My eyes drift down at my flaccid manhood. I approach Maggie and place a kiss on her forehead. “How about later?”
She draws me to her. “Promise?”
I offer her the Boy Scout salute. “Promise.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Maggie says, yawning.
By the time I return from the shower, my lover is fast asleep.
Nineteen
I pull up to Wayne’s house, hoping he hasn’t OD’d on painkillers. His white Wrangler isn’t in the driveway, but I enter the house anyway and search around. The bed is still made, so I’m guessing my deputy didn’t spend the night here.
On my way downtown, I place a call to Norman, who tells me that Wayne called for car service shortly before midnight. He told Norman he felt better and wanted to go home. Something about a more comfortable pillow. So where is he?
Main Street is quiet this hour of the day, and I notice one of my squad cars sitting idly at the end of the block. I pull alongside and find Brent Holland inside munching on a corn muffin, his other hand clutching a cup of coffee. Brent is my newest deputy and the only one still in his twenties.
I roll down my window. “Morning, Deputy. You haven’t seen Wayne by any chance, have you?”
Brent washes down his muffin and greets me. He thinks a moment, then says, “Not since last night, Hank.”
I nod. “You visit him at the hospital?”
“Around eleven,” Brent says, his teeth sinking into the muffin.
“Wayne say he wanted to go home?”
“Never mentioned it to me,” he says, spraying a few crumbs. “He was upset, though. Told me he was gonna get Paddy.”
I scowl. “What did he mean, gonna get him?”
Brent takes another sip from his coffee, clears his throat, then says, “He wasn’t very verbose. I guess he was using colloquialism.”
The kid’s a college grad. “Yeah, but did it sound like he meant it personally or through procedures?”
Brent gives me a puzzled look. “Gee, Hank, I assumed Wayne was just blowing off steam. Anyway, it was hard to tell on account of the drugs.”
I shake my head. This kid has to go back to basic training. “I think Wayne is going after Paddy alone.”
“You think so? He certainly didn’t look like he was in any condition to arrest anybody.”
Maybe I should have told Wayne that Paddy wasn’t a pushover. Trying to impress me might get him killed. “Keep an eye out, Brent. And if you find him, call me.”
“Sure will, Hank.”
I make a U-turn and pass the deli, then the stationery store, and stop in front of the closed pharmacy. Peter must be turning over in his grave. He always opened the shop at eight a.m. sharp. Evidently, Jackie is less customer-friendly; she opens up whenever her fog lifts. I decide to go directly to her house.
I aim the Ford south, past the stationhouse and down a narrow road, which is beautifully lined with red and orange leaves spiraling down from the trees like snowflakes. It’s like driving on my own private runner, the carpet leading me to my destination. I think of Maggie. Actually, I’ve been thinking about her ever since I woke up. There is no depression, coldness, or frigidity in that woman. I have no idea where this relationship is heading, but for now, I just want to hang on and cherish last night.
Jackie’s Lexus is sitting in her driveway. I knock on the front door, wait a few minutes, then knock again. I walk around the side, cup my hands against the back door window, and peer inside. I tap on the glass, wait a moment or two, then turn the doorknob and enter.
“Jackie, it’s Hank,” I call out.
The kitchen smells like old food, and by appearances, it hasn’t been cleaned in a while.
“Jackie,” I call out again, then climb the stairs. There is stirring coming from one of the rooms, and I follow it to Jackie’s bedroom.
I pop my head inside. “You okay?”
“Hank,” she says, struggling to lift her head off the pillow.
Jackie is fully clothed except for her shoes. Her eyes barely show through the slits, which makes sense, considering the three vials of something or other sitting on her night table.
I cross the room and sit on the bed, shaking her. “Where’s Paddy?” I demand.
The lids of her eyes work hard to open, blinking in the process.
“Paddy. Where is he?” I persist.
She glances around, her eyes glassy and vacant.
“He was here, wasn’t he?”
Jackie moves her head from side to side. I’m not sure if she’s trying to answer the question or shaking off her drugs.
I whip out the photos from the ME’s office and shove them under her nose.
Jackie stabs at the pictures, rubs her eyes. “Where did you get these?” she mumbles.
“It’s not important. Are you going to tell me or do I have to take you downtown?”
“Hank, I don’t feel so good.”
I stick the photos back in my pocket and hold her chin tightly, forcing her to look at me. “You always say that when I ask you tough questions. I’ve got a missing deputy who’s flying on painkillers somewhere and will probably get himself killed if I don’t find him soon.”
“Paddy wasn’t here,” she forces out.
I keep my eyes fixed on Jackie. “What was the plan? That you and Paddy would run off after Sheryl’s murder?”
She pulls away from me. “No, of course not! Paddy and I are just friends.”
“Really? These photos tell me another story.”
Jackie sweeps back her hair. “I didn’t kill anyone, Hank. I swear.”
The lovely couple. I find it hard to believe that Paddy would get mixed up with this pill popper unless he had an ulterior motive. He needed a link to Hunter, and Jackie obviously served that purpose. Only I believe the pharmacist’s wife was merely his pawn. She might have contributed to Hunter’s murder, but as an unwitting partner. While I’m okay with that theory, I’m falling short of the other link. How did Paddy know about Jackie and Hunter in the first place? Right now, Jackie doesn’t have the mental wherewithal to provide an answer. So instead, I say, “I was wrong about you being Peter’s errand girl that night. You were Paddy’s.”
She pulls the sheets over her head. “Go away and leave me alone.”
“Your lover almost killed Wayne last night.”
Jackie remains silent for a moment, then lowers the sheets. “That’s not true.”
I nod. “Seems Paddy is in a murdering mood.”
Jackie reaches for her pills, but I backhand them off the table. She lets out a wail, then scrambles to the floor. I pull her up by her armpits and toss her back on the bed, then whip out my handcuffs. “Goddammit, Jackie, I’m taking you in for murder unless you cooperate. Now, where the hell is Paddy?”
She throws up her hands. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“It might be too late for that.”
I give her a few minutes to calm down. “He could be in Wading River,” she throws out to me.
“Wading River?”
“A cabin maybe.”
I think a moment. “You don’t mean that old log cabin the judge owns?”
She shrugs. “Could be.”
I take the photos out of my pocket and study them, this time paying more attention to the background. “This is the place, isn’t it?”
Jackie avoids my eyes. “Paddy told me he always felt safe there.”
“Oh, it’s safe all right,” I tell her. “It’s in the middle of nowhere.” I rub my chin. “Did Paddy take these with a self-timer?”
She gives me a blank stare.
“These pictures,” I point. “Who was the photographer?”
Jackie seems to be wrestling with the question. “Sheryl?”
“Freshen up. We’re going for a ride.”
We’ve been driving west on Sound Avenue for the last ten minutes, my foot heavy on the accelerator. You’d think Jackie would be sitting in a crash position. Instead, she’s dozing off, he
r Styrofoam coffee cup listing to one side.
I keep one eye on the road while shaking her shoulder, spilling the coffee.
“Ouch!”
“You gotta stay alert,” I tell her as we flash by the Butler farm stand, where some members of the Butler clan are preparing for the day. I can’t make out which family member is pushing the wagon. There’s no time to wave. There’s no time for anything but finding Judge Prescott’s cabin. And hopefully, Paddy and Wayne still alive.
With the last farm on Sound Avenue behind us, private homes come into view. The road will eventually dump into Route 25A. If I had time, I could follow it all the way to the Big Apple.
Instead, I bear right and take North Country Road.
“Are you and Paddy still lovers?” I ask, pointedly.
Jackie doesn’t answer.
“I was at Salty’s the day of Sheryl’s funeral. You were trying to reach him on his private line.”
“I told you we’re friends,” she defends.
“Right.”
She takes a sip of her coffee, wags a finger at me, and says, “You’re a self-righteous shit, you know that, Hank? Just because you’re able to live in a dead marriage.”
I keep my eyes on the road. “I’m not judging—”
“The hell you’re not,” she says, cutting me short.
I resist the urge to lecture her about marrying old guys for money. Instead I say, “You make the best of it or get out.”
“Well, it’s not always that easy.”
“That’s bullshit!”
“Let’s not discuss it,” she begs.
“Fine.”
I remove the photos from my jacket pocket and wave them at Jackie. “Why do I think there’s more to this story than what you’re telling me?”
She rolls her eyes, pushes the glossies away from her face. “Here we go again.”
“You weren’t surprised when I showed them to you. You’ve seen them before. Sheryl showed you, didn’t she?”
“Wrong.”
“And when she confronted you, you blew her away?”
Jackie shakes her head and turns to the passenger window.
“We found them under Sheryl’s floor mat. She was going to meet me that night and tell me everything she knew about Hunter’s murder.” I pause, staring hard at one of the glossies. “I’m pretty sure it had to do with these photos, only I don’t see the connection to Hunter,” I say, almost to myself.
Jackie shrugs.
“Unless Sheryl showed them to Peter.” I let a few moments pass. “Is that it, Jackie? Peter’s final humiliation? First Hunter, then Paddy. He wanted to kill someone and probably thought he had a better shot with Hunter.”
“You leave Peter out of this, Hank! He had nothing to do with it.”
I hit a nerve. “Why the sudden loyalty to your dead husband, Jackie? How come you’re not trying to save your lover’s ass and blame Peter?”
“Because it’s not true, okay?”
I edge toward her. “Doesn’t sound too convincing, especially since Peter already admitted killing Hunter.”
Jackie’s hand snaps the Styrofoam cup, spilling coffee on her jeans. “Because Wayne took those pictures!”
I swerve the car to the shoulder, jamming on my brakes and creating a dust storm behind me. “What did you say?”
“It’s true,” she says glaring at me. “Wayne threatened to tell Peter.”
My brain conjures images of Wayne snapping his camera at the fornicating couple. God knows what else he was doing!
“Wayne,” she breathes with contempt, “was blackmailing me.”
“Blackmail?” I say, puzzled.
“I had no choice, Hank…”
“For pills?” I ask innocently.
“Christ, Hank, for sex!”
I close my eyes tight. My fucking deputy was doing Jackie while she was popping pills and doing Paddy. No wonder she was always spaced out. “Did Paddy find out about this?”
She shakes her head slowly. “That was the deal. Wayne promised not to tell anyone, especially Peter.” She pauses, composes herself, then says calmly, “Had Paddy found out, he probably would have killed Wayne.”
My same sentiments, which is why I have to find them. In Wayne’s state of mind, he might just brag to Paddy about his photography skills.
I ask Jackie how Wayne found out about the affair.
She lets out a snort. “Knowing Wayne, he must have followed us to the cabin.”
“Just like that?” I snap my fingers. “For no apparent reason?”
“Christ, Hank, you are so naive. Wayne follows people around. For fun.”
Wayne, the lonely deputy, blackmailing for sex. The stalker-doodler turned photographer of the infidels. At least he never complained about being bored. Wayne must have given the photos to Sheryl, I tell Jackie.
“He promised he wouldn’t,” she assures me.
“That was before Peter killed himself. So much for deals.”
I let her digest Wayne’s broken promise. She glances out the window and breaks the silence. “After Peter died I told Wayne I didn’t want him touching me anymore. But he wouldn’t stop. Said he had enough dirt on me and could do as he pleased.”
Now I can add blackmail and sexual assault to an already bruised town. And of all people, my deputy! Not being with a woman in years, Wayne had gone beyond temptation, beyond the glossy magazines, and sadly, lost his way. I place my hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” I say, “for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Jackie doesn’t respond, so I wait a few moments and ask her if Wayne had been blackmailing Sheryl as well.
Jackie waves me off. “He would never do that. Wayne was in love with her. If anything, he handed her the photos just to get back at Paddy.” She pauses, looks grimly at me. “Wayne is certain Paddy killed Sheryl.”
I nod in agreement.
“Can you imagine what was going on in Wayne’s head? He must have thought he’d have a chance with Sheryl once she found out about Paddy and me. He was delusional.” She faces me. “Wayne had about as much chance getting her as you…”
“Thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Wayne obviously didn’t think so. And now he’s going after the guy who killed the only woman he ever loved.”
I pull out of the shoulder, leaving more dust. “Is that why Wayne stopped by your place? He wanted you to help him find Paddy? Or was he looking for one last fling before war?”
“That’s not funny, Hank. He thought I knew where Paddy was hiding.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth. I don’t know where he went. Before he left, Wayne threatened me if I told anyone that he was at my house looking for Paddy.”
Jackie hasn’t been honest with me from the start, but her story makes sense. “I suppose Wayne is still following my orders to arrest him,” I say evenly.
She glares. “I hope Paddy kills him for what he did to me.”
I’m sympathetic, of course, but keep my thoughts to myself. Instead, I ask how long Wayne’s been blackmailing her.
“A few months,” she forces out.
I’m curious to ask her more, but I don’t believe Jackie wants to share Wayne’s sexual preferences. I can only guess.
Jackie leans toward the windshield. “I think it’s coming up soon.”
I nod, taking note of the heavy clouds forming overhead.
“That’s it,” she says, pointing to an old sign partially hidden behind a vine wrapped around it.
I make a hard right and follow the narrow road until it reaches a fork, then I stop.
“Well?”
Jackie cranes her neck. “I’m not sure which way to go, Hank.”
“Great!”
“I wasn’t paying attention, okay? Paddy drove.”
The dirt roads are identical, no houses on either side. I strain my eyes futilely through the dense forest. “Try, Jackie.”
“It’s around here somewher
e,” she says, her eyes darting about.
“That’s encouraging.”
“I’m doing the best I can, Hank. I remember seeing a sign that said ‘Wildwood Cabins’ or something like that.”
“Wildwood Village?”
“That’s it. You know the place?”
“Over there,” I say, pointing at a small sign nailed to a tree. I hit the accelerator and follow the road, traversing in a northern direction.
“Shouldn’t be too far. I remember the road ends at the sound.”
“Give me a quick description of the place.”
“There are a bunch of cabins with a community pool in the middle, barbecue pits—”
“Just the important stuff, Jackie! How far off the road is the judge’s cabin?”
“It’s the last one on the right just before the bluff.”
As I approach a cluster of cabins, I ease my foot off the pedal. Wayne’s Jeep is parked behind the first cabin. I angle my car behind his, blocking the road.
“You stay here,” I demand. “If you see anyone coming in from the road, tell them to turn back. Police business.”
“Who the heck is going to be driving down here this time of the year?”
“You and Paddy did.”
“That was different.”
“Just the same, be on the lookout.”
She nods.
“And if Paddy or Wayne come back this way, tell him I coerced you out here.”
She glances around nervously.
I climb out of the car and turn back to Jackie. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, call Kate on the car radio and tell her what’s going on. Have her contact the county police.”
She nods repeatedly. “Take care, Hank.”
“Make sure she tells the county I’m in pursuit of Paddy Murphy for the murder of Sheryl Murphy. You got that?”
“Think so,” she says nervously.
I shut the door, then remove my gun from its holster.
“And John Hunter?” she asks through the window.
“He’s dead,” I say, moving from the car.
“I mean…”
I know what she means, but I’m too busy running toward the cabins.
Of all times, my cell phone goes off. I duck behind one of the cabins. “Reed,” I whisper.
The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1) Page 17