Dead Renegade Page 8

  “I think so. She enjoyed the picnic. Ray entertained everyone,” said Osborne. “Hey, sounds like you’re having a good time …” He tried to keep his tone lighthearted.

  “I am. So great to see everyone. But next time we all get together, I want you along. My friends would like to meet you.”

  “Really?” Osborne grinned into the cell phone.

  “Oh—and the Wausau boys are sending one of their guys—remember Bruce? He’ll be in town first thing in the morning. He’s been fishing up in Sylvania and was due back in the offices tomorrow anyway. I expect him in my office around eight a.m. Can you be there, too? Stand in for our missing coroner?”

  “Sure.”

  “Oops, here comes Greg—I better say goodbye.”

  “Greg—is that the millionaire home builder?” Osborne dared to ask the question.

  “That’s Greg. He’s invited me to join him in the Bahamas—Lovely Bay. Wants to show me how to catch bone-fish with a fly rod.”

  “Must be an expert, huh?” Osborne’s heart hit the floor of his Subaru.

  “Expert on martinis, for sure—he’s on his fourth. And you know I don’t handle that real well. I told him when he dries

  out … maybe. He didn’t care for the comment.” As if she knew what Osborne was thinking, she gave a low chuckle, “I have my hands full with you, Doc—in the water and out of the water. See you first thing in the morning?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Bye.” The softness in her voice … he was glad he had called. The martinis considered, he was no longer worried.

  Seated near the bar of the Bobcat Inn, Osborne studied the menu although he had known walking in what he would order. “Paul,” said Mary Lee, her voice petulant, “tell Abe he has to move us—we are regular customers and I do not want to sit at the bar. I mean, it’s impossible to see anyone.” You mean you can’t be seen, thought Osborne, but kept his mouth shut.

  “Honey, we got here late and I don’t see an empty table,” he said. Mary Lee huffed and slammed her menu down. They usually sat at one of four tables set against the far wall and in front of an expanse of picture windows overlooking the lake—and the dining room. Osborne was well aware that his wife liked to spend more time checking out who was dining with whom than observing loons.

  As determined as Mike chewing on one of Osborne’s favorite chamois gloves, Mary Lee was not about to give up. She leapt from her chair, tossed her purse to Osborne and pointed. A member of her bridge club had just been seated with her husband—at one of the right tables. “I’ll just see if Janie and Herb will let us join them.”

  As Mary Lee crossed the room, a tinkling from the bar prompted Osborne to shift his chair for a better angle. He liked this table. It offered a front row view of the Bobcat Inn’s Friday night “special” that had been charming Loon Lake residents and tourists for years: Abe Conjurski playing musical medleys on an assortment of bar glasses with a cocktail stirrer.

  While Abe entertained patrons of the restaurant with his tinkling renditions of classic tunes, his wife Patsy along with one other waitress—the two of them wiping the sweat from their foreheads—would bustle in and out of the kitchen with plate after plate of beer-battered walleye or perch, Patsy’s special cole slaw, and “your choice” of French fries or potato pancakes. For the Bobcat, Friday night fish fry was the most profitable night of the week.

  The Osbornes ate there at least twice a month even though Mary Lee whined every time: “Pa-a-u-1, you know all our friends are at the Loon Lake Pub—and the Pub has a better fish fry, too. At least you get a choice of salads.”

  “But they don’t have Abe and his music,” Osborne would remind her, “and keep in mind, Mary Lee, that Abner and Patsy Conjurski are patients of mine. It’s important that we patronize the Bobcat.” That was one of the few arguments he won.

  Osborne’s eyes flew open. He blinked. A muffled roar of thunder. He lay still, getting his bearings. The dream had seemed so real, he had to make sure it was a dream. But, of course, it was. It’s been over two years since Mary Lee passed away.

  Abe and Patsy have been gone longer than that—and the Bobcat Inn closed for years. He was wide awake now, remembering how it was that right after Patsy died of a heart attack while waiting tables, poor Abe (Abner might be the name on his dental charts but he went by ‘Abe’) had disappeared.

  That’s right, thought Osborne. Abe had gone off the deep end, not unlike Osborne himself in the months following Mary Lee’s death. Drinking out of those glasses instead of playing them. Then Abe had started to hit the casinos. Without Patsy to help him run the restaurant and keep life in order, he was a lost soul. One weekend he was gone for good and it was rumored that he had flown to Vegas with a hooker from Chicago.

  A couple distant relatives made feeble attempts around town to ask questions but finally they gave up. With Patsy gone and no close heirs, the restaurant was dismantled and the furnishings sold off which is how his rug must have ended up at Nystrom’s antique store.

  Osborne wasn’t sure if Abe Conjurski had ever been officially declared dead. Luckily for Osborne, he had managed to avoid Abe’s fate. His destination, determined by his daughters, was not casinos but what the three of them now referred to as ‘Intervention City’ followed by a stint at Hazelden and, ever since, a weekly meeting in the room behind the door with the coffee pot etched in the glass: a rerouting for which he gave thanks every morning.

  Osborne turned over to go back to sleep, then turned back, threw off the blanket and jumped to his feet. That’s right! Abe had been a patient. Why hadn’t he thought of that earlier? What a numbskull. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with worry over Mason, it would have dawned on him right away.

  Not only that, but the dental records for Abe Conjurski had to be in one of the file cabinets in back of his garage. That skull, those fillings, no wonder he’d had a sense of déjà vu. Not that the remains might have anything to do with Abe, but it was certainly worth ruling out the possibility.

  Osborne’s file cabinets had been a sore issue with Mary Lee. When he sold his practice to a young dentist who planned to keep electronic records, she had insisted that he get rid of all his paper files, the x-rays and his office furniture. Osborne knew better than to argue but he wasn’t ready to let go.

  Where his wife saw a manila file that deserved to be tossed in the garbage, he saw a person, someone he had treated through good times and difficult times in their life. He saw their family, he saw their signature on a check, he saw the venison chops they used for barter when funds were low. His dental files were not just files, they were tokens of the profession that he had loved.

  However he may have disappointed Mary Lee as a husband, he had rarely disappointed a patient. He had been a very good dentist.

  So he had conspired with Ray to have the tall oak file cabinets, each drawer holding the original files and dividers, delivered on a day when Mary Lee was on a day trip with her bridge club. Working fast, they had put up sheet rock at the very back of the garage—right behind the area where he stored the snow blower, lawn equipment, outboard motor, canoe and gas grill during the winter months.

  A few days later, they were able to cut a doorway into the attached shed that he used for cleaning fish. Since Mary Lee alleged she could smell fish guts just walking by the shed windows, there was minimal risk she would violate his space: the files were safe. And—since he had met Lew and been deputized to take over whenever Pecore was recovering from having been over-served or had sunk to new levels of incompetence—they had proved more valuable than he had ever expected.

  Once he was on his feet, Osborne moved so fast he tripped over the dog. Mike reared up, eyes curious and tail thumping on the floor. He needed out.

  Fine, an excellent excuse to check for Abe’s file right now. He pulled on his robe and headed for the back door. It was three in the morning with a soft rain falling. So what if he got his feet wet? Lew was expecting him for the morning meeting with Bruce f
rom the Wausau Crime Lab and who knows what he might find. Or not.

  CHAPTER 17

  Bruce Peters and Osborne pored over the yellowing dental chart, shoulders touching as they stood side by side in the morgue at St. Mary’s Hospital. This wasn’t the first time they had worked together in the hospital’s morgue, the use of which would be billed to the Loon Lake Police Department on an hourly basis.

  “Looks pretty damn good to me,” said the young forensic specialist. He turned raised eyebrows to Osborne.

  Osborne swore Bruce spent his life with his eyebrows raised: in query, in joking, in sheer wonderment over women and fish. A year ago, he’d discovered fly fishing and the love of his life simultaneously (the girl of his dreams had spotted him in the Prairie River taking a casting lesson from Lew and decided right then that she would marry him)—upon which he took to badgering Lew on both subjects.

  She answered the fishing questions, but when he puzzled over his newfound love life she would give a sly grin and pass him off to Osborne—who was no help whatsoever and suspected he was being set up.

  At first Osborne had resented the younger man, seeing him as an interloper siphoning off too much of Lew’s time and possibly flirting. After all, if Osborne was dazzled by her skills in the trout stream—and constantly amazed at the effect her dark eyes had on him—wouldn’t every man feel that way? Would age make a difference?

  But after working together on a tough murder case the previous winter, he came to see Bruce as a big, friendly mutt of a guy: nerdy, skilled and quite competent. A distinct improvement over the general arrogance of the other Wausau boys who were addicted to making dumb jokes about women in law enforcement.

  More important, he was eager to barter forensic expertise for tips on the art of fly fishing. Now that Lew did appreciate, even if it meant dealing with a tsunami of questions having little to do with the investigation at hand.

  “Sure, Chief Ferris, I can handle the forensics on that break-in,” Bruce would say, only to follow with, “if you promise to tell me what might be hatching on the Elvoy tomorrow night … Oh, and which of these trout flies did you say would work best? Hey, take a look at my fly line—do I need a new leader? Think my 5-weight fly rod is too light for muskies?” And so it would go, but a dozen queries later Lew would have the forensics done and a pristine chain of custody protecting any evidence.

  Bruce might be a nuisance, but as his fishing skills improved so did Lew’s budget for assistance from the Wausau Crime Lab.

  Osborne laid the cardboard strip holding a set of full-mouth x-rays labeled “Abner Conjurski” alongside the notes he had written in longhand twelve years ago. Then he and Bruce strolled over to the autopsy table on which rested the skull that had fallen out of the rug at the antique shop. The jaw was intact with its three gold inlays gleaming under the overhead lights. The inlays were undeniably the artistry of Dr. Paul Osborne: he knew it and the chart proved it.

  “Abe was one of my few patients willing to pay for gold,” said Osborne, “he was a practical man and believed me when I said the inlays would hold up better than any amalgams—and I was right!”

  “Sure makes this easier,” said Bruce, leaning over the skull with calipers out to doublecheck his measurements. A rustling from behind prompted Osborne to look back over his shoulder. Lew had entered the room and stood just inside the door, her arms folded. She motioned for them to continue.

  “I think we got it,” said Osborne as much to her as to Bruce.

  “This is your man, all right,” said Bruce. “No question about it. Hey, Chief, Doc and I got this done so fast do you think you can cover for me if I scoot north and get in a half day on the Middle Ontonagon River?”

  “You tell me what Wausau needs to hear and I’ll make it happen,” said Lew, adding in a semi-stern voice, “so long as it doesn’t cost me.”

  “Hell, no, I can fix that. I’ll just finish the paperwork so we can have the remains and the rug sent down to the lab for analysis to determine cause of death and any other anomalies. You know the lab work may take a few weeks, right?”

  “Of course,” said Lew, “but we’ve got an ID, which helps us enormously. If you’re confident we’ve got all the evidence we need from the antique store?”

  “Let the poor guy reopen. That rug has been there so many years that you’ve got one hell of a compromised crime scene—not to mention that it’s highly unlikely the victim died there.

  “Oh, I have a question,” said Bruce, squinting as if he was in pain. “This college buddy of mine swears that nymphing is the only way to fly fish these days. He said everyone he fishes with thinks nymphing is the way to go. But, jeez, I’ve tried it and I hate it. I like dry flies. Is there something wrong with me?”

  “Bruce,” said Lew, “not wanting to nymph is hardly a character flaw. I don’t nymph,” she said throwing both hands in the air. “Doc here doesn’t nymph.”

  “I don’t know what that is,” said Osborne, interrupting. Lew gave him a look indicating he should shut up.

  “Your friend is nuts,” said Lew. “There are no hard and firm rules—you choose your trout fly by the hatch and what kind of water you’re fishing. Now, Bruce, you’re a big boy—fish how you want to fish. Don’t listen to bullshit from some pretentious jabone. You know better than that.”

  As Bruce’s squint of pain morphed into confidence, Lew chuckled. “Look, you did me a big favor getting down here first thing this morning, so let me give you a Grizzly King that was tied by an old friend of my uncle’s. It’s all my uncle would ever fish with and it can be fished wet or dry. I’ll put two in the box so you’ll still have one after you snag that branch you love. And I’ll add a dry fly I’ve had good luck with this summer—a Size 12 Renegade.”

  “Really?” Bruce was so delighted his eyebrows hit the ceiling.

  “Yeah, well, now you owe me, kiddo.”

  Lew turned to Osborne, “Doc, I drove over because I just had a call from your daughter, Erin. She has an emergency of some kind. Wouldn’t say what on the phone—said it would take some explaining. I told her to come right in. Since it could be about your granddaughter, I thought you might want to be there.”

  Erin was waiting when they walked into the building. She was dressed in a black pantsuit and holding a briefcase in one hand. Osborne recognized the look in her eyes: grim determination. Could she have found the boy who frightened Mason?

  “Erin, you look ready to send someone to the state pen,” said Osborne, half joking.

  “This isn’t about Mason, Dad—but some disturbing news about C.J.’s husband.”

  “Oh,” said Osborne, “if you’re referring to the incident on the boat yesterday, I’m sorry I didn’t bring it up but we had enough going on. Wouldn’t you say it’s really a personal issue for the couple?”

  As they walked down the hallway to Lew’s office, Erin said, “When Mason told me about Calverson being so nasty to his wife, I thought it might be wise for me to take action on something involving Curt Calverson that I’ve been working on for the last two weeks. It’s not about his relationship with his wife, Dad. It’s even more serious.”

  “Come in, come in,” said Lew as they entered her office. “Let’s sit over there.” She pointed to the seating area under the windows facing the courthouse lawn where a sofa, two chairs, and a coffee table made it easy to talk. A light breeze carried the scent of mock orange in bloom. Erin opened her briefcase and pulled out a small stack of papers and what appeared to be direct mail brochures.

  “Chief Ferris, you know I’ve decided to do Legal Aid work until Cody is in first grade because they let me set my own hours?”

  Lew nodded, so Erin went on. “Well, I was approached several weeks ago by an elderly woman from Tomahawk, Dolores Rotier. She was convinced someone had stolen money from her bank account because she couldn’t use her ATM card to make a withdrawal. That wasn’t the problem, really. Dolores didn’t understand there was a limit to what she could withdraw in a day but even
so, the amount she was allowed to withdraw was so small that I thought the situation was worth looking into.

  “I learned that for the last eighteen months, she has been paying on loans from Calverson Finance.”

  “As in Curt Calverson?” asked Osborne.

  “Right, Dad, it’s a finance company run by C.J.’s husband. Dolores told me she is one of several elderly residents she knows who got a brochure like this in the mail last year.” C.J. waved one of the brochures. “She called the number in the ad and was told that Calverson Finance would give her a good deal on a loan if she agreed to have her $550 monthly government aid check deposited directly into a new account with them.

  “So she did. She agreed to the direct deposit and then applied for a loan of $204.84 for a couch. The whole set-up sounded fishy to me and Dolores is certainly no financial wizard, which is why I decided to investigate further. That’s when I discovered that the finance company also charged her $75.00 for death and dismemberment insurance and an additional $10.00 insurance fee. Add interest charges to that and it seems she now owed Calverson Finance $360.00, which she had agreed to pay in monthly installments of $72.00.

  “That’s not all. Six months ago, she gets another loan of $167.00 because she had surgery and extra bills. This time Calverson Finance adds a car-club membership for $90.00. But Dolores doesn’t own a car, she can’t drive and she never knew she was buying the membership. Also, she is never told that there is an additional monthly fee of $4.99 just for the direct deposit.

  “When she came to me, she thought she had two small loan payments. That’s why she couldn’t understand why she couldn’t withdraw some of her government aid money—enough for groceries—with the ATM card the bank sent her.

  “Chief Ferris, Dad, this is not about two small loan payments—Dolores Rotier is in her late eighties and she now owes nearly all the money she receives monthly to Calverson Finance. When I add up their fees and interest, this poor elderly lady is paying an effective annual percentage rate of around 94 percent! Is this a scam or what?”