The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [40]
“Huh. That really sucks.”
“Well, it surprises me all to hell,” she said, “since he was the president of the Maitland Valley Snowmobile Club three or four years ago.”
“He was?” I’m usually a bit snappier than that, but I was really beginning to feel tired.
“Same time my sister and her husband were in it,” she said. “Why don’t you check with the treasurer’s office? They maintain their registration records for five years.”
I explained to her that I didn’t want to make a big deal of it by doing it myself. But that I, Nation County, and the State of Iowa would really appreciate it if she would just make one little phone call.
“I suppose the three of you are gonna give me a raise, too?”
“Sally, you’ve become so cynical the last few years. What would your mother think?”
She sighed. “I’ll call you when your work’s done,” she said, picking up the phone.
I did the polite thing, and hung around. It only took her a few seconds. She wrote furiously, then said, “Beats me. They could.” She hung the phone up, and smiled.
“Three sleds in Clete’s? name, one in his wife’s. Last registered two years ago. Then stopped.”
“He sold them?”
“No records of sale or transfer. He just stopped registering.”
Well, that’d be in keeping with some of the books in his library. Several people protesting taxes and the like would stop registering their cars, getting driver’s licenses, and things like that.
Sally was typing letters and numbers into her teletype.
“What are you running?”
“If I get the numbers, I can pull ’em out for several years back.
“Mildred,” Sally referred to our county treasurer, “wanted to know if you guys thought the killers escaped on snowmobiles.” She sat back smiling, as the printer began to whisper several sheets out.
You can’t get away with a damned thing.
“Just a hunch,” I said, ignoring the question, “but would you run all vehicles registered to Clete?”
“Shouldn’t we include his wife, Inez, in this, too?”
I thought for a second. “Of course.” You really shouldn’t let dispatchers get ahead of you that way. Two or three hundred times, they begin to get ideas.
“Good,” she said, radiating perky. She handed me the papers. “That’s what you got there, along with the snowmobile stuff.” She grinned. “Now run along and eat your doughnut.”
Sally has always been efficient like that. Sometimes it’s a game we play, and sometimes she really catches me about a step behind her. She’s usually magnanimous enough to make it seem like a game.
On the way back to my office, I ran over the lists in my hands. Interesting. Four snowmobiles. Two four-wheelers. All six of them had once been registered, which meant that Cletus had, at one time, run them on public right of way. Two Chevy pickups, a Bronco, an Oldsmobile. The off-road stuff had ceased registration two years ago. The trucks and car, though, were current. The snowmobiles and the four-wheelers were registered to Freeman Liberty Enterprises, Inc. Only the oldest pickup was in Clete’s name. The new pickup and the Bronco were also registered to Freeman Liberty Enterprises, Inc. The Olds belonged to his wife.
I shared that data with Art and Davies.
“How did you find out about this Freeman Liberty Enterprises, or whatever?”
“Same SSN on the corporate registration as is on Mrs. Borglan’s driver’s license,” I said. “When Sally ran the DL numbers, everything with that SSN came back.”
“Probably has his wife as treasurer of the corporation,” said Davies, absently. “I’m not sure I like the name of this corporation, though. More right-wing shit?”
“Could be. There was some indication in the house, but not as strong as some we’ve seen.” I was just being honest.
Davies thought for a second. “So, what does this tell us?”
“Well, he has right-wing leanings, maybe,” I said. “And it tells me that it’s possible that he gave his snowmobiles to his hired man.” I just hate the “right-wing” label, because it’s come to mean irrational in some circles. Sometimes it’s right. Sometimes