Tom felt his stomach jump when he saw the letterhead: “New York Life.” He and Bo quickly scanned the contents and then looked at each other.
“Danny filed a life insurance claim?” Bo asked, sliding the letter to Tom so that he could have a better look. It was only two paragraphs, a short rejection-of-benefits notice signed by “Walter Beasley, Claims Representative.”
“Yes,” Barbara said. “I filed it for him. The main reason that I came to see Jack so often at the prison was to try to convince him to name Danny as the primary beneficiary of his life policy.” She took a sip of coffee. “Jack was bankrupt. You bankrupted him.” She looked at Tom, but there was no anger or menace in her eyes. “He had nothing left, and he was dying.”
Tom felt his heart jump. He looked at Bo, and his friend’s eyes grew wide as saucers. “He was dying?” Bo repeated.
“Prostate cancer that had spread to the liver,” she said. “I think that was the main reason he was released from the prison. So that they could avoid the costs of treatment.” Barbara looked from one to the other. “You didn’t know that, did you?”
Tom’s heart was now pounding and he felt a surge of adrenaline. “No, ma’am. We just received the full autopsy report yesterday, and there were no medical records in the file produced by the prosecution.”
“You said you went to the prison to persuade Jack to change the beneficiary to Danny?” Bo asked, back on point. “Were you successful?” He stole a glance at Tom. Both men knew that Kat Willistone had also filed a claim for the three million in benefits, which had been approved.
“I thought so. On my last visit before his release, he said he had changed it to Danny. He told me that he had sent the form in.” She glared past Tom to some unseen spot in the distance. “Then after he was out, he came by the house and showed me a copy of the form he had completed listing Danny as the beneficiary.”
Tom held up the stained letter. “But his claim was denied.”
Barbara nodded and continued, her jaw tight. “After I learned that Jack had been murdered, I went down to Max Conchin’s office on Skyland. He was Jack’s insurance agent for thirty years. One of the life insurance company’s most successful agents. Max said that he had received nothing from Jack. That he hadn’t even talked to him since he was sentenced to prison.” Her voice began to shake with emotion. “I couldn’t believe it. Jack had lied to me before, but he had shown me the copy of the form. I had seen it with my own eyes. I asked Max for a claim form anyway and I sent it in. I thought maybe Jack had gotten cross with Max and decided to send the change form directly to the insurance company.” She pointed at the letter. “That’s what I got in response.”
“Ms. Willistone, what happened to the copy of the change form that Jack showed you?”
She held up her palms. Tears now streaked her bruised and swollen face. “I don’t know. He put it back in his briefcase and left the house. The next morning I heard about his murder on the news.”
Tom thought back to the Bent Creek subdivision video that Powell had played at the preliminary hearing the day before. There had been a leather briefcase in the back seat of Jack Willistone’s 4Runner. Which the state claims was stolen by his killer.
“Do you think Max Conchin lied to you about getting anything from Jack?” Bo asked, and Tom could hear the excitement in his friend’s deep voice.
Barbara snorted. “I wish I believed that, but I don’t. Max is a deacon in the First Methodist Church and I’ve never seen him without a Bible in his hand or nearby.” She stared at Tom with eyes haunted by years of hurt and sacrifice. “I know that doesn’t mean much, but Max is not a hypocrite. Jack always said that Max could walk into a Baptist revival and wrap a diamondback rattler around his neck like a shawl.” She paused. “No, he didn’t lie to me.”
“What about Jack? Was the copy you looked at a fake?”
Tears filled Barbara’s eyes again. “I know you probably think I’m a fool. Jack could be . . . such a horrible man, I know. I witnessed it with my own eyes. But he wasn’t always so bad. Before Danny . . .” She stopped and started to sob. Tom saw a box of Kleenex on the counter and grabbed them, offering her a tissue. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . .” After stifling a sob, she folded her arms tight around her chest. When she spoke again, her voice was so hushed that Tom had to lean close to hear her. “Jack had wanted a litter of kids, but my body wasn’t made for that. I had three miscarriages—three—before Danny was born in April of 1975. Jack had been so proud. I had given him a boy. A son to carry on his name and one day run his business. Jack was giddy for those first few months after the birth. But it wasn’t too long before we realized something was wrong.”
Tom glanced at Bo across the table and could tell that his friend was about to say something, and he held his hand up to stop him. We need to let her get this out, he tried to convey with his eyes.
Barbara stared at the wall. “Jack came home from work after a particularly long day when Danny was eighteen months old. He had a cussing fit when I informed him that dinner would be fish sticks and fries.” She chuckled despite her tears. “Times were still tight then. Jack was two years away from landing the deal with Andy Walton in Pulaski that would change the future of the company. Jack had a loud voice, and even though I was used to it, it still scared me when he blew his top. But Danny just sat at the kitchen table and didn’t even whimper. He hardly ever cried or made sounds. When Jack was through cussing, he looked at Danny for a long time. I . . . I’ve never seen such an expression of disappointment and shame. It burned my soul.” She wiped her eyes. “I took Danny to see the pediatrician the next morning and, after two-and-a-half years of tests, the doctors concluded that Danny had a form of severe autism. He would never be ‘normal.’ He would never play football. His father would never be able to hand him the keys to Willistone Trucking Company.” Barbara let out a long sigh and looked at Tom, her eyes distant, looking back through the hourglass. “Something just broke in Jack after that. He had always cheated on me. A year after we were married, I began to smell a scent of perfume that wasn’t mine. But the world was different back then. My momma told me that some men needed a little strange on the side to be a good husband at home. You ever hear such a thing?”
Neither Tom nor Bo answered, knowing that it was a rhetorical question.
“Now, Momma didn’t so much as say that my father had taken some strange in his time, but I could read between the lines. Daddy was a rounder, and I had married one too. So I looked the other way. At first because of what Momma said. And after Danny, because I . . . I felt like I had failed Jack by not having a healthy child. I took care of Danny, made sure that he was in the right kind of facility, and visited him every day. And Jack built an empire and . . . pretty much humped everything with a vagina in Tuscaloosa County. I stopped putting up with it when I caught him with Kat.”
“Why?” Bo asked, his tone startling Tom out of the trance that Barbara’s sad tale had put him in.
“I don’t know. I guess I had never really walked in on him before, and Kat was just a child, for God’s sake. When she was twelve years old, she had tagged along when Bully and his second wife, Janice, and me and Jack and several other couples had all taken Bully’s yacht down the Tennessee River for the Alabama-UT game. She wore a precious ’Bama cheerleader outfit and had pigtails and called me Ms. Barbara. When she was eighteen, she had stayed at the Big House with us so she could go through rush at the university. We . . . I had been good to her and I had almost looked to her like a daughter.” She paused. “About eight years ago, I came to the office one night with a pot of homemade spaghetti. I was going to surprise Jack. I hadn’t done anything like that in years and was excited. But when I walked in the door, Jack was bending Kat over his desk.” She scoffed. “He was so into the act that he hadn’t even noticed I was there. But Kat had. She was in her late twenties then with tan skin, a perfectly toned body, and perky frat-girl breasts. The ungrateful little bitch had looked right at m
e, but instead of screaming at being caught, she smiled. I swear to God she looked like she had just won the blue ribbon at a beauty contest and I was the unlucky girl that came in second.” Barbara slammed her fists on the table, and Tom and Bo grabbed their coffee mugs to keep them from spilling. “Can you believe the gall? She felt sorry for me.” Barbara stood from the table and walked back to the coffeepot, making a show of pouring out the liquid in her cup and then refilling it. “I couldn’t stand for that, so I told Jack I wanted a divorce.” She snickered. “Jack looked at me like he was Brer Rabbit and I had asked him to jump in the briar patch. I was damaged goods, and Kat was heir to Bully Calhoun’s dynasty. He filed the next day and married Kat a few months later.”
Barbara returned to her seat and blew her nose into another Kleenex. “I think . . . when he was in prison, something changed in him. I’d like to believe it was my visits, but it was probably the cancer. Jack always thought he was ten feet tall and bulletproof. Having to deal with his own mortality really shook him.” She gazed up at the ceiling. “I know that form was real. I know he changed the beneficiary to Danny.” She lowered her eyes to Tom and this time there was no distance in her gaze. Her pupils bore into his like lasers. “I know it.”
For almost a minute, no one said anything. Tom wanted to give Barbara a moment to gather herself, and Bo furiously jotted notes. Finally, Tom cleared his throat and leaned his forearms on the table. “Ms. Willistone, what happened to your face?”
She winced and brought a hand to her forehead. “That bitch.”
Tom glanced at Bo, who asked the next question. “Kat?”
Barbara nodded. “I shouldn’t have done it, but I just couldn’t help myself. She had been so prim and proper all day during the hearing, wearing black and playing the role of the grieving widow. When I got that letter, I went over to the Big House—Jack’s house—and parked down the road. I followed her to an apartment in downtown Tuscaloosa and saw her having sex with a man in the upstairs loft. It was the guy that was at Pepito’s with her.”
“Breck Johnson?” Bo asked, and Tom was grateful for his partner’s near-photographic memory of the evidence produced by the prosecution.
“That’s the one. He met her in the parking lot, and I saw them walk to the elevator together.” She gazed bitterly at her mug. “He left the blinds cracked just enough that I could make out her shadow.”
“How . . . ?” Bo started to ask another question but stopped himself.
Barbara chuckled. “I may be old and saggy, Mr. Haynes, but I remember what sex looks like.”
“Yes, ma’am. What happened next?”
“When she came outside, I went after her. I was so mad. I wanted her to know that I knew that Jack had changed the beneficiary on his policy.”
“What was her reaction?” Tom asked.
She touched her nose. “She beat the crap out of me.”
“Did you call the police?”
Barbara shook her head. “I couldn’t. I started it. I grabbed her from behind. She would say that she was defending herself, and she’d be right.”
Bo looked Jack Willistone’s ex-wife up and down and let out a low whistle. “Looks to me like she did more offense than defense.”
Tom tapped his pen on the table and took a sip of joe. Finally, he looked Barbara straight in the eye. “Ms. Willistone, why are you telling us all of this?”
She didn’t blink. “Because I know that Jack intended to change his life insurance policy to make Danny the beneficiary. I know he sent the form somewhere. And I think his bitch widow and her father did something that prevented the change form from going to New York Life.”
“And then they killed him before he could figure out what they had done,” Bo added.
Barbara wiped her tear-streaked face. Then she gave a quick nod. “Exactly.”
As they walked toward Tom’s Explorer, Bo said, “You feel that?”
“Feel what?” Tom asked.
“The sun on our asses,” Bo said, slapping his hands together.
“Let’s not get too excited,” Tom said. “All we have right now is the ramblings of a bitter woman.”
“You know it’s more than that,” Bo said.
Tom did, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he started the car and headed east on Queen City.
“Where to now?” Bo asked.
Tom took a deep breath and tried to calm his rapidly beating heart. He had been so engaged in the meeting with Barbara Willistone that he had forgotten about the ache in his back, and he wanted to keep the momentum. “I think it’s time we pay Jack’s Bible-toting insurance agent a visit.”
In the passenger seat, Bocephus Haynes smiled. “Wide ass open.”
Inside the house, Barbara watched them leave through a crack in the blinds. She had told them everything but the part about her being high and carrying a pistol during the altercation with Kat. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer that she’d done the right thing. That she’d done right by her son.
“Please, Lord,” she said out loud. “Hear me this time.”
38
They found Max Conchin at the City Cafe in Northport sitting by himself and eating a plate of fried green tomatoes. His receptionist said that Max would be there until the restaurant closed at three thirty. “It’s a Tuesday,” she had said, as if that explained everything.
The insurance agent had thick white hair that was combed in a tight part and wore a navy-blue suit. Even on a ninety-degree day in June, he still wore his jacket.
“Mr. Conchin,” Tom said, extending his hand just as the other man was lifting his fork to eat. Max stuck half of the fried vegetable in his mouth and chewed furiously while rising to his feet. He smiled as if on autopilot and extended his hand. “Max Conchin.” The man’s voice boomed out the words like a televangelist.
“Tom McMurtrie,” Tom said, and then gestured to Bo. “This is my friend Bo Haynes. Would you mind if we joined you?”
“Not at all,” Max said, gesturing to the two seats across from him. “I have a lunch meeting in about . . .” He made a show of looking at his watch, and Tom guessed the man was probably pushing eighty years old. “Forty-five minutes. Maybe I can talk you fellas into exploring a life insurance policy.”
“We didn’t come here to talk about insurance,” Tom said, taking the seat directly across from Conchin, while Bo took the one catty-corner.
“Oh,” Max said, wiping his mouth with a white paper cloth. “Then what gives me the pleasure?”
Tom glanced at the empty seat next to Conchin and noticed a rather large briefcase. On the placemat above the seat was a white notebook, filled with the insurance agent’s chicken-scratch handwriting. Underneath the notebook was a worn leather-bound copy of the Holy Bible.
“Mr. Conchin, I was hoping to ask you a few questions about Jack Willistone.”
Max blinked but his face remained pleasant. “Longtime customer of mine. Thirty years at least. I hated to hear about what happened to him. Why do y’all want to ask me about Jack?”
“I represent the woman accused of murdering Mr. Willistone,” Tom said. “And Bo here is my lead investigator. We wanted to ask you some questions about Jack’s life insurance policy.”
“What do you want to know?” The man’s eyes held no trace of hostility, and his lack of discomfort rattled Tom. He was expecting someone who would be irritated or annoyed at having his lunch interrupted. But Max Conchin appeared to be enjoying the interaction. Probably why he sells a lot of policies, Tom thought.
“How much was the policy worth?” Bo asked, lobbing an easy question over the net to get things started.
“Three million,” Max answered, the smile still plastered to his face.
“And who was the beneficiary at the time of his death?”
“His wife, Kathryn, or Kat as she likes to be called.”
“When did Kat file her claim?”
“When? I can’t remember the exact date. But I know she came in and requested the death ben
efits form a couple of days after Jack was killed.”
“Did anyone else request a death benefits form?” Bo asked.
“What?” Max asked, and for the first time he looked uncomfortable, his perma-smile growing tight.
“Did any person besides Kat request a death benefits form?”
Max wiped his mouth with his napkin, clearly stalling. “Well . . . as a matter of fact . . . Jack’s ex-wife Barbara did come see me and ask about that.”
“Tell us about that,” Tom said.
The shine finally faded from the insurance agent’s voice. “Say, you fellas want to tell me what this is about? Am I in some kind of trouble? I’m a God-fearing man that’s always tried to do right by people. I love the Lord and Jesus loves me, just like the children’s song goes.”
“You’re not in any trouble, Mr. Conchin,” Tom said. “At least none that we are aware of.” He paused. “What happened when Barbara came to see you?”
Max laid his napkin down and gazed at his half-eaten plate. He looked at Tom with genuine empathy. “Barbara was under the impression that Jack had changed the beneficiary on his life policy to their son, Danny. She told me that Jack had told her that he had sent in a change form. I wish that he had, I really do. I know Barbara has been through hell with that boy, and three million dollars would have taken care of his expenses for life. But I never received anything from Jack or his attorney. Hell, I hadn’t even talked with Jack for at least two years before he died.”
“Mr. Conchin, do you know Kathryn Willistone’s father, Marcellus Calhoun?” Bo asked. “Also goes by the name of Bully Calhoun.”
Max’s eyes went wide but he shook his head. “No, sir. I do not know the man.”
“Have you heard of him?”
The Last Trial (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 3) Page 22
