The next morning, Hilary made a quick breakfast, then left for work before Nick. She needed to get to the west side of Charlottesville.
Fortified, he walked out, hopped in his great little car, and headed down the winding drive. His exit was blocked by the Camaro. He saw the familiar face behind the wheel.
He popped it in reverse, but too late. A bullet crashed through the windshield, hitting him in the chest. The pain slowed him enough so the Camaro came up close and the driver finished the job with a second shot, through the heart.
The ambulance took away Nick’s body as Cooper, Rick, and the crime-scene team carefully combed over Hilary’s place.
“Smart.” Rick stared down at the stone-covered drive next to the STI.
“Smart, and the second murder in two weeks of men who worked at ReNu.” Cooper knelt down. “The killer took his time.”
“Yep.” Rick moved a short distance away from the STI. “We’re dealing with someone who can think ahead, is cool, and can act quickly if need be. So much easier to catch a murderer who kills in a fit of rage.”
“Sure is.” Cooper lightly ran her hands over the stones. “Whoever shot Ashby actually raked this, and raked it deep down, including all the way out to Black Cat Road. Not a chance we’ll get a tire imprint.” She stood up. “And the rake in Hilary’s little garden shed was washed off. No fingerprints.”
Rick smiled ruefully. “Hey, maybe the guy’s a professional gardener and carries his tools.”
“Right.” Coop smiled back at him, then her smile faded. “Where to first? Hilary Larson or Nick’s mom?”
“I’ll send Jarrod over to Mrs. Ashby. He’s good in a situation like this. You and I will find out where Miss Larson works and get ourselves over there.” He sighed. “You know, I’ve had to inform people for decades that someone they love has been killed on the road or died in a brawl. It never gets any easier.”
“Yeah. It’s their shock, that split second of disbelief, that always gets me. This was so cold, so calculated.” She shook her head.
Rick walked over to the squad car, called in to see if anyone there could find where Hilary Larson worked. “Come on.”
Coop hopped into the car with him. “Let’s try the neighbors, okay?”
He turned out of the driveway. They slowly drove down Black Cat Road. They stopped at three places, all off the main drag, for it was a fairly well-traveled road. No one was home; everyone was at work.
They then turned down Mechunk Road. Although this road was more miles from Hilary’s place, someone might know her. Same story, though.
“Remember when this was Route One?” Rick slowed as he reached the end of the road.
“Then the post office changed everything to names. I still remember it by the route numbers and the box numbers. I guess a name is progress.”
“Depends on the name.” Rick smiled.
The dispatcher reached them. “Old Navy. Hilary Larson works at Old Navy in the Barracks Road Shopping Center.”
Rick asked, “How’d you track her down?”
“Well, I couldn’t find anything in the computer other than her address and license-plate number, so I asked around and Sherry, at the front desk, actually knows her. Small world.”
“That’s the truth. Thanks, Marcie,” Rick told the dispatcher as he headed out to Route 64, but he didn’t hit the siren. No need.
The two drove west in companionable silence.
Coop finally broke it. “ReNu is turning into a dangerous place to work.”
“It could be that Walt and Nick were tied in to something outside the business. These days, you never know. Just because people pass blood tests—which Victor informed me the business does randomly—doesn’t mean they aren’t selling drugs.”
“True. Doesn’t feel like that, though, does it?”
“No.”
“Then there’s those racy pictures on Walt’s computer. Could be some kind of sex ring. Remember years ago when I first came on the force, young girls were being recruited from the private school as well as the university?”
“Mmm-hmm. We’ll never completely stop that, you know. Unless someone comes forward, that’s one of the easiest and most lucrative businesses to run. All you need is a telephone and a reliable stable. And it’s true we’re about due for one of those scandals.”
“This isn’t it. Neither of these victims was the type who could organize and operate a high-class call-girl ring. Boy, this is a town that eats up stuff like that.” Coop grimaced.
“They all do. But when you consider the type of high-powered men coming in and out of Charlottesville …” He shrugged. “Easy pickings.”
“I’ve never understood why high-powered women don’t feel entitled to the same benefits.” Coop looked out at the already-rich foliage.
“Do you?”
“God, no. I’d die before I’d pay for sex.”
“Therein lies the difference. In sex, a woman is the center of attention, always and ever. The man has to find her, woo her, court her with goods, or, in the case of the high-class call girls, shell out the bucks. All you ladies have to do is breathe.”
“Guess so, but it’s so … I don’t know. Neither one of us is a prude. We both know how the world works, but to pay for a woman, even a discreet one who comes from an equally discreet service, there’s something deeply creepy about that. To me, anyway.”
“As a man, I can understand it, but I think it’s a little creepy myself.” He pulled in to the parking lot in front of Old Navy. As they walked in to the fairly large store, customers noticed.
Coop motioned for a salesperson to come over. “Could we see the manager, please?”
“Sure.” The young woman led them to a middle-aged woman moving a rack of clothes with another worker.
As quietly as Rick could, he explained they needed to see Hilary Larson in a private space. Always sensitive, Rick asked if there was a good friend or if the manager herself would take Hilary home and someone else would drive her car. He emphasized that the young woman would be hearing some very upsetting news.
The manager, Crystal Hines, nodded and had the good sense not to ask questions. She took them to her small but comfortable office.
“I’ll bring Hilary to you. Can I get you anything? A Coke, some coffee?”
“No, no, thank you.” Rick sat in one chair.
Coop stood, as there were only two chairs in front of the desk.
Mrs. Hines brought the young, attractive woman to her office. She said to Coop, “Sit at my desk. It’s messy. You can’t make it any worse.”
As Mrs. Hines left them all, Coop did just that, taking out her notebook.
Rick’s voice was calm. “Miss Larson, I’m Sheriff Shaw, and this is Deputy Cooper. Please sit down. We have some sad news.”
The pretty redhead was wide-eyed and fearful. She sat across from Rick. “It’s not Daddy, is it? He hasn’t been in an accident?”
“No. It’s Nick Ashby. He was found dead in his car in your driveway.”
She sat upright. “Nicky? What’s happened?”
“He was shot. He’s gone, Miss Larson. I’m sorry.”
“Shot? Why?” Tears came into her eyes; her hands shook.
“Deputy Cooper and I were hoping you might provide some insight.”
She put her head in her hands and shook it.
Coop got up, stood beside the young woman, and put her hand on her shoulder. “If it’s too much, we’ll come back. Someone will drive you home.”
Looking up at the tall woman through tearful blue eyes, Hilary cried out, “I’ll do anything to help. Anything.”
Coop glanced back at the desk, saw a box of tissues, grabbed a few, and handed them to Hilary. She then returned to the desk, picked up her pen.
Rick softly asked, “Did Mr. Ashby ever mention being afraid?”
“No.”
“What about his activities? Anything illegal? Drugs, prescription or illegal?”
“He wasn’t into that
. He could drink a little on the weekends, but he wasn’t much for drugs.”
“How long have you been dating him?”
“Um, two months. He was a good guy.”
“Did you meet his friends?”
“Well, they were all guys who raced cars on the weekends. Those guys—Nick included—put every penny they had into their cars. That was one of the reasons Nick didn’t take drugs. And when he drank it was only on a weekend when he wasn’t racing.”
“Drag racing?”
“Right.”
“Ever sit in the car with him?”
This brought a smile. “I did. Loved it.”
“The other men. Ever feel any of them had it in for Nick?”
She thought about this. “No, but no one likes being beaten, and Nick’s STI beat out every car in its class. He just toasted a Mitsubishi Evo. That guy wasn’t happy, but most guys know you win and you lose. They’ll just haul their cars back into their garage to start working on them again.”
“I see.” Rick then asked, “Did you ever meet his mother?”
“I did. His father’s passed.”
“You got along with her?”
“Well, I don’t know her very well, but she seemed to like me. She laughed that if I was going to be seeing her son, I’d better get used to him spending money on his car and not me. That was about it.”
“Did he spend last night with you?”
“Yes.”
“How did he seem?”
“He was late. Said he got tied up, but he seemed elated, kind of, maybe a little preoccupied. But then he settled down. He’d get that way when he raced.”
“I see.” Rick leaned toward Hilary. “If you think of anything, no matter how seemingly small, call me, text me. Or Deputy Cooper.”
He gave her his card. Cooper rose, did likewise, and then left the room.
She returned with Crystal Hines. Upon seeing her boss, Hilary began crying again. Mrs. Hines hurried over to put her arm around the young woman.
Rick said, “Miss Larson, Mrs. Hines will help you go home.” He then turned to the manager. “Thank you for your help.”
Back in the squad car, the two pulled onto Route 29.
“ReNu?” Coop asked.
“Yep. What’d you think?”
“That she really doesn’t know anything.”
“Me, too. Well, let’s hope somebody at ReNu has a thought. They’ve lost two employees. You’d think that would jar something or someone loose.”
It didn’t.
Long shadows lapped the lush grass of Farmington Country Club. Created in 1927 by a Scotsman named Findlay, the course boasted long fairways and beautiful approaches to small, fast greens, which tested a golfer. In the old days, land was not as expensive as it is now, so the course designer had a large canvas to paint.
What golfer could ever tire of coming up behind the club itself, originally designed by Thomas Jefferson as a working plantation, for which he was paid an architect’s commission? The player faced the feminine roll of the Blue Ridge Mountains, while behind him or her stood one of America’s loveliest colonial structures, red brick washed in the patina of time.
This late afternoon, the glut of players having tapered off, Dr. Nelson Yarbrough, Latigo Bly, and Susan Tucker had each smacked the tar out of the ball from the tees at Number 14. A mockingbird eagerly watched from a huge pin oak, first cocking his head one way, then another. Some birds waited for the rolling ball to disturb bugs. The mockingbird in this case took a dislike to the ball, opening its wings, lifting off the branch, and soaring overhead to monitor the ball’s progress. The bird witnessed countless balls on the fairway and in the rough, and for whatever reason he felt compelled to fly over each one, be it white, yellow, or orange. The orange balls offended him the most, and, upon sighting one, a big raven call would emanate from his graceful body. The bird could duplicate any sound he heard. Raven calls, harsh, often disturbed other birds and people, too. As to just why these golf balls provoked such a response, well, you never knew about mockingbirds.
“Look at that silly bird.” Latigo Bly pointed his driver in the bird’s direction.
Dr. Yarbrough smiled. A former quarterback on the UVA football team, he was strong and highly intelligent. “Maybe he knows something we don’t.”
“Like a snake in the grass,” the tall, thin Latigo thought out loud.
“Nah, it’s bird Zumba dancing. He chased each one of our balls. Think of the exercise.” Susan, like Harry, adored watching animals.
While men and women did play golf together, the typical group consisted of same-gender friends. Various explanations for this seemed to be accepted by both men and women—the men, of course, feeling superior, since they hit off the men’s tees.
Susan Tucker had won the club championship three times. She’d won the Virginia State Women’s Championship once, seven years back. She nearly always placed in the top ten in any tournament.
In high demand with the men—who silently watched her, always hoping to figure out how such a feminine woman could send the ball soaring down the fairway—Susan kept her thoughts to herself. She knew she would never match the record of the late Mary Patton Janssen, probably the best amateur golfer FCC had produced in the twentieth century and just possibly the best amateur golfer ever in the state of Virginia. She won state six years, from 1957 to 1962, a feat never matched. She played in the British Women’s Amateur in 1956 in the first all-American finals. Those were a handful of her many accomplishments, which also included riding horses over stout fences and showing dogs.
The key to Susan’s game was her short game. Well, isn’t it always? When she was young, she’d tag along with Mary Pat, studying every little move the attractive, dynamic lady made. When this keg of dynamite died on May 20, 2011, Susan, like every golfer who had ever seen Mary Pat play, knew an era had ended. When Mary Pat learned the game, one walked the course and often carried one’s own bags or just played with six or seven clubs. When possible, a caddy would be hired, always useful. Susan, being a kid, never could hire one, so Mary Pat graciously paid for Susan’s caddy, telling her to listen to her caddy, who had walked the course more times than any golfer including Mary Pat, ever could.
With the great lady’s death, Susan became determined to sharpen her game and make an effort to teach youngsters. Susan couldn’t have cared less if they were boys or girls, rich or poor. Of course, at FCC, those youngsters came from privileged backgrounds, although not all of them lived in happy homes. Susan also would go to the city golf course once a week in the good weather to work with young people who didn’t have two nickels to rub together.
This concern for others drew Susan and Dr. Yarbrough together. Each had achieved athletic fame in their own sports, which gave them respect from the young and allowed them to reach some kids that others thought unreachable. The interesting thing about both the powerfully built dentist and the gracefully built housewife was they didn’t talk about what they did, even to each other. They just did it.
Latigo Bly stood in sharp contrast to this. Given his wealth, he supported the Cancer Society, the Multiple Sclerosis Foundation, and the Salvation Army. His name and often his photo were prominently displayed. Nor was he loath to call attention to his acts of charity.
All three of these golfers lived the good life in their way, but Latigo certainly lived more of it: fast cars, faster women, disgruntled ex-wives. His garage was filled with a Porsche 911, a Camaro, a Mustang convertible, even a Lamborghini. His bed had been filled with female counterparts easy on the eyes, hard on the wallet. His wife, Vivien, instrumental in his success, looked the other way. He loved her, but he used her. Some might define him as narcissistic, others as a man driven to win, to profit.
Halfway down this snaking fairway, using an eight iron, Dr. Yarbrough ripped a tremendous shot. It arced up like an artillery shell, coming almost straight down next to the pin. A big smile crossed his rugged features.
“Show-off,” Susan teased,
calling from across the fairway.
She pulled out her seven iron, hit the ball with backspin. It landed on the green, fifteen feet from the pin, but then began to roll backward, stopping a beautiful four feet away. If there was one thing Susan could do, it was read greens.
Latigo was not as powerful a driver as either Dr. Yarbrough or Susan. He hit the ball, which was about twenty-five yards behind their fairway shots. It was a good, clean shot, landing just in that first halo of taller grass surrounding the green, taller by maybe a quarter of an inch. That quarter of an inch was enough to make the man stare hard at his ball and then hard at the distant pin.
Golf didn’t take bravery like, say, foxhunting, but it sure could break your heart.
The remaining four holes played fast. The three, enjoying one another’s company and the lovely light breeze, wrapped up on the eighteenth hole.
Susan shot a 72. Dr. Yarbrough came in at 75, and Latigo scored a very respectable 82. The three cleaned up, walked up the outside stairway to the nineteenth hole, and sat down for a refreshing drink.
“That mockingbird put the mojo on my ball.”
“Latigo, if we were in Florida, you’d say it was an alligator.” Susan gratefully sipped her sweetened iced tea.
“Well,” the tall fellow drawled, “there are a lot of alligators on the greens down there.”
“You know, they can run faster than we do,” Dr. Yarbrough noted. “You wouldn’t think it to look at them.”
“Speaking of alligators …” Latigo looked intently down at his drink while a former affairette swished by, gave him a hard look, sniffed, then continued.
“Latigo, the lipstick and fingernail polish alone should have put you off.” Susan winked at him.
“I beg pardon?” Latigo’s eyes opened wide.
“Black fingernail polish and dark-purple lipstick. What were you thinking?”
The Big Cat Nap Page 9
