Ghosts of the Past Read online

  His dinner of grilled salmon had been superb, and the Margarita’s had left Garagua more than relaxed. He was glad to see she was in no hurry to bolt. At this point of the evening, he figured when she decided to leave, she was headed home. That meant when she got back to her place, he could pass her off to the boss for the evening, and get some shuteye.

  He and Bolivar had gotten almost no rest from the time Rocca had summoned them yesterday evening until now. They had hit the ground running ever since the Rocca International Gulfstream #3 had touched down at Louisville International airport early that morning. There was time on the flight to gather and assimilate enough information on Courtney Lewis to get them started on the basic surveillance, which they had managed to accomplish earlier in the day. That had allowed Bolivar time to do more in-depth research on Ms. Lewis, while Garagua had been following her to work and beyond.

  That research had netted them credit card numbers, bank and investment account information, club and organization affiliations, and other specific personal data that Bolivar loaded into his laptop and processed through a proprietary database software that created a comprehensive profile of Courtney Lewis and a history of her activities for the last few years.

  Garagua knew that program had probably been completed earlier, and that Bolivar had most of the late afternoon and evening to relax and catch up on his own sleep. Soon it would be his turn to trade off, and get enough sleep to tide him over. It did not require much to keep him going, but at this point, his tank was empty.

  Ferguson had no idea of what to pack for Switzerland in May. He did know, he would undoubtedly be in the mountains, so he prepared his clothing selections accordingly. As he hastily stacked clothes on his bed, he wasn’t sure, but something was just not right. He stopped, listened for a few seconds, looked around the room, and then shook his head as if he was certain he was going crazy.

  He stuffed everything he laid out into a Rossignol oversize, ski duffle bag, and added what was left on hangers to an L.L. Bean garment travel bag. He froze again, and had an inexplicable feeling he was being watched, or that something was not as it should be. He thought his paranoia was starting to get out of hand. Nevertheless, paranoia or not, it was time for him to get out of this house for a while. He shut down all the lights that weren’t on timers, he turned the thermostat to ‘off’, picked up the two bags, and warily peaked into the garage before scurrying to his car. He was in and out of the house in less than fifteen minutes. He would be back to Courtney in another five.

  Chapter 9

  May 20, 2001. Louisville, Kentucky.

  Toby Shutt was finishing off the last vestiges of black coffee in his University of Kentucky plastic thermos. He made a mental note that he would have to fill it up one more time to keep him going through the paperwork that had consumed him since returning to the station. The reports, write-ups and never-ending documentation that had to be accounted for in any investigation, let alone a triple homicide, never ceased to amaze him. It had been a long day.

  Unfortunately, after the paper trail was finished and filed, the real job of detective work began. It was going to be an even longer day.

  Detective Shawna Hammer, the newest, and first black female detective in the Homicide Division, stepped into Shutt’s cubicle and dropped a large 9 x 12 manila envelope into his IN box. “I.D.’s and bio’s on the deceased and preliminary crime scene results from Forensics. You can thank Danny for putting it together so fast.”

  “Thanks for dropping it off.”

  “My pleasure. If there’s anything I can help you with, let me know.”

  “Thanks Shawna, I will. If you don’t mind, can you drop these off with Michelle and tell her to file these, and put these with the evidence boxes?”

  Shawna grabbed the two stacks of files from Shutt’s outstretched hands, nodded and walked away. She respected Shutt and appreciated how he had treated her with the same respect ever since she had hit the ground running two months ago. However, she was also cognizant of, and resented the impression that many of the other detectives had, that she was merely a product of affirmative action fulfilled. The reality was, she was a damn good cop, and her’s was a well-deserved merit promotion.

  Shutt moved everything in the middle of his desk off to the side, and proceeded to spill the contents of the envelope in front of him. There were three tabbed file folders, each labeled by last name, then first. Inside each folder was whatever Danny Woods, the JCPD’s resident computer wizard, had been able to scrounge up from his amazing electronic investigative skills. He started with the folder marked Karl, Johann, PhD.

  He scanned over the faxes and reproductions of info from the Department of Motor Vehicles, the U of L Faculty Directory, Social Security Administration, a credit history report, and bank loan and mortgage applications. He settled on a resume with a single page of handwritten notes from Danny paper clipped on top.

  Shutt took in the highlights: Emigrated to U.S. in 1947 from Munich, Germany. Graduated from University of Pennsylvania in 1950. Graduate studies at Ohio State. A PhD in 1956. Teaching assistant while going to school. Came to University of Louisville in 1962 to teach German and European History. Wound up Dean of the College. Impressive service! He’s an old fart. No wife, no kids.

  He referred to Danny’s observations in the notes of no immediate next of kin, and a concern that his cursory search of some available German database had turned up no record of a Johann Manfred Karl in Munich, or anywhere else for that matter, that came close to the age of the deceased. He reckoned, that given the timing of the date he left Germany, that it would not have been unusual for a former German soldier or Nazi party member that settled outside of Germany to change their name or identity. He speculated that Karl could have been either, or records of him could have easily been destroyed in the war.

  The other two files were rubber banded together, again with a note from Danny.

  These two were easy! Their prints were on file. Both of these clowns are real winners! I’m not sure it means anything, but these two have some history with anti-Semitic and Neo-Nazi groups. You might check out an Aryan race or Nazi connection?

  Danny

  Again, Shutt perused the rap sheets and history of Jimmy Syron and Jay Nieron. Typical dead-end backgrounds. Neither one finished high school. The obvious drug involvement, followed by a long list of misdemeanors, and finally the prison-time felony. Both did time in Eddyville Penitentiary, were paroled, and began affiliations with a long list of undesirables. Blah, blah, blah . . . Losers!

  The forensics and ballistics reports were the last of the paperwork in the file. It simply confirmed what he had deduced from his visual of the crime scene. The slugs pulled from Syron and Nieron did not match either one of the guns they were carrying, and in fact neither of those weapons had been fired. The stiletto was responsible for the neck wound to Karl, which had caused his death. Prints lifted from the handle of the knife belonged to Syron. Shutt tapped his fingers on the open file, drew a deep breath, and while exhaling looked up, staring blankly at the wall in front of him as if drawing some divine inspiration. For reasons unknown, Syron killed Karl, and then was systematically shot, along with Nieron; by a third party that appeared to know what he was doing when it came to firing a handgun.

  Shawna stuck her head in to the cubicle again, interrupting Shutt’s train of thought, causing him to unconsciously close up the folders in front of him. “By the way I forgot to tell you before, we cross-matched prints on one of your ‘stiffs’, Jimmy Syron. His prints were on a knife recovered from a botched robbery attempt in the east end earlier this week; a house off Chenoweth Lane. The description on that blade is similar to the one we found on him at the Karl house. The victim, he actually fought off this Syron character, was a guy by the name of…” she glanced at a sheet of paper she was carrying in her right hand, “Ferguson. That’s it, Matt Ferguson.” She nodded affir
matively and walked away.

  It took a few seconds to register, but the mental image of the young man, in the street in front of Dr. Karl’s house, reaching out to shake his hand, materialized clearly in his memory… “I’m just a friend of Courtney’s. Matt Ferguson.”

  Bingo!

  “Shawna!” Shutt yelled out. No answer.

  He picked up the phone and dialed an extension. “Hello sergeant, Toby Shutt in Homicide. Yeah, you can help. There was a robbery earlier this week at the home of a Matt Ferguson, somewhere off Chenoweth Lane in the St. Matthews area. Right! Can you have the file forwarded to me as soon as possible? Yep! Toby Shutt. Thank you sergeant.”

  Courtney was enjoying the peace and quiet of being alone for the first time since this morning. She felt perfectly safe in the crowded restaurant, and the alcohol was achieving its desired results. She had already taken care of the bill, tipping the waiter handsomely while asking, and receiving permission, to languish at the table for another ten to fifteen minutes.

  The cell phone was barely audible as it rang inside her purse. She answered on the fourth ring. “Matt?”

  “Yeah, I’m pulling up in the parking lot right now.”

  “Alright, meet me at the back entrance. I want to pass right by this joker on the way out.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid Courtney!”

  “I’m not. I’ll see you out back.”

  Courtney took one last sip of her coffee, stood up, grabbed her purse, and headed up the patio steps into the main dining room. She walked past the hostess’ desk and right at Carlos Garagua who was hurriedly paying his bill with the bartender.

  She intentionally appeared to stumble and fell into a well-dressed young man, who, after a murderous day at the office, was enjoying his third beer of the evening with three of his buddies. The majority of that third beer capsized strategically onto Garagua’s lap, while Courtney was dramatically apologizing to the young executive, and then in turn to Garagua.

  She started to reach into her purse, “I’m so sorry! Please let me pay for everyone’s tab.”

  The young man, obviously infatuated with the beautiful young woman who had fallen in his lap, laughed aloud, and then ignoring the beer-drenched man beside him, politely looked at Courtney, “Are you okay? You didn’t hurt yourself?”

  “No, I’m fine thanks.” She looked at Garagua and without a hint of the intended sarcasm said, “I’m really very sorry!”

  Again, the young man deflected the apology. “We’re fine. Really we are.” He looked at Garagua and winked.

  Garagua stood up and was mopping his pants and jacket with a towel offered by the bartender. “Everything’s alright Seniorita, nothing that can’t be cleaned.” He was trying not to look at Courtney, going out of his way not to give her a clear shot of his face.

  “See, no harm no foul. Put your money away. In fact, what are you drinking?” The young man snapped his fingers at the bartender. “What can we get ya?”

  “I’m so embarrassed! I am actually leaving. I’m late for an appointment. Thank you for the offer.”

  The disappointment was obvious on the face of the young man, as Courtney quickly closed her purse and started for the back door. She stopped abruptly and stepped back to give him a one-armed hug, and then a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for the offer, but you’ve done quite enough, thanks!”

  She could hear the razzing the young man was taking from his pals as she walked out the back door, up the stairs, and climbed into the car with Ferguson.

  Shit! The stupid bitch! Garagua threw the towel back at the bartender and shoved his way through the yuppie happy hour. He reached the back door in time to see the same Explorer from this afternoon drive off with Courtney in the passenger seat.

  He bolted out the door and headed quickly for his car as he watched the SUV circle the back parking lot and head for the exit onto Brownsboro Road. He pulled out of his parking space and fell in behind them, turning on his headlights to disguise himself in their mirror. Shit! Shit! Shit! I smell like a fucking brewery.

  Garagua did not get a good look at the driver, but he was convinced it was the same guy she had been with earlier in the day. It certainly was the same car. He followed them west down Brownsboro Road, until they turned north onto Zorn Avenue. A half mile down Zorn they both turned west again and climbed the ramp up to Interstate 71 headed for downtown.

  “This is gonna be fun!” Ferguson scooted his butt back and forth in his seat, settling himself deep into the leather. “You might want to brace yourself,” Ferguson smiled at Courtney, “we’re going to do a little lane jumping.”

  Courtney mimicked the same movement with her derriere and grabbed the armrests with both hands.

  Ferguson reached for the dashboard and turned the switch from two-wheel drive to four-wheel drive, waited for the automatic conversion to take place, and scanned the grass median ahead to locate the deepest and steepest slope he could find. He slowed down gradually from about 70 miles per hour to 60 without applying his brakes, found the spot he was looking for and removed his foot from the accelerator. They slowed further, and at the moment the white Taurus was within a few car links, Ferguson braked hard, yanked to the left on the steering wheel, and dove into the grass and down the embankment.

  It was a severe depression, but the four wheels powered the Explorer down and then up to the other side of the Interstate with very little difficulty. Ferguson drove along the edge until the oncoming traffic raced by, and then accelerated onto the main road and into the right lane, the grass and mud thumping against the wheel wells as it released from the tires. By the time he returned the switch to two-wheel drive, they had reached the eastbound Zorn Avenue exit, where Ferguson immediately veered off the interstate and down the ramp that led back to Zorn Avenue.

  Ferguson and Courtney maintained eye contact with Garagua through the whole process, and once they had safely reached the bottom of the exit ramp, looked at each other and burst out laughing hysterically. They reached her apartment in less than ten minutes.

  It took Garagua twenty minutes. The next exit off I-71wasn’t for another two miles when he reached the downtown Louisville riverfront area, where 71, I-64, and I-65 all converged in a morass of asphalt ramps, exits, bridges and interchanges, locally referred to as “Spaghetti Junction”. It was no coincidence he got hopelessly confused and wound up on the streets of the central business district.

  During his exploration of the downtown area, he had placed an angry and embarrassed phone call to Bolivar, recounting the latest developments in his bungled surveillance of Miss Lewis. However, before he could finish explaining the details, she and her four-wheel driving companion had just showed up at her apartment, much to the delight of Bolivar, and much to the relief of Garagua.

  From the alley across the street from the Willow’s garage and main entrances, Bolivar recognized the Ford Explorer from Garagua’s description, and watched as it parked in the visitor’s parking area and Courtney and Ferguson emerged and entered the tower. He leaned over to examine the electronic gear he had loaded in the front seat and made sure it was operational. He started the small recorder, reclined his seat, put on a pair of padded headphones, leaned back and closed his eyes.

  When Garagua arrived, he parked down the same alley, but well out of direct site of the front entrance. He strolled over to the Concorde, tapped lightly on the passenger-side window. Bolivar motioned for him to get in the back seat and electronically unlocked the doors.

  “Sorry amigo!” Garagua apologized as he climbed in back, the doors locking behind him.

  “No harm, we still have her, but they’re in a hurry. I heard them when they first came in. They’ve guessed correctly, that if you’ve been tracking her this long, you might know where she lives.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “She’s packing. Other
than that, I haven’t heard anything said between the two of them for a while. They appeared to be arguing earlier. Something about going somewhere, she says ‘yes’, and he says ‘no’.”

  Well, if we have to follow them again, we need to take this car. They’ve made the other one.”

  Bolivar adjusted the headphones and pulled his seat back up. I’ll take ’em. You can get some rest. You smell like a frickin’ six-pack. I thought I told you to keep the drinking to a minimum when you’re working!”

  “I only had two margaritas; the beer was compliments of the young lady. She spilled it all over me, the little bitch!” Garagua gestured toward the Willows tower.

  They both chuckled in unison. Neither paid any attention to the dark green Lincoln that also pulled into the visitor’s lot.

  Courtney pulled her passport out of the dresser drawer and tossed it on top of the clothes neatly stacked in the suitcase spread open on the bed. She paused briefly, grabbing her chin with her thumb and forefinger, glanced around the room and into her closet, and then nodded in confirmation that she had everything she needed.

  She was in a hurry, but she had managed to get two suitcases strategically packed, along with a large, black shoulder bag full of cosmetics, toiletries, and jewelry. She looked every bit the pack mule as she drug all three items out of her bedroom and into the main living area.

  Ferguson had spent the fifteen minutes she had taken to pack to wander around the apartment in amazement at all the art and sculpture scattered throughout the room and on the walls. He was staring at the large bronze nudes when she emerged.

  Courtney gave an exaggerated clearing of her throat, “Excuse me, can I get a little help over here?”