by Liliana Hart
“It’s Friday,” I said. “He’d leave for work again on Sunday night. She said he works in finance on Wall Street. And money is always a motive for murder. Though I guess depending on how Marla comes out with life insurance and assets, money could be her motive there too.”
I took a bite of chicken and closed my eyes at the pure pleasure that coursed through me. I was ravenous, and I had to remind myself to eat slow so I didn’t swallow everything whole. I should have known better, both as a doctor and as an adult, but my eating habits had always been somewhat juvenile, and Jack had just learned not to say anything. Though I could usually hear his mental scolding.
I stopped eating when Vaughn’s picture popped up on the whiteboard, another link to the forming web.
“Really?” I asked.
“There were fifteen people at the Jorgenson house last night, including his wife,” Jack said. “Vaughn was one of them. I can’t leave him out just because he’s our friend, even though I don’t believe he had anything to do with it. He’s got money, connections, and he more than likely knows someone who could sell him amphetamines. And if whoever slipped the drugs into Jorgenson’s water bottles was in the bike club, then Vaughn knows the killer personally.”
“They’re all going to have a connection in some capacity,” I said. “We’re looking for money and access and ties outside of the cycling club.”
“We also need to consider something that might be a very possible reality,” Jack said. “We might have a finite amount of time to solve this case. It could take months to get a warrant for beneficiary and life insurance information. And if we start digging into Wall Street it might be months longer or never. They don’t really like to let go of that kind of information easily.”
I considered what he was saying. “First of all, you’re going to win. We’ve got to change our mindset and think positive. Second of all, you could call a friend and see if he could speed up the process.”
Jack blew out a breath. “Yeah, I could call a friend. But I feel like the favors are going to start running out soon. Saving a person’s life will only get you so far.”
“I don’t think Carver feels that way,” I said. “Michelle might if he keeps getting her pregnant. But Carver would lie down in the middle of the street for you.”
“Maybe one day someone will tell Carver how babies are made,” Jack said. He opened his laptop and the screen was shared on the whiteboard. “Do you have the list of names Vaughn gave you?” he asked.
“Right here,” I said, unfolding the heavy stationery with Vaughn’s neat block lettering on it.
“Start running backgrounds and getting them on the board,” he said. “I’ll deal with Carver.”
I typed in the first name on the list. Leslie Carron. And I let the computer run while Carver’s face popped up on the wall.
“What in the hell is going on in Bloody Mary?” Carver said by way of greeting. “I just left a few days ago and everything was fine. And now I’m getting news all the way in DC about the two of you? I’m in a wheelchair, but I will come down there and knock both your heads together.”
“Wow,” Jack said. “Sounds like you’re feeling better. They must have amped up your physical therapy for all that attitude.”
Carver’s face broke into a smile. It was nice to see, especially considering he had months of physical therapy and surgeries in front of him.
“You like that?” Carver asked. “I’ve been practicing my bad cop routine for when I can get back out in the field.”
“You should probably practice your shooting instead,” Jack teased. “I still don’t know how you got field certified. Someone must owe you a lot of favors.”
“Well, I’m kind of in charge of a lot of people and a lot of things,” Carver said. “I can pretty much do what I want.”
“That explains it,” Jack said.
“But seriously,” Carver said. “Are you guys okay? I know it’s been less than a week since I’ve seen you, but somehow you’ve gained a son and lost a wife in that time. Maybe Michelle and I should move closer to keep an eye on you.” Carver looked back over his shoulder to make sure his wife wasn’t listening. “Where’s J.J.?”
“I’m right here,” I told him, moving into the camera view.
“I’m not a doctor,” Carver said. “But you look like you could use some sleep.”
“I’m kind of getting tired of people telling me that,” I said. “People have no manners anymore.”
Carver grinned unrepentantly. “I blame it on social media. I’ve always thought you were too pretty. I think it’s nice to see you looking like the rest of us.”
I laughed and decided it felt good. Maybe a dose of Carver was just what I needed. “I’m doing okay,” I assured him. “We’re doing okay. Election season is brutal.”
“Tell me about it,” he said. “I could be fired at any time based on who’s sitting in the White House. I try not to let it get me down. And I might have told the president that if he fired me I’d hack into all of his accounts and rob him blind. He knows I was kidding. Kind of.”
“We don’t mean to interrupt your Friday night,” Jack said.
“Are you kidding me?” Carver asked. “Michelle’s book club is meeting downstairs and my mother-in-law is watching the girls. My Friday night consists of avoiding estrogen at all costs. Tell me you have something for me to do. I could organize your files or siphon money from your opponent’s campaign account into yours. You tell me how I can be most useful.”
Jack laughed. “Thank God you’re on the side of the good guys.”
“Meh,” Carver said. “I like to leave my options open. And technically I’m still on medical leave, so I’m not representing the FBI right at this moment. I don’t know. It’s kind of a gray area. But I have had the chance to try to hack all of the government databases. You’ll be glad to know ours is secure. But the Pentagon needs some work. I sent them a memo. We should probably talk fast because you never know when a platoon is going to show up at the door and carry me away.”
“He makes me so tired,” I said under my breath. “I don’t know how Michelle does it.”
“I’m sitting right here you know,” Carver said. “I can hear you. But sometimes I wonder how Michelle does it too. There’s been a time or two I suspected she put something in my drink at night to help me sleep. Maybe you could investigate that.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Jack said. “But call me if your hair starts falling out in chunks or you have constant diarrhea.”
“You’re starting to sound like Michelle,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Tell me what you need before I hang up on you and go feel sorry for myself.”
“We caught a case today,” Jack said. “I’m a little worried about the timing because it’s going to call for digging into financials that could take months to process. And I might not have months as sheriff.”
Carver was never one to be serious for long. I often wondered about that—if his joviality was a mask for something deeper. But his mouth creased in a hard line and his brow furrowed in thought.
“First of all, I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Carver said, and then he held up a finger before Jack could interrupt. “I’m not saying it can’t happen, but I looked into the polls in your area and incumbents always run a strong race. Secondly, I’ve already taken the liberty of compiling a file against your opponent, just in case you feel it’s necessary. He’s getting a large amount from one particular donor. I haven’t been able to get the identity of the donor yet, only the city and two front corporations I can’t find an owner or board of directors for, which tells me whoever it is has a lot of money and a lot of political power.”
“Why would someone from DC care what happens in the election here in King George?” I asked.
“That’s the question,” Carver said. “But I can think of some reasons.”
“The federal prisons,” Jack said, nodding.
“Bingo,” Carver said. “There are a
lot of people sitting on the opposite side of the aisle than you who could make millions by having those prisons built in King George. You’re talking about a billion-dollar federal contract. There are lobbyists and contractors and politicians and investors who would happily slit your throat and dance on your grave to see those prisons become a reality.”
I looked at Jack’s face, but he didn’t seem surprised by this information. “You knew it was this bad?” I asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What is there to do about it?” Jack asked. “I’m here to serve the people of King George and their best interests. I don’t care what donors or people outside this county want. They don’t live here. And the people in this county don’t want their farms plowed under so those prisons can be built. They don’t want the worst dregs of society being sent across the Potomac and housed down the road from them. And they really don’t want to pay a tax increase so they can help lower their quality of life. So whoever is donating to Floyd’s campaign can keep wasting money. I’m not changing my mind.”
“Which leads me to my third point,” Carver said. “If you do happen to lose, you can finally come work for the FBI.”
“I’d make a terrible FBI agent,” Jack said. “There are too many rules and regulations. And I’ve found I like being the boss. Maybe I’ll just run for governor instead. Or maybe we’ll live off our investments and become recluses and raise chickens.”
I pressed my lips together at that. “Maybe we could start with the dog,” I said. “I’m not sure I’m meant to have chickens that don’t come from a supermarket.”
“Amen, sister,” Carver said. “I knew I liked you.”
I watched Jack’s body relax. Carver was Jack’s best friend, but I’d come to the realization throughout the day that we both had really good friends. Even when we weren’t good to each other.
“So what have you got for me?” Carver asked.
“We caught a homicide this morning,” Jack said.
“You don’t sound 100 percent sure on that,” Carver said.
“We got a call in for a cyclist on the side of the highway,” I said. “It looked like a standard hit-and-run. The bike was pretty mangled. But when I got him back to the lab I found high traces of amphetamines in his system. Official cause of death was cardiac arrest.”
“Yeah, that’ll do it,” Carver said. “Those things are hell on the heart. Never could understand why athletes would take the chance.”
“That’s the thing,” Jack said. “He’s not a pro. He belongs to one of the local cycling clubs. But the victim is some kind of Wall Street analyst. We’re talking big money.”
“So since you’re calling me, I’m assuming you don’t think the doping was his choice.”
“I called it a homicide, and I think we’re on the right track,” I said. “But the victim has a drug history, which makes it tricky. Cocaine for the most part, and it did damage to the heart and lungs. Any defense attorney would take that and have a field day.”
“All you can do is collect the evidence,” Carver said. “The attorneys will feed on themselves and take everyone’s money. You can’t worry about them.”
“This guy was brilliant,” Jack said, “but apparently he liked the adrenaline rush.”
“You don’t get into the Wall Street rat race unless you do,” Carver said. “Drugs are prevalent on Wall Street, so I’m not surprised. When you make that kind of money it’s easy to run out of things to spend it on.
“Then their behavior gets more depraved and goes way past the point of legal. Then you end up with Jeffrey Epstein types. Wall Street is a mess. It’s politics and corruption and everything in between.” But there was a gleam in Carver’s bright blue eyes. “And there’s nothing I like more than digging into corruption. Of course, anything I find in the periphery is inadmissible, but it should be enough to get you started on your murder so you can find a thread to tug. Give me a name and we’ll start with the basics.”
While Jack sent Carver Marla’s information, I studied the data on Leslie Carron and then started the next search while I read her file.
She was a forty-year-old divorcee who worked as an engineer for a petroleum plant in Richmond, but she lived in Newcastle like a lot of the people who worked in Richmond. I put her picture up next to Vaughn’s and studied her face. She was pretty, in an understated way, and she didn’t have a criminal history, or even a parking ticket for that matter.
Adam Taylor was the next person on the list, and I looked at him closely, remembering that Vaughn had mentioned the name. They’d ridden home together the night before. There’d been something in Vaughn’s voice when he’d mentioned the name that made me feel very protective.
Adam Taylor’s picture went up on the whiteboard, the spiderweb extending out from Vaughn’s picture.
I added the time Adam and Vaughn left the Jorgenson house to the timeline and watched it organize itself on the far right of the wall.
My first thought when I saw Taylor’s picture was military, and then I didn’t have to scroll down too far to see that I was right. He’d been stationed at the naval base in King George for the last three years. Caucasian male. Six foot one. A hundred and seventy-five pounds. His jaw was angular and he was clean shaven, and his driver’s license said his hair was brown, even though in his picture it was cropped too close to tell for sure. He was twenty-nine, never been married, and he’d been deployed once. He was currently ranked as a first lieutenant.
I made my way down the list and saw it was pretty evenly matched as far as men and women went. There were two married couples. I went ahead and put them on the board, but I separated them, thinking it was more unlikely for it to be a duo in on a hit.
Harry and Connie Morgan were in their early sixties. She was a retired schoolteacher and he’d retired from banking earlier in the year. I did put an asterisk next to his name because of the finance connection, but it seemed like a long shot. It looked like Harry and Connie had spent their year cycling and going on cruises. They seemed to be enjoying retired life immensely.
Next were Mitch and Gloria Padgett. Both of them dentists in their early fifties. They had several dentist offices throughout the county, and it looked like they did very well for themselves. Two daughters in college. A nice house in an established neighborhood that was completely paid for, and it looked like they bought a new car every three years, always a BMW.
Every time I got information I sent it on to Carver so he could do the next level of digging. But so far there was no one who stood out as being a potential murderer, though Benji Lyles did have an arrest on his record for possession of cocaine. But it was a twenty-year-old charge and no time had been served. He’d gotten off with community service.
Jack gave a long, low whistle and my head jerked up to see what he was looking at. There were numbers scrolling across the screen at a rapid pace, and I had no idea what they meant.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The Jorgensons’ many numerous accounts,” Jack said. “They’ve got stock holdings, bank accounts, retirement accounts, bonds, real estate, and every other type of investment you could possibly think of. They have no debt, and their son and the new baby both have college funds and trust accounts. Brett and Marla are both signers on all accounts. Any account solely in one name has the other listed as beneficiary. Brett was very smart with their money, and at this point their money is just making more money.”
“Anything illegal?” I asked. “Life insurance?”
“No policies that I could find,” Carver said. “Typically at this level of income life insurance policies aren’t needed. It would look more suspicious if they did have a policy.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Because policies are typically taken out to cover debt in case a spouse dies,” he said. “If Marla had a policy on Brett or vice versa, I’d be looking hard to see if either had hidden accounts or had maybe made a bad investment somewhere. But there’s nothing like that I can f
ind.”
“Okay,” I said. “So we put Marla on the back burner. Which I’m glad because she seemed like a genuinely good person. That leaves the thirteen other people who met at the Jorgenson house.”
“Did you find anyone who stands out as a killer?” Jack asked.
“Strangely enough,” I said, “there could be several candidates.”
“Sounds like a hell of a bike club,” Carver said, raising his brows in surprise. “Did the Hells Angels change rides?”
“Nothing quite that exciting,” I said, smiling at the mental picture that gave me. “But there were fourteen members on last night’s ride, fifteen including the victim. Let’s say for the sake of expediency that our friend Vaughn is in the clear, that leaves thirteen potential suspects. Of the remaining suspects, three are doctors and would have access to amphetamines. Four are in finance in some capacity or other. Two have military ties, and one has a cocaine charge.”
“What about the last three?” Carver asked.
“A schoolteacher, an engineer, and an attorney,” I said. “Probability seems low, though all are women and drugging someone tends to be a woman’s method of murder. As far as who these people are, I’m not sure how they’d be connected to Brett Jorgenson. None of them share common workplaces with him and none of them are from New York.”
“Maybe something will pop on the financial,” Carver said. “This will give me something to do tonight when insomnia kicks in.”
“You’re still not sleeping at night?” Jack asked.
Carver shrugged. “It comes and goes,” he said. “But it’s always best to have something to occupy my mind.”
Jack studied his friend closely, and I felt like a voyeur intruding on his private thoughts. Carver’s face went unreadable as Jack stared at him, and I wondered what Carver was trying to hide from Jack.
“Y’all stay out of trouble,” Carver said. “And watch your back. Someone has taken a big interest in your campaign. When there’s money at stake there’s always an element of danger involved.”