by Stuart Woods
CHAPTER
19
H olly slept alone, though Jackson Oxenhandler had made it clear he would have preferred it otherwise, and she wasn’t so sure that she wouldn’t have preferred it, too. It had been a long time, she reflected. As soon as word had gotten out on the base about her intention to charge Colonel James Bruno, half the men on the base had stopped speaking to her, except when absolutely necessary, and those she found attractive among the other half had stopped asking her out.
She had just woken up when the phone rang. “Hello?”
“It’s Dr. Green. I’m sorry to call you so early, but I thought you’d want to know right away.”
“Know what?”
“The supervisor in intensive care called me a minute ago. Chester Marley is back in a coma.”
“But I thought he was doing so well.”
“So did I, but they were unable to wake him this morning. I can’t offer you any sort of prognosis; we’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”
“Thank you for letting me know, Doctor,” she said, then hung up. This was depressing news. Even if Chet had been unable to remember the shooting, he could have filled her in on his earlier suspicions. The phone rang again. “Hello?”
“It’s Jackson. Did you sleep well?”
“Like a stone.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
She laughed. “Bad news,” she said. “The doctor just called, and Chet is back in a coma.”
“I hear that happens sometimes.”
“It’s depressing.”
“I can see how it might be. Dinner tonight?”
“Can I call you later? I don’t know what the day holds.”
“Sure.” He gave her his office and home numbers.
“Talk to you later.” She hung up and started her day.
She was in the office by eight-thirty, and at nine Charlie Peterson, of the City Council, knocked on her door. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” she said, remembering that she had been supposed to call him. “I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you, but it’s been extremely busy around here.”
“Yeah, I heard. We’ve got a council meeting at ten; I think you should come up and meet everybody.”
“Sure, I’ll be glad to.”
“It’s room 404.”
“See you at ten.” She walked next door to Jane Grey’s office. “Jane, will you make a copy of my contract, please? I think the city council might like to see it.”
“I expect they already have,” she said. “The council chairman, John Westover, asked for a copy yesterday. I couldn’t think of any reason not to give it to him.”
“You did the right thing,” Holly said. She sat down. “Tell me about this Westover.”
“He’s a power, locally—owns a car dealership, a printing company, a fast-food franchise and a funeral home, among other things.”
“What’s he like?”
“Professionally jovial,” Jane said. “He’s a car salesman at heart, I think. Wants everybody to like him. Takes the council seriously, though. He’s said to have a real good grasp of the city’s finances, and he manages them well. The city is well run, and property taxes are under control, so he keeps getting elected.”
“Who’s the mayor?”
“John is, for all practical purposes. There’s no mayor, just a city manager, Ted Michaels, and he jumps when John Westover hollers.”
“What about the rest of the council?”
“There’s only five, and they’re elected at large, not from districts. Charlie Peterson is the only one with any gumption. The others vote yes when John Westover clears his throat.”
“I think I get the picture,” Holly said. She went back to her office.
At ten o’clock, she went up to the city council chambers and was asked by a receptionist to take a seat in a waiting room. She leafed through a magazine for a few minutes, then the door to the chambers opened and a large, pink-faced man with a crew cut smiled at her and shook her hand.
“I’m John Westover,” he said. “Sorry to keep you waiting. We had some business to get out of the way. Come on in.”
Everybody stood up.
“I guess you already know Charlie Peterson. The others are, left to right, Frank Hessian, Howard Goldman, and Irma Taggert.”
Holly shook all their hands and took an offered seat at their conference table.
“First, let me welcome you to Orchid Beach,” Westover said.
“Thank you,” Holly replied.
“We’re a little in the dark about your hiring, so I wonder if you’d just tell us how it came about?”
“I’d be glad to,” Holly said. She explained her military background briefly. “Chief Marley and my father, Hamilton Barker, are old friends from the army. The chief came up to see us and offered me the deputy chief’s job.”
“What did he know about your background?” Westover asked.
“Everything there was to know,” Holly replied. “The chief is a careful man; he did his homework.”
“I’m sure he did. Now, I’ve read your contract, and I’d like to know how much negotiation was involved.”
“There was none,” Holly said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Chief Marley made me an offer and I accepted it. He sent me a contract, I read it and signed it without any changes.”
“You’re a very trusting person, Miss Barker,” the woman councillor, Irma Taggert, said.
“It was a good offer and a well-drawn contract,” Holly replied. “From what I’ve learned about Chief Marley’s work habits, it was typical of the way he does things.”
“God knows, the chief does things his own way,” Frank Goldman said.
“I think the organization and training of his department speak for themselves,” Holly said.
“Perhaps you could tell us something about your background in the military and law enforcement.”
“I’d be glad to. I joined the army out of high school and after basic training was assigned to the military police. I earned a degree in criminology from the University of Maryland, was accepted into Officer Candidate School, commissioned and assigned as a platoon leader in an MP company. Over the years I was promoted regularly and rose to the rank of major, in command of an MP company with a complement of a hundred or so men and women, a job that I held at retirement.”
“Did you have any civilian law-enforcement training?”
“I attended four courses at the FBI Academy at Quantico Marine Base, where I trained in criminal investigation and law-enforcement management. The other, nonmilitary trainees were officers and chiefs of police from cities all over the country.”
“I see. And why did you choose to retire from the military?”
Holly took a deep breath: best to be frank about it. “I and another female officer charged the provost marshal on our base with sexual harassment and attempted rape. Although we both testified against him, a court-martial failed to convict him. I believed that his acquittal might damage my chances for promotion, and it was at that time—on the same day, actually—that I met Chet Marley, and he offered me the job in Orchid Beach. It seemed a fine opportunity, and I took it.”
“Holly,” John Westbrook said, “may I call you Holly?”
“Of course. I’d like it if you all would.”
“Holly, we’ve had some discussion this morning, and I believe it’s fair to say that it was the sense of our meeting that we appoint an acting chief while Chet Marley is incapacitated.”
Holly said nothing.
“What I mean is, we feel that a person who is more familiar with the way the department is organized, and more familiar with the territory in Orchid Beach, would be a better choice for this position. We’d like you to stay on, of course, but we feel that Lieutenant Hurd Wallace is the natural choice for the position.”
Charlie Peterson spoke up. “Not all of us feel that way, John,” he said, and Frank Goldman nodded vigorously in ag
reement.
“All right, then,” Westover said, reddening, “a majority of us feel that way.”
“Mr. Westover…”
“John, please.”
“Of course, John. I believe you’ve had an opportunity to read my contract.”
“Well, I did take a quick look at it.”
“Then I’m sure you know that it specifies that, in any circumstance when Chief Marley is unable to perform his duties, I automatically become acting chief.”
“Well, now, I don’t know about that,” Westover said.
“Holly,” Irma Taggert said, leaning forward, “we don’t want to be sticklers over legal matters here, we’re just doing what we believe is best for our little city.”
“Of course you are, Irma,” Holly said, “and I feel I have that same obligation.”
“I’m so glad,” Taggert said, looking relieved.
“I believe that I have an obligation to live up to the terms of my contract, and that the city has the same obligation. It’s my understanding that the city charter gives Chet Marley the authority to hire and fire in his department and to appoint his own choices in supervisory and executive positions. Chief Marley told me that he considered Hurd Wallace for the position and decided against him. Now he has made his choice, and my intention is to carry out his wishes to the best of my ability.”
“Young lady,” Irma Taggert spat, “do you realize that we could fire you out of hand this minute and appoint whoever we want to your job?”
Holly felt her hackles rising, and she couldn’t resist the impulse to fire back. Charlie Peterson saved her from herself.
“Irma, I’m the lawyer here, so let me give you the city’s legal position in a nutshell. Deputy Chief Barker has a five-year contract properly approved and executed by the relevant authority, Chief Marley. If we were to fire her, she would be entitled, at the very least, to every penny specified in her contract, plus health insurance and pension contributions. It’s my considered opinion that, if we fired her, she could also bring an action against the city for unlawful dismissal and sex discrimination and that she would probably get both compensatory and punitive damages.”
“Just tell me this, Charlie Peterson,” Taggert shot back. “Why hasn’t she arrested the person who shot Chet Marley?”
Holly held up both hands. “Please, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “I don’t want to be a bone of contention in this council, so just let me state my position, and then I’ll leave you to get on with your deliberations.”
“Please do,” Charlie Peterson said.
“I’ve been hired to do a job here. It’s one I’m well qualified for and one I intend to do. If I ever feel that I can’t handle it for any reason, I’ll come to you and resign, I promise you that. With regard to the shooting of Chief Marley, I can tell you that every resource of this department is being deployed to find and arrest the perpetrator. I would remind you that, if I resigned today, the same people would still be investigating that crime. Now, if you have any questions of me, about my background or my intentions, I’ll be glad to answer them right now.”
There was silence for a while, finally broken by John Westover. “Holly, welcome aboard,” he said. “If any of us can be of any help to you, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Holly smiled sweetly. “Thank you all so much.”
CHAPTER
20
B ack at her desk, Holly called in Hurd Wallace and Bob Hurst. “I want to bring you up to date on something,” she said. “I interviewed Sam Sweeney yesterday, and he eventually admitted that he heard the shot that hit Chief Marley, a single shot.”
Hurst spoke up. “I went over all that very thoroughly with him several times, and he didn’t tell me that.”
“Maybe he felt less threatened after having been released,” Holly said. “He also told me that he heard heated arguing before the shot was fired, from two or three men, and that, after the shot was fired, he heard two car doors slam, indicating two perps. He said the car—not a truck or large vehicle—made a U-turn and drove north on A1A.”
“What else did he say?”
“That was it. I thought you should both have his information for your investigation.”
“Thanks, Chief,” Hurst said, but he was looking embarrassed for not having produced it himself.
“Is anybody getting anything?”
“Not a thing,” Wallace said. “I’ve interviewed every street officer, and there’s just nothing.”
Hurst spoke up. “I think the reason for that is that this was some sort of isolated incident, not connected to any other criminal activitiy that our snitches might know about. Everything points to it being a stopping of a vehicle that went wrong—speeding, drunk driving, broken taillight, suspicious activity—something like that.”
Holly didn’t believe that for a moment, but then she knew a little more than Hurst did. “That would seem to cover the events,” she said. “Except for the fact of Hank Doherty’s murder.”
Neither of the men said anything.
“Whoever shot the chief took his shotgun from his car, went straight to Hank Doherty’s and killed him.”
“We don’t know that,” Wallace said.
“Can you think of any other scenario that works?”
“You’re right, Chief,” Hurst said. “She’s right, Hurd; the two shootings are connected by the shotgun.”
“Anything new on the chief’s condition?” Wallace asked, changing the subject.
Holly quickly decided to tell them. “The chief woke up yesterday and started talking.”
Two sets of eyebrows went up. “Did he say who shot him? Anything at all?” Hurst asked.
“He remembered nothing about the incident or anything that had occurred for a good five weeks before it. His last memory was of meeting with me, on the occasion when he hired me to come here.”
“Any chance he’ll regain some of that memory?” Wallace asked.
“The news gets worse, I’m afraid. He went to sleep while I was there, and this morning, the nurses couldn’t wake him. He’s back in a coma, and the doctor can’t offer any real prognosis.”
Wallace nodded. “For a minute there I thought we’d had a break.”
“So did I,” Holly said, “but we’re going to have to solve this crime without the chief’s help. The odds of his waking up and remembering everything have gotten a lot worse. Although the doctor hasn’t actually said so, my feeling was that he didn’t expect him to recover.” She watched the two men carefully for their reactions, and they were what she would have expected—sadness and worry on the part of Hurst, and the usual lack of emotion on the part of Wallace.
“Where do we go from here?” Hurst asked.
“We start again from the beginning,” Holly said. “I want you to visit the crime scene again and, this time, work both sides of the road. When they made the U-turn, they could have thrown something out. Check out Hank Doherty’s again, too; see if we missed anything.”
“I’ll talk to Sweeney again, too,” Hurst said, sounding annoyed that the man hadn’t given up all his information the first time around.
“I think Mr. Sweeney has left us,” Holly said. “Anyway, he told me that was his intention.”
“You know where?”
“Where does a guy like Sweeney go? Anywhere, I should think.”
“I could get the state police to put out a watch for him.”
“What for? We can’t charge him with anything, and I really believe he’s told us all he knows.”
Hurst shrugged. “I guess you’re right.”
“Tell you what you can do,” Holly said. “Put out a bulletin on Sweeney’s Colt thirty-two—the serial number will be on the receipt that guy Schwartz produced in court; the county attorney will have that. Maybe somebody sold it and we can trace it back.”
“I’ll do that,” Wallace said.
“Good. Now let’s all get back to work.”
The two officers left, and Holly, mindful
of what the council had said about her lack of knowledge of the town, decided to see more of it. She went next door to Jane Grey’s office. “I’ll be on patrol for a while,” she said. “Let the dispatcher know I’m in the car, okay?”
“Sure. How’d it go with the council?”
Holly closed the door. “They had voted, three to two, to make Hurd acting chief,” she said. “But Charlie Peterson, who I didn’t know was a lawyer, read them the riot act about my contract, and they calmed down and accepted the situation.”
“Hurd’s close to John Westover,” Jane said. “That’s where that came from. And the other councilman to vote against Westover would have been Howard Goldman, I think.”
“I think you’re right.”
“Howard’s sometimes the swing vote; he goes with Westover most of the time, but occasionally opposes him.”
“Good to know,” Holly said. “I got the impression that Irma Taggert is solid with Westover.”
“That’s right, and she’s a prig, as well. She’s always wanting to shut down the movie house if something racy is running. Even Westover won’t go with her on that.”
“What about the other guy?”
“Frank Hessian? He’s a cipher. Rarely says anything to anybody, doesn’t make waves.”
“How’d he get elected?”
“He’s a nice man, and everybody knows it. He’s a veterinarian. Everybody takes their pets to him.”
“Okay, I’ll see you later.” Holly left the station and decided to drive north on A1A. She hadn’t seen much of the high-rent district yet, and she wanted a look at it.
CHAPTER
21
H olly drove north on A1A, with Daisy in the front seat beside her. Gradually, the town gave way to a kind of suburbia, studded with the gates of upscale subdivisions. She turned into the first one she came to. There was a guardhouse, empty, and a keypad-operated gate, open. She drove down a typical upper-middle-class street, lined with roomy but unpretentious houses on half-acre lots. There were a pair of tennis courts at the end of the block, apparently serving the whole neighborhood. At a T junction, a cross street ran parallel with the beach, and the houses on the ocean were larger and sited on more land. Visits to two more such subdivisions revealed a similar layout. Daisy lost interest, curled up and went to sleep.
