The Final Reckoning (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 4)

by Robert Bailey

  “There,” Bo said, smiling and rubbing his unshaven face as the overhead bulb in the breakfast nook flickered on. Then, as was her habit, Jazz opened the blinds in the kitchen and living room so that the sun could shoot its morning rays through them. He watched his soon-to-be ex-wife glide through the home, wearing the pink robe he’d given her as a birthday gift during their first year of marriage. Seeing the ritual from outside the house made his heart ache for another chance that he knew wouldn’t be coming.

  I’m out of mulligans, Bo thought, grabbing the door handle and forcing himself to exit the vehicle. He trudged toward the two-story brownstone that he’d bought for Jazz last year hoping that a fresh start in Huntsville would erase the turmoil they’d experienced during their two decades plus of living in Pulaski.

  It hadn’t. If anything, the new home had only shined a brighter spotlight on their long-festering problems. Bo gritted his teeth as he made his way down the walkway.

  The house was on Adams Street in the area of downtown Huntsville known as Twickenham. Jazz, who had grown up in a middle-class home in north Huntsville, had always dreamed of owning one of the mansions in the oldest neighborhood in town, and now she did.

  Bo hated the house, thinking it looked and felt like a Southern plantation with its exterior columns, high ceilings, and drafty, old-money scent. He didn’t care for the neighbors either, many of whom looked at them like they were aliens from outer space. Occasionally, he asked Jazz out of spite if she noticed any other black families in the area, and she just rolled her eyes and reminded him that they hadn’t had any African American neighbors in Pulaski either. Didn’t stop us then; won’t stop us now was her rallying cry, but Bo didn’t feel like fighting that battle again. Though his past in Pulaski had been traumatic and tragic, Bo found himself longing for the hilly landscape and small-town feel of Giles County, Tennessee. It was home, and despite his history there, he missed it.

  When he reached the front stoop, Bo paused and gazed at the mahogany door. After his conversation with the Professor last night, he had driven over here in a cold sweat, hoping he would arrive before Jazz had gone to sleep. No such luck. When he rang the doorbell, it woke up not just his estranged wife but also both kids. The look on Jazz’s face when she saw him would have melted ice. He hadn’t even been able to get the question out before she told him she was giving the speech in the morning and nothing was going to stop her. Not the cop guarding the house. Not Bo. “Not any damn body.” She ushered him out the door before he could even take his jacket off.

  Bo hadn’t fought with her but hadn’t left either. He stayed in the front seat of his Sequoia and kept it parked in the driveway. When it was obvious what he was doing, he got a call on his cell phone from Jazz. She said if he didn’t drive away in five minutes, she was going to ask the officer, whose cruiser was stationed on the curb, to advise Bo to leave.

  “Go for it,” Bo said. “I own the house. I haven’t hit you and I’m not doing anything but annoying you. It’s been a while since I practiced any criminal law, but I don’t think those are grounds for an arrest.”

  She hung up the phone, and Bo spent the rest of the night in his vehicle.

  Now, eight hours later, Bo didn’t bother with the doorbell. He stuck his key in the lock and opened the door. “Honey, I’m home,” he said as he walked through the front parlor of the museum of a house. He stopped for a moment at the huge Christmas tree by the staircase and ran his fingers over the familiar ornaments. One was a cardboard-cutout nativity scene that T. J. had colored in preschool. The boy had drawn a crimson number twelve on Joseph’s robe, which had gotten him a playful rebuke from his teacher. Bo smiled at the memory as he touched the cardboard. His favorite ornament was a crystal ball with a painted beach, the words “Saint Lucia, 2005” written in the sand. He’d taken Jazz to the Caribbean island for their twentieth wedding anniversary, and they’d spent four nights and three days swimming, snorkeling, drinking Piton beer, and making love.

  There should be more of these, Bo thought, rubbing his thumb over the beach and gazing up at the angel at the top of the tree. Placing the final ornament had always been his job. But not this year—not ever again.

  He let his hand drop to his side as guilt and sadness enveloped him. Finally, knowing he was stalling, he forced his legs to move toward the kitchen.

  As he approached, he smelled the pleasing aroma of eggs and coffee and felt another pang of sadness. For as long as he’d known her, Jazz had always eaten scrambled eggs for breakfast. As he entered the kitchen, he saw her sitting on one of the three stools in front of the island in the middle of the massive room. Once, not too long ago, there had been four stools. Another razor wire of regret slashed at Bo’s heart, but he shook it off.

  Jazz was eating and reading something on her iPhone. She didn’t look up or acknowledge his existence as he approached her.

  “What’s the good word on Facebook?” Bo asked. “Are any of our new neighbors skiing in Vail? Scuba diving in the Caymans? Hiking the Appalachian Trail?” Bo didn’t bother trying to hide the sarcasm in his voice. He had tried Facebook for a while but got annoyed by the combination of political posts, vague pray-for-me updates, and people trying to outdo each other with their pictures from exotic trips.

  Jazz didn’t respond or look up. Instead, she ate a forkful of eggs and sipped her coffee. Even wearing the old robe, with nothing on her face but a scowl, the former Jasmine Henderson was still a beautiful woman, with her milk-chocolate skin, wavy brown hair cut to just below her neck, and toned figure that, despite her forty-nine years of age, retained the long, sinewy muscles that had made her a track star at the University of Alabama.

  “Jazz—”

  “I’m going, so please don’t waste your breath,” she said, continuing to run her thumb across the phone and still not looking at him.

  Bo snatched the device off the counter and held it high above his head. Jazz shot off the stool like she’d been launched from a pad at Cape Canaveral. “You give me that back right now, Bocephus Haynes, or I will call the police. You can’t just walk in here and take my phone away. That would qualify as an assault—I watch enough Investigation Discovery to know that—so they would come. You know they would.”

  Bo smirked. “I thought you only watched The History Channel.”

  “What I view on television and what I do with my spare time is none of your business anymore. Now give me back my phone.”

  Bo sighed and began to hand her the device, but Jazz had already started to lunge for it. When she did, her index finger poked him solidly in the left eye.

  Bo yelped in pain as the phone dropped from his grasp. He covered his eye with his hand and walked away from her, trying to squelch the anger growing inside him. When he pulled his hand away, he saw a couple of droplets of blood on his fingers. He gazed across the kitchen at Jazz, who was staring at him with both hands covering her mouth.

  “Are you OK?” she asked.

  “I’ll live,” Bo said, walking toward the sink and grabbing a paper towel from the rack. He ran some cold water over the towel and dabbed at his eye, which stung like hell. When he blinked, though, he could still see out of it.

  “I’m sorry, Bo,” Jazz said. Then she began to cry.

  “I guess I should call the police,” Bo said, but there was a tease in his voice. “I know damn well that poking someone’s eye out qualifies for assault.”

  Jazz smirked at him, her eyes no longer shooting rays of anger.

  “But I won’t if you’ll just forgo the speech today and stay home with the kids until I know more about JimBone Wheeler’s status.” He smiled, but Jazz didn’t return the gesture. Instead, she gazed down at the tile floor.

  “All these years I’ve sacrificed for you, Bo. Twenty-eight trips around the sun while you pursued the men that murdered your father. You spent the rest of your time practicing law. I gave up my career to handle the kids while you chased your obsession.”

  “All I’m asking for is t
oday, Jazz. One more day. Please.”

  “No. This event has been a year in the works. We’re trying to raise money for the art history program so the college can build a new facility. All of the prior donors will be there as well as a lot of influential alumni and town leaders.” She paused and walked toward the sink, where Bo continued to dab at his eye with the wet towel. “I’m the chair of this fund-raiser. This is my rodeo, the invitations have been sent out, and there’s no turning back. I can’t just not show up because of some crazy hunch that you have.”

  “When have my hunches been wrong?” Bo asked, feeling another bubble of anger float up his chest.

  Jazz’s lips curled into a tired smile. “Bo, baby, your whole life is based on a wrong hunch. You lived your whole existence to bring the men who lynched your father to justice only to learn that the man who was murdered wasn’t your daddy at all, and the man who led the lynch mob was.”

  “That wasn’t a hunch, Jazz. My momma told me that Roosevelt Haynes was my father, and he never said any different right up until the time the rope stretched the life out of him. I saw him snatched from our shack, and I saw the men in the white hoods and robes who hung him.” He paused to catch his breath. “What did you expect me to believe? What was I to do?”

  Tears began to form in Jazz’s eyes, and she wiped them with her hand. “It was an impossible situation, OK? You did the best you could, and I don’t blame you, Bo. I don’t blame you for what you did. For seeking justice for Roosevelt. You earned the right to be obsessed with that, and two years ago, you succeeded. All the men who murdered Roosevelt are now either dead or rotting away in prison. You won. The only problem is your victory shattered everything you ever believed about yourself.”

  “I didn’t come over here to rehash history. I just—”

  “Shut up and let me finish!” Jazz yelled. Her hands were now balled into fists. “I know it crushed you to learn that Roosevelt wasn’t your real daddy. I can’t even imagine how you felt when that crazy witch told you that Andy Walton, the Imperial by damn Wizard, was your father. I know it’s been tough to deal with. I’m sure that’s why you’ve had a hard time practicing law again. I thought last year when you helped Professor McMurtrie as his investigator on that murder case in Tuscaloosa that you would snap out of it and move on.” She paused and placed her hands on his shoulders. “But you haven’t, Bo. Your suspension’s been lifted, and you can start practicing again at any time. Here in Huntsville like I had hoped you would. Or even back in Pulaski. It’s only a forty-minute drive. But you’ve done nothing.”

  “Not true,” Bo said, shaking his head and gazing down at the floor. “I’m helping Rick Drake with the Alvin Jennings wrongful death case. Trial is supposed to start on Monday in Florence.” He raised his eyes to Jazz’s, and her mouth hung open, but she didn’t immediately speak.

  Finally, after giving herself several seconds to process what she’d just heard, Jazz squinted at him. “How can Alvie’s case be tried in Florence? I thought he was murdered in Jasper.”

  “He was, but the judge transferred the venue to the Shoals because there’s no way that Alvie’s family or Bully Calhoun’s estate could get an impartial jury in Walker County. Half the county hated Bully, and the other half worked for him.” Bo gave a weak smile. “But I am practicing again, hon.”

  “Well . . . that’s good. I’m glad.” Her face hardened. “But it doesn’t change anything. I’m still giving my speech today.”

  “And you’re still going through with the divorce.”

  Fresh tears formed in Jazz’s eyes. “I’m tired of sacrificing my life for you, Bo. All those years of you working until me and the kids were already asleep and then being gone in the morning before we even got up. When was the last time we took a family vacation? Or a couples’ trip? Hell, before I filed my petition for divorce, when was the last time we’d even been on a date? We got all this money that you’ve worked so hard to earn, and you can’t relax enough to enjoy it. Our whole life you’ve lived ‘wide ass open,’ as you like to say. Every second has to be ninety-to-nothing wide ass open or you’re a restless, frustrated, and miserable person to be around. I thought the suspension last year might mellow you out and that learning about your true family origin would change how you were with me and the kids, but it’s only made things worse. Now you hate yourself worse than you ever hated Andy Walton, and you’ve got no outlet for your frustration.” She paused and put her hands on his shoulders. “Bo, when was the last time we really even talked to each other? The truth is that we haven’t talked in years, and sex is just something we do twice a month because we always have. It’s a habit no different than me eating scrambled eggs in the morning.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” Bo said, pulling out of her grasp. “Remember Saint Lucia?”

  “I do,” Jazz said. “It was wonderful. And it was more than eight years ago!”

  She cupped a hand over her mouth, which was something she always did after raising her voice. Then, grimacing, she folded her arms tight across her chest. “You only seem to thrive in a crisis, Bo. It’s the only thing you know. Like now. This crazy psycho has busted out of prison, and Bocephus Haynes is going to rise up and rescue everyone. I’m tired of it. Tired of the way you are. There are things I want; can’t you see that? Now that I’ve had a taste of teaching again, of living in Huntsville, where I’ve always wanted to be, I can’t ever go back to the way it was.” She paused. “And you hate the way it is now. I can read you like a book, and I know you hate this house. Hate the neighborhood. Hate my job and the people I work with. And hate the woman I’ve become.”

  “That’s not true,” Bo said, but the words sounded hollow coming out of his mouth.

  “It is too, and you know it. You want me to follow your lead like I always have, but I’m not going to this time, Bo. I can’t and I won’t.” She paused. “Look at me.”

  He obliged and saw that tears now streaked down both of her cheeks.

  “The awful truth, Bo, is that a divorce would do us both a lot of good.”

  “But . . . I love you,” Bo said.

  “I love you too,” Jazz said, her voice cracking. “I always will.” She choked out a sob. “But I can’t live with you anymore. I just . . . can’t.”

  For almost a full minute, there was silence in the kitchen as Bo stared at the only woman he’d ever loved. Finally, dabbing his eye again with the wet towel, Bo began to walk away. He stopped at the place in the floor where the tile of the kitchen met the hardwood of the family room and gazed over his shoulder at her. “Will you at least let me or the officer outside take you to the speech?”

  Jazz shook her head. “No. I’ll drive myself.”

  Bo gritted his teeth. “I’m going to follow you, and there will be police surveillance of the civic center both inside and out.”

  Jazz crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s a free country.”

  “Will you keep the kids home from school?”

  When she didn’t answer, Bo took a step forward. “Please, Jazz. Just today and tomorrow. By the weekend, I’m sure Wheeler will either be in custody or the cops will have a better idea of where he’s going.” He paused and saw that Jazz was now gazing at the floor.

  “Please,” Bo pleaded. “I’m their father, and—”

  “OK,” Jazz said. “But T. J.’s going to be ticked if he has to miss basketball practice too.”

  “He’ll get over it,” Bo said. “I’m sure Coach Thornton doesn’t want anything to happen to his best player.”

  At this, Jazz finally broke into an uninhibited smile. “I’m sure he doesn’t.”

  “Has the letter from Alabama come yet?” Bo asked. T. J. had received scholarship offers from Vanderbilt, Middle Tennessee State, and Auburn, but Alabama had yet to make an offer. It had always been their son’s dream to follow in his parents’ footsteps and play for the Crimson Tide.

  “Not yet,” Jazz said. “But it will.”

  “Damn right,” Bo said. Then, n
odding at her, he added, “Be careful today, Jasmine.”

  During their marriage, Bo had seldom addressed his wife by her proper name. Jazz nodded back, but for the first time since they began their argument last night, Bo saw something else in her eyes.

  Fear, he thought, turning to walk away. He had finally scared her.

  25

  Highway 69 is a long, curvy two-lane road that runs from Tuscaloosa to Jasper. At 7:30 a.m., Rick turned his ancient Saturn onto this stretch of asphalt and gazed into his rearview mirror as a Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Office cruiser continued to follow him. Wade had been able to obtain the police escort, and Rick was grateful for it. If JimBone Wheeler or Manny Reyes wanted to kill him in the same way Rick’s father was murdered—by running him off the road—they couldn’t pick a much better route than Highway 69. It was hard enough to stay on the road without someone trying to kill you.

  But though seeing the cruiser waiting in the parking lot outside his apartment was comforting, he knew there was only so much the officer could do. Rick would be exposed going into the courthouse and leaving. And if someone really wants to take me out on this highway, one police car probably won’t be enough.

  Still, it was something, as he saw a green sign indicating “Jasper. 44 MILES.”

  Before leaving his apartment, Rick had called his mother in Henshaw. As a farmer’s wife, she was always up with the sun, and that hadn’t changed when Rick’s father was killed. Allie Drake told her son that all the doors were locked and bolted, Keewin and the dogs were guarding the wraparound porch, and Sheriff Jimmy Ballard himself was sitting in his patrol car at the entrance to the farm. “They’d need the National Guard to get in this house,” Allie said. “And if they somehow made it that far, I have your father’s Remington and I know how to use it.”

  Rick had smiled at his mother’s brazen toughness and also at the mention of his dad’s twelve-gauge shotgun, which Rick had used last year to save Bocephus Haynes’s life outside the Pink Pony Pub, in Gulf Shores. “Sounds good, Momma,” he had said. “Keep me posted and don’t let your guard down until I say.”