by Thomas Scott
Virgil nodded at him.
“I have to hear you say yes, Virgil.”
“Yes, yes. Let’s get on with it.”
Bell raised his eyebrows. “Maybe we’ll start with the anti-anxiety shot.”
“Sorry,” Virgil said. He sat quietly as Bell gave him the shots, though he didn’t know in what order they were administered. “If I’m asleep, why do I need the anxiety meds?”
“Because without them you won’t sleep for long and when you wake, you’ll want to unzip your skin and leave it behind like a snake in the grass.” Then, “Relax, Jonesy. It sucks, but you can do it. The trick is to get in front of it. That’s what we’re doing here.” He finished with the first two shots, then handed Virgil the clipboard with the paperwork. “Read this and then sign at the bottom. Don’t forget to date it as well.”
“What is it?”
“Standard medical release. Informed consent and all that. Gives me permission to treat you and take any and all necessary measures to ensure your health and well-being while under my care or the care of those I designate, who, having been properly trained in the administration of, etcetera, etcetera and so on and so forth. Just sign and date at the bottom.”
Bell handed him a pen. Virgil thought there was a considerable amount of fine print. In addition, Bell kept speaking, which made any concentration difficult.
“I want you to eat nothing but fruit and raw or steamed vegetables during the day. You can have any different combination of vegetables that you’d like for dinner, but try to stay away from any type of starch and nothing except fruit after eight p.m. Also, no sugar or salt of any kind except what you find naturally in your fruits and vegetables. No other artificial sweeteners, either. And I know you’re going to think this is odd, but no water and I mean none at all for at least a week.”
“No water?” Sandy said. “How can that be?”
Virgil chimed in as well. “Look, Bell, I trust you and all, but what the hell am I supposed to drink if I don’t have water?”
“I’ve got a brand new juicer for you. Just bought it. Top of the line, too. Don’t thank me because I’m adding it to your bill. When you’re up and around you’re going to drink thirteen glasses of fresh juice a day—a combination of both fruit and vegetable—for at least a week.”
Virgil could tell that the anti-anxiety medication was starting to take hold because he was having trouble concentrating on what Bell was saying. He finally gave up on reading the form, signed and dated it, then handed it back to the doctor.
“Okay Jonesy, off with your clothes, then lie down in your bed here. You can leave your skivvies on if you like.”
Virgil got undressed and laid down on his back. Bell uncapped the final syringe and injected the medication into his arm.
“I’ll give the rest of the instructions to Sandy. You won’t remember them.”
Virgil thought Bell might have said ‘sleep well,’ or something to that effect, but either way, he was out before Bell was finished with the shot.
14
__________
Abigail Monroe just had one of the most stressful days at her job that she could recall. She’d spent most of the day with the programmers, listening to them drone on and on about how difficult it had been to sort through the code to ensure that Nicholas Pope hadn’t buried anything in the system. Every time one of them would come into her office and say they were ready, they had to take the entire system off-line to run the diagnostics. That involved notification of all retail outlets, a nightmare in and of itself. And they couldn’t take the system off-line without her approval, so she was stuck in her office for the entire day. The programmers ended up going through the entire process nine times before they were sure they’d covered everything.
In the end though, they assured her there was nothing. If pressed, however, Abigail thought they didn’t sound completely sure. Maybe ninety-five percent, but not one hundred. They said they were positive, but they didn’t sound positive. That was troublesome. For now though, the system was functioning perfectly, the security measures were in place and everything seemed normal enough. It was the ‘seemed’ that bothered her. When you were the executive director in charge of oversight on an entity that brought in and gave out hundreds of millions of dollars, seemed just didn’t cut it.
Plus, she’d had to sell her own story to the programmers about how she knew—suspected was the word she’d used with them—that there was a real possibility that something might be amiss in the system. Everyone knew Pope had been killed after all. And not just killed, it looked like he’d been tortured to death. It was the ‘who’ and the ‘why’ that had Abigail stressed. Maybe someone had tried to extract some information from Pope as a way to gain access to the system. Had anyone thought of that? Or perhaps he’d been involved with someone and together they were going to try to cheat the security measures that the lottery had in place. Either way, something was going on. “Get in there and find it,” she’d told them.
She thought her performance was acceptable. Maybe not Oscar-worthy, but good enough to fool a few office nerds that did nothing but sit at their consoles and stare at computer code all day. She’d certainly dressed for the occasion, wearing a tight, mid-length black skirt that looked like body paint, open-toe heels that showed off her feet—she’d been told by more than a handful of men that she had great feet—and a sheer white blouse with a skimpy lace bra. In the end, it worked. The programmers were drooling like lap dogs by the time they left her office and it seemed like almost every one of them came back in at fifteen minute intervals with this question or that. If she’d taken a poll, she thought not a single one of them could have told her the color of her eyes.
Still, the stress. And she’d brought it on herself. She’d made a mistake and a massive one at that. My God, what had she been thinking? Well, greedy bitch, you knew exactly what you’d been thinking. You’d been thinking wouldn’t it be great to be sitting on the beach, sipping an umbrella drink and calculating the interest. Looking back though, it was one of the stupidest things she’d ever done, getting into bed with Nicky Pope. And what was it that Bradley had told her the other night? They needed to manage this thing on their end? Something like that. Well, that’s exactly what she was doing now, wasn’t she? And what about Bradley? Had he been the one who killed her Nicky? He found out they had been dating and he was pissed, but murder? Abigail didn’t think he had it in him. Still…Nicky…gone.
Nicky told her they were going to be rich. Stupid rich was the way he’d put it. Except now that he’d been murdered—Abigail shuddered at that thought—she was right back where she’d started.
Abby kicked off her heels, walked into her kitchen and poured herself a glass of red wine. She took a long swallow, refilled the glass, then picked up her iPad and walked into her study. That’s when the doorbell rang.
She tucked the iPad under her arm, walked down the hall and opened the door with her free hand. When she saw the man standing there, the thought that inflated inside her brain was: Cop.
__________
The lottery office was located in a nondescript, brown-bricked, three-story building on Meridian Street about a mile north of the city’s center. A small sign hung above the door—a banner, really—that said Lottery Office. Other than that, the building looked like an office supply store or maybe an H & R Block tax center. Ron Miles had driven by the building or through the area about a thousand times over his career, but he’d never been inside. There was no real reason to drive by it now except for the fact that it was on the way to his destination, the home of the executive director of the state’s lottery, Abigail Monroe.
It would have been more convenient to conduct the interview at her office, but Miles knew that if he did that, she’d have the upper hand. Home turf and all. It might not be important with Monroe—she wasn’t a suspect after all—but she had been Nicholas Pope’s boss, so there was some amount of hope that an informal chat in her home would create a more comfortable environment for her
, one where she might be a bit more forthcoming with any information that could help with the investigation.
Miles rang the bell and when Monroe answered the door she was still dressed in her work clothes, minus her shoes. It was the first thing Ron noticed. Her feet, specifically her toenails, were perfect. She held a glass of red wine in her hand and had an iPad tucked under her arm. When he looked up from her feet, Miles got the impression that he’d startled her. Caught her off guard or…something. He could see it behind her eyes.
“Hello. May I help you?”
“I’m Detective Ron Miles, Indianapolis Metro Homicide. Are you Abigail Monroe?”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Monroe, our office has been charged with the investigation into the death of Nicholas Pope. I understand he worked for you?”
“Yes, he was one of our programmers.”
“I have a few questions I’d like to ask you. May I come in?”
Miles got the impression that she had to contemplate her answer, but after a brief pause she said, “Of course” and opened the door for him to enter.
“I was just about to go sit out on the veranda and relax. I allow myself an evening cocktail. Would you care for something?”
“No, thank you,” Ron said as he followed her through the living room and then the sliding glass door that gave way to her back porch.
“No drinking on the job, I suppose?”
“That’s right.” Miles made a show of reaching for his pen and notebook. He kept a dummy set of keys in his pocket and he pulled those out and then set them on the table. Once they were seated: “Would you tell me what you know about Mr. Pope?”
“Well,” Abigail began, “I’m almost embarrassed to say that I don’t know very much at all.”
“And why is that?”
“Nicky was one of many programmers that we employ. As you might imagine given what we do, it takes quite a few people to maintain our type of system. And, we have different levels—they’re actually separate departments, so maybe I shouldn’t say levels—anyway, different levels of programmers for different functions. Some handle basic functions like ongoing system maintenance, some take care of security, while others are responsible for writing new code for different types of games.”
“And what level, or department did Mr. Pope work in?”
Monroe crossed her legs, then reached down and massaged her left foot. “Let’s see, Nicky was, um, security I believe. Yes, security. I’m sure that’s correct. To tell you the truth, Detective, the programmers? They all sort of blend together in my mind. We have quite a few of them and frankly, they’re all a little peculiar. They work odd hours, they’re about the least sociable people you’d ever want to meet and well, there’s no diplomatic way to put this I suppose, other than to just say it. They sort of look down on everyone else in the organization, like they’re better than the rest of us.”
“I see. So if I understand you correctly, you personally did not know Mr. Pope any better than the rest of the programmers who work for the lottery, is that correct?”
“Detective, uh, Niles, is it?”
“Miles.”
“Yes, of course. Detective Miles, my title is Executive Director of the Lottery. I report to the lottery’s board of directors. While I’m sure there are other organizations whose directors take a more hands-on approach with their employees, that simply isn’t my style. Not only that, but my position is one of development as opposed to straight managerial.”
“Development?”
“I am the face of the lottery, I guess you could say.”
“I see. But you still didn’t answer my question, Ms. Monroe. Did you know Mr. Pope any better than the rest of the programmers who work for the lottery?”
Abigail took a long deliberate sip of her wine. “I’m not sure I understand the nature of your question, Detective.”
I think you do, Ron thought. “Would you give me the names of your programmers please?”
Monroe blinked at him. “All of them?”
“Yes, please.” Miles had his pen and notebook ready.
Monroe set her wine glass down on the table with great care. Ron thought it looked like a practiced maneuver. “That would have to come from our Human Resources department. I’m afraid I don’t know. I mean, I know a few of their first names, but…”
“But Mr. Pope, Nicky, as you called him. No trouble remembering him?”
“What exactly are you implying, Detective?”
Time to dial it back. “I’m sorry Ms. Monroe. I think sometimes I’ve been doing this type of work too long. I need to practice my people skills or something. No implication whatsoever. Boy oh boy, if you knew the type of people I have to interview day in and day out…they way they lie right to my face.”
“I can only imagine.”
Miles made a show of checking his watch. “You know what? I think just this once I might go ahead and bend the rules a bit. I’m supposed to be off the clock right now as it is anyway. If your offer of that glass of wine is still good…”
__________
Never talk to the cops. Ever. That’s what Abigail’s husband, Lee, had always told her. Once you open your mouth and start down that road, they’ll back you into a corner sure as shit. And that’s exactly what she’d done. She opened the door, invited him in and now after only a few questions she felt like he knew she was lying. Had to get him out of the house. Had to think. She’d offered him a glass of wine, for fuck’s sake. What were they, on a date?
“Yes, of course. In fact, why don’t we go back inside? These chairs are wonderful to look at, but they’re hell on my back.”
They went inside and Ron followed her into the kitchen. “Forgive me, Detective. Where are my manners? Please, have a seat out on the sofa and I’ll bring you a glass of wine.”
“Oh I’m fine right here, Ms. Monroe. In fact, I’m sort of a kitchen kind of guy.”
Great. Plan A was to tell him she was out of wine. Now what? Plan B, that’s what. Abigail pulled the cork from the bottle and when she made a show of reaching for another glass, she knocked the bottle to the floor and it shattered at their feet. “Oh, damn.”
The glass was everywhere and the white tiled floor was now covered with red wine. Miles jumped back, the glass crunching under his feet, but the wine still managed to splatter across his pants. “Whoa. Don’t move Ms. Monroe. Are you cut? Is that wine or blood on your leg there?”
Abigail looked down. “No, no, I don’t think so. It’s just the wine.”
“Where are your shoes? I’ll get them for you. If you take a step you’ll slice your feet up.”
“Uh, right there by the front door, I think.
“Okay, stay right there.” Miles went and got her shoes and brought them into the kitchen. Monroe slipped them on and together they crunched their way past the glass and naturally, right back to the front door.
“Detective, I’m wondering…well…to tell you the truth, I’ve had a particularly stressful day at work today. Could we finish another time? Perhaps tomorrow at my office? I can make sure the HR people are there. Most of the programmers should be present as well. I just think it might be more productive that way.”
Miles never hesitated. “Yes, of course. I’d be happy to help you clean up the mess in the kitchen though. I feel like it was my fault.”
“That’s quite all right, Detective. I’m sure I can manage and I’m equally sure that’s not in your job description.” Monroe opened the front door.
Miles started to step through the door, then stopped. “Just out of curiosity, Ms. Monroe, how long have you been with the lottery?”
__________
She clearly wants me out of the house, Ron thought. Knocking the wine bottle off the counter couldn’t have been more obvious. But why? And why was she lying?
“Almost two years exactly. I took over for my dear husband Lee after his unfortunate automobile accident.” Monroe glanced back toward the kitchen. “I’m sorry, Detective, but that wi
ne…I’m afraid it will stain the tiles if I don’t get it cleaned up.”
“You bet. How about nine tomorrow then, at your office?”
“Tell you what. Call me at nine and we’ll figure something out. That will give me a chance to check my schedule and make sure all the appropriate department heads can be there as well.”
“If we could firm something up right now, that would probably be best.” Ron watched as Monroe pinched her lips together in a line and looked down at the floor. “You know what? You’re right. I shouldn’t waste my time coming to your office if the appropriate people aren’t going to be there. And who knows? You might have an important meeting with the governor or something.”
Monroe let out a little laugh and then made another mistake.
__________
Thank God…he’s leaving. “Oh, the governor is much too busy to see me, I assure you, Detective. In fact, most of my political dealings are with Bradley Pearson, the governor’s chief of staff.”
Miles laughed with her and said, “Huh.”
“What?”
“Oh nothing, really. Most of my dealings are with Bradley as well.”
Shit. Stop lying. It’s not necessary. “How do you know Bradley Pearson? I thought you said you were with the Indianapolis Police.”
“Ron put the flat of his hand against his forehead. “Did I? Boy, I’ve got to get a handle on that. I’m sorry. I used to be with the Indianapolis Metro Homicide Unit. In fact, I was with them for over twenty years. But my new job is Lead Detective for the state’s Major Crimes Unit. Pearson is the one who hired me. I guess we practically work for the same guy. Anyhow, sorry for the mix-up. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Monroe watched the cop walk down the sidewalk and around the corner before she shut the door and picked up the phone.
__________
