Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2)

by Lance McMillian

  Sweat bubbles at his sideburns, and discomfort strangles him like a straitjacket. The recording finishes, and I let him twist in it for a good bit.

  I tease, “What’s that you were saying about being busy?”

  He swallows hard but regroups with an aura of fake nonchalance.

  “Is that recording supposed to frighten me or something? That’s just me and Warren shooting the bull.”

  “Doubtful that a grand jury would see it that way. Warren Jackson had you on tape committing a felony. Seems to me like a mighty good reason to kill him.”

  His eyes go wide, and he shakes his meaty head.

  “No, sir. Not a chance. That dog won’t hunt.”

  “You were there.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  Using his best cop voice, Scott chimes in, “Motive—check. Opportunity—check. That leaves means. Do you own a gun?”

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  I respond, “You need to be smart.”

  True enough. Cooperation is the only way Gene can escape the mess he’s in, and I sit back to allow him the time to make the same calculation.

  “I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Do you want me to go into Minton’s office right now and play that recording for him?”

  The list of people allowed to call the Governor “Minton” is a small one. I’m on it. Gene is not. The subtle reminder of that fact is not lost on him. I can have him tossed out on his ear in less than five minutes, and he knows it.

  Gene throws up his hands in defense and says, “What do you want?”

  “What did you have on Warren Jackson?”

  “No way.”

  I stand up to leave. Scott joins me, and we head to the door.

  “Whoa, fellas. Wait! Come back and sit down.”

  I turn around, still standing, waiting. The pained expression on his face reveals the scarcity of his options. He is going down or turning state’s evidence. One or the other.

  “My conversation with Warren Jackson had nothing to do with his murder.”

  “You know who killed him?”

  “Well, uh, no.”

  “Then how do you know that your conversation with Jackson had nothing to do with his murder?”

  He doesn’t have an answer, and I let the question slide. The timing is too early for him to tell tales out of school just yet. That would be an outright confession of a crime, and he’ll need to save that for the bargaining stage. But part of today’s work is to make him panic. We sit back down and keep up the pressure.

  “You need to resign yourself to the fact that you’re going to tell me about the dirt you had on Jackson. You just are. The sooner you get that in your thick skull, the better things will go for you. But in the meantime, tell me about your movements at the party on the night of the murder.”

  “Nothing to tell. I got there and hung out in the courtroom with Tommy and Jerry. Nothing more than that. Then people started saying that the Chief Justice was dead. I left immediately after the word came down. None of my business, and I had no interest in hanging around with a killer on the loose. Besides, dead bodies give me the creeps.”

  The stench of mendacity is strong. Beverly Jackson and Kenny Cummings saw Gene walk out of Jackson’s office with the Daltons just after six on the night of the murder. I look at Scott in disbelief, more for effect than genuine surprise. I knew Gene would play this wrong. He isn’t wired to work it any other way. Time to beat him up a little more.

  “Gene, the first rule of getting out of a hole is to stop digging. You skipped over the meeting you and the Dalton brothers had with the Chief Justice just before he was murdered.”

  I don’t say a word about the recording we have of Jerry Dalton snatching the Chief’s phone. Gene doesn’t know we salvaged that, and he doesn’t need to know. I have other strategic uses for that information.

  Gene hems and haws, “We just went in there to say hi. That’s all. I barely remember it.”

  “You were there at least twenty minutes. That’s a long hello. And the conversation wasn’t friendly.”

  All I know about the meeting is that Jerry Dalton seized Jackson’s phone and that Senator Parsons said that Jackson wasn’t himself afterwards. But maybe that little slice of knowledge is enough to get Gene worried about how much he can trust the Daltons. He turns on them, and the floodgates will open.

  He insists, “No dice, Chance. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “You keep lying, and there’s not a lawyer in this city who is going to be able to help you.”

  “I’m not lying. We were only with Jackson a few minutes and then we went to the courtroom and stayed there.”

  “You went to the restroom, too? Forget about that?”

  “I can’t remember every time I’ve ever gone to the bathroom, man. Cut me some slack. But yeah, I talked to the state patrol officer and went to relieve myself. I’m at that age where I have to go a bunch.”

  “The whole point of asking about your movements is to figure out who was where and when. That’s how we narrow down the suspects. Except you are mighty forgetful compared to everyone else—not a point in your favor, Gene. Makes me think you have something to hide, especially when you seem to have the strongest motive around for wanting Jackson dead.”

  “That’s not true. I didn’t even know about that recording until you played it for me.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  “And who’s going to believe that?”

  I stand up, tired of him and ready to go casting for bigger fish. Scott remains sitting with a disagreeable sternness on his face. Gene contemplates the both of us, unsure of what’s going on.

  He asks, “You’re not going to play that tape for the Governor?”

  “Not yet. Maybe never. I’m going to give you a chance to get religion. In the meantime, you and Detective Moore here are going to be buddies while I walk across the street to talk to Tommy Dalton. Detective Moore’s going to babysit your phone for you to make sure you don’t get the urge to call home to Momma.”

  20

  The Attorney General’s office is in a government building long past its expiration date. I stand in the rotunda of the old structure now, hoping I don’t get sick. I wouldn’t be the first. Asbestos is baked into the building’s DNA, and everyone knows it. Enter at your own risk.

  Once in Tommy Dalton’s office suite, I wonder if he intends to make me wait like Senator Parsons in some petty ploy of putting me in my place. But Tommy shuns that game and comes out to greet me himself, opting for extreme cordiality over high-handed superiority.

  “Chance, finally good to meet you.”

  We shake hands, and he invites me to sit. I asked for the meeting, but he decides to take charge.

  “No offense, but I don’t see why the Governor appointed you. The GBI is plenty capable. More than that, I am the Attorney General of Georgia. Someone going around calling himself a special attorney general tends to rub me the wrong way. To be clear, none of my issues are personal to you. My disappointment rests with the Governor. You’re a talented young man, and I’m always on the lookout for talent. We can help one another once this thing is over.”

  By my count, he and I are practically the same age. His pretending otherwise riles me a bit. I take his measure—a thinning hairline a decade from being bald, a jutting waist from too many political dinners, a face more round than angular—and decide to needle him right back.

  “Well, when you become president, you can name me ambassador to Australia.”

  He doesn’t know if the reference to his unbridled ambition is a friendly joke or a taunt. Being in the mood for diplomacy, he opts to treat it as the former. He offers a good-natured laugh to show he’s a great sport.

  “It’s a deal. How can I help you?”

  “I need to know why Gene Davis was trying to blackmail Warren Jackson on your behalf.”

  The disagreeable pallor on his face makes me think I just lost
that ambassadorship. He regroups quickly, but the punch landed.

  “I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about.”

  “We have it on tape—loud and clear.”

  “I can assure you that Gene Davis does not speak for me and has never spoken for me. If he is saying otherwise, then he is a damn liar.”

  The mention of a recording is a disturbing development to his ears, and the veneer of his politician’s coating starts to show wear. The chiseling brings me closer to the inner shell of a real person—a person deathly afraid of what else I might have to say. I go on.

  “You’re in luck. I’ve known Gene a long time, and I tend to agree that he’s a damn liar.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But here’s the thing. I know that you, your brother, and Gene met with the Chief Justice right before he was murdered. That’s a fact. Now, I just came from talking to Gene across the street and do you know what he told me? He said that y’all had an angry meeting with the Chief and that Jerry even snatched Jackson’s phone away from him and deleted something off of it. Is Gene lying about that?”

  And that’s why I’m keeping to myself the recording Jerry Dalton tried to erase—to sow discord among the conspirators. Spread as much seed as possible from the tiny snippet of conversation we have and let the distrust grow with a little watering. Divide and conquer.

  The Attorney General musters up a measured dose of indignation and states, “Yes, he is lying about that. We dropped by to give Warren our regards and to congratulate him on the new building. I’m a politician. I like to maintain a friendly relationship with the Chief Justice of the state. It’s good for business, and my brother certainly didn’t snatch anything from anybody. I don’t know what scam Gene is trying to run on you.”

  “That’s what I figured, and I assume Jerry will corroborate that. Just between us girls, I think Gene is the reason that the Governor appointed me in the first place. He’s scamming the Governor, he’s scamming you. For what it’s worth, my father hated Gene and with good reason. But that’s my business. Big picture—Gene is going down, and I’m going to be the one to put him there. Any help would be greatly appreciated.”

  Let’s see if the fish bites. By making him think I have some ancient score to settle with Gene, maybe Tommy cooperates to a degree. At a minimum, my little talk should make Gene toxic to him, leaving Gene all alone on an island of one.

  Tommy asks, “Do you believe Gene killed Warren Jackson?”

  “That’s our best thinking. Jackson had Gene on tape trying to bribe him. Gene found out and killed him. Unfortunately for Gene, Jackson had a hidden copy stashed somewhere.”

  He mulls over my words, and I allow him the time, hoping that he sees the light at the end of the tunnel. After a prolonged period of deliberation, he makes the next move.

  “What do you need from me?”

  “Nothing really. You and Jerry can sign affidavits of what you just told me—that Gene was not authorized to speak for you or the Dalton family and that his allegation that Jerry snatched Jackson’s phone from him on the night of the murder is a complete fabrication. That helps me nail Gene for lying and lean on him for the murder. Maybe he cops to it under the pressure. Wouldn’t be the first time. If not, we still have him on the bribery, and he’s off the street either way.”

  His face is a noncommittal mask at the casual mention of signing an affidavit. He feigns a desire to cooperate, but swearing to a falsehood under oath should make him squeamish. With affidavits in hand, I would have both Daltons for perjury. The sworn statements would also prove to Gene that his friends have left him. But Tommy’s too careful for that—if he has any sense at all. He sits there thinking in his chair, working out all the angles for himself.

  He offers, “That shouldn’t be a problem. Write it up and send it over. Anything else?”

  I make a mental note to have Barbara Hsu prepare the affidavits. We’ll send them over and won’t ever see them again. But that’s the game within the game. I answer his question.

  “Just tell me everything you remember about the night of the murder.”

  “That’s easy. Jerry and I arrived together. Gene was waiting for an elevator, and we all rode up at the same time. He then followed us to the Chief Justice’s chambers. After we left Jackson, we headed to the courtroom. Gene trailed us there, too. My brother and I had things to talk about but couldn’t with him around. He was a damn pest, honestly.”

  “Gene is a leech, always has been. I told the Governor he should cut the cord with him, except he didn’t listen to me. But did Gene leave the courtroom at any time?”

  “Definitely. Once or twice.”

  “Can you pinpoint the times when he left?”

  He pretends to think for a moment but tells me no, and I project disappointment in the answer.

  “And you and Jerry were in the courtroom the whole time after leaving Jackson’s chambers?”

  “Until we heard Mrs. Jackson’s scream.”

  “Anyone else come through the courtroom at any point?”

  “Mrs. Jackson. Larry Miller—the Clerk of Court. Like I said, Gene was in and out. That’s all I remember.”

  The answer checks out with everything else we know. The people closest to the murder scene for the most of the evening were Gene, the Daltons, Beverly Jackson, Larry Miller, and the Winnetts just behind the courtroom in her chambers. Maybe Adam Lumpkin, if we ever get a bead on him.

  I wrap up, “Let me know if Gene makes a move on you in some way. If he feels pinched, he might try to make hay at your expense. Be careful talking with him on the phone. Your saving grace is that I know what he’s up to, and the noose is already around his fat neck.”

  Tommy nods.

  ***

  Once I escape the asbestos and breathe the fresh air again, I text Barbara and Marlon, “Are our wiretaps up and running?”

  The response: “Yes.”

  Perfect. Time to revisit Gene before releasing him back into the wild.

  21

  Neither Scott nor Gene looks impressed with the other’s company when I return.

  I ask Scott, “Did our friend behave?”

  “Did we give him much choice?”

  No, we didn’t. I take a seat again, and a chagrined Gene sags down in his chair, wondering when he’ll be rid of our meddlesome presence. My head shakes at him in disappointment.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that Jerry Dalton took away the Chief Justice’s cell phone from him?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Gene. Who do you think? Tommy also told me that you left the courtroom a few times, too—not just to go to the bathroom that once. Where else did you go? Tommy and I talked about it. Warren Jackson had incriminating evidence on you, and you killed him. It’s a neat theory.”

  The State Capitol is roughly 130 years old, and the temperamental heaters only barely do the job. Combined with drafty windows and freezing weather outside, the temperature in Gene’s office is on the chilly side. But there he sits roasting like a hog in his own sweat. The stains from his armpits are nearly dripping, and the accompanying odor has grown more offensive during my absence.

  He whimpers, “I’m not saying another word to you guys.”

  “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said today, Gene. But hear me loud and clear—there’s no great escape for you this time. You need to bargain, and you’re canny enough to know that he who talks first gets the best deal. Think about it long and hard. You have my number.”

  “Can I have my phone back?”

  ***

  Scott bristles when we emerge out into the winter cold, “Next time get J.D. or Marlon to babysit him. That was painful. Did you catch a whiff of the smell?”

  “J.D.’s trailing him, he can’t do it.”

  “That still leaves Marlon.”

  I give him an update on my meeting with Tommy Dalton.

  He asks, “You don’t think he’s actually going to cooperate with u
s, do you?”

  “Doubtful, but I threw out a bunch of bait. Even still, chances are that the Daltons will leave our friend in there twisting in the wind all by his lonesome.”

  “That would be a shame.”

  ***

  I head down the street to the new judicial building for a low-key lunch with Cate in her chambers. Both of us beam at the other upon first sight. She then comes over, puts her hands gently on my sides, and gives me a meaningful kiss—not quite passionate, but something more than a mere peck on the lips.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that again ever since the other night,” she says.

  She makes better company than Gene.

  I pull a chair to her desk, and we eat subs that she ordered for the two of us. The view from her windows is not as grand as the one Warren Jackson enjoyed from the floor above. Her chambers face east, away from the Capitol. The location for the old Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium is visible, and I contemplate it for longer than the moment deserves.

  She wonders, “What are you thinking?”

  “Just looking at where the old baseball stadium used to be. Daddy would take us to Braves games, and the trips always filled me with so much excitement. We were there the night in 1995 when the Braves won the World Series. Daddy was lieutenant governor, so we had good seats. I didn’t fall asleep until four in the morning. The stadium is now a parking lot. Nothing ever stays the same. Kinda makes me sad.”

  “At least you have your memories.”

  I keep to myself that my memories feel lost, too. The 1995 World Series would’ve been around when Daddy was making time with Susan Benson. That’s the year the landmark juvenile justice reform bill passed the Georgia legislature. I looked it up. The last few nights when struggling to fall asleep, I searched for clues in the past that showed something was amiss. But I strike out every time. Life seemed perfect back then.

  Cate studies me with an earnestness that threatens to melt my heart. I pick up a can of Coke and make a toast, “Here’s to new memories.”

  We touch beverages and agree to have dinner that night.