State of Killers: A Mystery Thriller Novel (Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Series Book 11)

by Thomas Scott

  “The kids will be fine, Jonesy. Hell, they’ll still get to see each other almost every day. She’s not quitting, she’s simply getting a place of her own with Ross.”

  Virgil let his shoulders slump in defeat. “Yeah, okay, I guess.”

  “I’ll tell you something else,” Murton said. “You better get used to it, because before you know it those two young boys of yours up there on that deck will be grown and gone as well. Time’s flying, brother.”

  Virgil either wasn’t listening or chose not to address Murton’s statement. Instead, he said, “Where are they moving to? Do you know? Murt?”

  “Yeah, I know.” Murton looked away again for a moment, before turning back. “They’re moving into Dad’s place. Our old house. Becky and I are going to rent it to them.”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Murton said.

  “I’m not looking at you in any particular way,” Virgil said.

  “Yeah, you sort of are. I can go get a mirror if you want. You told me when Becky and I moved out, you wouldn’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad. I wasn’t then and I’m not now.”

  “But you’re thinking something,” Murton said. “It’s written all over your face.”

  Virgil was thinking something, except he wasn’t quite sure what it was. Murton’s statement was factual, as was his own. When Murton and Becky decided to move out, he’d told Murton that the house was his to do with as he pleased. Mason had left the house to Murton, and now that he no longer lived in it, there was a sadness surrounding the whole thing. He told Murton as much.

  “Well, if you remember, I told you I was going to keep it,” Murton said.

  “Yeah, I remember. I also remember you saying that you were going to rent it out.”

  “No kidding. That’s what I’m about to do. I can’t just leave the place sitting there empty. You know as well as I do that it’ll start to go to seed.”

  Virgil sort of waved the statement away. “Yeah, I get it. But renting to Ross and Sarah? I don’t know.”

  “What’s to know?” Murton said. “Who would you rather have living in the house where we grew up? Sarah and Ross, or someone we know nothing about?”

  Virgil knew it was a valid question. He also thought that Murton was probably right, except he couldn’t quite let it go. “What about all the stuff that happened there over the years?”

  “What about it?” Murton said. “It’s just a house.”

  “It’s more than just a house, Murt, and you know it. Sandy’s dad died there to save me when I was a child. Becky got her teeth knocked out and was pulled naked down the stairs by Hector Sigara. You almost died there, and as a point of fact, our friend and fellow officer, Ed Donatti did die there. It’s like the place is cursed or something.”

  Murton shook his head. “Boy you really know how to accentuate the negative, don’t you? Here’s another way of looking at it: That house and the people in it saved my life. That’s not an exaggeration. We became brothers in that house. Mom and dad raised us with love and respect, and that’s the same house where Becky and I fell in love. And not to put too fine a point on it, but the fact of the matter is this: Mason left that house to me, and I’ll do with it as I see fit. That means for now, and for as long as they want to, Ross and Sarah get to live there.”

  “Ah, you’re right,” Virgil said. “I guess I was simply thinking that if it was someone else…someone we didn’t know or care about, it might be easier to handle somehow.”

  Murton shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. But at least we’ll have two people living there we can trust, instead of someone who might trash the place or something.”

  Virgil was about to answer, but he heard Johnson call out to them. They walked back over and looked at the area he’d dug out. The dump truck was full, and the forty by forty square looked perfect.

  Virgil looked at Johnson and said, “See that tape measure for a second?”

  Johnson smiled and said, “Sure.”

  Virgil took the tape and measured the depth of the square in various places along the perimeter. It was a consistent seven inches deep. He looked at Johnson, his face a puzzle, and said, “Cool told us eight inches deep, Carl. Why’d you only go seven?”

  “Ever pour cement?”

  Virgil told him he hadn’t.

  “Most driveways and patios and whatnot are four inches. That’s another way of saying they’re not that deep. But eight inches is twice the depth, which means twice the weight.”

  Virgil sort of rolled his head around his shoulders. “Uh, that’s great information, Carl, but it doesn’t answer my question. Why’d you only dig out seven?”

  “Because taking more would have been a waste. That pad is going to be heavy, Jonesy. Plus, I’m not quite done yet. Watch this.”

  He climbed back into the cab of the backhoe and leveled the bottom of the bucket. Then he began raising and lowering the boom and pounding the bucket into the ground. Twenty minutes later he was finished. The ground was properly compacted, leveled, and completely smooth. He hopped out of the cab, looked at Virgil, and said, “Measure it now.”

  Virgil took the tape and repeated the process, taking measurements in various places along the square’s edges. Every single one was exactly eight inches deep.

  Murton looked at Carl, tipped his head at Virgil, and said, “He’s sort of a control freak.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Johnson said, though he didn’t look at Virgil when he said it. He took a few minutes to load the backhoe on the trailer, looked at Virgil, and said, “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  Virgil said he would, then he and Murton watched the truck and trailer until it turned past the corner of the house and was out of sight. They were about to go sit and wait for the cement truck and crew when Virgil’s phone rang.

  “Jonesy? It’s Cora.”

  “Hey, Cora. How are you?”

  Cora got right to the point. “What are you and Wheeler doing?”

  “Standing in my backyard waiting on a cement truck.”

  “Do you know anything about pouring cement? How to float it, screed it, broom finish it, that sort of thing?”

  “No, but it sort of sounds like you do.”

  Cora ignored Virgil’s observation. “Then put someone else in charge of the whole thing. I want you and Wheeler at my office in an hour.”

  “What’s going on?” Virgil said.

  “We’re about to have the DEA descend on us like aliens from outer space, that’s what’s going on. One hour, Slick. Don’t be late.” Then she hung up.

  Murton looked at his brother and said, “Something happening?”

  “Yeah. Cora needs us at her office in an hour. Apparently we’re being invaded by aliens.”

  Murton raised his eyebrows. “The feds, huh? Okay, let me go get cleaned up and change clothes.”

  “Don’t think we’ll have time, Murt.”

  “Then I’ll hurry. You should do the same. You’re covered with dirt and grass, and if I’m not mistaken, you’ve got a little poop on your boot right there, courtesy of Larry the Dog…I hope.”

  “You’re a riot. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Yeah, all the time. Anyway, I can sort of smell you if the wind is right. Say, are you going to drive? I haven’t ridden in the new truck yet.”

  Virgil walked up to the house and found Sarah in the living room, playing with the boys and Liv. Aayla was in a playpen on her back, giggling and batting her arms at exactly nothing. “Hey, Sarah.”

  “Hi, Jonesy.”

  “Uh, where are the rest of the women of the house?”

  “They went to the market.”

  “Huh. Nobody told me. Anyway, listen, I need a favor.”

  “Sure, what’s up?” Then before Virgil could answer, she said, “Hey, how’s the whole hole thing going out there?”

  “That’s part of the favor. I just got called in, and the cement truck and crew aren’t here yet. When they arrive, will yo
u point them at the pad and tell them to get started?”

  “Sure. Anything I need to know?”

  “Not really. These guys are pros. Just show them where the area is, and let them do their thing. And no matter what, the boys stay inside. And Larry the Dog. The last thing I need is big old paw prints in the concrete. Got it?”

  “Yeah, that’s no problem. You okay, Jonesy? You seem a little mad or wound up, or…something.”

  “Where’s Ross?”

  “He’s at the range. He should be here anytime though. We were hoping to talk with you about something.”

  “It might have to wait. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  Virgil looked at the young woman in front of him. She was wearing a pair of shorts, and a white button-down shirt tied at the waist. Her feet were bare, and she wore her red hair in a ponytail tied low at the back of her head. Virgil had met Sarah when she used to work at the airport, and she’d impressed the hell out of him from day one. Since that time, she’d become part of the family, and Virgil knew he was—if only in a small way—losing a little bit of her. He felt like he was about to watch his daughter move away, and no matter the things Murton had told him, it still left him with a bit of an empty spot in his heart. “No, sorry, I’m fine. I just don’t want to…” He let his own words trail away.

  Sarah tipped her head and smiled at him. “Want to what?”

  Virgil looked at the clock. “I don’t want to be late.” Then he walked away before she could say anything else.

  Fifteen minutes later he was showered, and dressed in his usual blue jeans, white T-shirt, and Timberland boots. His hair was still wet from the shower, and it left little wet spots on his shirt. He told the boys goodbye and gave them a warning about going outside. They promised to behave themselves.

  “Don’t worry, Jonesy. I’ve got this. I’ve never let you down before, have I?”

  No, but you’re about to, Virgil thought.

  “What was that?” Sarah said.

  Virgil gave her a sad sort of toothless grin, then said, “No, you never have. Listen, tell Ross to keep his phone on. I don’t know what’s happening yet, but I might need him.”

  Sarah said she would, and then Virgil was gone.

  Virgil turned out of his drive and pulled up in front of Murton’s house. He gave the horn a honk, and Murton came out looking like he was ready for a night on the town. He wore black dress pants, an ocean blue Hawaiian shirt covered with tropical flowers and blackbirds. The look was one that made Virgil wonder if he was looking at a reflection of the sky from the ocean’s edge.

  “Nice duds,” Virgil said.

  “Duds? Do you have any idea how much this shirt cost?”

  “No, and I don’t want to know. How does Becky let you get away with that?”

  Murton tucked his chin. “Let me? She encourages me. I thought you were going to change before we went in.”

  “Very funny. I did. Are you ready or not?”

  “Yeah, as usual, I’m waiting on you. I’ve been ready for fifteen minutes. Nice wheels, by the way.”

  Chapter Five

  Virgil turned out of Murton’s drive and headed down the gravel road toward the highway that would take them into the heart of the city. They’d only gone a half-mile when Virgil saw the cement truck headed their way. He turned the blue and red flashers on behind the truck’s front grill and drifted left toward the center of the road. The truck was trailing a long line of dust from the gravel, and the dust started to overtake the cement truck as it stopped in front of Virgil’s Raptor.

  “Hey, raise your window, will you?” Murton said. “I don’t want to get my new shirt covered in dirt.”

  Virgil gave his brother a lazy look, put the window up, then said, “This will only take a second.”

  He hopped out and spoke briefly with the driver and told him where to go. The driver told him no problem. “My guys are about five minutes behind me. We’ll have it done in no time.”

  Virgil thanked him, got back in his truck, and moved out of the way, stopped, and sent Sarah a quick text to let her know that he’d already spoken with the driver, and the only thing she needed to do was keep everyone in the house. Then he dropped the truck in gear and took off. They were running a little late.

  When they walked into Cora’s office, they found her at her desk, reading a report of some kind. Once they were both in the door, Cora made an exaggerated show of checking the time. “When I said an hour, I meant an hour.”

  Virgil glanced at the clock on the wall. They were seven minutes late. “Take it up with Murt. Everything’s a fashion show. So, what’s going on?”

  Instead of answering, she pressed a button on her desk phone, then said, “They’re here.”

  The governor’s voice came right back at her. “Send them in. They’re late.”

  Governor Hewitt (Mac) McConnell was sitting at his corner conference table with a DEA agent who looked like she might have been awake all night. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt, along with black combat boots. Her close-cropped dusty blonde hair was mostly hidden under her ball cap, and her sidearm was strapped to her thigh. A Kevlar vest was on the floor next to her boots.

  Mac stood up and made the introductions. “Guys, this is Agent Carla Martin, DEA. Agent Martin, meet Detectives Virgil Jones and Murton Wheeler.” They all shook hands and said hello, then took a seat at the table. The governor continued with, “Agent Martin is…” Then he interrupted himself, finally taking note of Murton’s shirt. He let a half scowl form on his face, and said, “Is that the silk Givenchy? The one that cost almost a grand?” The envy in his voice was palpable.

  Murton nodded at the governor, a big toothy grin forming on his face. “I thought you’d never ask. And to answer your question, yes, it is. I went with the genuine buttons though, so it was closer to fifteen hundred.” Then before the governor could say anything, Murton continued with, “You’ll pardon me for saying so, sir, but based on how you’re dressed, it looks like you’ve all but conceded the match.”

  Murton and the governor had a little clothing competition going on—both men taking their wardrobes seriously—and the governor had been down on points for quite some time. Way down, in fact…and he knew it.

  “I was doing a little work around the house when Cora told me the DEA wanted a word,” Mac said.

  Murton laughed through his nose. “Did the staff quit on you…again? Love the jacket though. It’s got that wonderful, off-the-rack retro look about it.”

  The governor shook his head. “As I was saying, I was short on time, and I was doing a little housework.” He pointed at the connecting door between his office and Cora’s. “That woman, I love her, but sometimes I wonder if she’s forgotten who works for whom. She practically ordered me to come in.”

  Agent Martin cleared her throat, and they all caught the cue. The governor cleared his own throat, and said, “Yes, well then. I believe that Agent Martin would like to give us a short briefing.” He looked at the DEA officer and said, “Agent Martin?”

  Martin had a small file folder sitting in front of her on the table. She opened it up and began speaking. “At approximately this time yesterday, we received a call from the chief of security for a company called MedX. The company is licensed by the DEA to act as a state-wide distributor for controlled pharmaceuticals. One of their drivers, Mr. David Boyd, left MedX on schedule, early in the morning with a fully stocked delivery vehicle. When he failed to show at his first stop, the pharmacy called it in. When he failed to show at his second stop, that pharmacy called MedX as well. By the time the third pharmacy called, the MedX security chief had already tried to phone the driver without success. He also tried using the company radios—every truck is equipped with one—and failed to reach the driver. With no other alternative, and per the company’s policy, he then informed the county authorities that they had a missing vehicle and driver. The county called in the state police, and
the troopers began their search. When they found the truck, they called the DEA. That’s why I’m here.”

  “And why are we here?” Virgil said.

  Martin took a photograph from the file and handed it to Virgil. “That’s a copy of Mr. Boyd’s Human Resources ID photo.” Then she took out another photo and handed it to Virgil. “That’s how we found him.”

  Virgil and Murton looked at the photographs, the second one in particular. Boyd’s body looked to be in the back of a delivery truck, his head at an unnatural angle, one of his eyes missing. They studied the photos for a few seconds, then handed them back. Virgil and Murton had both seen dead bodies before, so there was no real shock value.

  “What was in the truck?” Murton said.

  “Probably your state’s worst nightmare,” Martin said. “By that, I mean enough pseudoephedrine to run a major meth lab for at least a year. Maybe more, depending on their customer base. We’re talking enough pills that someone is going to be making a lot of meth. And I’m not talking about personal use here. I’m talking major distribution.”

  “How do you know that?” Virgil said. “What I mean is this: How do you know that whoever killed the driver and stole the stuff won’t be using it for their own personal stash?”

  Martin nodded like she’d heard the question a thousand times. “Because it’s simply too much. They’d end up killing themselves before they got two percent of the way through their supply.”

  Virgil looked at nothing for a minute, and when he touched eyes with his brother, Murton knew what Virgil was thinking.

  “Say it,” Murton said.

  Virgil puffed his cheeks, then let out a weary sigh. He looked directly at Agent Martin and said, “Everyone in this room knows this, so I’m just going to go ahead and say it so you’ll be up to speed. Several years ago I got the living daylights knocked out of me by a couple of bad actors who are no longer with us, thanks to this one.” He jerked his thumb at Murton. “The beating was so severe I had to have surgery…the whole bit. Ended up with a post-surgical infection, then got hooked—hard—on Oxy.”