Surest Poison, The (23 page)

Sid looked up the Rogers Toy Mart number and
found they closed at eight o’clock. He locked the office, hurried out to his
car, and headed for Briley Parkway, which would take him past the sprawling
Opryland Hotel complex. Briley ended at Thompson Lane a short distance from
Nolensville Pike where Rogers was located.

The big toy store occupied a brick building
adjacent to a strip center. Sid nosed into a parking slot and walked to the
entrance, eyeing the conglomeration of toys that crowded the windows. One
featured wagons, scooters, trikes, all manner of wheeled toys. Stuffed
animals of every variety filled another window.

A few customers wandered about, but the store
didn’t appear busy with closing time near. Sid found a clerk and asked about
model airplanes with radio controls.

“Sure. We’ve got several in that display over
there,” he said, pointing. He was a sloe-eyed young man in khaki pants and a
blue knit shirt, likely had at least one Korean parent.

Sid showed his P.I. license. “I need to know if
you’ve sold any in the past week.”

“I’m pretty sure we have. I know we sell a lot of
them, but you’d need to talk to Mr. B. He’s the manager. I’ll get him for
you.”

He returned with an older man whose pinched face
seemed to reflect the fallout of a difficult day drawing to a close. “You’re
a private detective?” he asked Sid.

“That’s right.” He showed his PI credentials. “I
need to know if you’ve sold a radio-controlled airplane in, say, the last
week.”

“What happened? Did a model plane go through
somebody’s picture window?”

“No.
Nothing like that.
I’m looking for a person who bought one and may have used parts from it in
the commission of a crime.”

“My, my.
That sounds ominous.” Mr. B.’s frown deepened.

Sid persisted. “Did you sell one of these
recently?”

“Yes, we sold one Sunday afternoon. The fellow
must not have known much about electronics, though. He asked a lot of
questions, wanted to know how the radio controls worked.”

“Did the plane have a circuit board about this
size?” Sid held his fingers to indicate what Cran Quincy had described.

“Yeah, it would be somewhere close to that.”

“Did the guy pay by credit card, so you could
look up the name?”

“No. I remember he paid cash.”

“Could you describe him?”

The manager looked off to the front of the store
as if something there might spark a memory. “I’m not very good at describing
people. The only thing that stands out, his face resembled that loud-mouthed
professional wrestler. You know . . . what’s his name, Hulk Hogan? This man
wasn’t that big, of course, but he had that wild-looking mustache that hung
down on both sides.”

“Was he tall, short?”

“Maybe a few inches shorter
than you.
A
little on the stocky side.”

“Color of hair?”

“A light brown, best I can remember.”

“Eyes?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Did he also buy a model rocket?”

“No. He looked at some but didn’t buy anything.”

“Okay,” Sid said. “Thanks a lot. You’ve been very
helpful.”

He strolled out to his car, climbed in, and
checked his watch. Almost eight o’clock and he hadn’t eaten yet. He had a
description of the suspected bomber, but no idea where to start looking for
him. He headed for his favorite barbeque restaurant as troubling questions
rumbled about in his mind.

36

The clock buzzed
Wednesday at six a.m. Sid rolled out of bed, pulled on his sweats, and
headed out for his morning run. The cool air cleared the mental cobwebs
accumulated during the night, shifting his mind into gear for the tasks that
lay ahead. By the time he stepped from the shower, he was ready to tackle
the world.

Then the day started to chip apart.

First
came
Jaz. The
ringing phone caught him half-dressed. When he answered, her anxious voice
hit him with the bad news.

“Bobby took off during the night,” she said,
“with Connie and Little Bob. He bought a car similar to the one that was
wrecked by the explosion. This morning it was gone. I guess I was too hard
on him.”

“How so?”

“I browbeat him last night until he called Cran
Quincy.”

“What did Quincy say?”

“He told Bobby to be downtown this morning at
nine, prepared to explain what was going on.”

“Bobby didn’t give any indication that he planned
to run?”

“No, but he left a note on the table in the
foyer.”

“What did he say?”

“He thanked me for letting them stay at the
mansion. But he said that for the protection of his family, he had no choice
but to take them where nobody could find them. I should have seen something
like this coming. He was upset last night after learning the explosion might
have been targeted at him. I tried to reason with him. I told him the best
way to end it would be to help us go after the people causing the problem.”

“They must have put major pressure on him. He’s
young and vulnerable. I don’t suppose he gave any hint where he might be
going?”

“None.”

Sid sat on the side of the bed, cradled the phone
on his shoulder, and pulled on his socks. “Did you ask his grandmother about
any close friends, any familiar places he might hide?”

“I will as soon as I can. Right now Marie’s in no
shape to talk.”

“Did you have a chance to look into Percy
Pickslay?”

“It appears he’s been involved in things like
witness profiling. In the outlying counties most of the time, but he has a
few lawyers in Nashville as clients.”

“You have an address for him?”

“He lives in Centerville.”

This was a small town southwest of Nashville,
birthplace of the late Sarah Cannon, better known as country comedienne
Minnie Pearl.

“I’ll try to track him down,” Sid said. “Call me
after you talk to Marie.”

He checked an on-line directory, got a phone
number in Centerville for Percy Pickslay and called it. An answering machine
picked up. He listened to a low-pitched drawling voice explain that Pickslay
was out of town “on a case” but could be reached by cell phone. When Sid
tried the cell number, he got a voice mail instructing him to “leave your
number and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

The second crack in the day’s facade. After
leaving his phone number, he ate breakfast and headed for the office.

Switching on the computer, he found nothing more
interesting than a pitch from a supposed former African leader’s wife to
help liberate twenty million bucks from her impoverished country. He
switched out of email and turned to the telephone. Perhaps the Judge had
come up with something.

“Good morning, Sidney. Looks like a beautiful
day. I trust things are going well for you?”

Sid wasn’t sure he was ready for the Judge’s
switch to an upbeat outlook. “Things would be going a lot better if I could
make some progress on this case.”

“Are you still looking for Percy Pickslay?”

“Jaz found him in Centerville, but I haven’t been
able to reach him. Have you heard anything?”

“I talked to a colleague last night who knows
him. He hadn’t heard of First Patriots, but he said Pickslay set up all
kinds of corporations. He liked to make his deals sound great by putting
First
in the name.”

“Did he mention any partners?”

“No names, but he said Pickslay dealt with small
town lawyers. They were able to sucker in the more gullible types.”

“I’d sure like to tie Bronson Fradkin into his
stable of dealers.”

Thackston chuckled. “I’d be surprised if Fradkin
wasn’t a co-conspirator. Pickslay came from Centerville, and it isn’t far
from Lewisville.”

“Thanks, Judge. Let me know if you hear anything
else.”

“I will. Has our girl recovered from her
experience with the fiery inferno?”

“She’s doing fine, except for her problems with
the house staff’s grandson.”

“The young man you went to check on Friday
night?”

“Right.”

“What has he done
now
”

“Flew the coop. Disappeared.”

“
Ahh, that
should be
no problem. Jasmine told us you’re the quintessential missing person
locator.”

“We’ll see about that. My batting average at the
moment would get me sent back to the minor leagues.”

Judge Thackson laughed.
“Keep
swinging, my friend.”

Sid hung up the phone, reached in a file drawer,
and pulled out the folder labeled “HarrCo Shipping.” He opened it and spread
out some of the more significant items on his desk.
Notes on the interviews in
Ashland City and Lewisville, phone calls to Larry
Irwin’s cousin near Murfreesboro and his friend in Clarksville, the
interview with Gordon Gracey, copies of Jaz’s backgrounder on Trent Decker,
and the Tony Decker obit from the
Commercial Appeal
archives.
He was browsing through the material when he heard the outside door open.
The image on his TV monitor showed Jack Post, hat cocked at a jaunty angle.

Sid walked to the office door. “Come in, Jack.
What are you doing around here this early in the day? I thought you were out
of town.”

He returned to his desk as Post headed for the
chair across from him.

“Got back last night,” the old newsman said. “I
had to see a real estate agent down the hall.”

“
You selling
your
condo?”

“Nah.
My ex put her house, what used to be my house, on the market. I had to bring
some signed papers.”

Sid grinned. “You must spend more time with her
now than you did when you were married.”

“Maybe.
I just took her to Memphis. That’s where I met her, you know. Back when I
worked for the
Commercial Appeal
.”

Sid shuffled through the papers and pulled out
the copy of Tony Decker’s obituary. “This guy we’re looking for, Tony
Decker,
came from Memphis. We got an anonymous
tip to check out the paper’s web site and found his obit on it.”

Post got up and walked over to read the sheet Sid
held out. He twisted his face into a disparaging look.

“This came off the newspaper’s web site?”

“Jaz printed it out from the computer.”

“Something’s screwy. There’s no Memorial Cemetery
in Memphis, and I never heard of any Funeral Home named Kelly and Copes.”

Sid stared at him. “You’re sure?”

“I know the town, man. I used to work there. I
drive down there every whipstitch, especially when DeeDee’s got problems.”

Which was most of the time, Sid thought. “How
could this get on their web site?”

“A hacker, maybe?
Somebody paid off somebody at the paper?”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Post appeared to take that as an affront. He
glared across at Sid. “If you don’t believe me, go downtown to the library.
They have the
Commercial Appeal
on microfilm. Look it up for
yourself. I guarantee you won’t find that obit in the newspaper.”

37

As soon as
Post left, Sid called Jaz.

“Somebody’s giving us a bum steer,” he said.
“Tony Decker isn’t dead.”

She gasped. “What?”

He told her about Post’s visit.

“That’s unbelievable,” she said.

“Don’t tell Jack. I think I insulted him when I
said that.”

“Somebody we’ve contacted is trying to throw us
off the trail.”

“Here’s another thing. The Judge’s friend says
First Patriots is the type of name Pickslay used for his deals. And he
worked with small town lawyers like Bronson Fradkin.”

“Did you talk to Pickslay?”

“No. I left a message for him to call me. What’s
the latest on Bobby?”

“I got Marie calmed down after a bit,” she said.
“She overheard Bobby talking on the phone last night to an old high school
buddy. He lives on a farm down toward The Narrows. Marie thinks that’s where
they went. If it is, we’ll have to sneak up on him or he’ll run again.”

“It might be better to let him cool down a bit
before we do anything. Did you call Quincy?”