Vows of Silence

by Debra Webb

  After a three-year stint in the army, he’d chosen to focus on his career in law enforcement. He should have made time for college, but it just never worked out. Still, he’d done all right for himself. Probably folks like Lacy Jane Oliver wouldn’t think so, but then he’d never run in her circles. That wasn’t likely to change in this lifetime.

  The women in question stood and made their way to the exit. He watched just to see if Lacy would look back.

  And she did. He’d known she would. She was nervous. In that split second, he saw the uncertainty, the stark fear shining there.

  Whatever she had to hide, it scared her to death.

  All he had to do was figure out what button to push to make her talk. She was his best bet. Or maybe he just wanted it to be her. He couldn’t deny the nagging desire for a little revenge. After all, she’d used him that one time, let him feel she was his for that one moment. Then she’d walked away as if nothing had happened.

  Rick shifted his attention to the steaming mug of coffee waiting on the counter for him. Why the hell couldn’t he put the past behind him? By the time this investigation was over he had to make sure of one thing, besides solving the case. He had to be damned certain she was out of his system, whatever it took to make that happen.

  He couldn’t live the next fifteen years the way he’d lived the last.

  The morning was practically over before Rick had a chance to get back to the real work that needed to be done—solving a decade-old murder. The mayor had insisted on an impromptu press conference and then he’d had to sit through a post mortem on the damned press conference with the mayor and his pals.

  The only good thing that had come of the morning was the preliminary forensics report he’d found waiting on his desk when he returned. According to the report, Ashland had likely been dead the entire ten years he’d been missing. Both bullets found in the trunk of the Mercedes had come from his body. One had chipped a rib and was likely the one that had killed him since the position of the damage would have been in the vicinity of his heart. The other had glanced off his clavicle near the coracoid process, a minor shoulder wound.

  The strangest part of the whole situation was the ballistics report. The two slugs discovered with the body were from two different weapons, both .38s.

  Why would a killer use two weapons?

  Rick tossed the report aside and rubbed a hand over his jaw. That scenario just didn’t fit. The more likely case was that Ashland had gotten himself shot by two different people. One bullet he’d survived, the second one he hadn’t.

  That left the questions of who and why. But it was also an opportunity to withhold something perhaps only the killer would know. He would have to make sure this information was kept quiet.

  He surveyed the reports his predecessor had left, specifically the statements made by Lacy and her friends. All four had alibis. They’d been at the hospital waiting for Ashland to arrive and pick up his wife. All three had admitted to being furious with him and had even gone so far as to get out and look for him when he didn’t show on time. Melinda’s brother, Kyle Tidwell, had owned up to the same in his own statement.

  The problem was, after ten years, it was impossible to tell the precise time of the victim’s death. Hell, it wasn’t even possible to nail down the day, only the probable year.

  Every last one of the statements in the file was basically useless beyond a point. Witnesses could attest to the last time they’d seen Ashland alive and comparisons could be made. But after about two o’clock on the day Ashland supposedly disappeared, there was no way to know what had happened.

  Unless someone who knew told him.

  That was the only chance he had of solving this case.

  Rick sifted through the papers on his desk until he found another folder containing far fewer documents. Pamela Carter. She had gone missing around the same time as Charles. There had been talk at the time that the two had been lovers and, considering the hefty cash withdrawal, that they’d run off together. No connection between the two disappearances had ever been made, by Rick’s predecessor or any of the private investigators Senator Ashland had hired. Pamela had had stars in her eyes, wanted to marry a rich man. Most folks figured she’d run off to find her future. But Rick had ideas of his own. He’d spoken with the family and drawn a few conclusions based on what he’d learned. But all of it was only their word, supposition.

  And then there was Bent Thompson. He’d abruptly left town about that same time. A week or so after Charles had disappeared. A local thug, well, the closest thing to a thug a small town like Ashland had. Thompson had been arrested for assault and battery a couple of times, public drunkenness even more often and there was a time when he was thought to have done a little dirty work for a loan shark operating out of Memphis.

  Bent Thompson was the poster child for reasons to stay in high school. He’d dropped out and turned to doing whatever paid the most to get by. His reputation as a hooligan, if not a total thug, was noteworthy to say the least. Anyone who cared to consider what became of him most likely concluding he’d gotten out of town to avoid someone he’d crossed.

  As far as Rick knew, Thompson and Ashland had shared no dealings and had scarcely shared the same air space. Much like him and Lacy. Two people from very different backgrounds and sides of town.

  Rick shook his head as he considered that the railroad track at Houston Street had always served as a kind of dividing line. Those who lived south of it were lower middle class and below. And those to the north, well, they had the lake and all the money.

  You fell into one class or the other and that was where you stayed. Boys south of Houston Street didn’t get the girls from the north side. All they could do was look…except for Rick. He’d gotten to do more than look that one time.

  After that he understood why it was better to stick with his side of the tracks—it cost a lot less on levels that had nothing at all to do with money.

  Rick shook off the frustrating memories and focused on the files and reports in front of him. The only option he had, as far as he could see, was to retrace the events of ten years ago and see if he discovered anything new, which was doubtful. Every instinct told him that if he didn’t break Lacy Oliver, he would never know what happened.

  A ruckus in his outer office caught Rick’s attention. Senator Ashland, with at least three reporters on his heels, was waving his arms at Rick’s secretary.

  Rick pushed out of his chair and strode into the middle of the fray just in time to hear the senator say, “I demand to see the chief right now.”

  Francine, Rick’s easygoing secretary, looked a little uncertain and a whole lot frustrated.

  “How can I help you, Senator?” Rick nodded to two of his deputies, who immediately herded the reporters toward the exit.

  “Chief Summers, do you really believe the wife did it?” shouted the only one of the three media interlopers Rick recognized. Considering the man knew Melinda Ashland every bit as well as Rick did, he had no intention of acknowledging the insensitive question with a response.

  “What about a jealous husband?” another cried before he could be hoisted out the door. “How many wives do you think young Charles seduced, Senator?”

  Rick ushered the senator into his office and away from the blunt questions. It wasn’t as if the senator hadn’t heard it all before, but Rick just couldn’t stand by and let him hear it here.

  “I apologize, Senator,” he said when he’d closed the door of his office. “Some of those fellas just don’t know when to keep their mouths shut.”

  Senator Charles Ashland tugged at the lapels of his fancy designer jacket as if he’d just endured a physical altercation rather than a mere verbal bashing. “It’s not your fault, Chief,” he offered with something less than sincerity. “There are those of us who thrive and those who strive. Unfortunately for the latter, they generally attempt to do so by clinging to the upwardly mobile coattails of the former.”

  Rick was pretty sure he�
��d just been insulted, but considering what the man had been through the past couple of days he decided to overlook it. “Yes, sir. Is there something I can do for you?”

  Senator Ashland lifted his chin in the arrogant manner for which Ashlands were known and settled his somber attention on Rick. “You may arrest that gold-digging whore who killed my son.”

  Rick held his tongue for three beats as he moved around behind his desk. He understood that the senator was agitated and had every right to be upset, but Rick also knew Melinda and she was no gold digger and certainly no whore. A murderer, well, now on that score he couldn’t say for sure, but his gut wouldn’t let him pin that rap on her. If she had anything to do with Charles’s death it was accidental not intentional…or was he fooling himself? Did he want to believe that because Lacy was most likely involved?

  “Senator Ashland.” He gestured to a chair. “Please have a seat, sir, and let’s talk about this rationally.”

  The senator threw his hands up in an argumentative gesture. “I am perfectly rational, Chief Summers.” He might be rational, but his face was beet-red with irrational emotion. “My wife and I have waited for this day for ten years. We knew when Charles went missing that she had somehow harmed him. We want her put behind bars where she belongs!”

  Rick considered the best way to approach the subject for a moment before responding. Senator Charles Ashland was a powerful man in these parts. Insulting his intelligence or his integrity could lead to complications Rick didn’t need in his life right now.

  “It’s true, sir, that in cases like this the spouse is generally a suspect, but we both know that the chances of Melinda having harmed her husband are very slim. And she was in the hospital as you’ll recall.”

  Ashland shook a finger at Rick. “That’s another thing. I spoke to a nurse there who said she couldn’t be sure where Melinda was the afternoon Charles disappeared. She was out of her room for some time. Why haven’t you been looking down that avenue?”

  Rick rested the tips of his fingers on his desk to keep his hands from clenching. The last thing he needed was to make any gestures of aggression. “I can assure you that every avenue is being examined, Senator. If Melinda left the hospital the day of her husband’s disappearance, I will know how and why.” He’d read the nurse’s statement in the file. Taylor hadn’t put much stock into the idea, because the nurse couldn’t be sure if Melinda was out of her room for twenty minutes or two hours when he’d tried to pin her down to an exact time frame. The nurse had admitted that they’d been unusually busy that afternoon.

  Ashland grabbed the back of the chair in front of him. Rick couldn’t tell if he needed the chair for support or if he was fighting the need to rip something apart.

  “Chief Summers, you have to understand our situation here.” The man sagged as if the burden he carried had suddenly become too great to bear. “Those children are all we have left of our son. We’re terrified that she’ll take them and run if she feels the heat bearing down on her. Can you see our dilemma, Chief? We can’t risk losing those children. So far, we’ve kept them separated from her, but God only knows how long we’ll be successful. She is their mother after all.” His face darkened with fury once more. “And those other women have rallied around her. I don’t trust them. I don’t trust any of them. They could all be involved!”

  “You have my word, Senator,” he promised. “I will do everything I can to make sure your son’s murder is solved. I’ll also talk to Melinda and make sure she understands that leaving town just now isn’t an option.”

  The senator exhaled a mighty breath. “I guess that’s all I can ask of you.”

  His head bowed, and with uncharacteristic humility, the senator exited Rick’s office. Before Rick had a chance to analyze the sudden about-face in his demeanor, Deputy Brewer came in and closed the door. Judging by the look of excitement on his face, he had news.

  Rick didn’t dare hope for a real break in the case, but he’d take anything he could get at this point.

  “You’re not going to believe who Deputy Kilgore spotted in town this morning.”

  Brad Brewer was not an overlarge guy. Five eight, hundred forty pounds. But at one time he’d been fifty pounds heavier and built like a brick wall. The bulk had gotten him labeled as the Refrigerator back in his high-school football days. Right now he looked as if he’d just scored the winning touchdown.

  “Don’t tell me,” Rick said. “Pamela Carter, right?” Charles’s body had turned up, why not Pam’s unexpected return? A reunion of the town’s missing would be just perfect.

  Brad frowned. “Who?”

  Rick shook his head. “Never mind.” Pam had dropped out of school and, like Rick, she’d been from the south side of the tracks. Brad wouldn’t remember her especially since he hadn’t been in the department at the time of her disappearance.

  “Bent Thompson,” Brad blurted. “He’s back in town. Some coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  Well, well. The vanishing thug was back. Now that was a hell of a coincidence, considering he’d disappeared about the same time as Ashland and Carter. The circumstances had all been so different that the former chief hadn’t connected the three. All three had been adults and no indication of foul play had been uncovered.

  “Tell Kilgore I want him keeping an eye on Thompson.” Sure there was no proof of course that Thompson’s abrupt departure from town ten years ago had any more to do with Charles’s murder than Pamela’s, it was likely a waste of time. Still his being back certainly appeared rather timely in a strange kind of way.

  “Will do.”

  Before he could rush out the door, Rick said, “Just a minute, Brewer.”

  Brewer turned back, a question on his face. “Yeah?”

  “Close the door.”

  Brewer did as he was told then approached Rick’s desk as if he sensed the conversation needed to be kept as quiet as possible.

  “Do you remember much about Lacy Oliver and her friends from back in school? Other than the fact that they were the most popular girls in the class.”

  He shrugged, looked just a little uncomfortable. “Lacy and Melinda were cheerleaders. Cassidy, well, she was just an uptight—”

  “Yeah,” Rick interrupted. “I remember she wasn’t always easy to get along with. What about Kira?” He found it ironic that Brewer hadn’t mentioned Kira, since Rick hadn’t missed the way the deputy had stared at her on more than one occasion since her return to town.

  Brewer looked thoughtful for a moment. “She was a cheerleader, too, the best I recall.”

  “That’s right,” Rick said, going along with his obvious ploy of indifference. “She was the first black girl on the squad, I think.”

  “Color shouldn’t have mattered,” Brewer said tightly, bitterness cluttering his expression.

  “You liked her,” Rick suggested, knowing damn well he had before Brewer said a word in denial.

  “We knew each other,” he said defensively. “You should have known her, too.”

  Rick dropped into his chair, an idea taking shape. “I did, but not as well as you apparently.”

  Brewer averted his eyes. “That’s ancient history, Chief. I don’t know why we’re going there.”

  “I want you to keep an eye on her, Brewer. Talk to her if you can. Convince her that whatever she and her friends are hiding will only make bad matters worse.”

  “You really think they had something to do with this?”

  Rick shrugged. “I don’t know if they had anything to do with the murder, but they know something about it. And whatever it is, it could help me prove who killed him. I need those women to trust me. I need them to talk.”

  Brewer dropped into the chair directly across the desk from Rick. “Well, I can tell you one thing, it won’t happen as long as Cassidy is in charge. She was always the leader. They’ll listen to whatever she says, even now. I guarantee it.”

  Rick sensed a deeper hostility where Cassidy and Brewer were concerned. “What
’s the deal between the two of you? You holding a grudge for some reason I need to know?”

  He didn’t look away as Rick feared he would. “I have no tolerance for…people of her persuasion,” he said frankly. “Especially the ones who think they know better than anyone else.”

  Well, there was definitely a story there, but Rick figured he’d just gotten all he was going to get.

  “Make sure Kilgore stays on top of Thompson. You keep an eye on Kira and I’m going to pay Nigel Canton a visit. He keeps making up excuses as to why he can’t drop by for a friendly chat.”

  “His alibi is rock solid,” Brewer commented. He’d read the case file, just like Rick.

  Rick hesitated as he reached for his keys. “That’s true. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t hire someone to do the dirty work for him.”

  Just another scenario Rick had to flesh out.

  As he left City Hall, he considered how few friends Charles Ashland, Junior, actually had. On the surface it looked as if he had been surrounded by companions and admirers. More of his acquaintances could be listed in the enemy category than not. He screwed other men’s wives, used cutthroat business tactics and basically pissed people off in one way or another.

  But that didn’t justify his being murdered.

  Rick slid behind the wheel of his truck and surveyed the town—his town—as he maneuvered around the square. Most of the folks here were good people. Friendly and kind. The racism that had at one time choked the spirit out of the community was all but gone now. Churches outnumbered gas stations. The public school system was the best around.

  But that didn’t change the fact that someone had murdered the one and only son of the town’s wealthiest family. Not to mention that the Ashlands were direct descendants of the town’s founding father. Even the best towns had some degree of crime—he just hadn’t expected his first big investigation as the chief of police to be murder.

  Charles’s body had been hidden away until nothing in the way of useful evidence remained. Nothing but two mismatched slugs and a generic shower curtain that could have come from anyone’s home, including Charles’s own house.