“You weren’t home when Nancy was shot?”
Frank shook his head: no.
“Okay, then. So, where were you?”
Frank hesitated. He’d told Nancy that he’d been in Florida. But lying to his wife was one thing. Lying to the police, in the wake of a shooting, could turn into something much worse. Weighing the word for a moment, he finally said, “California.”
“Okay, Frank. That’s fine. Of course, we’ll have to interview you in a more formal setting, down at the station.”
“Of course,” Frank said. “Of course.”
Chapter 31
Detective Wall
Down at the station, Detective Michael Wall led Frank Howard down a long hallway, toward an interrogation room.
Getting Frank down to the station had been little more than a formality. The fact that he was the victim’s husband made him an automatic suspect. But the police knew Frank had been in Tahoe on the night of the shooting. And back in Carrollton, where the Howards had lived for years and years, everyone knew Frank to be an upstanding, churchgoing family man.
The most that the detective hoped for now was that Frank would be able to fill in some background, remember a detail or two that would generate some sort of lead.
“Can you update me on your wife’s condition?” the detective asked. “Tell me what the doctors said?”
“Yes,” Frank said. “Actually it sounds very bad when you say it: ‘Somebody was shot in the head.’ But actually, it’s very, very good.”
Nancy’s injuries could have been so much worse, Frank told the detective.
“There’s no brain damage. None of that. She’ll lose her eye, but from there it will be cosmetic stuff.”
“Is there anything you know of—did she have problems with anybody?”
“No, no,” Frank insisted. “Absolutely not. But Nancy can be real giving and…and real open. She’ll open our door to a stranger, invite him inside. Pick a hitchhiker up and go out of her way to drop him at his location. A month ago, someone came to our door. They just needed money to get a hotel room ’cause their car had broken down—”
“They came to your house?”
“To the house, yeah. They came to the front door. And Nancy told them—she’s got a good heart—she said that she’d help them find a hotel room.”
“You think she might have opened the door for someone on the night of the shooting?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said. “I wish to God that I did know.”
“And our understanding is you were not there on the night of the shooting.”
“No, sir, I was not. I travel a lot for work. I did text with Nancy and emailed with her that day. I know that she had a ladies’ lunch at our church.”
“You texted with her right before the shooting?”
“Yes, sir. That’s my understanding.”
“And just to confirm that, would you mind if we ran an analysis on your cell phone?”
“Not at all. And if there’s anything else I can do…if it gets to the point where I can offer a reward, anything at all, I’ll be happy to do it.”
Frank looked down at his hands. He didn’t want to seem overeager. But this seemed just short of the line, and he was relieved when he looked back up and saw the detective smiling at him.
“Thank you,” Detective Wall said as he took Frank’s iPhone and placed it in a yellow envelope. “If it gets to the point where we’ve exhausted our leads, that’s another step we could take. Obviously, money can prompt people to give information.”
“Yes, sir,” Frank said.
“In my experience,” Wall added as he shook Frank’s hand, “money makes people do all sorts of things.”
Chapter 32
Frank and Nancy
Nancy had been unconscious for two days in a row, but her doctors had assured Frank that she was not in a coma. Her body needed all the strength it could get to recuperate. It knew that it had to sleep. Nancy might not have known it, but she was fighting hard—and she was going to make it through to the other side. In a few days, they hoped, she could even go home.
What could Frank do but sigh and sit in Nancy’s hospital room, watching the ventilator move up and down, up and down? When the kids arrived that day, they formed a prayer circle around their mother. “Heavenly Father,” they said, and just then they saw Nancy’s right eye—her remaining eye—twitch under its eyelid.
The very next day she was fully awake.
Then, with the breathing tube out, she was talking. But as soon as the kids left the room, Frank told her that he had a few things of his own to say.
The past twenty-four hours had been grueling for him. It wasn’t just the long hours he’d spent at the hospital. It was that Michael Wall and the Carrollton police had found something he had not expected them to find on his cell phone.
They’d found out about Suzanne and the affair Frank had been having.
He’d been so careful up to that point. He’d used disposable phones for every conversation he’d had with Billie Earl and with Billie’s associates. And it wasn’t like he’d put Suzanne’s name in his iPhone. All this while her contact info had read “S. Tahoe Cell.”
“South Tahoe,” if anyone had thought to ask.
But Frank had not expected anyone to ask.
Certainly not the police.
What Frank had expected was that the police would make sure he’d texted and emailed with Nancy, like they said they would. That they’d see he hadn’t been anywhere near Carrollton on the night that Nancy had been shot.
In other words, he’d taken the cops at their word.
But as far as Frank was concerned, the cops had not been honest with him. Detective Wall had checked the rest of his phone logs as well. He’d checked the rest of Frank’s texts, including his texts with Suzanne.
He’d seen cell phone pictures of Frank and Suzanne together—on vacation, at football games.
Detective Wall had even put in a call to the FBI, which gave him Suzanne’s full name, age, and occupation.
Then Wall had called Suzanne—actually called her. And while Suzanne had confirmed that Frank had been with her in Tahoe on the night that Nancy had been shot, it was not quite the alibi Frank would have wished for.
What Frank had told the police was that he’d been in California on business. Now Detective Wall had caught him in a lie. Not a lie that linked him, in any way, with Billie Earl Johnson or Nancy’s shooting. But a lie he couldn’t counter, given the information the police had gotten ahold of.
The only thing Frank could do now was stay as far as he could ahead of that lie.
And that meant he had to tell Nancy about his affair.
Chapter 33
Nancy
For the second time in a week, Nancy was in shock.
She stared at Frank in disbelief as he wept and begged for her forgiveness and swore—swore—that it was nothing he ever wanted to happen and nothing that would ever happen again.
Didn’t this man understand what she’d been through? Didn’t he understand how cruel he’d been—and how cruel it was to tell her now, when she was helpless and bandaged and looking like three hundred miles of bad road? She almost died. And now Nancy felt like Frank was trying to kill her. He might as well be trying to choke her. That’s how hard it was for Nancy to breathe as she listened to Frank talk and talk.
First, he talked about how weak he’d been. How lost he’s felt ever since the children left home.
Then he talked about Suzanne and how she meant nothing to him. She’d pursued him, Frank told Nancy. And it’d been so long since he’d been pursued by a woman.
Frank had been flattered by it, nothing more. He’s vain, as well as weak. Girls and greed had always been his weaknesses. He was a sinner; he knew it. But what he needed for Nancy to know was that it’d all been just a fling.
It wasn’t that other woman he loved. It was her flattery.
Seeing Nancy like this was what’s shown him the need
to come clean about the affair, Frank told her. It’d made him realize how much he treasured her.
Only now did he understand the true value of the twenty-eight years they’d spent together.
In sickness and health, he said. Isn’t that what it’s really about?
Hitting his stride now, Frank began to cry. He needed Nancy to believe him now. He needed for her to need him. Because if she needed him, she’d never suspect that he was behind her shooting.
And so, Frank told Nancy that he knew how much time it would take to fix this. He knew Nancy might never forgive him. All he could do was ask her now—now that he’s being completely honest—could she try? He’d come back to her, decided that he’d never want to just throw their marriage away. Maybe Nancy could find it in her heart to do the same thing?
But Nancy was crying as well. Crying out of pity for Frank and how foolish he’d been. Crying for having finally learned the reason for all the distance she’d felt in her marriage—for the way Frank had taken to acting around her.
Crying because she was wondering, even now, if she had done something to push Frank away. Crying because now that she knew, she was wondering if there was a way through the ordeal.
And so, as she cried, Nancy’s disbelief began to turn into acceptance—something like acceptance, at least. Something that she’d have to live with and pray on.
She never had had it in her to hate.
Even now, with Frank having done this terrible thing, she had to admit that she loved him. She couldn’t imagine what she’d do without him. And it didn’t cross Nancy’s mind for one second—would not cross her mind for one million years—that Frank had it in him, for years now, to do something far more terrible.
PART SIX
ONE WEEK AFTER THE
SHOOTING
Chapter 34
Frank
The week that had passed since the shooting was just the time it’d taken for Frank’s life to change drastically.
Nancy was home for good now, though there were still several doctor’s visits a week, and Frank had been playing the role of the dutiful nursemaid—changing her bandages, helping her in and out of the bath. In the downtime, he cooked for Nancy, fetched snacks and drinks. Most of the time, she seemed very grateful. And when the pain became too much for Nancy to bear, she still didn’t take it out on Frank—not really. Even though she still cried over the shooting and, even more often, over Frank’s affair, she seemed to have forgiven him. She said as much the first time she came home from the hospital: “If the good Lord had it in his heart to forgive,” she told him, “I have to find it in mine.”
But the more forgiving Nancy was, the more resentful of her Frank seemed to become. It wasn’t that he felt guilty, exactly. It was that she was a walking, talking reminder of the trouble Frank had gotten himself into.
It’d been a week, too, since Frank had seen Suzanne—a week full of furtive phone calls, which he’d had to sneak out of the house for. A week’s worth of guilt trips and accusations from a mistress he’d started to tire of, but couldn’t let go of, in part because he was afraid of the questions she’d ask.
Frank had done nothing to tip Suzanne off about his plans to do away with Nancy—in that regard, he’d been so very careful. Suzanne would never suspect him of planning an actual murder. But together, Frank and Suzanne had spent more money than any small-town accountant like Frank could have earned. Suzanne had never asked Frank about it directly. Then again, she’d gotten used to the very comfortable lifestyle that Frank had provided her. If he were to cut her off, there’s no telling what questions she’d ask.
Suzanne wasn’t stupid. And, Frank knows, she wasn’t above making threats.
“Honey,” he said when Suzanne called for the sixth time that week and asked why he was there in Texas and not with her. “Where else could I be? Nancy’s been shot. We’re lucky she’s alive!”
“Oh, Frank,” said Suzanne. “How am I supposed to compete with that?”
If there’s any good news, it’s that it’d been a few days since Frank had heard from Michael Wall, the detective who’s handing the investigation. The last time they spoke, Wall assured him that Carrollton PD would track down Nancy’s assailant. But Wall didn’t seem to have any actual leads—and that’s fine as far as Frank was concerned. There were no witnesses to Nancy’s crime. Nancy’s own description of the assailant was vague: a white man in his twenties. Strong jaw. Facial hair. That’s pretty much half the population of the Dallas metropolitan area. And, Frank knew, that wasn’t even where the assailant was from.
But if Frank was at peace with the investigation, he couldn’t find peace within himself. Sometimes, Frank couldn’t help but snap at Nancy. And even when he did manage to hold everything in, his wife told him that he seemed distracted.
What could Frank say to that? He was distracted. While Nancy had been watching her shows, Frank had been bent over his laptop, glued to the spreadsheets he’d been fiddling with for months. His old bookkeeper—the one who had the nerve to ask about certain discrepancies in his books—was long gone. Frank let her go, he told Nancy. Ever since he told his boss, Richard Raley, that he’d have to cut back on his travel, there’d been a lot less work coming in. But what that meant now was that Frank had to do the books himself. And no matter how hard he tried to finagle the numbers, he’d siphoned too much money out of Raley’s accounts to make it all square in the spreadsheets.
Night after night, he stayed up in his home office, his face lit by the dim glow of the laptop. Night after night, the numbers didn’t square. And then, one night, he logged on and found that he’d been locked out of one of his accounts. He tried one password, and then another. Then he tried another account.
He needed those accounts. There were still millions of dollars to account for, to hide. He typed in more passwords—every one he could remember.
Still no go. Frank’s chest tightened a bit. His throat went dry. But there wasn’t much more he could do in the moment. Nancy’s calling for him again, asking for a refill on her sweet tea.
Chapter 35
Detective Wall
Michael Wall stirred his third cup of coffee as he looked at a sketch of the criminal he was supposed to be catching.
Nancy Howard’s instructions to the forensic artist had been white male, square jaw, facial hair, dark baseball cap.
It could have been anyone’s face. But it was better than nothing.
Next, Wall took out the folder of photographs taken at the scene of the shooting. The garage door’s still open. In front of Nancy’s parked car—a blue, late-model Buick—there’s an overturned black plastic bin that is covered in Nancy’s blood.
Inside the house, there’s more blood, on the walls, on the floor. It looks like the aftermath of a massacre.
There are photographs, too, of a nearby Dumpster—one that Carrollton PD had discovered after running a trace on Nancy’s cell phone. The shooter had dumped Nancy’s purse there, without taking her wallet, her cell phone, or keys. But, Detective Wall noted, the purse had been rifled through. Nancy’s driver’s license had been removed and discarded separately from the rest of her wallet’s contents.
The detective set a photograph of the license aside, opened his case notes, and underlined a few things that he had learned: “Shooter did not know Nancy Howard personally. Did not take car keys, wallet, or money. But checked against license to make sure of her identity and did this after the shooting.”
Michael Wall had known for a week now that Frank Howard had lied to Nancy about his whereabouts on the night of the shooting. Nancy had thought that Frank had been in Tampa. But then, of course Howard lied. He was having an affair. Like all cheating husbands, he’d have lied to anyone—said anything—to cover his tracks. The fact of that lie was less conclusive than the fact that Frank’s mistress, Suzanne Leontieff, confirmed Frank’s alibi, placing him in Tahoe on the night of the shooting.
Still, it didn’t add up. A cheating husband. A shoote
r who had to confirm he’d shot the right woman based on her license photo. A professional hit, in that the would-be killer had acted in cold blood, shooting Nancy Howard in the forehead while looking straight into her eyes. But a hit that had been botched, as only an amateur could have botched it?
If not for the surveillance tapes from First Baptist Church, Detective Wall would have been nowhere. But what those tapes had revealed was that a silver car had followed Nancy Howard’s Buick into the church parking lot.
When Nancy had parked, the silver car had parked, too, just a few spots away. When Nancy entered the church, the silver car drove away—only to return one hour later. Then a man had stepped out and walked into the church, where another surveillance camera captured him on his way into and out of a restroom.
None of the surveillance footage was anywhere near the quality Wall would have wished it to be. The detective had scanned it again and again and still couldn’t make out the silver car’s plates. But grainy as the footage was, it did show the man’s hooded sweatshirt, his blue jeans and black sneakers. It showed a dark baseball cap that all but covered his face. And it showed the thing that had cemented Detective Wall’s belief that Nancy Howard had been targeted—singled out—for extermination.
A few minutes after the man in the baseball cap had exited the men’s room, Nancy had exited the church. Outside, she’d walked through the rain back to her car. And when Nancy had pulled her car out of the church parking lot, the silver car had pulled out behind her and followed her into the street.
* * *
In the police department’s kitchen, where Wall had gone for his fourth cup of coffee, the other cops were incredulous.
Murder Is Forever, Volume 1 Page 7
