Murder Once Removed

by S. C. Perkins

  I stifled a gasp. I’d been right about where the page had been hidden. Yet while I’d guessed it held the identity of C.A., I hadn’t dreamed it was a letter to someone that might contain other important information. My mind was suddenly chock full of questions. There was one thing I had to know first, though.

  “Are you descended from Jeb Inscore?” I blurted out. The thought that this horrible man could be related to sweet, wonderful Betty-Anne Inscore-Cooper filled me with horror.

  I got my answer when he looked as if I’d shoved a rotten fish under his nose. No, he wasn’t.

  “Then how’d you know all that?” I asked. “I’ve read all of Jeb’s journals. I’ve also seen much of Hattie’s correspondence. Neither Jeb nor Hattie ever mentioned anything about using a page from his journal to write a letter. What was it about? Did it say who C.A. was? To whom was it written?”

  “Easy there, killer,” he said with a wink that made me nauseated. “The only thing that’s important here is Jeb’s letter contains the proof I need to enact justice for my family, and your friend found it and did something with it.”

  My friend. He was talking about Winnie, as if she were no one important. My blood began to boil even as my already sore neck began to protest at having to look up for so long.

  “Justice,” I repeated. “Are you serious? Now? Over a hundred and sixty years later?”

  “Serious as a knife to the heart. Or the gut, whichever you please.” I saw a slow, mean grin spread across his face, made even creepier by two cute dimples that appeared in his cheeks.

  The image of Seth Halloran’s face, caught in a death mask, flashed through my mind. Senator Applewhite’s, too, knowing he’d nearly been knifed in the gut by this man just a few hours earlier. Then Winnie’s, not dead, but smiling and happy, as she used to be. As she should have been. I wanted to add, “Or a crystal award to the side of the head, courtesy of your evil female pal?”

  The only reason I didn’t was because more tourists moved within arm’s reach of him at the railing. This time it was two girls not older than ten, giggling to each other and pointing up at the rotunda’s ceiling. I was afraid if I made him angry, he’d grab one of them to teach me a lesson.

  “Look,” I said instead, ticked off to hear the shakiness in my voice. “Whoever C.A. was, his great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren had nothing to do with his actions in 1849.”

  His body stiffened.

  “You’re wrong,” he hissed. I felt myself recoil, even though he couldn’t touch me. I saw him glance at the two young girls and my stomach tightened. Thankfully, their mothers called to them and they skipped off, as carefree as ever. I inwardly breathed again.

  Across the rotunda, a group of capitol staffers emerged from one of the hallways and were walking in the direction of my attacker. Seeing them, he started to slink away.

  “Find that letter for me, Lucy,” he said in my ear. “Oh, and you’d best not mention you saw me. If you sound the alarm to anyone—a guard, a random staffer, or even your pretty girlfriends, someone will get hurt.” There was a pause, then he said, “Well, another someone, at least.”

  Fear jumped back into my stomach, driving out the anger. “Wait,” I implored. “What do you mean? Who’ve you hurt?”

  He’d slipped out of sight now, but I heard him snicker in my ear. I was betting he would go for the stairs, down to the first or basement floors, and make for one of the exits. I started to turn toward the southern side of the building. Not far from where I was standing in the rotunda was one of those exits, where there were armed security guards. Why didn’t I think about that sooner? I could yell for help and try to stop him before he got out.

  Then his voice, oily and sarcastic, spoke again, as if he knew what I was thinking.

  “Don’t do it, Lucy. You should get yourself out of here and go check on all those friends of yours instead. Especially your new one in the FBI who moonlights as Professor Anders. His class got out ten minutes ago—but did he?”

  “What did you do to him?” I cried. But I was speaking to no one. With a vision of Ben sliding down his classroom podium, silently bleeding to death from a knife wound to the gut, I used Serena’s phone to call 911 as I turned and headed for the east exit.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Please,” I begged the 911 operator as I emerged into the cold sunshine, skirted another group of tourists, and practically hurled myself down the east steps. “Send some help to Waggener Hall. Room one-oh-one. He could be bleeding from a stab wound. His name? It’s Professor Ben Ande—”

  A strong hand gripped my shoulder and I let out a shriek. Instinctively, my free hand came up and I dug my nails into my assailant.

  There was a cacophony of noise in my ears. In one was the emergency operator yelling, “Miss Lancaster! Are you all right?” while in the other ear was a string of blue words. Even as I turned, I recognized the swearing, ticked-off voice of the man shaking his bleeding hand.

  “Ben! You’re okay!” I flung my arms around his neck and held tight, feeling a shot of warmth go through me as his strong arms came around my waist and pulled me to him.

  “What happened?” Ben said, one hand coming up to gently hold the back of my head. “Lucy, you’re shaking. What’s wrong?”

  The 911 operator was still squawking in my right ear and I first assured her that I was fine and that the person I’d thought was hurt was actually okay. One arm still around my waist, Ben took Serena’s phone from my ear and spoke to the operator, giving his credentials and listening to her rendition of my call, all while looking me over with a worried expression to ascertain if I might be hiding some physical damage.

  Slowly, though, his eyes began to narrow as he heard how I’d engaged in a phone tête-à-tête with a killer in our state capitol. I felt Ben’s arm drop, but the heat from him stayed with me, only this time it radiated through the anger that had gone from zero to inferno in a matter of heartbeats. By the time he’d instructed the operator to send backup and let her know he’d be working to shut down the capitol building for a thorough search, his face looked carved from granite. If granite could be furious, that was.

  Stowing Serena’s phone in one of his pockets, he pulled out his own cell and addressed me through clenched teeth. “Lucy, I swear, if you do one more thing that puts yourself and others in danger, I’m going to—”

  “Charge me with obstruction and throw me in jail, I know, I know,” I said, holding up a weary hand. It was what all the law-enforcement types said to the interfering amateur detectives in mystery novels and dramedy cop shows, wasn’t it?

  Ben punched a contact in his phone with more force than necessary, then leaned down to growl in my ear. “No, I’d find some reason to put you into Witness Protection and make sure you were placed to the coldest town in Minnesota that doesn’t even have a Taco Bell for you to get your fix.”

  My scandalized splutter was drowned out by the increasing wail of sirens. Three APD cruisers and an ambulance came to a screeching halt, lights flashing, in the parking lot of the Archives. Officers swarmed in our direction through the wrought-iron gate. Detective Dupart arrived and immediately sent an officer to fetch me for questioning while Ben disappeared into a throng of law-enforcement personnel. Onlookers were staring at me, some pointing, and it was clear: I’d caused one Texas-sized scene.

  I still had my scarf in my tote, and I wrapped it around my neck while I shivered and answered the officer’s questions with my arms hugged to my chest. We were almost finished when I felt a warm coat—my coat—being draped over my shoulders. Turning, I saw Ben walking away, his own shoulders tight beneath the blue FBI windbreaker he’d donned. I guessed I still wasn’t forgiven, but at least he wasn’t letting me freeze.

  Dupart’s officer closed down his notebook and told me I’d need to make a formal statement at the station. “Do you know where headquarters is located?”

  “Know it?” I quipped. “I think they’re planning to name interview room three the ‘Lu
cy Lancaster Suite.’” He gave me a funny look and I added, “Only my car is at the UT campus. I drove here with Agent Turner.”

  I was told to stay put until he could find someone to take me to the station, which I took to mean I was free to move about the cordoned-off area that had been set up around the east side of the capitol and was swarming with police and FBI agents. Seeing Agents Mark Ronten and Trey Koblizek arrive, I headed their way. Trey—who I still thought of as Winky—took the Agent Turner tactic and gave me an ice-cold look before stalking off in Ben’s direction. Mark, however, gave me a kind smile.

  “Brr,” I joked, casting my eyes after Trey. “I’m glad I have a thick coat on after that reception.”

  Mark chuckled. “He’s a good guy once you get to know him. He’s just angry at himself.”

  “Why? What exactly happened?” I asked, “and is the senator still doing okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, the senator’s fine,” Mark said, pulling out his phone to check a text. “He’s at home, resting and going over his speech for tomorrow. We’ve got an extra detail monitoring his house.” He read the text, ran one hand over his short brown hair, and put the phone back in his pocket without sending a reply. “Unfortunately, though, Trey was driving and hadn’t yet gotten out of the vehicle when the incident happened. I was able to push the senator out of the way, but the guy who attacked him took off into the parking garage at Trinity and Twelfth.”

  Mark watched his partner with a look of dismay. What he wasn’t expressly saying was if Trey had been quicker out of the car, they could have caught the guy and had him in custody. I glared at Trey’s back. It was a good thing the boorish agent had walked away from me. If I’d known how he’d screwed up, I might have to give a second statement down at headquarters explaining how I’d socked a federal agent in the kisser. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jacket to keep my balled-up fists from showing.

  “I’m glad you’re okay, though, Ms. Lancaster.” Mark’s brown eyes were unreadable. Then he smiled, and so did I.

  “Thank you, and, please, it’s Lucy.” I decided Mark was nice and I liked his soft drawl, which I was suspecting was more North Carolina than South. He smiled again, and I added to his attributes his set of even white teeth. Idly, I wondered if he and Josephine might like each other as his phone buzzed again. With an exasperated shake of his head, he sent the call to voicemail.

  Without thinking, I asked wryly, “Jessie not taking your breakup well?”

  His head snapped up, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. Nuts. There’d gone my mouth, shooting itself off again. I’d forgotten Agent Ronten hadn’t seen me, much less known who I really was, when I’d heard him on the phone during the senator’s lunch.

  Tucking my hair behind my ears, I blushed scarlet. “The other day at Big Flaco’s Tacos, when you were walking into the men’s room, I overheard you talking to Jessie. I caught all of five seconds, but you sounded like you were breaking up with her.” I gave him an apologetic grimace. “I was in the storeroom and hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, I promise.”

  For a moment, the color in Mark’s face seemed to lose a shade, but he recovered and gave me a rueful grin.

  “No worries—and, yeah, you’re right, it hasn’t been going well.”

  I was grateful when a female APD officer walked up, curtailing the developing awkwardness between Agent Ronten and me. She was a few inches taller than me with straight black hair parted on one side and pulled back into a low ponytail. Her large dark eyes looked to me, then she nodded to Agent Ronten.

  “Ms. Lancaster, are you ready to go to headquarters?” she asked. “The sketch artist is waiting for you.”

  Mark’s expression had slid back into the now-familiar Fed face, but not before I’d caught him taking a long look at me. His angular jaw worked for a split second, but he only said, “Take care of yourself, Lucy,” before walking off with long strides to join Ben and Trey.

  * * *

  A bottle of Mexican beer slid my way. “I hear you have been getting yourself into trouble again.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I replied, batting my eyes as I slid onto the red vinyl barstool. “And buenas noches to you, too.”

  Flaco laughed as I took a long drink of beer and he wiped down the area next to me that one of Dupart’s officers had just vacated, leaving a former drug lord wearing a purple Hawaiian shirt with green palm trees as my babysitter for the time being.

  After spending what the detective called “an inordinate amount of time” with the sketch artist, I’d spent what I considered an obscene amount of time in good ol’ interview room three recording my statement. I knew Ben was at the station because I heard him talking to Dupart just before the detective came into the room, but he never appeared.

  When all was said and done, it was after six when Dupart said I could leave. “So long as you have somewhere safe to go. Agent Turner and I would both prefer you not stay at your condo tonight.”

  I wasn’t going to argue that. Even the thought of having an eighteen-pound cat as an early-warning system while I slept wouldn’t make me feel entirely safe this time around.

  “No problem … sort of,” I said. I’d talked to both my officemates earlier. Serena had first been relieved that I’d found her cell phone, then horrified about what had transpired with my attacker. That got followed by miffed when I explained the police would keep her phone temporarily as evidence, and, finally, mollified when I later texted Walter to let her know the police agreed she could have her phone back tonight. She would pick it up later at Josephine’s, where I would be staying. Josephine had insisted, not taking no for an answer.

  “We’ll de-stress with a bottle of good bubbly and watching season one of Downton Abbey for the twentieth time, yes?” she’d added as an incentive.

  However, she was currently across town on a date with Ahmad, so I’d need somewhere safe to wait in the meantime.

  “I’ll be staying with my friend Josephine,” I told Dupart. “She’ll meet me at Big Flaco’s Tacos, but she can’t for another hour. Any chance one of your men could take me to the UT campus to pick up my car and then follow me to Flaco’s?”

  Dupart found me an officer, who politely drove me to my car, then followed me back to my condo, where I’d waited outside on the landing as he did a thorough check of the inside. Looking out over the pool area, I’d seen Diego, my sweet, home-schooled, twelve-year-old neighbor, doing his homework under the lights of the pool area despite the cold night. He was bundled up in a coat and scarf, with the red headphones that always seemed to be attached to his head visible over a black beanie. I’d smiled when NPH jumped up on the table, making Diego laugh as the cat batted at his pencil.

  Soon, though, my condo was declared safe. I changed, packed an overnight bag, and the officer followed me to Flaco’s, where I thanked him by offering to buy him some tacos for dinner. I didn’t have to offer twice.

  Now I was in Flaco’s care until Josephine showed up, giving me time to sit on my barstool, feel surly, eat my weight in queso and tortilla chips, and think.

  First in my thoughts was what my attacker told me about Hattie Inscore. She’d claimed her father Jeb had turned the missing journal page from October tenth, 1849, into a letter, which Hattie then hid behind the daguerreotype of Seth Halloran. Both items were so shocking to Hattie that she’d considered throwing them away.

  Again, in my opinion, that could only mean the letter contained a harsh truth: the story, told by Jeb, of what really happened to Seth Halloran, and the true name of the man Jeb called C.A.

  But why on earth would that information be of any importance now? My attacker had said he wanted justice for his family, but I knew he wasn’t a Halloran relative—and in my eyes, only the Hallorans had the right to feel as if they deserved reparations after C.A. had Seth murdered. So what could my attacker be talking about?

  Letting it stew, I called Betty-Anne.

  �
�I’m sorry, shug,” she said. “I don’t recall Great-Aunt Hattie ever mentioning a letter her father wrote and hid. I’ll call my cousin Elsie and check, though. She’s Hattie’s granddaughter and inherited Hattie’s things, but didn’t have room for all the boxes. That’s how they came to me.”

  A few minutes later, Betty-Anne called me back.

  “Elsie’s going to go through all the letters she still has from Hattie, but she said it doesn’t ring a bell either.”

  Sighing, I stuffed another queso-dipped chip into my mouth. That’s when I realized that I hadn’t mentioned my hide-and-seek with a killer this afternoon to Flaco, so my Hawaiian-shirt-wearing babysitter had his intel from another source.

  “Do you want to tell me how you know I’ve allegedly been a troublemaker?” I asked him as he wiped up a couple of my queso drips from the bar.

  He shrugged. “Ay, chiflada, Lucia. I just hear things. You know how it is.”

  I leaned over the bar. “No, I don’t know how it is. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  His mustache twitched and, at the side of his aviators, I could see smile lines radiating from his eyes. He was getting a big ol’ kick out of me tonight.

  “Senator Applewhite told you, didn’t he?” I said. “He must have gotten the info from his protection detail, who got it from Agent Turner. Sneaky bastards, all of them.”

  “No se, Lucia,” he said with more lip twitching.

  “Oh, you know all right,” I replied. “I know you know, and you know!”

  “Noo, Lucia. I don’t know what you’re talking about. ¿Pero, quien es Agent Turner?”