Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  She’d been having an affair with Matos and had been in his cell the night of the murder.

  She’d done it before.

  Ordinarily, the cell doors in the PM quad remained open, so it wasn’t much of a problem for her to sneak in and out, but with a lock-down in place, she had been trapped inside. When Matos left the cell, he disabled the lock, so all she had to do was find a time to sneak out, which she did in the early morning hours when there was only one crime scene tech left in Menge’s cell. Prepared to explain her presence if caught by saying she had been called in because the control room sergeant had mistakenly thought she was Menge’s psyche specialist, she slipped out of the quad, through the center gate, in the back door of the medical building, and into her office where she had spent the night.

  Carla, Rudy’s teenage daughter, took her order at the booth in the back while I called Susan. Reaching her voicemail, I asked her to meet me at Rudy’s or call me as soon as she could.

  When Carla came back behind the counter, she said, “She’s a mess.”

  She said it with compassion and without judgment, as if commenting on her clothing, which I knew she’d get to sooner or later.

  “And that outfit . . . You get her out of bed?”

  I nodded.

  “Still trying to save the world?” she asked, her tone more biting than playful, and I knew why.

  “Man’s gotta have a goal.”

  “What’s the new wife think about these goals of yours? She know that the world you seem to be saving is predominantly female?”

  I didn’t think that was true, but I said, “Gotta start somewhere.”

  Prior to patching things up with Susan, I had spent most nights at Rudy’s—reading in a booth in the back while Carla, who Rudy required to keep the place open all night, got some sleep. For the past few months I hadn’t been around much, and since Susan had moved to Tallahassee it had only gotten worse.

  “Sorry I haven’t been around as much lately.”

  Carla shrugged and made an expression that either said it didn’t matter or it was to be expected.

  Back at the booth, I found Lisa huddled in the big coat she wore, staring out the window nervously as if expecting someone unpleasant to drive up.

  When I sat down, she whipped her head around toward me.

  “You okay?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

  I nodded, encouraging her to continue.

  “I’m scared.”

  “Of what? Is it related to work? To Menge’s death?”

  “I can’t talk about it,” she said, shaking her head.

  As usual, Rudy’s was cold, the condensation covering the plate glass windows looking like a frozen sheet of ice beginning to thaw. It was empty, which was also usual. Rudy’s was more a lunch place for the work force of Pottersville than a place you take the family for an evening meal.

  “You need to,” I said. “With someone. Do you have anybody you can—”

  She shook her head.

  “Then why not me?”

  She shrugged.

  “You were close to Justin, weren’t you?”

  She nodded. “I saw him on a regular basis—not that he needed therapy. He didn’t. He just was committed to becoming the best person he could be. He liked counseling.”

  I nodded.

  “I liked him, but I loved his art. He was so gifted. I was in awe.”

  “He really was,” I agreed.

  “Is this just between us? No matter what I say?”

  “Unless you say you killed him.”

  “I didn’t. But I used to break the rules sometimes. Sneak in pens or paints for him. Not often, but—one time all his materials were taken away and he crushed up M&M’s and used them for paint. It was amazing. It really was, but he didn’t need to waste time on M&M prints when he could be working on a masterpiece.”

  “I agree.”

  She started to say something else, but stopped as Carla arrived at our table with coffee, waffles, and bacon.

  “Why do you keep it so cold in here?” Lisa asked.

  “Keeps me awake,” Carla explained. “And makes me sleep lighter when I do sleep. I’m here alone a lot at night.”

  I avoided her eyes. What could I say? I started to apologize again, but she walked off before I could. When she was gone, Lisa took small sips of her coffee with jittery hands, spilling some of it on her saucer as she did.

  I waited to see if she was going to pray over our food. When she didn’t, I said a quick one to myself without bowing my head or closing my eyes.

  “Oh, that’s good coffee,” she said, then set it down and began to eat like a starving person just pulled off the streets and given her first real meal in weeks.

  My waffle was sweet and sprinkled with pecans, the bacon lean and crisp. I saturated both in syrup and ate in a manner not dissimilar to Lisa’s—though I hadn’t missed any meals. I lifted my fork to Carla and nodded toward her when she looked over our way.

  “Glad you like it.”

  When I saw that Lisa was nearly finished, I asked Carla to throw on a little more for us, which she promptly did.

  Though Rudy’s was a southern fried restaurant, it looked more like an Omelet House or Waffle Shoppe, which it had been at one time. The grill ran along the back wall and was visible over the counter in front of it, and I watched Carla as she worked. Her life was more difficult than any teenager’s should be, but you’d never know it to watch her.

  “God, I feel so much better just from having eaten,” she said.

  “You haven’t eaten lately?”

  “I haven’t left the house. Not much of a cook, so I don’t keep a lot of food there.” “Who’re you so scared of?”

  “Chris Sobel,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Justin had decided not to testify against Martinez. He told me the day he was murdered.”

  I nodded.

  “It was all fabricated anyway. Martinez hadn’t told him anything. They’d never even spoken. He was doing it to get out early to be with Chris.”

  “What does that have to do with you being afraid of Chris?”

  The small bell above the door jingled and she spun around to see who it was. When she saw that it was a young couple, she turned back toward me. It was Michael and Shebrica Pitts. If Lisa recognized him, she gave no indication. When Pitts saw me, he grabbed his wife by the arm and ushered her back toward the door.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I jumped up and ran over to them.

  “You weren’t on the disc,” I said. “Potter was.”

  “You gonna do this here?” he asked.

  “Why would you say it was you?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Because that fat bastard paid him to,” Shebrica said.

  “Shut up.”

  With one hand he pushed the door open. With the other, he grabbed Shebrica’s arm again and pulled her out of it.

  “I ain’t lettin’ you go to prison for that cracker,” she said to him, then to me, “He didn’t beat anybody and he didn’t kill anybody. Billy Joe paid him a bunch of money to say he beat that boy.”

  When she was through the door, the hydraulic hinge pulled it shut. I let them go. I didn’t doubt that Potter had paid Pitts to say he was on the disc, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t administered several tune-ups of his own.

  The moment I sat back down at the table, Lisa began to tell her story.

  “Chris Sobel is a very dangerous man. He was in on some drug charge, but he’s a killer. He just didn’t get caught for it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Justin told me.”

  The bell sounded again and an elderly couple entered slowly and ambled down to a booth on the opposite end where Carla had coffee waiting for them by the time they reached it. They both smiled at her adoringly, and the old man patted her hair gently with a shaking, disfigured hand.

  “Even if Justin was right about h
im, how is he a threat to you?”

  “Because I know.”

  As she talked, her eyes searched mine, and I could tell she was looking for acceptance, but expecting judgment.

  “What do you know?”

  When Carla brought our second round of food, she set it down quickly without speaking and hurried away.

  “Justin was going to testify that Juan Martinez had confessed to him that he had killed a man in Pensacola. He knew enough details—including how it was done and where the body was hidden—to convince a jury and put Martinez away for the rest of his life.”

  Tears formed in her eyes and she stopped talking as her chin began to quiver. She was no longer interested in the food, and neither was I.

  “But Juan didn’t do it. Chris did. It’s how Justin had all the details. They knew how much Inspector Daniels wanted Martinez so they made a deal. Setting up Juan would help Chris and Justin. Enable them to be together.”

  The small bell above the door jingled again, and she jerked her head back to see who it was. It was just the wind. This seemed to disturb her more than if it had been someone, as if she feared an apparition had entered, and when she turned back to face me she looked ghostly herself.

  That’s it! David and Uriah. Justin was murdered for the same reason Uriah had been—to cover up another crime. It’s been there in front of me all the time.

  I finally had the one piece of information that put all the others into place, and the picture they formed was shocking and disturbing—and I hoped I was wrong.

  “But Justin decided not to testify,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “Do you know why?”

  “He just couldn’t go through with it. Knew it’d eat away at him. I think he began having second thoughts about Chris, too.”

  “And when he decided not to testify . . .”

  “He was killed. I think Chris did it, and since I know, I think he’ll come after me.”

  50

  “I figured I’d find you here,” Pete Fortner said.

  He had entered Rudy’s a few moments before holding a file folder, and motioned me over to the opposite side of the diner. We were now standing near the last booth, as far away from everyone else in the restaurant as we could get.

  “You found me,” I said. “Pete Fortner. Ace detective.”

  He let out an unpleasant sound that could have been a sarcastic laugh.

  His bushy mustache needed trimming, the shadow of his beard on his face was dark, and behind his glasses his eyes looked hollow and weary.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’ve been better,” I said. “How about you?”

  “Daniels has completely shut me out of this thing,” he said. “Had me running all over the place. Even got me sitting in his chair in Central Office answering the damn telephone while he’s over here.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “May finally be getting somewhere.”

  “You got any idea where he is now?”

  “Who?”

  “The inspector.”

  “Home, I guess,” I said.

  He held up the folder. “This came for him today. Tox report.”

  “May I?” I asked, taking the file without waiting for his response.

  He nodded. “I’d rather give it to you than him anyway.”

  I studied the contents of the folder.

  “He was drugged up pretty good, wasn’t he?”

  I nodded. “He sure was. The killer made it easy on himself. Gave him barbiturates to make him sleepy and easy to control and heparin, which according to this is an anti-coagulant.”

  “Blood thinner?”

  I nodded. “Made him easy to manage and thinned his blood, then put him face down on his cell floor, slit his throat, and just let him bleed out.”

  Pete shook his head. “Sick son of a bitch.”

  “Maybe. Definitely smart son of a bitch. He knew just what he was doing.”

  A few minutes later, while Carla was clearing the dishes from the table and I was trying Susan again, Merrill walked in, Sharon Hawkins following closely behind him. After I left a second message for Susan, I joined them at the table.

  Susan should have been here by now—or called. I wasn’t worried yet, but I was getting there.

  When I returned to the table, Merrill nodded at Lisa. “Counselor here say she just gave you a clue.”

  I nodded, then told him about the tox results Pete had dropped off.

  “You got it?”

  “I think so. Need to talk to Paula Menge to be sure.”

  “Well, give her a call and let’s get this shit over with.”

  Sitting across from each other, Sharon and Lisa seemed to be looking into an emotional mirror, each reflecting the other’s fear. As I looked at them, realizing that two different men were the cause of their terror, I wondered how many women lived in fear, a heavy sense of dread and detachment distancing them from everything else because of the men they had allowed into their lives.

  Merrill reached across the table and handed me his cell before I could ask for it. I punched in Paula’s number and waited. As I did, I noticed something taking place between Sharon and Lisa I didn’t quite understand. They seemed to be measuring each other, figuring on whether the other was friend or foe. It would seem there were some instincts not even fear could suspend.

  It took Paula several rings to answer the phone, and her voice sounded soft and sleepy.

  “I wake you?”

  “Chaplain Jordan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I must’ve dozed off. Too much wine. I’m glad you called. I could’ve drowned. I’m in the tub.”

  “How’re you holding up?” I asked.

  “Good days and bad,” she said, as if she had said it a thousand times.

  “If it’s okay, I need to ask you one more question.”

  “Sure. Fire away.”

  “Are you sure Justin ate during your visit?”

  “Positive. Told you. He ate a ton of junk out of those vending machines.”

  Her words made my heart sink and my temples throb.

  “I bet I fed ten dollars into those machines. I think it was because we were so nervous, but we ate and drank a lot—especially Justin. He must’ve really developed an appetite in there. Before, you couldn’t get him to eat, but that night I couldn’t get him to stop.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “I’ve got to go right now, but I’ll tell you soon. I promise.”

  Merrill unzipped his black leather jacket and turned the collar down. Lisa’s eyes widened at how big his neck was.

  Ending the call with Paula, I punched in Susan’s number again and got her voicemail. Without leaving another message, I called her office and found that she had left at the normal time. I then punched in Sarah Daniels’s number, worried, but still hopeful.

  “Oh, John, thank God. Where are you?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Get back to the prison right away. Tom called and told me goodbye. He sounded so bad. I think he’s being held hostage. He was making an arrest. Please. You’ve got to help him. Please.”

  “Tell me exactly what he said.”

  Susan pulled into Rudy’s parking lot, and relief began to join the dread inside me.

  “He said he was finally able to get the man who . . . attacked me, but ran into trouble when he went to arrest him. I think somebody had already killed him.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I ended the call as Susan was coming through the door. I looked over at Merrill.

  “See if Pete’ll keep an eye on them,” I said, nodding toward Sharon, Lisa, and Carla.

  He headed toward Pete’s table as I went to meet Susan.

  “What’s wrong?” Susan asked.

  “I need to talk to you and I don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Okay.”

  “Come
over here.”

  I led her over to an empty area in the back.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s gonna be hard to hear. I wish I didn’t have to tell you—wish I had more time, but I want you to know before I do anything.”

  “God, you sound so ominous.”

  “You know I love you,” I said. “Everything’s going to—”

  “Quit with all the build up. Just tell me.”

  “I just want you to know—”

  “I mean it, John, just tell me.”

  “I love you. I’m here for you. We can get through this together.”

  “Tell me now or I’m walkin’ away.”

  “I’m pretty sure your dad killed Justin Menge,” I said.

  51

  “What?” she asked in shock. “No.”

  “I’m sorry, but he did. Justin decided not to testify and—”

  “He was with you when it happened,” she said, her voice soft, pained.

  “He was with me when we discovered what had happened, not when it happened. It had happened a while before that. That’s why the changes in the body and the blood never matched the time of death. Of course, the blood thinner your dad gave him kept the blood from clotting all the way so that helped it look like the time of death was more recent than it was, but it was still obvious that something was wrong with it. I kept wondering why he didn’t seem concerned about time of death, why it didn’t bother him that the body and the blood contradicted what we thought we saw, why he kept saying that we established time of death, not the autopsy.

  “When I first saw your dad he had already killed Justin—he even let it slip that he had just seen him, but caught himself and said it was Sobel. My guess is the syringes he used to drug him, the shank he used to kill him, and the CO uniform he wore over his clothes to keep the blood off him were in his satchel. He said he left his notebook in PM—that was his excuse to return to the quad with me—but he never got it when we got down there, never mentioned it again.”

  She shook her head, refusing to hear what I was saying, refusing to allow for even the possibility it could be true.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but it’s true. He went into his cell, caught him off guard, overpowered him, filled him with drugs, then laid him on the floor, and slit his throat so that nearly all of the blood drained onto the floor under his body.”