by Rachel Ford
“Who knows. Maybe he was in on it too.”
Tanney made an exasperated sound, like Owen was grasping at straws.
“Or maybe they were friends, or it was political. Maybe there just wasn’t enough evidence. I don’t know. But whatever, our killer didn’t buy his innocence. So he came for Wynder, because the system didn’t take care of him.”
“That’s an awful lot of maybes.”
Owen acknowledged this with a nod. “You’re right. I don’t know. But you know who would know?”
“Who?”
Owen grinned again. “The AG himself. Sean Abbot.” He flipped the tablet, revealing a map application and a location a good ninety miles away.
“What’s that?”
“Sean Abbot’s house.”
“Jesus Christ. You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking?”
“Depends. If you’re thinking ‘go there and ask him,’ then yes, I am. I can get there in about two hours, provided they’ve cleaned up the county roads some.”
Tanney stared at Owen like he’d lost his mind. “So what? You’re going to show up on this guy’s doorstep and accuse him of being some kind of crook?”
“Of course not. I’ll be diplomatic about it.”
Tanney laughed now.
“What? I can be diplomatic.”
Tanney went on laughing. Then, he said, “Look, I admit, I haven’t known you for all that long. But I’m a pretty good judge of character. And I think I got a pretty good handle on yours. You know what I see about you, Owen?”
Owen wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But he said, “What?”
“You’re driven. Motivated. Some kind of weird combination of borderline genius and complete dumbass.”
“Umm…”
“You’re a little – scratch that, a lot – OCD about things. A creature of habit, with a good eye for patterns. Quick to assumptions, but because of the intelligence, they’re not the craziest assumptions. But you know what you’re not, among any of that?”
“What?”
“Diplomatic. Not even a little. You ever seen the Avenger movies?”
Owen had no idea what that had to do with anything. Which was probably the reason he answered, instead of trying to change the topic. “Yeah, some of them.”
“You know the angry chipmunk?”
“The what?”
“Racoon, I think it was, actually.”
“Rocket?”
“Right. Anyway, you’re about as diplomatic as him.”
Owen didn’t remember Rocket particularly well, but what he did recall was volatile, high strung and funny. Certainly not diplomatic. Which he observed.
Tanney nodded. “Exactly. You’re as diplomatic as an angry trash panda.”
Owen frowned. As far as he could see, Tanney had just laid out a perfect description of himself. Aloud though he asked, “What’s your point?”
“My point is, this is a mistake. You’re going to get us arrested.”
“Us?”
Tanney shrugged. “I don’t have anything better to do. So if you’re going – and I think it’s a huge mistake – I’m going with you.”
Owen tried to dissuade the old man, but he seemed bound and determined to go. And Owen didn’t have a good reason to say no. So he gave in. He cleared the snow off his SUV, and waited with the engine running for Tanney to grab extra snow gear. “Just in case we break down somewhere. I don’t want to freeze to death.”
He arrived fifteen minutes later with a bundle of snow clothes. Owen snorted. “What are we doing, heading to the North Pole? Trying to find Santa Claus?”
“I told you. I don’t plan to freeze to death if you drive us into a ditch.”
“You could stay here…”
“And do what?”
“Drive someone else nuts.”
Tanney ignored the jibe. “Come on,” he said. “It’s already closing in on noon. Let’s get moving before sunset.”
Owen rolled his eyes and waited for the old man to buckle his seatbelt. Then he pulled out of the parking lot, onto the plowed but slushy road.
“I need to stop by the sheriff’s office first.”
“Oh,” Tanney said. “And we’re going to have to stop for lunch somewhere along the way. I’m starving.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Halverson reached town just ahead of his two o’clock at the lawyer’s office. The roads were better by now, but still not great. He made better time. Better, but not great.
Still, he’d spent the time thinking. He wasn’t sure what to make of Sean Abbot or his story. The other man had seemed genuine enough as he told it.
Then again, Abbot was a lawyer and a politician. An old hand at bullshitting. And there were things that just didn’t add up. He couldn’t see the attorney general’s office getting all worked up over rumor and hearsay, or some reporter with an axe to grind.
And wouldn’t the same worries about being seen as politically motivated have come into play before they even opened a probe – especially if there was nothing but hearsay involved? Wouldn’t they have asked around discreetly before doing anything that might lead to egg on their own faces – or to empowering a political rival?
He didn’t buy all that stuff about it being Abbot’s job, either. There was a world of difference between using the resources of one’s office to persecute political opponents and using it to actively bolster them.
He had never run for any kind of statewide office, but he’d seen his share of dirty tricks – rumors and called-in favors and friendship coming before good sense. There was no way in hell a politician savvy enough to succeed would waste taxpayer resources on a pointless probe just to clear someone from the other side.
No. He would have dug first, unofficially. He would have had people asking around, looking well beyond a reporter’s surface-level facts and unsubstantiated insinuations. And if he’d done that, Abbot would have seen that it was a big nothing burger. He would have seen Wynder was clean.
And then? Then he’d have been a good steward of taxpayer money. He wouldn’t open an investigation that would clear Wynder. On the contrary: he’d let the rumors hang in the public sphere, and fester. He’d have used the power of his office to sink a political adversary, without ever abusing it.
If the case was a nothing burger. That’s what a savvy politician would have done.
Which meant one of two things: either the case wasn’t a nothing burger, or Abbot wasn’t a savvy politician.
But no. This wasn’t an either-or situation. There was a third option. Maybe Abbot got it wrong: he thought there was something to it, and it ended up a nothing burger.
Halverson figured a guy like Abbot wouldn’t have been keen to fess up to that, especially if he got played by some overzealous activist or overeager reporter. He’d put a spin on it. He’d have to, to save face.
Halverson glanced at his dashboard clock as he pulled into the parking lot. Six minutes to go. He pulled his smart phone and brought up the browser. He thought back to the reporter’s name, the Pulitzer chaser Abbot had mention.
Carrington. That was it.
He typed Carrington Wynder Reed Hill and tapped the Go button. A list of search results sprang up. Near the top of the page he saw a message: “Showing search results for Covington Wynder Reed Hill.”
Underneath this was a link in a smaller font that read “Search instead for Carrington Wynder Reed Hill.”
He glanced over his results. There were quite a few of them. But the second to top one caught his eye. “Investigative journalist, Missoula County native Arthur Covington dead at age 29.”
A brief preview of the article followed the link. “Investigative reporter Arthur Covington of the New York Times, whose work on the Reed Hill case three years ago gained him a mixed measure of fame and notoriety, was killed over the –”
It ended there. Halverson tapped the link, and the webpage loaded. It was an archived version of a page of a local Montana newspaper, dated almost
four years after Sean Abbot’s case concluded.
He picked up where the preview had left off.
“Investigative reporter Arthur Covington of the New York Times, whose work on the Reed Hill case three years ago gained him a mixed measure of fame and notoriety, was killed over the weekend in upstate New York.
“Police are calling the killing a robbery gone wrong, noting that Covington’s phone and several hundred dollars plus credit cards were taken from his wallet.
“Covington’s body was discovered in a field when a neighbor spotted his vehicle. Forensics indicate he died sometime between nine and midnight on Saturday evening. Police are uncertain what led Covington to the field.”
After the details of the crime itself, the author padded his wordcount with a summary of Covington’s career – of his abrupt rise to fame over the Wynder and Reed Hill case, of the subsequent controversy that followed the end of Sean Abbot’s investigation, and of his later work.
The article declared that none of it had been as high profile as the Wynder case – which Halverson took to mean that none of it had gone viral the way the first story had.
“But he continued his one-man crusade against the private prison industry throughout his career, with critics dubbing him an ‘activist reporter.’”
Then, Halverson noticed the time. It was one after two.
“Shit.”
He shut the engine off and stepped outside. He pressed the lock button on the remote as he hustled toward the office. People were still in the process of arriving. He could see Brittany and two other people. They were tall and fit with flaming red hair.
Her other half-siblings, he guessed. Rose and Robert Cassidy: Marsha’s kids by her first husband, Fin Cassidy.
Halverson had never met Marsha’s first husband. He’d died before she met the judge, much less married him and moved to the area. He knew very little about the other man, except that he and Marsha had married young. Their marriage had reputedly been a good one, and their family a happy one.
She had waited years after his death to date again. By then, Rose and Robert were in their teens. Halverson had met them, of course.
But that was during the unhappy years. Rose and Robert spent most of Josh and Elizabeth’s weekends with their grandparents. They went to college out of state and got married and moved on with their own lives. They came to visit often enough. Rick would talk about it. Not often enough that Halverson recognized them, though. It had been a good half a decade since he’d seen either.
They had their backs toward him, so he didn’t get a good look now. But he spotted the hair and the height, and he figured there was no mistaking that. Robert and Rose had inherited their father’s hair and their mother’s height.
They stepped into the lawyer’s office. Halverson hustled and got in just after them.
Roger was waving the trio into his office. He glanced up as the bell rang to announce a new entry, spotted Halverson, and flashed the briefest smile of relief. He went on talking to the Cassidy’s and Brittany, though.
“We’re all in my office. Elizabeth and Joshua are already here. And –” He smiled again, this time toward the kids; this time, in a sympathetic way. “And Donna Wynder as well.”
Donna Wynder, Rick’s first wife. Well, that explained why Roger had asked him to be here. If she was here, that meant she’d been left something. It also meant there was a good possibility that trouble would ensue.
Halverson wasn’t unsympathetic to Donna’s situation. She’d been wronged, and she had a right to be mad about it. But by the same token, there came a point where being mad got in the way of living, or even being sane.
Donna might not have crossed that last line, but she’d certainly spent the last two decades flirting with it. And she’d crossed most every line along the way.
She’d sent Marsha threatening letters. She’d made threatening calls. She’d gotten drunk and egged Marsha’s car. Or someone had, shortly after witnesses reported seeing her in the area.
Halverson had never officially arrested her. Because he was a sympathetic man. He knew she’d gotten a raw deal, even if Rick had been generous with his alimony and so on. Money didn’t unbreak hearts.
But he’d had to take her away in a squad car more than once. He’d had to threaten her with jail and remind her how that would impact her custody agreement.
Of course, that was a long time ago. Donna had stopped making the calls and showing up unexpectedly. She’d moved on with her life.
At least, Halverson hoped she had. Because if not? Well, things might get ugly fast.
Roger Lowe focused his attention on his clients, but a receptionist showed up at the sheriff’s side. He knew her vaguely. She’d dated one of his deputies a few years back: Katherine or Katie or something like that.
She smiled widely and spoke discreetly. “Thank you so much for coming, Sheriff. It’ll just be a moment.”
Lowe, meanwhile, had ushered the family inside the room, and pushed the door until it sat ajar. He’d already greeted them, and now he asked, “As you know, the sheriff’s department is investigating the circumstances surrounding – well, the reason we’re all here.
“As such – with your permission – I’d like to include Sheriff Halverson in our reading of the will today.”
Silence from inside the room. The woman – Katherine or Katie or whoever she was – smiled again, patiently.
“Is that really necessary?” a woman’s voice asked. Donna, he thought. It sounded a little more on the mature side.
“What does my father’s will have to do with his murder?” Josh asked. No mistaking that voice.
“Oh, almost certainly nothing at all. But in a murder investigation – well, you know how it is. You can never have too much information.”
“I don’t mind,” said a quiet voice. Female. Brittany’s, Halverson thought.
“Me either,” said another woman, young but unfamiliar. Rose, probably, unless the office was really packed, and there was more than the family present.
“Nor me,” said another voice – another woman with a mature voice. Halverson frowned at that. Apparently, the place was more packed than he’d supposed.
“I’m fine with it,” a young man’s voice added.
“Josh? Elizabeth?” Lowe asked.
“Sure,” he said.
“Why not,” she said.
“Okay. Thank you everyone. I’ll just let him know, and we’ll get right to it.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The room was packed, but it was a large space – more of a conference room than an office. Rick’s children and Marsha’s children were all present. So was Rick’s ex-wife, and his brother, Carl; and Marsha’s sister, Marguerite.
Halverson took a seat in the rear of the room, as unobtrusively as possible. And Lowe got right to it. He started with Richard Wynder, and his policies and bequeathments.
Donna Wynder and Carl Wynder had each been listed as the joint, primary recipients of a twenty-five-thousand-dollar life insurance policy. As such, as they were both alive, they would each receive half of the sum. He had the paperwork and details for them.
They nodded and he moved on. Halverson watched them all. He could see half-turned heads and three-quarters profiles. He could see the impatient bobbing of heads and the little sighs and shrugs. He could see the sideways glances.
And he could feel the hostility in the room. Part of it emanated from those glances.
Donna didn’t say anything or so much as crack a grin. But there was pleasure in her eyes as she looked at Brittany, Robert and Rose.
Carl didn’t say anything either, but his sentiments were on full display anyway. He looked down his nose at Donna, and shook his head ever so slightly at Josh and Elizabeth: the former, the crazy ex-sister-in-law, the latter the disappointing niece and nephew.
Rose and Robert sat with Brittany, but they had nothing but contempt in their expressions for their step-siblings. Josh and Elizabeth were no better. On t
he contrary, Halverson was sure he caught a smirk or two aimed at the Cassidy children.
As for Brittany, she sat in the middle, the half-siblings from her father’s side on her right, the half-siblings from her mother’s on the left. Carl sat with Aunt Marguerite and Rose and Robert. Donna sat with Josh and Elizabeth.
The next policies were larger: fifty thousand dollars, with Rick Wynder’s three children listed as the beneficiaries; a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, split equally between the local humane and historical societies. Another awarded his brother Carl an additional fifty thousand dollars.
These smaller policies, Lowe explained, were supplemental plans that Rick had picked up through the years. One came from the bank. Another was a membership benefit for one of Rick’s fraternal organizations, and another a holdover benefit of his time on the bench.
Josh tapped his foot. Elizabeth shifted in her seat. Lowe moved on. The next, and last, policy was one of a pair. Marsha and Rick had got matching coverage, he said: a million dollars each. And each had listed their partner as the primary beneficiary.
For a long moment, there was silence in the room. Then Elizabeth spoke. “Who were dad’s secondary beneficiaries?”
“His children. You, and Joshua and Brittany. And the county historical society, in equal proportions.”
Joshua frowned and glanced at his sister. “The historical society? Really? Can he do that?”
“Yes. But it doesn’t matter anyway. At the time of your father’s death, his primary beneficiary was very much alive.”
“Mom?” Brittany asked.
“Exactly.”
“Wait, what does that mean?” Josh asked.
“It means the money belongs to Marsha Wynder.”
“But she’s dead.”
“Yes, but it will go to her heirs.”
The elder Wynder children shifted in their seats about the same time Halverson sat up straight in his own. They knew what he knew: hell would freeze over before Marsha Wynder left a penny to those two. Not after all they’d done to her and her kids.
No wonder Roger Lowe had asked him to be here today.