more than twenty years ago, surely water under the bridge. Platt have any enemies that you know of?

His dad sized him up. How did he die?

He was shot. That much would make the news. They’d try to keep it quiet that he’d been shot in the back. No sense letting everybody know everything about an open investigation.

Intruder? his dad asked.

A.L. shrugged.

I get it, you can’t say much. I may not be a cop, but I know a thing or two about keeping my mouth shut.

I’m sure you do, A.L. said. Platt’s enemies? he reminded his dad of the question.

I should tell your uncle Joe. I’m going to do that now, his dad said, standing up. It was A.L.’s invitation to leave. It did not escape him that his dad had still not answered the question. And if Platt had called his dad just a week ago, his dad’s phone number was going to show up in the telephone log. What did Uncle Platt call you about the other day?

His dad looked at the floor. Then he shook his head. Nothing. Nothing important.

Dad, you and Uncle Joe were both at work today, right? All day?

His father looked pained. You’re goddamned right we were.

And last night? You were home?

What’s with the questions, A.L.?

It’s not a hard one, Dad. Did you go anywhere last night?

I goddamn well didn’t.

This was how most of his visits with his dad went. He stepped toward the door and had his hand on the knob when his dad spoke again. A.L., you’re going to want to be careful here. Sometimes the best thing to do is just let one go.

Now what the hell did that mean? I’m not very good at letting things, especially murders, just go.

I know. But it might be worth trying really hard this one time.

Chapter Two

What do you think he meant by warning you away? Rena asked the next morning once A.L. was done filling her in on the details of the conversation.

I don’t know.

You know it means something. Otherwise, you would never have told me about a personal conversation.

True. I’ll give him a chance to tell my uncle Joe. Then I’ll call my uncle. I always had better luck with him than I did my dad.

I have records from Platt Waymann’s cell phone, bank and credit card accounts, she said. His Social Security checks get direct-deposited, as does a pension payment. He’s spending less than he takes in each month, and rarely uses his credit card. Every six months, there’s an automatic bank draft to Lincoln Life Insurance, so I’m assuming there might be a death benefit. Nothing to Ted Fisker Law Firm or any other law firm. All in all, I am not seeing anything terribly unusual, although he does seem to spend an inordinate amount of money at Costco for a single guy.

Was there a stash of paper towels and toilet paper that we missed? A.L. said. He’d checked the garage, and there was no basement.

I don’t think so. The store sells many other things. But it made me wonder if he’s a hoarder and maybe there’s a storage unit somewhere. However, I don’t see any evidence of him paying for one.

Okay. A.L.’s cell phone rang, and he recognized the number as one he’d dialed earlier. A.L. McKittridge, he answered. It was just Rena in the room, so he left it on speaker.

A.L., this is Hank Waymann. I got a message from you. Long time no talk.

Right. Listen, Hank. I hate to do this over the phone, but earlier today the police responded to a wellness-check request at your dad’s house on Elm. He was found dead.

Oh. Silence. Wow. What happened?

He was shot. Not self-inflicted. It was a homicide.

There was no response. Finally, Hank said, Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised.

It should be sort of surprising. Why would you say that, Hank?

I don’t know. I don’t know why I said that. Listen, A.L. Thanks for calling. Um…do I need to do anything about the body?

A.L. gave him Carrie’s contact information. This is an open homicide investigation. Because of that, you’re not going to be able to have the body cremated or buried right away. I’m sorry about that. I know closure is important.

Right.

Hank sounded distracted. I spoke with Veronica earlier, A.L. said.

How is she? Hank asked, sounding more vested in the conversation.

I’m not exactly sure how she took the news, A.L. said.

I’m pretty confident how she took it, Hank said, his tone resigned.

Veronica and your dad were estranged?

Veronica is estranged from the whole family. She and my mom live in the same damn town and haven’t seen each other for six years. My mom doesn’t say much, but I know it’s hard on her.

A.L. glanced over at Rena. He could see the wheels turning in her head. She’d been close to her own mother, who’d passed away from cancer, and her husband’s family, who lived in Baywood, was tight to the point of clingy. That’s a tough situation, I’m sure. He thought about asking Hank if Veronica had ever threatened Platt, but he decided to wait. Her last name is Host, right?

Last I knew. She was married to Jeff Host, but they got divorced at least five years ago. He wasn’t from around here, but oddly enough, I think he stayed in Baywood. That’s where they lived when they were married. Veronica moved north before the divorce was even final. And, of course, I wouldn’t know about anything more recent.

Right. I need to ask, Hank. Where were you last night?

Bowling at Cedar Creek Lanes. It’s holiday tournament time. It lasted until at least eleven. Then I came home and fell into bed.

Your dad bowled, too, didn’t he?

Yeah. One of the few common interests we had. But it was always worth at least fifteen minutes of conversation, so I was grateful for it.

He understood what Hank was saying. Sometimes it was excruciatingly painful to visit his father. The silences could be epic. Do you happen to know who your father used for an attorney?

I imagine Ted Fisker. I suppose I’ll need to get ahold of him. I…I don’t know if Dad had things in place, you know, in preparation. We’ve never talked about it.

Hard to fault that. He’d be in a similar position if the roles were reversed. Conversations about the weather and sports were a lot easier. Less personal.

I guess I figured we had lots of time and he never brought it up, Hank added.

He sounded overwhelmed. A.L. needed to wrap this up. But he had one more question. Hank, do you happen to know if your dad had a storage unit somewhere?

I don’t know. I have no knowledge of one, but I guess it’s possible.

Well, if you need anything, Hank, you have my number.

Yeah. Thanks, A.L. How’s your dad, by the way? I saw him a couple years ago when I was home to visit Dad.

He’s good. Thanks for asking. You get home a lot?

No. Once or twice a year for a weekend. My wife wasn’t crazy about being there, so it was usually just me. Well, I should get going. Calls to make, you know.

Of course, A.L. said. Goodbye, Hank.

Rena waited until she was confident the call had been disconnected. Then she said, Something tells me that we’re going to Wausau to talk to Veronica and the ex-wife.

Yeah. I think we better. It’s a two-hour drive, give or take. It might be late by the time we get there and back.

I was eating alone tonight anyway. Gabe has a meeting with his new principal.

I’ll bet he’s excited to be done with school and finally able to get a teaching job. I give him a lot of credit for changing careers like that.

It was lucky for him that the middle school had a teacher going out on maternity leave for the second semester. I think he would have preferred fourth or fifth-graders—that’s what he had when he was student-teaching. But he’s certainly willing to take eighth grade.

Tough age, A.L. said. Hormones.

You remember that long ago? she asked, her voice heavy with doubt.

Not me, A.L. said. I was born old.

I imagine you were. I was planning on finishing my Christmas shopping tonight, she said. What did you get Tess?

I haven’t yet, he said.

This is your first Christmas together, Rena said. It’s got to be something good.

I’m bad at present buying.

I’ll bet Tess is good at it.

That’s what he was