Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2)

by Lance McMillian

  “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

  “Taylor is an innocent lamb from a small town, barely here for two weeks, and already she is being devoured by the big city wolf.”

  He shrugs, “You kept turning down my attempts to go to dinner with you. I moved on.”

  “Beverly Jackson is going to be heartbroken.”

  “I warned you about that.”

  “But Taylor? I thought it would be Sophie. That’s why you wanted her working the case.”

  “Nah, we broke up for a reason. Sophie’s just damn good at what she does.”

  The team convenes for a quick meeting. I update them on the civil case against Hank Dalton’s company, leaving out all mentions of Cate. Barbara Hsu confirms that she sent the Dalton brothers affidavits for their signatures and has yet to hear back. Sophie reports that Gene has yet to meet with the Daltons. Marlon explains that Gene tried to contact Tommy Dalton on five occasions over the weekend, all without a response. Taylor avoids looking at me.

  I ask Sophie, “What’s Gene doing with his time?”

  “Laying low. J.D. and I are bored out of our minds. Worst stakeout ever. The target doesn’t do anything.”

  J.D. is out tailing Gene right now. I consider Sophie’s words and wonder whether it’s time to direct our resources toward bigger prey. I ask the group, “Should we start following Tommy Dalton instead?”

  The consensus is yes, and the team scurries to draw up plans for their new orders. Meanwhile, Scott and I set off on the day’s travels.

  ***

  The work goes on and that means paying another visit to Beverly Jackson. With no clear suspect in our sights, we intend to rattle the cages on all the suspects again to see what shakes out. We started with the widow the first time and begin our second tour of duty in the same place.

  A tan-skinned man opens the door to us. He looks like a model. The hair is dark, the beard closely-trimmed, the age roughly early thirties. A tank top is his wardrobe of choice. Everything about him screams, “Boy Toy.” He introduces himself as Raul and goes to fetch Beverly.

  I turn to Scott and proclaim, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  “Ain’t love grand?”

  Raul directs us to the study, and we take the same seats as before. After a minute or so, Beverly saunters into the room with a glass of brown liquor already in hand. She wears a loose-fitting robe, and the hint of a red-lace negligee—the low-grade kind with too many ruffles—peaks out from the top. She puts her drink on the table and opens up the robe to give us the full view.

  “What do you boys think?”

  I’m too stunned to think much of anything but manage to spit out, “I take it you’re no longer in mourning.”

  She hacks out a throaty laugh and bellows, “I stopped mourning on the car ride back with Kenny the night that it happened.” Turning to Scott, she chides, “You missed your chance, stud.”

  He responds, “Tragic, but I must say that Raul brings out something in you.”

  “You bet your sweet ass he does.”

  We all linger on the implications of that answer before getting down to business. She mercifully cinches up the robe. I get the ball rolling on the reason for our visit.

  “Beverly, always good to catch up with you, but I confess that today is not a social call.”

  “You mean you’re not here for the pleasure of my company? I’m hurt.”

  “Your company is something I will not soon forget. Be that as it may, we have more questions to ask you.”

  “Such as?”

  “We have reason to believe that your husband was murdered while you were in the conference room where the judges meet. Did you hear any kind of loud noise when you were in that room?”

  She fiddles with lighting a cigarette and then takes a deep drag.

  “Not a peep.”

  “Do you use a hearing aid?”

  A deep look of offense colors her face. She retorts, “How old do you think I am? My hearing is as sharp as the point of a knife. Used to drive Warren crazy. Him trying to slip out in the middle of night to meet one of his trollops. But I would pop out and bust him. Made him slither back to bed. Eventually, I stopped caring. It became a relief to get him out of the house.”

  “And you didn’t hear a loud bang of any kind with those keen ears of yours?”

  “Are you hard of hearing? Asked and answered.”

  Curious. Standing in the conference room, I heard the pop when Scott fired the blank from the other side of the wall. Beverly should’ve heard it, too. We figure she was camped out in the conference room for at least thirty minutes before discovering her husband’s body. Senator Parsons came out on the landing around seven, and Beverly was long gone by then. Of course, maybe the killing occurred before Beverly reached the conference room. But then Adam Lumpkin would’ve heard the bang from Jackson’s other side. Lumpkin was in his chambers until ten minutes after seven. Something doesn’t add up.

  I say, “Did you leave the conference room at any point before going back to your husband’s chambers?”

  “Stayed there the whole time. Thought about getting another drink but it required too much effort. The conference space has a powder room with a toilet and sink. I did spend some time in there freshening up and whatnot before heading over to Warren’s office.”

  That might explain it. The powder room takes her further from the scene. With the door shut and the water running, she could’ve missed hearing the shot. I nod to Scott to take over his portion of the questioning.

  “Why did you head back over to your husband’s chambers?”

  She makes the face of a person who encounters a horrible smell.

  “What in the Sam Hill are you talking about?”

  “You could’ve stayed and waited for Warren in the conference room. As far as you knew, the Senator was still in there with him.”

  Another puff on the cigarette. She gives the question a good hard think.

  “I was tired of waiting. Why does any of this matter?”

  “Trust that we have our reasons for asking.”

  She takes a drink, her face not revealing trust of any kind.

  “That part of the night is real foggy in my memory—with the shock and all. But best that I can recollect, my ass was falling asleep from all the sitting, and I had enough drinks in me to scream at Warren about it. I marched right over there, stormed through the door madder than hell, and then found him with part of his head blown off.”

  She takes another drink.

  ***

  After we pull away, Scott observes, “I still don’t think she could’ve fired the gun, but that woman is cold and calculating enough to kill. The poetic justice of murdering her husband in his brand-new courtroom with Senator Parsons down the hall would’ve appealed to her.”

  “Glad to see you’re coming around. Jackson gave her plenty of motive. She had the best opportunity of anyone at the party to do it. And we know from Kenny that her purse was big enough to hold the gun.”

  “Another possibility exists.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe Raul did it.”

  33

  Back at the courthouse, we meet again with the harried Clerk of Court, Larry Miller. We follow him to his office on the ground floor, and he slumps down into his office chair, a look of defeat overtaking the entirety of his face. Our last interview with him was a week ago. He appears to have aged a good five years in the interim.

  “Nothing works in this building. We had to postpone last week’s oral argument because of a glitch in the sound system. We’ll try to give it another go on Thursday. You know how much this building cost? I’ll tell you—$150 million. I’m not a construction manager responsible for checking off a punch list. And yet every little problem somehow ends up on my doorstep. I’m close to quitting.”

  I sympathize, “With Warren Jackson dead and in the ground, I thought your life might be a little easier these days.”

  “You would think, wouldn’t
you?”

  The words are decidedly uncharitable, and Miller winces at the harshness of his own voice. Sometimes you learn a great deal when a person drops his mask, even if only for a second.

  “I shouldn’t have said that. May he rest in peace. The Chief Justice was not an easy man to deal with, but at least he gave me direction. The justices who remain among the living cannot agree on anything. Not a single straight answer from the lot of them. Their indecision makes my job impossible.”

  He takes a deep breath.

  “How can I help you?”

  We ask him to tell us again his story about the night of the murder. Miller gives us a look that says, “I don’t have time for this.” But he bites his tongue and relays in large measure the same account he gave us a week ago. When he finishes, Scott adopts an adversarial pose. Coming over, we decided to play it Good Cop, Bad Cop. Scott is the Bad Cop.

  “You seemed to spend a lot of time fiddling with a microphone. How long can that really take?”

  Miller doesn’t like the tone of the question. A crimson red flushes over his face, and he emits a heavy sigh, impatience and exasperation seeping out of him.

  “I ‘fiddled’ with the microphone because it was my job to make sure things went right. The Governor and a United States Senator were in the building. If the Chief Justice goes up to that podium and the microphone doesn’t work, my head is the one in the guillotine. So, yes, I checked the microphone once. I checked it twice. And then I checked it again.”

  “Pity.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “All that work, and the Chief Justice’s murder means we’ll never know if you got it right.”

  The Clerk of Court turns redder. The idea that Miller killed Jackson because he couldn’t get the microphone to work is mildly amusing in a dark comedic kind of way. I don’t really believe Miller is our man, and putting the screws to him in this way is an unfair way to treat someone who is innocent. But we have to push Miller hard on the chance that he’s our guy. As an old homicide detective once taught me, you never know. When people are on the brink of snapping, the slightest upset can trigger a tsunami of rage. “The straw that broke the camel’s back” is a timeless saying for a reason.

  Time to play Good Cop.

  “Don’t mind him, Mr. Miller. You told us again today that you heard Mrs. Jackson’s scream when you were in the back hallway hoping to see if the Chief Justice had left his chambers.”

  “That’s right,” he answers warily.

  “Before that point, did you peek your head out any other times looking for the Chief?”

  “Yeah, I peeked in the back hallway. The landing, too. Just to make sure he hadn’t emerged without me knowing. The second he came out of chambers, I intended to ask when he wanted to get started.”

  “Did you ever see anyone in the back hallway?”

  He leans back in his chair and gazes upward at the ceiling—the universal pose of someone trying to retrieve a memory. We wait him out.

  “I seem to recall seeing Gary once, that’s it.”

  “Gary Winnett?”

  “Yeah.”

  That is new information. And problematic for Gary since he told Scott that he never left his wife’s chambers.

  “What was he doing?”

  “Walking away from me around the corner.”

  “Which corner?”

  “Toward the Chief’s chambers on the hallway right of the courtroom.”

  After the words come out of his mouth, a light bulb goes on in Miller’s head as he apparently recognizes the significance of what he just told us. He goes pale. I press him.

  “What time?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t look at my watch.”

  “But you were looking at your watch. You were worried about the time. That’s why you kept checking out the back hallway. Give me your best guess.”

  “Fifteen to twenty minutes before Beverly Jackson screamed. But that’s a guess. I wouldn’t swear to that in court.”

  Miller wears his discomfort on his sleeve. The possibility of testifying against a justice’s spouse no doubt gives him a powerful bout of indigestion. Is Gary the killer? I’ve never even met him. That’s about to change. He has a motive if nothing else.

  I ask, “What do you know about Aurora Winnett’s relationship with the Chief Justice?”

  “Nothing!”

  He barely allows the question to get out of my mouth. I respond, “Spit it out.”

  “Nope. I don’t deal in salacious gossip, and that’s on purpose. Any time someone tried to raise the topic with me, I cut them off at the pass. The private lives of the justices are none of my concern.”

  ***

  When we leave Miller’s office, I say to Scott, “Gary Winnett. Tomorrow. First thing in the morning.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You interviewed him. What do you think?”

  “Fake tough guy. Talks a big game. Could see him fantasizing about murdering someone. Have a hard time believing he would have the resolve to follow through. But I’ve been wrong before. Are you going to try the wife again?”

  I remember Aurora Winnett’s open hostility toward me during our first meeting. The experience is not one that calls for a sequel at the moment.

  “Not until I have something to confront her with. I go in there empty-handed again, I might not survive the encounter.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Going upstairs.”

  “To see your girlfriend?”

  His words give me pause. Is Cate my girlfriend? Do men my age have girlfriends? Is that a thing? Nothing has been said between us on that score, and I’ve only known her a little over a week. But it would hurt if she went out with another guy, even for a coffee. Pangs like that don’t happen every day.

  “I’m paying Judge Slattery a visit.”

  He snickers and leaves me to it.

  34

  Cate sits at her desk, hard at work. Three computer monitors arrayed like the Great Wall of China block most of her from sight. I knock lightly on the cracked door to get her attention, and her face transitions from stern concentration to a sweet smile when she sees me.

  “Hey you,” she says.

  I approach to give her a kiss and say, “Do you want to grab some dinner?”

  “I can’t tonight.”

  The pang of fear makes my heart skip a beat. Does she have another date?

  Before barely a second passes, she adds, “Emergency motion. I’ll be here late, but I have a few minutes. Sit down, and I’ll take a break.”

  The feeling of relief is real, but my growing attraction to this woman puts me on edge as I make my way to a chair. I have had two romantic relationships in my adult life, and both ended in searing pain—three if you want to throw Ella and the relationship-that-wasn’t into the mix. That I find myself in a position of vulnerability once more is unsettling, the possibility that I’m Charlie Brown trying to kick the football again too real.

  Cate asks, “What have you been doing all day?”

  “Interviewing murder suspects. Will be doing the same thing tomorrow.”

  “Do you ever get scared?”

  “Like how?”

  “Chances are you’ve already talked to the murderer, right?”

  I start to agree but then remember Gary Winnett. I hedge my bets and concede, “Maybe.”

  “What’s to stop that person from killing you? Someone crazy enough to murder Warren Jackson with so many people around could easily murder you, too.”

  “Are you worried about me?”

  “A little.”

  Her concern touches me, and her manner suggests that she means it. I try to reassure her.

  “I’ll be fine. Killing me accomplishes nothing.”

  She appears unconvinced. I decide to change the subject.

  “I told you about my best friend, Scott. He just asked me if you were my girlfriend.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

&nbs
p; “I deflected.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t know how to answer.”

  Cate tilts her head sideways and studies me with an air of curiosity. The fear of rejection rises in me, and I pray that I’m not playing the fool. Worse things exist than reading a situation wrong with a woman. But not many.

  “Do you want me to be your girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know how it works for people our age who have been married before.”

  “Me, either.”

  The moment breathes a bit as each of us considers the situation, unsure of what’s going on in the mind of the other. One of us is going to speak first, and her look conveys the message that she expects it to be me. I search for the right words.

  “I mean, you’ve been through a lot and are just wading back into the dating pool. I doubt you want to rush anything. It’s just, if you want to date other people, that’s fine. I understand that may be where you are. I would like to know beforehand, I guess. So I’m not surprised.”

  “Do you want me to be your girlfriend?”

  She’s outlawyering me, that’s for sure. As I stumble around for the right words, she repeats the same question to get a better answer the second time around—a technique I’ve deployed dozens of times without mercy against witnesses who tried to avoid answering me. And like so many witnesses that I tamed over the years, I cave to the technique. I answer the question. Sort of.

  “Maybe.”

  I curse myself. Middle school all over again. A note passed. Will you go with me? Check the appropriate box. Yes. No. Maybe.

  Maybe—ugh. Nobody ever answers maybe.

  Cate takes it in stride. Her half-smile is confident and full of character. She holds my gaze with an easy steadiness and delivers the final word.

  “When you figure it out, let me know. In the meantime, come over here and give me a long kiss good-bye. I really do have to work on this motion.”

  ***

  On the way down, I bump into Kenny waiting at the elevators. I’m still too consumed with thoughts of my love life to pay him much attention at the moment. But he strikes up a conversation.