by Eve Gaddy
Her husband is hateful, yes. Cruel, abusive. A terrible man. But this course spells disaster. Bad enough she betrayed her vows, but when her husband learns—and he will learn—that she betrayed him with a slave. Oh, God, I dare not think what he will do!
I love my sister. I fear for her life. There is nothing I can do to change her course, a path to heartbreak and disaster.
Sarah has chosen, for better or worse. I fear the worst.
Chapter Twenty-Five
LAWRENCE HAD almost fallen asleep when his cell phone rang. Dervish, he saw on the readout. About damn time. “Well?” he snapped into the phone.
“I’m coming over,” Dervish said. “If your nurse is there, get rid of her.” Before Lawrence could speak a word, Dervish ended the call.
Who the hell did the fool think he was? Lawrence wondered. Dervish thought he could order Lawrence around. When pigs fly, Lawrence thought.
Though it went against the grain, he sent the nurse away. God knows what that idiot Dervish wanted to tell him.
A short time later, Dervish walked in and said without preamble, “Henry Young is no longer a problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. I took care of him earlier this afternoon. Just like you wanted.”
So much for Dervish’s scruples. “Why the change? When I first broached the subject you said you wouldn’t do it.”
“I thought about it and decided you were right. It was too risky, which I was certain of once I talked to him.”
“Had he changed his story?”
“Yes, and he told that damn journalist about it. When I got there, Rickerby was leaving.”
“Well, shit, what good did it do to take care of the night watchman if he’s already spilled his guts to Rickerby?”
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Dervish demanded.
Yes, Lawrence did but didn’t say it. “What did you do?”
“Rickerby’s been taken care of as well. He won’t be sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong anymore.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I’ve still got connections. Some lowlife owed me a favor. Sort of like you.”
“I don’t owe you any favors, asshole. You’re in as much trouble as me if this thing blows up.”
Dervish had the nerve to laugh. “No way.”
“Obstruction of justice, remember?” Dervish knew he was up shit creek. Otherwise, he’d never have gotten rid of Young.
“Obstruction ain’t murder.”
Lawrence abandoned that argument for the moment. “Did you kill him? Either of them?”
“Henry Young had a heart attack. There shouldn’t be any problem. The old geezer was eighty-six. Nothing suspicious about it.”
Lawrence grunted. “So you say. What happens if there’s an autopsy?”
“I got connections, I told you. What I gave him probably won’t show up. It doesn’t stay in the bloodstream long. At least, that’s what they told me. Besides, there’s no reason for an autopsy.”
“What about the journalist?”
“Rickerby’s either dead or close to it. Seems whoever robbed his house gut shot him. ‘Surprised’ him at home.”
“Good. What about his notes? A journalist is going to have all sorts of notes. And a computer as well.”
“I have all that. Notes, computer, everything pertaining to the Davis case. Everything Rickerby found out from Young.” He paused and added, “Everything is in my possession now.”
The son of a bitch was threatening him. Dervish should know better than to fuck with Lawrence. “But you’re going to give it all to me, aren’t you, Frank?”
He laughed. “Sure. For a price.”
“How much?”
“A million should cover it.”
“Are you nuts? I can’t lay my hands on a million bucks.” He could, but he wasn’t going to fork over that kind of money to a worthless piece of crap like Frank Dervish.
“Five hundred thousand, then. Should be worth something to you to stay out of jail. Texas has the death penalty, you know. Think about that.”
He’d think about it, all right. Think of a way to shut Dervish’s mouth permanently. First of all, if the ex-cop had screwed up and there was an autopsy on Young, Lawrence would bet they’d trace something back to Dervish. Either the drug or the fact that he’d gone to see the old man, for Christ’s sake. Dervish wasn’t smart enough to really cover his tracks. And blackmailing Lawrence—again—after everything Lawrence had done for him over the years. . . . Well, Dervish had asked for it this time. “I’ll get back to you. Keep those notes and things close.”
“I have them in a safe place. They’re not going anywhere.” He laughed again. “Don’t take too long,” Dervish advised. “I’m ready to leave this town for good. The sooner, the better.”
Lawrence watched the asshole leave. Let Dervish believe he called the shots. He’d soon find out differently.
The more Lawrence thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him. Only one person, besides himself, knew what had really happened that night more than forty years before. Although Lawrence had never admitted his guilt to anyone, much less Dervish, why else would Lawrence have paid Dervish off all these years? Even he wasn’t stupid enough to believe Lawrence was innocent. But enough was enough.
Dervish’s usefulness had just about come to an end. The ex-cop had taken care of the night watchman, but now he was holding Rickerby’s notes over Lawrence’s head. Long ago, Dervish had overlooked any evidence in Calvin Davis’s case that might point to Lawrence’s guilt, including a weak and suspicious alibi. And Lawrence had rewarded him. Many times.
Dervish was a liability. If Lawrence gave him the money, who’s to say he wouldn’t want more in six months, a year? Who’s to say he would even give Lawrence everything he had? He could keep notes back, and Lawrence would never know. Not until the asshole demanded more money. No, Frank Dervish was a loose end, and it was long past time Lawrence dealt with him.
Killing Dervish shouldn’t be hard. The man was a drunk, and not too bright to boot. Taking him out would be child’s play. Maybe not that easy, since Lawrence didn’t want to implicate himself. Still, he could think of something. An accident during a drunken stupor. That would be easy enough to accomplish. Getting Dervish drunk was no problem. Hell, all he had to do was flash some green and give him a bottle of scotch to celebrate.
Scotch. Booze and pills could be a lethal combination. What if Dervish’s death wasn’t accidental? Suicide. That’s the ticket. Dervish was going to kill himself. The man’s finances were at rock bottom, had been for years. The hopelessness would finally get the best of him. He’d end it all with a bottle of painkillers and booze.
Getting pills was no problem. Lawrence hadn’t used all his painkillers from the accident. He had plenty, surely enough for Dervish, especially coupled with booze.
Lawrence planned to meet at Dervish’s place to exchange the notes for the cash. He’d go in disguise so no one would know he’d been there. He’d spike the booze, then put a couple of pills in a baggie and make it look like the ex-cop had gotten them off the street. Oh, yeah, this was going to work out just fine.
Clark was the reason Lawrence was having to concern himself with something that should have been over and done with a long time ago. No one had thought about this crime in years until Jonas Clark stirred everything up again. In Lawrence’s book, this “crime” was no real crime. Calvin Davis had deserved what happened to him.
After it was all over, Lawrence could work on Glenn’s jealousy. His son was pissed after being cuckolded by his snotty wife and her black lover. And apparently, Glenn wanted his wife back, though Lawrence couldn’t figure out why. Claire had always seemed like a tight-assed bitch to Lawrence. Nothing like Bella, regardless o
f having her eyes.
Claire wasn’t important. Lawrence would take care of her, or have her taken care of, later. Right now, Lawrence was going to be damn glad when he could finally put Calvin Davis and all the trouble he’d caused behind him.
SO FAR, JONAS’S night hadn’t been too hectic, but the work had been steady. Around midnight, he was headed home to snatch a few hours of sleep when he got a page to call trauma. So much for going home. Knowing he would almost certainly have to return to the hospital, he turned around and headed back, calling in on his cell on the way.
“What can I do for you, Mike?” Jonas asked the trauma surgeon on call.
“I need a consult.”
“Okay, tell me about it.”
“I’ve got a guy who has a gunshot wound to the abdomen. He was found unconscious at the scene, but he was bleeding from a blow to the head as well as from the gunshot. The pre-op CT scan of the head showed no obvious intracranial injury. We did a laparotomy and resected a piece of bowel that had been injured. We found no other major intra-abdominal injury. He’s in recovery now, and we’d like you to take a look at him.”
“I’m on my way back. I’ll check his scan and then see him.” With any luck, all they’d need was a consult, not another operation.
Fifteen minutes later, he walked into radiology. “You’ve got a CT scan for me to look at?”
“Yes.” The radiologist, Alton Reynolds, pulled up the scan on his computer. “Glad you got here so quickly.”
“Oh, why?” Jonas glanced at the computer scan and the name. He did a double take. Emmitt Rickerby. Rickerby? Emmitt had been shot? “What the hell is this? Emmitt Rickerby is a good friend of mine.”
“That’s what I hear. I understand the patient’s wife insists you take care of him.”
“Get a message to her that I’m here and I’ll talk to her as soon as I know something.” Oh, Jesus. A gunshot wound. And head trauma. This could be bad. Very, very bad. Jonas forced himself to calm down—to look at the scan objectively, with a doctor’s eyes, not a friend’s.
Jonas and Reynolds talked about the scan. Thank God, Jonas agreed with the radiologist’s initial assessment. He saw no intracranial bleeding. Emmitt had a concussion, but at this point no surgery was needed. When they finished discussing the scan, he asked, “Any idea what happened? How did he get shot?”
“I heard it was a home invasion, but I’m not even sure of that. The wife’s in the waiting room, you can talk to her.”
“I will, after I see the patient.” And after he talked to Mike Sanders again, the trauma surgeon who had operated on Emmitt.
A home invasion. If that were true, why now? Why Emmitt’s house? Was it a simple robbery, or did it have something to do with what Emmitt had discovered earlier that day? Jonas wasn’t a fan of coincidence, and he had a very bad feeling about this situation. Why tonight of all nights would Emmitt be robbed?
CLAIRE WOKE TO her cell phone ringing. Still groggy from the dream, she recognized the ringtone and answered. “Jonas?”
“Sorry to wake you but I knew you’d want to know. Emmitt came into the hospital with a gunshot wound to the abdomen and a concussion. He’s in recovery now but he’s stable.”
She sat up, suddenly fully awake. “What? Emmitt’s been shot? How did this happen?”
“A home invasion. The cops don’t know much yet, but his wife and kids came home and found him in his study. It’s a miracle he didn’t bleed out, but Kendra believes that the burglars went out the front door just as she and the kids came in the back. She says the electronics are missing, including Emmitt’s computer he used for work and all of his notes. She didn’t have time to look at the rest of the house.”
“Do you think . . .” she trailed off. Stupid question. Jonas was bound to be wondering the same thing she was. If Emmitt’s computer and notes were gone, that made it pretty likely that his meeting with the night watchman earlier that day had played a part in the burglary tonight. “Never mind. We can talk about the details later. Who took care of him?”
“Mike Sanders did the surgery. He said it went well. Emmitt should recover fully and his CAT scan looked good. There was no intracranial bleeding.”
“Mike’s a good surgeon, Jonas. I’m glad you were able to see Emmitt’s scan.”
“Yeah. Jesus, Claire, when I saw his name on the CAT scan, I knew it was him. Emmitt Rickerby isn’t a common name.”
“No, it’s not. I’ll be there as soon as I can make it.”
“You don’t need to come. There’s nothing for you to do.”
“I can be with you. Don’t argue, I’ll see you shortly.”
THE NEXT MORNING, with his doctors’ consent, the police questioned Emmitt. That sort of interview usually took place as soon as the victim regained consciousness. However, Emmitt’s pain and confusion were too severe to allow it. Jonas had been there all night and knew Emmitt didn’t remember much of anything. Jonas hoped he could fill in some blanks for the police.
He caught up with the two cops after they came out of Emmitt’s room. He’d met them the night before and earlier that morning when Jonas had cautioned them to be careful in their questioning and not expect too much. Unfortunately, when Jonas had spoken to his friend that morning, it was clear Emmitt had retrograde amnesia covering not only the accident, but the entire day. How long that would last, no one knew.
“Detectives, if I could have a word with you?”
“Sure, Doc. What is it?” Olivetti, the older of the two men asked.
“Did Emmitt remember anything about the crime? Or about the day and what happened prior to the break-in?”
“Not a thing,” Olivetti said. “But you told us he probably wouldn’t.”
“I was afraid of that, yes. He didn’t when I talked to him. There’s always a chance that most of the day will come back to him, even if the time around the actual shooting doesn’t. But in case it doesn’t, I wanted to tell you what I know. I met with Emmitt a few hours before the break-in. I’m wondering if his activities earlier in the day could have been behind this robbery.”
“Why would you think that, Dr. Clark?” Baxter, the younger cop, asked.
“His wife’s been up here and hasn’t really had a chance to go over the entire house, but she told me you believe the burglars only hit his study. They took his electronics—computer, tape recorder, cell phone—and his notes. Nothing else. I find that a little suspicious. Don’t you?”
The older man shrugged. “Apparently the wife and kids surprised the thieves. We believe they didn’t have time to cover the rest of the house. They wanted to get out before they were discovered.”
“Because they didn’t want to deal with a woman and two children? When they’d already shot Emmitt? Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful they didn’t hurt his family, but I find that odd.”
“What’s on your mind, Doc?” Olivetti took out his notebook. “You want to tell us what you’re thinking?”
“This break-in was no random burglary.”
“You sound definite about that.” Olivetti glanced at him sharply. “You have anything to back up this conclusion?”
“I believe so. Let’s go sit down.” He led the way to an empty waiting area, and the three of them took chairs. “Emmitt has been investigating a cold case. The murder of Calvin Davis in 1968.”
“1968? That’s pretty damn cold, Doc.”
“Yes, and recently a few more things have come to light. You can talk to the cold case detectives. They know all about it. Calvin Davis was a cousin of mine, and I started looking into his death because my mother has never been satisfied with the investigating detective’s contention that the crime was a gang slaying. I’m hoping to give her some closure. Yesterday, Emmitt talked to a key witness, a man who had given an alibi to a person of interest connected with this case.”
He went on to tell the two men about Lawrence Westbrook being a suspect initially, and how Henry Young had given him an alibi for the night in question. Then he related what Emmitt had told him about Henry Young recanting his testimony.
“Has this Henry Young formally recanted? Or is this just something he told your friend?”
“I don’t know. You could talk to the cold case detectives and see if he contacted them. He told Emmitt he was going to.” He gave them the detectives’ names, but they were already familiar with them since they handled all the cold cases for the Fort Worth Police Department.
“I don’t know about you, but I find it suspicious that Emmitt’s house is broken into, his notes and computer taken, and Emmitt himself shot on the very day he heard a confession from a witness who lied to the police about a murder investigation. Especially considering the guy whose alibi is no good is still alive.”
“It’s a theory,” Olivetti said, but he didn’t sound as if he put a lot of stock in it. “We’ll check it out and get back to you, Doc. We’ll be back tomorrow. Will you be around?”
“Thanks. And yes, I’ll be here. Emmitt’s my patient as well as my friend.” The two detectives were unconvinced that his theory held any water, that was obvious. He hoped they did a better job of checking out the truth of the situation than the original detective had. They could hardly do worse.
Speaking of that detective, Jonas wondered if Anders O’Connor had ever managed to talk to Frank Dervish. It was possible he would talk to O’Connor even though he refused to talk to Emmitt. But O’Connor hadn’t called him or Claire, so it seemed unlikely he’d talked to the man.
The following morning, Jonas got a call from a number he didn’t recognize. “Clark here.”
“Hey, Doc, it’s Detective Olivetti. I have bad news for you. You know that night watchman you told us about? Henry Young?”
“Yes. Did you talk to him?”
“No, and we won’t be able to now.”
“Why?”