“That’s who you think killed him?”
Holding his gaze was confirmation enough, and because of it, Dean plowed his fingers through his hair.
“No, he didn’t mention them,” Dean said finally, as he reached into the front pocket of his slacks. “But he did give me a key to his house.”
“Why?”
“The night before he died, we met for dinner. He was really starting to trust me, but he would still speak to me in vague terms, never stating outright his involvement. But when I explained the amusement park was facing financial ruin—a lie, by the way, we’re doing great—he offered to cut me in on his leg of the drug trade, though he didn’t state it outright. He gave me a key to his house and told me he would be sure to be out all night, leaving me the opportunity to move his product from his house to the park. That’s how I would prove myself.”
“Did you go over there?”
“I never made it,” he went on. “Jessica and I have been on the rocks ever since the whole Donna Kramer fiasco hit the light of day. She was in a terrible mood. She called me as I was leaving the office, so I drove straight home. We got into a big fight...you can guess the rest.”
Dean handed her the key, while reciting Grant’s address. She logged it into her cell phone and read it back to him to be sure she had it right.
“Did Grant ever mention Eric Demblowski?”
“The reporter at the Tribune?” he asked. “No, why?”
“I think he’s involved.”
Dean looked shocked, but Kate rose to her feet, eager to get over to Grant’s house. She could only hope the police weren’t already there.
“How’s Jason holding up?”
Kate sighed, examining the key in her hand as if staring at it would keep her emotions in check. “He has a good attorney. We’re taking it one day at a time.”
“Kate,” he said abruptly when she turned for the door. Quickly, Dean walked around to the business side of his desk and unlocked one of the drawers. “I heard about the shooting. You aren’t safe.”
Kate was about to assure him she would be all right, but she gasped instead, her gaze locking on the reason he had opened the drawer.
He was holding a gun.
“I want you to take this—”
“No,” she objected. “I don’t want a gun.”
“But you need one. You don’t even know who’s gunning to wipe you out.”
“I do. It’s Becky.”
He cocked his brow sympathetically. “A woman no one has seen in nearly a month?”
Rushing to him, she said, “I saw her.”
“What? When?”
“At Drake’s Firing Line last night. She held a secret meeting. She’s planning on overthrowing Colombia & Partners.” Kate stopped herself from saying more. She had already said too much. Anyone who knew would be in as much danger as her, and she couldn’t live with that on her conscience.
“Did you tell Scott?”
“I’m trying to. He won’t return my calls.”
“You have to tell him now—”
Kate lifted her hand, silencing him. “You were the one who refused to go to Scott earlier. Scott has long since given up on believing me. If he calls me back, I’ll tell him what I know. But I can’t force it down his throat. I have no proof.”
“Take this,” he insisted, thrusting the gun, handle first, at her chest.
“I can’t,” she said. “I don’t know how to use one of those things, and I’d probably end up shooting my toes off.”
“You have no other way of defending yourself,” he quickly pointed out.
“Maybe not.” She looked at the weapon, but couldn’t make herself reach for it. Instead, she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and scrolled through the photos until the license plate of the black SUV popped up. “Write this plate number down,” she instructed. “It’s Becky’s vehicle. If anything happens to me, tell Scott she’s the one who did it.”
“Kate—”
“I should get going,” she said, cutting him off. “If you learn anything else about Colombia & Partners, give me a call.”
Dean wrote the license plate number on a pad of paper that was resting beside the telephone on his desk.
If she wanted to swing by Grant Conover’s house and try her luck poking around, she didn’t have much time to do it. Her on-camera interview was at two and it was half past one. She stepped on the gas, reversing away from the trailer and arching around, and then threw the truck in gear and peeled out of the parking lot.
Whoever killed the warden had to be a top dog at Colombia & Partners. She had already submitted the bank statement to Scott, who surely marked it as evidence. If she could find out who the killer was then Scott could arrest him, question him, make him list every single name involved, and the entire pyramid would come crashing down, Becky included.
As she drove like a maniac through town, she dialed Scott for the sixth time. When she heard his automated outgoing voice message, she groaned, but dove into her message as soon as she heard the beep.
“Scott, this is getting ridiculous, you have to call me back! Look, I know who shot at me the other night. It was Becky Langley. Now, before you go thinking I’ve lost my mind, I saw her! Scott, I saw Becky! She was holding a meeting at Drake’s Firing Line, and then I saw her drive to Eric Demblowski’s house! I’m getting close to cracking this thing wide open, but I can’t do it alone! Not when I’m driving around in this damn Mrs. Fix It truck, announcing to the world who I am everywhere I drive. You have to look into this, do you hear me? And you have to call me back!”
Kate slammed on the brakes, as her eye caught the house numbers she was tearing past. She threw her truck in reverse, hitting the gas, and when she flew in front of Grant’s house, she swung a rough turn towards the curb. The rear tire jumped the curb. When it veered off, she bounced hard, slamming her head against the headrest.
“Good Lord,” she muttered, killing the engine and glancing up and down the street. No one had seen.
She took a moment to calm her nerves and spy the house. She didn’t see any cop cars or crime-scene tape, which made sense. Grant had been killed at the prison. The police were probably still combing his office for clues and watching dozens of security tapes.
Climbing out of her truck, her heart began pounding in her chest and no amount of deep breathing would calm her. Using short, quick steps, she jogged up the sidewalk and crossed up the walkway. The house key was already in her hand. She fit it into the door and let herself in, closing the door behind her.
Finding the drugs was secondary to locating evidence of who was the owner of Colombia & Partners, so she started through the first floor of the house in search of Grant’s office.
She found it after padding down the second-floor hallway, passing an entertainment den, a closet, and the bathroom.
The office appeared to be organized, and Kate got the impression that Grant had been some kind of minimalist, perhaps with a touch of obsessive compulsive disorder. She almost felt bad for him, as she hunted through the drawers on his desk.
She found a filing folder, and when she flipped it open on the desk, she saw it contained Grant’s banking statements. Perusing the transactions, she spotted several wire deposits from Colombia & Partners, but it didn’t tell her who the owner was.
After riffling through more filing folders that held credit card statements and bills, she jiggled the computer mouse, waking the monitor.
Luckily, Grant’s e-mail was already opened on screen. Not entirely certain of what she was looking for, she began scanning through the e-mail subjects, noting the senders as she went.
Her heart leapt up her throat the second she saw Colombia & Partners jump out at her from the sender column. She clicked open the e-mail, but the sender was a general “info@” address. She began mumbling each word of the e-mail out loud.
“Becky has gone rogue. It’s time to take her out. If you don’t, it will mean your life.” Her gaze fell to the s
ignature at the bottom of the e-mail, but it was only initials. NG.
Kate stared at the initials, racking her brain for anyone she might know whose first name began with an N and last name with a G, but no one came to mind.
It was fast approaching two o’clock, so she checked that the printer on the desk was on and printed out the e-mail.
As soon as the sheet of paper spit out the e-mail, she grabbed it, leaping out of the chair. She could always come back, she reasoned, as she jogged down the hallway and padded down the stairs. She was sure to lock the door on her way out and scanned the block for any prying eyes, but there were none.
After climbing in behind the steering wheel of her truck, she opened the e-mail app on her cell phone. Bart’s receptionist, Anna, was supposed to send her an e-mail with the address of the interview. She had, Kate saw after deleting a few junk messages.
The moment she read the location, Kate’s stomach dropped.
She had a bad feeling about this.
Chapter Six
Kate sat in a chair next to Bart Vaughn. Two giant movie lights were angled on her, making it difficult to see. She was sweating like a pig in her sweater and long skirt. Bart looked cool as a cucumber.
Production people were rushing about the Rock Ridge Tribune, pushing desks out of the way so they wouldn’t be in frame. A sound guy pinched Kate’s sweater and began fixing a tiny microphone without saying a word to her. She felt manhandled and said, “Excuse you,” but he was already done, padding off towards the sound equipment station.
“You look angry,” said Bart, using a hushed tone as he leaned close to her ear.
She scowled at him, proving his point.
“Remember, you’re the distraught mother of an innocent man. You’ve found yourself in the midst of a tragedy. This could happen to anyone. Make the residents of Rock Ridge feel for you.”
She stared at him and blinked.
How the hell was she supposed to do that? Kate wasn’t one to beg for sympathy. She forced herself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly, but whatever calm she had claimed in that fleeting moment rushed out of her the second Eric Demblowski settled into the chair across from them.
Eric came off as smug as he smiled at her and then Bart. He thumbed through his notecards and asked the news station director how much time they had.
Kate heard the brassy woman respond with, “Two minutes.”
“This is airing live,” Eric reminded Kate, but Bart quickly assured the reporter that Kate was well aware.
Kate desperately wanted to leapt through the air and strangle the man who had been harboring the one woman responsible for ruining her son’s life, the one woman who had tried to gun Kate down.
She fantasized about choking him and suddenly snapped out of it when she heard the director yell, “We’re on in five, four, three...” The last two numbers she indicated with her fingers and then pointed at Eric.
“Good afternoon, Rock Ridge, and thank you for joining us,” said Eric, addressing the camera behind Kate’s right shoulder. “I’m Eric Demblowski and here with me is Kate Flaherty, mother of Jason Flaherty, who has been arrested in connection with the disappearance of Becky Langley. Joining us for this segment is Jason’s attorney, Bart Vaughn. Let’s get down to it.” Eric glanced at his first notecard, asking, “Kate, do you feel that the disappearance and subsequent murder of your first husband perhaps warped Jason’s young mind, driving him to commit this atrocious act?”
Stunned, Kate glared at him. He had knocked the wind right out of her. How the hell was she supposed to respond to that? She stole a quick glance at Bart, but he looked as poised as a statue of David.
By the grace of God, she was able to think clearly enough to point out, “That’s a rather loaded question, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s what everyone’s thinking,” he countered. “Care to respond?”
She felt like the room was spinning. The lights were too bright; his question was too offensive. Her stomach lurched as she scrambled to come up with some kind of response that didn’t include throttling him.
Bart interjected, “Jason is just as much of a victim as Kate. Let’s look at the lack of evidence—”
“Absolutely,” Eric said quickly without even looking at the attorney. “As soon as we hear what Kate has to say.”
Bart had tried, but if he pushed it, he would come off as defensive, which was probably why he was angling his worried eyes on Kate.
She cleared her throat and smoothed out the grimace on her face. “Greg Flaherty’s disappearance was a tragedy that hurt our family,” she began. “And both of my sons survived the news and did their best to carry on. We all did. Overcoming hardships does not turn a person into a criminal. Jason is not a criminal. He didn’t do this, and if we could all turn our attention to Mr. Vaughn, he is prepared to speak on that matter.”
She let out a ragged breath and clasped her trembling hands, all the while her mind was racing to analyze whether or not her response had been coherent. But she was so rattled, she couldn’t even recall what she had said.
Bart began, not missing a beat, but he didn’t get a word out before Eric leapt in with, “Let’s talk about Becky’s criminal record, which Jason—”
“Yes, let’s talk about her criminal record,” she snapped, cutting him off as rudely as he had her attorney. “More specifically, I’d like to hear from you about the fact that you’ve been hiding Becky Langley in your house this entire time.”
Kate was vaguely aware of the production team gasping and murmuring throughout the Tribune, but she kept her bright eyes locked on Eric, feeling satisfied that the reporter was shrinking in his chair and turning white.
When he began stammering, she stated, “I find it interesting how greatly you and the Rock Ridge Tribune have benefited from Becky’s story. You were nominated for a journalism award, if I’m not mistaken. You don’t just cover the news,” she said sternly. “You’ve also been creating it.”
“That’s unfounded,” Eric objected. “And ludicrous, I might add.”
“Is it? I saw her drive a black SUV to your house last night. You answered the door. She went in and didn’t come out.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“Then who was that woman?”
“I’m not on trial here. Your son is.”
“Not yet, he isn’t. And he won’t be, because Becky wasn’t kidnapped. She’s dead center in the middle of the drug ring that has taken over this town, and you’ve been helping her.”
“Cut the feed,” Eric demanded, turning to the director and drawing his thumb across his neck for emphasis. But she didn’t alert her cameraman to stop rolling. “Damn it, I said cut the feed!”
The director looked just as interested to hear Eric’s answer as Kate was.
“Fine,” he barked, shifting in his chair uncomfortably. “Next question.” He didn’t even look at his notecards, but glared at Kate. “Kate, are you concerned about coming off as callous? After all, you’re sitting here, collecting an appearance fee and claiming your fifteen minutes of fame, while your husband is laid up in the hospital.”
Stunned, Kate struggled to speak then spat out, “What?”
“Your husband, Police Chief Scott York, was shot several times, according to my sources. He was gunned down outside of the prison. Yet here you are, basking in the spotlight. Would you say Jason inherited this coldhearted trait of yours?”
In delayed reaction, Kate jumped out of her chair, ripping the microphone from her sweater. As she ran for the door, struggling to process the news, she clipped shoulders with the sound guy and stumbled, her palm smacking a desk. She cursed the damned skirt she was wearing, hiked it up, and took off again.
When she reached her truck, she felt like she wasn’t getting any air and she panicked. She yanked on the driver’s side door handle four times before she realized it was locked. She corrected the error, jumped in, and peeled out into the street.
Kate should’ve known so
mething was wrong. She had called Scott countless times, and it wasn’t like him not to pick up or return her calls. How could she have thought his lack of a response was stemming from their separation and not a critical emergency?
Why hadn’t someone at the precinct called her to tell her what had happened? She’d known most of the detectives and officers for years, and no one reached out?
Weaving in and out of traffic at a breakneck speed, each second passing slowly, she made her way to Rock Ridge Mercy, a hospital she had not set foot in since Lance was nearly killed during the amusement park explosion. The memory flooded her thoughts. She had been terrified, running from the surveillance van to the site. Her only thought had been of Scott and what she would do if anything were to happen to him. And now here she was, the same nightmare riveting her.
Was this Becky’s doing? Was this what she had meant when she directed her followers to take Kate out? Not to kill her physically, but emotionally? Kate feared the plan was working, as she veered into the hospital parking lot and came to a screeching stop just shy of the ambulance port.
She sprinted through the sliding glass doors, which barely opened in time, and when she reached the front desk, she slammed into it, demanding out of breath, “Scott York!”
“Yes,” said the man behind the desk, rising to meet her urgency. “He’s in the ICU.”
“Where?” she yelled.
“Around the desk and down the corridor,” he began, but Kate didn’t wait for further directions. She was already jogging towards the set of double doors he was pointing at.
As soon as she barreled through them, she heard someone behind her call her name.
She didn’t have time for much more than a glimpse over her shoulder, but stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Officer Garrison, who she often forgot had been promoted to detective.
“What the hell happened?” she demanded.
“Kate—”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
Garrison’s empathetic expression turned confused. “Oh, we did.”
Mrs. Fix It Mysteries: The Complete 15-Books Cozy Mystery Series Page 91
