But he did.
***
James W. drove up the drive to his sprawling one-story home, desperately hoping there was a hot supper on the stove waiting for him. It wasn’t that he was all that hungry. After a day of investigating murder, he needed the normalcy of a meal at home.
He walked in the front door and tossed his hat and equipment on the hall tree—all the while noting the silence in the house. No supper. No Elsbeth. “Well, heck,” he muttered.
Tired beyond reason, he forced himself to go back to the master suite. Maybe a shower would do him some good. After ten minutes of standing under the hot blast of water, however, he felt more exhausted than ever. He dried off, threw on a pair of khaki shorts, and headed for his office. He wasn’t looking to do more work. What he was after was the bottle of Glenlivet he kept in one of Elsbeth’s fancy decanters on the bar. After pouring two fingers worth, he sat down in the leather recliner and sipped his drink.
Except for refilling his glass once, that’s where he stayed until an hour later when he heard Elsbeth come through the front door.
“James W.?” she called out.
“In my office,” he hollered back, surprised at the effort it took.
She bustled into the room and stopped to study his reclining form. “You had supper yet?” she asked.
“Nope.” He sipped his drink.
Her brows knitted. “Are you drunk?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m sorry I’m late.” She put down her shopping bags and began rummaging through them. “Things are happening so quickly! Southwest Airlines is running a special, so Pearl and I are going to leave for New York tomorrow night. We went shopping after we visited the preacher.” She held a blouse up for his approval. “Had to get a few things for the trip.”
James W. offered a half-smile. “I thought that’s why you were going to New York. To shop.”
“Well, I don’t want to look like a hick from some poorhouse, do I? Those snooty New Yorkers wouldn’t give me the time of day.” She put her nose in the air. “Pearl and I want to be waited on hand and foot.”
“Sounds good,” James W. said, too tired to talk about shopping.
“So what do you want for a dinner? A nice, rare steak, maybe?”
Ordinarily he would’ve jumped at the chance, but somehow, the last thing he wanted to see right now was red meat. “Something else, maybe.”
“How about spaghetti and meatballs? That’s quick.”
He shuddered at the thought of red sauce. “No thank you.” Shoving down the foot rest, he stood.
“James W., what’s wrong?”
He felt Elsbeth’s presence at his elbow and he shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”
“I asked you a question.” She tugged him around to look into his face. “You’re upset about something.”
James W. hung his head. “I’m tired that’s all.”
Her eyes bored into his. “This is more than being tired, honey. What’s going on?”
His eyes closed. “I can’t shake it, Elsbeth.”
“Shake what?”
“Seeing the brains.” Speaking the truth cost him what little energy he had left. He sank back into the recliner.
“Brains?” she repeated.
“I keep seeing people’s brains spattered everywhere. The Pastor’s. Zach Gibbons’. The kid up in Benedict County.” He teared up. “God, we found pieces of Chelsea’s brains everywhere. On the floor. On the ceiling. Everywhere you turned. I close my eyes, but I can’t stop seeing them.”
Elsbeth went down on a knee, and took his face in her hands. “Sweetheart. What can I do? Should I call a doctor?”
“I am hungry,” he admitted. “Maybe some macaroni and cheese?”
“With ham and green pepper and onion and Ritz crumbs,” she said, squeezing his cheek.
He offered a weary smile. “Just the way I like it.”
She put her hands on his knees and hefted her bulk up. Still, she didn’t move toward the kitchen. “James W., I can’t leave you like this. Pearl and I can postpone our trip. Heck, we can afford a full airfare later on.”
He reached for her hand. “No. I want you to go. I don’t want to worry about you while I’m dealing with all of this.” He kissed her fingers. “It’ll cheer me up knowing you’re having a good time.” And take the load off of having a body buried under our spa.
She raised his hand to her lips. “All right then. Macaroni and cheese, here I come.”
***
I head up the stairs to my apartment, a little plowed from the numerous bar stops I made on the way home. Every time I got back in the car and headed for Bastrop, I knew that Kodak would be waiting for me. Well, to hell with it and to hell with him. I wasn’t on a curfew, and I could celebrate my success any way I wanted. After all, Hogan is history.
I go in, expecting Kodak to be waiting for me with some opening jab. He’s nowhere to be seen. Coward.
Then I hear his voice in my bedroom. The door’s shut. I tiptoe over to the threshold and sneak open the door a smidge.
“—Out of control,” I hear the rat say. “And we should’ve gotten word by now about Hogan taking ill. I think the pooch got screwed again.”
There’s only one person he can be talking to, and that’s the Chief.
Kodak is turned away from me. “The waitress at the sports bar was murdered. Hit over the head with a cast iron skillet.”
My jaw drops and it takes all of my strength to keep from running across the room and putting my hands around his neck.
“Motive?” Kodak takes a deep breath. “Obviously the girl must’ve known something. Seen something.”
Kodak listens for a moment then blows out a nervous breath. “I’m not putting myself in between the two of you. I don’t get in the way of blood. I think you should come here and see for yourself.”
Apparently this met with some push-back from the Chief.
“Chief, we’ve worked together for twenty-five years. This is one call you have to make, not me.” He listens again. “Smithville Airport. Tonight. What time?”
I close the door silently, then head back out the front door. I need to think. If I confront Kodak, he’ll probably hold a gun on me until the Chief gets here. If I play dumb, that gets tricky. I’m so angry, I’m not sure I could pull it off.
Best to get back in the car and pretend I haven’t come home. But where will I go?
Damn, I wish Chelsea was alive. She always knew how to calm me down. Damn you, Chelsea, for being so damned smart.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Missed It by That Much
The light tap on Matt’s hospital room door woke Angie from her doze. Though the overstuffed chair was a comfortable change from the one in Neuro PCU, she still hadn’t been able to get that deep sleep her body demanded.
She looked up wearily from the recliner. Who would be visiting at this time of night? Hospital staff walked in without knocking. She glanced at her watch. It was half past midnight. Angie broke into a smile when she saw the pixie-like face of Joanne Frugoni, the nurse from Neuro PCU, peek into the room. “Are you awake?” whispered the nurse.
Instead of answering, Angie got up from the chair and went to embrace the woman who had helped her through one of the worst nights of her life.
Joanne returned the hug, then stepped back and ran her hand through her black, short-cropped hair. “I know I look a mess. We’re pulling double shifts after that Wal-Mart explosion. How are you doing?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“Better,” Angie whispered back. “You were right. It takes time to heal.”
Joanne turned her attention to Matt. She went to the bed, studied his face and nodded approvingly. “He certainly looks better.”
Angie nodded. “He’s walking, and eating real food. He even took his own shower this morning.”
Joanne smiled. “I’m so happy for you. And for him.”
Angie studied the nurse, and her brows furrowed. “You look beat. I
can’t believe you came down here to see us.”
“This is the first chance I’ve had.” Joanne studied the monitor that beeped evenly over Matt’s head. “Good blood pressure. Oxygen content is good. Heartbeat’s strong.” She looked back at Angie. “Is he on a blood thinner?”
“Not now. They’ve still got the IV run just in case, but so far, so good.”
“Looks like you’ve had some visitors,” Joanne said, gesturing to the flowers and cards that filled the room.
“I lost count, there were so many,” Angie said. “
Joanne walked to the crudely labeled banner. ‘Get Well, Pastor,’ she read out loud, then smiled at the bright-colored handprints around the border. “What’s this?”
“A lady from the church had the kids make that for him in Sunday School this morning. She brought it over this afternoon.”
“How cute!” Joanne said, then went to the window to look over the flowers. “They smell wonderful.” She pulled at the tag. “You’re in our prayers. The Holy Smokers?”
“That’s the barbecue team from Matt’s church.”
“Funny,” Joanne said, then tried to put the tag back into the arrangement. It fell to the floor. “Oops,” she said, and bent down to pick it up.
Angie let out a sigh of relief. Joanne’s appearance reminded her of how much things had improved in such a short time. Was it really less than a week ago that she’d been sobbing into Joanne’s arms, afraid her Matt was gone forever? Well, he wasn’t exactly “back” now, but he was certainly beginning to act and think like the man she loved.
“What’s this?”
Angie looked up. Joanne stood on the far side of the bed, holding up a syringe. Angie shrugged. “You’re standing by the hazardous waste bin. Someone probably simply missed the receptacle.”
Joanne shook her head slowly. “This isn’t hospital issue. In fact—” She studied the needle more closely. “It looks like something an addict would use on the streets.”
Angie’s eyes went wide. “What’s it doing in here?”
“I don’t know, but this is sloppier than sloppy.” Joanne’s eyes narrowed. “Look at the dirt on this thing. It isn’t sterile. And there’s still some liquid in it. Someone’s head is going to roll on this one.” She reached across the bed and hit the intercom.
“Nurse Robert,” came the male reply.
“You need to come in here. Stat,” Joanne ordered. “And bring your charts with you.”
***
I see the lights of a plane approach the Smithville Airport. I recognize the private jet. It’s a Bombardier Challenger 350. The Chief definitely likes his toys.
I wanted to make sure I got to the airfield before Kodak, so I’ve been parked beside this outbuilding for over an hour. Sure enough, Kodak drove up in a rental car, twenty minutes ago. He’s parked at the end of the runway.
I’ve been practicing this confrontation ever since I left Kodak in my apartment, and my confidence level is high. I did shoot that sputum into Hogan’s IV. Period. I don’t understand why Kodak’s so upset that Hogan is still alive. The TB serum won’t work for at least a week. And when Hogan does get symptomatic, the doctors will assume it’s pneumonia; the treatment for pneumonia won’t do a thing to hurt the tuberculosis festering in Hogan’s lungs. Maybe Kodak lied to the Chief about how long it would take for Hogan to die. The slimy rat would do just anything to smear my credibility.
The plane touches down—a smooth landing, considering the condition of the tarmac. As I anticipated, the jet comes to a stop closer to my position than Kodak’s. I start my engine, and drive towards the aircraft. At the far end of the tarmac I watch Kodak floor his rental. Too late. I smile.
“Game on,” I say.
I’m out of my car in a flash, and standing at the bottom of the stairs before Kodak is even out of his car. The door opens, and Howard Rutledge appears in the doorway as a breathless Kodak reaches my side.
“What are you doing here?” Kodak hisses at me as the Chief starts down the stairway.
“Greeting my father,” I say, then break into a smile. “Hi, Chief. How was your flight?”
My father, an athletic bag in one hand, and a briefcase in the other, stops on the bottom step. His eyes, sharp as an eagle’s, look first at Kodak, then at me. “I’m surprised to see you’re here,” he says to me, putting his things down on the tarmac.
“I need to make you aware of some irregularities in Kodak’s behavior,” I state bluntly. “I like a good game as much as anyone, but he’s no longer working for your best interest. Only his own.”
Kodak sputters. “That’s a lie.”
“Look, Kodak. I understand,” I say nicely. “I’m replacing you as the Chief’s second-in-command and you want to smear me. But don’t try to tell me something’s wrong. Hogan wouldn’t be showing symptoms of TB yet.”
The ferret’s mouth drops open as if he’s about to ream me with a sharp retort, then he stops.
Yeah, you bastard. With his boss here, Kodak has to mind his manners. We both know my father will be the judge, jury and executioner of this battle, and the Chief looks ready for the job. His square jaw is firm, his six foot-two inch bearing, confident. His face is unsullied with lines of worry or indecision. He exudes authority. As he watches the interaction between myself and Kodak, I know that dynamics count with him. I’m on the attack. In control. Calm. Kodak looks like he’s about to have a stroke.
Score the first shot for me.
“That’s quite an accusation,” the Chief says.
I take a step forward and look my father directly in the eye. “Ever since Kodak got here, he’s done everything he can to botch this job. He’s even tried to tie me to a murder that took place Saturday night.”
“What?” the sniveling weasel demands.
“You let that waitress see you poking around the parsonage.” I’m making the story up as I tell it, but the Chief is listening to me. “Why in God’s name did you expose yourself like that?”
“I was never at the parsonage!” Kodak sputters.
“Don’t lie. I knew you were up to something. I’ve been watching you closely.”
I’m the one who’s lying, of course, but one look at the Chief tells me he’s buying it hook, line and sinker. “When you realized she’d seen you breaking and entering through the garage, you knew what you had to do. Slamming her over the head with a frying pan? How many tries did it take to kill her?” I’m pretty sure it took four. Yeah. It was four.
“You’re saying you emptied that syringe into Hogan’s IV tube.” Ignoring Kodak, the Chief speaks to me. His voice is controlled and calm.
“I watched it go in,” I say, and make sure my expression proves the truth of it. “There’s no way that TB serum will have any effect on Hogan tonight. Kodak’s feeding you a bunch of bull. You and I have laughed over this power struggle between Kodak and me. But I understand why you allowed it to go on. You needed to know who was the weaker of the two.” I glare back at Kodak. “And who would betray you to get what they want—your legacy.”
Kodak’s smile is grim. “You’re lying. You killed that waitress. And you botched the injection this afternoon.”
I look at him, my smile lethal. “I didn’t botch it,” I say. Of that, I’m sure.
The Chief nods, his eyes glowing with satisfied evil. I realize then that this is exactly how he’s wanted things to go down.
“I’m hungry,” he says. “Kodak, I’m taking your car. The two of you can ride together.” He walks toward the rental car.
“Do you want to follow us?” I call.
My father turns and looks first at me, then at Kodak. “I don’t follow anyone.” He starts for the car. “And pick me up a pizza on the way home.”
Kodak and I exchange hateful glances, but don’t say a word to each other. We grab the Chief’s bags and head for my car.
Chapter Thirty
Wanted: Mike Hogan, Dead or Alive
Monday morning, Peter Pendergast arrived at w
ork promptly at nine a.m., which surprised most of the other reporters in the room. Peter grinned smugly. Let them wonder. I’m about to change the news cycle.
He removed his navy sports jacket, sat down at his cubicle, and pulled the flash drive from his shirt pocket. He’d been up until midnight polishing the story. All he had to do was load it into his office computer and hit send.
He did so, with a flourish.
Time for coffee. Peter grabbed his mug and headed for the lounge. He considered what the headline might read in tomorrow’s paper. Preacher Brings Hell to Wilks? Maybe, Wilks Under Siege by Preacher’s Past? He tossed the remnants of Friday’s coffee grounds in the sink and poured himself a fresh cup. Then there was his favorite. Jimmy Novak Tied to Miami Mafia.
Yeah. That one checked off every item on his agenda—Jimmy’s run for governor and the Rutledge murder case. Well, the editors would probably hate the headline. Too long, they would say. Too bad, he would reply.
“That’s a dangerous-looking smile.” The sarcastic comment came from one of Peter’s rivals for front page space. In Peter’s estimation Howie Anderson was a freckled moron.
“We all get our scoops,” Peter said. “Some change world history.”
“Wow.” The twenty-something raised his eyebrows. “Be careful you don’t break your arm, patting yourself on the back.”
Peter sniffed, and went back to his cubicle. He resented the way his fellow reporters looked down their noses at him. Maybe he didn’t post a lot of articles on the front page, but some stories take time to develop. This one had been a long time coming.
The article he’d written was scathing. He’d be promoted for sure. All those who ridiculed him like that snot-nosed Howie Anderson? They could kiss their jobs good-bye.
On the other hand, why stay in Texas? Peter wasn’t from here, anyway. But the St. Louis newspaper where he’d started was small potatoes. A thought occurred to him, and he grinned. Yeah, that by-line was much better.
Peter Pendergast, New York Times reporter.
He sipped his coffee. Now all he had to do was wait for the call from Lombardi. The Dallas Daily News owner owed him an apology. Should he accept it?
Murder on the Third Try Page 21
