Cindy did not speak. Her heart was broken. Billy. Billy had wanted her dead. Everything else the detective said washed over her. Her computer would be returned, since she was not a suspect, and they apologized for not only suspecting her, but for delivering the news they just had.
That was three months ago.
Cindy had of course taken her house off the market, and she had called Elliott and told him to forget about her comments regarding adopting Walter and Paddy. She had also assisted with the funeral of Carla Zipp, whose body had been released by the police into the custody of a man named Gino, from Las Vegas. Cindy had helped organize the funeral service and wake for her friend, along with Gino, who had cried uncontrollably throughout the funeral, attended of course by Elliott. Apparently, it seemed, Gino and Carla were planning on getting together. She had already made plans to maybe leave Savannah and marry her old flame, the man whose love she had once rejected, but had now accepted.
Cindy Mopper had not gotten over Billy’s betrayal. It had taken her months to come to terms with the fact that Billy was not the charitable and kindhearted nephew she had idolized. It had taken months for her to accept that he had planned her murder, despite neighbors' comments that they always thought he was a bad ‘un. They had meant no harm, but their comments didn’t help.
Eventually, Cindy’s shock and disbelief turned to anger. Anger at herself for being hoodwinked and blinkered by Billy. Anger that she had believed every word he had told her. Anger that she had allowed herself to be so blinded by her own stupidity. Of course, her anger was abated slightly by relief. Relief that the police had no clue nor idea of her plot to have Carla killed. It wasn’t, though, the only silver lining. Cindy wasn’t sure, despite her earlier readiness to confess, if she was quite ready to spend the rest of her life in jail.
Now, as she sat alone in her kitchen, the kitchen where Carla had died and Billy had concocted his poisonous brew, she felt even more anger. Anger not generated by Billy Malphrus (may he rot in hell), but anger and even hatred for others. Cindy had become a bitter woman. Gone was her former compassion. Her happy demeanor evaporated; gone was her desire to please. No. The old Cindy had left the building and turned the lights out as she left. She had died the day she had found out about Billy’s betrayal. The new Cindy was unrecognizable, not in looks, but in thought and mind.
She was filled with hate.
How could he? How could he have done it? Not Billy, though she did hate Billy, but not half as much as she despised him. She detested him, and she abhorred her. They disgusted her. If anyone deserved to die, it was them, most of all him. He had to pay. Cindy would, she had vowed, make him pay a high price for what he had done to her, and if that bitch got caught in her cross hairs as well, well, that would just be a bonus. The old Cindy Mopper was gone. No one walked over the new Cindy Mopper, no one would once again use her, dally with her emotions. She was sick of being the victim. No more, she vowed. No more.
And of course, there was that second silver lining, the money. Ironic really, she often thought, that it was actually Billy’s death that had replenished her bank account, had enabled her to take her home off the market and had resulted in her once again being a woman of wealth. Taking out a life insurance policy on Billy, eight years ago, with the intention of giving him the accumulated cash value, once it had matured, had proven to be a most fortuitous decision.
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
ONE YEAR LATER
Savannah Chief of Police Sam Taylor knew that heads were going to roll. He knew that most likely he would be the one paying the price for the incompetency of his department. They had failed Veronica Partridge and they had failed Kelly Hudd. Instead of investigating Tom Hudd’s disappearance, his department had ignored it. If they had done their job correctly, and a proper investigation had been carried out, let alone a search, they would have discovered his body. Maybe if they had, then Veronica Partridge would still be alive.
Taylor blamed one man for this debacle; Jeff Morgan He was an idiot; it was his incompetence that had led to all this, and yet, despite the Chief’s attempts to fire and discipline him, he had been overridden by the Mayor. It was Morgan who should be taking responsibility, yet, to Taylor’s frustration, no disciplinary action would be taken. Why the Mayor was protecting Morgan was not clear to Sam Taylor, but he knew that somehow either Morgan had something on the Mayor or the Mayor was a fool.
Chief Sam Tam Taylor would not give Elliott Miller the satisfaction of firing him. He would resign. Thirty years of loyal service, unblemished service, a position he loved, gone, due to the Mayor and his interfering. The investigations carried out not by his own department, but by the Georgia Bureau of Investigations, an investigation requested directly by the Mayor had concluded that Doug Partridge had killed both Tom Hudd and his wife after discovering an affair between them. It was bullshit. It didn’t make sense. The investigation had been hijacked. His friends at the GBI had told him that other agencies, Federal Agencies, had gotten involved in their investigation. That someone high up, with even more clout than Savannah’s Mayor and the State’s Investigator’s, had directed the investigation.
The conclusion of the final official investigation just didn’t make sense. There was no proof Veronica Partridge and Tom Hudd had ever conducted an affair. Despite how ridiculous it was, it wasn’t half as ridiculous as the theory initially presented by the fool Morgan. That Tom Hudd and Doug Partridge were gay lovers, and had run off together; that was preposterous. Somehow all the reports, every note written by Morgan and any information pertaining to his investigations, had vanished. Was his whole department working secretly for the Mayor? How many of his officers were involved in covering up for Morgan? What had Miller promised them?
In any event, he knew he would be the one taking the fall. He would jump, though, rather than be pushed. No matter how much it galled him, he could prove no wrongdoing.
But there were unanswered questions. Questions he wanted answers to, questions he would ask himself, once he resigned. But they could wait. He would carry out his own investigation, as a private citizen, despite the interference of the Mayor, GBI, FBI, CIA and God only knows who else was involved.
At least one investigation had been carried out correctly. At least they hadn’t arrested poor Cindy Mopper. That would have been just too embarrassing, arresting the intended victim of a murder.
It also galled him immensely that his officers had been barred from even entering Ignatius Jackson’s home. They had swooped, whoever they were, flashing badges, producing documents signed by high ranking government officials. By the time the SPD had gotten a chance to even get inside the old man’s home, once Morgan had retrieved Tom Hudd’s shin bone, and presented it to him, the backside of his trousers ripped, and his blue, rather grubby, underpants on show to everyone, the place was spotless. Nothing. No documents, no trace of any wrongdoing, even his body had gone. Whisked away to be buried at Arlington Cemetery by the ‘men in black’, as he now referred to the agents who had descended on Gordonston. No, there was more to this, and he wanted answers.
Then there was Derepaska. Why on earth would the father of a man, murdered years ago, fly thousands of miles just to commit suicide? For Pete’s sake, it just didn’t add up. Again, he had no answers. Once again his department had been told that the investigation was ‘above their pay grade’, and the ‘men in black’ had removed any trace that Stefan Derepaska had ever even been in Savannah. The old man’s body had been repatriated, the gun he had used to shoot himself in the head mysteriously vanished and his home ‘cleaned’ by the same people who had ‘cleaned’ Jackson’s house.
Sam Taylor was not a fool. Everything was connected. He didn’t believe in coincidences. The ballistics report he had seen had shown no link between the rope that had killed Veronica Partridge and the rope which was now conveniently missing, discovered in Derepaska’s home to kill himself. That was hogwash. Of course, it hadn’t been his department who had carried out the forensic
tests. No, another agency had done it, and he was sure it was utter fantasy. If no one else could put two and two together and come up with four, then he could. Derepaska had killed Veronica Partridge, he was sure of it, and they knew it. They also knew that somehow Ignatius Jackson was involved, but they had more power than him. They could do whatever they wanted.
One final thought that had kept him awake many times at night also nagged at him. Why were there no fingerprint records of Doug Partridge on file? Not even with immigration. Or Homeland Security? He knew that every foreigner entering the United States was fingerprinted, and he knew that anyone applying for a green card, which Partridge apparently had, needed to provide biometrics. Why was there no trace of this man? Not one government agency, not one police department, no one, had any record of him. Who was he? What was his connection to Jackson, to Hudd, to any on this?
Taylor threw down his pen and leaned back in his chair. He would beat Mayor Miller to it. He had already drafted his resignation letter. He could wait. But sooner or later he would get to the bottom of all this, and he would make them all pay for forcing him out. For making him the scapegoat for cover up after cover up. Of course, there was not much he could do to combat the other agencies. He knew that he would have no chance of ever exposing them, but he could expose one man. The one person who linked this all together. Somehow Elliott Miller was a part of this, maybe not the orchestrator, but he knew something, he was sure of it. He could wait, but he would investigate Miller, the ‘Greatest Mayor Savannah had Ever Seen’ and the man tipped to maybe one day become Governor of the State, and then, who knew? Could one day Miller run for even higher office? Not on Sam Taylor’s watch. He would leave no stone unturned, there would be nothing about Elliott Miller he would not find out. He would have time; resigning he may be, but going quietly into the night? No. Elliott Miller was going to find himself in a world of pain, and that pain, was going to come from him.
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
Detective Jeff Morgan knew he wasn’t liked. He knew that his fellow officers did not respect him, that other detectives mocked him, not only behind his back, but to his face. They laughed when he arrived at work on his moped, they mocked his appearance, they even joked about his body odor, which was ridiculous, because he showered twice a week and went through a can of deodorant every month. He also knew that Chief Taylor had no confidence in his abilities, and that the Chief had twice recommended that he not receive a promotion. Far from being the department’s ‘best man’, he knew he was regarded as the ‘worse man’. He knew that he was regarded as incompetent.
That’s why he had done it.
That’s why he had taken the money; not that it was money that motivated him, it was the promises. The promises of promotion, of one day maybe even leading the department, the promise that, if things worked out, he would one day become the Chief.
The pleasure he would get, watching their faces as he rose through the ranks, would be worth the minor indiscretion of accepting money from the Mayor. And it was minor, in fact it was, in his eyes, less than minor. It was nothing. Really, he should have kept his money and his promises, as there was really no case, but of course, when the Mayor offers you ten thousand dollars and the chance to prove his colleagues wrong, the chance to once and for all hush their derogatory comments, their jokes and their ridicule, and to become head of the department, what else could he say apart from yes?
When Elliott Miller had approached him with a very simple request, backed up by the offer of money and promises of promotion, he had seen no problem at all in becoming the Mayor’s inside man and eyes and ears of the department and of course destroying all his notes regarding the disappearance of Tom Hudd, including the fact that the Mayor had accompanied Hudd’s wife when she made the initial report. Not that that was an issue anyway. The man had obviously left his wife; she had been cheating and he found out, and then, of course, Tom Hudd had been cheating with Veronica Partridge, and when Doug Partridge found out, he first killed Hudd, and then returned to strangle his wife. His initial theory, of the two men being lovers, hadn’t been too far from the truth; it was just a different Partridge who was Tom Hudd’s secret lover.
He had not asked the Mayor why he had wanted a lax investigation, why he had not wanted a search carried out nor what his interest in the disappearance in Tom Hudd was. It didn’t matter. As far as he was concerned, there had been no need for any search, nor real investigation. That was then; however, that was before the events of last year. Before that dog had dug up Tom Hudd’s body in the park, before the autopsy had shown he had been shot through the head, before Doug Partridge had killed his wife, before that old man had shot himself, before he had discovered the body of Ignatius Jackson, rotting in his bed, before he had discovered that office.
He had been sure questions would be asked, questions as to why he had not investigated the case in more detail, why he had not at least made some enquires regarding Doug Partridge’s disappearance, why he had not searched for Tom Hudd. The Chief had told him that things were now out of his hands, that the Feds were involved, and that even the CIA were asking for more details. Morgan knew he had messed up. His only hope now was that there would be no trace of any monies passing between him and the Mayor; that no one ever discovered their little arrangement. Of course, no one would, he was sure. He was sure the Mayor was not going to jeopardize himself, that there was no way he would implicate himself in a bribery scandal. And he had been right. All blame had shifted from him; somehow the Mayor had protected him, as he had promised he would. There was now even talk of promotion, being the ‘Mayor’s man’ had its advantages.
However, Jeff Morgan was not a totally stupid man. He had taken a precaution. He had something, something that he knew he should have left in that office, that he should have handed over to the two agents when he was leaving Ignatius Jackson’s home, but he had taken it, before the FBI, CIA and God only knew who else had descended on the old man’s home. He had the file. The file on Elliott Miller. It was, he guessed, his insurance policy, should the Mayor decide to come clean, should the Mayor betray him, and of course, should the Mayor decide not to honor his promise of promotion. Yes, he had the file, no one had seen it apart from him, and though he didn’t know just what involvement or connection Elliott Miller had in the events of the last week, at least he had something, something to preserve himself, just in case. He had dallied with the thought of maybe warning the Mayor, warning him that this now defunct “Organization” had a contract out on him, and that possibly someone wanted him dead, just as someone had wanted Billy Malphrus, Carla Zipp and Tom Hudd dead. He had thought maybe he should warn him, but, for Jeff Morgan, self-preservation came first.
CHAPTER FORTY NINE
“Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave?” asked Betty Jenkins as she finally finished wiping the dishes and putting them on the draining board.
“No, nothing else. Thank you, Betty, you run along; I know you are busy.”
“Okay, I will be back tomorrow morning, at nine, as usual.”
“Yes, dear, you run along; I am fine.”
Betty Jenkins put on her coat and headed towards the door.
“Don’t forget your keys, Betty, you always forget your car keys.”
“I’ve got them,” replied Betty as she produced her car keys from her pocket.
“Drive carefully,” said Heidi Launer, as she took a sip of sweet tea, “and see you tomorrow.”
Heidi Launer smiled sweetly as she watched Betty leave. The poor woman had been a nervous wreck after the tragic accident a year ago. It was of course, not her fault, and in fact the police had concluded that Billy Malphrus was to blame entirely for his own death. Running into traffic like he had. Silly boy, thought Heidi, but, he had deserved it. He was a bad one, she had known that from the moment she had lain her eyes on him. It was Cindy she felt sorry for. The poor woman. What that boy had done to her, or at least tried to do. Never mind the fact that he poisoned poor
Carla by mistake. Good riddance to bad rubbish, thought Heidi as she took another sip of tea.
She closed her eyes. One year ago. It only seemed like yesterday….
* * * * *
Click. Nothing. She pressed the trigger again. Click. No bang, no pain, nothing. Just the feeling of cold steel against her forehead. Heidi removed the Luger from her head and sat down. The darn thing wasn’t working. Maybe it had never worked, or maybe it was because it was over seventy five years old and possibly never even fired before. One thing was for sure though. She wasn’t dead.
There must be another way, she thought, once satisfied that her most prized possession in the world would not end her life, maybe she would hang herself? No. Hanging was for traitors and the defeated. She was neither. As she pondered how best to end her life, Fucshl whimpered. She turned to face her loyal pooch. Maybe he could sense that something was wrong? Heidi suddenly realized that she had made no provision for her dog. Who would look after him? What would become of him? Betty Jenkins didn’t much care for dogs, and she doubted Betty would take him. She needed more time to plan for what would become of Fuchsl. If the wretched Luger worked, she could just shoot him, then herself, but she could hardly hang a dog, or smother him, or even drown him in the bathtub. Fuchsl was a large dog, and there was no way he would comply with being drowned. She would sleep on it, lock all the doors and windows, set her alarm, and sleep with a knife besides her bed, should Stefan try and kill her in her sleep.
The following morning she had woken at eight, late for her, but she had not slept well, and she would have probably slept longer if hadn’t been for the sound of sirens; lots of them. They were close. In the neighborhood. She put on her slippers, covered her night clothes with a dressing gown and called Fuchsl. She placed his leash on him and headed outside to see what the commotion was, thoughts of imminent suicide temporarily abated, as well as thoughts of the soon-to-come revelation as to her true identity.
Unleashed - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part 2 Page 19
