Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2)

by Lance McMillian

  Like a seasoned fisherman, Cate casts the comment out into the water to see what she might catch. I study the bait, debating on whether I should bite. I choose to nibble.

  “What do you think?”

  She chews on that for a while, and I give her the time. At last, she says, “I wish we could go back to how things were before we left the restaurant last night.”

  I could dwell on the ambiguity of the words for the rest of my life but decide to cut to the chase.

  “What does that mean? That we should start over fresh and forget everything that has happened since then? Or that we’ve lost forever how things were at that moment?”

  The wind picks up, and I press my ear against the phone to hear the answer over the din of the noise around me.

  “I haven’t got that far in my feelings yet, but we should probably take a break for a while to let things settle. I do want to apologize for being rough with you earlier.”

  “And I’m sorry for rushing out last night. I felt guilty before I even got out of the Mansion.”

  “Sure.”

  The taint of her disappointment in me lingers like a dead carcass. At least she’s letting me down easy. We say a few more words, and then I return to the solitude of my walk. Exactly a week ago, Scott and I winnowed the suspect list to nine names. Having finished my analysis of Gary Winnett, I’ve now gone through all of them.

  And that leaves Cate—a late addition to the list. I include her as a suspect to prove to myself that I am not biased. Maybe Gene whispered sweet nothings into her ear about replacing Jackson on the Supreme Court should something happen to the Chief. Or maybe Gene was more blunt and told her that she was just one murder away from being on the Court. All she had to do was pull the trigger. Or maybe Cate is “AC,” and Gene found out. He first tries to blackmail Jackson, but the Chief won’t bite. Next Gene pressures Cate, and she does bite—a solution that wraps up the blackmail, the murder, and the furtive AC into one nice package. And don’t forget about the logistical problem of getting rid of the gun, I remind myself. The mystery of the gun has been a brick wall since the inception of the investigation. But Cate was out of the building before anyone realized that Jackson was dead. Even if Jerry Dalton had locked down the courthouse after the murder as he should have, the gun would’ve been long gone by then.

  Except Cate couldn’t have killed Gene. She has a rock-solid alibi. Me.

  Am I reading the whole case wrong? Is it a two-person job? Did Cate have a partner in crime somewhere in the shadows? I’m running out of plausible scenarios. The old Sherlock Holmes truism echoes in my ear: “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

  I turn around to begin the long journey back, frustrated at the failure to land on that one, big breakthrough. I’m left with three solid suspects—Adam Lumpkin, Larry Miller, and Gary Winnett, none of whom appears tied to the Dalton business in any way, shape, or form. Improbable, but not impossible. Cate remains a person of interest in more ways than one, but she’s safe from further accusation until I figure how she could’ve killed Gene Davis while sitting across the table from me.

  My walk went further afield than I’d intended. With time to spare and still stuck with too many suspects on my hands, I reshuffle the mental decks and start from the beginning of the investigation when Scott and I arrived at Beverly Jackson’s door. I remember the interview and Beverly’s demeanor as the happiest fresh widow I’ve ever encountered. As I replay her description of her movements the night of the murder, one insignificant detail of the story jabs at me—the same nagging feeling I got from the Senator’s story. Unsure why, I put the thought away for safekeeping.

  After leaving Beverly, Scott and I traveled to the courthouse to search Warren Jackson’s chambers. We unlocked the door and walked through the yellow crime tape. A minute later, I then went back out into the hall to listen for Scott’s scream. A point of focus begins to emerge—a common link connecting Beverly, the Senator, and those initial moments of the investigation.

  The rest of that first day plays out in my head. The pace of my pulse keeps in steady rhythm with my quickening steps. And then I halt right in the middle of the path. A lone biker coming from behind has to dodge me, and I scamper to the side to process this new memory. I say out loud to myself, “What the hell?”

  A piece of information that barely registered at the time—and something I have not thought about since—now occupies center stage. The implications shoot out in a hundred different directions, and I struggle with just grabbing one escaping thought for a closer look. My mental acuity isn’t the only casualty. The legs propping up my body feel weak as I experience a flash of unsteadying vertigo. Could it be? The possibility is a hard one to wrap my brain around. But pulling this one thread expands the case wide open and makes the disparate pieces fit.

  Two problems with the solution persist—lack of proof and eyewitness testimony to the contrary.

  No matter. Like a pointer dog latched on to the targeted scent, my mind can now think of nothing else. I call Scott and say, “Let’s invite Kenny to the gun range with us.”

  52

  The shooting range is crowded, but then again, it’s always crowded. Cops love to shoot their guns. Scott brings me down here about once a year—a night out for the guys kind of thing. These times are always a therapeutic outlet for relieving stress. Something about unleashing a deadly volley of kill shots into a target taps into a man’s most primal desires. When Amber and Cale were alive, I would play violent video games late at night for mindless relaxation. But I gave my Xbox to my niece and nephew after the murders. Playing video games after someone killed my child struck me as an obscene frivolity. Shooting real guns, though, is a different matter.

  Kenny arrives. Staring at me with wide eyes, he says, “I heard somebody tried to kill you and Judge Slattery last night with a car bomb.”

  “Tried but failed.”

  “What’s this world coming to?”

  To that, I have no answer. The world these days doesn’t feel as though it belongs to me. I’m out of step with the time.

  The three of us decide to shoot first and talk later. I grab my ear protectors and make my way to the designated lane. To the side, Scott and Kenny compare Glocks. Good for them. As for me, I’ve always preferred the feel of a revolver—as handguns go, that is. The truth is that nothing beats a shotgun at close range. But I can’t complain about the sturdy Smith & Wesson in my hand. A traditional choice, to be sure. Scott hates revolvers because they are too difficult to reload in a firefight. A pistol magazine carriage, on the other hand, can be replaced easily even under the most stressful of circumstances. If I’m ever in a firefight, I will just have to make do with my six shots and hope for the best.

  Taking my place at the line, I pretend the paper target ahead is Jerry Dalton. I figure he has earned that much, at least. As the revolver empties, the high of the shooting rush pulsates through me. The psychological hit must be how an addict feels at the moment of a drug’s impact. I pull the slide in to inspect my work. Not bad. Every shot landed, even if the bullet holes aren’t bunched together like on television. The savage beast in me starts to feel sated.

  After a few more rounds, I watch the other two. Kenny and I are good enough shots from ten yards, but Scott is an expert marksman. Even with his target set at twenty-five yards, he drills his pretend assailant wherever he aims. To show off, he switches hands during a magazine change and achieves similar results. A stunned Kenny looks at me, and I shrug my shoulders. I’ve seen this movie before.

  Time to get down to business. I guide Kenny from the firing range into an adjacent small office and thank him for coming over on short notice. He responds, “No problem. Thanks for inviting me. That was fun. How can I help you?”

  “We’ve talked before about who all you saw on the landing the night of the murder. But now I want to ask you specifically about a few people and see if you remember seeing them at all. C
an you do that for me?”

  “You bet.”

  “Gary Winnett.”

  He strokes his chin and reflects for a minute on the question. At last, he offers, “You know, I didn’t remember at first, but I now seem to recall him coming out at some point, later on in the evening, if I’m recollecting right. Don’t know that I could swear to that, though.”

  “Maybe going to the men’s room near the door where you were camped out?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “That’s helpful. What about Adam Lumpkin?”

  Kenny considers the question for a few seconds but is much quicker with his answer this time around.

  “Maybe. There were a lot of people there, you know. Hard to remember every single one. I can’t say I have a specific memory of him, maybe a vague image in my mind or something. But I stopped paying attention when I wandered over to the railing and even before that. Justice Lumpkin could’ve come out without me noticing. I checked out for the most part. That’s why I felt so guilty afterwards. I let my guard down.”

  He hangs his head in a droopy dog sort of way. I remember Beverly’s description of how she mocked him that night when he took her home: “You had one job, Kenny!” That line of attack, at least, misses the mark. Kenny’s not a Secret Service agent with specialized training on how to stop deadly assassins. But I can imagine how Beverly’s words must have played on Kenny at the time. And that brings me to the last person on my list.

  “And Cate Slattery?”

  “Judge Slattery? Why would I have seen her?”

  A bubble of suspicion percolates on his face, no doubt fueled in part by his knowledge that Cate and I were on a date last night. But then he shakes his head in an emphatic gesture, adding, “Definitely didn’t see her. The justices were the only judges there. I would’ve remembered seeing her, too. She always goes out of her way to be nice to me. You don’t have to worry about her. She’s good people.”

  The unexpected praise for Cate cuts me. But she would inspire that kind of casual loyalty from someone like Kenny. Her easy friendliness makes people comfortable. Of course, Kenny also told me that Warren Jackson was good people, so maybe that particular compliment from his lips shouldn’t carry that much weight. Even still, the thought of losing her makes me a little sick.

  I inform Kenny that I am out of questions. He gives me a nod and a toothy grin. Scott joins us, and we exit onto the street together. The cold wind chaps my face, but the contrasting canopy of the retreating sun against the darkening sky paints a picture well worth the irritation.

  Being a lawyer made me temporarily forget my love of the outdoors. Nature reminds us of how small we really are. Having a leading role in the courtroom for so many years afforded me the conceit to pretend that I was some kind of big man—important, respected, better than others. But the reality is different. I am a mist, a vapor, an insignificant dot in the long trajectory of time. Many nights I just sit on the back porch with Eliza and listen to the vastness of life that dwarfs me—the owls singing, the trees rustling, the stray howl of a coyote. On my hikes around the property, I spy the rabbits rushing into the brush, the deer scat from a roving herd, even an occasional fox. That’s just the surface, though. Much more remains unheard and unseen. Life is everywhere and propels itself forward with single-minded relentlessness.

  The melancholy hits me deep in the moment. I’m ready for the investigation to be over. I want to go home.

  53

  The upshot of having a great team is that I can trust them to do their jobs with little oversight from me—just wind them up and off they go. Their afternoon was a busy one. While I walked around on the Beltline, everyone else was drawing up arrest warrants, coordinating with the FBI, and planning the logistics of arresting Tommy Dalton.

  Scott is attending to a pressing errand of his own, and I drive myself back to the squad room after the gun range. When I arrive, Marlon gives me the latest.

  “Federal and state arrest warrants are signed. The feds should be bringing in Jerry Dalton sometime over the next hour. Tommy Dalton is still in his office. Sophie and J.D. are set to arrest him in the next few minutes. Scott arranged for them to have uniformed backup. They’re just waiting for the media before going live.”

  “A made-for-television perp walk? Whose idea was that?”

  “All of us. They tried to blow you up, Chance. It’s the least that we could do.”

  That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.

  Barbara adds, “After she signed the arrest warrant, Judge Woodcomb ordered me to tell you to keep being careful.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  I excuse myself to give Minton a head’s up about the impending arrests of the Dalton brothers. His response is muted, sad even. He asks for the details, and I lay out enough but not too much. The press is going to want to question him to death, and he should be spared the bother. His tiredness can be felt over the phone.

  “Which one of them killed Warren Jackson? Jerry, I guess.”

  “Neither probably. We hope to wrap that one up tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean neither of them? What in damnation is going on? Did they kill Gene?”

  “Minton, all you need to know right this second is that they are being arrested for trying to blow Cate and me into the next county.”

  He grumbles about my keeping him in the dark but doesn’t fight for more details. He does, though, have one further gripe.

  “Can I leave my house now?”

  “Not until the FBI has Jerry Dalton in custody. All of y’all should just sit tight. One more night.”

  He bitches some more about the unfairness of it all, but I tune him out. He then switches topics.

  “How long until Tommy is out as Attorney General? I want to get you in there as soon as possible.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Stop being a martyr. I want you to replace me. Tommy’s now out, and no one likes the Lieutenant Governor. The field is wide open. You have the name recognition, even more so after this thing goes down. You know how many people in this state want to be governor? You’re going to get the job handed to you. And after that, who knows? The stars have all aligned. It’s fate, Chance.”

  Nice story. But fate never works out well for me.

  ***

  After we hang up, the seduction of Minton’s offer starts to tempt me. My historical disinterest in politics is genuine. People have been trying to push me into that world my whole life without success. Retail politics is hard work, and making a career out of it—starting at the bottom and climbing the electoral ladder step by treacherous step—requires a fire in the belly that I’ve always lacked.

  But I wouldn’t have to start at the bottom. The Governor’s assessment of the political situation in the state is spot on. Minton also probably calculated that a murdered wife and child on my resume would yield me a few sympathy votes, too. The thought is vulgar but astute. Standing there in the squad room, I consider with clear eyes the reality that I could be the next governor. All I have to do is say “yes” to the opportunity being handed me on a golden platter.

  The realization is sobering. I’m still a young man. Do I really want to spend the next forty years working on cars in my backyard? The matter of legacy also rings in my ears. Part of me wants to be governor to make Daddy proud, to finish the race that he didn’t, to remind people that once there lived someone named Jack Meridian—and this here is his son. A darker part of me wants to be governor to rub it in his face, to highlight his failings and to prove that I’m the better man—a vile sort of vanity worthy of its own bonfire.

  All these thoughts collide in rapid succession on the spot, leaving me a bit uncertain in the heart. I try to push all of it away and focus on the now. First things first. I need to close the Warren Jackson case.

  Excitement from Marlon and Barbara speeds across the room, and they motion me over to a television. Local news is live outside the Attorney General’s office, and t
he arrest of Tommy Dalton is happening in real time before our eyes. Sophie and J.D. lead a shell-shocked Tommy—handcuffed with his hands behind his back—through the media throng. J.D. wears an appropriately stern expression that you would only notice teeters on the brink of exultation if you knew him.

  Marlon warns, “If J.D. breaks a smile, I swear to God I’m gonna crack his skull.”

  I answer, “Give the kid credit. He’s holding it together quite nicely. His parents live in Dunwoody. I bet he told them to watch.”

  Within seconds, Tommy is pushed into the back seat of the car for the short drive around the block to Atlanta Police Department headquarters. Scott texted a few minutes ago that he is now heading over to the police station to supervise the formal booking of Tommy Dalton for conspiracy to commit attempted murder.

  Taylor walks in carrying an armload of pizzas. She asks, “Did I miss anything?” I don’t have the heart to tell her and leave it to the others.

  The mood is celebratory when the other three return from the police station later that evening. Sophie and J.D. have the bearing of conquering heroes, and the team watches the video of the arrest multiple times with color commentary from all corners. Marlon even cracks open some champagne he had hiding somewhere in his home away from home. Barbara begs off the booze because she has to be in court in the morning to handle Tommy’s bail hearing. The others freely indulge.

  I’m less sanguine. The only reason we got the Daltons is that they tried to kill me, and I have a hard time forgetting that little detail.

  With everyone else enjoying their well-earned celebration, I call Trevor Newman to see how the FBI did with Jerry Dalton.

  “Haven’t found him yet. We think he skipped the country. A Dalton company plane took off from Peachtree-Dekalb Airport this afternoon for Cuba. That’s allowed these days, and Cuba doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States. Timing strikes me as mighty convenient. With the Dalton money at his back, he’s gone. Won’t ever risk arrest by setting foot in this country again. I think we missed our shot. Sorry.”