by T. L. Haddix
She stirred her soup, not meeting Stacy’s gaze. “It wasn’t like that.”
The detective laughed softly. “Are you, or are you not, the same woman who boldly made a date for me with a man in the middle of a crowded deli as he served our meals?”
“That was different. You and Andre didn’t have all the obstacles I would have in a relationship with Wyatt. Like I told Ethan, he’s my boss.”
Stacy’s eyes grew wide. “You talked to Ethan about this?”
“More like Ethan talked to me.”
Stacy made a motion with her hand, urging her to continue. “And? What’d he say?”
Maria shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the discussion. “Nothing really, just… he was encouraging. Can we leave it at that?”
Stacy tilted her head. “Is your reluctance to pursue this because of Wyatt being your boss, or is it because of something else? The age difference, maybe?”
“No, it’s not the age difference. He’s the most virile man I know, and working with a department full of alpha males, that’s saying something. But he is my boss, and aside from that, you know I don’t do casual relationships. I don’t see the point in wasting time and emotions on a relationship that can’t possibly go anywhere.”
Her friend laughed. “You mean like wasting time on blind dates that your sister set up for you? And who says it wouldn’t go anywhere?”
From the depths of her purse, Maria’s phone trilled, signaling an incoming text message. As she dug the phone out of the bag, she answered Stacy’s question with a droll tone. “I say it wouldn’t go anywhere. I can just see the election headlines now. ‘Sheriff dating employee half his age.’ ” Pulling out the phone, she read the text. “I have to go. I’m needed at the office.”
Stacy signaled for the check. “Sweetie, don’t you think Wyatt should have a say in that decision?”
Maria’s mouth dropped open. “What, are you channeling Ethan now?”
The petite detective just smiled. “Great minds think alike.” She laughed, but then her phone vibrated. When she answered the call, her demeanor changed, and Maria knew the news wasn’t good. Sure enough, Stacy’s words after she hung up confirmed the suspicion.
“We’ve got a possible homicide.”
Chapter Nine
When Wyatt pulled up at the scene on one of Leroy’s nicest tree-lined residential streets, he was struck by the incongruity of the quiet scene juxtaposed against the reports of the violent death that had apparently taken place there. The house in question looked benign, charming, in fact. The window boxes were full of flowers, and the yard’s fall décor and landscaped flowerbeds were a sharp contrast to the presence of the coroner’s wagon, law enforcement vehicles, and crime scene van.
He approached the young deputy standing guard at the front door. “Hey, Wes.”
“Sheriff. Detective.” The deputy nodded to Stacy Kirchner, who had come up behind Wyatt, then handed Wyatt the sign-in sheet.
“Wes. What do we know?” Stacy accepted the pen and clipboard when Wyatt handed it to her.
“Wife came home, found her husband dead from an apparent gunshot wound. She called nine-one-one, and that’s as far as I’ve gotten,” Wyatt said.
Wes pointed over his shoulder as they donned the surgical booties that would protect the scene from outside contamination. “Victim’s in the basement.”
“Thanks, Wes. So who’s the victim?” Stacy asked as they went inside.
“Tim Jones, the pastor at the First Baptist Church downtown.”
They fell quiet as they reached the foot of the stairs. The basement ran the length of the house and was mainly one large room. In a far corner, the coroner was stooped over a man’s body, his assistant standing beside him. The crime scene unit worked methodically, one of the team taking pictures of the body as another dusted for fingerprints. When the camera flashed, Wyatt could see a large spray of blood on the white wall behind where the victim lay.
Seeing them standing at the foot of the stairs, the coroner’s assistant tapped his boss on the shoulder.
Harvey Stapleton straightened and came over to greet them. “Wyatt, Detective Kirchner.”
Wyatt nodded. “Harvey. What’ve we got here?”
The coroner took his gloves off and shrugged. “Looks pretty straightforward so far. There’s a gun on the floor beside him, right-hand side. From the exit wound, I’d say he swallowed a bullet, resulting in the spatter and tissue you can see on the wall and ceiling behind him.”
They walked a few steps closer, and Wyatt saw the dark flecks of tissue, bone, and skin Harvey described. He felt his stomach roll, and he swallowed, tamping down on the instinctive horror that chased down his spine at the sight.
“So you’re thinking suicide?” Stacy asked.
Harvey nodded. “Yeah. There’s a note on the table behind him. Unless you all come up with something unexpected, or something shows up in autopsy, I’m looking to call this one self-inflicted.”
Wyatt cursed, loosening his collar as he spoke. “I hate suicides.” When they both looked at him, he just shook his head. “You’ll do the autopsy, Harv?”
“Tomorrow morning, if you want to be there, Detective. I know the sheriff won’t.” The man’s smile was kind, taking the sting out of his words.
“No. I won’t. Did you read the note?”
Harvey gestured for his assistant to bring over the paper, which was sealed inside an evidence bag. “I did. It’s cryptic. Apologies made for past wrongs, some Bible verses quoted, pleas for forgiveness. No specific mention of what prompted him to take his life, though.”
“Unfortunately, there often isn’t,” Stacy said.
Wyatt couldn’t stand to stay in the basement one minute longer. The air in the dark room stank of death, and he needed to be above ground. “If you have it from here, Detective, I’ll head out and let you get to work.” He didn’t wait for her nod of consent before he turned and went back up the stairs.
Ignoring the concerned look Deputy Mason gave him when he exited the house, he signed out and went to his SUV, the urge to run pressing down on him. He started the vehicle and drove down the street, then pulled over once he was out of sight of the house. The darkened windows would provide him with much-needed privacy, and with the air on, fan blowing at full speed, he cracked the windows and ripped off his tie. His hands not quite steady, he undid the top three buttons of his shirt and gulped in lungsful of the fresh, cold air coming through the windows.
After a few minutes, he finally felt the weight that had settled in the middle of his chest start to lift. Given his age, he knew that the first thought most people would have if they saw him right now would be “heart attack.” He knew, however, that wasn’t the case. Wyatt Dixon had never had a panic attack in his life until after his wife died. Since then, though… Julie had been gone for over six years, and her death had changed the way he viewed certain crime scenes, suicides in particular.
It took several minutes for the anxiety to fade, the attack leaving him cold and drained. Although it was only two o’clock, he considered calling in and taking the rest of the day off. Just as he started the vehicle, his phone rang. Snapping it off his belt, he groaned when he saw the caller’s name. Vestra Popovich. He didn’t want to answer, but since she called so infrequently, he knew it was probably something important.
“Sheriff Dixon here.”
“It’s Vestra. Are you busy?” The woman ran Leroy’s largest pawn shop. She and Wyatt were of an age, had gone to school together, and maintained a decent working relationship.
He rubbed his eyes. “A little. What’s going on?”
“I got something in the mail last week that I need you to take a look at. Can you come by the shop?”
With a quiet sigh, he saw his plans for taking off early going right out the window. “Sure. I’m out on a call right now, but I can probably be there a little after three.”
“Good. I appreciate it. I’ll see you then.” Without further explana
tion, she hung up, leaving Wyatt shaking his head.
Vestra was a character with a flair for the dramatic, to say the least. One thing was certain, though. Whatever she had to show him, chances were excellent that it would be intriguing.
Chapter Ten
Wyatt arrived at Popovich Pawn and Gold shortly after three, as promised. Zora Mongiardo, Vestra’s assistant manager, smiled when he walked in.
“Hi, Sheriff. How are you?”
“Can’t complain, Zora. You?”
She laughed. “The same. You here to see the boss?”
“I am. Command performance. Is she busy?”
“Oh, I’m always busy, you old reprobate.” Vestra strolled out from the back room, a warm look on her face. She held out her hand, and Wyatt clasped it gently, mindful of the twisted and gnarled fingers. “Give us some privacy, Zora.”
With a farewell smile, the young woman left the main room, and Vestra led Wyatt to a small table in the corner. “Have a seat.” She picked up a pack of cigarettes and drew one out. Lighting it, she took a long draw and held the nicotine-rich smoke in her lungs until Wyatt thought she’d burst. She didn’t speak, even after she’d exhaled. Sitting back, he waited for her to get around to the reason she’d called.
As she tucked the lighter back inside the pack’s cellophane wrapper, she tilted her head and studied him. “You’re holding up well for your age. Must be living right.”
Wyatt laughed. “You’re full of flattery today. That makes me nervous.”
She waved a hand toward him. “Nah. Just an observation. How long have we known each other, Wyatt?”
“Since sixth grade, when you and Joyce Stoddard got into it on the playground and I had to break it up.”
The memory made them both laugh. “So forty years or so. More or less.”
He nodded. “More or less.”
Her mood turned somber. “If I didn’t know you so well, and if I didn’t trust you with what I’m about to show you, I’d never come to you with this. Does that tell you how serious this is, Sheriff?”
The words shocked him, but he carefully kept his face blank. “Since you’ve come to me with a lot over the years, yes. What in the world is going on?”
Stubbing her cigarette out with a shaky hand, she leaned to the side and pulled a folded piece of paper out of her back pocket. She didn’t speak, just laid it on the table, her fingers tapping it before she slid it across to him. “Read that.”
Curious and concerned, he did as she asked, unfolding the paper to find a letter that appeared to have been printed from a computer. It wasn’t dated, and as he read, he cursed under his breath.
Vestra nodded. “If I don’t pay that by this coming Monday, I’m taking a chance on losing everything I’ve worked for these past twenty years.”
The letter threatened to reveal evidence that Vestra had dealt in stolen goods if she didn’t deposit two-hundred fifty thousand dollars into an anonymous bank account.
“Is it true?” Wyatt asked. “I don’t see you getting this upset when there isn’t proof out there somewhere.”
She exhaled a stream of smoke from her second cigarette. “Remember my nephew Michael? The one that had all the trouble about seven, eight years ago?”
“Yeah. I thought he was straightened out now.”
“He is. He’s been clean and sober for five years. Started a nice little family, has a good job down in New Albany. But for about six months, he worked here, and he didn’t follow proper procedures. He bought some stolen property. I took care of it. You all received that anonymous tip about the box of stuff out behind the old courthouse. Remember that?”
Wyatt closed his eyes and gave a silent groan. “Ah, hell, Vestra.” When he opened his eyes again, she was watching him carefully. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”
“Because I took care of it. I turned the goods over to you and tipped you off to who it was doing that string of robberies. We didn’t need to sit down and hash it out. You had what you needed, and the guys that did it… well, they got sent up for doing the crime.”
Standing, he moved to one of the glass display cases. He stared down at its contents without speaking for a long time. “You still should have come to me, damn it. Who else knows about this?”
“Just Michael and myself. I’ve got a call into him to see if he’s told anyone else about it.”
He rested his hands on the case and looked at her. “What is it you want from me?”
She shrugged. “I want your advice. I’m not planning on filing charges and drawing more attention to this. I know we see things differently, you and I. We always have. I respect you and what you stand for, but there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
The laugh escaped despite his aggravation. “Okay. My advice is to let me handle this.”
With a sad smile, she stood and moved next to him. “I can’t do that. Listen, I’ve put out feelers since I got this last week. They’ve come up empty. I don’t often have that problem when I’m looking to find something. Anything I want to find out, I usually can.”
“So whoever’s doing this isn’t the typical criminal, is that what you’re telling me?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Whoever it is, they’re keeping quiet about what they’re doing.”
He placed his hands on his hips. “Extortion can be prosecuted as a federal crime if the perpetrator uses the mail to carry out their threats. Do you still have the envelope that letter came in?”
Vestra had the grace to look embarrassed. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”
“Of course you don’t.”
She scowled. “I said I’m sorry, damn it. So what should I do?”
“I’d advise you to ignore the demand, file a report, and let us handle it.”
“And if this person has the evidence they say they do? What then? I’ll lose my license if that comes to light. I can’t take the chance.”
He shook his head, fighting the desire to shake her. “Not necessarily. Not if you can prove extenuating circumstances. Hell, the statute of limitations may have expired by now. You might face some fines, but better to pay them than a blackmailer.”
She walked back to the table for another cigarette. “So you’re saying that if I hang my nephew out to dry, I can probably save my shop without paying some blackmailer all my profits. Great choices.” She shook her head. “No, I won’t do that to him.”
“Vestra, I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”
“Just having someone to talk to about it has helped. I’m going to sleep on it tonight, then make my decision. I’ll call you in the next few days.” From the stubborn tilt of her chin, he knew she wouldn’t be budged on her stance, not today.
He sighed. “Fine. It’s your decision. Just know this… if you do decide to fight this person, I’ll help you any way I can.”
“I appreciate that; I really do.” Walking him to the door, she said her goodbyes.
Almost before he knew it, he found himself on the sidewalk, staring at his SUV. With a resigned shake of his head, he decided he was more than ready to call it a day. Between Vestra’s revelations and the suicide, he needed to be alone to think. Radioing in to dispatch to let them know he was going home, he pulled onto the street and pointed his vehicle in that direction.
Twenty minutes later, he turned onto the road that led to his house. A couple of years before Julie had gotten sick, they had decided to build their dream home in the hopes that constructing it would repair what was wrong in their marriage. It hadn’t worked. They’d only been in the house a year when Julie had learned she had ALS, commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. That diagnosis had changed their lives forever.
Stopping at the road to get the mail, Wyatt tossed it into the seat beside him and drove down the long driveway. He pulled into the garage and shut off the engine, then grabbed the mail and his travel mug. As he approached the house, he heard a whimper from inside. The sound made him smile, and he opened the door to be greeted
by eighty pounds of excited dog. Aptly named Mix, the dog was part German shepherd, part something else. Wyatt bent down to scratch the dog’s belly.
“Hey, buddy. How was your day? Did you and your sister hunt down bad guys and keep the house safe?”
Mix jumped up and dashed ahead of him into the kitchen. Tossing the mail and his mug on the counter, he followed the dog into the kitchen and went to the refrigerator to get a bottle of cold water. Before he could close the door, he heard a soft mewl.
“I wondered when you were going to show up, Match,” he told the orange and white tabby who circled his ankles. Her tail was solid white, except for a dark orange patch at the tip, making the appendage resemble an unlit match. “Did you keep the old guy in line today?” When he moved to the island, the cat leapt up on one of the barstools on the opposite side and then up onto the counter. With a weary sigh, he scooped her up in his arms, where she cuddled and purred.
Carrying the cat, followed by the dog, Wyatt headed upstairs to change out of his work clothes. Once he’d showered and thrown on a t-shirt and worn pair of jeans, he went back to the kitchen to start some supper.
“What sounds good, Mix? Match? How about some broiled salmon with potato and leek soup?”
Mix gave a soft woof which he took for a yes, and he set about making the meal. Cooking had always been one of Wyatt’s outlets for relieving stress. As he chopped the ingredients for the soup, he sipped on a glass of chilled white wine. With Verdi blasting away on the surround system, he felt some of the day’s tension start to fade.
Once the soup was going in the pressure cooker, he sat down at the counter to go through the mail. The small stack of correspondence was mostly bills or solicitations from stores, but one envelope stood out. The paper was a heavier weight than the others, and it didn’t have a return address. A shiver of dread chased across his shoulders as he eyed the missive, and he chided himself for overreacting. Mix, picking up on his unease, came over to lean against his leg with a soft whine.
“It’s okay, boy. Probably an invitation to some social function where they serve dry chicken and drier conversation.”
