by Rick Reed
Rothschild cleared his throat. “Well, it seems from the tone of your questions that it’s a good thing Trent asked me to be here.”
“Are you representing Mr. Wethington?” Jack asked.
“I don’t need to be represented, Detective Murphy,” Trent said. “You’re right. I called this meeting. I did so because I wanted an update on your investigation, and not to be interrogated like a common criminal.”
Jack wondered why Trent was being so defensive. “I haven’t interrogated you. I think I’ve asked an appropriate question. As her employer, Trent, you should be able to tell me things about Nina that we haven’t discovered during the investigation. I’m only asking what you can tell me about Nina.”
“I agree with Jack,” Marlin Pope said. “The question was appropriate, and she was your employee, after all. Does she have any family, or a significant other, that you can tell us about? Was she involved with anything in her business or personal life that could have resulted in her death? Your office should be bending over backward to cooperate with us.”
Jack appreciated Marlin for coming to his defense, but he remembered something his mother told him. You catch a lot more flies with honey than vinegar. Of course his father would correct her, by saying, “You catch more flies with honey—and a gun—than with vinegar.”
Trent and the county attorney sat stone-faced, arms crossed over their chests, obviously angry with Jack. He swiftly changed gears. “I’m sorry, Trent,” he said. “I’m just tired and cranky. Hell, we’re all tired. I know you’re worried sick about this.” He saw the antagonism start to fade, and he continued in that vein. “Hell, the only lead I have is an old lady who saw a silver convertible near Nina’s the night she was killed. I’m sorry for not using other channels to contact you, but to be honest, I’ve always looked to you for guidance, sir.”
Jack hoped he wasn’t laying it on too thick, but evidently he wasn’t. The anger had drained from Trent’s expression and he began tugging at his cuffs, looking satisfied that the hired help had finally discovered their place in the grand scheme of things.
“Of course, Jack,” Trent said. “It’s been a long and sad day for all of us. I’ll help any way I can.”
He then did something that Jack had seen him do a thousand times for the cameras when he was campaigning. Wethington put two fingers over his right eyebrow, said, “Scout’s honor,” and gave his dazzling white—albeit phony as a politician’s heart—smile, and smartly dropped his hand to the desktop in a little salute. Clink went the onyx cufflinks.
Bob Rothschild, the county attorney, spoke up for the first time. “I drive a silver convertible. A BMW Z4, to be exact. Am I a suspect, too?”
Marlin Pope interjected, “No one’s making accusations here, Bob. We certainly don’t suspect you. Jack is just covering the bases. The prosecutor can appreciate the thoroughness of Jack’s work.”
Trent nodded and smiled. “Jack’s like a hound. Once he gets the scent, he never gives up.”
Jack was uncomfortable with praise, even from someone he didn’t care much for, and he thought he would throw up just a little in his mouth if it continued. He changed the subject, and the next ten minutes were filled with questions and guarded answers.
Yes, Trent was aware of Nina’s involvement with the MS-13 gang, and she had regaled him with these stories when she interviewed for her position with his office. That said, he never saw a case come through his office involving the MS-13 gang. But he had heard of the gang, and now felt this line of investigation merited Jack’s full focus. He started to tell a personal story about Nina but stopped, looking at Jack.
“Eric told me you’re under the mistaken impression that he had an affair with Nina.” It wasn’t a question, nor an accusation, but simply a statement without any wiggle room at either end. It was like asking, “Do you still beat your wife, yes or no?”
So, Eric ran crying to his boss.
“Not at all, sir,” Jack deadpanned. “I merely wanted to eliminate the possibility. You said it yourself, sir. Nina was an attractive woman and you have to admit, Eric has a reputation. If I didn’t ask, someone would.”
“That’s not how we do things here, detective,” Trent scoffed. “I run a tight ship, and I’m unaware of Eric having a reputation. You might as well accuse me of having an affair with her.” He waved the idea away, then gave Jack a hard look. “Don’t you think you’re letting your personal feelings get in the way of your investigation?”
Trent hadn’t said it maliciously, but Jack took it that way and he could feel the heat creeping into his face. Thankfully, the chief of police answered for him.
“I have every confidence in Jack,” Pope said.
With that challenge the prosecutor leaned back and spread his hands in a gesture of peace. “Of course. I meant nothing by it,” Trent said. “I’m sure Jack will get to the bottom of this.” He turned his attention to Pope and said sternly, “I think this gang thing is your best lead for now, don’t you, Marlin? They sound quite capable of committing both the murder here and the ones in Illinois.”
When Pope didn’t answer, he said, “I can assure you that neither I nor Bob killed Nina.”
Meeting over. The men made for the parking lot and home, but Pope pulled Jack aside.
“Just a word of caution,” Pope said. “And I’m not saying you should have mentioned Bob Rothschild’s unneeded presence, but you had better be careful where you step. Bob is not only the county attorney, but also he’s Trent’s campaign manager. Trent hired him because he has clout. I don’t know from where, but he does have a lot of pull.”
“Are you asking me to back off, Chief?”
“No, Jack. I want you to do what you do.” He then gave Jack a grave look, and said, “Just be cognizant that the people involved in this are very powerful.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The unfinished deck on the west side of Jack’s cabin would eventually wrap all the way around, but since he was doing the work by himself, he would probably need the rest of the summer. He could get it done in a day if he hired a crew, but the idea of a bunch of lowlifes hanging around his cabin didn’t appeal to the cop in him.
Cinderella, his mixed-breed dog, lay beside the hot tub on a stack of untreated wooden planks, chewing a piece of rawhide. Jack had hoped it would deter her from destroying any more of his shoes, and that part had worked, but when he’d come in at two a.m. he’d found a pair of his socks shredded across the kitchen floor. She was strong-willed, suspicious, and wouldn’t respond to any other name besides the one her previous owner had given her. Cinderella.
Jack had sort of inherited her—sissy name and all—when her owner was murdered and she’d been left injured and homeless. He hadn’t wanted a dog. Being an animal owner didn’t mix well with his job because of his uncertain hours. But then a redneck police chief in Illinois had wanted to shoot her and he couldn’t allow that. He’d taken her to Dr. Brent Branson, a college buddy who ran a veterinary hospital, and had her wounds treated. To his own amazement, he ended up taking her to recuperate in his cabin.
Four months and a thousand bucks later, she was still with him. He thought she would be grateful, but she hated men. She would growl and snap at any man unfortunate to get around her sharp teeth. Ungrateful mutt! I think I dated a girl like that in high school.
Cinderella had stopped chewing and lay motionless, with her eyes locked on him, as he stripped and lowered his body into the tub. The water temperature was set to eighty-five for the summer. He turned the jets to the highest setting, leaned back, and sipped the twelve-year-old Scotch on ice. The day’s tension melted. He closed his eyes and let the water jets beat the tensed muscles in his legs, arms, and back.
He was glad he’d moved to this secluded part of the river, where the night sky was clear, the stars were bright, and his nearest neighbor was a mile away. Sleeping had not been a problem out here in the boonies.
His father always said that a cop had to eat and sleep when he could,
because he never knew what was around the corner. His dad had been in World War II before becoming a policeman, and he had explained that during the war getting food and sleep was a crapshoot. Soldiers sometimes slept standing up in a foxhole, or opened K-rations to find the contents moldy, but they ate them anyway.
He opened his eyes and glanced at Cinderella. She was sleeping, muzzle down over the half-eaten rawhide chew, paws together. The dog was either deep asleep or ignoring him, but Jack knew two things. Cinderella hated him, and no one else would want her. If he took her to an animal shelter she would be put to sleep. He had saved her from the redneck sheriff, and he would never allow her to be hurt. She had protected her owner and Jack respected that. Besides, he was responsible for her now.
“You’re my dog. Get used to it,” he said.
The water swirled around him, and the three fingers of Scotch were having the desired effect. He thought about the party that morning, and about Katie, and while he was sorting through his feelings about her impending marriage, his eyes closed and soon after, both man and beast were asleep.
Eric Manson had been busy after leaving Nina’s house several hours earlier.
It was true that he’d found her key hidden in the front porch light, just like he’d said. But he hadn’t told Jack everything. He sat on the side of the bed, the lights in the room dimmed, wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into.
He pulled the initialed nickel and brass key holder from his pocket and tossed it on the mattress. It was hard to believe that something so small could carry with it the power to make or break careers. If Jack had found it first, Eric had no doubt that his life, and several others’, would be forever changed. His life had already been altered by the day’s events.
He wondered how much Jack had told Katie. He was sure Jack had already talked to her. She regarded Jack as a hero, like he was larger than life. She would never look at him the way she looked at Jack. He’d not spoken to her all day. How will she interpret my silence? And what has Jack told her? About me? About Nina?
He pushed the nagging thoughts away. His relationship with Katie, even his engagement, wasn’t where his focus should be right now. He’d had his hands full today doing damage control, establishing an alibi for when Jack asked, knowing that it would eventually come down to that. Damn Nina! Why did she have to die? It was all so inconvenient. But at least he had someone on the inside. He hoped Deputy Chief Dick would come through for him.
Trent would support the police investigation. How could he not? It was in his best interest to see this case closed quickly. The public would not accept an unsolved attack on a district attorney. They would see it as a weakness of the future governor. That wasn’t good for Trent’s campaign, or his own future, for that matter.
He was pulled from his thoughts by the ringing telephone.
“Eric,” Trent said, “I want you in my office first thing in the morning.”
“We shouldn’t talk on an open line.”
“Oh. Of course,” Trent said. “Can you come to my house?”
Eric’s thoughts returned to his meeting with Trent. “We decided to meet at the office in the morning,” he repeated. “Nothing we can do tonight.”
“I just wanted to fill you in,” Trent said, and Eric could tell the man was in a panic. Close to tears. But Trent would have to suck it up. A mistake now would ruin everything. Trent was right to be afraid of Jack Murphy.
“I’ll see you in the morning. I’m tired,” Eric said.
“Bring Nina’s files with you. All of them.”
Eric found he was gripping the phone for dear life as he placed it back in the cradle. He was used to Trent barking orders. He had worked for the man for almost six years now. But soon, if all went as planned, Trent would become Indiana’s governor, and Eric would be the next prosecutor of Vanderburgh County. Eric would be the one calling some other jerk in the middle of the night, barking orders like some alpha dog.
He lay back on the bed without undressing, turned the lights out, and punched up his pillow. Murphy was grabbing at straws. That was his style. He was like a Tasmanian devil. Whirling around like a destructive dervish to see what flew out. But he didn’t have any evidence.
He laid his head down and a more pleasant thought came to mind: Katie. Screw Jack, I’ll call her tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“We made the news, pod’na,” Liddell said, and flipped the Evansville newspaper onto Jack’s desk.
The front page headlines read, “Deputy Prosecutor Murdered: Cannibalism Suspected.” The story claimed unnamed sources “close to the investigation” had reported three human heads were found on Sunday, one in Evansville and two in Harrisburg, Illinois. It went on to report that three other heads had been found in Harrisburg several years ago, and that the bodies had never been recovered. The article then speculated that cannibalism might be the explanation.
The article didn’t give the names of the victims. Either they didn’t have them, or they were going to use the knowledge to blackmail the police department into giving them an exclusive on the progress of the case.
If they had the victims’ names, that meant they had verified the identification with at least two sources. Jack knew the coroner’s office would never give that information out without checking with him, so that limited the culprits to other policemen or the prosecutor’s office as the leak.
“Has the chief seen this?” Jack asked.
“Who do you think gave the paper to me?” Liddell responded without a trace of his usual humor. “This time the backstabbing weasel has gone too far.”
Jack knew the weasel that Liddell was referring to could only be Larry Jansen.
“Jansen was supposed to meet us here this morning. He was in Records until about midnight,” Jack said. When Liddell had come to work, Jack immediately caught him up on the meeting in the prosecutor’s office last night. Liddell agreed it was odd behavior. “Have you heard from him?”
“No, but I’m not surprised. He’s probably at the newspaper collecting his thirty pieces of silver.”
Jack wanted to get to the bottom of this leak as bad as anyone, but Jansen was Teflon-coated. No matter what he was caught doing, nothing ever stuck. He had once been suspended for illegally wiretapping the mayor’s office. That was a federal offense, but Jansen had never been charged. And later, while he was on sick leave, he shot and killed a newspaper reporter who he claimed attacked him with a hatchet. The kicker was, he was inside the reporter’s home—illegally.
Any other cop would be charged with murder, but Larry took a short paid leave while the shooting board investigated the killing, and less than a month later, he was back in his old job, in Missing Persons.
Jack never understood how Jansen could work in the Missing Persons unit when he himself should be reported as a missing person.
“We won’t be able to prove it was him, Bigfoot,” Jack said. “Let Captain Franklin deal with it. Besides, the cat is out of the bag now.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’d still like to see his goose cooked for good.”
“Do you ever stop thinking about food, Bigfoot?”
Garcia stuck her head in the door. “The captain wants both of you in his office—twenty minutes ago.”
The hand-printed placard she placed on the front of the desk in her new, albeit cramped, office, read, MOIRA CONNELLY, and printed under that, DEPUTY PROSECUTOR.
That morning the secretary had ordered two engraved nameplates. One for the top of Moira’s desk, the other for the door to her office.
My office, she thought, and smiled. Three years of eating ramen noodles, cleaning tables, serving drinks, and the long hours of studying had finally paid dividends. Here she was. An attorney. A deputy prosecutor! How great was that?
She heard a rap on her door and saw Abbey Dennis, the deputy prosecutor who would be helping her acclimate to her new duties. She was the sweetest person Moira had ever met, but she had a reputation for being tough on new em
ployees.
Abbey said, “When you’re finished wallowing in your own grandeur, I need you to come to my office and start the orientation.”
“I’m not wallowing!” Moira protested.
“You are,” Abbey said, but she was grinning now.
Moira held up the paper nameplate. “Yeah, you’re right. And I so deserve it.”
“Yes, you do. Now let’s get this show on the road. Lots to do today.”
Moira followed Abbey on a short tour of the office.
A room with a glass wall at the end of the hallway was filled with Formica-topped tables and several upholstered sofas. Abbey stopped at the open door and pointed at a refrigerator. “This is the break room. You can bring lunch, but I wouldn’t. After you look in the fridge you’ll see what I mean.”
Then she introduced Moira to the two investigators who worked for the office. They were both men in their late fifties who had retired from the Sheriff’s Department.
Eric Manson came up close behind Abbey.
“Moira, there you are,” he said, and rubbed Abbey’s shoulders in what Moira thought was a too-familiar fashion.
“Well, where else would I be?”
“I’ll finish showing her around,” Eric told Abbey.
“I have some things for her to sign in my office when you’re through.” As Abbey walked away, she glanced back over her shoulder, rolling her eyes and giving an exaggerated shudder. Moira got the point.
“Come on. I have a surprise for my soon to be sister-in-law,” Eric said, and reached for her arm.
She involuntarily pulled back, but Eric took her by the wrist, leading her around the corner and down a parallel hallway.
“That’s Trent’s office at the end,” Eric said, pointing to a closed door. “The one on the right is mine.”
