by D P Lyle
“Why not? Frank was pissed. Tommy Lee was tired of her. Who knows what goes on inside these types of conspiracies?”
“That seems to be a stretch.”
“Isn’t all this a stretch?”
She had point. A murder swap conspiracy? Not something you read about every day.
She continued. “What if Sara was going to expose the whole thing? Tired of all the lies and secrecy. Both men would then have to live with that humiliation.”
“What about her? She’d have to live with it, too.”
“True. But people do reach the end of their rope.”
Jake had simply shaken his head, obviously exasperated. But one thing she knew was she could grind him down. Men were sprinters; women marathoners. No contest.
She pushed on. “What if Frank knew about the affair? What if he was okay with it?” Jake started to say something but she raised a hand. “What if Sara felt trapped in the situation? Wanted out. Threatened to expose the whole thing? She’d come off as an abused woman and Tommy Lee and Clark as her abusers. For Tommy Lee that would be uncomfortable, at the very least, but for Clark it could be devastating. Maybe a career ender.”
Jake sighed, shaking his head.
“Self-image,” she said. “People will do a lot of crazy shit to maintain their self-image.”
“Even if that’s true, how would Sally Foster know all that?”
“She and Sara were close. Women talk.”
“But to her, you’re a stranger. Why do you think she’ll tell you what she might or might not know?”
“A feeling.” She shrugged. “The only way to find out is to have a sit-down with her. Alone.”
“I don’t like it.”
She touched his arm, kissed his cheek, and said, “You’ll get over it.”
Finally, he relented but only if she would text him when she got there and when she left.
“Here you go,” Sally said as she entered the living room, a tray in her hands. She placed it on the coffee table and sat in the chair opposite Nicole. The tray held a floral, porcelain teapot, two cups with saucers, a squeeze bottle of honey, a bowl of sugar cubes, and another of lemon wedges. A small plate held shortbread cookies.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” Nicole said.
“It’s nothing.” She smiled. “Besides, I don’t get to sit and have tea often enough.”
After they filled their cups, Sally rattled on about the weather and other small talk. She was nervous and wore it all over her face, her busy hands, her speech rapid and flighty. Nicole let her run on, until finally Sally said, “You said you had more questions for me?”
Nicole placed her cup in its saucer. She decided to get right into it. “Did Frank Clark know his wife was seeing someone?”
Sally shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“It’s important,” Nicole added.
“I don’t see how.”
“You will. I promise I’ll tell you everything. Once I know what everything is.”
Sally sighed. “I don’t think he did. And neither did Sara.”
“She told you that?”
She nodded. “Yes. In fact, she was sure he didn’t know.” She started to say something but stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Sally, everything is important. Or might be.”
“For your documentary? I don’t see how.”
Nicole leaned forward. “Sally, things have moved far beyond our project.”
Now, concern blossomed on Sally’s face. “What does that mean?”
“I’ll get to that. First tell me what you wanted to say.”
Sally hesitated, twisting her napkin into a knot. Her knuckles appeared white. She let out a long sigh. “Sara was going to confess to Frank. Tell him about the affair. She was just so eaten up inside.” She used the napkin to dab one eye. “She was in so much pain.”
“Guilt can do that.”
“Sara was such a good person. A wonderful person. She made a mistake and she wanted to atone for it.”
“Did she ever tell him?”
“No, I’m certain of that.”
Nicole nodded. “Who was it? Who was she seeing?”
Sally shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Sally, this is important. Very important.”
Her gaze turned toward the window that faced the Clark home. Another shake of her head. “I can’t.” She dabbed her eyes again, then directed her gaze to her lap where she worked the napkin again.
Time to roll the dice.
“Sally, look at me,” Nicole said. She did. “What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room. Okay?”
“What?”
“Okay?”
Sally nodded.
“This project. This documentary is real. It’s going to happen. But that’s not how it started. It began as a cover story.”
She now had Sally’s full attention.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Just listen. This started because Billy Wayne Baker, or at least his benefactor, hired us to prove he didn’t do two of the seven killings he confessed to.” Sally’s eyes widened, but Nicole pressed on. “I can’t give you all the details, but we found evidence that there was a murder conspiracy here. Two women were killed in a complex murder swap. Sara Clark and Noleen Kovac.”
“What does that mean? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that all the evidence points to Frank Clark and Tommy Lee Kovac doing murders for each other. Each would have an alibi. Each without a connection to the other.” Nicole sighed. “But we found the connection.”
“You? How?”
“It’s what we do. At least what Ray does. He’s pretty good.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Does it help if I tell you that Chief Morgan believes it? He has all the evidence.”
Sally seemed to melt into her chair. Her shoulders dropped, her face fell, and whitened.
Nicole stood, circled the coffee tables, and knelt before her. Repeating what she had done at her last visit. She took both of Sally’s hands in hers. They were again cold, damp.
“I need to know who Sara was seeing,” Nicole said.
Sally shook her head and barely breathed out, “I can’t.”
“Why? Are you afraid?”
Sally looked up, hesitated, then gave a quick nod.
“Tell me.”
Sally’s face screwed down into an expression of pain, her internal struggle evident. She seemed to be trying to will the knowledge she held out of her head. Finally, she sighed. “Terry Munson.”
“Terry Munson? Frank Clark’s partner?”
She nodded. Now tears welled in her eyes. “I’ve kept this buried for years. I told no one. Not a living soul.”
Nicole squeezed her hands. “How long were they seeing each other?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sara didn’t tell you?”
She shook her head.
“You’re sure it was Munson?”
“Yes. I saw him. A couple of times.” She sniffed. “And Sally confirmed it. I told her I had seen him so she fessed up.”
“Was that why she was going to tell Frank?”
She nodded. “They’re partners. Frank and Terry. She felt like she had betrayed them both. Betrayed everyone, really. Mostly herself. That’s the way she was.”
“Give me a sec.” Nicole stood and pulled her phone from her pocket.
“What are you doing?”
“I have to let Jake know this.”
“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Jake will keep your secret. We all will. As long as we can.”
“What does that mean?”
“Sally, this is a double murder investigation. Don’t you think you’re going to have to tell Chief Morgan what you know?”
Sally nodded. “I suppose.” She buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with her sobs.
CHAPTER FIFTY
I WAS ANTSY. Even though I knew Nicole was okay, having tea and chatting with Sally Foster, I had that nagging feeling in the back of my mind. How did I know about the tea? Easy. Pancake and I drove by. He got tired of me pacing the floor in Ray’s room, and Ray more than once said I was driving him crazy and distracting him from his computer work. So, Pancake dragged me downstairs to his truck.
We actually parked a block away and walked by Sally’s house. There sat Nicole’s car in the drive, and Sally and Nicole, in the living room, having what appeared to be a pleasant talk, teacups in hand. Very relaxed.
Okay, so I overreacted.
Since Frank Clark lived next door, I couldn’t resist checking on him. Pancake suggested that sneaking up and peering in his window might not be smart. This coming from the guy who broke into Tommy Lee Kovac’s house. A few hours before someone took off half of Tommy Lee’s head. That someone likely Frank Clark. I told Pancake he had no credibility on the subject. He grunted, saying Tommy Lee wasn’t a cop, and wasn’t likely armed. He had a point. Yet, he relented and waited by his truck while I crept up to the house, getting just close enough to the front window to peek through a half-open curtain. There was Clark. Asleep, in a lounge chair, the flicker of the TV dancing across his face.
Okay, okay. Strike two.
But I had to know.
After returning to the hotel, Pancake decided he was hungry and I could use a drink so we motored down The Boardwalk toward Woody’s. Ray declined to join us. When I asked Pancake if maybe we should try somewhere else for a change, he simply said, “Why?” I dropped the subject.
I had a bourbon, Pancake a beer. I was in no mood for food, but he had a plate of nachos. And a pulled pork sandwich. And French fries. Right after the table was cleared, Angus Whitehead walked in. He saw us and headed our way.
“How you doing, Angus?” I asked.
“Good. Good.” His head bobbed. “Thanks for the lunch and the drinks earlier today. Mighty generous of you.”
I had received a call from the waitress at McGee’s when Angus’ tab topped a hundred bucks. Besides breakfast he had had eight bourbons. I assured her that all was okay and to let his tab run. She called before closing it out at just over a hundred and twenty bucks. Angus had gotten a good buzz going.
“I had to drop by the jail and grab me a nap afterward,” Angus continued. “Now it’s time for round two.”
“What can I get you?”
“No, thanks though. I’m meeting a friend here.” He looked around. “Don’t see him yet but he’ll be along directly.”
He nodded and shuffled toward the bar. He only made it a couple of steps before turning back and dropping in a chair.
“Change your mind?” I asked.
“No. But I did me some thinking. About what we were talking about.”
“Which thing?” I asked. “We talked about a lot.”
“That night. When I was in the bushes and heard Munson on the phone.”
“What about it?”
“Don’t know why it popped into my head, but it did. Sometime while I was napping in jail.” He laughed. “That kind of thing happens all the time. Stuff just comes to me. Sometimes I can be thinking or talking about something else and then my mind sort of does a hop, skip, and jump and I’m off on something else.”
“Everyone does that,” I said.
“Well, it happens to me all the time. Ever since I began hitting the bottle for sure. Don’t remember doing it all that much before. Mama says otherwise. She says I’ve always been one to squirrel around in my head.” He shrugged. “But even she agrees it’s a mite worse lately.”
“And what did you come up with?” I asked.
He tossed me a quizzical look. “About what?”
“You said you remembered something about Terry Munson’s phone conversation.”
He laughed and shook his head. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. I plum forgot what I wanted to tell you.”
“You forgot?” Pancake asked.
“No, no, I remember. I just forgot that that’s what I wanted to tell you.”
“Okay. What is it?” I asked.
“He sure had a bee in his bonnet. No doubt about that. Like the guy wouldn’t listen to him—or wouldn’t do what he wanted. Said something like it had to be that night. That he’d put it off long enough.”
I glanced at Pancake. His wheels were turning, too.
“He say what?” I asked.
“Not that I heard,” Angus said. “I don’t remember it all that well. It’s been a couple of years.”
“Do the best you can,” I said. “What were you able to pick up?”
“He told the person that it couldn’t be put off forever. That that night, right then, was the perfect time. Something like quit whining and just do it.”
“Any idea what it was?” Pancake asked.
Angus shook his head. “Don’t think he ever said nothing specific. He did ask the guy if he had everything he needed.”
Could we have been chasing the wrong rabbit the entire time? Focusing on the wrong guy? Was it Munson and not Clark? That made no sense.
“What kind of phone was it?” I asked.
Angus stared at me.
“Was it one of those smartphones or an old folding type?”
He thought about that for a full half a minute. “I don’t know. I was more listening than watching.”
“Think,” I said. “Try to visualize that night.”
He fixed his gaze on the floor, then shook his head. “I can’t say.” He looked at me. “I was hunkered down in the shrubs. Couldn’t see all that well.” His eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed. His eyebrows went up. “It was a flip phone.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you’re just remembering it that way?”
“Nope.” He shook his head. “I might lose my train of thought sometimes but I remember things when my mind gets around to them. Recall them like they was yesterday.” He smiled. “Or the day before.” He laughed. “But I remember real good.”
“How do you now remember it was a flip phone?” I asked. “I thought you couldn’t see it.”
“Couldn’t. But I heard it. He snapped it closed. Those fancy new smart ones don’t do that.”
“You’re absolutely sure?” Pancake asked.
“No doubt about it.”
“And the conversation you heard Munson having. You sure you remember it correctly?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Tell me again,” I said.
“He said something about right then was the time. That it had to be done quickly. Whatever it was. Said something about he’d done his part and now whoever he was talking to had to do theirs.” He looked at me. “That make any sense to you?”
I nodded. “It just might.”
Angus’ head turned toward the bar. “There’s my buddy. See you guys later.” He stood and walked away.
I looked at Pancake. He looked at me.
“We been running in the wrong circle,” Pancake said.
“Sure looks that way.”
My phone chimed. A text. Nicole must be leaving. I checked it. It read: SARA CLARK WAS HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH TERRY MUNSON.
I texted back: ARE YOU LEAVING?
While I waited for her to reply, I showed Nicole’s text to Pancake.
His eyes narrowed, shoulders squared, jaw locked. “And now we have a motive.”
“To hide his affair?”
“Exactly.” Pancake stood. “Let’s go.”
I tossed money on the table and we were out the door.
Still no reply from Nicole. I sent another text: WHERE ARE YOU?
Pancake called Ray.
I called Nicole. No answer. It jumped to voice mail. I left a short message. CALL ME. NOW.
Ray was standing by Pancake’s truck when we got back to the hotel. We climbed in and Pancake sped from the lot.
“We were right about it being a cop,” I said. “We just had the wrong cop.”
<
br /> CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
NICOLE STOOD BESIDE Sally, a comforting hand on the sobbing woman’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”
“Probably not.”
Nicole spun toward the doorway that led to the kitchen. Terry Munson stood there, a chrome-plated revolver in his hand.
Sally’s head jerked up and she gasped. Nicole squeezed her shoulder, hopefully relaying that it was best not to say anything right now.
“The phone,” Munson said. “Toss it here.”
Nicole still held her cell. She looked down at it.
“Now.” The gun elevated, now pointed in their direction.
She underhanded it to him. He snatched it from the air, just as it chimed an incoming text. Munson looked at the screen. His eyes narrowed.
“So, now your boyfriend knows.”
“He does. So does Ray and Pancake and by now I suspect Chief Morgan.”
Munson’s jaw tightened. His head swiveled. Nicole could feel his panic. The only question was would he fold—or fight? Was he willing to die and take them with him?
“Stop this now,” Nicole said. “Give it up before it’s too late.”
“It’s already too late.”
“It can get worse,” she said.
His jaw flexed, then a tight smile appeared. “It already is for you.”
Sally whimpered. Nicole tightened her grip on the woman’s shoulder.
“But—” Nicole began.
The phone chimed again. Another text from Jake no doubt. Munson looked at it.
“He’s getting nervous,” Munson said.
“He does that. But he’s not the one you need to worry about.”
“Oh, really?”
Nicole shook her head. “I’d worry more about Ray.”
“Right. He’s a fucking P.I.”
“Oh, he’s so much more than that.”
Now the phone rang. Munson punched the off button, sending it to voice mail.
Keep him talking, she thought. And distracted. Buy time.
“Look,” Nicole said. “You have no way out of here. It’s over.”
Munson smirked. “Not as long as I have two hostages I can trade for a head start.”
“Won’t happen.”
“We’ll see.”
“Ray will kill you. And he won’t hesitate to do it.”
