Wild Rage

by Tripp Ellis

  JD grinned. "Thank you."

  "Now is the time you really ought to consider coming under the wing of the label. I know you guys have been able to do this all on your own, but now that you've gotten exposure, I really want you to consider letting us help you take Wild Fury to the next level. Frankly, we can do things that no independent artist can do. We have connections throughout the industry and access to vast resources."

  "I'll take that into consideration," JD said.

  "I mean it, I'm here whenever you say the word. If you get any competing offers, please come back to me first, and I'll meet or beat anything anyone else offers. We’d really like to have Wild Fury as part of the family here at Auralogic Records."

  "Thanks, Jonathan, I appreciate that."

  “Keep in touch, Buddy.”

  JD ended the call and displayed his pearly whites. "He's out of his mind if he thinks I’m gonna sign away my music."

  "The sharks are circling," I said.

  During the rest of our meal, JD's phone kept blowing up with calls from the band, other A&R executives from major labels, reporters from music blogs and entertainment news channels, and groupies. An overwhelming amount of attention fell on him all at once. I knew Chloe’s post would bring attention to the band, but neither JD nor I were prepared for what was happening and what was yet to come.

  I’d been through it a little when I did a deal with the studio for the Bree Taylor project. But I was never the center of media attention for long. My name got mentioned in the trades and a few gossip blogs here and there. The media shined the spotlight on me for a brief period, then the attention faded away—and that was just fine by me. I liked being anonymous. It was a bad thing for someone like me to find themselves at the center of attention. I had no doubt there was somebody out there looking to put a bullet in my head.

  Pretty soon, JD put his phone on silent and slipped it back into his pocket so he could finish eating. But curiosity got the best of him, and he was back on his phone once he shoved the last piece of pizza in his mouth.

  He kept searching the web on his phone, looking for the latest news, refreshing the charts on the streaming platforms to see if the song bumped up and or down.

  The media frenzy had gotten so chaotic in such a short amount of time that some reporters had mistaken JD for the famous ‘80s rock singer that he resembled. They had even reached out to the old rocker for a comment. JD found the interview online and showed us the video on his phone. The famous singer seemed annoyed by the questions the paparazzi and reporters asked, confronting him on the sidewalk in Beverly Hills.

  It was like we had entered bizarro world. It would only get crazier.

  Jack was on cloud nine, enjoying his newfound fame. It would probably only last a day until the media was on to the next story.

  "Don't forget the little people when you make it big and famous, Jack," Denise said.

  "Trust me, you're not little people." He smiled, and Denise smiled back.

  We left the pizza joint and drove back to the station. We said goodbye to Denise, hopped into the Porsche, and drove to Rex Rayford’s residence.

  "You never did tell me what happened on that date you had with the two of them," JD said, fishing.

  “It wasn't a date. I took Denise and Teagan to see the Christmas lights, as promised. After that, I bought them ice cream."

  "That sounds like a date."

  “A date would imply that something happened. Nothing did."

  He gave me a skeptical glance. “If you're holding back on me…”

  I shrugged innocently. "I'm not holding back on you."

  "You can't do this to me. Don't make me file a Freedom of Information Act."

  I laughed. "I swear, if something goes down with either one, you'll be the first to know."

  JD wistfully said, “Imagine the possibilities."

  I certainly could.

  We pulled into the parking lot at Sunset Park—a mobile home community. There were rows and rows of trailers, some more well kept than others. Most had latticework or some type of shroud around the base. There were flowerbeds and rose gardens near some trailers. Others were barren and overgrown with weeds.

  We parked the car and strolled towards Rex's trailer. JD clicked the alarm, and the lights flashed on the Porsche.

  Two kids tossed a football around in the parking lot.

  We climbed the steps and banged on the aluminum door. The whole trailer rattled, and the window panes quaked. The trailer rumbled with footsteps.

  A voice called through the door, “Who is it?"

  "Coconut County,” I said. “We’d like to talk to you for a moment."

  A man pulled open the door with a scowl on his face. He was in his mid-60s with mostly gray hair. He had a thick jaw, a flat nose, and his skin was red—partially from the sun, partially from the broken capillaries in his cheeks.

  His eyes were bloodshot. He’d already tipped back a few beers. Rex Rayford stood about 6’1” and had muscular forearms. He was no dainty man. He had more than enough size and physical strength to put someone in a chokehold and squeeze the life out of them. He wore a long-sleeve, navy blue T-shirt with a white Barracudas logo on it. The sleeves were pushed up to his elbows.

  The first thing I noticed was a scratch under his right eye.

  17

  “What's this about?" Rex asked.

  "Helen Carter," I said.

  "What? Is she dead?"

  JD and I exchanged a glance.

  "Actually, she is."

  He groaned with relief, and his whole body relaxed. "Ah, thank God."

  It looked like a wave of ecstasy washed over him.

  We gave him a pointed look.

  “You mean, I don't have to pay that bitch every month anymore?"

  "It would appear so."

  A slight grin tugged Rex’s lips. "I guess this is cause for celebration. You boys want a beer?"

  "No, thank you,” I said. "What happened to your face?” I motioned to the abrasion below his eye.

  He pawed at the scratch. "Oh, that? Damn kitty. She thinks she owns the place."

  The little calico cat, hovering near the doorway, meowed.

  "Don't you, Princess?"

  The cat looked up at us and contemplated darting outside.

  Rex knelt down and scooped her up before she could take off. He cradled her in his arms for a moment. When she’d had enough, she growled at him, raising her paw like she was going to swat. Rex twisted around and tossed her back into the living room, and she arched her butt at him.

  "Well, is there anything else, or did you just stop by to give me the good news?"

  "Where were you last night between 8 and 10 PM?"

  His face crinkled, and he glared at the two of us. "What, am I a suspect now?"

  "If we can rule you out, you won't be a suspect."

  "I was here with my girlfriend."

  "All evening?"

  "All evening."

  "Does she live with you?"

  "Hell no. I ain't getting into anything that resembles marriage again. Not even that common law shit. I can't afford it."

  "What's your girlfriend's name?"

  "Well, the one I was with last night is Jayleen."

  "I'll need her contact information."

  He pulled out his phone and looked up her number, and I entered it in my phone.

  "How did Helen die? Was it painful?" He asked with a hopeful glint in his eyes. “Please tell me it was painful.”

  "She was strangled," I said.

  He seemed impressed. He thought about it for a moment, then nodded approvingly. "I guess that will do. I was kinda hoping for something a little more gruesome."

  "So, you don't have any feelings for your ex-wife whatsoever?" I asked.

  He thought about it for another moment, his face scrunching up. He finally found the word that would encompass his feelings. "Hatred. That's a feeling, isn't it? But I don't have that anymore."

  "Do you smoke, M
r. Rayford?"

  "Not anymore."

  "When did you quit?"

  "I don't see what that has to do with anything."

  "Just curious."

  "I haven't had a cigarette in two weeks."

  "How's that working out for you?"

  "Oh, it sucks. But I’ve got those patches, and they seem to be getting me through.”

  "Why did you decide to quit?"

  "Because that shit will kill you," Rex said. "At least, that's what my doctor tells me. I had this nasty cough that just wouldn't go away for months. I started getting a little worried. I had a friend who got one of those persistent coughs. He was dead from lung cancer within six months. That kind of shit will put the fear of God in you. Anyway, I thought it was time to kick the habit. I mean, it’d be kind of ironic if I got COPD, now wouldn't it?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You two are detectives, ain't you?"

  "We're special investigators," JD said.

  "Helen didn't have COPD. It was all bullshit. She certainly didn't have it when we got the divorce. She faked all that to get on disability and get extra alimony from me. You want to know why I don't like her and why I'm glad she's dead? Because that woman is evil and manipulative. Let me tell you, the world is a better place without her. Lying to people like she did, giving them false hope, telling them stories. She’s not psychic. Never was. How many lives did she ruin?”

  JD and I were silent while he ranted.

  “You think I like living in this place? Hell no. I'm 65 years old. This is not where I thought I'd end up. She took half of everything I owned, and I still pay her half of my monthly income." He smiled. "But not anymore."

  "Can you think of anybody else who may have wanted to hurt her?"

  "I would imagine that poor son-of-a-bitch she's dating now. Glenn, or whatever the hell his name is. I heard the dipshit asked her to marry him. You don't know the prayers I said when I heard that, hoping Helen would accept. But that vindictive little bitch said no just to spite me."

  "Do you know where Helen kept her cash?" I asked.

  He thought about it for a moment. "Yeah, she kept it in a cookie tin on the counter."

  "When was the last time you were aboard her boat?"

  "I don't recall."

  “You were charged last month with criminal trespass.”

  He kept a straight face and said, "I don't recall."

  The unmistakable sound of a football pinging against metal filled the air and drew JD's eyes. It was followed immediately by the grating sound of his alarm. Lights flashed, and the two kids took off running. The ball bounced on the concrete and rolled to its final resting place.

  JD's face tensed. "Son-of-a-bitch."

  18

  JD clicked his key fob, and the alarm stopped blaring. I told Rex that we might have more questions for him and not to leave town.

  "I'm an open book, gentlemen. I've got nothing to hide,” he said with a smile.

  We left Rex's porch, and he was happy to see us go.

  JD stormed across the parking lot with a scowl on his face, his narrow eyes searching for the culprits. They were long since gone, but I suspected little eyes were peeking around corners at us.

  JD scooped up the football on the way to his car. He surveyed the damage. Sure enough, there was a small, conical indentation on the hood of his Porsche. Not something any owner liked to see.

  "It's totaled,” I joked. “You should get a new one."

  JD shot me a look. "I just might."

  He tossed the football into a nearby yard, then climbed behind the wheel. He cranked up the engine and checked his phone before putting the car into gear. His momentary displeasure about the damage to the hood faded when he saw what position his song was on the charts. He flashed the display to me.

  All I Need was at #14.

  We left Sunset Park and headed to the offices of Hargrove, Williams & Associates. The wind swirled around the cabin, and JD turned up the stereo. I got a call from Agent Blake along the way and turned the stereo back down. JD frowned at me.

  “We may get one useful piece of information from the letter," Payton said.

  "I'm all ears."

  "There were no fibers, prints, hairs, or other genetic material on the actual letter itself, but we should be able to determine what brand of printer was used. We know it was an inkjet printer, and we’re trying to figure out the manufacturer based on the dot pattern. The lab is also trying to determine the brand of paper and where it was sold."

  "That's good news."

  "We found the bike messenger’s prints, along with several others, on the outside of the envelope. He's got no criminal history and nothing to suggest he's involved.

  “The sender used the shipping account of a local law firm,” I said. “We’re on our way to check that out now.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Will do,” I said before ending the call.

  JD sped to the law firm located in a professional building on the northeast side. We parked the car in the lot and ambled into the lobby. The law office was on the second floor.

  The name of the firm was written in fancy gold lettering in a classic font. We stepped into the lobby and were greeted by a receptionist behind the desk. There was a small waiting area with a leather sofa, two chairs, and a coffee table. The walls were paneled in mahogany, and oil paintings of the partners hung in ornate frames. A gold name-board of the firm hung on the wall.

  I flashed my badge to the receptionist. She was a woman in her mid-40s with short, curly brown hair and glasses.

  "Is this about the letter that was shipped using our number?"

  I nodded.

  "I spoke with a deputy on the phone not too long ago. I can assure you, no one at this firm sent that letter."

  "I'll need a list of all current and prior employees to cross reference."

  "I think it's best if you speak with one of the partners. Hang on just a moment." She picked up the phone and dialed an extension. "Mr. Hargrove, there are two deputies here that would like to speak with you. ...Great. I'll let them know."

  "He'll be with you in just a moment. You can take a seat. Would you care for anything to drink?"

  "No, thank you," I said.

  We took a seat on the sofa, and JD thumbed through one of the car magazines on the coffee table. A few minutes later, Mike Hargrove stepped into the lobby and greeted us. He wore a dark suit with a red tie and white shirt. He was in his late-40s with dark hair, brown eyes, and a slightly round face. He flashed a warm smile. "Deputies, thank you for coming. Sorry for the delay.”

  We stood up, shook hands, and made introductions.

  "Let's speak in my office." He led us down a hallway past a few other offices, a break area with a refrigerator and microwave, and a copier and print station. I made a note of the brand of printers used.

  Mike had a large corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a nice view of the ocean a few blocks away. The bookshelves were lined with leather-bound law books, and there was another oil portrait of himself on the wall.

  It was all very formal and, no doubt, impressive to clients. Mike took a seat behind a large oak desk that looked presidential. We took a seat opposite him in comfortable leather chairs.

  "I'm more than happy to give you a list of all current and previous employees. It's terrible what happened to Judge Perry. I tried many cases in his court. He was always fair."

  "What areas of law do you practice?" I asked.

  "Mostly criminal law and a little family practice. Everything from DUIs to murder cases to divorces. And let me tell you, some of the murder cases are easier.”

  "Have you, or anyone else in your office, had any disagreements with Judge Perry?"

  "Not that I’m aware of. But as I mentioned, Ed Perry was tough but fair. You definitely had to have your act together when you were in his court. He didn't suffer fools well, and he loathed laziness. I'd seen him rip a few attorneys in his day that were les
s than prepared. But I can assure you, gentlemen, no one in this office sent that letter. We do extensive employee background checks, and our attorneys hold themselves to the highest standards."

  "What about your clients?" I asked.

  Mike smiled. "Now, you know as well as I do that I won’t discuss any privileged client information. In fact, I won’t discuss our clients at all."

  "Even if one of your clients may have sent a pipe bomb to Judge Perry?" JD asked.

  "We have no reason to believe any of our clients are involved.”

  "It's reasonable to assume that a client could have seen that shipping number on a package," I said.

  "Anyone could've seen that number or made it up at random. There are infinite possibilities, Deputy. We frequently use messenger services to deliver urgent packages across town every day. That shipping number is exposed to countless individuals. It's clear the messenger service should take better safeguards with those packing slips to make sure the numbers aren’t identifiable by third parties."

  "I suppose a client list is out of the question?" I asked.

  Mike smiled again. “Absolutely.”

  JD’s phone kept buzzing through the entire meeting. Even with his phone on silent, the constant vibration every few moments was distracting.

  “Is that urgent?“ Mike asked. “Do you need to take it?“

  JD pulled the device from his pocket and looked at the screen. “No. It can wait.“

  “You’re a popular guy, Deputy Donovan.”

  “I am today.”

  Mike squinted at him, surveying Jack’s face. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like…”

  “All the time.”

  “I love those guys. Are they still around?”

  “I think so.”

  “Anyway, I already had Gloria contact Speedy Shores and request a change to our shipping number.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d give us fingerprints of the staff and partners for exclusionary purposes?”

  Mike still smiled. “My employees are not criminals, and I will not have them treated as such.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence. We had reached the end of his cooperation.