Dead Close: BOONE-BELL, #7

By Frederic W. Burr

'Dead Close' finds Boone and Marianne Bell, who is four months along in her pregnancy, settled in their new office space outside downtown Albany. Representing the owner of a vintage clothing shop accused of murder, Clive Townsend seeks Boone's help investigating his client's background to determine any possible motive for the crime. In addition to assigning surveillance tasks to three of Boone's former snitches, Marianne undertakes a forensic audit of a small woodworking company whose founder suspects his partner of embezzlement.

The further Boone digs into the shop owner's background, the worse things look for Clive's client. The only bright spot is meeting the shop owner's single employee, Pearl Jagoda, a young Polish immigrant who recently became a citizen. As he untangles the shop owner's background with Marianne's assistance, people who might be able to provide him with valuable information wind up dead.

Marianne's audit of the woodworking company, and the CPA who appears to be part of the embezzlement scheme, takes on a sinister turn when her client, and his wife, die in a house fire later determined to be arson.

As Boone comes close to cracking the case, he is stunned to realize just who the killer is. And Marianne, believing the worst is behind her on her own file, learns too late that the worst is yet to come.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frederic W. Burr
• Release date: Feb 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223445708

Frederic W. Burr

A native of Cincinnati, Ohio, Fred enlisted in the Navy at the age of seventeen, and retired in the rank of Commander in the surface warfare community. He is a graduate of the University of Louisville and the Albany Law School of Union University. Retiring from the private practice of law in upstate New York, Pennsylvania and Kentucky after thirty-six years, he considers himself a fully recovered attorney. Fred and his wife Donna (who also writes) make their home in Kentucky.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Death is close enough , so do not be afraid of life.

~Friedrich Nietzsche

PERŁA WHISPERED, "PROSZĘ, aby dzisiejszy dzień był dobry," as she inserted the key into the deadbolt for Judith’s Closet, a high-end vintage women’s clothing shop on the corner of Dove and Hamilton. She made that little prayer for a good day every morning before opening the shop, hoping the day would prove successful.

Nineteen years old, she was grateful for her job. She wanted nothing more than to please her employer, Judith Rafferty, so piękny, so beautiful she was.

The key would not turn, confusing her. Turning the key the other way, the key moved easily, the deadbolt sliding into the locked position. "To jest ciekawe," she muttered. Curious. After unlocking the deadbolt, she used the other key to unlock the Victorian doorknob and opened the door to enter the shop. The security system was disarmed, but that wasn't unusual. Frequently she would open the shop to find the system disarmed.

After turning on the overhead lights, the first thing she saw was the man’s body sprawled on the floor in front of the shop counter. Taking in a deep breath, she crossed herself before whispering, "Boże miej litość!" God have mercy.

Her fingers trembling, she picked up the ungainly handset of the old rotary style phone on the counter and dialed Mrs. Rafferty’s number. As the phone rang, she stared at the blood pooled under the man’s head. By the time Mrs. Rafferty answered, Perła recognized the corpse as Dick Merrick, Mrs. Rafferty’s cousin. Bezużyteczny, useless though he was, she knew Mrs. Rafferty would be very, very zmartwiona, worried.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. First were the patrol policji, their cars outside flashing red and blue lights through the shop windows, then Mrs. Rafferty herself, very distraught to find her cousin lying dead on the floor. By the time the zespół techników kriminalistyki in their head-to-toe white hazmat suits had arrived, Perła was standing on the sidewalk with Mrs. Rafferty in the iron air, their short, shallow breaths condensing into streams of vapor.

After the front door to the shop was draped with yellow crime scene tape, both women gave their names and contact information to the officers. Perła then trudged over to the Empire State Plaza Concourse for the Troy shuttle, and home.

Her mother would be upset that she might not be paid until the shop could reopen. But that was nothing compared to Mrs. Rafferty’s distress. Boże pomóż jej. God help her. Indeed.

ONE

WHILE HIS PARTNER was going over weekly assignments with their subcontractors, Boone was interviewing a potential new client. Or rather, trying to.

Roofus Hall was a woodworker specializing in custom cabinetry and decorative shelving, as well as office furniture. He got his start making Christmas presents for the children in his extended family out of wood by hand because, as he explained, he didn’t have much money. As word spread, he expanded to intricate boxes and small tables.

Over time, ‘Roofus Hall Woodworking, LLP’ expanded to where he had a manufacturing and warehouse facility in Mechanicville in Saratoga County, and ten employees. Annual sales were in the middle six figures.

A spare man whose dark brown hair was in retreat from his narrow face, one could tell almost instantly that Roofus was a scrupulously honest, if talkative, man.

Do you wanna know why I came to see you? he asked, shifting his thin frame in his chair.

Finally! Boone thought. I thought we’d never get here. Why yes, Mr. Hall. How can we help you?

Not sure, but I think my partner is somehow embezzling.

And your partner’s name?

Leo. Well, Leonardo, I guess. His wife calls him that when she’s upset with him.

Does Leo have a last name?

Yeah. Bruno.

Got it, Boone said, making a note. How long has he been your partner?

About ten or so years, Hall said. About the time we moved to the new place.

And what makes you think there’s something going on?

Just the way him and his wife live on the income he takes out of the business, it doesn’t make sense to me. I’m a sixty percent owner, and don’t get me wrong, we’re well fixed, but we can’t take the cruises and vacations he takes with his wife, or drive the kind of cars they do.

Maybe it’s all borrowed money, Boone offered.

Not to hear him tell it.

But there could be some other explanation, don’t you think?

I don’t think so. His wife doesn’t work, and they’ve never mentioned any outside income. And given the amount of work going out of our business, seems to me there should be more profits to share.

Who handles your books?

Just then, the intercom line on his desk phone lit up, and Barbara’s voice came over the speaker.

Mr. Boone, I have attorney Townsend for you on line two. He says it’s important.

Tell him I’m with someone, and I’ll call him back in . . . about to say five, but not wanting to suggest to Hall that his problem wasn’t important, finished with, . . . ten minutes.

The line went dead.

Now, Boone asked, where were we? Oh yes. Who does your books?

We have an outside office handle our books, and they do a good job, as far as I know.

Are they somehow related to your partner?

I don’t believe so.

Boone leaned back in his chair in thought, finally suggesting, My partner has a master’s degree in forensic accounting. Maybe you’d like an independent audit? He knew Marianne, with her dark web searches, would know more about Hall’s partner than Leonardo Bruno himself, and long before she ever looked at the first page of Roofus Hall’s financial records.

I think that would be a good first step, Hall said. How do we get started?

First, we come to an understanding of what you expect from us, and we expect from you. I can give you our standard agreement to look over, and you can get back to us when you’re ready.

As he spoke, Boone slid a copy of the agency’s standard retainer agreement, leaving the space for a retainer blank.

Hall looked over the agreement, his lips moving every so often. When he was finished, he looked up at Boone. So, do I sign this now? Or what?

Did you bring your checkbook with you?

Why?

There’s the retainer. We work by the hour, as the agreement states. When it’s exhausted, we’ll bill you monthly.

Kind of like a down payment? Hall asked.

Yes. Exactly. You probably get down payments from new customers, don’t you?

I do. But I don’t have my checkbook with me. Can I sign this and send you a check to get started?

Sure. But we can take a credit card if you want.

Ah . . . no. I pay cash for my expenses. My credit card is for business, and I don’t want Leo knowing I’m suspicious. How much do you need?

Giving it some thought, and feeling the case might be wrapped up in short order, Boone said, Two thousand five hundred dollars.

That much?

Well, besides our time, there may be expenses we’ll need to cover. If we get the case wrapped up sooner, we’ll refund any unearned deposit. If you need references before deciding, I can provide those.

This was the part of the business Boone hated the most, asking clients for money. But always aware of the agency’s monthly nut, he did what he had to.

No, that won’t be necessary, Hall said. He bent down, scribbled his name on the agreement, and handed it over to Boone. Here you go. I’ll get that check to you right away.

Quickly scanning the agreement, Boone wrote in the retainer amount, signed it, and said, We’ll send you a copy of this when your check comes in.

Hall stood and said, Well, I guess we’re finished for today, right?

Just about, Boone said. He opened his center desk drawer and pulled out his and Marianne's business cards and, after standing, held them out to Hall. After Hall took the cards, Boone reached across the desk to shake hands, and said, Now we're done. At least with this part. Let me walk you out.

Nah, that’s okay. I know you’re busy, and I can find my way.

Thanks, Boone said, stepping around his desk to open his office door for Hall. He stayed in place to watch Hall make his way across the office to the front door. After that door closed behind his new client, he glanced over at the display in front of Barbara. Hall was shown stepping over to the bank of elevators and pressing the button for a car to take him down to the street level.

Although the steel core office front door with wood veneer was not locked during working hours, Barbara could lock it from her desk if the display suggested an unexpected visitor didn’t look right to her. They could then sort things out through the speaker in the hall.

As Boone turned to go back into his office, Barbara said, Don’t forget to call Mr. Townsend.

He nodded and thanked her.

Even though she didn’t feel up to it, Marianne did not pass on Monday morning’s meeting with the subcontractors. She was three months along and considered herself lucky to not be experiencing morning sickness. Having strong core muscles, she was not yet showing a baby bump, even if she felt as big as a house. Her obstetrician told her the baby was maybe the size of a lemon, and a small lemon at that. But her bizarre food cravings and mood swings were distractions at work and adding, she felt even if Luke denied it, stress at home.

All three subs, former CIs (confidential informants) from Carl’s days with the New York State Police, were sitting in her office, along with Michelle, who went by Shelley, the agency’s secretary, to take notes of tasks for the week. Of the twenty-plus active files in the office, two of them required active surveillance. Marianne wanted to make sure they were covered before Carl, or herself, had to get involved.

From her left to right were Shelley, Buster, Lazy, and Narc. The three subs looked more or less awake and ready to review cases.

Buster, you’ve been on the Platt file for . . . what? Three weeks now? Anything new from the past week?

A florid-faced Irishman, Buster’s nickname came from his mother naming him at birth after her favorite comedic actor, Joseph Frank Keaton.

Anthony Platt, a wealthy septuagenarian bachelor living outside of Albany in the Boght Corners area, was convinced his adult son, Harrison, was letting himself into the Platt home while Anthony was traveling, and stealing valuable artifacts and antiques, which later turned up in area pawn shops with some regularity.

Whoever was involved knew how to turn off the home’s security system and defeat exterior security cameras on the house. Local police departments showed little to no interest in his case. In desperation, Anthony hired the agency to shadow his son to confirm his fears.

I got nothin’ on the son, Buster said. I been shadowing him whenever he leaves his place until he’s in bed for the night. I get an alert on my phone whenever he moves his car, and it never moves once he’s gone night-night. If he’s lifting stuff, he’s gotta be havin’ somebody else doin’ it.

Okay, Marianne said. I’ll tell Mr. Platt we can’t prove anything on his son after three weeks. If he wants, we can start watching his house twenty-four-seven, if there’s anyplace out there to put cameras. If we have to use our people, it will cost him.

There’s no place easy for cameras, Buster said. His place is all by its lonesome out at Nantucket and Harbor. Nothing nearby where we could stick a camera. After thinking, Buster added, Might be cheaper to just change the locks, doncha think?

The other subs chuckled at that, while Marianne glanced at her notes, resisting the urge to reach inside her blouse and scratch the hell out of her breasts. Sometimes, the itching was enough to drive her absolutely crazy. She knew it was pregnancy-related eczema and would eventually self resolve, but only a cool shower seemed to help. Moisturizers or lanolin, switching detergents, larger bra sizes, nothing else provided any relief.

Speaking of cameras, Lazy, what have you got on the Holy Names file?

Lazarus Ancel, heavy, balding and pale-complected with a perpetual four-day stubble, went by Lazy. He was the only sub who could look like he was dead asleep in his car, and yet be fully aware of what was happening around him.

The client, Upstate Construction, was demolishing several existing buildings at Academy of Holy Names on New Scotland Road, before breaking ground on a new fifty thousand square foot three-story student center. Jackhammers, concrete saws and other smaller items of equipment had been disappearing from the site before the client hired the agency for surveillance.

Lazy had set up cameras to monitor the site, several of which were obvious, but most of them were well hidden. Every few days, he would harvest the flash drives from the cameras, review them for any suspicious activity, format the cards, and replace them.

Nothin’ to report, Lazy said. All the thefts stopped as soon as the cameras went up. We coulda saved some money, just puttin’ up dummy cameras, seems to me.

So that’s been two weeks with no more thefts? Marianne asked.

Yep.

Okay, she said. You can pull the hidden cameras. Maybe we’ll be able to use them on the Platt file. But leave the display cameras in place for now. Once the demo is finished, they’ll be putting up fencing before starting new construction and we can pull the rest of them.

I’ve got it all down, boss, Shelley said.

Marianne replied, Okay then, Shell, thanks. Then, turning to Narc, she asked him, You all set?

Narc, short for Jerome Narcross, preferred to be called Jerry. A wire-thin