Tom pulled his hand from the side of his pants and inspected his knuckles. “Either way,” he said. Then he softened his voice. “It wasn’t so bad when we were both working, but I miss you not being here with me.”
“I miss you too darling, I do. But my patients need me.” Rhonda watched the blood fill the cracks in the broken skin of Tom’s fingers and saw that her husband needed her too. “Tom, really, let me see your hand. I’ve got bandages in the trunk. Let me patch that up for you.”
“Go on to work, Rhonda,” he said. “I’m fine. I think I’ll live.”
Tom was right.
He lived.
* * *
The Sids batted the idea back and forth—this was a week ago—right before what they called ‘Go Time.’ Junior wanted to be creative. Senior wanted to be practical. Junior argued that creativity could be useful and work to their advantage. If they varied their methods enough, the fucking cops would be running around chasing their tails and probably wouldn’t put two and two together right away, if ever. It would give them all the cover they’d need.
Senior argued that creativity could, and probably would lead to mistakes and missed opportunities. “Besides,” he had said in the end, “With this many killings, you’re talking about a lot of creativity. Be better if we keep it simple. We’ve got the guns and the silencers, and the van is ready. Let’s just take our shots and be done with it.”
“Those fucking silencers are pretty cool,” Junior said. “Gotta love Indiana…legal silencers and all.”
“That might end up changing,” Senior said.
“Yeah, probably will,” Junior said. “Too late now though.”
So they settled on practical. That was a week ago. But now, they sat in the van across the street from Beans Coffee shop, Junior at the wheel, Senior at the trigger, and they watched as Rhonda Rhodes pulled to the curb and walked inside. The glare of Rhonda’s stark white nurse’s uniform was almost too bright for the scope. Senior had to squint to keep from being temporarily blinded by the whiteness of the damned thing. He followed her track into the store, but did not pull the trigger. He’d catch her on the way out. That was the plan.
Go time.
* * *
Rhonda Rhodes parked her car in front of her favorite stop off, Beans Coffee Shop, gathered her paperwork, then walked inside and took a seat at a table by the window. Beans was usually busy during the morning rush, but later in the day slowed just enough that Rhonda could sit in peace for thirty minutes or so and tend to her paperwork. The dying, bless their ever-lasting hearts, created a lot of paper.
Beans was unique not for their quaint name, but because instead of counter service, they employed actual wait staff who would come to your table and take your order. Plus, their prices were right—two bucks a cup with free refills—unlike those newer fancy-schmancy places that were popping up on every blessed corner that made you wait in line for a paper cup with different sizes, the names of which no one ever really understood. Her favorite waiter approached the table with his usual smile in place.
“Good morning, Rhonda,” the waiter said. “Get you your usual?”
“Yes, please,” she said as she spread her paperwork across the table. “I’ve got quite the schedule today.”
“I’ll bet you do a lot of good for a lot of people,” he said, and when he did, Rhonda felt like he meant it.
“I do what I can. I’ll probably be doing this until the day I die.”
“Well, our coffee will keep you going until then, that’s for sure. Be right back.”
The waiter returned a few minutes later with a large mug full of brew and a muffin wrapped in cellophane. “Muffin’s on the house today, Rhonda. Enjoy.”
Rhonda smiled and said thank you, but the waiter remained in place. “Mind if I ask you something, Rhonda?”
“Sure.”
“How do you do it? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you do, you and others like you, but to serve the dying like that, day after day, I just don’t think I could do it, you know?”
Rhonda set her pen down, took a sip of coffee and looked the young man in the eyes. “Everyone in here is dying. The difference is, some know it, and others don’t. The ones I serve, the ones with the Big C, they know it. I just help them during the final part of their lives. I’ll tell you this though, the suffering I’ve seen. My land, sometimes it’s almost too much. I pray to the lord every night that when my time comes I go quick. I sometimes think I’d rather take a bullet than to suffer through even half of what I’ve seen.”
The waiter glanced at his other tables. One of his other customers held a cup in the air, eyebrows raised. “Hey, I better get back to work. I wouldn’t worry, Rhonda. The work you’re doing, you’ll probably live forever.”
“Well, I hope you’re right,” she said.
Thirty minutes later, when Rhonda Rhodes stepped out of the coffee shop, the Sids got busy. Junior had the engine running already—nothing screamed get-away vehicle like an engine start after a gunshot, silenced or not. Senior had been lying on his back on the floor of the van, the rifle held at port arms. When Junior said “Good to go,” Senior sat up and put the business end of the barrel through the custom hole in the side of the van, just under the windows in the back. He squinted through the scope, drew a bead on his target, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. When he did, the silenced bullet smashed through Rhonda Rhodes’ sternum and chewed through her chest organs like the Big C on speed.
The waiter had gone behind the counter to put Rhonda’s cash in the till and brew another pot of their house blend. As he turned back around he saw Rhonda walk out the door and down the sidewalk toward her car. When the bullet hit her chest it lifted her from the pavement and tossed her back, her arms and legs flying forward. The waiter would later tell the police it looked like—at least for a moment—that her body hung in the air in the shape of a big C, and wasn’t that ironic because that what she always called it, the big C. But the cops didn’t care about irony so the waiter decided he would not tell them of his comment to Rhonda about her living forever, because as anyone will tell you, with the cops, you just never really know.
So, as it went, the waiter was wrong, but Rhonda’s prayers were answered. She went quick, dead before she hit the ever-lasting pavement. The hole in her chest left a red stain on her throwback whites that looked like a rose petal on a blanket of snow in the middle of an otherwise fine summer day.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The court was not on schedule and I ended up waiting at the courthouse for just shy of three hours for testimony in a previous case. My cell phone was set on silent but I felt the vibration and pulled the phone out and checked the screen. A text from Ron Miles. After I read the message I leaned forward across the bar and tapped the prosecutor on the shoulder. “I’ve got a situation,” I said. “I need to leave.”
“You’re joking, right? We’ve got a situation right here. It’s your testimony that’s gonna keep this prick locked up. You want to blow that?”
“It can’t be helped. I’m in the middle of this thing and I’ve got to go.”
The prosecutor turned in his chair and looked at me. “Look, I know we’re behind schedule here, but the defense is just about to wrap it up, then we’ll be able to get you on the stand and out of here. If you’ll just wait for a little—”
The judge tapped her gavel, leaned forward from the bench and spoke into her microphone. She sort of whispered into the device, and it sounded like she was either mocking my attempt not to disturb the proceedings, or trying to be funny. Most likely it was the former. “Gentlemen, is there something you’d like to share with the court?”
The prosecutor turned his attention forward. “No, your Honor. I’m sorry for the—”
I stood from my seat and looked at the Judge. “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”
The prosecutor turned back to me and spoke through his teeth. “What the hell are you doing? Do you want to be held in contempt? Sit down.
” The judge raised her eyebrows at me.
“Urgent matter, your Honor.”
She seemed to consider this for a moment, then said, “Step up. This better be good Detective.”
I crossed the bar with the prosecutor on my heels and walked up to the bench. “I appreciate the Court’s indulgence your Honor.” The judge made a circular motion with her hand in a ‘get on with it’ sort of way. The prosecutor, I noticed, had taken a sudden interest in the tops of his shoes. “Judge, a somewhat urgent situation has come to my attention. I’m sure your Honor has heard about the murders earlier today of one of our State Troopers, along with one of our city’s more prominent citizens, Mr. Franklin Dugan, at his home.”
The judge leaned forward and looked at me over the top of her glasses. Judge Andrea Moore was the senior judge in the superior court system and was not known for her leniency.
“Yes, Detective. I have heard. But what does that have to do with me, my court, or this case?”
“Nothing at all your Honor.”
“Then why are we speaking, Detective?”
This wasn’t going exactly as I had hoped. “Your Honor, it has just come to my attention that there has been another murder, just a few blocks away from here as a matter of fact. My—”
“Are you psychic, Detective?”
“Uh, beg your pardon, your Honor?”
“I said are you psychic? You as well as anyone should know we do not allow electronic devices of any kind in the courtroom. So, either you’re psychic, or you’re breaking the law in my courtroom. Which is it, Detective?”
I opened my mouth to answer, then thought better of what I wanted to say and chewed on the inside of my cheek for a moment instead.
The judge leaned back, smacked her gavel against the sound block and said, “The court will be in recess for five minutes. Detective, I’ll see you in chambers. Now.”
Thirty seconds later Judge Moore sat at her desk while I stood on the other side. “You’re killing me here, Jonesy. I’m already over three hours behind. What the hell is going on?”
“I need to leave, Andrea. There’s been another shooting, and that makes three today.”
“Oh come on, Jonesy. This is Indy. We have shootings almost everyday. What makes this such an emergency?” She reached for a pitcher of water and poured two glasses. “Water?”
“No, thanks. Listen, we’re not sure, at least completely sure that is, that this latest one is connected. But the crimes scene techs are saying, and initial witness statements seem to back it up, that it was a high powered sniper rifle. And it was silenced. Broad daylight, lady goes down right on the sidewalk, shot in the chest, and no one heard a thing. What are the chances?”
“It sounds to me like you’ve got plenty of people on the scene right now.”
I took a deep breath. “Judge…” He paused, then started over. “Andrea, do you remember last year when you came to me about that little high speed chase your son was involved in?”
“It was hardly a high speed chase, Detective. He was a passenger in the vehicle, and he says, and I believe him by the way, that he did everything in his power to convince the driver to stop the car.”
“Uh huh. Took him over four miles to do it though.”
“Make your point, Jonesy.”
“My point is, you brought that to me, and I took care of it for you, did I not?”
“Really? You’ve got this one bit of juice with me and this is how you want to spend it?”
No, I don’t. “I guess I’ll have to,” I said.
“Alright, take off then. Use the side door. I’ll handle the lawyers.”
“Are you going to reschedule for a later date on the docket?”
“Are you kidding? No way. The prosecutor doesn’t need you, and the ink isn’t even dry on the public defender’s Bar exam. The defendant isn’t going anywhere except back to a cell.”
“So I wasted my , uh, ‘juice’, as you called it?”
“Yep. Ain’t it fun though? I hate it when someone has something on me. Anyway, we’re square now. Go catch your shooter, sharp stuff. I don’t like it when people shoot up my city.”
“It may be your courtroom, Andrea, but it’s my city,” I said as I reached for the door handle. “Stop in at the bar sometime, I’ll buy you a beer.” The judge made a go away motion with the back of her hand, so I went away.
* * *
Ten minutes later I rolled up to the scene and found Ron Miles speaking with two uniforms from the city. “Jonesy, Jesus Christ. What a cluster fuck. I’m trying not to get ahead of myself here, but this is too coincidental, don’t you think?” He pressed on before I could answer. “First Burns, and that banker guy, Dugan, and now this.” He turned and pointed at the victim laying on the sidewalk. I followed his motion and then looked inside the plate glass windows of the coffee shop. Three uniforms and two plain clothes were inside talking to the patrons.
“Tell me what’s what, Ron.”
“Okay. Victim’s name is Rhonda Rhodes. I.D. on her person confirms. Looks like she was a Hospice nurse according to documents in her possession and initial statements from the coffee shop’s employees. She’s a regular here. Five or six days a weeks, again according to the employees. Married, husband is a retired fireman.”
“He have an alibi?”
“Yeah, a good one too. He was just down the street from his residence speaking with one of his neighbors, guy named Wimberley about replacing their driveway.”
“Has he been notified yet?”
“Yep. He’s here now,” Miles said, then pointed to the back of the EMS van. “Getting his vitals checked by the EMS guys. He’s wrecked, man.”
“Alright, go on.”
Miles took his notebook out, flipped through a few pages for a second, then continued. “Victim pulls up, parks along the curb, over there, then goes inside, sits down to have a cup of joe and do her paperwork. Guy that waited on her says she was here for about twenty, twenty-five minutes tops, drank her coffee while working on her paper, then gathers her shit, pays her bill and leaves. Waiter says he was putting her money in the register as she walked out. Says he saw her get hit. Said the impact of the round lifted her up and sent her flying backwards. Didn’t hear a thing. He said it was like watching a movie scene with the sound turned off or something.”
“Okay, keep him here. I’m going to want to talk to him.”
“You got it, Jonesy.”
“Any other witnesses?”
“Nope. At least not yet.”
“All right. Keep the uniforms talking to people. Let’s go speak to the husband.”
Tom Rhodes sat in the back of the EMS unit on one of the side benches, his forearms resting across his thighs, his head down, hangdog. I nodded at the paramedics and asked them to give us a few minutes. They climbed out and Ron Miles and I sat on the opposite bench across from Rhodes. Miles spoke first. “Mr. Rhodes, this is Detective Jones. He’d like to speak with you for a moment, ask a few questions if you’re up for it.”
Tom Rhodes did not look up for it, I thought, but the loved ones of the victims rarely do. “Mr. Rhodes, as Detective Miles just said, I’m Detective Virgil Jones. I’m sorry for your loss, sir. I know you’re going to think the timing is lousy, but the sooner we can get the information we need, the better our chances are of catching who ever did this.”
Tom Rhodes looked up at us, at me, and shook his head. “You don’t look like a cop. You damn sure don’t look like a detective.”
I gave him a sympathetic grin. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Sometimes that’s the whole point though. Not to look like a cop.”
“I guess. I really wouldn’t know.”
“I understand you’re a retired fireman?”
“That’s right.”
“I want you to know that I have a tremendous amount of respect for guys like you and what you do.”
He nodded, looked at nothing. “It’s been my experience that people who make that kind of statement are people w
ho have had a traumatic experience with fire.”
“You’re absolutely right. I was just a child, but it changed me. Tell you the truth, I always sort of thought I might end up in your line of work.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Aw, you know, my dad was a cop. Marion County Sherriff until he retired.”
He seemed to process this information for a minute. “Jones. You said your name was Jones? Is Mason Jones your old man?”
“That’s right. Did you know him?”
“No, not really. Just enough to recognize him if we were on scene together. Hey, always voted for him though.”
“I’m sure he appreciated that, sir. Listen, I’ve got some questions, but tell me about your day so far, with your wife.”
He put a little gravel in his voice. “Well it’s been just fucking splendid, Detective.” Then he caught himself and raised a hand in apology.
“What I mean, Mr. Rhodes—“
“Call me Tom, okay.”
“Okay. What I mean, Tom, is could you tell me about your day with your wife up to the point she left for work?”
He shook his head and chewed the bottom of his lip. “There’s nothing to tell. It was a normal day. We got up, had breakfast and went about our day. Then a little later, hell just a little while ago, she left for work. I know she likes to stop off here for coffee before getting to it. I think it helps her—or helped her I guess I should say—to clear her head, know what I mean?”
“I think I do. Anything out of the ordinary, today in particular?”
“No, nothing.”
“Was she acting strange, like maybe something was bothering her?”
“No, absolutely not. If anything it was the other way around.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it was me. I was the one who was acting strange. Well, hell, that’s not right. I wasn’t acting strange. I was sort of pissed off if you want to know the truth of it.”
Voodoo Daddy (A Virgil Jones Mystery) Page 8
