8 A Wedding and a Killing

by Lauren Carr

  “His story is the same as yours,” Sheriff Nichols said.

  “Then it must be true,” Mac said. “After Brutus took this guy for a drive, Kendra and I fought it out—we’re quite a passionate couple—then we had makeup sex, which is very physical. That was where she got the bruises.”

  “Then why did she go running down to the hotel lobby afterwards?” Sheriff Nichols asked.

  “Because she’s nuts.” Mac waved a finger across the table at the prosecutor. “If you’re looking to charge someone with something, then charge Kendra for stealing a hundred thousand dollars of my money. She took it out of my account—without authorization. Check with the state police in Maryland. I did press charges against her.” Folding his arms across his chest, he sat back in his seat. “As for your case against me … it’s her word against mine on the rape and you have no body or evidence for the murder.”

  Sheriff Nichols and Quinton Hawkins regarded each other in silence before looking back at Mac. Hawkins narrowed his eyes in question at the sheriff who offered a slight nod in response to the prosecutor. The county prosecutor then turned his full body back to Mac while the sheriff crossed the room to the panel of light switches on the wall. He flipped one to turn it off.

  Mac saw the green light turn off on the surveillance camera.

  They were now off the record.

  Quinton Hawkins opened the folder that had been resting on the table. “You have quite an impressive portfolio, Mr. Forsythe. According to my check into your background, you’re worth half a billion dollars.”

  “I have a knack for making wise investments,” Mac said.

  “We see that,” Hawkins said. “You seem to have your fingers in everything. Computers, banking, aeronautics … politics.”

  “I’ve hired a few politicians for consulting on occasion,” Mac said with a wicked grin.

  Sheriff Nichols and the prosecutor exchanged smiles.

  Mac smiled back at them.

  “How much do you pay your political consultants?” Quinton Hawkins asked him.

  “Depends on how good they are. …” Mac replied. “How many of my problems they’re able to fix.”

  “Let’s just say,” Quinton Hawkins said with a drawl, “we could help you. Suppose we could make this matter go away? You’re right. We have no body to back up your wife’s claim that you had your driver take her lover out and kill him. We found no evidence in your limo to support that. The rape kit shows that you did have sexual intercourse with your wife, but nothing to indicate that it was forced.”

  “But if we chose to press forward with the investigation,” the sheriff said, “what if we decided to go out looking for that dead body?”

  “What if we decided to put your tearful wife on the stand to tell her story and let the jury decide?” the prosecutor asked. “What if we put our deputy on the stand to tell about how you threw a punch at him when he went up to your suite to question you? They’ll see a rich bully and a brow-beaten wife.”

  “But—under the right circumstances—we could make this whole matter go away,” the sheriff said. “Maybe if you hired a couple of consultants …”

  Mac asked, “How much would these consultants cost?”

  “Two million,” Quinton Hawkins replied. “One million to hire Sheriff Nichols’ services and one million for my legal services.”

  “And if I’m not looking to contract for any consulting?” Mac replied.

  “Then you’re going to have some serious issues,” the prosecutor replied. “Sure, your big lawyers may prevail, but you’ll be having to come back to our lovely area time and again for court hearings and the media is going to paint you to be a wife-beating monster.”

  “Even if that is what you are,” the sheriff said, “do you really want everyone to know?”

  “Two million dollars? I spent more than that playing poker one night in Monte Carlo.” Mac flashed them a grin. “Give me my phone.”

  “We have it right here.” The prosecutor slipped Mac’s cell phone from under a sheet of paper in the folder and slid it across the table. He then took the sheet of paper that had been covering it and laid that down next to the phone. “The account numbers where you are to make the two deposits are right here. Once the money is transferred, then you’ll be free to go.”

  Mac was bringing up the banking account holding the money. “And what about my wife?”

  “She’s your problem,” Sheriff Nichols said.

  Mac raised his eyes from the cell phone to ask in a low voice, “Are your people going to be sticking their noses into our business when I get back to the hotel to discuss this matter and how much it is costing me with her? I want to make sure she doesn’t do this again.”

  “I suggest you be quiet about it or leave town before you discuss it,” the prosecutor replied.

  The sheriff and prosecutor were practically dancing in their seats while they watched Mac working his cell phone. After the pressing of a few buttons, he turned the phone around for them to see the green line indicating the moving of the money and the words, “Transfer Completed” flash on the screen.

  “Are we done?” Mac asked.

  The prosecutor and sheriff rose from their seats and offered Mac their hands. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Forsythe.”

  “I’m glad we were able to sort things out, gentlemen.” Mac shook their hands in turn. “Can I go now?”

  Sheriff Nichols hurried over to the door. “I’ll even have one of my deputies drive you back to your hotel.” He yanked open the door to find a group of men in suits and wearing badges indicating their status as federal agents standing on the other side.

  The sheriff sputtered, “What the—”

  “Oh, these men are with me.” Mac dug his finger into his ear to remove the ear bud that had recorded their entire conversation. “Let me introduce you to Special Agent Sid Delaney with the FBI. They have something they need to tell you two. It starts with, ‘You’re under arrest for soliciting a bribe …’ and ends with ‘anything you say can be held against you.’”

  Chapter Fifteen

  David dreaded Chelsea’s silence. Unlike Archie Monday, who waited patiently and with understanding for Mac to come around to making the big commitment, Chelsea Adams yearned for more stability in her life.

  Why wouldn’t she? David understood. Her brother disappeared shortly after high school, to turn up after several years living as a recluse in an abandoned castle on top of the mountain. Chelsea’s mother died shortly after his disappearance.

  To add to the family upheaval, her first love had broken her heart. The fact that he was the first love who had broken her heart compounded his guilt. Who would have thought that fifteen years later we would reconcile?

  David welcomed Mac and Archie’s engagement with mixed emotions. He was happy for them, but anxious about what it would mean for him and Chelsea. Is she going to start chomping at the bit for us to walk down the aisle, too? I love her, but am I ready for that?

  With anxiety, David would take note every time his lovely lady with platinum blonde waves would cast her pale blue eyes at him while she thought he was sleeping.

  The morning after Mac had left for New York, David found her sitting at the picnic table on the back deck of her two-story condo staring out at the tranquil lake, which was still in the early hours of the day.

  Deep Creek Lake was in the height of the summer season. At eight o’clock, the vacationers and summer residents were still getting ready to enjoy the sunny day. There was only one fishing boat on the water when David carried his hot steaming coffee out onto the deck. In a nearby tree, a bird was chirping excitedly. David wondered if the tabby cat that belonged to one of Chelsea’s neighbors was on the receiving end of the bird’s apparent tantrum.

  Oblivious to the bird’s chatter, Molly was dozing in the middle of a sunbeam. Gnarly, who
had spent the night while his owners were in New York, was stretched out with his head resting across her neck. When David emerged through the French doors to join them, the German shepherd eyed him without lifting his head, as if he didn’t want to wake his female companion from her nap.

  Molly’s master was dressed for work in a pale blue business suit with a matching blouse and pumps. The hue of her suit seemed to be tailor made to match her pale eye color.

  David laid his hand on her shoulder. His touch startled her out of her stare across the water. Feeling her jump, he paused in bending over to kiss her on the lips. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I was thinking,” she stammered before reaching up to pull him back down to kiss her. “Good morning.” She brushed her hand down the front of his white shirt and across the badge pinned to his chest. “If you’re going to keep spending the night here, you need to bring more shirts to keep in my closet.”

  “Maybe.” Sipping his coffee, David sat down in the seat next to her. “What were you thinking so hard about?”

  “Last night,” she said. “Those were all such nice people … and how they all came out to support Ruth and … fun. I always thought church people were stuffy and no fun but—” She giggled. “I’ve never done the bunny hop before.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “Do you believe in God, David?”

  “Of course, I do.” Avoiding her gaze, he took a long sip of his coffee.

  “Why don’t we go to church then?”

  “Because we’re living in sin,” David replied in a mocking tone.

  “But aren’t we all sinners?” she shot back. “You and I are having premarital sex. There’s a killer out there who murdered their trustee. Gnarly stole a sausage off my neighbor’s grill last week. You and I run into people who lie, cheat, and steal every day. Some of us are bigger sinners than others, but isn’t that why God sent Jesus? To pay for our sins so that we can be saved?”

  David lifted his eyes to look at her. “I wondered what you were in such a deep conversation about with Reverend Deborah last night.”

  “Where do you stand, David?”

  He looked out at the still water on the lake. He was aware of her eyes searching his face. After a long silence, he swallowed. “God and I aren’t exactly on good terms right now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You weren’t here when Dad was dying,” David said. “He was in excruciating pain and he died slowly over a very long time. You remember him. He was the backbone of this lake. He did so much to help so many people … he devoted himself to helping others … he made so many sacrifices, including giving up the love of his—” Feeling his fury rising, he stopped and took a sip his coffee. “And God let him suffer like that.”

  She hung her head in silence.

  “Then there’s the evil I saw overseas—horrible things done to good people,” David said. “What kind of God lets things like that happen?”

  “God doesn’t do those things,” Chelsea said. “People do those things. A person killed Eugene Newton. Evil people organized, trained, and planned for those planes to fly into the World Trade Center buildings and the Pentagon. Not God.”

  “He could have stopped it.” David drank down the rest of his coffee. “Are you ready to go?” He stood up and went back inside.

  “Yes.” She stood up.

  Molly was instantly awake. Gnarly jumped back to allow her to climb to her feet to rush to her mistress.

  Carrying Chelsea’s laptop case and purse, David came back to the door.

  “I’m going to start going to church, David,” Chelsea announced.

  David groaned. “And you expect me to drive you?”

  “No,” she said. “Bogie volunteered to take me. He and Doc go to Spencer Church. Molly and I will ride with them, so you don’t have to go.”

  “Good.”

  She laid her hand on his chest. “I’d like for you to come with me, though.” She smiled coyly.

  David’s phone buzzed on his hip. Perfect timing. Without answering her, he brought his phone to his ear. “O’Callaghan here.” The news from the other end of the line brought a smile to his face.

  “Have Bogie meet me at the station in fifteen minutes.” He disconnected the call.

  “Good news from Mac in New York?” Chelsea asked about his grin.

  “No,” David said, “but it is good news. We got a hit on one of Helga Thorpe’s credit cards. She used it this morning to check into a motel in Breezewood, Pennsylvania.”

  “That’s a major stop on the Pennsylvania turnpike,” Chelsea said.

  “Exactly.” David handed her the laptop case. “She must have been laying low—waiting for things to cool off.” He ushered her and the dogs to the door. “I hope you don’t mind if I leave you at the station and ask Fletcher to take you on to work. Bogie and I need to go meet the Pennsylvanian State Troopers in Breezewood before she moves on. They’ve got a unit staking out the room until we get there to pick her up.”

  “Don’t say a word,” Quinton Hawkins warned Sheriff Nichols before hissing in Mac’s direction. “You set us up.” He shot a sneer at FBI Special Agent Sid Delaney. “This case will never see the inside of a court room.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” the federal agent said. “We recorded the whole conversation. You made the offer to Mr. Faraday. You solicited a bribe.”

  “Forsythe isn’t even your real name?” Sheriff Nichols asked.

  Mac slowly shook his head. “Mickey Forsythe is a fictional character in a series of books written by Robin Spencer. We set up a phony identity using his name. A very rich man who thinks he’s above the law, beating up his wife in your jurisdiction—sort of like Reese and Jason Fairbanks. That’s how they got away with beating up their wives all those years without anyone doing anything to put a stop to it.”

  “Entrapment.” The county prosecutor’s tone betrayed his impatience with them inconveniencing him.

  “I don’t care,” Mac said. “Everyone is going to know what type of men you really are--very willing to forget your sworn duties and look the other way while a woman was being abused—just like you did for years with Scarlett Fairbanks.”

  “Scarlett Fairbanks killed her husband,” the sheriff said. “Everyone knows that.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Mac said. “And if she had, then you put her in the position where she was forced to defend herself because you refused to protect her from that animal.”

  “You have no proof of that,” Prosecutor Hawkins said.

  Special Agent Delaney said, “I’m sure a jury is going to see the connection between Reese Fairbanks’ generous financial support for both of your election campaigns and the lack of action on your part to ever charge his son even though Mrs. Weber, the Fairbanks’ neighbor, called the police a dozen times over the years to report the domestic disputes. Jason Fairbanks broke his daughter’s arm and the doctor reported it. He was going to testify against him.”

  “And he recanted,” Hawkins said with a laugh while crossing his arms. “Not my problem.”

  “He recanted thanks to Reese Fairbanks intimidating him,” Mac said.

  “Now that was Fairbanks’ doing.” Sweat was rolling down the sheriff’s flabby cheeks.

  “Shut up, Nichols,” the prosecutor ordered before telling Mac. “Legally, Reese Fairbanks did nothing illegal. He never laid a hand on that doctor and he never threatened him.”

  “He threatened to foreclose his parent’s mortgage on their home and throw them out on the street if he testified,” the special agent said. “We have statements from both of them and their son.”

  “Meanwhile, you strong armed Scarlett Fairbanks and threatened her with jail time if she didn’t drop the divorce,” Mac said.

  “She skipped town and took Fairbanks’ daughter with her,” the prosecutor
said, “which is against the law.”

  “So is beating someone to a pulp!” Mac shot back.

  “What do you want?” With a handkerchief, the sheriff mopped the sweat from his forehead, cheeks, jaws, and down under his chin.

  “I told you to shut up, Nichols,” the prosecutor said. “Don’t say another word.”

  “You shut up, Hawkins,” Sheriff Nichols said. “It’s over. From here on out, it’s every man for himself.”

  The prosecutor scoffed at the sheriff before directing his laughter at Mac. “And we’ll just see who is left standing.”

  “Get him out of here,” Special Agent Delaney ordered his partner to remove the prosecutor. “Put him in a holding cell with a violent criminal and turn your back for an hour or so,” he said for the lawyer’s benefit. “Let’s see how he likes it.”

  While they escorted the cuffed prosecutor out of the interview room, Mac glared down at the sheriff from where he stood on the other side of the table.

  Even while Sheriff Nichols hung his head in shame, the former homicide detective was sickened by images of abused women and children—a few who had been killed—who he had encountered during his career. Here sat a man who had taken an oath to protect them, who could have helped Scarlett, Holly, and Reese’s wife Jenny, and he didn’t—for money.

  “I want a deal,” the sheriff broke the silence to say.

  “I’m not in a position to offer any deals.” Mac turned the chair around and straddled the back to sit across from him. “But I can put in a good word for you. I want to know about Jason Fairbanks’ murder.”

  “There’s nothing to it,” Sheriff Nichols replied. “His wife shot him and ran off. He had hunted her down and dragged her back before. She figured if he was dead, that he couldn’t hunt her down again.”

  “Someone threw water on him and shot him with a stun gun.” Reminded of the shot he had received from the arresting officer the night before, Mac involuntarily rubbed the welts the stun gun had left on his back. He imagined the pain of the extra jolt from being wet when the electric current was shot through him. Not that Fairbanks didn’t deserve it. “I want to know who did it.”