Although my reconstruction of the conversation no doubt is inaccurate in perhaps all aspects, the gist of it hits the nail on the head. Jerry Dalton targeted me for assassination. Why? I try to trace the logic.
The Governor’s decision to launch a separate, independent inquiry was unilateral and out of the blue. With the GBI in charge, the Daltons would have had all access points into their dealings with Warren Jackson blocked. Minton changed that by giving me the keys to the investigation. The Daltons want those keys back. And with me out of the way, Hank Dalton could spread seed money all around the state to get a chorus of politicians singing the same tune that the case should be returned to the GBI.
Scott meanders over.
I say, “You know the conversation between the Daltons about the car bomb?”
“Yeah?”
“No mention of Cate. Just me. She wasn’t the target. I was. They’re trying to shut down our investigation.”
“I’m starting to come around to your point of view. For both of our sakes, I hope she is as innocent as the purest lamb and that the two of you get married with a flock of little lambs nipping at your heels. But she’s not in the clear yet, and I hope you approach things in that frame of mind.”
“Married? First you peg her as a murderer, now you’ve got us married. Make up your mind.”
“I said what I said. I told you—it isn’t personal with Cate. But when you fall for a woman, you fall hard and quick. Amber was love at first sight, remember? How many times have you told me that over the years? And you’ve gotten extremely cozy with Cate in a short amount of time. I won’t even get into the last woman, but you know I’m right about her, too. You’re all steel on the outside, hard to penetrate. But once a woman gets in there, she’s in. That was the problem with you and Ella, by the way. You never fell for her, more of a slow, never-boiling simmer kind of thing. You’re the type that needs to be whacked over the head with a baseball bat. And Cate has you whacked good. That’s why I’m worried.”
His words give me pause for reflection. But an excited Marlon rushes over with a gleam in his eye. He holds up the cell phone recovered from Gene.
“Do you know what this is?”
Scott and I stand there mute, both keeping any guesses to ourselves.
“It’s AC’s phone. Remember the texts recovered from Warren Jackson’s cell? They were to this phone.”
Sure enough, he shows us the same texts as before, the first of which is a little over a year ago. The back-and-forth messages tell the story of a growing affair until AC put a stop to it. Jackson wanted the relationship to continue and invited AC to his lake house last spring. AC agreed. Then all communications stop until a few weeks ago with AC’s one recent message: “I miss you.” Jackson never responded, at least via text. The only messages and calls on the phone are between AC and Jackson.
No proof of ownership is apparent from the device. The only indication of the identity of the person texting with Jackson is the name he inputted into his contacts: “AC.” We don’t even know AC’s gender for that matter. Since Jackson was most likely bisexual, the field of possible AC candidates is considerable.
Scott asks, “We don’t think Gene is AC, do we? And that the phone is some kind of burner to keep the affair hush-hush?”
That would be an unexpected plot twist. And while I don’t know what to believe about the world anymore, I ain’t buying Gene Davis as Warren Jackson’s lover.
I answer, “I think the conversation where he tried to bribe Jackson would’ve gone down differently if they were former lovers.”
Marlon adds, “Agreed. Gene said on that recording, ‘We know some things about you, Chief. Embarrassing things.’ That doesn’t sound like, ‘I’m going to go public with our affair if you don’t do what I want.’ Besides, who cares if Gene and the Chief had a fling? Same thing with the Chief and Aurora Winnett—who cares? That’s all bark and no bite. Barely a scandal at all and hardly something worthy of blackmail. Senator Parsons on the other hand—that would get national attention and set social media abuzz, maybe even derail Parsons from becoming president. That threat has some teeth. The tabloids would harass Jackson to death if nothing else.”
Scott theorizes, “The Daltons and Gene threaten Jackson about Senator Clement Parsons. Jackson meets with the Senator shortly thereafter. Next thing anyone knows, Jackson is dead.”
My head hurts. I announce that we should all get some sleep. Marlon pulls out a cot bed from a closet in the squad room. A closer inspection of the closet reveals extra sets of clothes and toiletries. In response to our bewilderment, he explains, “I haven’t had this much fun in years. Was damn tired chasing truants around the county. I want to stay close should something break. I’m not going to sleep much anyway.”
I answer, “You’re a cop’s cop, Marlon, one of the best.”
Scott procures an unmarked car for me from the nearby police yard, and I embark on the drive home, turning on the blue lights so I can speed in peace. Driving fast allows my mind to take a break from thinking about Cate, the Corvette, or the case. The road commands my attention, and I give it the respect it deserves.
Eliza runs free in the backyard after I arrive, and I give her a mighty hug, sad at the thought of what would become of her should something happen to me. But now that I am home alone and out of fresh distractions, the onslaught of the night’s events punishes me with wicked abandonment.
I unfurl a blood-curdling scream up to the stars in frustration with God, the universe, and everything in between. No one hears me but a startled Eliza.
48
Eliza licks my face, and I pop up in bed, the bright morning sun shining through my window. The clock informs me that the time is past nine and that counts as decadent around these parts. I plop back down but Eliza continues her assault, and I give up the fight. Putting my feet on the floor summons a feeling of medieval torture. Every part of me vibrates with a dull ache that resists all movement. I grab my phone and head to the back porch.
I fall into a chair and let the sunshine do its work. I’ve read of some people who spend the first twenty minutes of their day naked under the sun’s rays to train their body’s circadian rhythm that it is morning and time to wake up. I have the privacy to attempt that trick but lack the nerve. Anyway, all those people live in Los Angeles, I think. Unless you are a sadist, the air is much too cold for that now. The sunlight hitting only my face will have to suffice.
I put off checking my texts for a good long while—fearful of the texts I might receive and the ones I might not. At last, the sense of responsibility that I’m actually in charge of this thing prods me to check my phone to learn the latest news.
From Sophie—the bomb squad remains at the scene, working to de-arm the bomb, which is an improvised explosive device, the type deployed in Iraq and Afghanistan. Everyone is being extra careful. The media is on the scene and asking tons of questions. From J.D.—the body of Gene Davis is now awaiting an autopsy from Cecil at the Fulton County Morgue. Evidence techs are picking apart Gene’s car in a police garage. From Marlon—the FBI is wiring every inch of Liberty Plaza and setting up surveillance cameras from the Capitol building next door. From Scott—our shooting range appointment is set for the afternoon. From Cate—nothing.
And who could blame her? I dumped her in a strange place and left her there. The parting image of last night is painful—Cate curled up on the bed while I literally ran away. I’ve never considered myself a callous or cruel man, but the charge is a hard one to refute in the light of day. I text with Minton and make lunch plans at the Governor’s Mansion to apologize in the flesh. But first I must follow up on other business.
***
The prospect of talking to Aurora Winnett again exhausts me, but the trip cannot be avoided. “Aurora Cox” as “AC” makes too much sense given the past relationship between Jackson and Winnett. I have to try.
When I step into her chambers, the same assistant as before assesses me with startled eyes. T
he guess is that she didn’t expect to see me again. Or maybe she heard that someone tried to blow me up. I smile at her, but she isn’t in the mood. After a brief conference with the justice, the assistant gestures to the door, and I enter.
Winnett says, “I didn’t put a bomb under your car if that’s what you’re here to ask.”
I chuckle and note in my mind that she’s now talking to me at least. It’s a start. I answer, “Thank you for putting your denial on the record, but I have a pretty good idea who did that, and it’s not you.”
Her eyebrows rise in interest, but she goes no further. I use the same smile I tried on the assistant with similar results. Much like last time, she makes a point of not inviting me to sit down.
In a tone that is at least non-hostile, she asks, “Why are you here then?”
“To ask you a question related to Warren Jackson’s murder.”
Winnett shakes her head and replies, “You really think I’m going to talk to you after you searched my house? My position has not changed. Anyone who talks to the police is a fool, and I’m no fool. Don’t take it personally. It’s standard policy.”
I didn’t expect anything different. More criminals should probably take her advice—just like her husband Gary should’ve listened to her. I decide to attack her from that angle.
“Gary must have a different policy. I talked to him the other day, and he couldn’t shut up. By the end, though, I got the feeling that he was coming around to your point of view. And the search warrant was for him, not you. He admitted to owning the same type of gun as the murder weapon.”
Her eyes narrow, shooting darts of suspicion at me. She knows the game—that I am throwing out crumbs of information to get her talking. But part of me senses that she wants to play. She dips her toe in the water.
“Nothing of what you just said shocks me in the slightest.”
“Do you know something that I don’t?”
She shoots me a “get real” look, and the conversation stalls. Her vacant eyes move toward the window and stare out at nothing. I give her time to ruminate on her husband’s gun but not too much. Best to keep her unsettled.
“Gary also told me that the two of you are getting a divorce. I’m sorry.”
“Well, your cop friend didn’t help when he questioned him the first time and falsely accused me of chasing after Warren again. That—”
She stops on a dime and shakes her head at herself with a little half-smile for volunteering even that.
“You need to leave now.”
“Did Gary ever hit you?”
Effective law enforcement requires a willingness to unleash daggers of cruelty to people who deserve better. I’m pretty sure that Aurora Winnett didn’t kill Warren Jackson, but maybe her husband did. That possibility forces me to delve into Gary’s dark places and root around for clues. The question has to be asked. The anguish now visible on Aurora Winnett’s face—itself an answer to the question—is one of the unfortunate costs of doing a good job. But I don’t have to feel good about it.
She asks, “Why would you say such a thing to me?”
“From talking to him. I’ve dealt with abusive men a lot over the years. He strikes me as the type.”
You try enough murder cases, you become an expert in domestic violence. Most murders occur on the home front, and violence is a hard drug to shake once an abuser gets the taste for it.
Winnett says, “But why are you asking me about it?”
“It may be germane to my investigation.”
The significance of my words stirs in her eyes—first the gun, now this. My meaning isn’t exactly subtle. She again shifts her glance toward the window and the city skyline. The moment is intensely personal for her, and I feel like an intruder for being a witness to it. If Gary is to be believed—and on this point I think he is—Aurora Winnett had deep feelings for Warren Jackson. The possibility that Gary killed him must be tormenting her.
I offer, “I know you don’t trust me, and frankly, you shouldn’t. But I am sorry. No woman should ever have to experience that.”
She accepts the comment with resigned silence. No protestations to the contrary, no denials, no equivocations. I wonder if she has ever told anyone about the abuse. Doubtful. Aurora’s public persona projects strength. Gary is the weak one in the eyes of the world. I remember him sulking behind her confident stride at Warren Jackson’s funeral. That the reality is far uglier inside the marital home is something best kept locked away. Except now a man she views as the enemy shares her deepest secret. Even raising the abuse topic is likely taken as a gross violation, a theft of knowledge that didn’t belong to me. And she wouldn’t be wrong. Winnett studies me with those suspicious eyes, a question on her lips.
“Are you playing Good Cop now?”
“No, I’m being human.”
The decent thing to do would be to leave, but I still need an answer to one of the central questions of the investigation. I take AC’s phone out of my pocket and hold it up in the air to give Winnett a look. She assesses the device with little interest before asking me about it.
“What is that?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. Is it yours?”
Her suspicion rekindles. She ignores the phone and focuses her attention on me. We stand off against each other for what seems like a long time but probably isn’t. Finally, she takes a deep breath and breaks policy by answering the question.
“I’ve never seen that phone before in my life.”
She could be playing me, but the odds aren’t likely. I thank her and add one last bit of advice.
“I know it’s not my place to say so, but I don’t care. If Gary attacks you in the future, call the police. Someone like him is liable to abuse again.”
“I’ve never called the cops on anyone my entire life. I’ve seen too much harm caused by the police, spent too much time with innocent people on death row.”
“You deserve to allow yourself this one exception.”
She hears my words, but I wonder whether they’ll stick. The old saying goes that a conservative is a liberal that has been mugged by reality. The proposition is doubtful, but I pray that Winnett doesn’t hold her personal safety hostage to her beliefs. Some men belong in a jail cell, and her husband is one of them.
I take my leave. When I reach the door, she asks me a final question.
“Did Gary kill Warren?”
I pause and answer, “We’re looking at him with great interest.”
Her face delivers the last word. Aurora Winnett isn’t surprised.
49
The forecast for the weekend calls for possible snow. For Cate and me, the storm came early. I pull up to the Governor’s Mansion, fearful of the reception awaiting me on the other side of those double doors. I check my phone for updates to delay the reckoning.
From Sophie—the bomb has been disarmed, and the techs are trying to get prints. She adds that the wiring in modern cars would’ve made detection of the bomb impossible. The Corvette saved my life. From J.D.—Cecil recovered a slug from Gene’s brain that is now on its way for ballistics testing. From Marlon—everything is in place on the FBI side for the meeting between Tommy and Jerry Dalton. From Scott—the gun recovered from Gary Winnett’s bedroom doesn’t match the weapon used to kill Warren Jackson. He also wants to know why I’m having lunch at the Mansion instead of gathering with the team for the Dalton meet.
Good question.
The best I can figure is that my presence here might do some good, but I can’t change how the meeting between the Daltons goes down one way or the other.
Minton sits behind a desk in the study. I make the mistake of asking him how he’s doing. The blowback is immediate.
“I feel like a rabbit trapped in a snare. I can’t move, and I feel antsy as hell. Why do you get to run around town with no bodyguard while I have to sit here twiddling my thumbs under armed guard? You’re the one they tried to blow up.”
“Because you’re the Governor, an
d I’m not.”
“Hogwash.”
I let him blow off his steam. He’s staying put and that’s all that matters in the moment.
He asks, “Any news?”
“No big breaks, but with the FBI’s help, we have set up a snare of our own for Tommy and Jerry, so here’s hoping. I’ll let you know if works. How’s Cate?”
“Delightful. She’s in her bedroom, I think. Go up to see her and bring her down for lunch.”
He studies me in a funny way. The expression he wears is indecipherable—some mystic calculation working its way through his mind. The effect is so unsettling that I’m forced to ask about it.
“What?”
“I’m trying to figure out how much you care for that girl.”
“Yeah, and what do you figure?”
“I figure a bunch.”
***
Her door is open, but I give it a light knock anyway so as not to be rude. She turns around from a writing desk that holds her laptop and gives a half-smile, half-frown upon seeing me. I remain standing in the doorframe, afraid to take anything for granted. After enough time to make me uneasy, Cate tells me I can come in.
She sees the revolver at my hip and asks, “You wearing a gun now?”
“Something like that.”
I slow walk my way toward the desk and give her a hug. She remains sitting, and the exchange devolves into a strange awkwardness given the position of our bodies. The vibe in the room is not encouraging. I drop to my knees to speak to her at eye level.
“How are you holding up? You’ve been on my mind every minute since I left here.”
“Really? Because you weren’t concerned enough last night to stay when I needed you.”
The words are flat but still almost knock me over backwards. A deep pessimism takes hold as I try to explain myself.
“That’s fair. But I couldn’t sit back and allow someone to almost kill a woman I care so deeply about. I have too much experience on that score.”
“Sure. You did what you had to do, whatever. Except don’t expect me to feel grateful for being abandoned. I’m the one that has too much experience on that score. Look, we barely know each other. I guess it was only a matter of time before I saw your baggage firsthand. And God knows you’re entitled to be messed up and all bloodthirsty for revenge. But what you did last night was totally selfish, and I just don’t want—”
Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2) Page 22
