The Dirty Secret

by Brent Wolfingbarger

  Rikki looked at the sheriff, who did not bat an eye (good or fake). “We don’t know yet, Dave,” Vaughn said. “We’re still waiting for the ballistics results, but I smell a rat.”

  Dave nodded. “I think we all do. When I saw him ten days ago, Jack was excited about his firm getting a big investment from some foreign company. Bart says that deal fell through last week. But Tabatha says everything’s still moving forward.” He scanned their eyes. “You know anything more concrete?”

  “That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Vaughn replied.

  Dave turned to face Rikki. “What about you, Rik?” he asked, using her old high school nickname. “You were Jack’s lawyer. Did he mention anything about this deal to you?”

  Rikki’s jaw muscles tightened. “You’re asking me to violate the attorney-client privilege. You know I can’t do that.”

  “Your client is dead, Rikki,” Dave shot back. Seeing a spark of defiance flicker in her eyes, he softened his words. “And the privilege only applies to secrets and confidences. Is that company’s identity something Jack would want you to guard after his death?”

  Through narrowed eyelids, Rikki’s gaze bore into Dave, making him feel like an ant writhing under a magnifying glass in the summer sun. “Probably not,” she said slowly, and Dave breathed a sigh of relief. “Without discussing the deal’s specifics, the company that inquired about forming a partnership with McCallen Resources was called Petromica.”

  Dave felt his chest tighten. “Are you absolutely sure about that?”

  Rikki looked at him quizzically. “Without question. Petromica.”

  Dave placed his hand over his mouth, realizing it had dropped open.

  “Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?” Rikki blurted. “What’s going on?”

  Dave shook his head, gathering his senses. “Have you heard of Dmitri Mazniashvili?” he asked. Rikki nodded; Sheriff Vaughn shook his head negatively. “The guy who creatively liberated some of the former Soviet Union’s oil and gas reserves back in the day … The guy whose mission in life is to keep Jonathan Royal out of the White House. That guy?”

  “Yeah?” Rikki replied. “What does he have to do with this situation?”

  “He owns a controlling interest in Petromica.”

  Her eyes widened. Then a woman began wailing pitifully.

  Turning around, Dave saw Tabatha standing by Jack’s closed casket. Wearing a black dress and sheer black hose, her left hand rested on the coffin. A shorter woman with wavy bleach-blonde hair and a PermaTan rubbed her back.

  “How could he have left me like this, Betsy?” the widow sobbed. “Oh, God! This is so unfair! What am I going to do without Jack?”

  Nice, Dave thought cynically. She’d make a great instructor for Histrionics 101.

  Approaching the casket, Dave saw two framed photographs at its head. One was a large family portrait that obviously was taken at a professional studio. In it, Jack stood behind Tabatha, who was seated with Logan to her right and Brandon to her left. The boys were cheesing it up while Tabatha donned her patented, pageant-plastic smile. Jack, on the other hand, smiled wearily and looked … resigned more than anything else.

  The second photo was an informal 8x10. Standing at the 50 yard line of Mountaineer Field, Jack beamed from ear-to-ear as his hands rested on the shoulders of his two equally happy sons. All three wore blue and gold WVU football jerseys. Jack’s gold ball cap was emblazoned with a navy blue “Flying WV” logo, and the boys had matching logos painted on their cheeks. The dead man’s face reflected pure joy.

  Tabatha slowly looked up from the casket. Recognition dawned in her eyes and she stepped toward Dave with her lower lip quivering.

  “Oh, Dave,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck. “I’m so glad you could make it. Jack always thought of you like a brother. It means a lot that you’re here.”

  Dave felt himself recoil at her touch, yet the floral smell of her perfume dizzied his senses. Her body felt both soft and firm as she embraced him.

  My God! She’s like a succubus or something! This is terrifying!

  Dave counted to three and then diplomatically pulled away. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Tabatha. If you or the boys need anything, just say the word.”

  Tabatha smiled and sniffled. “Thanks, Dave. That’s so sweet. I know it’s going to be rough, but if things get really bad, maybe I’ll give you a call and cry on your shoulder a bit.”

  Dave bit his tongue, hoping his face looked duly sympathetic. “Keep your spirits up, Tabatha. We’ll be praying for you guys.”

  The widow smiled and patted him on the cheek. “Thanks. I’ll be talking to you.”

  Dave quickly stepped aside to make room for his fellow well-wishers. Sheriff Vaughn entered the breach and extended his right hand in a coldly formal fashion. “Jack was a good man. The whole county shares your loss.” Then, without giving her an opportunity to respond, he nodded curtly and walked away.

  Madhani Gudivada took Tabatha’s right hand in both of hers and patted it tenderly. “Your husband has been a blessing. I pray God will comfort you and help your boys to become strong men like their father.”

  Tabatha’s face looked like she had been forced at gunpoint to lick a cat’s anus and then act like it tasted like strawberry ice cream. “Thank you for coming,” she said, quickly slipping her hand from Madhani’s grasp.

  Watching the scene unfold, Dave saw Rikki’s eyes momentarily flash with anger. Then, he watched in amazement as she somehow dissipated that hostility and stepped forward with a smile to offer Tabatha a hug. “Take care, Tabby. If you need anything, call.”

  Tabatha patted Rikki on the back three times before parting. “I’ll do that. In fact, I’ll stop by to see you on Thursday, once things start to slow down.”

  Rikki looked puzzled. “Anything in particular you want to talk about?”

  “Yes,” Tabatha replied. “What you plan on doing with the 25 million dollars Petromica is investing in my company. I know some of it will be invested in new wells, which is fine. But some of it must be released to me, so the boys and I can be financially comfortable for once. That’s what Jack planned to do, and I see no reason for those plans to change.”

  Rikki stared at the widow and her mouth involuntarily twitched once. “I understand. Could you see me at 2:00?”

  Tabatha loudly sighed. “Actually, I thought we should get together earlier in the day. We really need to address this situation and the sooner, the better.”

  Rikki’s left hand dangled by her side, and she flexed her fingers before clenching them into a fist. “11:00 is the earliest I could see you. Starting at 9:00, I have magistrate court hearings every 15 minutes.”

  Tabatha’s mouth tightened. “Then, I suppose it will have to be 11:00.”

  The prosecutor donned a smile. “Excellent. I’ll see you then.”

  Tabatha watched her walk away before turning her attention to the next person in line. Rikki casually headed toward the exit.

  “What are you doing tomorrow morning?” she whispered as she brushed by Dave.

  He fell in behind her. “Nothing ‘til 11:30. Why?”

  “Meet me at the courthouse at 8:00. Something strange is going on, and since you know more about this Petromica outfit than I do, there are some things I should show you.”

  CHAPTER 79

  PLEASANTS COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 10, 8:45 A.M.

  Rikki navigated through the contents of the DVD from Tabatha’s email provider. Dave pulled up a chair and stared at the monitor intently, his eyes darting back and forth.

  “What format are these files in?” he asked, lifting a can of Diet Coke to his lips.

  “The emails are pdf files arranged in chronological order. One directory has her outgoing messages while another has incoming messages. Any attachments to those emails are in their original format: Word documents, jpegs, etc.”

&nb
sp; Dave nodded. “Anything incriminating? Or that at least support Jack’s suspicions she was cheating on him?”

  “Actually, I haven’t found anything linking her to anyone else. Lots of inane messages to and from her girlfriends, some of which insinuate she was accepting solicitations from potential paramours, but no confessions or hotel reservations or anything. Maybe we’ll have better luck when her cell phone records come in.

  “I did find this little message peculiar, though,” Rikki added, clicking on one of Tabatha’s outgoing emails:

  Hi, Alex!

  From: NaughtyTabbyKat@yahoo.com

  To: alex.beria@petromica.com

  Date: Fri, 5 Dec 1:12 pm

  Hi Alex!

  I really enjoyed our conversation today and I still think the objections Jack raised regarding the Addendum are nonsense. Certainly not enough to quash the deal.

  I’ll try to talk some sense into him this afternoon, then I’ll call you to let you know whether we can move the original deal forward, or whether we will need to pursue the alternate plan we discussed this morning.

  By the way, I thought your voice on the phone sounded very sexy this morning. ;-) Maybe even a little exotic. :-) Are you as handsome in person as you look in that pic on the website? LOL

  Tabby

  Dave snorted. “Nice screen name. Any other messages involving this Beria character?”

  “Not that I know of,” Rikki answered. “But I have no way of knowing what transpired after the ISP responded to our request at 2:10 p.m. last Friday.”

  Dave absentmindedly tapped his index finger on the tip of his nose while scrutinizing the email to Beria. “Any idea what this ‘Addendum’ is?”

  Rikki’s nose crinkled. “No. My guess is it was part of the stack of paperwork Petromica sent Jack in connection with this deal.”

  “Do you still have copies of that stuff?”

  “Unfortunately not. I’m no mergers and acquisitions expert, plus he didn’t bring it to me until the day before Thanksgiving. I told him we’d need to find someone else to review it.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah. I sent him to a guy up in Morgantown. I’ll call him and see if he could overnight those documents to me; if he still has them, that is.”

  Dave leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin, staring out the window. “Jack didn’t tell me much about his business. But I do know he was frustrated he had leaseholds atop the Marcellus Shale yet couldn’t raise the cash to drill into it. 25 million bucks is a lot of cash! What language in that Addendum could Jack have found so objectionable?”

  “I don’t know,” Rikki responded. “But I aim to find out.”

  Knuckles rapped loudly on the open door behind them. Turning around, Rikki saw Sheriff Vaughn standing in the doorway holding a manila folder. “Good morning, guys. Figured out who killed Jack yet?”

  “Not quite,” Dave answered. “I thought that was your job.”

  Vaughn ambled in, smiling pleasantly. “It is. But it looks like you two geniuses are fixing to do it for me.”

  Rikki sighed. “We’re reviewing Tabatha’s emails. I hoped Dave could shed some light on Petromica or see things from a new angle. Unfortunately, all he’s really done is rant about how this Mazniashvili character is the slimiest good-for-nothing dog on the planet.”

  Dave shrugged, clearly unaffected by the jab. “What do you want me to say? He has more money than God and desperately wants to keep living in a New York City penthouse rather than end up in an execution video like Saddam Hussein. I’d put nothing past him.”

  “He also happened to make his fortune in the oil and gas business,” Rikki retorted. “Petromica seems like a legitimate company that would have a legitimate reason to invest money in a company like Jack’s that has valuable leaseholds but lacks the money to fully develop them. On paper, the two companies seem like a match made in heaven.”

  “Thus,” Dave said, turning to Vaughn, “in the absence of evidence one way or the other, we’re at a standstill.”

  “Well, that’s where I come in,” Vaughn responded. “Rikki, do you want to know what our investigation has uncovered? Or would you rather me come back when you’re alone?” He motioned toward Dave with his head.

  Rikki exhaled. “Go ahead. I might not agree with his politics, but Dave’s a smart cookie and two heads are better than one. Maybe he’ll see something we might otherwise overlook.”

  Vaughn nodded. “All right. The autopsy results confirmed what we already knew. The cause of death was having his brains blown out. The bullet in question was standard .308 NATO ammo, commonly used in several hunting rifles. We’ll know more specifics once the state crime lab in Charleston finishes looking at it.”

  “Do you know where the shot came from?” Dave asked.

  “We think so,” Silent Doug answered. “The trajectory from Jack’s wounds indicates the bullet was fired uphill from a position out in the woods, all the way across another clearing on the far side of Bart’s meadow. About 700 yards from Jack’s tree stand.”

  Dave whistled. “That’s either one hell of an accident or one hell of a shot.”

  Vaughn squinted his good eye and cocked his head sideways. “It’s possible someone could have taken a shot at a deer in that other clearing and missed. But it looks suspicious.”

  Rikki nodded solemnly. “Did you guys find anything else out there?”

  The sheriff opened his folder. “By the time we got to the scene, the snow had melted off, so we didn’t find any good shoeprints. No spent casings either. All we found at the spot where we think the shot came from was a crumpled-up candy wrapper, and God only knows how long it had been there.”

  Vaughn shut the folder. “We’ll know more once we hear from the crime lab and when Jack’s email provider responds to our subpoena. That’s it for now.”

  Rikki stood up and extended her hands skyward, stretching. “All righty then. Thanks for the update, Sheriff. If we find anything interesting, we’ll let you know. Keep up the good work!”

  Silent Doug shot her a crisp salute. “Will do. You guys have a good day. Dave … I’ll see you at 11:30.”

  The sheriff left her office and Rikki’s brow furrowed. “What’s going on then?”

  Dave sighed. “We both got drafted to participate in the Masonic funeral rites at Jack’s gravesite. We’re meeting a half-hour before the service so we know what we’re doing.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  Rikki strolled across the room and peeked out the doorway. “You know, Dave, I really like the sheriff, but something about him has just freaked me out since we were kids.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, he seems honest and as nice as can be. Maybe it’s just the way his one eye is always looking off to the side. I’ve never known exactly how that happened, and it kinda creeps me out. For all I know, he lost his eye in one of those twisted secret rituals you Masons conduct twice a year in a cornfield under a full moon.”

  Dave let loose with a belly laugh. “You’ve been reading too many conspiracy books, Rikki! Trust me, the truth is a lot simpler.”

  “Oh, really? And I suppose you know how the sheriff actually lost his eye.”

  “Sure. It’s not like anyone was sworn to secrecy. It’s just something he prefers not to talk about. I think he’s afraid it might come across like he’s bragging about it.”

  Rikki sat at the conference table, motioning for him to follow suit. “Mr. Anderson, you have my undivided attention.”

  Dave smirked and sat down cattycorner to her. “All right.” Taking a deep breath, he dramatically opened by saying, “Quite simply, Douglas MacArthur Vaughn is a badass.” He paused, contemplating his next words. “He was a hell of an athlete in school; first-team All-State at linebacker. And right after graduation he enlisted in the Army, despite the fact we were neck-deep in Vietnam at the time.

  “He was a model soldier. Went through Special Forces school, earned his Green Beret, and pulled two tours
of duty in ‘Nam. In fact, his team was one of the last units we pulled out, just before Saigon fell to the commies.”

  Pausing for breath, he glanced at Rikki, who was listening with her pale green eyes open wide. Sensing that his audience was captivated by the story, he continued.

  “When he got home from ‘Nam, he arrived in town wearing his dress greens, his Green Beret, and a patch over his left eye. His first night home, a bunch of his buddies took him out drinking, including my uncle, who told me about it. And later that night, after getting a bellyful of booze, Silent Doug finally told them about his eye.”

  Dave leaned forward, resting his elbows on the conference table and sipped on his Diet Coke. “His team was conducting covert ops against Viet Cong supply depots in areas of Laos held by the Pathet Lao communists. One night, his unit attacked a depot and was surprised to find a bunch of Soviet ‘advisors’ there.”

  Rikki leaned forward, her mouth slightly agape.

  “The ensuing fight was brutal: Small arms fire and hand-to-hand combat. The sheriff matter-of-factly described what happened, saying he lost count of how many people he killed just trying to get out alive.

  “With all hell breaking loose around him, he was in the process of dragging an injured comrade to the landing zone for their Huey helicopter. Just as he threw this dude in the chopper, one of the Soviets slung a grenade, and the sheriff got hit with shrapnel. He was bleeding like a stuck pig and screaming his head off, but somehow crawled into the chopper as it took off.

  “When he finally regained consciousness, he was in a hospital bed in Japan, missing an eye. He won the Distinguished Service Cross for his actions in that engagement, which is just one rung below the Congressional Medal of Honor and about as high of an honor any mortal is likely to get without actually dying for our country.”

  “Wow,” Rikki said breathlessly. “What an amazing story.”

  “Yeah,” Dave agreed. “After that one night drinking with his buddies, he’s apparently never said another word about what happened. And, as a side note, ol’ Silent Doug has had a bad case of the ass about Russians ever since.”