by D. L. Wood
“How was this going to ruin her career?”
“She’s running for an open judgeship next term. Something like that comes out and you don’t stand a chance in a primary, forget the actual election.”
Chloe’s instincts pinged as she cocked her head. “She’s running for judge?”
“Yeah,” he said, a knowing look pinching his face as he recognized the comprehension in Chloe’s eyes. “If you work for Sims, then you know her.”
Chloe’s stomach took a tumble. “Cecilia Tucker?”
“Yeah. I figured you’d met her.”
“Yeah,” she replied, her mouth suddenly dry. Chloe’s mind raced as she tried to process what this meant, thinking of the lunch she and Holt had shared with Cecilia at Puckett’s, and the woman’s flat denial of knowing anything about Donner outside of Sims’s lawsuit. “We’ve met.”
“For what it’s worth,” he started, shifting uncomfortably, “I really don’t think she’s involved in what happened to Donner. We ended things very badly, and I really was just blowing off steam with what I said to Amanda.” He eyed Chloe meaningfully, as if impressing the truth of his words on her before letting his gaze drift back to the fields, leaving Chloe to digest what this revelation really meant.
It meant that Holt had been right. It meant that Cecilia Tucker, Esquire, had been hiding something from them that day in Puckett’s.
An honest-to-goodness motive for murder.
FORTY-EIGHT
“Come on, come on!” Chloe griped impatiently at the unanswered ringing sounding through her car’s wireless audio as she sped down the road away from Roberts’s place. The wind had picked up, sending crunchy, coppery leaves across her path just before her car tore through them, leaving them to dance in her wake.
Finally, Holt’s voice came over the speakers. “Hey, how’re you doing?”
“Hey, I can’t believe I got you. I thought I’d have to leave a message.”
“I got out early. Arguments were continued to another day—again. I’m headed to the office now. I’ve got some news to catch you up on. There’s been a development in Donner’s case.”
“Well, I’ve got news of my own,” she bested him, “and you’re not going to like it.”
It took her only a couple of minutes to deliver the short version of her finding and confronting Justin Roberts. When she told Holt about Cecilia Tucker, he cursed under his breath.
“I knew she was hiding something. But I never would have guessed it’d be something like this. This is serious stuff. She could be in real trouble.” Disappointment tinged with concern curdled his voice. “Keeping something like that quiet? Blackmail, or whatever it was Donner was doing to her? And continuing to represent Sims?”
“I’m sorry. I know you two are friends.”
He groaned. “Well, I thought we were.”
“What about you? What did you find out?’
“No, look, I’ll bring you up to speed when I get there. I need to think this through right now. Map out the implications in my head and figure out where we go next with this. Can you meet me at the office in twenty?”
“Sure.”
Holt clicked off without another word. His abruptness surprised her.
This is hitting him harder than I—
Suddenly a violent impact at the rear of the car slammed Chloe into her seat, her head snapping into the headrest. She screamed as her gaze flipped up to the rearview mirror just in time for another jarring whack. As she grabbed the wheel to steady herself, she accidentally wrenched it to the right, causing her car to swerve onto shoulder of the road. She ripped the wheel back to the left, correcting the car’s trajectory, then twisted, looking over her right shoulder to get a better look at who had hit her.
Nothing. But as soon as she registered that, she heard something roaring up on her left. She twisted in that direction, catching a brief view in her side mirror of a darkish blur as it slammed into her left flank, sending her into a spin. She had a fleeting glimpse of what might have been a sedan, flying away through the tunnel of orange foliage, before careening off the pavement.
* * * * *
Elise Banyon lowered herself into the supple, burgundy leather chair situated behind her desk and extinguished a cigarette in the smokeless ashtray beside the phone. The gadget was supposed to remove the majority of the smoke and odor before it ever permeated the room. But it never did the job completely. The smoking was a bad habit she had never been able to kick since starting in the parking lot of Beaumont High School as a junior in 1973. Over the years she had done away with two other vices, three husbands, and eight business partners. But smoking was one thing she had never been strong enough to cut out of her life.
This cigarette was her fifth of the morning. One might think that the repeated indulgence was a sign of heavy stress. But Banyon didn’t get stressed when under pressure. She just got busy. And that’s what she had been since arriving in the Memphis offices of Banyon Associates at six o’clock that morning.
Handling client needs, all sorts of needs, was the core of Banyon Associates’ business, but it was difficult to pin down exactly what the firm did. The business license labeled Banyon Associates as a firm that provided “business strategy counseling services,” but that was really too vanilla a description. Businesses and individuals came to her, by referral only of course, when something untenable crossed their path—some matter that the client couldn’t, wouldn’t or shouldn’t handle. Always these situations required finesse, but sometimes, something more. Something akin to pressure. Perhaps that was the best way to describe the work she did here. She was a pressure placer. A compliance ensurer. A wheel greaser. She stepped in to make things happen for her clients. Or to keep them from happening. A conversation with a certain senator. A private meeting between competitive businesses. Providing a name here. Facilitating a payment there. She didn’t cross lines that would get her in trouble with the law. At least not directly. And never on paper. Having been an attorney once-upon-a-time, she was quite savvy regarding how to avoid those sorts of complications.
Vettner-Drake had her on special retainer. The kind where they paid a premium to call on her services any hour of any day. So when Eli Drake contacted her at closing time several days ago about an upstart criminal defense attorney in Franklin who was threatening to poke around in their business, she had hopped on a flight and taken action. Her price for being on call to finesse a situation was high. But money had never been a problem for Vettner-Drake, or for its parent company.
She ran a hand along the neckline of her navy, Escada sheath dress until reaching the sharply-carved gold pin fixed above her heart, or at least, what some people would say passed for one. The piece was Italian, something she had procured on her trip to Milan last year, and she fingered it as she eyed the clock on her computer. It read 12:14. He had said to expect the call at 12:15. And if he was anything, he was punctual.
The phone rang just as the clock ticked over.
* * * * *
Chloe opened her eyes. Her heart raced frantically, and she grabbed her chest, willing it to slow down before it exploded. Sucking in a huge gulp of air, she shivered as she looked up to get her bearings. The car had come to rest on her side of the road, but facing the wrong direction. Somehow she had missed the telephone pole six yards up and the ditch just a few yards back. She hadn’t struck anything and the airbags had not deployed. Thank you, Lord. Thank you.
She turned in her seat, snapping her eyes to where the other car had raced away, hoping to get a look at it. But it was long gone, having disappeared around the next rise and bend in the old country road. She would have no helpful description to give of the car or the driver. It had all happened so fast.
She took an inventory of herself, checking limbs for injury, but all seemed fine. Cracking open the driver’s door, she looked to see if the same was true for her Civic. It wasn’t, although it wasn’t as bad as she expected. There was a shallow bowl-like dent just above and behind the
rear wheel on the driver’s side. There were a few deep gouges running the length of the dent, and several lesser scratches. Chloe leaned in closer. Inside a few of the gouges there were dark marks—black, or maybe dark gray or navy—which were probably paint marks from the other car. She surveyed the bumper, but those dents were smaller and there were no paint marks that she could see.
She thought about what would happen when she told Holt about this. He would definitely refuse to let her keep helping on the case. And Jack—well, he would want her out too. Not to mention that it would likely prompt him to come right back to Franklin. For the wrong reasons.
She leaned against the car, still trying to catch her breath. Maybe they don’t need to know, she thought. It wasn’t like the police could do anything. The best description they would get from her and the marks left on her car was that the culprit was a dark grey, blue or black ‘sedan-ish’ vehicle. There were no gas stations or traffic cameras around to help with identification. So even if she reported it, they weren’t going to find the guy—or girl for that matter. And she would bring a whole lot of grief on herself.
Keeping quiet about it makes the most sense, she thought as she got back in the car and slammed the door shut. She went to crank the engine, and noticed her hands were shaking. The post-accident shell shock was setting in. She leaned back against the headrest and inhaled a deep, calming breath from her gut. After a few moments, she tried again, and the engine turned over on the first try.
* * * * *
“I understand you were successful in making contact.” The statement was actually more of a question, delivered by him in that intentionally tempered New Jersey accent of his.
“Yes,” Banyon replied, fingering her pin as she cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder.
“And you think that you made your point?”
She sniffed, leaning forward in her chair. “I got their attention. They’ve seen what they need to see to start moving in some other direction.”
“And have they?”
His imperious tone annoyed her, as it always did. She wasn’t one of his hired hands. She was exponentially more critical to the organization than he was, as she was the handler for every single one of their investments in the southern region. Not to mention that she had twenty-five years of age and skill on him. But, he signed her checks, so for now she tolerated him, just like she would when the next guy stepped in to replace him.
“We’ll have to wait and watch. The lawyer exhibited a good deal of bravado at the meeting, but I think he was just saving face. He hasn’t made further inquiries since.”
“That you know of.”
“Correct.”
“Stay ahead of this, Banyon.”
“Absolutely.”
He cleared his throat. “There’s been a development with Bellamy. His mother just received a notification from the locals. He’s dead.”
“The body on the construction site.”
“Yes. So what’s your take on things now?”
“Not much has really changed. When Bellamy’s cell showed him headed for Florida weeks ago, we assumed that was his attempt to misdirect us. We weren’t wrong about that. We were just wrong about who was doing the misdirecting. Obviously, we know now it wasn’t Bellamy. So we’ll just have to step up our investigation before this gets away from us.”
“Get a handle on it,” he demanded. “And be prepared in case Bellamy’s identification throws some heat our way. We could get calls from investigators looking into his connections. If we do, we’re clean on our end, so it shouldn’t be a problem unless the local connection where you are presents a risk.”
“No. There’s no paper trail, no risk. Someone would have to know what they’re looking for or they could stare at it all day and never see it. It’s under control.”
“It had better be,” he remarked flatly, his tone leaving no room for error.
FORTY-NINE
Cecilia Tucker’s law offices were situated in a 1920s bungalow that, like so many others in the Downtown Franklin Historic District, had been renovated on the interior to serve as a commercial building. Eggshell-tinted walls and stately mahogany furniture spanned the lobby, perpetuating the historic feel, while a pairing of geometrically patterned rust and navy Persian rugs blanketed the original dark wood flooring.
“Hey, you two,” she exclaimed, smiling pleasantly at Holt and Chloe as she entered the lobby from the hallway that led into the rest of the building. She eyed Chloe with concern. “How’s your Dad doing?”
“He’s better, thanks,” Chloe said. “They tell us he might be able to come home soon. Maybe early next week.”
A look of genuine relief washed over Cecilia. “Oh, that’s great. Really. I’d like to visit, if I could, after he’s feeling up to it?”
“I’m sure he’d like that,” Chloe replied.
Cecilia glanced down at her rose gold Apple watch. “So Alison said you needed a minute? I’m supposed to be in court at 1:30, and I still need to prep, but I can talk if we can keep it short.”
“Sure,” Holt replied, nodding.
“Okay, come on back,” she said, turning her back to them and leading them down the hallway that took them past the conference rooms to her office at the rear.
“Sorry I don’t have longer,” she apologized as they entered her office, motioning for Chloe and Holt to take the rice-hued linen wingback chairs opposite her desk, “but you know what it’s like.” She gently pushed the office door closed and stepped around to her desk chair. She dropped into it and removed her tortoise shell Kate Spade glasses from her face, setting them on the leather desk blotter. “So I’m guessing you need a word about Sims? Did something come up?”
Holt leveled his gaze at her. “Tell me about Justin Roberts.”
Cecilia’s smile evaporated instantaneously. The air bristled with tension for several seconds before she finally responded with a petrified whisper. “Who?”
“Let’s not do this, Cecilia.”
More silence. “Do what?” A slight quiver invaded her words.
“This. This little dance, or whatever. We’ve talked to him. We know about the affair.”
What little color was left drained from Cecilia’s face. For a moment she bowed up, as if preparing to go on the offensive, but then caved in upon herself, her head dropping low. “That idiot.”
“That’s rich,” Holt fired sharply.
Cecilia cut her eyes to Holt. They begged for a reprieve. “You don’t understand. This…it was impossible. There was no way…If Justin had just kept his mouth shut—”
“You should have opened yours, Cecilia! You should have said something about what was going on.”
“Why in the world would I do that? You know what a scandal would do to my political chances. If the affair had come out—”
“The affair? That’s what you’re worried about? That’s just the tip of the iceberg, Cecilia.” Holt shook his head. “Come on.”
Cecilia bit her lip, seemingly trying to judge what or how much to say next. “What do you mean?”
Holt’s eyebrows shot up beseechingly, begging her to come clean.
“What?” she barked desperately. “What did Justin tell you?”
Holt sniffed, shaking his head in surrender. “That Donner knew about the affair. That he used it as blackmail to manipulate you in Sims’s civil case. What—did he ask you to throw it? Take a dive on the motions, on the arguments in front of the judge? That’s it, isn’t it? He wanted you to throw the case, or he would go public about the affair?”
Cecilia brushed a wisp of hair back, stalling. When her eyes flitted back to Holt, they were full of resolve. “Did you have to bring her for this?” she asked, tottering her head towards Chloe. “It’s hard enough. I would have expected more from you.”
“I could say the same.” His words carried a hard edge to them, uncharacteristic for Holt, and a testimony to how deeply this disappointment had cut him. When Cecilia again held her silence, he char
ged forward. “And yeah, I brought her. Because it’s her father that’s laid up in the hospital and her kid sister and brother that are being threatened because of this mess, so, yeah, I brought her.”
Shock rippled over Cecilia’s features. “I had nothing—nothing—to do with any of that. This,” she waved a hand through the air, “has nothing to do with what happened to Reese.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No. Look, I do. Donner came to me right after I took Sims’s case. He confronted me about the affair, which, by the way, had happened over a year before that. It was short and stupid and I walked away from it, but…somehow, Donner found out. And, yes, he told me that if I didn’t throw Sims’s case, if I didn’t pave the way for him to win, he would call the papers about me and Justin. And,” she said, holding a hand in front of her, “before you ask me why I didn’t just get off the case—Donner also said that if I did that he would call the papers, too.”
“Okay, but then why didn’t you say something? To someone? Someone that could have helped?”
“Because I would have had to admit the affair and if that got out, it would have ruined me. And not just because it might have kept me from winning the election. It would have utterly destroyed my family. You worked here, Holt. You’ve been around me enough to know that D.B. and I, we’ve had a lot of problems over the years. I tried to hide it, but I know people could see it. I’ve heard the talk. We came this close,” she held her forefinger and thumb a half inch apart, “to divorcing more than once. But then we got a wakeup call through the kids. The conflict was killing them. Trip and Keeley were falling apart. School, friends, everything. They needed us to work. So we hunkered down and made the best of it. We even got counseling—not from Justin,” she shot, anticipating the question, “and it was working. We were actually close to being happy, I think. Still are.”
“Until Donner.”
She shrugged defeatedly. “The thing with Justin happened when I was at a real low point. He was the counselor I was seeing before D.B. and I decided to work things out. Back then, D.B. was—” she sighed, stopping herself, “well, it doesn’t matter. But I wasn’t looking for it. It just happened. And it was over within weeks. We’re doing okay now, but if D.B. finds out that I had an affair, he won’t be able to let that go. My family will be done. Over. And it would destroy my kids.”