by Meryl Sawyer
Justin took a swig of his diet soda, thinking Filpo probably charged astronomical interest rates. “Remember the robbery Mercury had a few years back?” When Filpo nodded, Justin continued, “Did anything seem strange about that case?”
“Possibly,” he responded but didn’t offer any explanation.
Justin waited a moment, hoping he wouldn’t have to pry the information out of the cagey councilman. He finally asked, “What do you mean?”
“It was too damned convenient, finding the money sticking out of her purse. That woman had graduated at the top of her class. She couldn’t be that stupid.” Filpo silently appraised him for a moment. “Kat Wells is back and working for the paper. I guess you’re supervising her.”
“Yeah.” Justin knew Filpo was one sharp cookie who had eyes all over town. No doubt he knew that he’d been seeing Kat. “I’ve had to acquaint myself with the case. Kat denies she took the money.”
“Suppose she didn’t,” Filpo said carefully. “What do you think happened?”
Justin kicked back the rest of his soda. “Damned if I know. It focused a lot of negative attention on the bank.”
“Damn straight.” Filpo flashed him a full grin. “It delayed the FDIC inspection.”
“Inspection?” Justin nearly shouted the word. “What inspection? No one mentioned it.”
Filpo shrugged, still grinning. “Most folks in these parts wouldn’t know what it meant.”
“Some would,” Justin said, his mind focusing on the growing list of suspects.
“Cloris Howard mighta needed to delay the FDIC visit.” Filpo spread his hands wide and raised his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “Who knows? The thought occurred to me at the time, but…”
“Why didn’t the prosecutor look at that angle?” Justin asked, then answered his own question. “The fingerprint convinced them a robbery had taken place.”
“Prosecutors bask in the notoriety of a case. If they’re not running for office, they’re looking to be promoted up the food chain. Both types like a slam dunk.”
“That’s why Cloris called Sheriff Parker,” Justin said, thinking out loud. “He lifted Kat’s fingerprint from somewhere and claimed he’d found it in the vault.”
“Could be.” Filpo rocked back in his chair. “Could be.”
“Not could be. It’s the answer. I’m sure. It’s been bothering me that Sheriff Parker discovered the print in the vault. The report said the print came from a half inch wide textured frame around the compartment where the bills were stacked. Despite the bullshit you see on television, only the top crime scene techs can lift a print off anything but a smooth surface.”
“Parker hadn’t worked in the field in years,” Filpo added, a cagey edge to his voice.
“Exactly. Yet he insisted on investigating the whole thing himself.”
Justin’s instinct told him this was the answer he’d been looking for. Kat had taken the fall because Cloris Howard had needed to delay a meeting with the bank examiners.
“Just what do bank examiners do?” He knew very little about the inner workings of banks, but Filpo had to be an expert.
“Check the books, see if money is reported and loans are recorded properly. Chickenshit stuff for the most part. Worst case—fraud.”
“What type of fraud?” Justin was so excited he could hardly ask the question. He wanted to rush over and tell Kat. Hold her close and explain what he’d discovered.
“Most often illegit bankers borrow money from accounts to cover shortfalls. Sometimes they set up phony accounts to hide money or—”
“Launder it.”
“You got it.”
Could be money from drug sales, Justin decided. Or illegal funds that would be difficult to explain because they’d been skimmed from the casino. Delaying the bank inspectors would have given them time to cover their tracks.
The steaks were being served and Justin followed Filpo to the grill. He felt like roadkill flattened by an eighteen-wheeler. All he could think about was Kat having been framed. Sure, he’d had his suspicions about the crime, but he hadn’t really had faith in her.
He’d been running on lust—or so he’d thought. Now he knew it went deeper than that. What he felt for her was different, more personal, more involving.
Okay, it was true he wanted her physically, but he needed to give her something as well. If he could just prove she had been framed, it would be a gift like none other. It wouldn’t bring back the years she’d lost, but it would go a long way to restoring her pride.
The injustice of her situation made him break out in a sweat, suppressed rage a white-hot poker in his gut. Where did Cloris Howard get off sending an innocent woman to prison? Who in hell else had been in on it? His fingers itched to ram his fist down someone’s throat, but anger would do more harm than good. He needed proof.
“Rare, please,” Justin said to the kid serving the steaks. His cell phone vibrated, and he balanced the plate with one hand and pulled his phone out of his pocket with the other. “Radner,” he said, walking away from the noise around the grill.
“It’s Buster. Can you talk?”
It was the night duty officer/dispatcher. “Yes. Go ahead.”
“There’s trouble at the Lucky Seven.”
Oh, great, Justin thought. The riverboat was south of the city. He was at least half an hour north where the noodlers had set up camp.
“There’s a body—”
“I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DAVID GLANCED at his watch. Nearly eleven. Was it too early to take Max out for his final potty run of the night? Could the pup make it until morning? He hadn’t last night. Max had begun squirming in the cozy dog bed that David had bought for him. He’d been forced to get up and let Max out at three. The pup had done his business, come in, curled up in his bed, and fallen back to sleep in a minute. David had been awake until dawn.
“Okay, Max. Let’s go,” he said to the snoozing pup.
Max lifted his head from the Oriental rug beneath David’s chair. At least he responded to his name, David thought. Why had he told the vet’s receptionist the pup’s name was Maximillian—Max for short? What happened to doggie names like Fido and Spot?
Pets had become members of the family, he decided, not merely pets. You could hardly call a person “Spot.” There might be an article in this trend. He was always looking for human interest stories. The pet revolution would be a great one.
“Come on, boy. Come on.”
He coaxed Max to his feet, the puppy gazing up at him sleepy-eyed. David headed toward the door, and Max stumbled over his paws to follow him. Cute, David thought, really adorable. He opened the back door and Max trundled out to the half-dozen steps leading down to the backyard. It was a little difficult for the puppy, but David resisted the urge to carry him to the bottom.
He went down the steps, squatted on his heels, and called, “Come on, Max. Come on.”
Max shambled down the steps and crashed to his tummy on the bottom one. He picked himself up without a whimper and scooted over to David. He jumped up, wanting to be held, to be petted. David gave him a quick pat on the head, then rose. “Come on, now. Do your business.”
Max didn’t seem to have any idea what “his business” was. He flitted around the well-lighted yard, interested in everything from the watering can to a low-hanging gardenia, giving off a fragrant smell. Suddenly, Max stopped in his tracks and coughed, a deep gut-wrenching sound.
“What’s the matter, boy?”
Max kept gagging and coughing until he threw up his dinner. In the center of the brown goop was a still-bright gold button. “No wonder you horked up your dinner. You were chewing on my blazer.”
Max gazed up apologetically, then trotted off toward the back of the yard.
The ring of his telephone startled him. Who would be calling so late? The paper had been put to bed hours ago. He looked around for Max and smiled when he spotted the pup squatting like a girl-dog on the la
wn, relieving himself. He called to Max and rushed inside to catch the telephone.
He was too late. The call had clicked over to his answering machine. A disembodied voice David didn’t recognize filled the room. “You’re gonna wanna git to the Lucky Seven. Big trouble out thar. Murdur.”
Another murder?
David checked his watch, but the secret source he had in place at the casino wouldn’t be working at this late hour. Too bad. It had taken a lot of effort—not to mention money—to find a contact there. It would have been fantastic if his source had funneled him this information—if there really had been a murder. This might be a prank.
David arrived at the riverboat a half hour later. He saw several squad cars, the county crime scene van, and a few onlookers from the crew awaiting the midnight return of the Lucky Seven.
“What’s going on?” David asked the first deputy he met. He didn’t recall the man’s name, but he’d seen him writing parking tickets on Main Street.
“Somebody got himself shot.”
“Will he survive?” David asked, his voice full of hope. Maybe the mysterious caller had been wrong. Justin didn’t need any more crimes to solve.
“Nope. Shot dead.”
Oh, God. No homicides in years, then two in six months? What were the odds? David pulled out his cell phone to call Kat. He could use another reporter to interview as many people as possible. “Know who the victim is?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s Mr. Bitner from the bank.”
Bitner? It took David a moment to reorient himself. He remembered the first time he’d met Elmer Bitner, when David had opened an account at the bank. Elmer had insisted David use the bank for a home loan. Bitner had pestered him to attend his church every Sunday. He’d gone on and on about “staying the Lord’s course.”
Kat’s cell phone rang and rang. No voice mail picked up. David imagined she was in bed. Since she didn’t have a regular telephone yet, he had no way of reaching her. He would just have to do all the interviewing himself.
A shame.
He liked working with Kat. She was sharp and she had something about her that made people open up. Not to mention that she had the sheriff’s ear. Justin was taller than the other men and easy to spot in the distance, hovering around what appeared to be a picnic area adjacent to the wharf where the Lucky Seven docked. A bulging black body bag lay off to the side.
What had Bitner been doing out here at night? With luck, David’s source would shed some light on the situation. At least David could find out if Bitner had frequented the casino.
JUSTIN HAD RARELY MADE this type of call when he’d been working in New Orleans. A beat cop usually delivered the bad news to the next of kin, but tonight he had to tell Ida Lou Bitner that her husband was dead. He wanted to give her the message in person, not just because he felt it was his duty as sheriff but he needed a few questions answered. What on earth had Bitner been doing in the picnic area adjacent to where the riverboat docked?
There were no lights on except a yellow bug light on the porch when Justin pulled up to Elmer Bitner’s modest home. If Bitner had been in cahoots with Cloris, he hadn’t plowed the money into his home or his car, Justin decided, thinking of the seven-year-old Ford parked near the crime scene. He left Redd in the pickup with the windows down and walked up to the front door. After ringing the bell, he waited. A light came on in the back of the house. A chunky woman in rollers and an inside-out bathrobe opened the door a crack.
“Miz Bitner? I’m Sheriff Radner.”
She swung the door open. “Elmer. Where’s my Elmer?”
Justin stepped in beside her. She looked up at him and he could see she…knew. Suddenly her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “Sweet Jesus. What happened? A car wreck? Is he gonna be okay?”
He led her to a brown sofa with faded yellow flowers the size of hubcaps. As gently as possible, he lowered her down.
“Tell me,” she whispered, her eyelashes glistening with tears. “Tell me.”
“I’m afraid…Elmer’s been killed,” he said in a harsh, raw voice.
She trembled, rocking back and forth. Justin had no idea what to say. He had many questions to ask, but now wasn’t the right time. He spotted a Bible on the coffee table. He picked it up and handed it to Bitner’s widow. She clutched it to her chest, silent tears coursing down her cheeks. Just holding the well-worn Bible seemed to comfort her.
“Is there someone I should call?” he asked after a few minutes of silence broken only by Ida Lou’s sniffles.
“Reverend Applegate,” she replied in a tear-choked voice.
Justin found a wall phone in the kitchen, called information, then contacted the head of the Trinity Baptist Church. Evidently, the man was accustomed to being awakened at all hours. He told Justin that he would be there in fifteen minutes.
“How?” Ida Lou asked when Justin returned to the living room, a box of tissues in his hand. “How did my Elmer die?”
Justin didn’t want to hurt this poor woman, but he owed her the truth. “Someone shot him.” He could have added point-blank in the back of the head.
A glazed expression of utter disbelief clouded her face. “Elmer? You sure?”
Justin pulled Elmer Bitner’s wallet out of his pants pocket and handed it to Ida Lou. “Yes, ma’am.”
She put the wallet between the Bible and her body. Her breasts rose and fell under her labored breathing. Finally she managed to ask, “Was it an accident?”
“No, ma’am. He was sitting at a picnic bench out by the Lucky Seven—”
“No! I don’t believe it! Elmer would never go near Satan’s den. He didn’t hold with gambling.”
Justin waited a few seconds for Ida Lou to calm down. “The riverboat was out. I think he must have been meeting someone. Did he tell you where he was going or who he was meeting?”
She stuck out her chin defiantly. “He wasn’t going to the riverboat. He was meeting Buck Mason at the Rebel Roost. They were talking business. Buck’s going to expand his drugstore.”
Great, Justin thought. Just what he needed. Buck Mason in the middle of a murder investigation.
JUSTIN WASN’T EVEN TEMPTED to put off visiting Buck Mason. He could have left it to a deputy who would get to it in the morning, but cases that weren’t cracked within the first forty-eight hours often went unsolved. He needed to track down as many leads as he could as quickly as possible.
He drove his pickup to Buck’s house on Allendale Lane, a few blocks from Judge Kincaid’s home. Hidden by a stand of trees and a high hedge, the mansion wasn’t visible from the street.
Unbidden, a memory resurfaced. Justin was coming to pick up Verity for their first date. It had been fall and black-eyed Susans and orange butterfly weed grew wild along the road in front of the entrance to the Masons’ house. Weeds, he’d thought. His mother pulled out every weed around their trailer. Didn’t the Masons have a gardener?
He’d driven his mother’s rattletrap car into the yard and caught his first glimpse of Verity’s three-story brick home with its sweeping white balcony and towering columns. A lawn lush as a golf course, trimmed with well-tended flowers, surrounded the mansion. Obviously the weeds along the road were the city’s problem.
Tonight the house seemed less impressive. Time and maturity, Justin thought. He’d traveled. Seen bigger mansions, attended parties at them, investigated homicides in more splendid homes.
Low voltage lighting illuminated the curved driveway up to the front door. A single lamp was on in the living room. It had been on a timer when Verity had been alive. Probably still was. Buck Mason refused to change. Refused to stop living in the past.
Justin lowered the windows, got out of the pickup, and left Redd behind. Two flickering gas lanterns cast a warm glow across the brick walkway. Justin walked up, dreading the inevitable confrontation. He rang the bell twice, two short bursts, and waited. He knew Buck’s bedroom was on the second floor down the hall from where Verity’s room had been. No doubt her room hadn’t b
een touched.
A few minutes later, Justin heard the heavy, plodding thump of Buck’s feet on the wooden staircase. A light came on in the foyer.
“Who is it?” Buck called, his voice thick with sleep.
“The sheriff.”
The door flew open, and Buck glowered at him. “What in hell?” Buck clenched his fist, poised to strike Justin. “You’ve got your goddamned nerve showing up here! Get off my property, you son of a bitch!” Buck lunged toward him, but Justin moved aside. “You’re worthless white trash!”
“Elmer Bitner’s been shot,” he said evenly. “He’s dead.”
Buck staggered backward, slack-jawed. Justin stepped into the foyer and gestured toward the library off to the side. Gathering his thick velour robe around him like a shield, Buck led the way into the library and flicked on the lights without a word. The mahogany wood paneling gleamed as it had all those years ago when he’d arrived to pick up Verity for their first date. The hand-tooled leather books with gold embossed spines still sparkled. But the men’s voices were like echoes in an empty tomb.
The house hadn’t changed, Justin decided. He had. In more ways than he’d realized. Most important now—he was the law. Regardless of their past history, Justin had a job to do.
Buck sank into the leather wingback chair where he’d sat the night he’d grilled Justin before his first date with Verity. “What happened?”
Justin sat in the same chair he’d used all those years ago. “He was shot,” he said again.
“Really? Shot dead?” Despite his well-toned body, Buck sounded like an old man now.
“You saw him this evening?”
Buck nodded, his grizzled fringe of hair catching the lamp’s light. Two shards of pure white hair shot upward from his head. “Yeah. We met for drinks at the Rebel Roost.”
The Roost was known as a haven for the good ole boys around town. It served nothing but beer and liquor made in America. Most nights a poker game went on in the back room. The stakes weren’t as high as out at the riverboat, but guys went there to get away from their wives for the evening.