by Lauren Carr
“Why would I want to check my email on my television?” he had asked Chelsea when she showed the feature on the extension control panel and remote.
“Because you can,” was her reply.
“Where’s the button to watch the game?”
He had yet to find it since she had shown it to him Christmas morning.
Oh, man, he thought while casting a glare at the monstrosity on his wall, if I have to call Archie over here to turn on my television in front of the guys to watch the Super Bowl ...
After tossing the mail in the middle of the table to land next to the bowl of fresh apples that he used for a centerpiece, David shrugged out of his coat and draped it across the back of a kitchen chair. Then, he unbuckled his utility belt with his service weapon and baton and hung it on the same chair on top of the coat before making his way to the fridge for a beer. After twisting off the cap, David uttered a heavy sigh while quickly recounting everything that had happened in the last two days.
Terrorists! David took a mouthful of the beer and held it in his mouth while thinking with narrowed eyes. What does Murphy know that he’s not telling? How much progress have they made in their mission?
Feeling a rumble in his stomach, David tried to remember the last time he had eaten. He turned around to go back to the fridge and set the bottle of beer down on the counter while grasping the door handle with the other. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement in the reflection of the stainless steel refrigerator door.
Whirling around one hundred and eighty degrees, David used his right hand to grab the butcher knife from the knife block on the counter from behind him. Holding the menacing knife with the blade outward, David flung the blade with a backward motion to slice the man who came charging out from the shadows of the hallway leading to the small den and office. The point and blade caught the muscle-bound brute in the throat. David continued slashing with the knife to severe his jugular vein, vocal box, and come out the other side of his neck.
David could feel the man’s warm blood shoot out and shower his face and uniform as his attacker clutched his throat. Slipping on the blood that splattered everywhere, the attacker’s feet went out from under him, and he landed flat on his back on the floor, his body jerking in death tremors.
“Allah!”
David sensed the second attacker before he heard him scream out. With the bloody knife still in his hand, David whirled around and ducked. Wrapping both arms around the man’s midsection, David plunged the knife into his lower back.
As the assailant fell back against the kitchen counter, David heard the loud rattle of the beer bottle falling over and rolling across the counter. It landed with a clatter in the sink.
Damn! I wanted that beer.
David withdrew the knife and stabbed him again in the chest.
David had his arm raised to continue his defense when he felt a sharp pain in the back of his left thigh.
I’ve been shot!
His leg crumbling out from under him, David felt the pain shoot throughout his entire body. Arms and legs shaking uncontrollably, he slid down to the bloody kitchen floor between the two dead assailants.
Fighting against the numbness and his twitching limbs, David looked up to see a man coming around the corner of the kitchen counter and peering down at him. Through the fog, he could see that he had reddish-blond hair. As his face came closer, David squinted up into the face that appeared as all-American as his own.
What kind of terrorist …
His voice sounded like it was coming to him from the end of a long tunnel. “Major David O’Callaghan, my friends are anxious to meet you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sheriff Christopher Turow had not been looking forward to tracking down Mac Faraday at the hospital in Oakland to begin with—not with three of his friends being tended for gunshot wounds. The sheriff knew all three. Two were well-respected officers with the Spencer Police Force.
The fact that whoever it was came into Garrett County and shot two uniformed police officers had Turow’s deputies on edge as much as he was.
It was all a big mess.
Mac Faraday was not your average murder suspect. The sheriff knew and respected the man.
Russell Dooley’s murder had the earmarks of a crime of passion.
The crime scene did not fit in with how Mac operated at all. Mac was not a hothead. Police Chief O’Callaghan’s claims that Mac had come to him and that the police chief had gone to speak to Dooley made sense. Mac Faraday had a cool head, and so did David O’Callaghan.
Having investigated so many deaths as a homicide detective, Mac knew better than to allow himself to get into such a situation. He would have sent someone—like Police Chief David O’Callaghan—to give Dooley a calm cool talking-to while he stayed as far away as possible from the situation.
Then how did Mac Faraday’s blood and DNA get at the scene?
Sheriff Christopher Turow didn’t know the answer to that.
He didn’t feel like he knew anything—especially when he stepped into the waiting room at the hospital and found himself face to face with Jessica Faraday, who was asking the same question. Her piercing violet eyes seemed to bore into his soul and demand an answer.
“I’ve got nothing, Ms. Faraday,” the sheriff said with a sigh.
“Did you know that someone engineered a fake recording of Dad’s voice to call the Spencer Inn and leave a message with the desk clerk? It was that message that lured Agnes Douglas to the manor in order to kill her—and made it look like a hit on Dad.”
“I did not know that,” Sheriff Turow replied.
Jessica gestured behind the sheriff. “Ask him yourself. He’ll tell you.”
The sheriff turned around to discover Mac coming into the waiting room. He was carrying a cup of coffee.
A pleasant grin crossed the murder suspect’s face. “Sheriff Turow.” Mac shifted the cup of coffee to the other hand and offered it to shake. “Thank you so much for your help out there.”
The sheriff took his hand. “You’re very welcome. I just wish none of your people were hurt.”
“It could have been worse.”
“How are you doing?” the sheriff asked.
“Better than Archie.”
“What happened to Archie?” Sheriff Turow groaned. “Don’t tell me that whoever it is—”
“She fell off her high-heeled boots,” Jessica announced. “That tends to happen when you aren’t used to high fashion.”
Sheriff Turow looked down at Jessica’s own thigh-high, high-heeled boots. “I guess you can’t go from bare feet to stilettoes overnight.”
“She broke two bones in her ankle and tore a tendon,” Mac said. “She needs surgery and can’t be on her feet for the next six weeks.”
“What about the rehearsal dinner and wedding?”
“I have no idea,” Mac said with a shake of his head and a sigh.
“If you want my advice,” the sheriff said with braced breath, “I highly recommend putting this wedding and all of the events leading up to it on hold until we find out who is behind this. They shot two police officers. They’re heavily armed. Spencer has a small police force, and my department is limited in the protection we can give—”
Mac held up his hand to halt the sheriff. “I hear you, and I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
When Mac hesitated, Jessica asked, “How many tens of thousands of dollars have you put into this?”
“These people who are coming, most of whom I don’t know, are friends and family,” Mac said. “Even one of their lives is more valuable than the money.” He groaned. “And it’s sickening to me that I keep thinking about the money and the stroke Jeff Ingles will have if I cancel.”
He gestured down the hallway to where Archie’s ankle was st
ill being examined and treated. “But look at Archie. I really don’t think she is in the mood for a wedding right now.”
Sheriff Turow felt genuinely sorry for the man. He was about to give his condolences, offer to help any way he could, and then beg off to go check on Officers Fletcher and Zigler when Mac interjected, “But you didn’t come here to hear about our little social problems. You have a murder investigation to conduct, and you need to talk to me.”
Relieved, Sheriff Turow chuckled. “I tried to talk to you at the safe house, but things got a little busy.”
Mac gestured to the waiting room, and up and down the hallway. “I’ll talk to you wherever you want.”
The sheriff offered to wait for Mac’s lawyer. “Maybe you’ll want to have Willingham—”
“I know the drill, Turow,” Mac said. “And I know my rights. As long as you aren’t charging me, I’ll answer any questions you have without a lawyer.”
“Are you sure, Dad?” Jessica asked.
“I’ve been in his shoes,” Mac said. “I’m not going to waste his time by playing games. I don’t have anything to hide.”
Sheriff Turow gestured down the hallway toward the cafeteria. “How about if we talk over coffee?”
When Jessica fell in to follow them, Mac turned around and pointed back to the waiting room. “I think it’s best if you wait here until you can see Archie.”
“I thought you had nothing to hide,” she shot back.
With a gesture of his hand, Mac sent Jessica back to the sofa in the waiting room.
They had only started down the hallway before the sheriff said, “O’Callaghan told you about the blood and DNA.”
“Yep.” Mac took a cautious sip of the hot coffee. “I have no idea how it ended up there other than being planted, which I know sounds cliché, but that’s the only thing I can come up with. I’d never even heard of that motel until I found the picture in the envelope on my doormat. It was marked with the motel’s stamp.”
Slowly nodding his head, the sheriff went into the cafeteria, which was almost empty. When he stepped up to the coffee machine, Mac took a five dollar bill out of his pocket. “Coffee’s on me.”
“Is this a bribe?” he asked while taking the money.
“No,” Mac said with a chuckle. “I don’t need to bribe you. I didn’t do anything.”
The sheriff eased the money into the machine while Mac took off his sweater and draped it across the back of a chair at one of the cafeteria tables.
After Turow pressed the buttons to order his coffee, he turned to Mac and examined his outstretched hands and arms. “Just like O’Callaghan told me. Not a mark on them.”
Without direction from the sheriff, Mac pulled his white undershirt over his head to reveal his bare chest and back. “Look as much as you want.”
His coffee was brewed, but the sheriff was more interested in getting this part of his investigation out of the way. He removed his cell phone from its case on his belt. “Do you mind if I take pictures?”
“As long as you don’t post them on the Internet,” Mac replied with a laugh while turning around to allow him to examine his back for any cuts or bruises that could indicate that he had been in a knife fight with Russell Dooley before stabbing him to death.
The handful of hospital employees in the cafeteria stopped eating to watch the man disrobing for the sheriff.
“I’m only going to send these to the sheriff’s department to have them uploaded to the case file.” The sheriff snapped a couple of pictures of Mac’s back. One was a full shot to take in his whole back, and the other was a closer shot of his broad shoulders that revealed that they were free of any injuries.
After Turow tapped him on the shoulder, Mac turned around for him to take pictures of his smooth, muscular chest and stomach. Unlike many wealthy men who became soft in their middle age, Mac Faraday kept somewhat fit. Even in the middle of winter, his body was still tanned from the short winter getaways that he took with Archie.
He also noted that Mac had no bruises or marks on his face.
“Have you found any witnesses to contradict my statement that I have never been to that motel?” Mac asked him while redressing.
“Nope.” The sheriff thumbed the button to forward the pictures. He carefully took the hot coffee cup from the machine.
“Other than the blood and DNA, can you place me at the scene?” Mac leaned against one of the tables and draped a leg over its corner.
“No.” The sheriff took a cautious sip of the hot coffee. “But you’re a wealthy man, Mac. You know how the system works. Look at you now. You’re practically leading this interview, you’ve been through it so many times. Who’s to say that you didn’t stage all this? You hired someone to get rid of Dooley, who was threatening Archie. You had your man plant the blood and DNA at the scene, knowing that you’ve never been there and that the lack of wounds on your body contradicts your blood—”
“Blood and DNA is enough to arrest me,” Mac said. “If I was going to set myself up, I would make real sure that I had an alibi for the time of the murder—which, with this being a holiday week, and right before my wedding, I could have very easily done. Why would I do that without establishing an alibi in order to clear myself? Right now, I can’t.”
“No,” Sheriff Turow said. “While the lack of any cuts on you can clear you of being at the scene, we can’t clear you of hiring someone to commit the murder. I imagine that right now you have a lot of money flying out of your accounts to pay for this wedding. Probably would have been pretty easy for you to have hidden a payoff to someone to eliminate Dooley in all that mess.”
Mac folded his arms across his chest. “Listen, Turow, Dooley made threats against Archie, but like you said, I’m a wealthy man. I have a whole security staff at the Spencer Inn—all very highly trained. My best friend is the chief of police. Plus, I’m pretty handy when it comes to defending myself and those I care about. So, why would I risk losing everything to kill Russell Dooley?”
Without missing a beat, Sheriff Turow countered. “Because he had enough evidence to take it all away.”
Blinking, Mac backed up a step. “What are you talking about?”
The sheriff was thumbing through images on his cell phone. “Dooley’s lawyer photographed and forwarded a letter that his client had left with him to open and send to law enforcement in the event of his sudden death. He is sending the original to be put in the case file.” He handed the cell phone to Mac. “It instructs us to consider you the prime suspect in the event of Dooley’s murder.”
Mac enlarged the image of the photograph to read the handwritten letter. Sheriff Turow’s brief synopsis was correct.
The narrative explained that Russell Dooley had found a micro cassette tape that his wife had recorded of a conversation she had with the lead detective in Harris Tyler’s murder, Lieutenant Mac Faraday. In the conversation, Mac Faraday accused her of killing her lover. Leigh Ann Dooley told him that he couldn’t prove any such thing, to which he cockily admitted that he couldn’t. That was why he planted her blood and DNA at the scene to ensure her arrest and conviction for murder.
“I never planted evidence at a crime scene,” Mac gasped out to the sheriff. “And if she did have a recording like that, why didn’t she give it to her defense attorney to have presented at her trial.”
“Keep reading,” he said.
Mac’s heart raced. With effort, he found the place he had left off in the letter to continue reading.
Russell Dooley went on to say that he was taking the tape to Deep Creek Lake to confront Mac Faraday with the evidence even though he knew that he was putting his life in danger by doing so. In his concluding paragraph, he told the letter’s reader that in the event of his sudden death and the disappearance of the tape to consider Mac Faraday the prime suspect in the case.
Mac thrust the cell phone back
into Sheriff Turow’s hand. “I assume you found no cassette tape at the scene.”
“Nope.”
“Has anyone heard this recording?”
The sheriff shook his head. “Not his lawyer nor his daughter. Neither of them had ever heard of Russell’s wife getting you to admit to planting evidence.”
“He had to have made all this up,” Mac said. “If this was true—and I was him—I’d have made a dozen copies of that tape and released it on the Internet. I would not have come to confront me alone with the only copy.”
“His daughter says Dooley was not quite stable.”
“You’re right there.”
“The man was stabbed twenty-nine times with a knife from the Spencer Inn, Mac,” the sheriff said. “This letter provides motive. You have no alibi for the time of the murder, and your blood was found at the scene. I hate to say it, but you have a big problem.”
Mac slumped against the table. “You have to have other suspects on your radar,” he said in a pleading tone.
Sheriff Turow peered into Mac’s eyes. He could see the worry floating to the surface in their blue pools.
“Anyone?”
“One,” Turow said with hesitance.
“Who?”
“Brother of the woman who owns the motel,” Sheriff Turow said in a low voice. “Gil Sherrard. Been in and out of jail half a dozen times for drugs and petty theft. He’s been staying with his sister since he got out of his second stint in rehab for heroin—ten days ago. His fingerprints were found in the cabin where Dooley was staying.”
“But his sister owns the place,” Mac said with regret.
“That’s not all,” the sheriff said with a sigh of disgust.
“What?”
Sheriff Turow growled. “Damn it, Mac, I should not be talking to you about this.”
“Tell me.”
“According to Dooley’s daughter,” the sheriff said in a low voice, “he had a Rolex watch that was a wedding present from his late wife. It was engraved on the back. He also had a little over ten thousand dollars in cash with him when he left Washington. We found neither the cash nor the watch in the cabin.”