by Thomas Scott
“But you’ve done that.”
“No, we’re doing it now,” Epps said. “Well, the computer is. We’re running the last of eight different electronic verification processes. Each one is more complex than the previous, but I can tell you this, there’s no question. Someone has that ticket.”
“Who is it?” Virgil said.
“Don’t know yet,” Myers said. “It was scanned at a mini-mart self-check station earlier today. That got the ball rolling for us. If everything checks out and believe me, it’s going to, the only thing left to do is wait for the ticket holder to show up with the actual ticket. As long as it’s printed on official lottery paper, hasn’t been tampered with or mutilated, it’s a done deal.”
“I thought I heard or read somewhere that the deadline was today though. When I got here, the place was locked up tight. If you guys hadn’t been out taking a smoke break, I wouldn’t have even known anyone was here. What do you do if someone shows up on a Saturday or Sunday?”
“There’s a loophole,” Snowhill said. “If the deadline lands on a Saturday, like this one did, then the ticket only has to be verified electronically, which it has. The winner then has until close of business on the following Monday to show up at any lottery office in the state to present their ticket and claim the prize.”
“Huh.” The whole thing was kind of exciting.
__________
Wu wasn’t a little gay, but he was a little panicked. Pate wasn’t supposed to find out about the verification until it was too late. Now that the cop knew…
24
__________
Virgil took Murton’s call as he was leaving the lottery office. “Our girl Nichole is incommunicado. That’s Fed-speak for she wasn’t at her apartment, I can’t find her anywhere else and she isn’t answering her phone.”
“Did you ask Delroy if she’d been into the bar?”
“Yeah. He said she stopped by earlier but didn’t stay, so I don’t know where she is.”
“Huh. Well, she just lost her brother. She’s in mourning. What would you be doing?”
“You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother, Jones-man. I can tell you exactly what I’d be doing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’d grieve for the appropriate amount of time, then, you know, put the moves on Small.” There was about a half second gap before Virgil heard him say, “Hey, Jesus, that hurts.”
“You’re at home, huh?”
“Yeah…I’m working on Becky’s sense of humor. Would you stop that, please?”
“Tell her we need that code figured out.”
“She’s working on it now. I’m helping.”
Virgil heard Becky yell to him in the background. “No he isn’t.”
“Listen, I’m going to go try to track down Pate. Ask Becky for his home and office addresses, will you?”
A few seconds later Murton said, “Hold on, I’m going to text them to you now.” Then, “They’re on their way.”
“I’m convinced he’s connected to Pope, I just can’t figure out how.”
“Didn’t Miles say he couldn’t get past his lawyers?”
“Yeah, he did. But Miles is a cop. I’m not. I’ll tell you something else…I’m starting to enjoy the freedom of that.”
“Atta boy. You want some back up?”
“Nah. I’m sure I’ll be fine. How would you feel about sitting on Nichole’s place for a while?”
“I can do that. Do you think she’s in danger?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Let me know how it goes with Pate. And Jonesy?”
“Yeah?”
“Watch your back, brother.”
“Always.”
__________
Wu called Pate. “He is gone. Nothing else of consequence was said.”
“You’re sure?”
“What Wu say?
“Don’t get snippy with me, Wu. I’ve got too much at stake here.”
“What can I say? He is gone. You heard most of what was said. It sound like he on a fishing excursion.”
“Expedition, Wu. It’s called a fishing expedition.” There was a moment of silence, then, “Can you leave?”
“Yes, We are all but finished here.”
“Finished with what?” Pate said.
Careful, Wu thought. “With work. Always things to do.”
“Yes, I’m sure. I want you to meet me at my house. Bring your gear. Things are starting to happen.”
“Yes, Wu on way.”
__________
Sandy walked out of the hotel lobby, then realized she didn’t know which direction would be best, so she went back inside and up to the front desk. The hotel staffers were busy assisting other guests, so she had to wait a few minutes before she could ask for directions.
“The closest one is about five blocks north. It’s a CVS if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine,” Sandy said. “Thanks.”
“You know,” the young man said, “we have a gift shop on the mezzanine if you don’t want to walk that far, or I could call for a taxi.”
“I think I’ll just walk. Maybe the exercise will do me some good. And I know about the gift shop, but I’d like to speak with a pharmacist. I’ve got to figure a way to settle my stomach. I might need something a little stronger than Pepto and that’s all you guys have.”
The young man gave her a once over. “Is there anything else I might be able to do for you? Anything…at all?”
Sandy bit down on her lower lip. He’s hitting on me. She thanked him and walked out the door. He must have been what, at least ten years younger than she was?
Feeling better already.
__________
Murton parked a half-block away from the front of Nichole Pope’s apartment house, got out of the car and walked up to her door. He knocked, tried the knob—locked up tight—then knocked again. He put his ear to the door but didn’t hear anything. The place felt empty.
He walked back to his car and settled in for the duration. Took his cell phone out and reported his position to the city police. Nothing ruined a good surveillance quicker than the locals rolling up on you because the neighborhood watch was on the ball…
__________
After a few minutes of waiting in line at the pharmacy Sandy explained her symptoms to the pharmacist, an aging gentleman with thinning grey hair and the start of Andy Rooney brows perched over soft, blue eyes. His nametag read, ‘Your CVS Pharmacist: Phil.’
“For how long now?” he asked after Sandy explained how she felt.
“Quite a few days. Almost a week, now that I think about it. It comes and goes, but I’m having trouble keeping anything down. I’ve got a flight tomorrow morning back to Indy on a private plane and I don’t want an…mmm…incident.” She practically winced at herself when she said the words ‘private plane.’ Made her feel like a pretentious bitch. “I was on vacation a few years ago and ate some questionable seafood that gave me a mild case of food poisoning. This feels exactly the same.”
“Do you remember what you ate before the onset of your symptoms?”
“I don’t. I’ve been thinking about that and nothing really comes to mind. In fact, I’d have to say that it didn’t really hit me all at once. More like it sort of snuck up on me. I think I’d already been feeling pretty lousy for a day or two before I really even noticed.”
“Fever, chills, that sort of thing?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Are you getting plenty of fluids?”
“Absolutely. I drink water all day long.”
“How about a flu shot? Have you had one?”
“No. I don’t trust them.”
“Good for you. I don’t either. If people knew what they put in those things no one would get one. The hell of it is, most of it isn’t even necessary. Aluminum. Did you know they put aluminum in there?” He shuddered.
“No, I didn’t, but I’ve heard some horror stories. I stay away.”
“I wish more people would.” The pharmacist chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment. “You’ll excuse the question, but in terms of your bowels…anything out of the ordinary going on there?” He actually reddened a bit when he asked the question.
“Nope. It’s all good. I don’t know how else to describe it, other than it feels like I’ve got a ball of acid floating around in there, like my digestive tract is on overdrive or something.”
“Stress?”
“No more than usual.”
He tipped his to the side and lowered his chin just a bit. Sandy caught the expression right away. “Okay, maybe a little more than usual, but I’m a cop. I work for the police academy, so I’m no stranger to stress.”
The pharmacist looked at Sandy for a moment. Studied her. “Just a moment, please.” He left the counter and a few seconds later popped out through a side door and said, “Follow me.”
He led Sandy through the store, speaking over his shoulder as he did. “There is a little something going around, but quite frankly, what you’re describing doesn’t sound quite right for that.”
“What does it sound like?”
They’d stopped at the midpoint of one of the aisles and the pharmacist scanned the shelves for what he wanted. He plucked one of the packages and held it out to her. “Have you ever tried this?”
Sandy looked at the package and a nervous little laugh escaped. “No. I never have.”
“Works great. Try it first thing in the morning if you can wait that long. And make an appointment with your doctor when you get home.”
“I will,” Sandy said.
__________
Since Virgil was already downtown, he decided he’d try Pate at his office first, but when he arrived at the API offices they were locked up tight and there were no cars in either the front or side parking lots. He entered Pate’s home address into the map function on his phone and saw that it was a thirty-minute trip north. He dropped the car in gear and pulled out into traffic.
Saturday…early evening. Feeling the fatigue. Looking forward to seeing Sandy tomorrow.
He drove on and let his mind float out a few proposal scenarios. Realized how happy he was.
25
__________
Murton didn’t have to wait long. He was watching a group of teenaged boys shooting hoops directly across the street from Nichole’s apartment when Hector pulled up. Murton knew Hector from his undercover work on Samuel Pate. He was a lean, soft-spoken, former special forces operative that followed orders and didn’t ask questions. Perfect for a guy like Pate. Unless Hector lived in the same apartment complex as Nichole—which would be quite a coincidence—his arrival was trouble. Murton got out of his car, ducked behind a row of hedges and headed toward the basketball players.
__________
A half-hour later Virgil pulled into Pate’s drive. He was surprised when Augustus Pate himself answered the door. He wore tan slacks with a white button-down shirt open at the neck. His hair looked freshly barbered and Virgil could smell his Clubman after-shave. He looked surprisingly fit for a man of his age, his face clear and his eyes bright. Pate stared at him for a moment and Virgil saw the color creep into his neck and his jaw flex with tension. His words bordered on civil. His tone did not. “What are doing at my home? You of all people.”
“I’d like to speak with you about the murder of one of your former employees, Nicholas Pope.”
Virgil was certain he would slam the door in his face and that would be that, but men of power and wealth are often full of surprises and Augustus Pate proved no different. He pulled the door open wide then turned and walked into the house. It was a gesture that said at once, ‘come in or leave, I don’t care either way.’
Virgil followed him inside and closed the door.
__________
Pate’s shoes echoed off the marble floor as Virgil followed him down the long hallway. The sound was oddly familiar, but Virgil didn’t know why. Something about the cadence of Pate’s step, the way the sound reverberated off the walls. They ended up in his study, a richly appointed room that may have been at least half as large as Virgil’s entire house. A large desk was positioned in front of a wide set of windows and four high-back leather chairs were arranged in a semi circle with small square end tables between the chairs. On the other side of the room, an ornately carved coffee table was positioned in front of a sofa that faced a stone fireplace. A set of French doors gave onto a patio with an in-ground pool surrounded with white wrought iron tables and chairs.
They sat opposite each other in the high-backed chairs. Pate sipped from a quarter full glass of amber liquid that looked like bourbon or scotch and then set the goblet gently on the table next to his chair. When he spoke his words were direct and left little doubt that Virgil’s agenda was not the only issue at hand.
“You’ve brought nothing but misery and grief into my life, Detective. I hold you personally responsible for the death of my son and daughter-in-law.”
“I’m not surprised you feel that way. I can’t begin to tell you how many times over the years I’ve watched people of means delude themselves with a false sense of self-righteous indignation and entitlement at the expense of others. They either wear it like a crown or hide behind it, victims of their own making. You should be congratulated though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone who managed to pull off both at the same time.”
“How dare you, sir. You come to my home uninvited and have the audacity to insult me—”
“Save it, Pate. Your son was a degenerate and a pedophile who burned his own church to the ground to collect on the insurance. When he killed himself he did so because he wasn’t man enough to face the consequences of his own actions. And your daughter-in-law? She gunned down my father in his own bar. He was a man of respect who spent his entire life in the service of others. So, yeah, I do have the audacity. Do not try take my measure in that regard.”
Augustus Pate pointed a hooked finger at him. When he spoke, Virgil thought his voice would be filled with rage, but it wasn’t. Pate lowered his hand back to his lap and visibly swallowed. “He was still my son.” His voice was so soft Virgil had to lean forward in the chair to hear him. “My only child. My only family other than his wife, Amanda. Samuel’s mother died during childbirth. Did you know that? The expression on your face tells me you might not. We were very happy, Samuel’s mother and I. The plans we had…a life full of hope, a house full of children.” He turned his head away and let his gaze roam around the room. “I never wanted any of this. It just…came to me. I was a steel worker in the union when Samuel was born, when my wife died.
“I’m certain my son turned out they way he did because of me. I was starting a business…the long hours, the lack of attention…I suppose they call that neglect now days, don’t they? He grew up alone, without a mother and an all too inattentive father. Is it any wonder he turned out they way he did? Genetics had nothing to do with it. He sought comfort in his religion. He also found fame and fortune. The children though, the pictures…it was either a way to find his own childhood, to get it back, or a way to deflect his pain away from himself and on to others.”
The something odd happened. A mixture of embarrassment and anger played across Pate’s face. He looked like a man who might have just been awakened from a bad dream in front of a room full of people. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Virgil wasn’t sure how to answer.
“Do you think I want your pity? You’re mistaken. I want nothing of the sort. In fact you’re wrong on many levels Detective. I wear no crown and I’m no one’s victim.”
“I’m not going to play your game, Pate.”
“I can assure you, I’m not playing games, Detective.”
“Then stop lying to me.”
“I have not lied to you. Not once.”
“You have. Every time you refer to me as ‘detective’ it is a lie of omission regarding facts. I’m no longer with the state police and y
ou know that.”
He smiled without warmth or humor. “Ah yes, that’s right. You’re Wheeler’s bitch now, aren’t you?”
Don’t take the bait, Virgil told himself…
__________
Murton sat on a bench that placed the teenagers between him and the front of Nichole Pope’s apartment door. He had the perfect view and if Hector happened to look his way he would only notice a man watching a group of kids play ball.
Hector did almost exactly the same thing Murton had done a few minutes ago. He knocked, tried the knob and put his ear close to the door. But then, instead of knocking or trying the knob again, he straightened his arm and let a small pry-bar slide down from the inside of his jacket sleeve. He pressed the bar between the knob and the jamb, put some weight into it and popped the door.
Murton got up from the bench and started running that way.
__________
But he got tangled up in the ball players—there were ten or twelve of them on the half-court—and he ended up on the ground. “Jesus, Mister, you okay,” one of the kids asked. Murton ignored the boys, rolled onto his side and stood up in time to see Hector leaving Nichole Pope’s apartment. He turned just enough so Hector couldn’t see him, but now, facing the boys, he could see they were getting impatient with him. He made a show of dusting off his pants and straightening his shirt as he backed off the court toward the apartment complex. Once Hector was back in his car and around the corner, Murton began to run to Nichole’s door.
Over his shoulder he heard one of the boys say, “Fuck him. Come on, bang out.”
When he got to the door Murton wasn’t sure what he’d find. His first thought was a body—Nichole’s, but Hector hadn’t left in a rush. He’d simply walked away like no one was home. The wood was splintered around the jamb, little pieces of it on the ground right below the knob. Murton took out his gun, nudged the door open with his foot and took a quick peek. Nothing there. He went in hard, following his gun sight. Main room empty. He put his back to the wall, spun into the kitchen—a narrow dead-end space with the sink, cabinets and fridge all on one side. Empty. When he spun around he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror at the opposite end of the hall and almost fired. Two steps toward the bath took him to the single bedroom on his left. Another quick peek. Empty. The bi-fold closet doors stood open, a variety of women’s clothing hanging from the bar. The bed was neatly made. The apartment was empty and Nichole wasn’t there.
