by Lauren Carr
“You assumed then that Fiona had gone to Deep Creek Lake to cheat on you,” Dallas said. “But that wasn’t the case at all. They were simply two people traveling alone who decided to keep each other company over dinner.”
“But in your jealous rage,” Archie said, “you watched Sandy Burr after Fiona had left, and then you followed him to his room and killed him.”
“Very good story,” Jarrett said with a smug grin. “But you can’t prove any of it. Your witness who said I was at the bar is wrong. No jury will ever believe him. Fiona was distraught about her mother’s death.”
“The mother I’m willing to bet you shoved down the stairs to punish Fiona for breaking up with you,” Dallas said. “She went back to you but only temporarily. She left you again. So you decided to kill her so that no one else could have her.”
“I’ve never been to Deep Creek Lake,” Jarrett Hill said with a laugh. “So I didn’t kill this Sandy guy. Fiona’s mother was a klutz, and Fiona left a suicide note behind. And as for my late wife, that was faulty electrical wiring.”
“Are you sure you’ve never been to Deep Creek Lake?” Archie asked.
“How many times do I have to tell you? No!”
“That’s weird, because your fingerprints were there,” Dallas said.
Jarrett Hill fell silent.
“Forensics picked up a beautiful set of prints on the door to Sandy Burr’s room,” Dallas said. “I know what you’re thinking. You planned everything so well while you were sitting there in the bar watching Burr have drinks with that woman. You wore evidence gloves and were very careful to not leave prints. But after he was dead and you’d staged the room to make it look like he’d committed suicide, you went to leave, and that was when you let your guard down. I can see you taking off your evidence gloves, opening the door, propping it open with your foot, and then—being careful to wipe your prints off the door handle—closing the door behind you. Thing is, you were so focused on not touching the handle that you didn’t notice it when you touched the door itself with your bare fingers, which were moist with sweat and the talc that’s inside those gloves.” She grinned. “You left a perfect set of prints on the door.”
“After Caleb Montgomery identified you as the man at the bar watching Sandy Burr,” Archie said, “we had Maryland State Police compare those prints to your prints in the Pennsylvania police database, and they’re a match. Burr’s murder happened before you got accepted to the police force, before your prints were put into the system. So when they ran the prints back then, nothing came up.” She flashed him a grin. “This time they did.”
“A witness puts you in Deep Creek Lake at the same hotel on the same night that Sandy Burr was murdered,” Dallas said. “And your fingerprints put you at the murder scene.”
“And your affair with Fiona Davis gave you a motive to kill him.” Archie stood up and went to open the police chief’s door.
Bogie was standing in the doorway. “Jarrett Hill, we have a warrant for your arrest in the death of Sandy Burr in Spencer, Maryland.”
“Any sign of Bill Clark?” David asked his officers on the radio while driving home from the police department.
“He hasn’t left his house since getting home before noon, Chief,” Officer Fletcher said.
During that report, David petted Storm, who had her nose pressed up against the passenger’s side window, and headed toward the grocery store on the other side of Deep Creek Lake. Hopefully, the timing would work out, and he could prepare another Chateaubriand for two to have waiting for Dallas when she got home that evening. While driving across the lake, he saw dark, heavy clouds signaling the end of the bright, sunny weather they’d had for the last couple of weeks.
After Bogie had arrested Jarrett Hill for Sandy Burr’s murder, Dallas and Archie had gone to meet with homicide detective Cameron Gates of the Pennsylvania State Police to go over the evidence they had dug up on Fiona Davis’ death. Murphy Thornton’s stepmother, Cameron Gates, would certainly latch onto the case like a dog with a bone and refuse to let up until she uncovered the evidence necessary to put Jarrett Hill in jail for the murder of Fiona Davis, her mother, and possibly his own wife.
Not long after he had left the police station with his lawyer, Bill Clark had canceled his appearances for the rest of the day, saying that he was not feeling well. David had called in his off-duty officers to keep Bill under surveillance and to keep close in case David needed back-up when Bill made his move.
Mac’s hunch had been proven right. David had been able to see the fury in Bill Clark’s eyes by the end of the meeting. Bill had killed his own brother to steal the ring that signified his birthright. Bill had hated David even before he’d seen that ring on his finger. If he had to kill David to retrieve it, he would do so with glee.
“You’re not eating this dinner,” David said to Storm when he put the bags of groceries into the back compartment of his police cruiser. Hearing a low rumble from the dark clouds overhead, he hurried to cross back to Spencer’s side of the lake and to get home and unload the groceries before the clouds opened up and dumped all of the precipitation they’d been storing up.
“Hey, Brewster, are you awake?” David said into the radio after turning onto the narrow road that led to the cove where he lived.
“Yeah, Chief, wide awake, but nothing is happening.”
David waved to the officer staking out the police chief’s home from inside his truck, which he had tucked back off the road behind some trees.
After kicking the door closed behind him, David stopped, his arms filled with grocery bags, to take in the silence of his home. He wished he hadn’t insisted that Mac return to Spencer Manor to go back to bed. The pneumonia had been sapping all of his strength, which made him of little use in this stage of their investigation.
Something about being aware that someone hated him—and very definitely wanted him dead—made the solitude of his home seem…scary.
Shaking off the feeling of dread, David carried the grocery bags to the kitchen, where he dumped them on the counter.
Storm had plopped down on the sofa. With her head propped up on the arm, she tracked his movements with her eyeballs.
David took off his utility belt, which held his service weapon, police baton, radio, and cell phone, and hung it up on the coat hook next to the door before going to work putting away the food. After popping the package of tenderloin filets into the fridge, he yanked a bottle of beer out, twisted off its cap, and took a big gulp from the bottle. Then, he put the rest of his groceries away and took the bag of dog food out of the lower cupboard to prepare Storm’s dinner.
Upon smelling the scent of her food, Storm’s ears perked up. She focused in on the bowl David had set on the kitchen counter.
“I guess you’re hungry,” he said in response to her lifting her head from the arm of the sofa.
As soon as he set the bowl on the kitchen floor, she jumped off of the sofa. Storm was not the least bit ladylike when it came to eating. She’d plunge her snout into the bowl and send dog-food pellets flying in her effort to inhale every bite.
Smiling, David recalled that Dallas had said that it was like Storm was determined to eat her food before it ate her first. Gently, he brushed his fingertips across the dog’s wounds from the mountain lion’s attack. They were healing nicely, and the patches of sable fur that had been shaved were already starting to grow back.
Leaning against the counter, David drank his beer and watched Storm gulp down her food and then lick the inside and outside of the bowl to get every morsel. She even pushed the bowl aside to check underneath it and around its edges. Once she was satisfied that she had indeed eaten every bite, she looked up at David and licked her chops.
“Ready to go outside?”
She answered by trotting across the living area of the great room to the French doors that opened to the back deck and the lake at th
e rear of the house. Sipping his beer, David followed her. As soon as he opened the door for her, she shot out of it and galloped down the walkway to the dock, where a small flock of ducks was gathering. She was so intent on chasing away the intruders that she didn’t notice or care that heavy drops of rain had started to fall.
Assuming she would be right back as soon as she realized that she was getting wet, David closed the door. He then took out his cell phone to check the locater application for Dallas’ location to see what time he could expect her to get home. He didn’t want the filets to dry out from overcooking.
“Nice place.”
David froze. How? Slowly, he turned around to face Bill Clark, who was aiming a .357 Magnum, not unlike the one Clint Eastwood used in Dirty Harry, directly at him.
“I considered shooting you in the back,” Bill said, “but I decided I wanted to see your face when I killed you.”
David tried not to look at the front door, beyond which Officer Brewster was supposed to have been watching for him.
Seeming to see the flicker of his eyes, Bill chuckled. “Really, O’Callaghan, I expected more of you. I’ve known Fletcher and Brewster and all of your officers for as long as you have. I know their vehicles. As soon as I saw Fletcher following me from the police station, I realized what you were doing.” His face hardened. “You stole my ring because you knew I’d try to kill you to get it back. Then you would have your men arrest me and ruin my chances of becoming mayor.”
David heard Storm scratching at the door behind him. The rain was falling in sheets then, and she wanted in.
“You think this is about politics?” David asked. “That’s what you think this is about? No. I don’t give a damn about politics. This is about murder.” He held up the hand holding the cell phone so that Bill could see the ring. “Your mother gave this ring to your brother, Leroy—not to you. He wasn’t wearing it when he died, and I know—Lisa told me—that he would have never given up this ring willingly!”
“It’s mine!” His face filled with rage, Bill stepped toward him. “Give it to me!”
“How did you get it?”
“Like you don’t know!” Aiming the muzzle of the gun at David’s face, Bill laughed. “You said it. Leroy refused to give it to me. It was mine! Dad told me ever since I was a kid that he would give it to me because I was to take his place as the patriarch—the leader of our family! It was my birthright!” he said, spitting out his words.
“But your mother gave it to Leroy.”
“Because he was a loser, and she felt sorry for him!” Bill Clark was close enough that David could see the insane quest for greatness in his bloodshot eyes. “She totally didn’t get it! Leroy was not worthy of that ring and what it represented!”
“Is that why you killed him?”
“If he had just given me the ring like I’d asked him to,” Bill said. “I made him a very good offer. If he gave me the ring that rightfully belonged to me, I’d give him his half of the family’s estate. But you know what he did?”
David set his half-empty beer bottle and the cell phone on the table next to the doors. “What did he do, Bill?”
“He said no! He said Mom gave it to him because she wanted him to have it! She felt he deserved it! Deserved it!” Bill bounced with rage. “I am the firstborn! I am the oldest! I deserved it! Not him! But he couldn’t get it! He just didn’t get it, and he would not give it to me, and it belonged to me!” He clenched his teeth. “If he had just given it to me like I’d asked, then—”
“Then what, Bill?” David asked.
His voice was dreadfully calm. “Then I wouldn’t have had to kill him.” He held out his hand. “Give it to me, or you’re going to end up like Leroy.”
David could hear Storm scratching and whining at the door behind them. The rain was pouring down on her. Unable to look, he could only imagine that she was soaked to the skin and shivering.
“Now!” Bill said.
“You’ll have to take it off my dead body,” David said.
A slow grin came to Bill’s face. “Gladly.” He lowered his gun and aimed it to David’s right. “But first I’m going to shoot your dog.”
Bill Clark pulled the trigger as David’s leg shot out and hit him in the chest, sending him flying backward and onto the glass coffee table, which gave way under his weight. Broken glass flew everywhere as the table collapsed.
The gun fell from his hand and slid under the sofa.
The stray bullet shattered the glass door.
David heard Storm yelp.
The anger that had built up over the years from the abuse the councilman had heaped on the police chief, his friends, his neighbors, and his town bubbled up to the surface. His taking a shot at Dallas’ beloved Storm was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
David descended on Bill Clark like an enraged bear. Grabbing him by the front of his shirt, he pulled him to his feet. “This is for Lisa.” He heard Bill’s nose break under the force of his punch to his face.
Falling back onto the floor, Bill covered his face with his hands. When he saw the blood, he charged at him. “You bastard!” Grabbing David by the middle, he shoved him back against the wall, shattering a series of candid pictures that the former owner had taken around the lake.
David had known Bill his whole life. During those years, he’d never known him to be athletic, though he regularly golfed and took occasional trips to the athletic club—usually only to network with fellow politicians and business associates. For that reason, David had expected him to go down easy and to stay down. But insane rage does things to a person. It gives him strength and endurance that he would not have under normal circumstances.
Years of resentment of the respect that David had from those in the community, not to mention of the charisma that won him affection from women without the use of money and power as bait, exploded into blind rage.
Holding David against the wall, Bill delivered one punch after another to his midsection until David kneed him in the face and shoved him back. Before Bill could recover his footing and stop stumbling backward, David advanced on him, delivering one blow after another. Occasionally, Bill would deliver wild punches, but seldom did they hit home. Finally, in desperation, Bill grabbed a lamp from an end table and took a swing, trying to hit David in the side of the head.
The blow was hard enough to make David see stars. He staggered. Shaking his head in an effort to chase away the stars, he staggered back, turned, and dropped down onto one knee.
Approaching David from behind, Bill lifted the lamp up over his head. “You have no idea who you’re messing with.” He prepared to bring it down on David’s head with every ounce of strength he had to finish him off.
“Hey, Brewster, any sign of Clark?” After parking his sports car next to the officer’s truck in the turnoff, Mac banged in the truck’s passenger side window. He had to yell in order for Officer Brewster to hear him over the downpour.
Caught in the midst of sending a text to his girlfriend, the officer dropped his phone onto the passenger seat. “None.” He took note of the dark circles under Mac’s eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”
“I’ll rest after we get Bill Clark locked up.” Mac tugged on the collar of his yellow slicker to block the chill in the air.
“Hey, Brewster!” Officer Fletcher’s voice came out of the radio. “We’ve got trouble!”
Officer Brewster pressed the button on his radio. “What do you mean we have trouble?”
“I’ve been watching Clark’s house all day,” Officer Fletcher said, “and then this storm came in and it got dark. But I noticed no lights came on in Clark’s place. So I decided to go check—”
Mac wasn’t waiting around to listen to the rest. Ripping open his rain coat to grab his gun out of its holster, he sprinted up the driveway and across the front lawn toward the round house on the lake
. Officer Brewster was directly behind him. They were galloping up the steps to the front deck when they heard the unmistakable sound of two gunshots.
Mac felt his heart up in his throat when Officer Brewster threw open the door and stood off to the side. The officer covered Mac who charged into the foyer with his gun ready to fire.
They heard Bill Clark wailing before they saw him.
Sweeping the great room with his gun, Mac located the councilman sprawled out spread-eagle in the dining area with two gunshot wounds—one to his thigh and the other to his lower abdomen. He was in tremendous pain and furious.
“He shot me!” Bill Clark said, playing every bit the victim. “All I asked was that he give me the ring he stole and he shot me!”
Officer Brewster proceeded to radio for an ambulance.
Mac looked over to see David carry Storm in from the deck. Cold, wet, and scared, she was trembling and whining almost as loud as Bill was cursing.
“When I’m elected mayor, O’Callaghan, you’re fired if you’re not in jail first!”
Ignoring the councilman’s threats, David sat down on the steps of the drop down living room to comfort Storm, who rested her head on his shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Mac grabbed an afghan from the sofa to help dry the dog off.
“He took a shot at Storm.” Finding no injuries, David reached around behind his back to take out his gun, which he handed to Mac. “I shot him with the back-up weapon from my ankle holster when he tried to smash in my skull with a lamp. You’ll find his gun under the sofa where it slid when I disarmed him.”
“I didn’t bring any gun!” Clark said. “I was unarmed and he shot me.”
Officer Brewster looked up from where he was offering the councilman some first aid until the emergency crew arrived. “You better hope he doesn’t by some miracle win the election, Chief.”