Power Struggle

by Carolyn Arnold

  “I need you to print out Lyle’s itinerary for the detectives.”

  “Okay,” his assistant said. “I’ll bring it to you in a minute.”

  “No.” Sylvester eyed Madison and Terry. “They’re leaving now. They’ll pick it up on their way out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sylvester ended the call and stood. He tugged down on his suit jacket. “I wish you luck in finding Jimmy’s killer.”

  Madison got to her feet and regarded the man, his word choice, and his delivery with scrutiny. I wish you luck… Coming from him, that sentiment carried the opposite implication.

  “We might have more questions,” she said.

  “And if you do, I must insist on my legal counsel being present.” Sylvester pulled a card from his pants pocket and handed it to her.

  She took the card in exchange for one of hers, which he flicked onto the top of his desk.

  Pulling her gaze from her card, she met his eyes and turned for the door.

  “Anita’s office is the room next to mine on the right. First door,” Sylvester called out.

  Madison was replaying the parts of the conversation that had seemed to be rough for Sylvester. First, there had been the request for the client list, and second, when his innocence was being called into question, he got rather defensive. Third, he clearly hadn’t liked it when she’d asked if Lyle had raped Yasmine. Fourth, he had seemed very confident that no one held ill will toward Bates, including Lyle.

  Anita was holding out a piece of paper when they stepped into her office, and Terry thanked her and took it. Then he led the way to the exit and out of the building.

  Once they were out on the sidewalk, Madison stated her dislike for Sylvester’s final wording. “Not really sure what he meant by wishing us luck,” she said. “Was there a warning in there? A taunt like we’d need luck on our side to solve this case?”

  Terry was shaking his head. “I think you might be reading too much into it.”

  With this case, she was questioning herself at every turn. Maybe Terry was right. Sylvester could have just meant the words at face value and that he wanted his employee’s killer found, but there was a niggling feeling in her gut.

  “I was just thinking—” Her phone rang, interrupting her. She glanced at the caller ID before answering. “Cynthia?”

  “Listen, you’ve got to come back to Bates’s house. There’s something you’re going to want to see for yourself.”

  -

  CHAPTER

  6

  THE ME’S VAN WASN’T AT Bates’s house when Madison and Terry arrived, but the forensics vehicle was, along with four cruisers. There was no sign of the officers who drove them, with the exception of Higgins, who was posted at the front door.

  “The others are canvassing?” Madison asked, referring to the officers as she and Terry approached Higgins.

  “You got it,” he confirmed.

  She nodded. Canvassing was a painful but necessary task. A neighbor may have seen or heard something that could aid the investigation, but she wasn’t holding out much hope that such a thing would happen in this case. Regardless, she asked, “Anything helpful come back to you yet?”

  Higgins shook his head. “It’s still early.”

  Madison put a hand on his shoulder and moved past him into the house. Cynthia was in the entryway, a collection kit on the floor at her feet, and footfalls were padding along the floor upstairs.

  Madison walked over to Cynthia. “You said that you have something I need to see?”

  Cynthia looked up at her. “That’s right. But first, I—”

  “Oh, Cyn, you always do this,” Madison moaned. She had driven fast enough to break some traffic laws getting there but had justified it given the urgency that had been in her friend’s tone. But now Cynthia was going to delay sharing whatever it was that prompted the call.

  “What?” Cynthia smiled.

  “You hook me and then make me wait.”

  “It’s good for you. Makes you learn patience.”

  Terry laughed, and Madison punched him in the shoulder.

  “Hey!” He rubbed where she’d hit him, playing it up as if she’d hurt him when she’d barely touched him.

  “We have Bates’s laptop but weren’t able to find his phone,” Cynthia began.

  “There must be something on there the killer wanted or didn’t want us to see,” Madison reasoned.

  “Quite possible,” Cynthia began. “Mark was able to find Bates’s provider, though, so we’ll get his phone records at least.”

  A sliver of good news…

  “Now, we’ve ruled out a break-in.” Cynthia continued. “And there was no sign of an altercation anywhere else in the house. The scene of the crime is limited to the master bedroom.”

  “So our killer would have needed a key and a code,” Terry interjected. “If the killer came here to confront Bates and he had answered the door, it would be more likely that signs of an altercation would be evident leading to the bedroom.”

  “Agreed,” Cynthia said. “The security company also verified the times when the system was armed and disarmed. I’ll forward you the e-mail they sent me, but it was disarmed at ten forty-five, rearmed at twelve fifteen, disarmed again at one, rearmed at six thirty, and disarmed at seven.”

  “So Yasmine was telling the truth about it being armed when she showed up,” Madison stated.

  Terry nodded and addressed Cynthia. “You said it was disarmed at one and rearmed at six thirty? The killer was here five and a half hours, then.”

  “When did Richards place time of death?” Madison inquired.

  “He’s still reserving final judgment on that,” Cynthia began, “but based on his initial findings, TOD was between two and four this morning.”

  “Two and four?” Madison inclined her head. “But you said the—”

  Cynthia was nodding. “Exactly. There’s time that’s unaccounted for.”

  “Right,” Terry said. “From about four until six thirty. What was the killer doing during that time?” He rubbed the back of his neck the way he often did when the questions outnumbered the answers.

  “Well, Richards told me to let you know he hadn’t concluded TOD officially yet, so don’t get too attached to the time range,” Cynthia reminded them.

  “Either way, the killer we’re looking for won’t have an alibi for between one and six thirty,” Terry said.

  Madison and Cynthia sputtered laughter.

  Cynthia jacked at thumb in Terry’s direction. “Einstein over here.”

  “Or King of the Obvious,” Madison teased. Her partner glared at her. “Okay, okay. You’re right, Terry. That time span should be good enough for us to work with for now.” Madison knew better than to ask for cause of death because Richards preferred to have time with the body back at the morgue before drawing any conclusions. Add to that the body having been so mutilated that it would require Richards to conduct an in-depth autopsy. He’d have to map out the injuries, measure the depth of the wounds, and determine what organs had been injured. The body would also be x-rayed to see if any pieces broke off the murder weapon.

  “When’s the autopsy scheduled for?” she asked.

  “In the morning,” Cynthia responded, “but Richards recommends that you drop by tomorrow at about two in the afternoon. He should have something for you then.”

  Madison directed her attention back to the security system. “And what about the code or codes used to get in the house? Were there different ones used at the different times?”

  Cynthia shook her head. “Bates only had one code.”

  “So he must have shared it with Yasmine, but how did the killer get ahold of it? Through Yasmine somehow?”

  Cynthia looked like she was deep in thought.

  “Are you all right?” Madison asked.
<
br />   Cynthia shook her head. “I can’t imagine being that girl and finding him like that.”

  “That girl is in her twenties,” Madison countered.

  “Some days I feel my thirty-five years more than others.” Cynthia’s voice cracked with exhaustion as if on cue.

  Madison smiled knowingly. “You sound tired.”

  “You have no idea,” Cynthia said with a groan.

  But Madison did. Cynthia was in the middle of planning her wedding, which was fewer than five months away. On top of that, she was working six twelve-hour days a week lately. Now, if the commitment itself wasn’t enough to scare Madison from marriage, all the hoopla certainly should have been, but these days neither was fully doing the trick. After all the years milking her broken heart caused from her breakup with fellow detective Toby Sovereign and swearing off relationships, she’d finally found someone she loved—Troy Matthews, the head of a SWAT team for Stiles PD. And he was a god in man’s form—giving lean and mean characterization. But much more than his physical prowess, he was the most caring and attentive man she’d ever been with. And now she was living with him. Well, sort of. She hadn’t let her apartment go yet.

  Terry cleared his throat, pulling Madison out of her reverie. “So what is it we need to see?” he asked Cynthia.

  She looked at Madison, her face a mask of melancholy and fear. “Looking at Bates is like déjà vu. It takes me right back to what Constantine did to Lillian Norton.”

  Madison was curious why her friend was bringing that up again, but she sensed there was more to it than Cynthia’s concern for Madison. “It could just be a coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?” Cynthia parroted at a high pitch. She turned to Terry. “Since when does she believe in coincidence?”

  “I’m right here, you know,” Madison said. “All I meant is that I’m not in a hurry to jump to any conclusions yet.” She gestured to Terry. “As he’s always saying, we have to follow the evidence.”

  “Well, I am considering the evidence, and you actually might start chipping away at the ‘coincidence’ thing when you see what I have for you.”

  Madison’s stomach clenched. “What is it?”

  “One thing first,” her friend said.

  “Cyn, seriously?” Irritation coiled around Madison’s heart and constricted her airflow. Patience had never been her strong suit, but with this case, she was tapped out of it from the moment she thought Constantine might be back.

  Cynthia held up a hand. “Okay, I see you’re not in the mood to fool around.” She bent down and pulled out a sealed evidence bag from a collection box. “This was found after I called you.” She handed it over to Madison. “It was in Bates’s wallet.”

  The bag contained a receipt from Club Sophisticated and the time stamp showed ten thirty last night. It billed for shots of vodka.

  “Not sure if you’ve ever been, but it’s hip and trendy,” Cynthia began. “Lou and I have gone a couple times.”

  “How far is it from there to here?” Terry asked.

  Cynthia’s brow furrowed in thought. “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes?”

  Terry turned to Madison. “Yasmine said she met up with Bates at his house around eleven.”

  “And the system was disarmed at ten forty-five,” Madison added. “I wonder if he was at the club alone or had company.”

  “Stein said Bates got around. Maybe he was with another woman,” Terry suggested.

  “Possibly. But whoever it was, was one of the last people to see him alive,” Madison concluded.

  “Maybe his killer followed him from the club,” Terry theorized. “Just keeping an open mind.”

  “Unless this was a Russian hit.” Cynthia drew her gaze to Madison. “They’d know where he lived.”

  “All right,” Madison said, sloughing off the hypotheticals. She refused to give herself over to falling into the rabbit hole that it was Constantine. “What’s the discovery we needed to see with our own eyes? The one you called me about?”

  “This way.” Cynthia led the way upstairs, practically at a jog. “Mark?”

  “Yeah?” The investigator peeked his head through an opened doorway into the hall.

  “Show them what you found,” Cynthia directed him.

  “Is it the murder weapon?” Madison ventured.

  “Nope, but something good nonetheless,” Cynthia said.

  For it to be considered “something good” in comparison to a murder weapon, Madison’s curiosity was piqued.

  “This way.” Mark came out of the room and led them down the hall and through the third door on the left. It was Bates’s home office. It was bright with a window seat and built-in shelving.

  Mark headed to a section that housed tomes on accounting law and pressed his fingers to the top of one of their spines. The width of ten inches, five faux books popped out on an angle, revealing a hidden compartment.

  “It’s what he found inside that you’ll want to see.” Cynthia looked at Mark. “Go get the paper.”

  He ran out of the room.

  Madison could barely take the suspense any longer. “What’s on the paper?”

  “It’s not so much what’s on it—although, who knows how it ties in—but where it’s from is definitely interesting.”

  Madison was about to scream in frustration at her anticipation.

  “You’ll see in just a few seconds.”

  Madison angled her head at Cynthia. “Really?”

  Mark came back with a sealed plastic evidence bag and handed it to Madison.

  She pretty much snatched it from his hands. It contained a piece of letterhead. “Mitchell County Prison,” she said out loud.

  Mitchell County Prison was where Dimitre Petrov was serving his sentence. Was this the connection to the Mafia she needed, or did it mean something else? Now the fact that Cynthia had brought up the possible Mafia tie downstairs made sense.

  She unfolded the paper and silently read the letter. All that had been written was the number 4734237437.

  “Ten digits.” Madison looked up. “A phone number?”

  Cynthia shook her head. “We tried that right away.”

  “What’s it mean, then?” Madison countered.

  “We don’t know yet. A bank account, a passcode? We’ll need more time.”

  “Do we know who wrote it yet?”

  Cynthia turned to Mark.

  “I did a quick comparison to Bates’s handwriting from a legal document I found in there.” Mark pointed to a wood-grain, four-drawer filing cabinet. “It’s not a match.”

  “Not Bates’s?” Madison’s heart was racing, not having expected that answer. She paced a few steps and handed off the evidence bag to Terry.

  “The letterhead would only be coming from one place,” she started brainstorming aloud, “and that’s the administrative offices.” She stopped moving, letting her gaze drift over all of them. “Whoever wrote on this letterhead likely works in or has access to the prison offices. Still, why does Bates have this? What was his connection there?”

  Cynthia locked eye contact with her. “It’s where—”

  “I know it’s where Dimitre’s serving time,” Madison countered quickly. “But assuming that Bates was in communication with him…why? Is there a connection between that”—she inferred the letterhead—“and his murder?” Her gut told her yes, but she’d have to wait for a satisfactory answer.

  “Bates could have been visiting someone else besides Dimitre,” Terry suggested.

  Madison shot him down with a concentrated stare.

  “Or maybe not…” Terry held up the bag and addressed Mark. “The envelope in here…”

  “That’s what the letterhead was found in,” Mark said, answering Terry’s unfinished question. “As you’ll see, there’s no address, name, or stamp on it. It was never sealed.”
r />   “So it was handed directly to Bates,” Terry concluded.

  Mark nodded. “And it’s the real deal. It’s not forged letterhead—it’s embossed. It also has the prison’s new logo, and that change was pretty recent, so I’d say it hasn’t been in here too long.”

  “All right, so he had it delivered to him in person by someone who works in the offices at Mitchell County Prison,” Terry summarized. He was rubbing at the back of his neck so hard it sounded like sandpaper.

  “We need to find out when Bates got it and what those numbers mean,” Madison said. “And the best way to get started with both those things is to go to the prison. We need to check the visitor logs and see if and when we can place Bates there. Either way, someone on the inside was communicating with Bates, and we need to know who and why.”

  -

  CHAPTER

  7

  MITCHELL COUNTY PRISON WAS A maximum security facility and located on the outskirts of Stiles. It housed five hundred inmates and some of the most dangerous criminals in the state. Madison and Terry had relinquished their guns at check-in and were waiting to see the warden, a man named Jeremy Schultz. They were at least going in armed with a signed warrant for a copy of the prison’s visitor logs as they pertained to Jimmy Bates. Terry had made a good point on the way over, though: why would Bates sign in and let his liaison with Dimitre be known? Assuming there was a liaison between the two of them. But looking into the logs was an avenue worth exploring regardless. Criminals often got cocky, and when they got cocky, they made mistakes.

  A buzzer sounded, and a door opened. A man came out into the waiting area. He had shortly cropped light-brown hair, a round face, and wide nose. The receptionist pointed him in Madison and Terry’s direction.

  “Detectives,” the man said, holding out a hand. “I’m Jeremy Schultz. You wanted to see me?”

  Madison made the introductions and added, “We’d like to speak with you in your office.”

  “Sure.” Jeremy’s voice sounded strained, hesitant. “Follow me.” He turned and headed back to the door he’d come out of just moments ago. He swiped a keycard, and the buzzer sounded again. He opened the door and held it for Madison and Terry, letting them enter ahead of him.