Secrets in Stockbridge

Chapter 1-2

My flight the next morning was about as straightforward as it could be, considering I was flying last-minute from Tallahassee’s regional airport (seriously—what other state capital has a regional airport?) to Albany. Which means it took me seven hours. I remember Atlanta and Detroit, and I think maybe the International Space Station was in there somewhere. Thank goodness I had packed light—it made the cross-terminal sprints easier. On the bright side, I had plenty of time to review my notes and get my head on straight during the trip.

James Marshall had been upfront with Jeanette about the skeletons in his closet, including his conviction for check fraud under his previous name, Jimmy Smith. I confirmed that he’d served a couple of years in Broward County, Florida, back in the mid ‘90s, and I didn’t find any other criminal convictions under either name. The Florida connection is one of the reasons Bran gave for calling me, and there was some logic to that. Once I’d exhausted all of my paper trails, I’d put out some calls and eventually got someone who’d been an investigator for the Broward Public Defender’s office at the time James was convicted.

Simon Marshall (no relation to James) is a guy who runs counter to stereotype. With his English accent and silver-haired good looks, Simon is more likely to be cast as a high-class jewel thief than a lowly PD investigator.

“Believe it or not, of all the Smiths I’ve met in my storied career, I do remember Jimmy. Pretty minor charges, but he was an interesting guy. Very charming.”

“Oh, come, Simon. I’m sure he has nothing on you.”

“True enough. I remember the first time we met, he asked me to explain the game of cricket to him. People are always asking me silly questions—does the queen really use Tupperware? What’s in a Yorkshire pudding? Those types of things. But Jimmy had this look when he asked … he wasn’t seriously asking, but he wasn’t just taking the piss either. It’s like there was a joke we were both in on. I told him he’d asked the wrong reformed Englishman; it just seemed to me like baseball for people short a few bases and a proper bat.”

“So charm aside, if his charges were so minor, what made Jimmy memorable?”

“Glad to see you continue to be more than just a lovely face. Something just felt a little wonky about Jimmy’s case. First of all, it was a felony, but one of the less felonious ones if you catch my meaning. An attractive woman a few years older than Jimmy—married, I might add—claimed that Jimmy had forged a couple of her checks. It wasn’t more than a few thousand dollars. When I interviewed the woman, let’s just say I felt she wasn’t being entirely truthful with me.”

“Meaning?”

“The account was in her name. Her husband was a lawyer or banker or some such thing and had made sure she had her own account for household expenses and play money. But I think he suspected her play was getting a little too playful. He checked the account and confronted her, and she came up with this ridiculous forgery story.”

The sounds of Simon fiddling at his desk were audible over the phone. He’s notorious for keeping all his office memos in a tray and cutting them (unread) into mini paper doll chains while talking on the phone. Being so good at his job and close to retirement, no one higher up found it worthwhile to do anything about it except designate juniors to fetch Simon for crucial meetings. I still couldn’t resist a little dig.

“Careful playing with scissors. Is this just your gut talking or do you have evidence?”

“Thank you for your concern. For the record, no portion of my alimentary canal has the power of speech. Call it a combination of intuition and empirical evidence. I saw the checks. If Jimmy were that good a forger, he’d be working a different circuit. And from what I can tell, Jimmy knew bugger all about forgery. He didn’t need to. Jimmy had a reputation for exciting the kindness of women. Why take what is freely given? He may have gone as far as the occasional bogus investment scheme, but Jimmy never took anyone for more than she could afford to lose. That’s how he avoided being charged.”

“Okay, so you didn’t believe the victim. What else was off?” I asked.

“Well, like I said, this wasn’t a serious case as felonies go. And I think he had a good chance of winning in court, or at least dealing out for a slap on the wrist so the victim could avoid going to court. The odd thing is he didn’t. He didn’t push for bail, and once a trial date was set he pled guilty. To the original charge, with very little reduction in time. Sentenced to something like three years, probably served less.”

“A little over two. What do you think—guilty conscience?”

Simon barked out a laugh. “Not bloody likely. I spent a fair amount of time with Jimmy, though I didn’t need to. You know how it is—sometimes it’s easier to deal with the wankers you have to see if you’ve also got someone to look forward to. I’d pull him out for a social visit whenever I happened by the jail. I enjoyed talking with him, but there was always this undercurrent, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Some other charges to be filed or something; I don’t know what. I asked him once about his willingness to go to prison. He just fed me that line about ‘three squares a day.’ We both knew there was something else going on, but we also both knew I wasn’t going to get any more out of him.”

I could hear another voice in the background, then Simon’s chair hitting the floor and scissors hitting his desk. “Sydney, love, some wet-behind-the-ears bloody lawyer tells me I’m supposed to be in some bloody nonsense meeting now. Promise me you’ll call next time you’re in the neighborhood.”

“Abso-bloody-lutely, Simon.” I always suspected he pulled out extra bloodies on my account. I’d once admitted I was a sucker for his accent. “By the way, Mr. Marshall, did you know Jimmy legally changed his name after he got out?”

“No, Ms. Brennan, but I can’t say as I’m surprised.”

“Trying to get a fresh start I guess. He changed it to James Marshall.” Silence on the other end. “I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. ‘Ta, love!”

A speechless Simon Marshall was a first in my experience. I didn’t have a problem with someone getting a name change (Sydney Brennan isn’t the name I was born with either), but I also hadn’t inspired a felon to adopt my last name as his own.