Nashville. We had kept in touch over the years. I’d used him on occasion to get info from
places he had privy to but I didn’t. Tarkington worked with us some years back
on a joint-service case at Pearl Harbor and became close friends with Ted. They
communicated frequently by phone and email.
I reached Ted at his office. “Have
you heard anything more from Red Tarkington about going the PI route?” I asked.
“Sure have, Boss. He’s already out
of the service.”
Ted still used the “Boss” nickname
I had when I was his Special Agent in Charge. “When did it happen?”
“About a month ago. He was working
on getting a private investigator license. I understood he plans to set up shop
in Pensacola. The way things are down there, I imagine there’s lots of
opportunity for fraud in reconstruction. Probably a good climate for an
investigator. What’s going on? Jill hasn’t resigned as your partner, has she?”
Ted and Jill had a special
relationship after she flew him to Boston to be with his dying mother when he
couldn’t get there by commercial air.
“Nothing like that,” I said. “We
have a new case that involves a man who recently moved his business here from
the Panhandle.”
“I bet Red could help you out. Hold
a sec and I’ll get you his phone number.”
I wrote down the number, sent
regards to Ted’s wife, Karen, and hung up. Jill was still digging around on the
Internet.
“Come up with anything yet?” I
asked.
“I’m checking a couple of sources.
Looks like there’s no shortage of info on Aregis out there.”
I went back to the phone and
punched in Red Tarkington’s number.
“This is Greg McKenzie,” I said
when he answered.
“Hi, Colonel. I was asking Ted
about you recently. He said you folks had solved another murder up there. Are
you branching out into homicide?”
“Hardly,” I said with a chuckle.
“Right now we’re doing an investigation that’s linked to a guy who moved his firm
here from Pensacola a few months ago. Ted said you planned to get into the PI
business. That true?”
“I’m working on getting set up. Got
my license. Ready to rent an office and line up some clients.”
“We’d like to be your first, Red.
We need you to look around down there for anything that might appear
questionable about one Louie Aregis or his company, Coastal Capital Ventures.”
After getting Red onboard, I recalled
that he had been a civilian cop before joining the military, serving in the Louisville, Kentucky Police Department. I told him about Izzy Isabell.
“I may need to talk to somebody up
there,” I said. “Do you still have any contacts?”
“Call Lt. Bob Dobyns.” He spelled the
name for me. “Bob is in the Criminal Intelligence Unit.”
I had just gotten off the phone
when a visitor arrived. We didn’t get a lot of walk-ins in our out-of-the-way
location, and this one hardly bore the look of a prospective client. After
stepping through the door, he hesitated, shifted his bleary eyes about, and
approached my desk. Beneath a brown fedora that looked like it had been twisted
into a cylinder a few times, he wore a gray sweat shirt, over that a long black
coat. The tail of the coat had evidently been snagged on a nail. From his
appearance, he might have been a down-and-out PI from an old pulp novel. He had
a bristly beard and his hands showed no sign of having been introduced to soap
lately.
“You Greg McKenzie?” he asked.
I nodded. “What can I do for you?”
“I have some information you need.”
His voice was scratchy, like a well-worn 78 rpm record.
“What makes you think I need it?”
“It’ll cost you to find out.”
I had been exposed to enough
pseudo-snitch winos to be a confirmed skeptic. I stood and faced him. He was a
couple of inches shorter than me. “You’ll have to do better than that if you
want any of our money.”
“It’s about that shootin’ Saturday
night.”
Now he had my attention. “How does
it involve the
places he had privy to but I didn’t. Tarkington worked with us some years back
on a joint-service case at Pearl Harbor and became close friends with Ted. They
communicated frequently by phone and email.
I reached Ted at his office. “Have
you heard anything more from Red Tarkington about going the PI route?” I asked.
“Sure have, Boss. He’s already out
of the service.”
Ted still used the “Boss” nickname
I had when I was his Special Agent in Charge. “When did it happen?”
“About a month ago. He was working
on getting a private investigator license. I understood he plans to set up shop
in Pensacola. The way things are down there, I imagine there’s lots of
opportunity for fraud in reconstruction. Probably a good climate for an
investigator. What’s going on? Jill hasn’t resigned as your partner, has she?”
Ted and Jill had a special
relationship after she flew him to Boston to be with his dying mother when he
couldn’t get there by commercial air.
“Nothing like that,” I said. “We
have a new case that involves a man who recently moved his business here from
the Panhandle.”
“I bet Red could help you out. Hold
a sec and I’ll get you his phone number.”
I wrote down the number, sent
regards to Ted’s wife, Karen, and hung up. Jill was still digging around on the
Internet.
“Come up with anything yet?” I
asked.
“I’m checking a couple of sources.
Looks like there’s no shortage of info on Aregis out there.”
I went back to the phone and
punched in Red Tarkington’s number.
“This is Greg McKenzie,” I said
when he answered.
“Hi, Colonel. I was asking Ted
about you recently. He said you folks had solved another murder up there. Are
you branching out into homicide?”
“Hardly,” I said with a chuckle.
“Right now we’re doing an investigation that’s linked to a guy who moved his firm
here from Pensacola a few months ago. Ted said you planned to get into the PI
business. That true?”
“I’m working on getting set up. Got
my license. Ready to rent an office and line up some clients.”
“We’d like to be your first, Red.
We need you to look around down there for anything that might appear
questionable about one Louie Aregis or his company, Coastal Capital Ventures.”
After getting Red onboard, I recalled
that he had been a civilian cop before joining the military, serving in the Louisville, Kentucky Police Department. I told him about Izzy Isabell.
“I may need to talk to somebody up
there,” I said. “Do you still have any contacts?”
“Call Lt. Bob Dobyns.” He spelled the
name for me. “Bob is in the Criminal Intelligence Unit.”
I had just gotten off the phone
when a visitor arrived. We didn’t get a lot of walk-ins in our out-of-the-way
location, and this one hardly bore the look of a prospective client. After
stepping through the door, he hesitated, shifted his bleary eyes about, and
approached my desk. Beneath a brown fedora that looked like it had been twisted
into a cylinder a few times, he wore a gray sweat shirt, over that a long black
coat. The tail of the coat had evidently been snagged on a nail. From his
appearance, he might have been a down-and-out PI from an old pulp novel. He had
a bristly beard and his hands showed no sign of having been introduced to soap
lately.
“You Greg McKenzie?” he asked.
I nodded. “What can I do for you?”
“I have some information you need.”
His voice was scratchy, like a well-worn 78 rpm record.
“What makes you think I need it?”
“It’ll cost you to find out.”
I had been exposed to enough
pseudo-snitch winos to be a confirmed skeptic. I stood and faced him. He was a
couple of inches shorter than me. “You’ll have to do better than that if you
want any of our money.”
“It’s about that shootin’ Saturday
night.”
Now he had my attention. “How does
it involve the
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