Murder Unleashed

by Rita Mae Brown

  “We just have to find it.”

  “Right, and we also must understand how this is linked to Dalrymple’s death. But first I have to hold Norton’s feet to the fire.” Pete glanced at Lonnie. “Notice there were no computers in the office?”

  Lonnie, surprised that he had missed this, said, “No.”

  “By the time we request them, they’ll be scrubbed clean.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  They sat in the small room at the indoor firing range. Pete had been teaching Mags to use a sidearm. Her hand-eye coordination was exceptional, plus she liked it. Built to be soundproof, the room was filled with coin-operated machines dispensing a lot of junk you wouldn’t want to eat, plus sugary drinks. They were the only ones there. For whatever reason, it was a slow night.

  “How about trying sporting clays once it warms up and we can go outside?” Pete raised his eyebrows expectantly.

  “What gauge shotgun?” Mags replied.

  “Depends on how much recoil you can stand. I use a .28, even though I can take the .12. But after an hour, a half hour even, it’s punishment. There are gel pads you can put on your shoulder. Oh, and you need really good ear protectors.”

  “I’m game. I can get all that together and I’m sure Aunt Jeep will lend me her .28. Her rifles and shotguns are works of art.” Mags exhaled and leaned back in the cheap chair. “Maybe what I should do is ask for the least expensive shotgun.”

  “Your aunt has beautiful stuff. My fave vehicle of hers is that old jeep,” Pete said.

  “That will be your fave until you’re in the passenger seat. It’s bad enough when she drives the truck, but when she slides behind the wheel of that old World War II jeep and flips the windshield down, she drives like it’s still wartime. Her crazy driving was how she got her nickname.”

  He laughed. “Bet it makes her feel young again.”

  “What’s making her feel young is her Spring Street project, that and irrigating the thousand acres. Her whole focus now is feeding people. She and Babs are together all the time.” She looked at her father’s thin Jaeger-LeCoultre watch. “They’re down there now.”

  He looked up at the round wall clock. “It’s almost eight.”

  “Well, she thinks she can talk to some new people at night. They won’t be as worried about police patrols, immigration sweeps. By now most neighborhood residents recognize the two of them, even if they haven’t talked to them.”

  “Patrols drive along but we aren’t picking anyone up. As for immigration”—he shrugged—“Crummy job. Send them back, they just cross over again. Whoever gives them instant citizenship will have that vote for the rest of the century. Kind of like the South always voting Democratic until LBJ signed the Voter Rights Act. That’s what Dad says.”

  “I hate politics.”

  “Most of us do, but we’re stuck with it.”

  “Hey, speaking of that, how is it going with the Wentworth case and the other murder?”

  He leaned forward. “Mags, it’s strange. I feel so close sometimes, then it slips away.”

  “Close how?” She leaned forward, too.

  “Motivation. Lonnie and I have questioned at least forty people by now and we’ll question more. We’ve gone back to high school friends. Wentworth was the type who would never make the football team, any team. So he’d run for student government. We’ve all seen the type. First, they want attention. Then they want power.”

  “What about the other guy? The bank guy?”

  “Joe Average.” Pete took the cap off the thermos. “Want some?”

  “What is it?”

  “Yerba maté. My oldest sister got me hooked on it. It’s great when you need a pick-me-up. I can only drink so much coffee.”

  “Me, too.” She held out a cup. “He had to be a little kinky, off-center, your Joe Average, I mean.”

  “Either that or he just put his foot in it. Well, that’s where I am. Frustrated. The department is under pressure. I’m getting my fair share. But I knew that when I took this job. Well, you know and you don’t know. I will crack this damned thing.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “How’s your work at Davidson and Fletcher going?”

  Her eyes brightened. “Pretty good. I mean, what I’m digging up is fascinating. For instance, China has a Global Credit Rating System. They just lowered our country’s credit rating. I’ve memorized his statement, that’s how much it hit me.” She put down her cup. “ ‘The serious defects in the U.S. economic development and management model will lead to the long-term recession of its national economy, fundamentally lowering the national solvency.’ ” She slapped her hand on the table. “What a sock in the kisser but if you want to know the truth, look to your enemies or competitors.”

  “ ‘Fundamentally lowering the national solvency.’ ” He whistled. “Even I can understand that.”

  “So then,” she held up her hand. “Stop me if this gets tedious. I get really excited. Well, anyway back to my work. I decided I’d better look at the Great Depression, even though everyone else is. Between 1926 and 1933, the housing market dove steeper than an osprey after a fish. No construction hardly, no houses being sold. Just a complete and total wipeout.”

  “Watched a documentary about those times on the History Channel. Looks like we forgot the lessons.”

  “Big-time. The true signal of recovery is always housing. It was then and it will be now. We can pile up the reasons, but since my work research is focused on the value of bank shares—in other words, do we suggest to our clients to buy stock?—well anyway, here’s where we are. Nothing has happened since our nosedive began. Nothing. In fact, Pete, fifteen million Americans owe seven hundred seventy-one billion dollars more on their homes than they are worth. I’m not even talking about foreclosures, which are beyond belief.”

  “I’m missing something. Honey, I’m not as smart as you.” He smiled broadly at her.

  “Pete, you’re smarter. I couldn’t solve a crime, plus I blew my life up on Wall Street.”

  “You’re flattering me, I like it, but go on.”

  “Oh.” She threw her hands up excitedly. “Basically, it means people who are living in their homes and making payments are royally screwed. The homes aren’t worth it. So the banks are holding overvalued mortgage assets, seven hundred seventy-one billion dollars overvalued. Right? Therefore, how can anyone believe the balance sheets of any bank anywhere? Actually, Mr. Jianzhong understated his analysis. He could have simply said, ‘They’re screwed and they don’t know how to fix it.’ ”

  “What about all the foreclosed homes?”

  “If some value can’t be restored to them, the losses will be even more catastrophic than they are, which might provoke some people who are paying their mortgages to just stop, reevaluate the current worth, and pay the real value.”

  “No one has the guts to do that.”

  “Not individually, but if there were a national movement, think of what could happen.”

  “But what about all the money that the government has pumped into the banks?”

  “Do you see it being spread around the local economy?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “I rest my case. Actually, I don’t. If the banks issued new mortgages with lower principal amounts they would take short-term losses. However, this could send a message to investors that the bank balance sheets are truthful. It would sure help the balance sheets of home owners. The other tactic along with that, get those foreclosed homes back on the market at true valuation. Again, this would entail more short-term severe losses, but it’s the only way out, that I see anyway. As I said, all recovery begins with the housing market, whether it’s the 1930s or now.”

  “And we’re the worst hit state.”

  “So our banks should take the lead. I sure give Babs Gallagher credit. She’s doing her damnedest to restore equilibrium to the foreclosed homes. Oh, before I forget, Howie Norris has gotten jobs for some of the people for the school bus expo. It’s the
end of April, they start next week. Who knows about after the expo, but it is a start.”

  Pete smiled at her, appreciating her enthusiasm, her acumen, and naturally, her beauty. “Do you ever think suffering cleanses people?”

  A silence followed this. “It did me. But I think most people run away from pain so it keeps coming back in different forms. Or they desperately scan the horizon, seeking someone to blame.”

  “I learned from my mistakes,” said Pete, thinking of Lorraine. “Hey, it’s not the same as the crisis you’re talking about, but either you learn or you fail. I’ve reached a point where I don’t have compassion for people that don’t learn. Know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do. Let me go back to banking and to Wall Street,” said Mags, still on a roll. “Isn’t the foundation of all transactions trust?” He nodded, she continued. “And some professions, critical professions, must have individuals who are upright—some more than others. Police is one. Banking is one. So the more I study all the facts, the numbers, the elaborate explanations, poof! Comes down to trust. Until trust is restored, we aren’t going anywhere.” She saw a shadow cross Pete’s face. “Did I upset you?” she asked. “I’m sorry.”

  “No. The murders, I think they come down to trust. Someone broke their word.”

  She reached over to put her hand on his forearm. “All relationships come down to trust. It’s so simple. My relationship with Baxter is built on trust. Human, animal, institution—trust is the glue that holds everyone together.”

  He put his hand over hers. “True.”

  She squeezed his muscled forearm. “You know what else puzzles me? Howie getting shot. For no reason anyone can remotely discern.”

  “Something’s going on out there, for sure. He called and reported another heifer missing. Lonnie and I drove out. We walked the back enclose and when we got down to the old farm road, sure enough, there were the tracks.”

  “What about a trailer? If people haul cattle don’t they load them on the livestock trailers?”

  “You can put a couple of cows on the bed of a pickup if you have pipe rails or wooden rails. Walk them up a ramp.” He thought for a moment. “But I don’t think Howie was shot at because of his cattle.” He threw up his hands. “Though I couldn’t give a reason why.”

  “You’ll figure it out. I trust that big brain of yours and that big heart.” She leaned closer and kissed him on the cheek.

  On Spring Street, Jeep, Babs, King, Baxter, and Toothpick, who was in a sweater, made house calls.

  His house still cold, Donald Veigh greeted them with a smile, happy with news of a temporary job working the expo.

  The two ladies then stopped over to see the two brothers. Milton answered the door, his back to Mike who was warming himself by the fireplace.

  “He’s going to have a fit,” Tookie called to the other dogs.

  Mike’s eyes rolled back.

  Tookie barked. “Milton!”

  Milton turned around and ran to his brother. He pulled a tongue depressant out of his pocket, always carried for this purpose. He held his brother down and put the flat piece of plastic in Mike’s mouth cross-ways.

  Babs and Jeep knelt down with him.

  “What can I do?” Babs asked.

  Tookie kept licking Mike’s face. The other three dogs sat behind him, concerned for Tookie’s distress.

  “He’ll settle down and then I can give him his Dilantin.”

  Within forty-five seconds, Mike’s seizure ended. He sat up with Milton’s help, Tookie now licking his hands.

  There were no chairs so Mike tottered upright, supported by his brother, then slid down, his back to the wall.

  Finally Mike looked up at the two concerned women. “I charge extra for entertainment.”

  Jeep laughed. Babs smiled, kneeling to pet Tookie and be on eye level with Mike.

  Milton walked into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of water and a bottle of pills, fetching one for his brother. “Open your cakehole.”

  Mike opened his mouth, Milton popped in the pill, twisted off the cap on the water. Mike downed the pill with a big swallow.

  “Cakehole?” Babs inquired.

  “That’s what our ma used to say.” Mike’s light voice was steady now.

  Tookie informed the other dogs. “He warms up a little. Once you know the smell, you can tell. Some things set him off. Some lights, like flashing lights. Some kinds of music. Excites him. Other times, I don’t know. He just falls down. Sometimes he’s slow for an hour or so after his fit. Other times he bounces right back.”

  Breathing deeply, Milton pleaded with the two women. “Don’t tell anybody about this, please. We just got hired to work the expo. They need welders. We’ll be down in the pits. The garage stuff. Sometimes Mike can’t get hired. Know what I mean?”

  “We won’t say a word.” Babs stood up.

  After making sure all was well, the two women left with the dogs. Tookie called goodbye to the others. She liked being with dogs as much as she liked Mike and Milton.

  “Jeep, I can’t stand this anymore,” said Babs. “No water. No heat. You know the list. I’m calling Lolly Johnson. Okay with you?”

  “Okay with me.”

  They walked companionably back to Babs’s SUV. They saw stray cats and dogs nudging around the houses, looking for any scrap.

  “Dear God,” Jeep exclaimed upon seeing a bony dog rush behind a house.

  “First the people, Jeep, then the animals.” Babs put her arm around the old woman. “I see your little hobo has a sweater.”

  “He’s put on two and a half pounds.”

  “Carlotta’s magic.”

  “I know. I have to be careful myself.”

  “Food and love,” Toothpick said to the humans.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Two rooms, about fourteen by fourteen each, comprised Reggie Wilcox’s business. A steel locker, tall and deep, was against one wall. Stills from various commercials and documentaries that Reggie had worked on were framed neatly in marine blue and covered the walls.

  A well-worn sofa rested under a series of shots of a man on a motorcycle jumping cars. In front of that, a coffee table was wiped clean. The place was tidy. Reggie sat in a director’s chair, as did Pete and Lonnie. The cameraman had been telling them the story of getting the footage of the motorcycle jump.

  He tilted his hand at an angle, palm downward. “Line up, build a ramp on each side. If they really want to advertise the school bus expo, that would be the way to attract attention: a motorcycle jump.”

  “It would attract mine.” Lonnie stared again at the motorcycle shots, the color was so deep.

  “Even if you hit it right, the landing must be a jolt.” Pete grimaced.

  “Those guys are held together by pins, duct tape, and bailing twine. They can’t stop,” Reggie noted.

  “Evel Knievel was the greatest.” Lonnie remembered the daring man from his childhood.

  So did his mother. When Lonnie had tried to jump three trash cans laid side by side with his two-wheel bicycle, he didn’t make it.

  “Danger—the ultimate high,” Reggie stated simply.

  “There are all kinds of dangers. You worked with Patrick Wentworth, who seemed to court danger.”

  Reggie looked disbelievingly at Pete for a moment. “Chickenshit. What a total chickenshit. All I can say for the guy is, he could run. He’d drag me down to some pretty grungy places. I’d shoot over his shoulder. The split second anyone took a step toward him, he’d take off running, leaving me in the dust with all my equipment. What he courted were votes. He thought the public was apathetic. Juice ’em up. What’s better than sex, drugs, and rock and roll?”

  “Given the manner of his death, maybe he juiced them up too much.” Outside the window, Pete noticed clouds swooping in.

  Reggie turned to look. “That front must be coming in. At least it’s not freezing anymore.”

  “Were you surprised at Mr. Wentworth’s death?” asked Pete.

>   Reggie sighed, looked at the floor, then at Pete. “Sure, I was surprised, especially at how he was killed. I worried that he’d push some Yolanda Street kingpin too far, but I don’t think I ever actually believed he’d be murdered.”

  “Did he sleep with women other than his wife? Men running for office or who are in office often say one thing and do another.”

  “Nah. He never talked about sex except to point out how disgusting the streetwalkers were, the higher-priced call girls. He was kinda weird that way. His wife seemed nice enough and he talked about her a bit. He seemed to care a lot about her, but he was just weird about sex. He couldn’t stand that other people didn’t share his outrage over our moral decay.”

  “Do you think he was a repressed homosexual? You shot his ad about the boy found starved who was a rent boy.”

  Reggie’s lip curled slightly. “That was low. I told him not to do it. Especially blaming the kid’s death on AIDS. He had no proof, no nothing. He just figured it would stir people up. But repressed homosexual? I don’t know. He hated the gays, but then he hated whores. He hated that woman he was killed with, and she wasn’t a whore. She just showed off her body. Like I said, he was a bit off about sex.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “No,” came the direct, swift reply.

  “Did you agree with his other ads?”

  “No.”

  “But you worked for him?” Pete probed.

  “Deputy Meadows, there’s a depression on. I’d work for the Devil if he paid on time.”

  “And Wentworth did?”

  “Yep. Never late.”