The main problem was that someone had popped the cylinder lock out of the door, leaving a circular hole in its place.
Kneeling, she rummaged through her tool kit, recalling she had dumped a turn lock somewhere inside. She was sure of it. In fact, the only question was if it would be the correct diameter.
She found the lock, still in its plastic packaging at the very bottom of her tool kit. It took twenty minutes to fit it into the hole and attach it. She would make Justina a copy of the key, she noted, straightening up. Lastly, she turned the handle, making sure the door was locked and secure, and then started up the stairs with her tool kit in hand.
When she reached the apartment unit she had been working on, her stomach grumbled. She was starving, but Grant Conover’s murder weighed heavily on her mind. According to Becky’s speech last night, Grant had been killed by Colombia & Partners, giving Becky just the incentive to get organized and follow through with her plan to overthrow the drug ring and take over. But if Kate could bring down C & P by exposing them for Grant’s murder, then she could prevent a potential massacre that could quite possibly put all of Rock Ridge in peril.
Realizing this, Dean Wentworth came to mind. Of all the people Kate knew in town, Dean had been the closest to Grant, and she trusted him. The mayor had been keeping tabs on the crooked warden as a means of eventually exposing his involvement in the drug ring.
Quickly, Kate dialed the mayor’s direct line, as she padded to the glass entrance door and began scanning the sidewalk and road for suspicious characters.
“Dean?” she said urgently as soon as he picked up. “Can we meet for lunch?”
“I’m trying to keep a low profile,” he said in a hushed tone. “The reporters have gotten really bad. There was a pack of them outside my house and another outside my office building. I can’t get away with meeting in a public place.”
“I’ll meet you anywhere,” she offered. “The amusement park is still under construction. It’s private. What about there?”
Dean fell silent as if considering the consequences, but told her, “Okay. Give me twenty minutes.”
Kate kept an eye out for the black SUV, as she drove out of town towards the amusement park, not that she was naïve enough to think she would cross paths with Becky, or that Becky, herself, would come after Kate, but she couldn’t be too cautious.
She pulled into the amusement park and couldn’t believe the progress. The last time she had driven in, half the park had still been under construction. Now, in the light of day, it appeared nearly complete, though a few bulldozers remained, angling around the dwindling stacks of materials.
After parking in front of the executive trailer, she scanned the parking lot for Dean’s car. The reporters had probably held him up on his way out of his building. And to think Eric Demblowski had been promoting their behavior, feeding them more and more news stories, as he kept Becky safely hidden.
When Kate thought about it, her blood boiled. Even Celia had been the one to orchestrate the first search party for Becky—one, in which, Kate had participated. Celia had seemed so genuine in her concern, and yet she might have known all along that Eric had been helping the ex-con.
Finally, she spotted Dean’s car driving into the lot. He swung up beside her truck and stepped out, prompting Kate to do the same.
“Sorry it took me so long,” he said, locking his car. “I had to drive in a zigzag through town to shake a couple news vans.”
“Will we have privacy?” she asked, nodding towards the trailer.
“We should,” he told her, starting for the trailer steps.
There was no one inside, she realized, following the mayor in. He shut the door behind her and locked it.
Kate was too nervous to sit, but Dean insisted, as he lowered onto a sofa chair adjacent to the leather couch.
“What do you make of Grant’s murder?” she asked, seeing whether he knew more or less than she did.
“He didn’t see it coming, or if he did, he did a hell of a job playing it cool.”
“Scott’s working the case, but considering Grant was murdered in his own office inside the prison, you’d think Scott would have his man by now. There are numerous security checkpoints just to get into the door, and the entire prison is teeming with cameras.”
“Which means that the killer had full access.”
“You think he works there?”
“In some capacity,” he allowed. “Or else he’s an IT genius.”
Tommy Barkow came to mind. Though the IT specialist had been killed, he was undoubtedly at the center of this thing. Not only had he been the one refining the drug for distribution, he had also wanted out. It stood to reason that after his death, Colombia & Partners would’ve needed to replace him and replace him fast. What if they had managed to recruit another IT specialist, someone who could hack into the prison’s security system and wreak havoc, setting the stage for anyone to penetrate the prison and kill the warden?
“Grant Conover was one of the higher-ups in the drug ring,” she explained. “Did you manage to get any closer to him before he died? Did he ever mention the owners of Colombia & Partners?”
“That’s who you think killed him?”
Holding his gaze was confirmation enough, and because of it, Dean plowed his fingers through his hair.
“No, he didn’t mention them,” Dean said finally, as he reached into the front pocket of his slacks. “But he did give me a key to his house.”
“Why?”
“The night before he died, we met for dinner. He was really starting to trust me, but he would still speak to me in vague terms, never stating outright his involvement. But when I explained the amusement park was facing financial ruin—a lie, by the way, we’re doing great—he offered to cut me in on his leg of the drug trade, though he didn’t state it outright. He gave me a key to his house and told me he would be sure to be out all night, leaving me the opportunity to move his product from his house to the park. That’s how I would prove myself.”
“Did you go over there?”
“I never made it,” he went on. “Jessica and I have been on the rocks ever since the whole Donna Kramer fiasco hit the light of day. She was in a terrible mood. She called me as I was leaving the office, so I drove straight home. We got into a big fight...you can guess the rest.”
Dean handed her the key, while reciting Grant’s address. She logged it into her cell phone and read it back to him to be sure she had it right.
“Did Grant ever mention Eric Demblowski?”
“The reporter at the Tribune?” he asked. “No, why?”
“I think he’s involved.”
Dean looked shocked, but Kate rose to her feet, eager to get over to Grant’s house. She could only hope the police weren’t already there.
“How’s Jason holding up?”
Kate sighed, examining the key in her hand as if staring at it would keep her emotions in check. “He has a good attorney. We’re taking it one day at a time.”
“Kate,” he said abruptly when she turned for the door. Quickly, Dean walked around to the business side of his desk and unlocked one of the drawers. “I heard about the shooting. You aren’t safe.”
Kate was about to assure him she would be all right, but she gasped instead, her gaze locking on the reason he had opened the drawer.
He was holding a gun.
“I want you to take this—”
“No,” she objected. “I don’t want a gun.”
“But you need one. You don’t even know who’s gunning to wipe you out.”
“I do. It’s Becky.”
He cocked his brow sympathetically. “A woman no one has seen in nearly a month?”
Rushing to him, she said, “I saw her.”
“What? When?”
“At Drake’s Firing Line last night. She held a secret meeting. She’s planning on overthrowing Colombia & Partners.” Kate stopped herself from saying more. She had already said too much. Anyone who knew wou
ld be in as much danger as her, and she couldn’t live with that on her conscience.
“Did you tell Scott?”
“I’m trying to. He won’t return my calls.”
“You have to tell him now—”
Kate lifted her hand, silencing him. “You were the one who refused to go to Scott earlier. Scott has long since given up on believing me. If he calls me back, I’ll tell him what I know. But I can’t force it down his throat. I have no proof.”
“Take this,” he insisted, thrusting the gun, handle first, at her chest.
“I can’t,” she said. “I don’t know how to use one of those things, and I’d probably end up shooting my toes off.”
“You have no other way of defending yourself,” he quickly pointed out.
“Maybe not.” She looked at the weapon, but couldn’t make herself reach for it. Instead, she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and scrolled through the photos until the license plate of the black SUV popped up. “Write this plate number down,” she instructed. “It’s Becky’s vehicle. If anything happens to me, tell Scott she’s the one who did it.”
“Kate—”
“I should get going,” she said, cutting him off. “If you learn anything else about Colombia & Partners, give me a call.”
Dean wrote the license plate number on a pad of paper that was resting beside the telephone on his desk.
If she wanted to swing by Grant Conover’s house and try her luck poking around, she didn’t have much time to do it. Her on-camera interview was at two and it was half past one. She stepped on the gas, reversing away from the trailer and arching around, and then threw the truck in gear and peeled out of the parking lot.
Whoever killed the warden had to be a top dog at Colombia & Partners. She had already submitted the bank statement to Scott, who surely marked it as evidence. If she could find out who the killer was then Scott could arrest him, question him, make him list every single name involved, and the entire pyramid would come crashing down, Becky included.
As she drove like a maniac through town, she dialed Scott for the sixth time. When she heard his automated outgoing voice message, she groaned, but dove into her message as soon as she heard the beep.
“Scott, this is getting ridiculous, you have to call me back! Look, I know who shot at me the other night. It was Becky Langley. Now, before you go thinking I’ve lost my mind, I saw her! Scott, I saw Becky! She was holding a meeting at Drake’s Firing Line, and then I saw her drive to Eric Demblowski’s house! I’m getting close to cracking this thing wide open, but I can’t do it alone! Not when I’m driving around in this damn Mrs. Fix It truck, announcing to the world who I am everywhere I drive. You have to look into this, do you hear me? And you have to call me back!”
Kate slammed on the brakes, as her eye caught the house numbers she was tearing past. She threw her truck in reverse, hitting the gas, and when she flew in front of Grant’s house, she swung a rough turn towards the curb. The rear tire jumped the curb. When it veered off, she bounced hard, slamming her head against the headrest.
“Good Lord,” she muttered, killing the engine and glancing up and down the street. No one had seen.
She took a moment to calm her nerves and spy the house. She didn’t see any cop cars or crime-scene tape, which made sense. Grant had been killed at the prison. The police were probably still combing his office for clues and watching dozens of security tapes.
Climbing out of her truck, her heart began pounding in her chest and no amount of deep breathing would calm her. Using short, quick steps, she jogged up the sidewalk and crossed up the walkway. The house key was already in her hand. She fit it into the door and let herself in, closing the door behind her.
Finding the drugs was secondary to locating evidence of who was the owner of Colombia & Partners, so she started through the first floor of the house in search of Grant’s office.
She found it after padding down the second-floor hallway, passing an entertainment den, a closet, and the bathroom.
The office appeared to be organized, and Kate got the impression that Grant had been some kind of minimalist, perhaps with a touch of obsessive compulsive disorder. She almost felt bad for him, as she hunted through the drawers on his desk.
She found a filing folder, and when she flipped it open on the desk, she saw it contained Grant’s banking statements. Perusing the transactions, she spotted several wire deposits from Colombia & Partners, but it didn’t tell her who the owner was.
After riffling through more filing folders that held credit card statements and bills, she jiggled the computer mouse, waking the monitor.
Luckily, Grant’s e-mail was already opened on screen. Not entirely certain of what she was looking for, she began scanning through the e-mail subjects, noting the senders as she went.
Her heart leapt up her throat the second she saw Colombia & Partners jump out at her from the sender column. She clicked open the e-mail, but the sender was a general “info@” address. She began mumbling each word of the e-mail out loud.
“Becky has gone rogue. It’s time to take her out. If you don’t, it will mean your life.” Her gaze fell to the signature at the bottom of the e-mail, but it was only initials. NG.
Kate stared at the initials, racking her brain for anyone she might know whose first name began with an N and last name with a G, but no one came to mind.
It was fast approaching two o’clock, so she checked that the printer on the desk was on and printed out the e-mail.
As soon as the sheet of paper spit out the e-mail, she grabbed it, leaping out of the chair. She could always come back, she reasoned, as she jogged down the hallway and padded down the stairs. She was sure to lock the door on her way out and scanned the block for any prying eyes, but there were none.
After climbing in behind the steering wheel of her truck, she opened the e-mail app on her cell phone. Bart’s receptionist, Anna, was supposed to send her an e-mail with the address of the interview. She had, Kate saw after deleting a few junk messages.
The moment she read the location, Kate’s stomach dropped.
She had a bad feeling about this.
Chapter Six
Kate sat in a chair next to Bart Vaughn. Two giant movie lights were angled on her, making it difficult to see. She was sweating like a pig in her sweater and long skirt. Bart looked cool as a cucumber.
Production people were rushing about the Rock Ridge Tribune, pushing desks out of the way so they wouldn’t be in frame. A sound guy pinched Kate’s sweater and began fixing a tiny microphone without saying a word to her. She felt manhandled and said, “Excuse you,” but he was already done, padding off towards the sound equipment station.
“You look angry,” said Bart, using a hushed tone as he leaned close to her ear.
She scowled at him, proving his point.
“Remember, you’re the distraught mother of an innocent man. You’ve found yourself in the midst of a tragedy. This could happen to anyone. Make the residents of Rock Ridge feel for you.”
She stared at him and blinked.
How the hell was she supposed to do that? Kate wasn’t one to beg for sympathy. She forced herself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly, but whatever calm she had claimed in that fleeting moment rushed out of her the second Eric Demblowski settled into the chair across from them.
Eric came off as smug as he smiled at her and then Bart. He thumbed through his notecards and asked the news station director how much time they had.
Kate heard the brassy woman respond with, “Two minutes.”
“This is airing live,” Eric reminded Kate, but Bart quickly assured the reporter that Kate was well aware.
Kate desperately wanted to leapt through the air and strangle the man who had been harboring the one woman responsible for ruining her son’s life, the one woman who had tried to gun Kate down.
She fantasized about choking him and suddenly snapped out of it when she heard the director yell, “We’re on in five, four,
three...” The last two numbers she indicated with her fingers and then pointed at Eric.
“Good afternoon, Rock Ridge, and thank you for joining us,” said Eric, addressing the camera behind Kate’s right shoulder. “I’m Eric Demblowski and here with me is Kate Flaherty, mother of Jason Flaherty, who has been arrested in connection with the disappearance of Becky Langley. Joining us for this segment is Jason’s attorney, Bart Vaughn. Let’s get down to it.” Eric glanced at his first notecard, asking, “Kate, do you feel that the disappearance and subsequent murder of your first husband perhaps warped Jason’s young mind, driving him to commit this atrocious act?”
Stunned, Kate glared at him. He had knocked the wind right out of her. How the hell was she supposed to respond to that? She stole a quick glance at Bart, but he looked as poised as a statue of David.
By the grace of God, she was able to think clearly enough to point out, “That’s a rather loaded question, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s what everyone’s thinking,” he countered. “Care to respond?”
She felt like the room was spinning. The lights were too bright; his question was too offensive. Her stomach lurched as she scrambled to come up with some kind of response that didn’t include throttling him.
Bart interjected, “Jason is just as much of a victim as Kate. Let’s look at the lack of evidence—”
“Absolutely,” Eric said quickly without even looking at the attorney. “As soon as we hear what Kate has to say.”
Bart had tried, but if he pushed it, he would come off as defensive, which was probably why he was angling his worried eyes on Kate.
She cleared her throat and smoothed out the grimace on her face. “Greg Flaherty’s disappearance was a tragedy that hurt our family,” she began. “And both of my sons survived the news and did their best to carry on. We all did. Overcoming hardships does not turn a person into a criminal. Jason is not a criminal. He didn’t do this, and if we could all turn our attention to Mr. Vaughn, he is prepared to speak on that matter.”
Mrs. Fix It Mysteries, Season 2 (5 Cozy Mystery Books Collection) Page 44