The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

  “Mother, I just said I am not familiar with it.” He crossed is legs in a gentlemanly way, careful to avoid wrinkling the crease in in his slacks, and gazed serenely at Sharon.

  Turning to Price, Lauralee explained, “It’s a list of the people that were working with Prentiss in the election efforts, supporting or opposing various candidates around the state.”

  “Then this list of names would be the others with similar views as Senator Somerhill, people who supported his positions?” She held up the sheet of paper with the names listed neatly in columns that she had printed out.

  “I would think so,” Lauralee replied.

  “Probably nothing to it, but I would like to copy the files from his computer to my flash drive if you don’t mind.” She pulled the small USB device from her pocket and started to insert it into the computer. “Also, it would help if we could take his appointment book. I noticed that he did not keep them on his computer.” She held up the large black, leather-bound book she had found on the desk positioned neatly to one side.

  Lauralee smiled. “Prentiss was meticulous about recording appointments and keeping his notes on the meetings, but he could just never get used to doing so in a computer program. He would sit after every one and write out his notes in the book. By all means, if you think it will help, take the book.”

  “Excuse me, Agent Price,” PT interrupted. “Do you have a subpoena? Or a warrant? You are taking information from a private computer file. Typically, you would be required to obtain a search warrant or subpoena for that information.”

  Okay, so now, Sharon thought, she was definitely being cross-examined by Counselor Somerhill.

  “So, am I to understand it, Mr. Somerhill that rather than aid in the investigation of your father’s murder, you want me to go obtain a subpoena to copy a file from his computer that may have a bearing on the case?” High priced lawyer or not, Sharon Price was no novice on the witness stand and was definitely not one to be intimidated by a smooth talking attorney while she was in the midst of a murder investigation.

  Her response took PT completely off guard. Uncrossing his legs awkwardly, he leaned forward, as if trying to recover from a serious courtroom error. “Well no, no not at all.” Then recovering his composure somewhat, he continued. “Forgive me, Agent Price. Of course, we will cooperate. Just old habits. Sorry. I forgot myself. I seem to be always representing on the other side. I apologize.”

  Lauralee Somerhill had watched the interaction between her son and the GBI agent with a quizzical look on her face. Turning to Sharon, she said, “Of course you can copy the file, Sharon. If you think it will help, take the whole computer.” She did not see PT shift uncomfortably in his chair at that remark.

  Sharon Price did, and smiling at Mrs. Somerhill simply said, “Thank you, Lauralee. A copy of the file will do, for now.”

  PT Somerhill put on his best courtroom air of indifference. It was the same air he affected when the opposing attorney presented some devastating evidence against his client. Confident and calm, PT Somerhill, attorney for the defense, would rise and methodically demolish the prosecution and those who would dare question his integrity, facts be damned.

  Inserting the flash drive in the USB port, she started the copy process. Facts were what she was after.

  21. A Fine Day on the Lake

  Pulling off the two-lane road, the two pickups moved slowly into the secluded boat ramp area. Lake Hartwell, straddling the Georgia and South Carolina border, was a popular fishing and boating location, even this early in the season. But on a weekday in the spring, traffic on the lake would be light.

  Formed when the Army Corps of Engineers dammed the Savannah River, it was fed by three rivers, the Savannah, Seneca and Tugaloo. This gave it almost a thousand miles of winding, twisting shoreline and over fifty-five thousand acres of water surface. There were plenty of hidden coves and inlets for two buddies out fishing to spend some undisturbed quiet time casting for bass. Any conversation they had would be more than private. It would be like the proverbial tree falling in the woods when there is no one around…unheard.

  Pulling into a parking space, the driver of the older, slightly worn-down truck got out, grabbed his rod and tackle box from the bed, and walked to the boat ramp. The other pickup was a large new super duty, towing a cabin cruiser that seemed bigger than the truck. The driver had made the turn and was backing the massive boat down the ramp. It was clear that he had done this before.

  A few minutes later, the two men had floated the boat off its trailer and parked the big super duty in one of the long spaces marked to accommodate trucks pulling trailers. The boat’s engine rumbled deeply as they backed away from the ramp area and started cruising slowly across the lake.

  A half an hour later, the owner steered the boat into a small, deep cove with wooded hills rising around. The other man, who had been sitting quietly enjoying the ride in the morning lake air, found the anchor and dropped it over the side.

  Pulling out their fishing rods, the two set about baiting up and rigging their lines. The passenger pulled a plastic worm from his beat up tin tackle box, examined it closely, and replaced it, retrieving another that had a shiny, chartreuse color. The boat owner opened a tackle box that stood two feet high with numerous interior compartments and trays. He selected a gold crankbait, tied it on, and made a long cast from the rear of the boat.

  “Nice boat.” They were the first words spoken since leaving the boat ramp.

  The tall man at the rear looked around at his companion. “Thanks. She’s paid for too,” he said with a grin. He continued reeling the lure slowly towards the boat.

  Big Bud Thompson had never been on a cabin cruiser before. He had seen them passing by from his aluminum johnboat as he fished the lakes of Georgia, but he sure as hell had never been on one.

  “So, what’s a rig like this cost?”

  The grin was back on Rodney Puckett’s face. “Want one?”

  “Hell, who wouldn’t, ‘specially paid for.” Thompson’s respect for Puckett was growing. Both men had become somewhat expert as ‘fixers’, men who could get things done for a price, but it was clear that Puckett had taken the job to a higher level and had developed a more prosperous clientele.

  “Hang in there with me, with us, Bud. Good things will be coming. We can always use a good man. Your handling of the assignment yesterday won you some creds with the Counselor.” Puckett was careful not to use names.

  Thompson nodded and cranked his plastic worm toward the boat and then sent it out again towards a log he could see just under the water near the shore. The two fished quietly for an hour. In that time, Bud Thompson pulled in three decent size bass, smiling at Puckett who seemed content to cast his expensive lure and watch it return smoothly through the water to the boat without even a strike. It was a pretty sight, gliding and shining through the water, glistening under the surface as diffused light caught it and made it sparkle, then sinking out of sight. Puckett thought if he were a fish, he’d bite at it. The bass apparently did not agree, so he contented himself with watching the lure glide and skim through the water. It was calming, almost hypnotic.

  The morning was quiet. A few boats could be seen distantly skimming over the lake. Eventually, it was time to discuss the business at hand. Thompson pulled in the anchor while Puckett steered the big boat towards the center of the main lake.

  Surrounded by water on all sides, with no boats close by, Puckett cut the engine and allowed the boat to drift in the soft current. He pulled two beers from a built-in refrigerator by the cabin door and tossed one to Thompson.

  “So, what’s our problem?” Puckett took a sip of beer, watching Thompson closely.

  “’Bout what we thought.” Thompson took a long pull from his own beer, returning Puckett’s gaze steadily.

  “Right. Tell me about it.”

  It took Big Bud two minutes to brief Puckett about his call to the man who had sponsored him and his failure to follow the telephone protocol, whi
ch was intended to protect all involved. Describing the nervousness and fear that had been evident in the man’s voice, he ended by asking, “So, what’s next.”

  “Well, he was your sponsor into the group. Any suggestions?” Puckett’s eyes never left the big man, reading every reaction and every nuance of emotion that might cross his face. There was none.

  “It’s a problem that should go away,” Thompson replied in a quietly menacing voice that surely would have caused Stanton James, the man who had sponsored him, to pee his pants. “He is weak, always has been. That makes him a threat to us all, I reckon. We can’t allow it.”

  Thompson knew that Puckett’s question was partly a test of his own resolve. He would do whatever it took to demonstrate that he was a serious player. Leaning back into the thick padded seat bolted to the deck, he took another pull from the beer never letting his eyes wander from Puckett’s. He wanted one of these big-ass boats for himself, by god.

  Nodding, Puckett said, “All right then. I agree. We’ll make a call and get authorization. Not a decision we can make on our own.”

  Taking a cell phone from his pocket, Puckett punched in a number and sent a coded text message. The recipient would see the innocuously texted single letter and return the call when it was convenient and safe. The text went through without problems. Cell service on the lake was excellent. Towers from nearby Anderson and Clemson, South Carolina blanketed the area with coverage.

  The two opened another beer each and Puckett started the engine. He knew a good spot where crankbait might lure the elusive bass onto his hook. Be nice to even that score with Big Bud before they called it a day.

  The throaty rumble of the engine flowed pleasingly through the two men as the boat cut smoothly across the light waves. It was a fine day on the lake.

  22. Improbability Factor

  Sharon dropped the sacks from The Varsity on Shaklee’s desk and held up the flash drive and appointment book in her other hand. It was early afternoon and they had had a busy morning, each missing lunch.

  “Got something for you.”

  “I see that,” Bob replied, plowing with two hands into the sacks looking for his order, two heavyweights all the way and a F.O. They made a point of stopping by The Varsity beside the Georgia Tech campus at least once a week. The food was terrible and wonderful. Fried in grease and full of stuff no one asked questions about, the largest drive-in diner in the world, so they claimed, had its own lingo for food items. Shaklee’s heavyweights all the way were two chilidogs with extra chili and onions. The F.O. was a frosted orange drink, kind of a creamy orange shake. It had been his Varsity order since childhood.

  “No, not that.” Sharon waved the small flash drive in her hand at the senior GBI agent who was already stuffing one of the heavyweights into his mouth with a look that could only be described as sensual. “This, Bob.”

  Looking up, Shaklee took note of Sharon’s waving hand and what it contained. “What’s that?” His words were muffled by the large quantity of chilidog that had not yet made it down his throat from his mouth.

  “Copied some files off of Somerhill’s computer.”

  “Anything?” His interest was piqued, although the information could not compete with the chilidogs and frosted orange, yet.

  “Don’t know yet. Haven’t had time to review them.” She pulled open the bag containing her order, yellow dog and Coke, hotdog with onions and mustard and a Coke. Coke was Coke at The Varsity. “PT showed up. He didn’t seem too happy about me invading his daddy’s privacy.”

  “Daddy’s dead. Can’t get much more invaded than that,” Bob said, looking with a bit more interest at the small USB drive that Sharon had laid on his desk. “So, what’s on it?”

  Sitting at the edge of Bob’s desk, her lunch spread neatly before her, she opened a notebook folio she carried and pulled out a piece of paper, laying it on the desk and sliding it towards Shaklee so he could see it without touching it with his grease covered fingers.

  “Among other things, a list of names. Also had a lot of documents about the elections this year and the work he was doing on that around the state, supporting and opposing candidates.” She had seen while reviewing the files at the Somerhill’s home that the old senator was opposing virtually every incumbent running for office and supporting first time candidates. There did not seem to be any rhyme or reason for his support or opposition. He was in support of, and opposed to, candidates from both parties. Ideology did not seem to matter. “Thought maybe we could track down the people on the list and follow up. See if any were upset with his activities, written an irate editorial, made an angry phone call…something.” She shrugged. “It’s a place to start anyways.”

  “Yep,” Bob nodded in agreement. “We could use a starting place. Not much to go on right now.”

  Sharon nodded between bites of her yellow dog. “It was kind of interesting. Mrs. Somerhill knew all about the list and appointment book.”

  “And, why is that so interesting?”

  “Because PT claimed he knew nothing about it. He seemed unhappy that I found it.”

  “Maybe he didn’t, and maybe he was, so?”

  “Right, except his mother looked at him and said, of course he must remember it. She seemed truly puzzled by his loss of memory on the subject.”

  “And you?” Bob pushed the last of the second chilidog down and focused on Sharon’s account of the interview with the Somerhills.

  Sharon shrugged again. “I don’t know.” She looked up as if in thought. “Maybe just a defense lawyer so used to being on the other side that he just can’t bring himself to trust any cop, even the cop investigating his father’s murder.”

  “Maybe,” Shaklee said, letting the idea settle in his brain. Something to file away and consider later.

  Wiping his hands vigorously on a handful of paper napkins that Sharon had thoughtfully brought along, he pulled the paper across the desk. “So what is this?”

  “That’s the list of names. I printed it from the file. Mrs. Somerhill said it’s the other people working with Somerhill on the election stuff.”

  Shaklee picked it up, scanning it with interest. “Lot of interesting names here. Seems that political parties don’t have much to do with the group. Full of names from both sides of the aisle.” Reading down to the M’s on the list he stopped speaking and looked over at Sharon, who sat contentedly munching her dog while he looked the list over.

  “What?” she asked, catching note of his suddenly intense look in her direction. “I get mustard on my chin?”

  Shaklee ignored her question and asked one of his own. “Have you read the list?

  “Looked it over briefly. Haven’t had time to review it in detail yet. Figured I would spend the afternoon tracking down the names and putting faces and profiles to them.”

  “Clayton Marswell is on the list. He was a collaborator, working with Somerhill then?”

  “I would think so. At least that’s what Mrs. Somerhill said.”

  “Seen the paper today? Heard any news?”

  “Haven’t had time. Up early and focused on the Somerhill case. What did I miss?” Her brow furrowed in puzzlement at the change in Bob’s voice.

  Reaching to the other end of his long desk, Shaklee picked up the morning newspaper and then laid it in front of Sharon. It took her a moment to focus, but there it was, in bold print above the fold. ‘Superior Court Judge Murdered’. The story went on to describe how Judge Clayton Marswell had been brutally murdered by unknown assailants in an apparent carjacking. His body was found in an abandoned car behind an old warehouse.

  Her throat convulsed as she forced down the bit of dog she had been chewing. She could only think of one thing to say. “You’re shitting me.”

  “Nope,” Bob replied. “Not unless the Journal – Constitution is making the story up, which is unlikely I’d say.”

  Not bothering to clean her hands with the napkins, Sharon grabbed the paper and read the article in full. “Son of a bitc
h,” she said, dropping it back on the desk.

  “Yeah. My thoughts exactly.” Shaklee was already punching the numbers to Atlanta Homicide from the small directory card he kept beside his phone.

  Ten minutes later, they had explained the situation to Andrew Barnes, lead detective on the case. All agreed that until they met and discussed the two cases in detail, everything was to remain confidential. No one was to know anything until they had some goddamned idea what was going on. State senators and superior court judges dying under mysterious circumstances on the same day might be improbable, but not unheard of. On the other hand, two prominent personages from opposite ends of the political spectrum working together with a joint interest in the upcoming elections, at the very least raised a number of questions...not to mention that it increased the improbability factor exponentially.

  Price and Shaklee discussed that improbability factor while they waited for Detective Barnes to make his way through the downtown Atlanta traffic to their office. Summing up their conversation just before Barnes arrived, she picked the paper up once more and reread the Marswell story, repeating her former thought. “Son of a bitch!”

  23. One Cold Son of a Bitch

  Steering the black Cadillac Escalade through the familiar country roads an hour north of Atlanta, PT Somerhill had taken an entrance ramp onto I-75 and headed into the city. Now, on less familiar ground, he drove carefully through the upscale in-town neighborhood, in search of the lavish, antebellum style home in the Tuxedo Park district near Buckhead. The house was a meandering twenty-minute walk from the governor’s mansion on West Paces Ferry Road.

  Finding the bright brass street numbers on a brick and wrought iron fence running along the street, PT pulled into the long circular drive. The view of the house was obscured from the street by magnolias, dogwoods, and pines. Making the turn around the driveway’s bend the full panorama of the house, surrounded by landscaped lawns and flowering azaleas, was breathtaking.