by Katy Munger
"The old man was just visiting his daughter," I lied. "He left today for Atlanta. You'll never find him. But maybe the information will help put you on the right track."
"Or maybe you're going to help me track him down." His voice softened. "Listen, thanks for the tip anyway." He was silent for a moment. "I can be a jerk. You've been a big help. I wish there was some way..." His voice trailed off. I didn't prompt him to finish. Best to leave that avenue open.
I hung up more wired than I had been since this whole case began. Because now I knew the identity of the tall guy who talked funny. I just needed to nail his lady friend. And I would do it by taking the most direct route possible. If I knew my people, he wouldn't stay silent for long. He didn't have the nerve. First, I would stop by my office to pick up my gun. Then I would do a little fishing of my own.
Bobby D. was napping when I arrived and unimpressed with my burst of energy. "Jesus," he said when I pushed his feet off his desk. "Can't a guy get a little well- deserved rest?"
"I'll let you know when you deserve it. Where's today's paper?"
"On your desk," he said irritably, checking the trashcan to see if his new six pack was sufficiently iced yet. "Next to a faxed copy of those incorporation papers. Closing in?" He did not look hopeful.
"I might be," I said. "I just need to check today's campaign schedule."
"We're going to make the triple fee deadline?" he asked, his face transformed into a seedy Santa-like beaming. "Jesus, you like to cut it close. We've only got until tomorrow night."
"We'll make it," I said, anxious to track down my quarry. According to the N&O, Stoney was in Raleigh for the afternoon but scheduled to speak at a dinner in Winston-Salem that night. I checked the time. His entourage would just now be mobilizing for the two-hour drive out of town.
I wanted to dash out the door, but checked the faxed incorporation papers first. I was rewarded for my diligence. The company that had invested in Thornton Mitchell's failed Neuse River Park project was not Sand Dollar Limited like Bobby had said. It was "Sand-Dahler" and that made a big difference. A very big difference indeed. In fact, it was just what the doctor had ordered.
I checked the clip of my .380 and pulled the slide back to eject the first bullet. Then I made sure the safety was on. No sense shooting my toe off until I had to. I was wearing jeans and a tee shirt, which made it tough to conceal a gun. So I did what any self-respecting lady dick would do: I stashed it in my pocketbook. I grabbed a beer from the trash can on my way out the door and tucked it in next to my gun. I would celebrate later, I was sure. If my hunch proved correct.
The receptionist at Maloney headquarters was not pleased to see me again. I suppose I should have been flattered that she remembered me at all. The frown that crossed her pretty little face stayed in place until she had returned with the object of my interest.
Adam Stoltz didn't look much friendlier. He glanced at my jeans, then at his watch, and then at a clock on the wall.
"I get the point," I said. "This will only take a minute. A routine couple of questions is all."
He frowned. "I'm leaving in half an hour and I have to go over some items with Stoney first."
"Don't worry," I assured him. "I just want to show you a photo in the car." I looked around me, feigning nervousness. "It's highly confidential. Can you come out?" I cocked my head toward the exit.
He sighed in annoyance, but followed me out. I had parked at the far end of the lot, forcing him to walk a good hundred yards before we reached my Valiant.
"Jesus," he muttered as I unlocked the doors. "I should have worn my hiking boots."
I motioned for him to get in. For the first time, I saw alarm flicker in his eyes. "Look," I said, acting impatient. "You said to let you know first if I came up with anything so Stoney could prepare a statement. This is it. I'm keeping my promise."
He climbed in without another word. He really should have greased those wheels in his head. I could hear them turning.
I joined him in the front seat, locked both doors, put my pocketbook on my lap, reached inside, and aimed the gun at his chest so that the outline of it against the fabric was obvious. I didn't have one in the hole, but he didn't know that.
"I have a gun pointed at your heart," I told him calmly.
"What?!" His head hit the ceiling and he reached for the door knob.
"Don't move," I warned him. "Just sit back and shut up."
He obeyed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he gulped for air.
"I know you were there the night that Thornton Mitchell was killed," I explained quietly. "I have a witness who helped you push a car out of the mud. You were wearing a Yankees baseball cap. You were afraid."
"The old man," he said sourly, looking out the window. "She said we ought to get rid of him, too. I should have listened to her."
"You should never have listened to her in the first place." He had given me an opening I hadn't expected. I didn't know who she was, but he thought I did. Maybe I could trick him into telling me.
"She's pretty bossy, isn't she?" I said. "Must get under your skin."
Something in my voice gave me away.
"You don't know who she is, do you?" he said, sitting up straight. I moved the gun and he sat back against the seat cushion. "You have no idea who I was with. She stayed in the shadows. God, she's smarter than us all."
I could try to bluff or I could go ahead and scare the shit out of him. I opted for the most reliable route. I removed the .380 from my pocketbook and placed it on my lap with the barrel pointed at his crotch.
"I'm not really in the mood to fuck around," I explained. "So let me put it this way: you can try to protect her or you can tell me who she is. First let me tell you why it's in your best interests to spill your guts. Okay? One, you need to spill your guts before I do. Understand?" I jiggled the gun.
His eyes were trained on me, silent and wide. He nodded nervously.
"Number two, the state of North Carolina is all too happy to impose the death penalty in capital murder cases. If this woman is smart enough to keep her identity hidden, she's smart enough to pin the murder on you. I don't think you did it. I don't think you have the nerve. I don't think you have the temperament. I don't think you're that kind of guy. If you tell me who she is and if you cooperate with the police by testifying in court, there's a good chance you can live. In fact, who knows what kind of deal a good lawyer could cut for you under those circumstances. But you aren't going to get anywhere except pointed down a long hallway toward the death chamber if you don't tell me right here and right now who you were with the night that Thornton Mitchell was murdered. That's it. That's all. Tell me and save your life, maybe even your career, if you have a good enough story for the jury."
He went for it without a moment's hesitation. Call it the ultimate in spin control. "But it wasn't my fault," he said. "I had no idea she would shoot him. She said it was only to talk, to work things out, that he was trying to blackmail her. When she opened the trunk of her car, I thought she was getting out a flashlight. I didn't know she had a shotgun. I'd never even seen one before that night." His voice squeaked like a boy in puberty.
"Who is she?" I interrupted. I had my money on the mystery girlfriend.
He told me. His version was precise and well thought out. Either he was telling the truth or he had anticipated this moment. The only time he showed any surprise was when I asked about Dr. Robert Dahler.
"You know about that?" he asked.
"I know," I said.
He talked some more and I listened some more. Then I tucked the gun away in my purse and started the car.
"Where are we going?" he asked in alarm.
"Relax," I said. "We're going to see a friend of mine."
"I have to go with Stoney," he protested. "We have a dinner in Winston-Salem tonight."
"That part of your life is over," I told him. "Get used to it now."
He gave me no trouble during the drive. I parked illegally and we took
the stairs instead of the elevator. I didn't even have to use my gun as an incentive. Adam Stoltz marched stiffly up the steps, head back, as if he were already a dead man walking.
I found Bill Butler in front of an automatic coffee machine staring morosely into his cup. His eyes locked with mine when he saw me.
"Brought you a present," I said. "We need some place private."
He looked at Adam Stoltz and then at the gleam in my eye. "In here," he said, pushing open a conference room door with a foot. "Right this way."
We sat at a table and Adam told his story. I drank my victory beer and listened to it again. Bill Butler didn't say a word. When it was over, he looked at me in astonishment.
"The mother?" he asked incredulously. "Stoney's mother?"
"The mother of all mothers," I said.
Chapter Thirteen
It turned into a late night, though, compared to Adam Stoltz, I had little to complain about. When I left him around ten, at the conclusion of the initial interview, he was huddled with the two lawyers he had called as soon as he realized that he should never have opened his mouth in the first place. Bill Butler had dangled the word "deal" in front of that northern boy like a hungry man dangling rotten meat in front of a crab. Adam was ready to bite—he just wanted to make sure he cut the very best deal he could. In the meantime, he was in custody and under orders to speak to no one in the Maloney campaign. He'd had no problem sounding sick as a dog when he phoned campaign headquarters and informed them he had taken ill. Just to be safe, Bill hovered over him during the call, his hand above the disconnect button. The two lawyers sat mute, their minds silently calculating exactly what they might demand for their client.
After the call, Bill and I retired to the hall while Adam and his lawyers figured out their poker hand. For someone who had just been bested, Bill was quite the gentleman.
"I apologize, Casey," he told me and I had to give the man credit—he looked me right in the eye when he said it. "I misjudged you. You didn't have to bring this to me and I want to thank you."
"No problem," I told him. "Better you than the SBI."
He held my gaze and I felt those butterflies nibbling at my stomach again. Never had hard work and exhaustion looked so good on one man. I wanted to run my fingers through his gray-flecked hair but managed some restraint. One day, I promised myself, one day.
"How about a drink?" he said. "A real one? After we wrap the deal?"
"Deal," I said. "On the drink, I mean. But what's the deal on the deal?"
He told me what he wanted to do. He couldn't do it without me. That was the part I liked the best. I thought it over and agreed on two conditions: no SBI and I had to remain anonymous.
"I'll risk moving ahead without the SBI," he agreed. "They haven't returned my phone calls in two days anyway. I can come up with a cover, say we were just going out there to talk to her. But keeping you anonymous is going to be hard if this works out. The press will be all over it."
"Tell them I work undercover for you and you can't blow my identity. What's a little lie between friends?"
He agreed and returned to the conference room to outline his conditions to Adam's lawyers. I waited for him downstairs in my car, happy for the fresh air and time alone. I was starting to feel anxious and miserable, no doubt having caught it from Adam Stoltz. That always happens to me. I can't be around lowlifes without feeling like a lowlife. I can't tolerate unhappiness without taking it on. It's a good thing I didn't grow up to be a shrink.
An hour later, Bill and I were sitting in the darkest corner of a transvestite bar on Morgan Street. It was the only place downtown that we could find open without going where we would be recognized.
"You're not going to pull off a wig and announce you're a woman, are you?" I asked him. "Because that would kill a lot of my fantasies."
He smiled. The wrinkles around his mouth crinkled slowly as if he were unused to wearing a grin. "Your fantasies are safe with me," he said, touching my hand. Just then the willowy black waitress arrived with our drinks. I wanted to rip off her falsies and stuff them down her throat for interrupting at such a delicate moment, but I admired her sequined getup too much to mar her illusion.
He didn't touch my hand again, but he did relax. I could have stayed in that dark corner with Bill Butler all night long but we had too much to go over—and too much at stake—to begin the next day slowed down by hangovers. Instead, we reviewed the game plan several times for flaws and discussed the best place to hide a wire.
"Between my breasts," I insisted. "Where else? That woman is not going fishing between these babies, believe me."
Bill stared at my chest. "It might muffle the sound," he said dubiously.
"I'll let you personally place the mike and check it out. Okay?"
He nodded. "I'm something of an expert."
"I'll bet."
We agreed I would avoid the office the next day and wait at home until he called. It would be a long day, I knew, but I was too superstitious to hurry the process. It wouldn't work if Sandy Jackson suspected anything—or if Adam Stoltz got cold feet. He was trouble enough as it was.
"Do I have to bring him along?" I asked.
"Yes, you do," Bill replied. "You'll need him to convince her you're on the level. Don't worry. If she's the kind of person you say she is, she'll have no trouble believing your motives and she'll just think he's nervous because he's scared."
"What about me?" I asked. "How do I explain away my own knocking knees?"
"You have knees?" He peeked under the table at them. "Why do I have a feeling that you're going to be the least nervous one of us all?"
He smiled. I smiled. My thoughts turned from business. I brought them back and bid him adieu.
By morning, I was ready and rested. I called Bobby D. and let him know where I was, cautioning him to stave off everyone but a few select callers. But I didn't tell him what was going on. Bobby likes to trade information as much as he likes to buy it and this was too important to risk.
The morning passed as if it were a week. I knew Bill was meeting with the department's attorneys to deal with the legalities and hand-picking a backup team he could trust. When the phone rang around noon, I was sure he was calling with a repeat of his explicit instructions about what I could and could not say without endangering the case. I picked up the telephone without screening the call first.
"Casey," a breathless voice announced. "What's going on? I called you at the office and that fat guy said to try you here. Why are you home?" A faint wheeze lurked beneath the voice. I could hear traffic whizzing by in the background. Frank Waters—calling from the interstate.
"I can't tell you everything right now," I said. "But get back here by tonight and I'll give you the story of your life plus the footage you need to start a whole new career."
"You're kidding? What's it about?"
I told him enough to extract a promise that he would be waiting by his phone at his station office all evening for my instructions. "I'm in Virginia near Petersburg," he said. "I'll be back by four."
"Stay low," I warned him. "And remember—just you and a cameraman. You have to stay hidden until we come out the front door. You'll know when to approach because backup will start swarming all over the lawn. Don't let the cops see you until then. And when you're filming, I don't want any zooming in on me. I have a lot of personal reasons for staying out of the limelight."
"Got it," he said quickly, as well he should. For the career boost I was about to give him, he owed me at least his firstborn child.
"Make a big deal about the arresting officer," I told him. I explained who Bill Butler was, gave him some background, and said he had been a maverick during the investigation, always questioning the official lines of inquiry and refusing to be swayed by false evidence. It was a big fat lie but it sounded good and it would make Bill look good. I'd have a friend for life. One right in the middle of the Raleigh Police Department. And Shrimpboat Shorty could just kiss my refrigerator butt whe
n all was said and done.
The rest of the afternoon passed by more quickly. I took my .380 out of my pocketbook and practiced drawing it from the back of my waistband. Reach around, quick tug, half turn, extend, and squeeze. I felt like Emma Peel by the time Bill Butler called.
"It's on," he said. "Adam's going to make the call in an hour. She's on her way back from some fundraiser in New Bern. He says she has a dinner in Raleigh tonight and he'll try for after that."
"I want to be there when he calls her," I told him. "The more I can find out about her and what she's thinking, the better."
"Better hurry," he said, hanging up.
I made it to Raleigh in twenty minutes, fast enough that Bill checked his watch twice. "I guess the highway patrol was at lunch."
"No sense taking chances," I said.
Adam Stoltz was dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit that hung from his body like loose skin. His face was a parchment white, as if a vampire had sucked out all his blood overnight. And he looked about twenty years less confident.
"I guess you got your deal," I said to him. His lawyers stared at me like I just flashed the guy. Adam said nothing.
The table had been cleared of old coffee cups and was now dominated by a Star Trek-like circular phone system and recording device. Bill and a technician fiddled with the controls so long I wanted to scream, but at last Adam made the call.
"Maloney Headquarters," a perky voice chirped. "Vote for a better Carolina."
"Molly?" Adam said, his voice quavering. "It's Adam."
"Adam? How are you feeling? I heard you had the flu or something. Do you want me to get you anything from the store?" Her genuine concern permeated the cold steel atmosphere of the tense conference room. Ah, for simpler times.
"It's pretty bad," he said. "But I'm okay. Don't worry." He sounded like a bullfrog about to collapse from the heat. The boy may have had nerves of steel about politics, but he sure didn't have the temperament for crime. "Is Sandy there? I need to talk to her."
The girl's voice dropped. "Sure you're feeling well enough? She's in some kind of a temper. She had a fight with Stoney and she's mad enough to spit. She threw a stack of bumper stickers at Roger."
