Chapter 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

S am, Jo, and Wyatt huddled around a desk, poring over the phone logs from Marnie’s campaign office. Stacks of paper and empty coffee cups littered the surface, a testament to the long hours they’d spent trying to make sense of the calls.

“This feels like a wild goose chase.” Jo sighed, rubbing her temples. “We don’t even know if Alex made these calls.”

“It was smart of him to switch the phone lines to one central line,” Wyatt said. “Which seems to indicate he had reasons for not wanting anyone to be able to know who he had called.”

Jo nodded. “Too bad those reasons got him killed.”

“Hopefully, we can find something that stands out. Marnie said she caught Alex looking through her address list of big donors. Let’s see if any of these numbers match up,” Sam said.

They divided the list, each taking a section to cross-reference with the logs. The room fell silent save for the rustling of papers and the occasional scratch of a pen.

“Got one,” Wyatt announced, breaking the silence. “Dottie Smalls, that big real estate developer. Several calls to her number.”

Jo perked up. “I’ve got another. Nathan Rickman. Who is he?”

Wyatt typed into the computer, and his eyes widened. “He’s on the board of Convale.”

Jo tapped her pencil on the desk. “Interesting. So someone at Convale is a big donor to Marnie’s campaign? That makes me suspicious.”

Sam looked up from his list. “I think he’s the guy that I saw in the cigar bar with Victor Sorrentino.”

Jo narrowed her eyes. “Interesting.”

Wyatt brought up another screen and started typing. “Yep, Rickman has been on the board of Convale since retiring from banking a few years ago. Guess some people don’t know how to just rest when they retire.”

Sam snorted and continued the search, finding two more names that matched both Marnie’s list and the outgoing calls: Thaddeus Blackwell, a wealthy retired businessman, and Evelyn Sinclair, a prominent local philanthropist.

“So what are we thinking?” Sam mused, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe Alex called one of them to meet at the Drunken Moose?”

“Yep, and he had something on one of them? Was he blackmailing them? That would be a reason to kill him,” Jo said.

“It has to tie back to the bank robbery. What else would be enough that someone wouldn’t want anyone to know?” Sam wondered.

Jo nodded. “We know Alex was dragged out into the water at the Thorne Industries property, and Beryl Thorne’s been hanging around with Victor Sorrentino.”

“And Victor smokes cigars,” Sam said.

“And works at Convale,” Wyatt added.

“And hangs around with this Rickman guy,” Jo added.

Just then, a commotion drew their attention. Major had jumped onto Jo’s desk and was batting at her half-eaten tuna sandwich.

“Hey!” Jo shouted, spotting the feline’s antics. “Get away from that, you little thief!”

Major, startled by the sudden outburst, bolted off the desk. In his haste, he knocked the sandwich to the floor, where it landed with a soft plop.

Before anyone could react, Lucy darted forward and gobbled up the fallen sandwich in one swift motion.

The room erupted in laughter, the tension momentarily broken.

“Well, would you look at that.” Sam chuckled. “You’d almost think those two were working together.”

Wyatt grinned. “I don’t know, Sam. We all know Lucy and Major don’t exactly get along. I doubt they’d plan something like this.”

“You know, maybe we’re doing the same thing with this case. Looking for connections where there aren’t any,” Jo said.

Sam nodded slowly, considering her words. “You might be onto something. We’ve been so focused on trying to tie everything together that we might be forcing connections that don’t exist.”

Kevin came into the squad room, his phone clutched in his hand. “Guys, I think I’ve got something.”

“What is it, Kev?” Sam asked.

Kevin held up his screen, which showed an image of the assisted living visitor log. “I went to the assisted living facility to check out Frank Milson’s visitor log. Guess who was there the week before he died.”

Jo leaned forward, squinting at the image. “Is that Hartman? As in, our retired detective Hartman?”

Kevin nodded. “It could be.”

Wyatt stared at it. “It’s a scribble. Could be lots of different names.”

“Including Rickman.” Sam turned to Wyatt. “Does it show anyone calling Hartman from the campaign headquarters in that log?”

Wyatt shook his head.

“Hartman has been all over this case, and he was around back in the day.” Sam looked at Kevin and gestured toward the door. “I think it’s time we pay him a visit. Something tells me he’ll be much easier to get a hold of than Nathan Rickman.”