Unintended Witness

by D. L. Wood

  “Uh, yeah,” Holt answered uncertainly. “Sure.”

  “You know, one of those where some creepy thing is going on in the attic or basement or somewhere and one of the characters, you know, some idiot blonde teenager, she knows something weird is going on because her friends keep kicking it?”

  “Okay.”

  “But instead of walking away and living out her life, this idiot decides to go in the basement. And the whole time, you’re like, yelling at her, saying, ‘Turn around, don’t do it,’ but she does it anyway because the curiosity just gets the best of her.”

  “Yeah,” Holt answered, his brow wrinkling further.

  “And then, like we all knew she would, she gets an axe through the head or some ghost strangles her, and we’re all thinking, if you’d just walked away.”

  “Yeah, okay. I get it.”

  “You’re the idiot blonde. I’m the guy in the theater screaming at you.”

  “Yeah, I said I get it.”

  “And if you have half a brain, you will not go in this basement. Because anybody can see that if you do, you’re gonna end up with an axe in the head.”

  “Tommy, come on…”

  “Or in this case,” he said, holding two fingers to his head like a gun, “two taps and a swim in the Hudson.”

  Holt squinted, sizing up Tom’s meaning before leaning forward and in a steely voice demanding, “Tell me.”

  Tom took a quick swig of the amber bottle the waitress had dropped off, then deposited it on the chipped melamine tabletop with a hard thud. “All right, then,” he relented, ripping open the folder. “It’s your funeral.”

  * * * * *

  Half an hour later, Holt sat in his car, contemplating his next move. Tommy wasn’t wrong. The contents of the file were trouble. He might have poked the wrong hornet’s nest.

  Cars zipped by his parallel parking spot on Broadway, just a hair’s breadth between the vehicles and Holt’s Audi. He didn’t notice.

  What he held in his hand was a definite lead. An alternative theory to Sims being the guilty party in the arson and Donner’s murder. It might be the key to getting Sims home to Jacob and ending the threats to them all.

  Or it might be putting an even larger target on their backs.

  The afternoon docket was starting soon, and he had a hearing set on it. He would have to decide this later, after talking it through with Reese. Now that his partner was awake, alert, and out of the woods, it was time to bring him back into the loop.

  And cut Chloe out of it. Before she got hurt.

  A spot opened up in the eastbound lane as the traffic light down the block triggered. Holt swung out headed for I-65 south back to Franklin—just like the graphite Ford F150 that pulled out when he did, dangerously cutting across two full lanes to follow him.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Chloe shut her driver’s door and waved goodbye to D.B., who was still standing in the entranceway giving her a proper and hopeful sendoff. When he finally went inside, she exhaled loudly, releasing the tsunami of nervous energy that had been building for the last couple hours.

  On the one hand, she now had a memory card full of great photos and a new angle to add yet another layer to her piece on Franklin. Showcasing the music business side of the town that was home to not just country music artists, but also so many other musicians, would definitely boost the interest value of the destination. That was a plus.

  On the other hand, after strategically gathering information during the course of her interview, she was now pretty sure that both of Trip’s parents had a motive for murder.

  That was not a plus. Not a plus at all.

  * * * * *

  Holt barreled up to the front door of his office building, colliding with it when it remained stoically shut despite his twisting and shoving the knob.

  “What…oh,” he said, catching himself as he realized the time. Karen was still out at lunch. He ripped his keys from his pocket, fumbled for the right one and unlocked the door.

  Slamming the door behind him, he raced back into his office. He was late for court and unless Karen had planned ahead for him, he still had to gather—

  “Aww, Karen. You are too good to me,” he gushed, spotting a small stack of files and working notes gathered on his blotter. Right in the center was a yellow sticky note with ‘1:30 docket’ written on it. Grabbing the pile, he hustled right back out the way he came, turning to lock the door behind him as he left.

  “Whoa, there, counselor.”

  Holt turned around to find two men flanking him. They were dressed down, both in jeans, one in a plaid button-down, and the other in a black T-shirt with a whiskey label printed across it in white.

  “Um, sorry, but if you’re here to make an appointment, you’ll have to wait till my secretary gets back. I’m late for court just now,” he said regrettably, pushing past them and shuffling down the stairs to the parking lot. “She should be back in, fifteen minutes or so, if you want to wait,” he said without turning. “Or you could just call a little later.”

  At his car, he reached out to open the door, when two hands forced it shut again.

  “Hey!” Holt called out, spinning to find himself cornered against his own vehicle by the two men, who had obviously bolted down the steps to catch up to him, “Look, I’m really sorry, but I can’t do this now. If you’ve got an emergency—”

  “I think you’re the one with the emergency.”

  Holt cocked his head and squinted at the shorter, stockier man on the right in the plaid shirt, whose slicked back hair had seen more than its share of gel. “Excuse me?”

  “Well, I’d like to, but it seems it’s too late for that.”

  Holt tensed. “I think you’d better step off.”

  “Mmm, not yet. We’ve got a message for you.”

  With glaring eyes, Holt appraised the two men, making some quick calculations about the situation. “Yeah, well, I already got that message when your boss shoved my friend in her car,” he countered.

  “I’m not sure what you’re talkin’ about.” Plaid shirt was apparently the spokesperson for the team.

  “Sure you are. Your boss lady crammed my friend in her car and threatened her. Wasn’t very nice.”

  “Mmm, nope. Doesn’t sound like our style.”

  “Oh yeah?” Holt baited, his patience faltering. “And what is your style?”

  The second guy, muscled but thinner, his dark jeans sagging loosely on him, snorted in amusement, while plaid shirt grinned.

  “Gotta tell you, brother,” he said, shaking his head. “You are gonna be sorry you asked that question.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  Chloe had just driven through Five Points on her way to Holt’s office when her cell rang. It was Karen.

  “Hey, I’m sorry to bother you but I’m looking for Holt. I can’t reach him. Is he with you?” Karen’s voice was higher pitched than normal, and she seemed nervous.

  “No. I haven’t seen him today. I thought he had court this afternoon.”

  “He did but he didn’t show up for the docket. The judge’s clerk called looking for him.”

  Chloe’s nerves began churning. Something wasn’t right. “Does that ever happen?” she asked, already suspecting the answer.

  “No. He never misses court. And if he’s going to be late he calls to give them a heads up. I don’t want to overreact, but with everything that’s gone on—”

  “No. You’re right. We should track him down.”

  “That’s just it. You were my last resort. I already called his house. No answer. If he’s not with you…Chloe, his car is still here. Wherever he is, he either walked there or somebody else drove him.”

  “Can you go out to his car?”

  “Yeah, sure. Hold on, I have to walk outside—”

  “Is there anything in it, around it? Anything at all that suggests something happened?”

  “Okay, hold on, I’m just getting there. I’m really worried, Chloe. He would’ve checked in by no
w—okay, I’m at the car. No, I don’t see anything—oh, no,” she uttered, her voice turning grave.

  “What? What is it?”

  “His phone.” Fear punctuated Karen’s voice. “It’s in the front seat of his car. With his keys.”

  * * * * *

  When Holt was eleven years old, the class bully and a couple of his cohorts tricked him into going into the woods behind their neighborhood by telling him they had found a puppy. When they finally got deep into the trees, where no one would be able to hear or help, the three cornered and pummeled him until, bleeding and sore everywhere he had skin, they left him in the dark, alone and scared. He had laid there on the ground in a ball, thinking it might hurt too much to ever move again, until eventually he cried himself to sleep. Sometime later, he woke to his older sister, Kimberly, shaking him. She had picked him up, brushed him off, and walked him home, every step of the way stabbing his nerves like knives.

  Now, laying on the ground in a field somewhere in east Williamson County, the pungent scent of raw earth mixed with blood filling his nostrils, Holt thought that this felt a lot like that. Although this time, there was no Kimberly to come to his rescue.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Chloe paced inside Reese’s hospital room, fear driving her steps. “Where could he be?” she asked him for the third time. “Are you sure you don’t have any ideas? You don’t know any place he might have gone?”

  Reese’s face was wrinkled with concern. “No, like I told you, I haven’t talked to him since yesterday.” His eyes narrowed as he straightened slightly. “This is the end of it, Chloe. I want you off this case. I mean it. I don’t care that you want to help. I want you to go back to Atlanta—”

  “I cannot just leave you and the kids here to fend for yourselves when you’re incapacitated.”

  “I’m not incapacitated—”

  “You can’t leave here yet. And what are you going to do if someone comes after the kids?”

  “I’ll hire security. I’ll—”

  Chloe’s cell phone rang, cutting through their argument like a bell in a boxing match. She snatched it out of her pocket.

  “Hello?” she squawked, unable to keep the stress out of her voice. She listened briefly, as relief flooded her face. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll be right down.”

  She hung up, her gaze flashing to Reese, who was waiting expectantly. “Well? What is it?”

  “It’s about Holt,” she said, gathering her purse and striding towards the door. “He’s in the ER downstairs.”

  * * * * *

  “What happened?” Chloe exclaimed as she burst into Holt’s private room in the ER. His face was swollen, one eye threatening to shut completely. Blood streaked across the width of his forehead, apparently left by someone’s poor attempt to wipe it clean. He sat in the bed wearing a hospital gown stained here and there with red, hunching forward holding his torso, as if trying to keep from moving.

  “Who happened,” he corrected, his voice not much more than a growl. “And I don’t know. I do know they can throw a pretty good punch. Though I don’t think that’ll help the sketch artist much.”

  There wasn’t a chair, so she sat on the edge of his bed and reached over to squeeze his hand. He winced at the pressure.

  “Sorry, sorry!” she apologized.

  “It’s fine,” he groaned.

  “Holt, come on,” she said, her face pained. “Tell me.”

  He shrugged, as if she was asking him something as benign as what he had eaten for lunch. “Two guys grabbed me outside the office. Took me to a field about five miles outside of town and beat the stew out of me. That’s about it.”

  “And then what?” she said, her tone rising.

  “Well, after they did their worst, they told me to stay down and count to one hundred. I did. When I looked up, they were gone. I had to walk about a mile before I came across a house. Used their phone and called the cops. They picked me up, drove me here. They left just a little while before you came. Took a statement, although a lot of good that’s going to do them. I couldn’t really give them much to go on.”

  “You gave them a description, right?”

  “Yeah, but ‘fat guy in plaid shirt’ and ‘less fat guy in T-shirt’ doesn’t go very far.”

  “And you’ve got no idea who sent them? Did they say anything at all?”

  Holt shrugged again, wincing as he moved. “Other than ‘kick him one more time in the gut and I think he’ll puke’? No. They didn’t say anything helpful.”

  “Could they have been with Banyon?”

  “Well, I asked them, but surprisingly, they wouldn’t own up to it.” He smiled weakly. “But even if there is a connection, to Banyon or Vettner-Drake or anybody else, we probably won’t be able to find it since we have no idea who they were. They did bring up Sims’s murder case, though.”

  “Really?”

  “Mmm-hmm. They said if I was half the lawyer I thought I was, I’d be looking in a different direction. ‘If I were you, I’d be taking a good, hard look at the wife. It’s always the wife,’ one of them said.” Holt rubbed his jaw, which apparently was aching from talking. “I did manage to land two good punches and one mighty kick to the groin that plaid shirt won’t be forgetting anytime soon, though, just in case anybody’s keeping score—”

  “Holt, come on. Be serious.”

  “I am. It was a really good kick. Ice-for-two-days kind of kick.”

  She groaned. “So, what now?”

  “Now, I start looking into the wife a little more closely, just in case. Whoever they were, I would have expected them to warn me off the case altogether, but instead they pointed me in her direction. It might be just a diversion, but it’s probably worth exploring a little more. I’ll put Tom on it as soon as I can get my fingers to dial a phone again,” he said miserably, wiggling his bruised digits.

  She offered him a sympathetic smile, then bit her lip, as if keeping words back.

  “What?” he asked sagely. “You look like you know something.”

  She hesitated, not sure if this was the right moment. But he needed to know. “I have news, too.”

  Holt’s eyes sharpened. “What do you mean ‘you have news’? You aren’t supposed to have news.”

  “Well,” she started sheepishly, “you know how I promised I’d stay away from D.B.?”

  Holt groaned. “Spill it.”

  Chloe filled him in on her time with D.B., then shared her theories. “So, here’s what I’m thinking. D.B. has a lot riding on Keeley. He was pretty forthcoming about the fact that she’s making headway in her recording career and that if she gets picked up by a label, it could change a lot for his studio. Right now, he’s only booked about half the time. I don’t see how he can be making a go of it as a legitimate business.”

  Holt pursed his lips and wagged his head in agreement. “He and Cecilia have sunk an awful lot into that studio. Financed most of it with their savings. There’s a lot riding on it succeeding. It’s been the source of a lot of tension between them since he started it.”

  “And,” she continued, “he let it slip that Keeley had to ‘take a break,’” she used air-quotes around the words, “last year because she was having such a bad time in general.”

  “That was the year they were going through all their marriage troubles.”

  “Exactly. Which fits with what Cecilia said about her kids falling apart over it.”

  “True.”

  “But now, according to D.B., Keeley is feeling better and she’s raring to go. So I’m thinking, here’s D.B., desperate to have a studio that can support itself, with ‘the next Taylor Swift’ as he puts it, ready to launch a career. If she takes off, so does his studio. But that requires her to be happy and healthy. Able to work. Focused. What if he found out about Justin Roberts? What if he found out that Donner knew about Roberts and was using it to blackmail his wife? And, what if he figured that Cecilia ultimately wouldn’t give in to Donner, that she would stand up to him, come what may? I
f he thought the information about the affair was going to come out and ruin the stability he and Cecilia had finally achieved for their family, which would undermine Keeley’s state of mind and likely her career—”

  “Not to mention the studio’s potential future success riding on the coattails of that career,” Holt interrupted.

  Chloe nodded, Then that would give him—”

  “A motive for murdering Donner.”

  “Exactly.” She watched as a grimness settled over him. “What? Are you worried about what this means for Cecilia?” she asked.

  He eyed her closely for a moment before launching in. “You did a good job with D.B. Really. It’ll help Sims. But,” he continued, “I really need you to hear me.”

  He leaned towards her, grimacing at the movement, then offered a slight smile. “You said you weren’t going to meet with D.B. And you did anyway. Alone. You raced off to Roberts’s house. Alone. I know it’s important to you to help with the case. I get that you feel like you’re atoning for some kind of failure with Tate, but I really think your judgment is getting clouded. Look at what just happened to me. It could have been you.”

  He paused, as if measuring her reaction. “Be there for Emma and Tyler—and for Reese. He’ll be coming home soon. They need you. Let me handle this. Okay?” His gaze narrowed on her with an uncharacteristic dark focus. Though he had posed it as a question, his tone made it clear that it wasn’t one. “Whatever it is that you think you can do to help, however sooner you think you might help bring this to an end, it’s more important for you to be safe.” He tensed almost imperceptibly, as if expecting a fight.

  But she wasn’t going to give him one. She had known it would come to this as soon as she had rushed in and seen him sitting there, bruised and bloodied. And as much as she wanted to bring this to a head, as much as she wanted to end it, she had to admit that this may have finally moved beyond her. She couldn’t deny the pattern, the escalation, or the determination of whoever was behind all these actions. If she kept on, there would be another incident. And she didn’t want to be responsible for whatever horrible thing happened next. Not to mention that if something happened to her at this point, there wouldn’t be anyone to watch over Emma and Tyler. Holt might not be able to drop the case, but she could keep her family as far removed from it as possible. She nodded her agreement.