“No, I don’t think we do. Why don’t you tell us?”
“The real reason you had such a difficult time is simple. You didn’t figure it out because we did a great job! Did Christina tell you how well I did?”
Jones started to answer and then turned away, trying to think how to break the news to him. Reightman cleared her throat and walked back to Dameron and stood by his chair. “No, she didn’t Mr. Dameron. She was unable to tell us anything.” Reightman looked down into his face, and when she was certain that she had his full attention, she told him. “Your wife was killed last night as she was attempting to flee from the roof.”
Dameron’s eyes clouded with confusion and he shook his head in outright denial. “No, that can’t be right. Christina was too smart to get hurt. She wouldn’t have had any trouble getting across the roof. I told you, she came from a family of circus performers. You must be mistaken.”
“No, sir. I’m not mistaken. Your wife is dead.”
“That’s ridiculous! You’re just telling me that to see if I break. I’m not stupid and I know how these things work. Where is she?” When Reightman didn’t answer, he began pounding his hands on the table. “Christina! You need to get in here! They’re trying to trick me and you need to straighten them out!” When those in the room failed to respond, and Christina didn’t appear as demanded, Sutton Dameron glared at Reightman through narrowed eyes. “You’re going to be very sorry for trying to trick me, Detective. Now, bring me Christina!” His agitation increased and his face contorted in anger. “Why won’t any of you bring me my wife? I’ll make sure everyone of you pays for this!”
To his credit, Dameron’s attorney tried to calm him. “Sutton, settle down! You’re just making the situation worse.
Dameron turned to him and yelled, “You’re in on this too! Bring me Christina!”
Reightman took a step back to avoid the spittle that sprayed from his mouth as he continued to rant and rave. When he finally quieted down, and contented himself with glaring at them from his chair, Reightman spoke to him very calmly. “Mr. Dameron, I’ve already told you why we can’t bring your wife here to this room. She was killed last night. She was murdered with a single bullet to the head by an unknown assailant. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth, sir.”
His eyes widened in shock and he looked into her face. It took a while for the words to penetrate, and once he truly understood his wife was dead and was no longer going to be able to take care of things for him, he collapsed and had to be carried from the room.
Later that day as Dameron sat across the table from Reightman and Jones, he was no longer boastful, but had withdrawn completely into himself. He gave only the most basic answers to the questions asked and it was obvious to everyone present he was broken man.
The questioning had gone on for time, and after confirming his confession from the morning, they had moved on to other links in the chain.
“Did you also kill Dr. Benjamin Lieberman?” Jessica Lautner asked from her place at the table.
“No, I had nothing to do with his death,” Dameron replied, staring disinterestedly into the space in front of him.
“Did you know about the plan to put a hit out on Toby Bailey? A hit that resulted in the death of Detective Sam Jackson?” Jones asked sharply from where he sat next to Reightman.
“No.”
“You expect us to believe you had nothing to do with those deaths, so I suppose you knew nothing about Helliman’s death either. Or about his other activities?” Reightman asked him harshly, her disbelief of his innocence plain.
Sutton Dameron’s eyes flickered briefly toward his attorney, before focusing again on some spot far, far away.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “My client had no involvement with former Officer Helliman, but,” he paused and looked toward Jessica Lautner, “with some consideration from the DA’s office…..”
“What kind of consideration are you hoping for?” Lautner asked.
“Reduce the charges.”
Reightman slapped her hand down on the table and stood from her chair. “You can’t be serious!”
“I assure you, Detective,” the attorney replied, “I am very serious.”
Reightman turned toward Lautner and watched as the woman considered the situation. “Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking about making a deal like that.”
Lautner held her eyes for a moment before shaking her head and turning her attention back to the attorney across the table. “We won’t reduce the charges. However,” she leaned back in her chair and looked toward Dameron, “if your client provides enough information – information helpful to the ongoing investigations into the other murders – I might see if I can take the death penalty off the table.” As she saw the man consider her offer, Lautner added “Take it or leave it. That’s my only offer. Otherwise, Mr. Dameron can take his chances, and as I’m sure you’re aware, those chances don’t look good.”
The man across the table turned toward his client. “Sutton?”
Dameron refocused his eyes, and turned back to his attorney. He shrugged one shoulder. “He didn’t help us when we needed it, so I don’t see why I should help him.” He looked at Lautner. “I accept your offer.”
“This better damned well be worth it,” Reightman muttered as she took her seat again.
Lautner leaned forward in her chair and picked up her pen. “Well, Mr. Dameron, start talking.”
When Sutton Dameron had finished telling all he knew, Reightman looked at Jones and smiled.
Twenty-four hours later, and in the spirit of inter-agency cooperation, Federal agents seized all financial records – personal and business – of the Reverend Brother and Elder Ephraim Sawyer, the founder and CEO of the largest conservative evangelical church in the southeastern United States.
Reverend Sawyer was sitting in his palatial office located on the top floor of the business offices of the mega-church he’d founded many years ago, drinking twenty year old, premium scotch. He’d had a very trying day and deserved a drink or two. He was still finding it hard to believe that the Feds had busted in on him like he was some kind of common, low life criminal!
He swiveled his chair and gazed out the window, taking in the sprawling church campus as he held his glass in his long, thin fingers. He’d built this magnificent complex brick by brick from its humble beginnings in an abandoned shopping mall and he’d be damned before he’d see it crumble back to nothing. It was time to take care of the problem before things spiraled any further out of control.
He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist and tightened the lips of his hard, thin mouth as he waited for the visitor he was expecting. Thirteen minutes later, he heard the door to the office open and then close shut with a soft click.
“Hello, Dad,” a voice from behind him said. “”I hear you had a bad day.”
“Don’t call me that! I am not your father,” Sawyer said sharply from his throne-like chair, while continuing to look out the huge glass window to his wondrous creation below. “You haven’t been responding to the many messages I’ve sent, and you’re late. I don’t like to be kept waiting.” The Reverend spent a few more minutes admiring his view while pointedly ignoring his visitor. After he felt his visitor had been put off long enough, he finally swiveled his chair around to look at the man lounging casually in one of the plush guest chairs positioned in front of the wooden expanse of his desk.
“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” the man asked.
“No, I’m not.” Sawyer was tempted to turn back to the window, but thought better of it.
The man lounging in the chair took no notice of the cold, impersonal tone with which he’d been addressed. He’d had many years to become used to being addressed similarly by the Reverend Ephraim Sawyer. So many years to become used to being treated like he was less than dirt, unrecognized or given anything beyond the bare necessities unless he proved himself useful. So many years of being commanded to do th
e corrupt, sanctimonious bastard’s bidding. The man mulled over the Reverend’s refusal to provide him refreshment. “So much for the notions of Christian charity and Southern hospitality,” he said a mocking voice. “Times just ain’t what they used to be.” When Sawyer didn’t respond – other than to raise his glass in mocking salute before taking another swallow of the smoky, peat-infused liquor – the man asked, “So, how’s Mom doing these days?”
“Your mother is very upset, as you might imagine. You might think about giving her a call to cheer her up, although that’s probably too much to expect from you. You’ve never been concerned with anything or anyone unless there was a dollar or two attached. But that isn’t why I wanted to see you. We’re all in a hell of mess thanks to that fucking Sutton Dameron and his big damned mouth. I don’t know what I ever saw in that pathetic excuse for a man.” The Reverend raised his glass again, and took another drink. His fingers trembled slightly and it was clear that he was more disturbed by the turn of events than he wanted anyone to know – especially the man sitting across from him. He couldn’t afford a show of weakness now. “If you had taken care of the situation earlier, like you were supposed to have done, none of this would have happened. Now we have a problem.”
His guest thought over the Reverend’s comment and then gave a dismissive shrug. “No, Dad, now you have a problem.”
Sawyer placed his glass down his desk forcefully – enough to make the single ice cube inside click several times against the crystal. “We have a problem, you smartass little shit! You’ll be implicated in much more than your mother or me if we don’t get this under control. I may suffer grave financial reversals and the loss of all I’ve built, but I can recover. The stupid, misguided sheep in this world are always looking for someone to tell them how to think, and what to believe, and they’ll pay lots of good hard cash for someone to do so. But you, son, you face the death penalty multiple times for your part in all of this. How many dirty little problems have you handled?”
The man in the chair shrugged again. “It doesn’t really matter how many. They can only kill me once and they have to catch me first. But, I don’t think there is much likelihood of being caught. After all, I’ve been very careful, just like you taught me to be. You beat that lesson into me time and time again. Besides, no one knows the full extent of my involvement except me. And you.”
“And your mother.”
“We both know better than that, Dad. She might have some idea of what’s been going on, but we’ve both shielded her from the uglier side of this business so she wouldn’t get her dainty, grasping hands dirty. She only knows what we’ve let her know over the years.” The man in the chair smiled across the desk at the man he hated. “Like I said before, only two people know everything – me and you.” The man stood up from his chair and smiled down at Sawyer. He reached across the desk and picked up the scotch and took an appreciative sip. “You always did have good scotch – it’s too bad you didn’t offer me one.” He took another small sip to emphasize his point and enjoyed the look of outrage building in the old man’s eyes. Now, I hate to cut this pleasant little get together short,” he apologized as he wiped the glass down and set it back on the desk, “but I’ve got things to do and people to see, and one other problem to solve.” He reached behind him and pulled the gun from the back of his waistband. Then, before the astonished Reverend Ephraim Sawyer could react, John Brown shot his stepfather right in the center of his head.
By Thursday afternoon, the news of Councilman Sutton Dameron’s arrest and the death of his wife, Christina, was the featured news story in the state and was starting to be picked up by nation-wide news agencies.
Toby had already called Grams and given her the news before she could see a broadcast or read about it in the paper. He hadn’t gone into much, if any, detail about his own involvement in the arrest or his near escape from death. When she asked about his weak and hoarse voice, he simply told her that he was suffering from a bad virus that was going around, and changed the subject.
He and Mitchell reported to police headquarters first thing that morning and provided their official statements about what had happened the previous night. Toby decided the best thing for him to do for the rest of the day was to take it easy, do a few things around the apartment, and maybe spend an hour or so in the sun. He knew that he hadn’t had enough time to internalize the fact that Geri’s killers had been found and he was waiting for the moment when his mind caught up to the facts. He worried when it happened, he wouldn’t be able to handle the resulting breakdown.
A mid-morning thunderstorm changed his afternoon plans – at least the plans which involved sunbathing on the terrace – and he found himself indecisive about alternatives. Mitchell decided for him. “Put on some shoes and grab your new gun. I think we should head over to the shooting range. You can use all the practice you can get.”
“Hey! I did pretty well the first time, you said so yourself.”
“Yes, you did – for the first time. But you need to be able to do better from here on out.” There was a bullish tone to Mitchell’s voice that Toby didn’t understand.
“Why do I need to do better? Dameron’s been caught and his wife’s dead. I’m not sure I need to learn to shoot any better.”
“Toby, if you are going to own a firearm you need to be the best you can be in order to use it effectively and safely. Those are part of the basic responsibilities that come with owning a weapon of any kind. You’ll also need to plan time to practice so you keep your skills sharp.”
Toby wasn’t sure he cared for the Mitchell’s lecturing mode. “Maybe I’ll just sell the gun, now that this is all over. I’ve never wanted one in the first place.”
Mitchell let out an exasperated breath and took a seat across from Toby at the table. “Toby, this isn’t over.”
Toby looked down at the table, refusing to meet Mitchell’s eyes. “Sure it is,” he said stubbornly, refusing to accept any other reality.
“No, Toby, it’s not. As much as I wish it were – it’s not over.” Mitchell modulated his voice into a more reasonable tone. “Toby, Dameron and his wife are no longer a problem. But someone killed Christina Dameron on the roof last night.”
“That may not have had anything to do with me.”
“Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it had absolutely nothing to do with you, and the person who shot and killed Dameron’s wife was settling a personal score of some sort. But, Toby, are you willing to bet your life on it?”
Toby didn’t respond and continued to look down at the table top, tracing the grain of the wood with his fingers. Mitchell considered other approaches – one which included forcibly dragging Toby from the apartment and shoving him into the car – when his phone rang.
“Office Mitchell,” he answered. “Oh, hi, Detective Reightman.”
Toby looked up from the table when he heard the name of the caller. He listened to Mitchell’s side of the conversation, but wasn’t able to make out much of what the conversation was about. He did, however, notice the hard set to Mitchell’s jaw as the call progressed.
“Alright,” Mitchell agreed, responding to something Detective Reightman said. “I’ll tell him, Detective.”
Mitchell ended the call, and sent a worried look his way. Toby stood from the table. “Tell me what?”
“That was Detective Reightman. She was calling to let me know ballistic testing confirmed the bullet that killed Christina Dameron matched the bullets fired at you – one of which killed Detective Jackson. She believes, based on the evidence, that same person fired the gun both times.”
Toby’s face blanched as his mind worked through what the information meant to him. Finally he turned his eyes to Mitchell. “The bullets that killed Detective Jackson were meant for me.”
“Yes.”
“This really isn’t over, is it?”
“No, it isn’t.”
Toby turned and left the room.
“Where are you
going, Toby?” Mitchell yelled after him, determined to finish their conversation.
Before Mitchell could follow him into the bedroom, Toby came back carrying a pair of athletic shoes and his gun case. “I went to get my stuff – just like you told me to do. I guess we’d better head to the shooting range.”
“Toby, is it always going to take the possibility of death for you to listen to what I say and do what I ask?”
“Probably,” Toby informed him agreeably. “Hurry up and get your stuff, Mitchell. I don’t know why I’m always waiting on you to get ready to go somewhere.”
Mitchell was always the first one ready to go anywhere, but he didn’t respond to the baiting. He was just relieved that Toby had found some common sense, even if the reason was one neither of them wanted to contemplate.
On Friday morning, Sawyer’s body was found. The debris from the shattered the window was discovered by of one of the church’s administrative staff who arrived early to start her day. The confused woman looked up at the four story edifice, trying to discover where the scattered pieces of glass had originated. Spotting what looked like a badly damaged window on the top floor, she notified the maintenance team.
Sawyer’s body was still seated in his huge, throne-like chair. The badly shaken worker promptly notified the Reverend’s secretary, and she quickly followed him into the office to verify the shocking news. Shocked and horrified, she stumbled to the nearest phone and notified the police that one of the precious Lord’s anointed prophets had been carried away from this earthly plane.
“The good Reverend looks the best I’ve ever seen him,” Tom Anderson commented sardonically to Reightman as they stood a few feet from the body.
“I think he looks a bit pale.” She studied the bullet hole which had been drilled into the center of the man’s forehead. “Although, the manner of his death is disturbingly familiar.”
Hard Job Page 21
