Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  Hell, no. He was headed for prime time.

  ***

  Mike was pleased he was able to make his own way down the hall to his new hospital room with the aid of a walker, but that was about all he was happy about. Someone had tried to kill him. Again. This attempt was a close one. If Dr. Ryan had given orders to start up his blood thinner again, he’d be dead right now.

  When he arrived at his new room, there was a lanky kid in a deputy’s uniform standing guard.

  Angie stepped forward. “Matt, you remember Richard Dube? James W.’s deputy?”

  He didn’t, of course, but this was her way of helping him “fake it” as Bo would say. Mike nodded at the kid. “Good to see you again.”

  “Same here, Pastor.” Richard nodded them into the room, then scrutinized the medical team who carried Mike’s things to his new digs.

  James W. was already in the room, hands resting on his fully packed utility belt, the strap around his firearm hanging loose. An exhausted Dr. Ryan and the pot-bellied chief of hospital security were huddled in a corner, poring over a computer read-out from the lab. Dr. Ryan looked up. “It’s digitalis, all right.” Her voice sounded weak, but her eyes were angry.

  “I can’t believe it,” Angie whispered.

  “Believe it.” Mike’s eyes were flat. He lowered himself into the room’s recliner. This might be a surprise to them, but to him? It was old news. “Rutledge doesn’t stop until he gets what he wants. He wants me dead.”

  “This is all my fault.” Angie shook her head. “I let those people in.”

  “This isn’t your fault,” Mike said, his voice grim. “It’s mine. I should never have come to Wilks. I’ve put you all in this position.”

  James W. cleared his throat. “This Rutledge fellow is the one to blame. Not you.” He shifted his gaze to Angie. “Or you.”

  “I don’t understand it,” she cried. “I never left his side. I was there the entire day. I didn’t see a thing.”

  Mike reached for her hand. “Rutledge is a pro,” he said softly. “He’d’ve only sent the best. It was all a magic act. You weren’t supposed to see anything.” A technician came round the chair and began hooking Mike up to the bedside monitor.

  James W. huffed out a sigh. “Well, one thing we know for sure. We have a written record of every single person who was inside your room yesterday. Even the medical staff had to sign in. We’ve got that to start with.”

  Absolutely. And the fact that the crime lab was dusting for fingerprints and screening the room for evidence pleased him. James W. wasn’t messing around. The sheriff intended to find this assassin.

  A technician hit a button on Mike’s monitor and it sprang to life. Dr. Ryan approached the screen and studied it. “Everything’s looking good,” she said after a moment.

  “Everything is not looking good,” James W. said. “Save for the fact that you stopped the blood thinner IV, Matt would be dead. It’s not safe here. We have to move Matt out of Brackenridge.”

  The hospital security man stepped forward. “We can lock this place down—”

  James W. shook his head. “No, sir. Matt’s walking pretty good. He’s eating regular food. His plumbing is working.” His voice softened. “I’m sure your security here is excellent, but this Rutledge guy is good. Too good. He got past my people didn’t he?”

  Dr. Ryan slipped a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Now wait just a minute!” She pointed to the screen beside Mike’s bed showing his vitals. “His blood pressure, intracranial pressure, oxygen levels, heart rate all need to be monitored. This man isn’t healed yet. What if we have an emergency or he needs a life-saving medication? Or, God forbid, we have to take him back into surgery?”

  James W. held up his hands. “It’s not what I want. But those are what ifs.” He nodded toward the lab report. “What we have here is what is. The only thing that saved Matt’s life was the fact you’d shut off the blood thinner IV feed, even though the line was still in his hand.”

  Mike cleared his throat. “I have to agree with James W. Now that we’re sure Rutledge has found me, I’m putting everyone in this hospital at risk. Every patient, every staff member, every visitor is in danger as long as I’m here.” He nodded to the hospital security chief. “Look how many have died already because of me. Are you willing to risk the lives of all those people to keep me here for what ifs?”

  The security man looked helplessly at Dr. Ryan. “What would you have me do, Doc?”

  The doctor looked at Mike and then at Angie. “I’ll give you strict instructions that must be followed exactly. Pastor, you’ve had your ornery moments here. None of that when you leave. And Angie?”

  Angie swallowed hard.

  “You will do everything I tell you, and you will communicate his progress to me every four hours. Is that understood?”

  “Is there anything in particular we should avoid?” Angie asked.

  The doctor sent Mike a stern look. “Stay quiet. Physically. Mentally. Don’t go getting excited or upset about anything.” She turned to Angie. “I’ll put some meds on the list to help with that.”

  “Don’t get upset?” Mike echoed. “Someone’s trying to kill me.”

  Dr. Ryan folded her arms across her chest. “Your system is in a very delicate balance right now, pastor. You must maintain that balance. If your blood pressure goes up? We’ve got problems. Heart beats too fast? Problems. Adrenaline rush? Endorphins released? Your chemical makeup will not take those kinds of issues without affecting your brain.” She fixed a hard stare on him. “Your brain is not healed yet. Far from it. Stay calm.”

  Mike nodded obediently.

  Dr. Ryan bowed her head. “All right. I’ll arrange for the discharge.”

  ***

  Frank Ballard had his orders. The Chief wanted Frank to confirm with his own eyes whether Mike Hogan was dead or alive.

  Thankfully for Ballard, his standing with the U.S. Federal Marshal’s office allowed him to accomplish this with relative ease. To that end, Ballard found himself walking down the fourth floor corridor of Brackenridge Hospital, his stride authoritative, his chin firm. He turned the corner that would give him eyes on surveillance of Hogan’s hospital room, but stopped in his tracks when he saw the crime scene tape across the door.

  Wow, he thought to himself. Maybe the SOB is dead.

  He was about to approach the room, when he heard a familiar, albeit unwelcome, voice from behind. He darted into the nook carved out for the men’s restroom entrance right before Sheriff James W. Novak rounded the corner.

  “I’m heading over to the lab as soon as I tie up some strings here.” Ballard watched James W. shove the cell phone in his back pocket, then loosen the crime scene tape on the door and walk in. Ballard quietly snuck over to see the room’s condition. At least two lab techs dressed in hazmat suits were in the room, and it looked like a full-blown forensic evidence sweep was in progress.

  “Got anything for me?” James W. asked.

  “Too much,” replied the nearest tech. Ballard was surprised it was a woman’s voice that answered the sheriff’s question. As long as the door was open, he could hear every word coming out of that room. He didn’t dare get any closer.

  “We’re never going to match all these prints,” said the other tech. His voice was more in the baritone range. “This guy had a lot of visitors.”

  “Maybe we’ll luck out and there will be some prints on the syringe,” James W. said.

  Syringe? Ballard’s eyes widened. Kodak had left instructions not to dispose of the needle at the hospital.

  “Concentrate on the area around the hazardous waste bin, and the IV pole,” the sheriff ordered.

  “We already sent the IV bags and tubes off to the lab,” the female tech said.

  James W. cleared his throat. “I’m headed back up to the vic’s room. Keep me posted.”

  Or maybe Hogan was still alive. Ballard suppressed a sigh. How was he going to confirm this either way?

  He
saw James W. step into the doorway, then turn as if he was looking back into the room. Frank scooted over to the restroom’s niche, and plastered himself against the wall.

  “What’s that room number again?” the male tech was asking.

  “Room 624,” James W. replied. “And you don’t give that information to anyone, including hospital personnel. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” The snap in the male tech’s voice gave Frank the impression he was offering up a salute to the sheriff.

  Frank listened as James W. shut the door, then replaced the crime scene tape across the frame. The sheriff was already on to his next task by the time he walked by Frank, phone in hand, head bowed, looking at the screen.

  Frank didn’t leave the nook until James W. rounded the corner. He waited for the sound of the elevator’s ding, then slunk down the hall in the opposite direction.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Pulitzer Lost

  Peter Pendergast wiped a drop of mayonnaise from his chin, then scrunched the napkin up with the Whataburger wrapper and tossed them in his cubicle’s trash can. He ran his tongue over his teeth, then picked at a sliver of lettuce wedged in his bicuspid. His desk phone rang and he picked up the receiver. “Pendergast.”

  “He wants you. Now.”

  There was no mistaking the voice of the voluptuous administrative assistant to the Dallas Daily News owner. Not even a greeting, he noted. Well, he didn’t need to be polite either. Not with his future solid. “On my way,” he said and hung up.

  Once again in the elevator he checked out his appearance. It took three licks to get his thin red hair to lie flat against his egg-shaped head, but he was ready when the doors opened to the penthouse lobby. This time the admin didn’t even bother speaking to him. Instead, she thumbed him towards Lombardi’s door, her eyes never leaving her computer screen.

  Lombardi sat behind his desk, the opulent world that was Dallas spread across the wide windows behind him. The fierce expression on the old bulldog’s face looked like it had been cast in iron. Lombardi’s eyes slanted toward the chair in front of the desk, and Peter guessed that was his cue to sit.

  A flicker of concern sparked in Peter’s gut. This was a helluva way for the newspaper’s owner to compliment him on the story of the century. Fine. Lombardi wanted to see what Peter was made of? He could act like he was set in stone too. He sat, folded his arms across his chest, and looked Lombardi square in the eye.

  It seemed like a full minute before Lombardi finally spoke. He held up some copy pages, never letting his eyes leave Peter’s. “You wrote this?”

  “I assume that’s the story about how Sheriff Novak is covering for a dangerous liar who brought murder to central Texas?” Peter nodded slightly as if bestowing a boon. “I did.”

  Lombardi’s face was so rigid that Peter wondered if the man had recently received a botched Botox treatment. “You’ve done a lot of digging on this story.”

  Peter wasn’t sure if that was praise or accusation.

  “Who’s your source?”

  Peter had no desire to tell his boss about the dead Zach Gibbons or his reprobate son, Tom. “I had several, not the least of which was the Miami Herald front page. The Herald’s where you cut your teeth, isn’t it sir?”

  “Ah,” Lombardi finally nodded. “A cliché. Your stock in trade.”

  Peter stiffened. Somehow this conversation didn’t sound headed toward a compliment on his reporting technique.

  “You know what this article says to me?” Still holding the pages, Lombardi stood and walked around his desk. “It says you’re a no good son of a bitch.” He slung the article into Peter’s face.

  Peter’s jaw dropped. “What are you talking about. This is a solid scoop!”

  Lombardi leaned down to Peter’s level. His face was so close, Peter could see the pores on his overly large nose. “And I have a scoop for you.” He angled his head as if studying a roach he was about to kill. “You’re finished working here.”

  Peter blanched. “What?”

  Lombardi went to his desk and hit his intercom button. “Send him in.”

  “Yes, sir,” came the reply from Lombardi’s administrative assistant.

  Peter turned in his seat to see who would come through the door. The man who entered was a well-built, impeccably dressed man with deep, coffee skin. He walked straight to Peter, and held out his badge.

  “Pendergast, let me introduce you to Federal Marshal Clive Engels.”

  Peter blanched.

  The marshal pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “Pendergast, I could charge you right now with impeding a federal investigation and endangering a protected ward of the federal government.”

  Peter’s brows snapped together. “What the hell?” He stood abruptly.

  Lombardi’s lips twisted in rage. “You expect me to blow the cover on someone who’s in the Federal Security Program? You actually think I’d endanger this Hayden fellow’s life by exposing his whereabouts on the front page of my paper?”

  “Hayden, or should I say Hogan, is endangering the lives of every citizen in Wilks,” Peter snapped back. “And not only there. Right now he’s in Brackenridge Hospital, not two blocks from the Texas State Capitol. I’m trying to protect all of the patients, their visitors and the hospital medical staff, not to mention the state employees and legislators who now are in the line of fire.”

  “You really expect me to out him?” Lombardi’s eyes bulged with rage. “Put this man’s life in danger for your byline on the front page? Not in my paper, by God.”

  Engels stepped forward. “And that’s the only thing that’s gonna save your skin, Pendergast. As long as this doesn’t get printed you’re in the clear. But if I see one hint or suggestion in any media of this story, I’m going to throw the book at you.”

  Lombardi stalked around his desk. “And just to confirm. You’re fired.”

  “But my story—” Peter protested.

  “Will never see the light of day,” Lombardi finished for him.

  “If you know what’s good for you,” Engels added.

  Lombardi glared. “Now get the hell out of my building.”

  ***

  James W. barreled down the hospital corridor, a man on a mission. With Matt’s discharge in the works, he had a lot to do. Top of the list was determining where in the world was he gonna hide Matt and Angie?

  Then there was the continuing investigation into Chelsea’s murder. There’d been fingerprints, albeit more like smudge marks, on the frying pan. It looked like someone had tried to wipe them away, but there was a possible on the back of the skillet. That cast iron skillet was heavy—the perp probably used the back of the pan to support the blow. Might be only one finger, but that could be the key.

  As for motive? Well, it wasn’t a theft. The cash drawer at the Ice House had not been locked, and it was crammed full of money. Even the tip jar that the wait staff kept under the counter was untouched. No, Chelsea’s murder was personal. That was confirmed when the lab techs went to search Chelsea’s home for evidence, and the place had been wiped clean.

  But right now he had to think about where he was going to hide Matt. The sheriff’s list was pretty short. A hotel? Too easy to trace. An apartment away from Wilks? It would be difficult to secure a place filled with other renters.

  Then it came to him. His mother’s old mansion on the square in Wilks might be ideal. It had been empty since Miss Olivia had died last January. He and Elsbeth had been secretly hoping that Jimmy Jr. might want to settle there after his governorship—or sooner, if the vote didn’t go his way.

  He got to the elevator bay and hit the down call button. The mansion, though, was at the center of town, and had been built to be seen. Lights popping on and off during the night, and food deliveries during the day would raise a lot of eyebrows. Townspeople considered the Wilks mansion their mansion.

  The elevator doors opened, and James W. started in, only to come face to face with Deputy Frank Ballard. “What ar
e you doing here?” he demanded.

  “Trying to find my charge. Why did you move him without telling me?” Ballard looked as angry as James W. felt.

  “Informing you of his whereabouts is the last thing on my list. What are you doing here anyway?” An elderly man with a walker entered the car, and James W. grabbed Ballard’s elbow. “Over here,” he said, and guided Ballard to a hallway nook. “Our agreement was that you could call in to check on the pastor’s medical condition. Nowhere did I say you could come in and visit him. I heard about your foray the other night. Apparently Matt remembers you quite well.”

  “I called the hospital this morning for a ‘medical update’. They said they were no longer authorized to discuss Matt Hayden’s disposition. What the hell is going on here?”

  James W.’s jaw clenched. “It’s not your business,” he said between gritted teeth.

  Ballard’s eyes rounded. “Somebody tried to kill him.”

  James W.’s lips drew back in a snarl. “It’s none of your business.”

  “Is he okay?” Ballard demanded. “Can he walk? Talk?”

  “He’s fine,” James W. said, allowing that the man was due that much information. “He had waffles for breakfast and took a shower.”

  This time it was Ballard’s gaze that narrowed. “Prove it.”

  “I don’t have anything to prove to you.”

  “Let me see him—even a peek in the door will do—or I start squawking to my boss. And I don’t give a damn about that video you’ve got of me. Right now, you’re obstructing the duties of a deputy of the Federal Marshal’s Office.”

  James W. glared. He didn’t want Ballard anywhere near Matt, but on the other hand, a peek in the door wouldn’t do any harm. Especially since Matt wasn’t going to be in that room much longer. “A peek.”

  He didn’t let go of Ballard’s arm as they walked down the hall to Matt’s room. As they approached, Richard Dube, standing at the door, straightened his posture.

  James W. considered. He could trust Dube. Hell, he’d known the kid since he was an infant. His father had been Sheriff Danny Don Dube, the first law enforcement professional James W. had ever worked for. He felt bad that he’d had to let Rudy and Eddie go, but they could’ve been bought off. He knew them by reputation only. And his gut told him that was no longer good enough.