by Chris Culver
“What did you do?”
“I took meetings all day. Fourteen men came by with business propositions. I said yes to them all and promised fourteen strangers eight million dollars, no strings attached. When I finished with them, Darren Rogers returned and told me he needed money for two more projects. I built a pool in Sycamore Park and gave him a hundred thousand dollars so the county could throw a spring festival to celebrate the new St. Augustine. After that, he tore up my signed confession and told me I had settled my husband’s debt.”
“What happened with these grants?”
She smiled. “It took about six months, but I sold everything I owned. Jordan Reid used his money to create Reid Chemical. Ross Kelly used a million dollars and a land transfer to create Ross Kelly Farms. Jake Conroy used his money to renovate the Wayfair Motel and to open a restaurant and truck stop by the interstate. Most of the other places went out of business, but I hear Able Morgan’s diner is still open. His nephew runs it now.”
My stomach twisted.
“Yeah. Able’s is still open. They make good milkshakes,” I said. I paused. “Did Edward Saunders come to you at the hotel?”
“No,” she said, giving me a quiet smile. “Edward was a good man. He was quiet and proud. When I commissioned our coffee table from him, he told me his dream was to own his own furniture shop.”
Susanne paused before speaking again.
“Darren Rogers didn’t bother telling Edward about the deal he cut, so Edward didn’t know who killed his daughter. I told him the truth and gave him every dollar I owned so he could start over. I hoped he and Glenn would leave town, but Edward built his shop and followed his dream.”
“He killed himself,” I said.
Susanne nodded. “I know.”
Neither of us said anything. I drew in a deep breath and stood. “I need you to come downtown with me and tell some of my colleagues what you just told me.”
Susanne paused and held my gaze.
“Do you understand what you’re doing?”
“I don’t have a choice, Susanne,” I said.
“You always have a choice,” she said. “I killed a man who raped his wife and murdered an innocent young woman. Stanley and his friends destroyed everything good in my life and planted a poison tree on Helen Saunders’s grave. St. Augustine has lived with that poison tree for so long, its fruit has become a part who we are. If you tear it out, you’ll tear out the heart of this county with it. Think about what you’re doing.”
I swallowed hard and tried to keep the tremble from entering my voice.
“Susanne Pennington, you’re under arrest for the murder of Stanley Pennington. You have the right to remain silent. If you talk to the police, we can use whatever you tell us against you in court. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford one, the court will provide one for you at no charge. Do you understand your rights?”
She held my gaze for a silent ten count before nodding.
“I understand,” she said. “Before you take me, can I use the restroom?”
“Of course,” I said.
She stood and put a hand on my cheek. “I’m sorry I put you in the position to do this.”
“Me, too.”
She nodded and walked to the restroom. I thought I heard her talking to someone up there, but that may have been my imagination. When she came out ten minutes later, I walked her to my SUV and helped her sit on the backseat. Within five minutes, she trembled. I thought she was scared, but then I saw her dilated pupils and the now pallid tone of her skin. Moments later, her tremble turned to a convulsion as whatever drug she had taken worked its way through her system.
I flicked on my lights and siren and glanced at her in the rearview mirror, my heart now racing.
“You took something in the bathroom, didn’t you?” I asked.
Her voice was hoarse and weak. “I couldn’t let you destroy this place.”
“Damn it, Susanne,” I said, flooring the accelerator. “What did you take?”
“Everything.”
I squeezed the steering wheel hard and clenched my jaw tight as I drove. Cars made way in front of me, but I couldn’t drive fast enough. The tips of her fingers were blue as she clutched her chest. I radioed the hospital to let them know I was bringing in a suspected overdose, so paramedics and nurses met me in the driveway. They took her away.
I stayed in the car and covered my eyes as waves of anger, pain, sadness, and frustration washed over me. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t have tears. Eventually, I went into the waiting room. The doctors were still trying to save Susanne, so I told the receptionist my name and position. She promised to keep me updated. I also called my station to let them know what was going on.
Then, I settled into a chair to wait. After an hour, the emergency room’s exterior door slid open, and Darren Rogers walked inside. He wore gray slacks, a white shirt, and a red tie, and he carried a battered leather briefcase. The waiting room’s harsh lights glinted off his slick liver-spotted head. When he saw me, he smiled and came forward. Every part of my body felt hot.
“Detective Court,” he said, holding out his hand. “Congratulations on Glenn Saunders. You did it. You got the bastard.”
I ignored his hand.
“Saunders won’t hurt anybody again,” I said. “I would have preferred an arrest, though.”
Rogers smiled and lowered his hand as if he hadn’t offered it.
“I hear there are big things on the way for you,” he said, winking and lowering his voice. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but the FBI requested your service record. You impressed them. I think they’ll be offering you a place in the next class at the FBI training academy. You’ll make a hell of a special agent.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
My voice was so low I barely heard it over the ambient noise of the hospital. Rogers straightened and furrowed his brow.
“I don’t mean to tell you your business, but you’d be a fool to turn down an offer from the FBI.”
“Susanne told me about her former husband’s death,” I said. “Stanley Pennington raped and murdered Helen Saunders almost fifty years ago. My department covered it up and blamed an innocent man. When Susanne killed Stanley, you covered it up and engineered a deal. If Pennington Hotels went under, it’d take this county with it. Instead, you arranged for her to sell her company, stay out of jail, and donate her money to your friends so they could build their own businesses.”
Rogers patted me on the shoulder and smiled. “You certainly have an active imagination, Detective Court. I’d love to sit and chat, but I’m here to visit a client.”
“You own bars and restaurants,” I said. “You don’t have clients.”
“My family owns a lot more than bars and restaurants,” he said. “Besides, I’m a licensed attorney who provides discreet legal services to a select clientele. You can’t keep me from my clients. If you’ll excuse me.”
I stepped back. “By all means.”
He smiled again and walked past me toward the front desk. He spoke to the receptionist for a moment, and then a nurse in scrubs escorted him back to the treatment area. Rogers stayed inside for about five minutes and then left. On the way out the door, he tilted his head toward me.
“I’ll see you around, Detective,” he said.
“You will,” I said. As he left the waiting room, a doctor in blue scrubs came from the treatment area and walked toward me. “How’s Susanne?”
“You’re Detective Court?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“We did what we could, but any further intervention would only prolong her suffering. I’m sorry.”
I opened my mouth.
“Did Darren Rogers do something to her?”
He paused.
“Mr. Rogers is Mrs. Pennington’s attorney, and he let us know she had a durable do-not-resuscitate order in her will. It didn’t factor into my decision to end life support, though.”
My fingers
tingled, and my body felt hot. “He was trying to kill her so she couldn’t testify against him.”
The doctor paused again. He opened his mouth and then closed it twice before speaking.
“I can assure you that Mr. Rogers didn’t change the situation. Does Mrs. Pennington have a family I can call?”
“The Sheriff’s Department will notify her next of kin,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, nodding. “If you or they have questions, let me know.”
I thanked him, and he walked back into the treatment area. I sunk down into a seat and rested my elbows on my knees.
Since becoming a detective, I had fired my weapon multiple times in the line of duty, I had been abducted and tied to a chair, I had disemboweled someone with a knife hidden in the bottom of a contract murderer’s shoe, I had seen children abducted and murdered. I had lost colleagues and now a friend. All this time, I had believed there was something wrong with me, that I was cursed, that I had brought this death and pain into my life.
It wasn’t me, though.
It was this county, this town, these people. Darren Rogers and men like him had brought something dark to this county.
The people of St. Augustine had made me a detective. They trusted me to peer into the darkness on their behalf and to protect them from the monsters that lurked in the night. I hunted murderers, rapists, and predators who preyed on the weak. St. Augustine was my home, not by birth but by choice. I had made it my own. I had put down roots. St. Augustine was mine, and I didn’t plan to give it up without a fight.
As I drove to my house, the impact of what had happened in the ER hit home. I had lost one of my only friends. My whole body felt numb. I wanted to sit in a dark room and drink until I didn’t hurt, but as I approached my house, a young man sat on a rocking chair on my front porch. There was no car in the driveway. I parked and got out of my car.
The guy on my porch was in his mid-teens, and he had blond hair and blue eyes. His face looked familiar somehow. I wondered whether he was a sibling of someone Saunders had taken to his dungeon. I wanted to tell him to leave, but I couldn’t do that to the brother of a murder victim.
“Hey,” I said. “I appreciate that you came all the way out here, but this isn’t a good time.”
He looked at me but said nothing. He wore navy shorts and a sky-blue polo shirt.
“I didn’t know whether you were real,” he said.
“I’m real,” I said. “Who are you, and why are you on my porch?”
He stood. He was taller than me but not by a lot.
“I’m Ian.”
I waited a moment, but he didn’t continue.
“Hello, Ian,” I said. “Why are you on my porch, and how did you get here? There’s no car in the driveway.”
“Uber,” he said. “I got your address from Brenda Collins. She’s a lawyer.”
I crossed my arms and spread my feet shoulder-width apart. It was a shooter’s stance, but he didn’t know that.
“Why did an attorney give you my address?”
“She didn’t,” he said. “Her firm’s IT department doesn’t update their software as often as they should. Her version of Outlook has an information-disclosure vulnerability. It’s not important. I got your address from her.”
I closed my eyes and sighed. “So you broke into her computer and got my address. Why would you do that, Ian?”
“Your mom was Erin Court, right?” he asked.
A cold spike traveled through me. My voice became iron.
“Why did you break into Ms. Collins’s computer, and how do you know Erin Court?”
“Erin was my mom,” he said. “She died when I was two. I wanted to meet you.”
I studied his face and shook my head, but then I realized why he had looked familiar at first sight. He had Erin’s eyes. I brought my hand to my mouth as a fluttery feeling took hold in my stomach.
“You’re not lying,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. He nodded. “I have a brother.”
“And I’ve got a sister. I was hoping you’d be taller.”
“Me, too,” I said. After everything that had happened to me over the past few weeks, after all the death I had just seen, I didn’t think I had a smile left in me. And yet, the corners of my lips turned up. “Let’s sit and talk.”
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The Boys in the Church
Thank you so much!
Did you like The Boys in the Church? Then you’re going to love The Man in the Meth Lab!
The victim was shot multiple times by a .45-caliber pistol in the living room of a derelict home on the outskirts of St. Augustine county. The home has a meth lab in the bathroom and boxes full of camping supplies in the kitchen. A crib in the back bedroom holds wrinkled sheets and a pacifier, but there’s no baby in the building.
When Detective Joe Court walks into the house for the first time, she already knows who the killer is: her department’s newest hire, Detective Reuben Terepocki. He claims he shot in self-defense, but Joe isn’t sure.
As she investigates, Joe uncovers a case far more deadly than she imagined. All her life, she’s tried to do the right thing no matter the cost to herself. Now, with an infant missing and a detective who clearly knows more than he lets on, doing the right thing won’t be enough.
If Joe can’t solve this case quickly, the man in the meth lab won’t be the only body St. Augustine has to bury.
The Man in the Meth Lab is the fourth intense and thrilling novel in New York Times’ bestselling author Chris Culver’s Joe Court series. If you like James Patterson, David Baldacci, or Karin Slaughter, you’ll love this series.
Check it out on Kobo!
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About the Author
Chris Culver is the New York Times bestselling author of the Ash Rashid series and other novels. After graduate school, Chris taught courses in ethics and comparative religion at a small liberal arts university in southern Arkansas. While there and when he really should have been grading exams, he wrote The Abbey, which spent sixteen weeks on the New York Times bestsellers list and introduced the world to Detective Ash Rashid.
Chris has been a storyteller since he was a kid, but he decided to write crime fiction after picking up a dog-eared, coffee-stained paperback copy of Mickey Spillane’s I, the Jury in a library book sale. Many years later, his wife, despite considerable effort, still can’t stop him from bringing more orphan books home. He lives with his family near St. Lo
uis.