The Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Boxed Set

by Thomas Scott

  She hung up before Virgil could respond.

  12

  Augustus Pate was mad enough that he was having trouble maintaining his composure. He’d met Pearson in a parking lot not far from his office and now the two of them were seated in the back of Pate’s limo, along with Pate’s assistant. The assistant was large, like a pro linebacker. Pearson had never seen him before. “Who are you?”

  “That’s Hector,” Pate said. “He’s my assistant. Never mind him. We’ve got some things to discuss. I told you I wanted his head on a stick. Why hasn’t that happened yet?”

  Pearson was seated in the rearward-facing seat, just behind the tinted glass partition that separated the men from the driver. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking about any of this in front of someone I don’t know.”

  “Hector is well versed in all of my business dealings, Bradley. All of them.”

  “Still, as I said, I’m not—”

  Hector leaned forward in his seat. “Answer the man’s question please, Mr. Pearson.”

  Pearson saw the look in Hector’s eyes and decided to answer. “I got him fired, didn’t I?”

  “Fired? You think I need you to get someone fired? I could have handled that without getting out of bed. I’m not talking about his career you idiot. I’m talking about finishing him. Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “Don’t get your ball sack in a bunch, Gus. If it weren’t for that degenerate son of yours, we wouldn’t be in this mess. You said you wanted Jones taken care of, so that’s what I did.”

  Augustus Pate, the late Samuel Pate’s father held Virgil responsible for the death of his son. Virgil’s most recent case—he’d been looking into the death of Franklin Dugan, one of the city’s more prominent citizens—had focused almost exclusively on Samuel Pate as the suspect. Pate had been the senior pastor of Pate Ministries, and Dugan’s bank had just loaned Pate five million dollars when Dugan turned up dead. Virgil began digging into Pate’s background where he uncovered, among other things, the junior Pate’s bloodlust for child pornography. When it became obvious that he was about to go down for his crimes—the kiddie porn was just part of it—Pate confessed his sins to hundreds of thousands of faithful viewers on live television. Then he put a gun in his mouth and blew the back of his head off. That was on TV too.

  “Jones is responsible for Samuel’s death. What part of that don’t you understand, Bradley?”

  “Let me tell you something, Gus. I understand exactly what you’re saying and now I want you to understand me. First, it wasn’t my fault that your kid took the chicken-shit express to hell. But that’s on him, not me. As far as Jones goes, the man is wrecked. He’s been relieved of duty, fired from the department and he’s hooked to the gills on prescription pain meds. That’s just for starters. I’m hearing rumors that he’s walking around having conversations with his dead father. A father, I might add, that your son’s wife shot to death. He’s gone from one of the most powerful cops in the state to the co-owner of a corner tavern. He is without question coming apart at the seams. All in all, from my perspective, that’s about as good as you’re going to get.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re still playing in the minor leagues, Bradley. I would have thought you could do better than that.”

  “Think what you want, Gus. If you want the man ‘finished’ as you say and make no mistake, I completely understand what you mean by that, you’ll have to do it yourself. That was not part of our deal.”

  Pate waved his words away like the annoyance that they were. “What about the funding? Where are we with that? The union people are breathing down my neck and the investors are starting to get jumpy.”

  “There’s been no change. The legislature passed the bill. The rest of it is on autopilot.”

  The passage of the bill had cost Pearson dearly, politically speaking, but the payoff had the potential to be massive. Pearson had set up a blind trust and the trust had then made an investment in Pate’s corporation, Augustus Pate International. API was nothing more than a holding company, but its holdings were substantial. Among them, a multimillion dollar company called Pri-Max, a construction firm that built state-of-the-art prison facilities all over the world. Pearson’s blind trust held stock options that if exercised would net him millions of dollars. But his options could only be exercised if certain conditions were met, chief among them, the passage of a house bill which stipulated that unclaimed lottery winnings would be appropriated into a fund designed to match—dollar for dollar—the completion of the state’s first private prison. The unclaimed funds were starting to trickle in, but the big one, the three hundred million dollar unclaimed prize was the one they were after and the time frame for anyone to claim that prize was just about to expire. Once it did, the funds would revert back to the state. After that, the bill would kick in and the money would be distributed into a discretionary fund, a fund that was by its very nature, discretionary.

  Pate wouldn’t get the money directly. That would be completely illegal, but Pri-Max would. They’d get subsidized by the state—dollar for dollar in matching funds—to not only build, but also run the prison. Pri-Max would turn the money over to API and from there it would get shuffled, rounded, disbursed and eventually distributed back to Pri-Max to cover cost overruns on the operational side and as dividends to their primary shareholders.

  Of course Pri-Max had inflated their numbers almost beyond belief when it came to construction costs, ongoing maintenance, staffing and direct operating expense projections. So with the inflated numbers—just shy of twenty-million dollars—and the state’s generous matching program, Pate was looking at a massive influx of capital that was his to spend as he saw fit, and Pearson, or more specifically, Pearson’s trust, would walk away with almost twenty percent of the take.

  “What about Monroe?” Pate asked. “At least tell me you’ve got her in line.”

  “Of course she’s in line. Abby does what I tell her.”

  “Your use of Ms. Monroe’s given name in the abbreviate suggests a certain level of familiarity that might extend itself beyond the normal boundaries of a working relationship. Is there something I should know, Bradley?”

  “Gee, that’s a lot of fancy words, Gus. I’m having a little trouble keeping up. If you’re asking me if I’m romantically involved with her, I can honestly say, no, I am not.”

  “Good. See that it stays that way. What the hell is going on with this Pope kid? Was that your doing?”

  “I wasn’t anywhere near that. The police are just as clueless.”

  “Good. Do whatever you have to do to make sure it stays that way. We don’t need any more complications.” Pate pressed a button on the center console next to his seat. When he did, the limo pulled to a stop and the doors unlocked automatically. “I’ll be in touch, Bradley. Be sure to contact me immediately if anything else arises. And if I were you, I’d distance myself from Jones.”

  “As I indicated, I already have. But let me give you a bit of advice, Gus. You’re not the first guy to come along and try to take him out. If you’re not careful, you won’t be the last.”

  Pate had already lost interest in Pearson’s words of warning, his gaze directed at nothing outside the limo’s tinted window. When he didn’t respond, Pearson got out and walked away.

  Hector stared at his boss until he was sure he had his attention. “He is going to become a liability.”

  Pate didn’t answer. He pushed another button on the center console and the limo pulled out into traffic.

  13

  Late in the afternoon Murton showed up at the bar and Virgil poured two cups of Blue Mountain coffee and carried them over to the same table where they’d been sitting before. “If we keep sitting at the same table all the time we’re going to end up looking like a couple of goombahs or something.”

  Murton ignored his attempt at levity. “I shouldn’t have said what I did the other day. Any of it. I’m sorry.”

  “Ah, me too. Forget about it.
” They were both quiet for a beat before Virgil went on. “Look Murt, you had a rough go of it for a while a long time ago. You might have drawn a shitty hand, but I’ve never seen anyone walk away from the table with their head held higher. I’m proud of you, brother.”

  Murton chewed at his bottom lip before he spoke. “I don’t really remember my parents. Isn’t that something? It’s almost like I don’t have any memories before that summer. Boy, I’ll tell you, after I busted that window at your house I thought your old man was going to take me to the woodshed. Instead, he and your mom gave me my life back. The way they took me in? The way they raised me like I was their own? Who does that? It was foreign to me. In many ways it still is. I guess that’s why I sort of freaked out there for a second. They gave me more than I ever deserved and now, even though they’re both gone, the only real parents I ever had, they’re still giving to me.”

  “Who says you didn’t deserve it? They loved you, Murt. You were every bit as much their boy as I was.”

  Murton grinned, then shook his head.

  “What are you thinking?” Virgil asked.

  “I’m thinking it is a pretty nice house. Say, will you help me move?”

  “Hmm. I can’t.”

  “Well why the hell not? Isn’t that what friends do for each other?”

  “Yeah. But the doctor told me no strenuous activity for another two weeks, so…”

  Virgil took the pill bottle from his pocket and downed another dose of Oxycontin. After he swallowed the pills, even after he felt the euphoric rush of the chemical bombardment, he had to admit that his father—or the part of his brain that manifested his apparition—was right. He was hitting the pills too damn hard. But he also felt like he was past the point of no return. He simply didn’t know if he could stop. He didn’t even know if he wanted to try. And if he did, could he do it? It was a question he was not prepared to answer in the moment. As it turned out, someone else answered for him, just not in the way he expected.

  During the course of the rest of the evening Virgil noticed that his partners seemed to take some sort of pity on him. Robert brought him a plate of food, Murton worked doubly hard behind the bar, Delroy seemed to sing just a bit louder along with whatever song was playing on the jukebox and all in all, with the exception of Sandy not being present, Virgil found himself having a great time.

  But things have a way of coming around as his grandfather used to say and when they came around for Virgil, he wondered at the state of his being, the people he loved and the events of his life that had yet to take place. He could feel a dull throb deep inside his leg and just as he reached into his pocket to retrieve his pain pills, Delroy walked over and stood next to his chair.

  “Hey, Delroy. What’s happening?” Virgil said.

  “Ha. Plenty. Too bad you’re not noticing.”

  “Pardon?”

  He pulled out a chair and sat down. “What you tink you know about Jamaican people, you?”

  “I’m not sure I understand the question, Delroy.” Virgil began to twist the top from the bottle of pain pills when Delroy’s hand clamped down around his wrist.

  “Your leg? It hurts, no?”

  “Yeah, it does. Plus, it’s time for the medicine anyway. If I get behind…”

  He waved Virgil’s words away like a fly that hovered over a bowl of soup. “Yeah, yeah. Delroy heard it all before, mon. Mostly from you. You get behind on da medicine and it start to eat you up. You tell Delroy this one ting: What I ever ask of you before?”

  The look on his face was one Virgil had never seen. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking me, Delroy.”

  “Don’t you insult me, you. You tink when I walk into our bar and everyone shouts, ‘Yeah Mon!’ you tink I don’t know what dat is? It respect, mon, plain and simple. How many conversations we have about your grandfather, you and me? Delroy know somewhere deep down you tink in some way he live inside me. I tell you someting else, mon…maybe he do, but it not for me to say. If he do though, it up to you to honor and respect what come your way. Now, you tell me I’m wrong.”

  Virgil looked at the bottle of pills in his hand and then did something he thought himself not capable of ever doing. He tried to hand Delroy the bottle of pills. But Delroy sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Those pills, day don’t belong to me, mon. Problem is, day don’t belong to you, either.”

  “So what should I do?”

  Delroy laughed. “Come on. Let’s take a little ride, you and me.”

  “Where?”

  “Don’t you worry about it, mon. I introduce you to someone. You tank me later.”

  Virgil let Delroy drive, and if asked, would have admitted it might not have been one of his better decisions. They left the city and took the loop north, which took them about an hour out of the way, though Virgil didn’t know it at the time. Jamaicans were odd drivers. They use the horn as much as the gas and the brake pedals and to sit in the passenger seat of a vehicle driven around the city of Indianapolis by someone from a small island nation is somewhat akin to taking a flight in a hot air balloon with a student pilot. In other words, things will probably be all right, but in the end, you never really know. An hour later they finally turned into Virgil’s driveway and parked the car. Delroy looked over at him and said, “Whew. Dat’s some traffic, no?”

  Virgil swallowed instead of answering. They got out of the car and walked up toward the front porch, but instead of going inside Delroy pulled Virgil by his arm and led him around to the back of the house. When they turned the corner Virgil saw something that made his heart skip. Tiki torches had been erected around the perimeter of the pond, their flames reflecting across the water. Sandy stood next to the willow tree dressed in a long white gown that flowed with the evening breeze. Murton and Robert were there as well. Robert walked over and placed his hand on Virgil’s chest before he spoke. “It time to come home now, mon.”

  Sandy came from under the willow tree and kissed Virgil hard on the mouth and didn’t say anything. Murton put his arm around Virgil’s shoulders and said, “Welcome home, brother.”

  Everyone in Virgil’s life was there at that moment. When he looked at the willow tree, he saw his father. His arms were crossed over his chest, his head tilted to one side, the look on his face an odd combination of sorrow and hopefulness. For a moment Virgil felt so dizzy and lightheaded he thought he might pass out. It was deathly quiet for an indeterminate amount of time before anyone spoke. When someone finally did, it was Delroy.

  “You hear me now…there is nothing wrong with your leg. The doctor say it healed and he right. It not your leg that hurts, mon. It your heart. They don’t make no pill for dat, no. What you do right now, right this very moment, Virgil Jones, it define the rest of your life.” Then he swept his arms wide and said, “Maybe ours too. So, what you do, you?”

  Virgil looked at Sandy and walked toward her, but he was so heavily focused on the vision of his father under the tree that he almost walked right past her. She held out her hand and stopped him.

  “He’s here, isn’t he? Your dad.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  “I believe you, Virgil, I do. But the rest of us? We’re here for you too. We love you and we’re not ready to let you go. You’re killing yourself with those pills, baby. Do you hear me? You are literally killing yourself. You don’t need them anymore. Delroy’s right. You’re leg is healed, Virgil. It’s your heart that’s broken.”

  Virgil opened his mouth to say something…he wasn’t sure what, but closed it again before he said anything that might cause more hurt or damage to the woman he loved and the three men who stood by her side. Then something odd and beautiful happened. Robert walked away from the rest of the group and over to the pond. He removed his shirt, his brown skin taut with muscle, his shoulders almost twice as wide as his waist. He dropped his shirt in the grass and waded hip deep into the pond. He cupped the water in his hands then raised them above his head and let the water tr
ickle down each arm. As he did, he began to chant something, his Jamaican accent so thick and strong Virgil could not make out his words.

  Delroy looked at Virgil and said, “He pray for you.”

  Murton stepped up close and cupped his hand on the back of Virgil’s neck. “I’ll do anything in the world for you, brother, except continue to look the other way.” Then, as if he hadn’t made his point, or perhaps to make sure he had Virgil’s full attention he added, “Stop jerking me around. You’re the only family I’ve got left.” He sounded pissed. Then he walked over and picked up Robert’s shirt and held it open for him as he came out of the water.

  When Virgil turned back to Sandy it was clear to him how much damage he’d managed to inflict on the people he loved. “I’m afraid if I stop, I’ll never see him again. He died for me.”

  “He died for us, Virgil. You remember what he did just before he passed? The way he put your hand on top of mine? The way he looked at me until he was gone? You said something to me the day we planted this tree. You said he was telling you he loved you…that he didn’t say those exact words, but that was what he meant. I’m telling you, baby, in that moment behind the bar, when he put your hand on top of mine and looked at me until he passed, he was telling me that he trusted me to take care of his boy. So that’s what I’m doing. That’s what we’re all doing.”

  “What if I stop and I don’t ever see him again?”

  “Then he was never really there, was he?” Sandy took his hand and led Virgil away from the weeping willow and closer to the edge of the pond. When Virgil looked back over his shoulder, he could still see his dad under the tree, but Mason seemed focused on someone else. It was then that Virgil reached into his pocket and grabbed the bottle of pills. He twisted the lid open, poured them out in his hand and threw them into the water. When he did, two things happened almost simultaneously.