Vendetta Stone (1)

by Tom Wood

  I squinted and studied the profile. Yep, absolutely, positively. One hundred percent the same man I’d seen leaving the scene in the photo now posted at TenneSceneToday.com. The same solid build, the same jacket. Trees shaded his eyes, but a shaft of sunlight broke through the leaves and highlighted a crooked smile, then panned on past and cut to another scene inside the funeral home. I shook my head, wishing for a full frontal image of the man, but at least it was something to go on.

  My cell phone camera captured several pictures off the paused television screen. The grainy images on the DVD might not be admissible evidence, but if the man walked past, you’d recognize him from the digital snapshot.

  “Okay, now what?” I said, thinking out loud. No clue as to the man’s identity, why he attended the visitation or left so abruptly, but something about this guy failed the smell test. More than ever, I wanted to learn all about this man.

  I wanted to know his background, something, anything. Maybe I could crack this thing wide-open after all.

  Briefly, I let my imagination run wild. A member of Jackson’s church or possibly a friend of Patrick Stone, there to pay respects. He attended because Angela used to babysit him on Friday nights as a teen-ager, when the wild-child third-grader’s parents needed a date night. The man got a call from his wife about the overflowed toilet and that’s why he left so suddenly. The guy remembered that he forgot to turn off the stovetop and rushed home before the house burned. The man joined the visitation line . . . to size up Herb? Or Jackson Stone?

  “Okay, enough,” I said, shaking my head as Jill entered the den to see if I wanted a drink. I needed one, but declined. Outside, lightning crackled, and the storm built in intensity.

  Decisively, I placed my first call to Jackson Stone’s cell phone number. Straight to voicemail, so I left a message and fired him the image off my cellpix.

  “Jack, it’s Gerry Hilliard at TenneScene Today. I’ve come across a photo of someone I’m trying to identify from Angela’s visitation and thought you might help. Thanks.”

  I left the same message on Patrick’s answering machine, and tried Reverend Armstrong, who didn’t recognize the description, but said he might if he saw the photo.

  “Try Jackson again in a little while. He just left here about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Thanks, I will. Was Patrick with him?”

  “No I didn’t see either Patrick or Sheila tonight. Jackson attended with another friend who didn’t stay long.”

  I hung up and glanced at my watch. I wasn’t about to call my police contacts, spokesman Darrin Jensen (whose job description included fielding late-night media calls) or East Precinct Commander Mark Reynolds. Usually, I’d call Sergeant Mike Whitfield, but I’d been spoon-fed and swallowed the rehab story and didn’t know how long he’d be there. Thinking about Whitfield led to another idea. If the front door’s locked, try the back one. I dialed the precinct.

  “Gerry Hilliard at TenneScene Today. Is Officer Mendez still on duty? . . . Yes, I’ll hold.”

  Barry Mendez, whom I’d interviewed last Friday with Whitfield, was speaking on another line when his telephone buzzed.

  “So what’s this Red guy saying?” he asked Whitfield. “How did he and Stone manage the switch?”

  “All I know for sure is that they traded cars at the church. I might arrest Boyle for interfering with an investigation. He’d be out in a few hours, but he might think about helping Stone the next time.”

  “That’s if there’s a next time. Did he know Stone’s plans?”

  “He wouldn’t say, even if he did. But I doubt Stone told him.”

  “So whaddya want to do?” Mendez said. “Wanna put out an APB for Stone?”

  “No,” Whitfield said. “Put out an APB for Jimmy Boyle’s truck. That’s what Stone’s driving now.”

  Finding Stone wasn’t going to be easy since they were looking for the wrong vehicle. He dropped out of sight, thanks to Big Red and a crusty bartender.

  After leaving Reverend Armstrong, Stone walked outside, stood under the covered walkway, and looked around the parking lot. The preacher’s car sat in its designated spot, seven away from Red’s truck. Perimeter’s all clear. Feeling safe, he unlocked the pickup and drove across town as the rain poured.

  Red had asked Jackson what his plans were, and Jackson said he’d call. Not exactly the truth, but not a lie, either. Operating on instincts, Jackson formulated a general plan that depended on how fast it came together. He’d call Red tomorrow.

  The truck hit a puddle of standing water as he pulled into the near-empty parking lot at Eddie Paul’s Pub. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, just like the crowd. Weeknights were slow at the East Nashville eatery after nine o’clock. One couple sat in the corner, and four guys hovered at the far end of the bar watching the baseball game. Jackson took a stool in front of Louie, who was already cleaning up.

  “Hi, Louie. How’s the bursitis?”

  “I sure didn’t expect to see you today of all days,” Louie said. “That’s a heckuva thing about Herb and Sarah.”

  “We need to talk—alone.”

  “Last call,” Louie announced. Ten minutes later, they were alone. Jackson turned down the beer, then the cup of coffee that Louie offered.

  “I don’t need anything to drink. I need your help.”

  There was no hesitation. Louie had waged his war in the rice paddies of Vietnam and stood ready to aid a brother in uniform.

  “There are people looking for me, and I don’t want to be found.”

  “Who’s looking for you, Jack?”

  Jackson always shot straight and needed the barkeep to understand the dangers involved. He wouldn’t blame Louie if he changed his mind, but didn’t think he would.

  “I’m not sure. I’m guessing the police, but it might be whoever killed Angela—and Herb and Sarah.”

  “You’re kiddin’ me,” Louie said. But he didn’t rescind his offer to help.

  Jackson shook his head. “The cops think he may come after me next. I hope he does. The cops wanted me to sit still and let him come, then they’d close in. I said no.”

  “You wanna find him first, don’t you?” They both grinned, though Jackson’s more resembled a grimace.

  “They say the only person who knows you as well as your wife is your bartender. I guess they were right. So I need to disappear until I figure this out.”

  “Why don’t you go to that place you got in Murfreesboro?”

  “Actually, I wondered if I could sleep on that couch in the office.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Louie came around the bar and led Jackson to the office, handing off the front door key.

  “Just lock up when you leave in the morning. Stick the key under the mat.”

  They walked outside. It stopped raining, but steam rose off the streets. Jackson appreciated that Louie didn’t ask a lot of questions.

  “I might stay an extra night if that’s okay. I’ll let you know. And one other thing, can I borrow your car?”

  Before the bartender could answer, Jackson walked to the passenger side of Big Red’s big truck and opened the door. He reached under the front seat and dug out a small case. He then handed the keys to Louie.

  “One last request. This is another friend’s truck, and the cops might be on the lookout for it now. Drive it home and park it in your garage, or behind the house, but don’t get caught driving it, or you’ll be answering a lot of questions.”

  Louie again didn’t hesitate, just accepted the keys Jackson held out.

  “Good luck, Jack. You brought your toothbrush and shaving kit, huh?”

  With an ominous grin, Jackson unlocked the case, flipped the clasps and opened it to Louie, who whistled. Inside, the untraceable Soviet Tokarev .30 caliber pistol.

  “Something like that.”

  Louie’s turn to smirk, only not so grim. “Good hunting, Jack.”

  10

  I gave up on anybody returning a call so late. I reached Patr
ick, who didn’t recognize the description and didn’t know his brother’s whereabouts. I tried Jackson’s home, his cell phone, and via text message. The cop Mendez hadn’t called either; I assumed he was out on a call or forwarded the interview request to Commander Reynolds or the police spokesman. I planned to call Reynolds first thing in the morning. I stood to go to bed, yawned and my cell phone beeped.

  “It’s Barry Mendez, Mister Hilliard. Hope it’s not too late. I just got off duty and grabbed a quick bite.”

  “Not at all, officer. Thanks for calling. Have you talked to Mike lately? I wondered how he’s doing.”

  Mendez answered with caution.

  “We talked tonight, as a matter of fact. Sergeant Whitfield is fine. This isn’t for the paper, is it? I don’t want to be quoted.”

  “Nah, we’re just talking,” I assured. “I like Mike a lot and felt concerned about him. We’ve talked over cases before, you know? He sometimes steers me in the right direction on a story. It keeps me from printing an error and having to write a correction. We talk on the record when it’s appropriate.”

  I let that sink in and plunged ahead.

  “Along those lines, I think we can help each other on this Angela Stone case. I’d call your partner, but since he’s in rehab, I tried you. This is not an official request, by the way.”

  Mendez hesitated. “How long will it take you to get to Antioch? There’s an IHOP right off the interstate.”

  “Forty to forty-five minutes,” I said, looking at my watch. “I live out in Hendersonville.”

  “Hop on down,” Mendez said, and hung up. I went to tell Jill, who was already asleep. I kissed her and turned out the light.

  As it turned out, I wasn’t alone in not getting to bed at a decent hour. Jackson gave up trying to get comfortable lying on the lumpy couch at Eddie Paul’s Pub in East Nashville.

  After scrounging around the bar for some food, digging out some nacho chips, shredded cheese, and salsa, Jackson opened a diet soda, resettled on the couch, found a newspaper, and read the small item about Whitfield’s suspension. Old news, so he flipped through old golf magazines, and others on fishing and hunting.

  Jackson figured he better get some rest and cut off the lights. But he couldn’t shut off his mind and kept thinking about finding Sarah and Herb and his meetings with the police chief, the reverend, and Red. He wondered how that goose-chase had worked, and it pleased him to make Red’s truck disappear. He hoped he would have time to get one of those disposable phones tomorrow, maybe several if he wanted to stay ahead of the cops, or whoever. He thought about Red, but figured he could take care of himself.

  Tired but not, Jackson rose and turned on the television. An old movie might put him to sleep. When he lifted the newspaper on the side table, he saw the control device for the security system. Hooked into the portable TV, it allowed the bar manager to review the last two weeks’ worth of video surveillance. The newspaper article he read earlier about Mike Whitfield’s suspension made him think of the warm meeting with the sergeant and his wife. That led to a thought that even though the man in the red pickup wore dark hair and a mustache, he bore the same build as the blond officer.

  On a hunch, Jackson decided to check the security cam. It took a minute to figure out how to rewind through the system, but soon he saw himself sitting at a table with the Whitfields on Monday night. Jackson reflected that Angela would’ve liked the young couple. He saw his demeanor change over the night, going from sober to almost sloppy drunk. He rewound the tape and counted his beer intake that night—one, two, three . . . six, seven, eight!

  “Man, he should have arrested me. I’m surprised he even let me get in the car.”

  It disgusted Jackson and made him wonder how he ever let himself go like that. And why hadn’t Angela ever said anything? He shook his head. The security tape reinforced the thought that Jackson clearly must confront a drinking problem to deal with on top of everything else. Well, one thing at a time. First, try and catch a killer. He’d overlooked some clue, but couldn’t figure out what. Jackson had watched long enough, it was time to sleep. About to hit the pause button, he paused himself—then scanned back and watched again.

  The tape showed a lean, dark-haired, young man come into the Pub, order a drink, then stare for several minutes at Jackson and the Whitfields, who were about twelve feet away and laughing. A look of recognition came over the mysterious man’s face, and he threw some money on the bar and hustled out, turning away from their table like he didn’t want to be recognized.

  “That’s odd,” Jackson said. He didn’t know the face, but would never forget it. Jackson hit the print button, then turned out the lights, and soon fell asleep.

  The strange young man’s face haunted his dreams.

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 19

  1

  I wheeled my car into the IHOP parking lot just off I-24 and Bell Road near old Hickory Hollow Mall and entered. Just after midnight, the start of a new day, Mendez waved me to his table. Seated with his back to me, a thick, dark-haired man I didn’t know. Another cop or maybe a friend Mendez met after his shift ended.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I invited someone else,” Mendez said, apologizing to the man across from him who looked around.

  “I thought only my hairdresser knew,” Sergeant Mike Whitfield said. “Have a seat.”

  “And I thought you were drying out,” I said, glad to see him. It would make what I in mind easier to pull off. “Did you bust out? It’s good to see you even if I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

  A few more barbs were traded, then the real meeting began.

  “So who gave you permission to call in a reporter?” Whitfield asked his partner.

  “Nobody.” Mendez shrugged. “He called, asking about you. Said he wanted to show you something.”

  I took my cue as Whitfield shifted attention. I opened the cell phone, and clicked open a photo taken off my television screen.

  “Either of you seen this man before?”

  Whitfield studied the pictures, and then handed the cell phone to Mendez. He shook his head.

  “Who is he?” Whitfield asked.

  “I have no idea,” I said, “but I’d sure like to. At our website is a photo of this man leaving the visitation. He took off right as I showed up to talk to Herb Fletcher. I found some video from the visitation which showed them together near the end of the line chatting away like best friends. I’ve described him to some folks tonight and nobody recognized him. I can’t say why, but I feel like he’s somehow connected to this case. Something ain’t right.”

  Whitfield studied the photo again. You couldn’t see the man’s dark eyes because of the shadows, just a twisted smile bathed in sunlight. Whitfield didn’t say it, but he thought I might be right.

  “It’s kind of hard to make him out,” Whitfield said. “Got any other pictures?”

  “Just the video at home and it’s not much better.”

  “I’d like to get a copy,” he said, handing me back the cell phone.

  “I thought you might. I’d like to help, but—”

  “Your journalistic principles?”

  “Something like that.” I figured they’d understand. But, no.

  “We can get a subpoena and charge you with interfering in an investigation,” Mendez said. A look from Whitfield silenced him.

  “Yeah, I suppose you could. I’m going to have to talk to my editors in the morning. On another subject, what’s up with the dye job and fake story about going into rehab? I’m feeling kind of used right now, Mike. I’m going to have to tell my editors about that, too. Maybe there’s another story I need to write.”

  “Hold on,” Whitfield said. “Let’s talk this out, and I’ll explain what I can.”

  “Not unless it’s on the record,” I snapped.

  We all sat in silence for several minutes. I thought about getting out so late and what I hoped to accomplish through Mendez. I didn’t want a golden opportunity to pass, and that made up m
y mind, so I stood, said I’d be right back and headed for the bathroom. I caught Mike’s eye and left my cell phone on the table. In no hurry to get back, I washed my hands twice and then raked my comb over my hair. Long enough.

  I never asked, and Mike Whitfield never volunteered any information, but here’s what I suspect happened while I waited in the bathroom. I suspect Mike’s eyes followed, and when he heard the door lock, I suspect he picked up my cell phone and forwarded a copy of our mystery man’s cell photo to his own email address. I further suspect that Sergeant Whitfield put the cell phone back on the table moments before I emerged from the john because it sat precisely in the same position as when I left for the bathroom.

  As I said, these are mere suspicions. But as I came out of the bathroom, Whitfield stood.

  “We talked it over,” he said. “I don’t think this is the right time for an on-the-record conversation. Keep your trap closed, and I’ll do the same.” We shook hands and walked to our cars.

  “Nice not talking to you. But I want to be the first person to hear if something breaks.”

  “My boss will call your boss,” Whitfield said and drove off.

  I got home about one-thirty, bothered a little about what I thought occurred. I would also report the meeting to my boss.

  The stage was set for quite a showdown, and I would be right in the middle of it.

  2

  Storms returned Thursday morning, and the Midstate buzzed over the deaths of Sarah and Herb Fletcher. Traffic at TenneSceneToday.com reached an all-time high with over eight hundred hits on my front pager, with bloggers speculating on why Herb killed Angela, how Sarah killed Herb, and what role Jackson played in their deaths. The editors kept libelous and abusive comments in check, but as soon as they deleted one, three more were posted. A sample: