Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  “No insult intended,” Mike said. “I thought we were having a Bible study.”

  “We do miss your lively discussions,” Pearl said, finally finding her voice. “But we probably need to get going.” She tugged at Elsbeth’s elbow. “Come on, darling. We have shopping to do before we can pack.”

  “Pack?” Angie picked up the change of subject. “Are you taking a trip?”

  Pearl flashed a smile. “We’re leaving for New York tomorrow night. Southwest Airlines has a special Fun Fare, and Elsbeth needs a new wardrobe—after all, her son’s about to be elected the next governor of the Great State of Texas.”

  Mike had to admire Pearl’s calm way of handling Elsbeth. She reminded him a lot of his mother. Gentle, strong, and frail—all at the same time.

  The door opened, and Rudy stuck his head around the corner. “Pastor Hayden? There’s a bunch of folks here to see you. The trivia team?” Rudy looked at Angie. “James W. said if you knew ‘em all, they could come in.”

  Angie nodded, and went out the door to look over the group.

  “I have no desire to see any of those people,” Elsbeth declared, putting a tight hold on her purse.

  “Well, the pastor shouldn’t have too many visitors at the same time, anyway,” Pearl said. She leaned over to touch Mike’s hand. “I’m so glad you’re doing better.”

  Mike chuckled. “Me too.”

  Her eyes steadied on his, and her lips formed a firm line. “May the good Lord give us strength and peace as we face the challenges ahead of us.”

  Mike nodded. His challenge was to get better. Her challenge was to tell Elsbeth about Bo. “A good prayer for both of us.”

  Elsbeth’s face contorted with impatience. “Pearl. We’re leaving.” She headed for the door, which opened as Angie walked back in.

  “The church’s trivia team won regionals last night. They want to show you the trophy. Thought it might cheer you up,” Angie said.

  Mike sighed. The effort of dealing with Elsbeth had exhausted him. “For a few minutes,” he said.

  Elsbeth gave him one last look. “You look tired, Pastor. I daresay you’d get better a lot sooner if this woman went back to where she belongs. You need—”

  Her words were drowned out when a small, boisterous crowd entered. The brick of a man who had been Bo’s ride to the hospital yesterday spoke first. Aaron was his name, right? “Hi, preacher. We’re only stopping in for a second.”

  A pretty blond held up a trophy. “We won regionals!”

  “Thought we could maybe get a photo with you.” This from one of two men who could pass for twins. White hair rimmed their shiny heads, and both wore overalls with plaid flannel shirts. In July? Two other women and a millennial sporting a Man-Bun rounded out the group.

  “Sure,” he heard himself say. “I’d be honored.”

  ***

  Mike cringed when yet another knock came from the doorway. He looked at Angie, a small shake to his head. “I can’t take anymore,” he said, his voice weary.

  Angie nodded. “Pretend to sleep. I’ll chase ‘em away.”

  Mike did as he was told, and the relief at shutting his eyes was almost overwhelming. How many people had come through that door today? He’d lost count.

  “Is he asleep?” came a deep voice from the doorway.

  Recognizing the low Texas drawl, Mike opened his eyes and smiled at James W. “For you, I’m awake.”

  Angie offered up her chair to James W., but he shook her off. “You’re the one I want to speak to. Let’s find a quiet place to talk.”

  “If it’s about Chelsea, I want to hear this too.” Mike said.

  The sheriff gave him a surprised look. “Well, I guess you’re feeling better.”

  “More like trying to stay alive,” Mike said.

  “So you think Chelsea’s murder has something to do with you?”

  “Too many similarities not to consider it.”

  James W. went to the other side of the bed and pulled up a chair. “What similarities do you see?”

  “Proximities of crime for one thing,” Mike answered. “I was shot less than a hundred feet away from the Ice House’s kitchen.”

  James W. instantly came alert. “You remember getting shot?”

  Mike shook his head. “Angie told me how close the church and Ice House are.”

  “I hope that was okay,” she said. “I’m trying to help him remember.”

  “It’s fine.” James W. nodded for Mike to continue. “What else?”

  “Well, the perp seems to have a thing for head injuries. I take a bullet to the head. This Zach Gibbons guy got one at very close range. And now Chelsea, hit over the head with a frying pan.”

  James W. nodded. “Hit over the head several times with a fifteen-inch cast iron frying pan.”

  Mike took that in. “Sounds like he has some muscle on him.”

  “And the perp slammed it into Chelsea’s skull at least four times. Forensics will confirm.” James W. shook off the image. “Anything else strike you as more than coincidental?” he asked.

  “Can’t get away from the timing. Basically, all this has happened in two weeks.” Mike gestured toward his water on the bed stand and Angie gave it to him.

  “You get shot. Zach gets shot. Chelsea gets killed.” James W. counted off on his fingers.

  “Don’t forget the explosion in Benedict County.” Mike took a sip through his straw.

  James W. sat back with a jerk and looked at Angie. She shrugged. Mike watched the exchange, then tilted his head. “That’s got to figure in.”

  “That wasn’t anywhere near Wilks,” James W. pointed out. “And it was a bomb—which takes planning. Except for me and my men heading over to help with the scene, Wilks wasn’t affected at all.”

  “It got me out of Neuro PCU. A lot more people can get to me now. Which they’ve been doing all day. Right, Angie?”

  “Yes, but—” Angie’s eyes were round. “All those people dead to get to you?” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I know.” Mike folded his arms across his chest. “And I know that Rutledge is very fond of using bombs. That’s how he took out my two brothers.”

  “But so many people—” Angie shook her head in disbelief.

  “Rutledge doesn’t give a damn about collateral damage. And the more people I’m around, the more people are in harm’s way.” Mike looked James W. straight in the eye. “For the sake of everyone who comes into this hospital, I suggest you get me out of here as quick as you can.”

  ***

  Peter Pendergast hit the save button on his laptop and allowed a feline smile to cross his egg-shaped face. Knowing his boss would want every “i” dotted and every “t” crossed, he’d spent the last two days at home making phone calls and digging up old newspaper articles on the scandal that pitted a young, undercover cop against a beloved police chief.

  The story had everything a reporter could want.

  The drug scene on the docks of Miami was violent and deadly—and very, very profitable for whoever orchestrated the game plan. To think that Howard Rutledge, pillar of the community and Chief of Miami’s Police Department for over twenty years, was the mastermind of such evil sounded like pure insanity to most of the city’s residents. But Mike Hogan had persisted in his accusations. Even after Hogan’s father and brother were killed, he managed to pull together the evidence his family had been amassing against the Chief and presented it to the District Attorney. By the time the Grand Jury returned the indictment against Rutledge, human trafficking, racketeering and murder charges had been added to the Chief’s list of transgressions.

  After several attempts were made on Hogan’s life and what was left of his family, Mike, his mother, and his brutally-maimed brother had all entered the fed’s Witness Protection Program. That’s when all three basically fell off the face of the earth.

  That is, until Peter met the preacher.

  Peter pushed away from his home office desk, and headed t
o the kitchen for a cold beer. His efforts deserved a bottle of champagne, but he didn’t keep that libation stocked. His wife was too busy spending his money on vodka and brandy. He didn’t appreciate the expense, but at least it kept her off his back. She’d start with screwdrivers in the morning, and be passed out by the time he got home from work at night.

  He grabbed a Bud Light, twisted off the cap and brought the cold bottle to his lips. He stood in the small kitchen for a moment, sipping his beer, and mentally patting himself on the back.

  Peter had met the preacher on July 4th in Jimmy Novak Jr.’s home town of Wilks. The Fire and Ice House was a step above seedy, but still questionable enough to raise an eyebrow when one learned it was a preacher’s favorite hang-out. And the man’s affection for the bar’s owner had tongues wagging all over town. Peter never had been convinced that Hayden was a man of the cloth. Sure, the ex-cop had gone to a Lutheran Seminary up in Dubuque, Iowa. The fact that he interned at Grace Lutheran Church in Wilks was the reason he’d gotten a call to work at the church.

  Peter had always suspected that the outspoken preacher who played on the wrong side of the tracks was really a man of the world. Now Peter had the research to prove it.

  He finished off his beer, tossed the bottle in the garbage, then headed back to his office. He needed to pack up all of the photos, newspaper articles, school records, and other proof he’d amassed to support the story.

  No matter how much Lombardi was in love with the Novaks and Hayden, Peter had plenty of facts to take them all down.

  Pulitzer, here I come.

  ***

  I did it! I slid that needle into that IV line and emptied its sputim into Mike Hogan. A little rush at the end putting the needle in the hazardous materials container, but all is well. Kodak told me to carry the needle out of the hospital with me, but screw that. Like I’m going to risk meeting the same fate as Hogan. The way Kodak described it, Hogan’s death is going to be long and painful. Let’s hear it for tuberculosis.

  I pump the wheel of my car with my fist. Yes! The feeling of victory is overwhelming. Of course the celebratory martinis I downed on Sixth Street haven’t hurt. Ordinarily I avoid public dive bars, but hey, I don’t need to worry about keeping my cover intact much longer.

  Hogan’s a dead man. Job done. I’m outta here.

  Sorry, trivia team.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bloodied Brains

  “Should I wake him?” Angie looked up as Nurse Robert checked the machines that beeped and hummed behind Matt’s bed. “He hasn’t eaten supper yet.”

  The hospital room was now dark as evening had descended. Matt had fallen asleep before James W. had even left the room. He’d been out for four hours straight.

  Snoring.

  “Wait a sec.” The heavy set man with the scraggly beard tapped furiously into the computer mounted on the spider-looking cart. As she watched him work, she wondered again at the difference between regular population care and the Neuro PC unit. Somehow, things had seemed cleaner up there.

  The nurse finished typing and looked at Mike’s untouched plate. He lifted the lid on the main course—tonight Matt had ordered a cheeseburger and fries—and screwed up his nose. “Let me warm this up first.”

  As the man disappeared with Matt’s food tray, Angie studied the preacher. Despite the exhausting day, Matt still looked better than he had twenty-four hours ago. The swelling around his skull was greatly reduced. Physical therapy had coaxed him into walking the full circle of hallways that snaked through the ward. His pallor was the better for it. And, much to her delight, his good looks were beginning to make themselves known. A week ago she’d wondered if his protruding forehead, thick, knobby temples, and bulbous eyes would be the status quo from now on.

  Rudy stuck his head in the door. “Shift change time,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Rudy,” Angie smiled. “It’s been a busy day.”

  “Things got easier when James W. said you could okay the visitors, instead of me calling him every five minutes.”

  “Easier for you, maybe.” The responsibility had weighed heavily on her shoulders. She didn’t know everyone who’d come in the room, but she figured as long as she was present during the visits, it would be okay to give the go ahead.

  “Good evening, Ms. O’Day.” Sergeant Bauers took Rudy’s place in the doorway. “Rudy’s given me the run-down for tonight. Hopefully your evening will be a lot quieter.”

  “No more visitors,” she said, her voice stern. “That’s for sure.” She turned her attention back to Matt, then smiled when she saw his eyes were open. “Well, good morning, sleepy head.”

  His gaze darted around the room. “Doesn’t look much like morning to me.”

  “A figure of speech,” she said, then stood to straighten his blanket. “You’ve been out for four hours. How you feelin’?”

  He stretched, then furrowed his brow. “Hungry.”

  Angie’s heart flipped. He really was getting better. “Food’s on the way. The nurse is warming it up for you.”

  Matt studied her. “What are you smiling about?”

  She shrugged. “You’re hungry. Can’t take these milestones for granted.” She leaned forward and kissed him. When she pulled back, his smile was mischievous. “I could be hungrier.”

  “Now I know you’re feeling better.”

  The nurse came back into the room, set Matt’s food tray down on the hospital table and swung its arm over the bed. “Can you take it from here?” he asked of Angie.

  “Yes, we can,” Matt answered.

  She helped Matt with the ketchup packet and made sure he could reach everything, then sat back and let him do his thing. “You’re doing really, really well, honey.”

  He took a bite of cheeseburger, then rolled his eyes in appreciation. “Thank God. Real food.” He dipped two fries in the ketchup and gobbled them down. “This afternoon was a real test for meeting folks.”

  “I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

  “No. I mean it was a test whether or not I could pull the preacher thing off. How’d I’d do?”

  Her nose crinkled. “You sure handled Elsbeth. It’s always a pleasure to watch.”

  “I was pretty abrupt with her.”

  “As you should have been. She was out of line.”

  He chomped on another bite of his burger then swallowed it down. “I didn’t know if Pastor Hayden would say those kinds of things.”

  Angie leaned in close. “Pastor Hayden would have said exactly what you said. He didn’t and doesn’t suffer fools like her.”

  He pressed his lips together, studying her face. “You’re sure?”

  “You were no fake, Matt. You told people what they needed to hear. Not what they wanted to hear.”

  “I bet that went over like a fart in church.”

  Angie burst out laughing and Matt’s eyebrows shot up when he realized what he’d said.

  “Seriously, though,” she said. “I was a little surprised you seemed to be up on your Bible. Are you starting to remember your seminary training? At Wartburg?”

  Matt put down his milk. “You didn’t grow up in Jewel Hogan’s home and not know your Bible.”

  “That’s your mother?”

  He nodded and grabbed two more fries.

  “So your parents went to church regular.”

  He offered a lopsided smile. “My mother is a saint. But it was her faith that got her through living with three policemen in the family. Even after two of them were murdered.” He scooped the fries into the ketchup. “They tried to kill me. Got my little brother instead. He’s a quadriplegic. Mom’s taking care of him.” He put down the fries he’d been ready to eat.

  I need to change the subject, Angie thought. This was no time for him to lose his appetite due to sad memories. “So your dad and the church thing was a no go,” she offered up and was relieved when his face relaxed.

  “He pretty much couldn’t stand most church peopl
e.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Had some pretty spot-on names for some of ‘em.” He picked up his cheeseburger and took a healthy bite.

  Angie’s mouth twitched. “What would he have called Elsbeth?”

  Matt almost spit out the mouthful of burger. “When my mom wasn’t around, Dad’s language was, shall we say, quite colorful.”

  “And when she was around?”

  He studied the ceiling for a moment, then settled on an answer. “He’d’ve called Elsbeth a Pharisaical Phyllis.”

  “What?” Angie wanted to keep him talking. She’d not seen this side of him before. Matt had never spoken of his family, or about his faith, or . . . well, truth be known, he’d never spoken about himself. Period.

  “Someone who preached the Bible at the top of their lungs, but didn’t follow a damned thing the good book said.”

  “That’s Elsbeth, all right.” She nodded. “So your dad wasn’t a Christian?”

  Matt’s gaze turned thoughtful. “He was. Because of my mom. He’d point at her and say she was the reason he went to church. ‘Cuz she really did know God, which meant there was a God.”

  Angie took that in. “So were you torn between being a cop and being a preacher?”

  “Hell no,” he said. “Can’t figure me choosing to wade through all those hypocrites. I’d rather be collaring the bad guys and sending ‘em straight to hell.”

  That brought her eyebrows up. “Okay.” Send ‘em straight to hell? He sounded so different than the gentle soul with whom she’d fallen in love.

  Matt finished off the last of his fries. “I’m done.”

  Angie rolled the tray away from the bed. “Maybe you didn’t end up a pastor because you wanted to work with other Christians, good or bad.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Maybe you became a pastor because of you.”

  Matt shook his head, his mouth twitching. “Snowball’s chance in hell, honey.”

  This time she didn’t laugh. What had happened that had turned undercover cop Mike Hogan into Pastor Matt Hayden? It wasn’t so much that she needed to know the answer.