A tall, absolutely drop-dead gorgeous blonde appeared at the door to Harry's office. Although her appearance and mannerisms were feminine in every way imaginable, my intuition told me she hadn't always been a woman. But I doubt that unless specifically informed, any man would have known—or cared.
She was carrying a thick stack of file folders under each arm. Sitting in the seat next to me, she plopped the folders on Harry's desktop and reached across her body to me for a handshake.
"Claire makes this place go," Harry said. "She was a decorated member of New York City's finest for eleven years. But some of her personal choices weren't compatible with the working environment there, so she came out here. I'm glad she did. She's been with us for almost ten years now. She does much of the heavy lifting to support our boots-on-the-ground fieldwork."
He turned to her. "Claire, this is Debra Ann Wynn. She's an investigative reporter working with Darrell Woodson, trying to track down two of the players in the Seaver investigation. The guy goes by 'Rickie,' and we've ruled out Ainsworth. Debra Ann, tell her what you know about this Rickie character."
I pulled out my copy of Brian's letter describing Rickie and handed it to Claire. As she read, she chewed on the inside of her lower lip. After a moment, she said, "Yes, I think I might have something on this guy—hang tight for a minute." She tossed aside the top five folders on the right-hand stack and grabbed the next two. Flipping through the first folder, she threw it back onto the pile and opened the one remaining on her lap.
"Hmmm, here's an entry that might work for you," Claire said. "One of our operatives was waiting for Seaver to come out of a restaurant, and Seaver sent one of his minions to tell her to stop following him. The guy was 5 feet 6 inches, maybe 165 or 170, and balding. Think George Costanza, but with a permanent scowl. Not the type of guy you would ordinarily assign to intimidating someone. The operative guessed it was probably some flunky who volunteered as a messenger to get into Seaver's good graces."
"That perfectly fits Brian's description," I said. My prospects were improving.
"We're always looking for people we can leverage later who might know something. So, after this guy accosted her, our operative exchanged vehicles for another one in our pool and returned to the restaurant. Seaver and his crew were still there, and when they left, she followed the short guy."
"Do you have an address for him?" I asked, jumping ahead in my growing excitement.
"Here we go; the operative wrote Rickie's address in the margin," Claire replied, seeming not offended by my enthusiasm. "13482 Elm Bluff. Once she had his address, she did a reverse lookup and checked him out online. From that, she learned he was a tough guy wannabe named Ricky Mason. You spell 'Ricky' with a 'y' instead of 'ie.' Before the franchise went out of business, he was Seaver's trainer at Gold's Gym."
"That squares with what Brian found when he broke into the residence of this 'Rickie,'" I said, my confidence building that this might be the guy.
"A short little guy with a Napoleon complex who tries to give the impression he's connected, but a pure hanger-on," Claire said. "Tried to join the Marines during the latter stages of Operation Iraqi Freedom, but they wouldn't have him. It turns out your Ricky is Seaver's part-time gopher. The doctor lets him do odd jobs to earn spending money. He's a gym rat. I'm sure he's trying to compensate for his size. The detective's notes say he goes to that 24-Hour Fitness over on Valspar and drives an older blue Honda Civic with a Trump 2016 campaign sticker on the bumper."
"A height-challenged wannabe tough guy driving an old underpowered Civic - that paints me a picture," I said with more than a hint of sarcasm. "Do you know if this guy has a wingman, somebody who would participate in a major crime?"
"I see nothing else here," Claire answered. "It didn't seem to the operative that this Ricky was in a position where he could tell us much—likely unreliable, anyway. So that's where she left it—that's all we have on Mason. We focused on the doctor and his scams. We concentrated on Richard Ainsworth because he was a player in that world. We checked Mason out just enough to learn he wasn't necessary to what we wanted to know."
"One too many 'Rickies' in the mix," I murmured.
"If it makes you feel any better," Claire said, "you're not the first to get confused about the nickname. There's a note here that when our operative asked around, she had to clarify which one she meant when asking about Ricky. Most people assume the interest is in Ainsworth."
"Well, you've pinpointed the guy I'm looking for," I said, holding up my phone. "I just entered the address you gave me into Google Maps, and there it is, with the railroad tracks Brian described, right where he said they'd be."
"Mason doesn't seem like the type of guy to have orchestrated the murder himself," Harry said. "But he sounds like the perfect patsy to help hide a body or anything Seaver wanted him to do. Someone Seaver could easily control."
Claire stood up. "I hate to leave a wonderful party, but I have some things I need to do. Debra Ann, it was great to meet you, and I hope you can resolve your situation."
"Oh, Claire, before you go, I promised Debra Ann that we'd send her whatever we have on Seaver's girlfriend, Sheryl Jansen. I just texted you Debra Ann's e-mail address."
"No problem, Harry—I can't wait to see the bonus you give me this year!" Claire said, winking at me.
"Thanks, Claire," I said, turning back to Harry. "I can't thank you enough for the information. And I want to take advantage of your expedited firearms training program to get a concealed carry permit. What do I have to do to sign up for that?"
"If you call me next week, we'll get you going."
"Perfect. As long as I'm in this situation, I might as well do everything right," I said. I thanked Harry again for his help, and we said our goodbyes.
I called for an Uber through the cell phone app as I walked out of Harry's office, and by the time I reached the street, it had just pulled up.
LadyLuck was smiling upon me today, or so it first seemed.