Death Benefits

by Jennifer Becton

  But if the scene had been staged and the fire set purposefully—and this seemed the more likely scenario as far as I could tell—then that could signal more disturbing events.

  Although it was rare, Vanderbilt could have chosen to commit suicide by fire.

  Or he could have been murdered, and the fire was used to cover up the evidence. Perhaps Kathy Vanderbilt had killed her husband in order to collect the insurance money. So we could also be looking at arson and murder.

  But I am not a fire investigator or a homicide cop. I investigate insurance fraud, and though my cases sometimes take me into the realm of other crimes, my primary job in this instance was to determine if Kathy Vanderbilt’s death benefits claim was legit. If so, the insurance company had to pay up. If not, then someone was going to prison.

  I finished looking at each picture of the fire scene, and when I closed the photo viewer, I leaned back and sighed. Originally, I’d taken a job at the DOI in the hopes that I’d be dealing with boring—and safe—white-collar crimes, but I was beginning to realize that even the insurance world could become grisly and uncomfortable. And the fraudsters out there were often desperate and dangerous people, no matter where they fell on the social spectrum.

  Earlier, I’d been hoping for a dull fraud, a crime of numbers, not bodies. But in this case, we were dealing not only with a potential arson but with a horrible death as well.

  Already, I felt the familiar pull of justice at my heart. The images of death I’d encountered were horrific, but my need to unearth the truth forcefully overcame the lingering feelings of guilt induced by my own brush with violence.

  Three

  “First, we need to get our hands on Theodore Vanderbilt’s life insurance policy,” I said to Vincent between bites of chicken salad croissant and tomato soup.

  We were sitting in the heart of downtown Mercer on the outdoor patio of Hugo’s, a café owned by a French expat and designed to mimic European sidewalk restaurants. It served an oddly satisfying combo of French cuisine and good old-fashioned Southern lunchtime fare. At noon, the place was always packed with workers desperate for an escape from their offices, and now that the summer weather had begun to melt slowly into autumn, it was even more pleasant. The patio offered a bit of a breeze, the sound of birdsong, and a view of the Yoshino cherry trees that lined every street in town.

  “What’s the holdup?” I asked. We couldn’t do much of anything until we knew the stipulations of the life insurance policy and who—other than Kathy Vanderbilt—might stand to benefit from Theodore’s death. We should have had access to the policy the minute the insurance company had requested DOI intervention.

  “Hell if I know,” Vincent said. “Apparently, there was some bureaucratic snafu at Americus.” A national insurance giant, Americus Mutual was the company that supplied Theodore Vanderbilt’s life insurance policy. And that was about all we knew so far, except that Kathy’s death benefits claim had hit their switchboard bright and early Saturday morning.

  Vincent continued, “Jackasses in their office gave me the runaround, claimed some kind of Internet outage, so I called the adjuster’s cell myself. We’re supposed to meet her sometime this afternoon to get the hard copy of the policy.”

  I studied Vincent over my sandwich. He should have looked ridiculous in this setting. His large form appeared even more hulking when it was parked on a dainty metal chair, and his hands looked bigger when they were holding a delicate water glass. Yet somehow his movements managed not to be awkward at all. He looked perfectly natural and unself-conscious.

  “But the conditions in which the body was found are troubling,” I said. “If the fire was set purposefully, what was the motive? What needed to be hidden?”

  “Hell,” Vincent grunted, “we don’t even know for certain it was Theodore Vanderbilt in the car.”

  “We need to put a rush on the autopsy report,” I summarized.

  “Yeah,” Vincent said. “While you were getting up to speed on the case file this morning, I put a call in to the state crime lab. Our body has been pushed to the front of the line, but they probably won’t be able to get to it until tomorrow at the earliest.”

  “That should be fine. We have plenty of other ground to cover,” I said as I watched Vincent finish off the last of his sandwich and wondered if he were aggravated by the wait. He seemed to have a talent for moving things along when it came to bureaucracy, but even though suspicious deaths and unusual circumstances were always moved to the front of the autopsy line, there was still a line.

  Whatever his secret to motivating functionaries, it hadn’t worked this time, and though I didn’t ask, I was curious to know his back-channel methods.

  I figured I’d learn his secrets eventually—when he was ready—and I wouldn’t try to force him to talk sooner because I didn’t want him to return the favor, so to speak. I sure didn’t want him digging around in my little storehouse of clandestine affairs.

  “All right,” I said as I pulled my phone from my belt to check the time. “Why don’t you see if you can firm up the meeting with the Americus adjuster?”

  Vincent stood, extracted his phone from his coat pocket, and winked at me. “Meanwhile, you take care of the bill.”

  I glared up at him with mock ferocity. “You don’t want to start this kind of war with me,” I said. “One of these days, when you least expect it, you’ll find yourself footing my bill for the most expensive surf-and-turf dinner you’ve ever seen.”

  He laughed, totally unconcerned, and as he strode out of the dining area to make his call, he shot over his shoulder, “I’m counting on it.”

  I rolled my eyes, but I settled the bill anyway. And afterward, I whipped my phone from my belt again, this time to call Tripp Carver, a detective on the Mercer Police Department Violent Crimes Unit and my long-extinguished flame. Because Vincent would probably be a few minutes with the Americus adjuster and I knew we’d be busy the rest of the day, now was my best bet for a little privacy.

  With the DOI case suddenly looming before me, it was becoming clear that I needed to find another way to continue my quest to discover the identity of my sister Tricia’s rapist.

  Confession time: I hadn’t spent my two weeks of medical leave resting. Instead, I’d been working the new lead in Tricia’s case.

  The only new lead I’d had in seventeen years was a single fingerprint, which had been discovered in conjunction with an aggravated assault case in Orr County.

  Enter Charlie Atkins. Good ole Charlie had the misfortune to be arrested for participating in the beating of a local bar owner while his accomplice—and presumably the owner of the fingerprint in question—fled the scene.

  So after Atkins had been released on bond to await trial, I made him my permanent mission.

  I learned everything I could about him through the initial police report and arrest record, and then I staked him out.

  Yes, I’d been following a recent divorcé and likely felon all over Middle Georgia. I’d sat for hours in front of his crappy apartment complex and in the parking lot of a franchise store where he was employed as an accountant.

  And it was terribly dull.

  But it was all done in the hopes that Atkins might come into contact with his unknown associate and thereby reveal to me the identity of the man who’d raped my sister.

  Was I unwise for staking out a man charged with aggravated assault? Clearly, he was dangerous, and clearly, I was alone. But it was a calculated risk. After all, I had a great deal of experience with solo surveillance. A lot of insurance investigation involves sitting at a distance, watching unobtrusively, and waiting for the moment when the subject makes a mistake.

  And that’s just what I’d been doing for the past two weeks.

  Waiting for Atkins to make a mistake.

  So far, nothing.

  But after all those years of running the latent print from Tricia’s file—all those years of hoping that one day her attacker would get caught committing another crime, en
ter the system, and allow me to discover his identity—I wasn’t going to waste my chance.

  Here’s what I’d discovered so far: Atkins was handy with a golf club. He toted his bag for thirty-six holes both weekends I’d been watching him, and he also kept the clubs in the trunk of his car just in case he needed to beat anyone senseless. Yup, he and his friend had used golf clubs to assault that poor bar owner for something as innocuous as announcing last call earlier than the pair had preferred.

  So yeah, Mr. Atkins was a thug—pure and simple—but he dressed nicely and had a decent job, so he probably fooled a lot of people.

  As for the probable rapist, I’d learned little. Witnesses at the bar that night said Atkins had been with another man whom they described only as Caucasian, average height and weight, with a graying crew cut, very clean and well groomed.

  Apparently, he was only remarkable in his grooming habits, but coming from the patrons of a third-rate juke joint, I had to take that description with a grain of salt. Clean-cut and well-groomed to that clientele could mean as little as “washed himself daily.”

  That was all I’d been able to learn in the first real break in my sister’s cold case in seventeen years, but unfortunately, I no longer had the time to follow Atkins all day in the hopes of his meeting up with Tricia’s rapist. It had been a long shot in the first place.

  Now, I had the greatest temptation to use my position as a state law enforcement officer to worm my way into the local PD’s investigation. Between my badge and my existing friendships in the area, it would be fairly easy to do. But I’d already skirted the boundaries of legality in some of my methods for keeping my sister’s cold case from freezing over, and I didn’t want to do anything else to jeopardize the prosecution’s future case, so I decided to approach the investigation through official channels.

  Mostly.

  If possible.

  Hence my call to Tripp.

  I shook my head at the thought of asking for his help. Tripp had always had a hero complex when it came to me and my family. Even our romantic relationship, I’d realized years later, had been based mostly on my youthful need to be saved and his need to be a savior, and I’d worked hard to end this unhealthy aspect of our relationship. I did not want to go back to being a damsel in distress in his eyes.

  Plus, I had absconded with a few bits of evidence—the latent fingerprint, for example—from Tricia’s case file when I’d been laid off the Mercer PD during the citywide budget cuts three years ago, and though I didn’t mind if my reputation ended a bit sullied in the name of justice, I didn’t want anyone else’s reputation—especially Tripp’s—tainted alongside mine.

  Of course, I wasn’t asking him to do anything even remotely illegal.

  In fact, I was asking him to do his job and investigate a new lead on a cold case. Tripp had contacts in the Orr County PD whom he could inform of the connection between their aggravated assault case and my sister’s cold rape case. It would be easy for him to request their help in learning the identity of the owner of the latent print on the golf club.

  Resolved, I exited Hugo’s, found a quiet spot around the corner, and dialed Tripp.

  His low, husky voice came over the speaker. “Hey, Jules.” He sounded relaxed, and I imagined his feet propped on his desk as he leaned back to chat. “What’s up?”

  “I’m back at the DOI this morning,” I said. I figured I’d start off with a bit of chitchat before hitting him with my big request.

  “That’s good,” he said, his voice hesitant. “Are you sure you’ve given yourself enough time, you know, to recover?”

  Not unfamiliar with the necessity of taking a life in the line of duty, Tripp had been concerned over my reaction to the shooting last month. He might cover it with bravado in front of his police buddies, but he felt the same weight that now clung to my back: the responsibility for a life beyond my own.

  But I also had another burden—the responsibility for finding the bastard who had effectively killed Tricia’s spirit and destroyed my family in the process—and that would always keep me trudging forward, keep me in the world of law enforcement for as long as it took. I was willing to face anything if it meant I could find justice for my sister and for those whose lives had been ruined.

  But once justice had been served…well, who knew?

  “I wouldn’t have come back otherwise,” I said, infusing my voice with confidence. “But it’s nice to know you’re concerned.”

  “I’m always concerned about you, Jules,” he said.

  And that was true. He’d always been there for me, and I was counting on him being there for me now.

  “Listen,” I said, drawing out the word as I tried to figure out the best way to approach him. I could remind him of our history—both romantically and professionally—but it felt like manipulation, and I didn’t want him to agree to my proposal out of guilt. I wanted to give him the option of saying no without fear of endangering our friendship.

  So I said it bluntly: “I’ve got a lead on Tricia’s cold case.”

  “Yeah?” Tripp asked, sounding more excited than I’d expected.

  “One of the latent prints from her file turned up a match over in Orr County in conjunction with an aggravated assault charge. Two guys beat a bartender with a driver and a nine iron.”

  “Nice,” Tripp said, adding a long whistle. “Did the print come with a name?”

  “Unfortunately not,” I said. “Our suspect fled the scene, but the other—a Charlie Atkins—is out on bail and waiting for trial.”

  I decided to confess about my stakeout of Atkins, painful as the prospect was.

  “I’ve had Atkins under surveillance for the past two weeks.”

  “You’ve what?”

  I could tell by Tripp’s tone that he was ready to talk some sense into me. “I know what you’re going to say,” I said, hoping to avert the lecture, “so let’s just skip that part and I’ll tell you what I learned.”

  I heard Tripp sigh heavily. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “It’s not much, really,” I admitted. “As I said, Atkins is out on bond for an aggravated assault in Orr County. A latent print from the weapon used in the assault—a golf club—matched the one in Tricia’s file. Witnesses of the assault said another man participated but fled the scene before police arrived.” I paused, sucking in a breath to make the pronouncement I’d been afraid to speak, even to myself. “It could be him, Tripp.”

  “Yeah,” Tripp said, “but it might not be. Were there more than two sets of prints on the club?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “All I know is that a set of prints from the club matched the one in Tricia’s file. And that makes it appear as if Atkins knows him.” I paused again, feeling suddenly defensive. “I had to follow him, Tripp. He’s the best lead to Tricia’s rapist.”

  “I understand, but for God’s sake, Jules, you can’t just stalk a man around town. It’s dangerous. Not to mention illegal.”

  I chose not to comment on the illegal part and instead relayed the rest of my information. “I followed Atkins, but so far nothing.” I took another deep breath, preparing to drop the big question, but Tripp didn’t let me.

  “I know a guy in the Orr County PD,” he said. “I could make some inquiries. Maybe talk to the DA, get him to work a plea deal—reduced charges or sentence—with Atkins in exchange for the name of the other suspect.”

  All the breath left my body in a great whoosh. I hadn’t realized how badly I’d wanted his help. “Would you?” I squeaked.

  “That was what you were about to ask, right?”

  I could hear the smile in his voice, and I grinned back even though I knew he couldn’t see me.

  He knew me too well, but I wouldn’t admit it to him. I only said, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it, Tripp. Really.”

  “I know, Jules, but you should also know by now that I want to help Tricia just about as much as you do.”

  “I’ll email yo
u all the info I’ve got,” I said as I checked my purse to make sure I had my flash drive. I was careful always to keep my personal investigation separate from my official work, so I’d send the info to Tripp from my personal email account as soon as I got back to the office.

  “All right,” Tripp said. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I know you will,” I said.

  A good cop to the core, Tripp always played it by the book. I was the kind of cop who played mostly by the book but also scribbled her own notes in the margins.

  “But remember,” Tripp added, breaking my train of thought, “this could turn out to be nothing. The print could have belonged to the guy who sold Atkins the golf clubs or a caddy at the club. It might not be the other assault suspect.”

  “I know,” I said. But it was a start.

  “You told your sister anything about the print?” he asked.

  “Nope,” I said without the least compunction at withholding the facts from Tricia. “I don’t plan to say anything until I’m sure I’ve found the guy.”

  “Yeah, she is a bit”—he searched for the word—“fragile.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Thanks for everything, Tripp. Let me know when you hear something.”

  “Will do. And take it easy for a while, will ya? I don’t want to be called to your house for a shooting ever again.”

  “Believe me,” I said, “I don’t want to relive that scenario either.”

  “Good,” Tripp said, as if our agreement would make it so, and then we hung up.

  Fragile. It was as if Tripp had reached into my mind and spoken my very thoughts. Tricia was fragile now—that was certain—but she hadn’t always been that way. When we were kids, I’d looked up to Tricia. She was everything I wanted to be: smart, funny, popular. I’d tagged along after her, and she’d never tried to ditch me.