Hour Game skamm-2

by David Baldacci

  She looked disappointed and sat back. “Every man has his enemies. A rich, successful man has more than most.”

  “Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Remmy, we’re just trying to get to the truth.”

  “So am I,” she retorted.

  King said, “With ‘enemies’ are you referring to business or personal?”

  The woman’s gaze swiveled to him now. “I’m sure I couldn’t say. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have funeral arrangements to attend to, now that I’ve finally gotten back my husband’s body from that place,” she said, undoubtedly referring to the undignified invasion of her husband’s remains at the morgue.

  “Remmy, we have more questions,” said Bailey.

  “And you know where to find me when you want to ask them,” she said.

  “Okay, we’ll need to talk to Savannah. Is she around?”

  Remmy had half risen and now stopped. “Why do you want to talk to her?”

  “She was at the hospital on the day Bobby died.”

  “So what?”

  “So that makes her someone I need to speak to,” said Bailey very firmly. “You know, Remmy, I saved your son’s life. I thought by that you’d realize I know what I’m doing.”

  King was waiting for her to erupt at this statement, but all she said was, “It might take a while. My daughter has never been an early riser.” She left the room.

  King couldn’t help himself from asking, “So you’re not discounting the two-killer angle, Chip?”

  “In a murder investigation I don’t discount anything. The fact that nothing was missing from Battle’s room doesn’t jibe with the other killings.” He looked at King and Michelle. “So what do you two think?”

  “I think the woman has her own agenda and is trying to get as much information out of us as we’re trying to get out of her,” answered Michelle promptly.

  “And I think she won this round handily,” said King with his gaze on Bailey.

  Chapter 37

  On the morning that the interrogation of the Battles was taking place, Kyle Montgomery sat in his apartment and fingered the new acoustical guitar he’d purchased with his drug profits. He strummed a few chords and sang a few words, his normal procedure when thinking intently. He finally put the guitar aside, slipped gloves on and pulled out a pencil and piece of paper and sat at his kitchen table. He thought about what to write and then how to write it. After several more minutes of contemplation he began to etch out large block letters. He made it halfway through, balled up the paper and threw it away. He did that twice more before settling on the final wording, chewing down a pencil in the process.

  He sat back and read over it three times. It would no doubt get the person’s attention; however, his dilemma was he didn’t know if he actually possessed any blackmail information. Yet the beauty of it was that if the person were guilty, the wording of the letter would surely do its work. And his next message would carry with it a request for money, to be delivered in a very safe way that he’d think of in the meantime. He wondered how much it would be worth and then ultimately decided he couldn’t determine that yet. He looked at his new guitar. One hour’s work had brought that to him. One hour! When he slaved during the day for pennies! Well, maybe not too much longer.

  He put the letter in an envelope, addressed it and then walked down to the corner mailbox and dropped it in. When the metal door of the postal box clanged shut, Kyle wondered for one terrifying second if he’d just made a huge blunder. However, that dread quickly left him. It was replaced by an even stronger emotion: greed.

  They waited for forty-five minutes, and Bailey was just about to leave the room and find one of the household staff when Savannah Battle finally tottered into the library.

  Where the mother had been all stone and ice, the daughter looked like a burning photograph a few seconds from curling up and disintegrating.

  “Hello, Savannah,” said King. “We’re sorry we have to bother you now.”

  If she said something in response, none could hear it. She just stood there dressed in baggy sweatpants and a William and Mary T-shirt with no bra underneath. She was barefoot, her hair a tangled mess. Her nose and cheeks were so reddened it looked like she’d dived headfirst into a bottle of rouge. And she was chewing on her nails.

  “Uh, Savannah, you want to take a seat?” asked Bailey.

  The woman just stood there staring at the floor, her finger in her mouth. Michelle finally rose, guided her to the couch, poured her a cup of coffee and handed it to her. “Drink it,” she said firmly.

  Savannah cradled the cup in both hands and took a sip.

  The ensuing interview was very frustrating. Savannah, when she did answer their questions, mumbled. When asked to repeat, she mumbled again. She’d gone to the hospital around lunchtime to see her father on the day he died. That much they managed to glean after several tedious attempts and misfires. She stayed about thirty minutes, saw no one and left. Her father was not conscious during that time. They didn’t bother asking her if she had any reason to believe someone might want to kill her father. That required a level of mental acuity that the girl simply wasn’t capable of right now. She’d been home the night of Bobby Battle’s death but wasn’t sure if anyone saw her.

  As she slowly walked out of the room, Michelle touched King on the arm. “You were right. Daddy’s little girl is rocked.”

  “But are we sure why?”

  Chip Bailey received a phone call that caused him to have to make a hasty departure.

  King and Michelle followed him to the front door, where King said, “We’ll just hang here. You know, deputy stuff.”

  Bailey didn’t look too pleased, but he had no grounds to argue the point.

  “You’re enjoying baiting him, aren’t you?” said Michelle after the man had left.

  “I look for the small pleasures of life wherever I can find them.”

  King and Michelle returned to the library, where Mason was clearing the tray.

  “Here, let me help you.” King reached over and pushed the coffee cups together, spilling the remains from one in the process.

  “Sorry,” said King. He dabbed up the spill with a napkin.

  “Thanks, Sean,” said Mason as he picked up the tray. They followed him into the enormous kitchen that was outfitted with professional-grade appliances and every gizmo a cook would need to transform food into art.

  King whistled. “I wondered how the Battles could dish up all that wonderful cuisine at those functions I attended.”

  Mason smiled. “First-class. Mrs. Battle wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  King perched on the edge of a table. “It’s a good thing you were still up when Remmy came home that night. What with everything she’s had to go through and all.”

  “It’s been hard for the whole family,” said Mason.

  “I bet it has. So she got here around eleven?”

  “Just that. I remember looking at my watch when I heard her drive up.”

  Michelle noted this down while King continued. “Were you still in the house when she got the phone call that Bobby had died?”

  He nodded. “I was just finishing up some things and about to head out when she came running down the stairs. She was frantic, half-dressed, words coming out all jumbled. Took me a full minute to calm her down to where I could even understand her.”

  “She said she called Eddie to come get her.”

  “Only he wasn’t home. I wanted to drive her to the hospital, but she told me to stay here in case anyone called. She left about ten minutes later. When she got back, she looked like a ghost, no light in her eyes at all.”

  Mason looked down, apparently embarrassed at his choice of words. “Anyway, then it turns out he was murdered. Now, Mrs. Battle’s a strong person. She can take a shot with the best of them. But two shots and that close together, that’s another story.”

  “She seemed very composed this morni
ng,” commented Michelle.

  “She’s resilient,” he said, bristling. “And she has to be strong for everyone else.”

  “Yes, Savannah seemed a little out of it. I guess she and her father were really very close,” said Michelle.

  Mason offered no comment.

  “Although she hasn’t been home that much over the last few years.”

  “Hardly at all,” said Mason. “Whether that’s a good or bad thing I’m sure I couldn’t say.”

  You already have, Mason, thought King. “Apparently, Savannah was home that night. I’m surprised that she didn’t go to the hospital with Remmy.”

  “I don’t know if she was home or not. If she was, I didn’t see her.”

  “Can I speak frankly, Mason?” said King.

  The man turned to him, looking a little surprised. “I guess so.”

  “Bobby’s death might not be connected to the other killings.”

  “Okay,” said Mason slowly.

  “So if he was killed by someone else, we have to start looking at motivations.”

  Mason didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “You mean one of the family?”

  “Not necessarily, but that can’t be discounted.” He eyed the man keenly. “You’ve been with them a long time. It’s easy to see you’re far more than the hired help.”

  “I’ve been with them through the good and the bad,” Mason said.

  “Tell us about the bad,” said King.

  “Look, if you’re trying to get me to say something that’ll hurt Mrs. Battle—”

  King interrupted. “All I’m trying to do is get to the truth, Mason.”

  “She would never have done anything like that!” he said sharply. “She loved Mr. Battle.”

  “And yet her wedding ring wasn’t on her finger.”

  Mason started for a moment and then said, “I believe it needed repairs. She didn’t want to risk further damage. I wouldn’t read any more into it.”

  Nice comeback, thought King. “Anyone else you can think of?”

  Mason thought about this but then shook his head. “I really couldn’t say. I mean, I don’t know anything like that,” he added quickly.

  Is it the former or the latter? wondered King. He produced one of his cards. “If something does occur to you, give us a call. We’re far nicer than the FBI,” he added.

  As Mason walked them out, King stopped in front of a bookcase containing numerous photos. One in particular had caught his eye. He showed it to Mason.

  “That’s Bobby Jr., Eddie’s twin. He was about fourteen when that picture was taken. He was born first by a few minutes; that’s why he was the junior.”

  “You can’t have been with the Battles that long,” said Michelle.

  “No. They’d bought this property and were building the house and they had the boys and they needed some help. I answered an ad and I’ve been here ever since. Other staff have come and gone, but I’ve always been here.” His voice trailed off. He snapped back and looked at King and Michelle staring at him. “They’ve treated me really well. I could retire if I wanted.”

  “Any plans to do that?” asked Michelle.

  “I can’t exactly abandon Mrs. Battle now, can I?”

  “I’m sure your presence here means a lot to her,” said King.

  Michelle looked at the young man’s unnatural features in the photo. “What was wrong with Bobby Jr.?”

  “He was severely mentally retarded. He was in bad shape when I started working for them. Then he got cancer and died soon after his eighteenth birthday.”

  “He was Eddie’s twin but Eddie’s fine,” said King. “Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Well, that’s what happened. They were fraternal twins.”

  “How did Eddie get along with his brother?”

  “Did everything for him. Couldn’t have been nicer. I think Eddie knew it was only by the grace of God that it wasn’t him.”

  “And Bobby Sr.?”

  “Mr. Battle was really busy back then, traveling all over. He wasn’t even here when Bobby Jr. died.” He added quickly, “I have no doubt he loved the boy, though.”

  “It must have been pretty traumatic for Remmy when Eddie was kidnapped.”

  “If it hadn’t been for Agent Bailey, she might have lost both her sons.”

  “Lucky he’s on the case again,” said King.

  They left the house, but when Michelle started to walk over to the car, King took her arm. “It’s a beautiful day. I feel like a stroll,” he said, giving her a look.

  “Where?”

  “You’ll see.” He took out of his pocket the tissue he had used to clean up the coffee spill and sniffed it. He smiled at the result.

  “What is it?” asked Michelle.

  “Not a huge surprise, but Remmy enjoys a little bourbon with her coffee.”

  Chapter 38

  King’s choice of venue took them to the rear grounds. They wandered over to the spot where they could see Remmy’s bedroom window. King gazed at the house where the servants lived and then back at their employer’s window.

  “If someone were really looking,” he said vaguely.

  Michelle said, “Mason definitely has a thing for Remmy. Maybe he hopes to become the new man of the estate.”

  King glanced over and saw the woman walking toward the stable.

  “Let’s go talk horses.” As he was turning away, an image at one of the second-story windows caught his attention.

  It was Savannah, staring at them. Yet she was gone so quickly that for an instant King wasn’t even sure she’d really been there. Yet she had been. And the look on her face was clear: she was terrified.

  They both greeted Sally Wainwright over by the stable. Her cheerful disposition wasn’t evident today.

  “God, I’m thinking about quitting,” she said.

  “Because Battle was murdered?” asked King.

  “And four other people,” said Sally as she looked over her shoulder as though for an attacker. “This was a nice, quiet town when I got here. Right now I’d probably be safer in the Middle East.”

  “I wouldn’t do anything rash,” said Michelle. “You’ll probably live to regret it.”

  “I just want to live,” Sally shot back.

  King nodded. “Well, then maybe you can help us find the killer before he strikes again.”

  Sally looked shocked. “Me! I don’t know anything.”

  “You may know something important, only you don’t know that it is,” said King. “For instance, can you think of anyone who might have intended Bobby Battle harm?”

  Sally shook her head—too quickly, in King’s mind.

  “Come on, Sally, whatever you say goes no further.”

  “Sean, I really don’t know anything.”

  He decided to try a different tack. “Why don’t I throw out some possibilities, and then you can jump in if they trigger anything?”

  She looked doubtful. “Well?”

  “Battle was a wealthy man. People benefit from his death, right?”

  “But I suppose Mrs. Battle would get most of it. And Savannah has her trust fund. I don’t think she needs any more money.”

  “Eddie?”

  Sally glanced in the direction of the carriage house. “They don’t appear to be scraping dimes together. And I know for a fact that Dorothea Battle makes big bucks.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Michelle.

  “My best friend does her nails. Dorothea likes to brag.”

  “Well, some people never have enough money,” suggested King.

  “I just don’t see that being the reason,” said Sally stubbornly.

  “If not money, then what else?” He stared pointedly at the young woman. “I guess you probably haven’t been here long enough to know about Bobby’s adulterous past.”

  “Oh, I know more than you think,” blurted out Sally. “I mean—” She stopped and looked at her dirty boots.

  “It’s okay, Sally,” assured King, hiding hi
s pleasure that she’d bit on his bait so quickly. “Do you know a lot about that because maybe Bobby made advances toward you?”

  Sally shook her head. “No, it was nothing like that.”

  “So what, then?” pressed King. “It really could be important, Sally.”

  She remained silent a bit longer and then said, “Come on with me.”

  They walked past the stables and servants’ house and down a paved roadway, eventually arriving at a large brick two-story building with eight old-fashioned wooden garage doors. There was an antique gas pump with a glass bubble top out front.

  “This is Mr. Battle’s private garage. He has, or had, a collection of antique cars. I guess Mrs. Battle owns them now.” She pulled out a key and they entered.

  The floor was covered in a black and white checkerboard pattern. The shelves held dusty trophies from antique car shows. In front of seven of the doors, sitting perfectly aligned with one another, were vintage cars ranging from a Stutz Bearcat to an imposing vehicle with cloth top and a round grille that the placard on the stand in front proclaimed to be a 1906 six-cylinder Franklin.

  “I’d heard that Bobby collected old cars, but I didn’t know his collection was this extensive,” said King as he looked around.

  “He has a bunch more on the second floor. There’s a special elevator that takes them up and down,” said Sally. “He used to have a full-time mechanic to take care of them.” She walked down to the last space and stood. King and Michelle joined her. There was no car here. They looked at her questioningly.

  She hesitated for an instant. “Look, you didn’t hear this from me,” she said. They both nodded in agreement. “Well, there used to be a car that sat right here. It was huge, you know, one of those big Rolls-Royces you see in the old movies?”

  “What happened to it?” asked Michelle.

  Sally hesitated again, as though debating whether to tell them.

  Sensing this, King said, “Sally, you’ve gone this far.”

  “Okay, it was over three years ago. It was late at night, and I’d slipped down here just to look around. I wasn’t supposed to have a key, but the mechanic who used to work here took a liking to me and gave me one. I was inside looking around when I heard a car coming. It was then that I noticed that one of the cars wasn’t there. The door started opening and I saw the headlights. I was scared to death and sure I was going to be fired if they found me here. I ran and hid over there.” She pointed to a tower of fifty-gallon oil drums that sat in one corner. “The Rolls pulled into the garage and the motor was cut off. Mr. Battle got out and he looked bad. I mean really bad.”