by Chris Culver
“Only if it got her killed,” said Blatch. “Any of her clients give you the creeps?”
She snickered. “Plenty of them gave me the creeps, but none were murderers. She took whatever work came through the door, but we’re not high-profile here. We’ve got a slick website that makes us look fancier than we are, but Laura didn’t get many big cases.”
“Did she win her DUI and drug cases?” I asked.
Babcock turned. “She pled out a lot. When her clients didn’t plea, she won more trials than she lost.”
Blatch seemed to lose interest in the conversation because he moved around the room. I focused on Babcock still.
“Do you recognize the name Aldon McKenzie? He and Laura were in contact.”
Babcock sat straighter and blinked. “I’ve heard the name.”
Blatch looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
“What can you tell us about him?”
She looked at Detective Blatch out of the corner of her eye. “Before I say anything, I’d like to talk to an attorney.”
“Someone shot him in the head and then dumped his body in the Mississippi River,” I said. “A barge captain found his corpse near Cape Girardeau last night. Someone murdered his wife in her home in front of their daughter. If you know anything about that, you should talk to me now.”
Babcock covered her mouth. “Oh, my God.”
Detective Blatch walked toward Babcock’s desk and sat on the edge, his arms crossed.
“Praying’s not a bad idea, either,” said Blatch. “These are dangerous fellows your boss got involved with.”
“Mr. McKenzie was a client,” said Babcock. “Laura didn’t have a personal relationship with him.”
“Good,” I said. “He was a client. What kind of case did he hire Laura for?”
Babcock’s eyes fluttered, and she shook her head. “Laura never told me. It was something big, though. Laura was working on it all the time before she disappeared. She was down in St. Augustine a lot. That was where Aldon was from.”
“Are you sure they weren’t having an affair?” asked Blatch.
“Laura was discreet about the men in her life,” said Babcock, screwing up her face, “but I have a hard time imagining she’d date a client. She was a professional.”
“You can’t tell us anything about the case itself?”
“Laura didn’t tell me details about her cases,” she said, turning toward the back of the room. “Those files are all his, though.”
I followed her gaze to a stack of white cardboard banker boxes. There must have been ten. If they were all full of legal documents, it’d take us days to go through everything. I didn’t have that much time. Not only that, my warrant only allowed me to read her client files after an impartial attorney first saw them.
“Those won’t help,” I said. “I need something concrete. Even if you can’t tell me the details, you’ve got to tell me something. What was his case about? Remember, I’ve got three bodies down so far. If you know something, you might be our killer’s next target.”
“If I knew anything, I’d tell you,” she said, shaking her head. “Aldon came in about six weeks ago. He said he found us from our website. He and Laura talked while I was at lunch. After their meeting, he gave Laura a check for ten thousand dollars, and she got to work.”
“What did she do?” asked Blatch.
She sighed. “She was researching a pharmaceutical company called Reid Chemical. They’re in St. Augustine, and Aldon worked for them. He was a whistleblower. That’s all I know.”
Reid Chemical employed almost five hundred people in St. Augustine, making it the county’s second-largest employer after Waterford College. As I understood the company’s business model, they made drugs for private-label brands. Generic-drug makers rarely employed professional hitmen, but if Aldon threatened their business somehow, I could see him pissing people off.
“How about the names Austin Wright, Mike Brees, and Ruby Laskey? Laura had them written on a notepad in her briefcase at home.”
Babcock considered for a moment before nodding.
“They’re familiar,” she said before walking to her desk at the front of the office. She turned on her computer and typed a few minutes later. Then she looked up. “Laura interviewed each of them and billed the time to Aldon McKenzie.”
The tornado had destroyed all the forensic evidence at the campsite where Laura’s body was dumped, but I was getting somewhere. Motive, means, opportunity. If we found the person—or persons—with all three, we might have our killer, and at the moment, all my evidence pointed toward Reid Chemical. That was where I needed to go.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Babcock,” I said, reaching into my purse. I pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “If you remember anything that can help me find out who killed Laura, you’ve got my number.”
She looked at the card. “What if somebody comes after me? Should I call you?”
“No. I’ll be too far away,” I said, shaking my head. “Call 911.”
She nodded and stuck the card in her purse. “Thank you.”
I told her it was no problem. Detective Blatch and I left a few moments after that. In the parking lot, he looked at me.
“You think calling 911 will help if these guys are after her?”
I considered and shook my head. “Based on what we’ve seen? No. If they’re after her, she’s better off calling a priest.”
“It’s good you kept that one to yourself,” he said. “You going to stay here?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “There’s nothing we can do here until the lawyers clear the office of privileged material. I’m not wasting my time babysitting. I’m going to Reid Chemical and throwing some shit at the fan.”
25
Nick Sumner sipped his coffee and flipped through the newspaper. It had been a relaxing morning so far. At home, his kids kept him so busy he never got the chance to sit and read the newspaper. He had come to St. Augustine to work, but the slow pace of life made it feel like a vacation. A young woman in an apron had even filled up his coffee mug every time he needed a refill without him having to ask. He couldn’t ask for more from a diner.
Then, his phone vibrated, signaling an incoming call. He looked at the screen and found Logan Reid’s name. Nick swore under his breath before answering.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Logan. Where are you?”
Nick blinked a few times and sipped his coffee. “Having breakfast. What do you want?”
“My stepdad needs you at the plant. There’s a cop there asking about Aldon McKenzie.”
Nick nodded and lowered his voice. “I’m at Able’s Diner. Can you pick me up?”
“I’m on my way.”
Logan hung up, and Nick sighed once more before taking two big bites of his pancakes. Before leaving, he tossed a twenty on the counter. A familiar black BMW pulled into the lot a few minutes later and parked beside Nick’s rental car.
“Get in,” said Logan, rolling down his window. Nick raised his eyebrows.
“You ruined my breakfast,” said Nick. “The least you can do is apologize and wish me a good morning.”
Logan closed his eyes and shook his head. “Sorry for ruining your breakfast, Mr. Sumner. Please get in the car. My stepdad needs you at the plant.”
“All right,” said Nick. “You think I’m okay leaving my car here?”
“It’s fine. If they tow it, my stepdad will get it out. He owns this town.”
Nick opened the door. “Must be nice.”
They drove for about twenty minutes in silence before coming to the plant. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the property, while security cameras filmed the parking lots. The property had only one entrance, and it ran beside a brick guardhouse with its own small parking lot. It was tight security for a company that specialized in making cough drops.
Logan opened his window as they approached the front gate, but the guard waved him through. Som
eone had parked a white St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department SUV in the guardhouse’s small lot, but Nick saw no signs of a sheriff’s deputy.
“What are we walking into?” asked Nick, shifting his weight on the seat.
“What do you mean?”
“Is this deputy going to arrest us the minute we step foot inside the building, or is he here to ask questions? I’d rather know now so I can prepare.”
“She’s not here to arrest anybody,” said Logan, his voice sounding confident. “My stepdad owns this town.”
“If you believe that, you don’t understand what ownership means,” said Nick, shaking his head. There was only one police car. They would have brought at least two to arrest a murderer—one car to transport the suspect, and another to transport backup in case the suspect resisted arrest. Still, he didn’t like this. The local police were too close for comfort.
They parked and walked to the office of Mason Stewart, Reid Chemical’s CEO. The room was bigger than many apartments. It had an enormous desk, an area with a conference table, and two separate seating areas, one of which had a full bar. A woman with blond hair and cold, intelligent eyes sat on a sofa in the center of the room. She wore a badge on a lanyard around her neck and a firearm on her hip. Nick had met a lot of cops over the years. She was the most attractive by far.
He straightened and smiled at her and then to Stewart. Reid Chemical’s CEO had a thin face and an angular jaw. He wasn’t a large man, but he was tall, at least six two or six three, and he had big hands. Today, he wore a navy suit, a quilted red and blue striped tie, and a white shirt. Nick rubbed his hands together and walked to the sofa beside Stewart.
“What did I miss?” he asked, smiling from Stewart to the officer. She stood up.
“Detective Court, this is my security consultant, Nick Sumner,” said Stewart. Nick shook the detective’s hand. “He understands our security arrangements well, so I thought it would be helpful if he sat in on our meeting.”
“Who’s the young man near the door?” she asked.
“My stepson, Logan,” said Stewart. “He gave Mr. Sumner a ride. He can go now.”
Logan hesitated but then withered under his stepfather’s glare and left the room. Nick turned his attention to the police officer once again. She smiled at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Are you armed today, Mr. Sumner?” she asked.
Nick nodded. “I’m armed every day. I believe it’s legal under Missouri law.”
She nodded. “Please take your weapon out and unload it for me. I get nervous around guns. Call it a courtesy.”
“If you don’t like guns, you chose the wrong profession,” said Nick, reaching to his holster for his pistol. He removed the magazine and cleared the chamber before putting his now unloaded weapon on the coffee table. “Hope you don’t mind me saying that.”
“You can say whatever you want. I don’t have to listen,” she said, smiling as she turned her attention to Mr. Stewart. “I’m here to talk about Aldon McKenzie. He’s dead, and I hear he worked for you. What can you tell me about him?”
“Several hundred people work for me,” said Stewart. “I don’t know them all by name.”
“Mr. McKenzie was an accountant. He was murdered. His attorney, Laura Rojas, was murdered, too.”
“It’s a tragedy whenever an employee dies, but it happens,” said Stewart. “Our company carries a generous life insurance policy for the men and women who work for us. We’ll take care of Mr. McKenzie’s family.”
She smiled. “I’m sure his daughter will appreciate that.”
Stewart didn’t respond. The detective had guts walking into the belly of the beast and confronting Stewart, Nick thought. If she didn’t watch out, though, that courage could get her killed.
“I didn’t realize how big this operation was until I got here,” she said. “What do you do?”
Stewart drew in a bored breath before crossing his arms. “We manufacture pharmaceuticals. Our website can give you all the background information you need.”
“You have a lot of guards. Is pharmaceutical manufacturing a dangerous business?”
“I appreciate that you came all the way down here, but I’m a busy person,” said Stewart, standing. “Unless I’m under arrest, this meeting is over. Please direct all your future questions to my general counsel’s office. They will give you the information you need.”
The detective didn’t move. “Do you own any firearms, Mr. Stewart?”
“I own many firearms. Why do you ask?”
“Someone shot Mr. McKenzie with a .22-caliber round. We found a nine-millimeter round in his wife, though. Do you own a .22 or a nine-millimeter pistol, by chance?”
Nick opened his mouth, surprised. “Mrs. McKenzie is dead, too?”
Detective Court looked at him and nodded, her eyes cool and impassive. “Yep. What do you carry, Mr. Sumner?”
Nick tried to keep his face neutral, but muscles all over his body quivered, and his skin grew hot as his temper built. No one should have hurt Jennifer McKenzie. That wasn’t part of the plan.
“It’s a Remington R1 chambered for a .45 ACP round,” said Nick. “Good luck finding your murderer, Detective. Anyone who’d kill an entire family deserves to spend the rest of his life in prison.”
“If you want to know about my firearms, get a warrant, Detective Court. I take my Second Amendment rights seriously,” said Stewart, walking around his desk. He hit a button on his phone. Almost immediately, a security guard knocked on the door. “Anthony will escort you out of the building. Have a nice day.”
The detective stood and nodded. “Thank you both for your time. It’s been a pleasure.”
Nick ground his teeth as the detective left the room. She knew more than she should. He wondered whether he should call his employers and suggest they cut their losses. They’d lose a lot of money, but at least they wouldn’t be here when Reid Chemical imploded.
Logan stepped into the room a few seconds later.
“Shut the door,” said Nick, his voice sharp. Logan looked to his stepfather, who nodded and turned his gaze to Nick.
“She’s a problem,” said Stewart.
“Yeah, she is,” said Nick, nodding and looking at Logan. “She’s not our biggest problem, though. You killed Jennifer McKenzie.”
“She was a threat,” said Logan. “For all we knew, her husband told her everything.”
“That’s possible,” said Nick, his voice rising. “But that wasn’t our deal. If she became a threat, I would have taken care of her, and I would have done it in a way that deflected blame from us. You brought the police right here.”
“They found Aldon,” said Stewart. “They would have come here, anyway.”
“Maybe, but you don’t kill families if you can help it. If you knock off a drug dealer, the police don’t care. They’ll investigate, but they won’t put in overtime. You knock off a family, they bring out the knives. You understand that? Jennifer McKenzie was a schoolteacher. She had an autistic daughter. People are going to fight for her. We could have made her disappear. A million bucks. That’s all it would have taken. No one would have seen her again.”
“A nine-millimeter parabellum costs less than a dollar,” said Stewart. “You don’t get to my place in life by wasting money.”
Nick walked around the sofa and picked up his firearm and ammunition from the coffee table. Once he had the weapon put back together, he slid it into the holster on his belt.
“It’s a business expense, and it might prevent you from going to prison for the rest of your life,” said Nick, shaking his head. “You guys are both fucking amateurs.”
“What do you suggest for handling this situation?” asked Stewart.
“We’ve got to kill that cop,” said Logan. “She’s coming after us. We’ve got to get in front of the problem. I could do it.”
Nick sighed and closed his eyes. “What would happen if you killed her?”
Logan hesitated. “The
y’d investigate, but my fraternity brothers would cover for me. They’d give me all the alibi I needed.”
Nick brought his hands to his face and shook his head.
“This isn’t a gangster movie, kid. If you shoot a cop who’s investigating you, you will go to prison, and you will get a needle in your arm that pumps poison straight to your heart. If you kill her, you might as well kill everybody in this room and save the state of Missouri the expense of a trial.”
“What should we do?” asked Stewart.
“For now, you slow her down. Logan says you own this town. Prove it. Call the sheriff or the chief of police or whoever tells her what to do and throw up roadblocks. I’ll do what I can to point her in another direction.”
“And what if that doesn’t work?” asked Stewart, crossing his arms.
“Then I call my employers, and they’ll send a cleanup team.”
Logan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. When he spoke, his voice quavered. “What does that mean?”
Nick looked him in the eye. “It means Detective Court won’t be a problem anymore. And neither will you.”
26
I knew little about the pharmaceutical industry, but I knew assholes, and all three men in Mason Stewart’s office were major assholes. More than that, I didn’t trust them one bit. Something was going on at Reid Chemical. If I had to guess, I’d say Nick Sumner, the security consultant, had killed Aldon McKenzie and Laura Rojas. He hadn’t killed Jennifer McKenzie, though. Her death had surprised him. I didn’t know what that meant.
A security guard escorted me back to my SUV. Reid Chemical was about fifteen miles outside town, so I took out my cell phone on the way and called my boss.
“Harry, it’s Joe. I’ve had a busy morning. Want to hear about it?”
Harry warned me he was in an area with poor cell reception but told me to talk anyway. I filled him in on my search of Laura Rojas’s office and the meeting at Reid Chemical. Harry was quiet, but he asked questions where appropriate. When I finished, he paused for a few moments.