“Anyway,” Jessica said as she wiped away a tear which had slid down her cheek, “I started to do my own little investigation. Actually thought about hiring a private investigator at first but ended up finding what I was looking for without much effort.” She laughed a bit. “It’s kind of funny. When I was thinking about hiring a private eye to found out if Brian was really doing what Sam told me he was, I spoke with a relative of mine who lives in Maine. She told me she and her husband had hired a private eye a little while back. And guess who I ended up hiring after I was accused of murdering my husband? That’s right, the private eye I almost hired to investigate Brian. Strange how things work out.
“I won’t bore you with the details of how I found this out, but I discovered Brian was using this lawyer named Maryanne Jenkins to draw up paperwork for the purchase of the businesses he was scamming people out of. I can’t say she knew all the details of how Brian was convincing these poor men to sell their businesses to him, but I know she must have known enough to want to keep it quiet.
“Remember I told you I threatened her? Well, I did. I told her that if she didn’t get me out of his horrible place that I would let the world know she was involved in what Brian was doing. I wish I could have seen her face when I told her what I’d do. Not that she shows any emotion. She’s a cold person. But I just know my threat must have just twisted her face all up in a jumble of a mess.
“Not that it matters much now, I guess. Sam is dead and my only alibi is dead as well. I’ll probably spend the rest of my life behind bars. The rest of my life.”
Jessica wiped her face dry, sat up then leaned back, using her flayed arms as braces.
“Not much of a jailhouse confession, huh? Just a sad sack story told by a sad sack, unfaithful woman.”
Her cellmate dropped her hands, picked up her head, titled it to her left a bit.
“I beat my husband with an aluminum baseball bat on account of him raping my sister. That’s what I done. That’s why I’m in here.”
Jessica just stared in silence.
After two minutes of pregnant silence, a female guard walked up to their cell. Rustled keys out of her pocket. Slid open the iron door.
“Gracers, you’re out. Bail posted.”
Jessica stood slowly. Stood holding her hands clasped across her belly. She took a few steps towards her cellmate, bent down and whispered in her ear. Kept whispering for several seconds.
Her cellmate’s eyes slowly grew wide. Then she nodded her head a few times.
“Marcus James. My husband’s name is Marcus James.”
Chapter 29
“You won’t get another chance. I need you to tell me you understand. This is it. Last chance. Screw up again, and your butt will be behind bars.”
“I won’t screw up again. I can’t go back into that place.”
Maryanne had waited outside the jail for her client, Jessica Gracers to go through the “exiting process.” That took thirty minutes from the time she was told she was being released, again, till Jessica’s personal belongings were pulled out of inmate storage, checked against the inventory register, handed over to her and being asked to sign on the dotted line to agree everything taken from her had been returned.
“You can’t return the time I’ve lost,” Jessica said sharply to the charge deputy.
In response, the deputy only gestured to a closed door.
“Change in there. Your lawyer is waiting outside in her car for you. Have a nice day.”
As Jessica approached Maryanne’s car, she saw Maryanne fixing her gaze dead ahead. Like the last thing Jenkins wanted was to look at her. Jessica considered passing by Maryanne and walking somewhere to find a way home.
Anything would be better than having to sit next to a woman who hated her as much as did Maryanne Jenkins.
But the heat was pouring down. Sky was heavy with dark, almost mud-colored clouds. The heat was going to break soon. Had to. And Jessica chose getting in Maryanne’s car over being stuck in what promised to be a torrential rain.
Once Jessica acknowledged and responded to her admonition, Maryanne put the car in gear and headed south towards Jessica Gracers’ home.
“Where are you taking me?” Jessica asked.
“That’s what you ask me? That’s the most important thing you can think of to ask? How about, ‘Hey Maryanne, thanks for getting me out. How did you do it? I know I messed up going to Brian’s house. But, how did you get me out?’ Instead, you want to know where I’m taking you? My God, Jessica, Brian may have been right about you.”
“What does that mean?” Jessica snapped.
“That you have some emotional issues. Mental issues.”
Jessica twisted her body away from Maryanne. Folded her arms in a tight knot over her chest.
“Considering the relationship you had with Brian and all the damage that relationship would do to your ‘sterling’ reputation as a lawyer, I can’t believe you’d rather criticize me than beg me to keep my mouth shut.”
Maryanne shot a sideways gaze at Jessica.
Jessica was right, Maryanne did hate her. Hated her for not only what she knew about her dealings with the recently departed Brian Hilton, but for everything Jessica Gracers stood for. To Jessica, people were either useful or not useful: No one had any intrinsic value unless they were wealthy or influential. That’s how Maryanne Jenkins thought of her client. And damn the day Jessica Gracers called her from jail, telling her she needed to represent her against the murder charge. Damn that day! She could have come clean, right then and there. She could have told Jessica to go pound salt, find another sucker who’d be willing to trade money for insults. She could have walked, as long as Iron Lou permitted it, right into a judge’s chambers, spilled out an armful of files regarding her business dealings with Brian Hilton and thrown herself on the mercy of the court.
She could have presented a strong case to support her claim that she was forced into providing legal services for Hilton. Could have talked about the promises Hilton extended to her. Promises of a ruined career. A ruined reputation. And maybe something much worse.
Though Hilton never threatened her directly, she did receive an unmarked envelope, which had been left sitting on her pillow at home. Someone obviously had broken in, took nothing, did no damage, and only left a poorly clasped, manila envelope for her review. Inside the envelope, were two pictures and an article cut out from the local newspaper. The photographs, grainy, black and white, printed on the cheap type of paper most people use in their home printers, were of a man she later learned to be Craig Washburn. The first photo showed Washburn as an obvious victim of kidnapping. Hands tied together behind his back. Duct tape stretched across his mouth. A hand gripping Washburn’s hair and pulling his face up to look directly at the camera.
The second photo was also of Washburn, but no hand was required to still or lift his face for the camera. His eyes were glazed over as if they were rinsed with crème. An angry black hole dotted the center of his forehead.
Beneath the second photograph—written by someone with horrible handwriting and in desperate need of a “carry-around” spelling dictionary—was written “This what happins to squealers. Complaments of my team.”
The included article’s date wasn’t included in the scissors’ path, but Maryanne recognized the article from a couple years back. The article was about a body having been found floating in the bay. Medical examiner suggested the cause of death to be a “single, small caliber gunshot to the head.” The reporter carried on a bit, too long, for Maryanne’s tastes, about the growing problem of gun violence in the Tampa/St. Pete area. About how the “influx of gangs and drugs meant more guns and more bodies dumped into the bay.” Maryanne, her hands trembling in fear and anger, jumped to the last line of the article, which was the rote call from the local authorities that if “anyone has any information about the murder, to please contact Detective” So and So at some ten-digit number.
It had started so innocently. A simple re
quest to draw up legal documents regarding the sale and acquisition of a tract of land outside of Sarasota. Simple. Took her two hours. Maybe her ship had come in! Though she didn’t know who Brian Hilton was, the fact he had chosen her to draw up the forms and had paid her four times her normal fee to do so, was nearly as good as her winning the lottery.
After the first legal request, there came more. Each seemingly simple and each paying her well more than any of her other clients could ever pay. After a few months, the requests for legal documents started to flow in abundance. Her workload for Hilton went from one, maybe two a week, to three or four per day. She was forced to stop taking new clients as all her time was spent drawing up legal docs for the purchase or sale of homes, land, small businesses, partnership agreements. The list went on and on.
Though she never met Hilton face to face, she was certain he was one of the wealthiest men in Florida. Certainly more wealthy than all her other clients combined.
The workload and the flow of legal fees made her sloppy. She knew it was happening, knew she was probably making some minor mistakes here and there. But Hilton had very tight deadlines. She couldn’t risk missing one. “Miss one and they all go away,” she had thought to herself.
Then, one day, about a year and a half ago, the requests for her legal services just stopped. Like turning a faucet off: Flowing one second, then bone dry the next. She thought about contacting Hilton, apologizing for any mistake or omission she may have made. But she didn’t need to make any attempt at contact.
While she stood in the privacy of her own bedroom, staring in horror at the grainy photograph of a very dead, and very murdered, Craig Washburn, her phone rang.
Hilton’s voice was much friendlier than she expected. He started off by apologizing for sending her so much “boring work” over the last few months. Said he was in a period of rapid expansion, thus the workflow and stiff time frames for completion. He went on and on about how happy he was to have found her. About how happy he and his partners were that she was so willing to take on the “boring” work, get it done quickly, and charge so little.
Then, that friendly voice changed so suddenly, so completely, it set her back on her heels. Hilton told her she really should be more diligent in her work. That she should analyze any requests she receives.
“I can only imagine that, in your excited haste to please me in order to keep the gravy train flowing, you neglected to even read the last two document packages I sent for you to file. Did you read even a word of them, Miss Jenkins?”
“If I made a mistake, I’m sorry. I’ll certainly refund every penny of my fees…”
“You and I are not on the same page,” he said, back to using his friendly voice. “As far as I’m concerned, you didn’t make any mistakes at all. But, I have a feeling you might think otherwise. No matter. I’ll be sending a dossier to your home later this evening. Your normal fee for such a service will be included in cash along with the dossier. I don’t expect any challenges or arguments from you. And should you need any motivation to do what I am paying you to do without hesitation, I suggest you review the details of the last two legal documents you filed with the court.”
It only took Maryanne thirty minutes spent reading to realize the last two legal filings she made for Brian Hilton, if ever brought under investigation, would not only find her without her ability to practice law in Florida, hell, probably in any state, but might also find herself in need of hiring her own legal representative.
He didn’t mention the envelope she was still holding in her shaking hand. Didn’t make one mention of how he and his partners would respond to her refusal.
She was stuck. No way out except by taking the path set before her by Craig Washburn.
“I’m taking you to your house. Yes, the house you said you never want to step foot in again. Not my choice. The judge made that call. You are remanded to the confines of your property for twenty hours per day. Can’t even get an exception to attend your husband’s funeral in Texas next week. Oh, didn’t you hear? Sam’s brother was given legal guardianship of your husband’s remains. He should be loaded on a plane any minute now.”
“You cold, heartless bitch,” Jessica said softly but quite clearly. “I should have turned you and Brian in to the police when I found out what you were doing.” She paused. Shook her head back and forth quickly. “Derek Cole was right. He told me that while I didn’t pull the trigger, I still killed Sam. I killed him when I knew what you and Brian were doing and didn’t say anything, I just kept spreading my legs for that bastard and you just kept on running his legal games for him. I killed Sam. I know that now. But I didn’t put a bullet into his head and, goddamnit, you are going to make damn sure I never spend another second inside a jail cell. I don’t care how you do it, just do it.”
A thought flashed across Jessica’s face. It took her by surprise.
“Why am I out of jail? How did you get me out?”
“Someone confessed to killing Brian.”
“Who? Who confessed?”
“Man named Matthew Steel.”
Chapter 30
There weren’t many airline options for Derek to choose from. Dothan Regional Airport was, after all, a very small airport. Delta partners with an express carrier which, fortunately for Derek, had two scheduled flights to and from Tampa each weekday. At first he thought of making the eight-hour drive but time was slipping behind him too quickly. Flying would save hours and he had begun feeling the crushing weight of time leaning against him. The slippage of time had already allowed Brian Hilton to destroy any possible evidence which may have exonerated Jessica Gracers. The passage of time had provided someone, the Trainer brothers, he believed, the opportunity to silence Doctor Timothy O’Connell. And it was the steady, relentless march of time that gave someone the opening to permanently silence Brian Hilton. If each second was not fully utilized, Derek feared what other opportunities time would afford the players surrounding his case.
The flight from Tampa to Dothan was short; less than forty minutes. Derek landed in Dothan at three in the afternoon, was through the rental car line by three-fifteen and sitting behind the wheel and driving towards the western suburbs of Dothan by three twenty-six.
Though Derek liked to believe he had a superb sense of direction, the truth was revealed by him getting lost four times as he struggled to find the dirt road which lead to the Trainer’s ramshackle home, run to riot yard and pole barn—which probably protected a half million dollars worth of cars. It was nearly five-thirty before he had parked his car a quarter mile past the dirt road leading to his objective.
“Treat it like it’s a rental,” he said after seeing how deeply he had parked the car into the low-growth shrubs off the side of the road.
He hiked back through the woods till he saw the telltale clearing which marked the dirt road. Staying in the woods, he walked the distance till the pole barn, house and the remains of a bonfire were in view. He scanned the area; saw nothing suggesting he wasn’t alone. He stood still as a slight breeze, not enough to push the oppressive heat away, rustled through the leaves, listening to only an occasional car drive past the dirt road’s entrance, past where he had hidden his rental and onto wherever the hell it was the road led.
He was alone.
Though he was certain he was alone, Derek used caution as he approached the pole barn; trying not to press his back against the burning hot steel as he wormed his way from the back, to the sides and around to the front. He pulled out the key he had taken during his last visit to the pole barn, and sent up a quick plea to his dead wife.
“Lucy, if you’re up there and can hear me, please let this key work.”
It did.
Inside, the lights were off. Without any windows designed into the pole barn, it was dark as night. Derek pulled out his iPhone and fumbled his thumbs through a few screens till he found his flashlight app. With the app running, Derek saw exactly what he expected to see: The cars had been moved.
; The floor of the barn was poured concrete, canted slightly to his left. As he walked towards the first covered car, he shone his flashlight around the barn, looking for anything else one wouldn’t expect to find in a pole barn situated on an unkempt tract of land, near a house, which hadn’t seen a paintbrush or the hands of a handyman in at least a decade. But besides the five cars, each still protected from dust or the occasional trapped-inside bird droppings, the barn was filled with nothing Derek might have stored in his pole barn, if he had one, that is.
Across the length of the barn, Derek’s light illuminated the double-wide garage doors, apparently through which the cars and any other large objects were brought in and out of the place. He began his inspection by pulling the cover off the car closest to the garage door.
The first car was a 2003 Surfchaser Mustang Cobra Convertible. Yellow with a wide, white stripe running down the middle of the body. Beautiful car in pristine condition, but its trunk was hardly large enough to store an ice chest, a couple pair of flip-flops and a roll of towels. No way Doctor Timothy O’Connell had spent any time in the trunk. Derek pulled the cover back over the Ford.
He passed by the next two cars, seeing from their shape and size alone they were much too small to have been used for transporting O’Connell to Tampa. He wasn’t an expert, but he had been to his share of car shows and assumed the two cars he passed by were Porsche’s, 911, probably.
“Three down, one to go,” he thought as he stepped close to the final car.
He paused, considering the car beneath the cover. Estimated it had the right size, certainly a sedan and the trunk, from what he could tell by the shape, looked a hell of a lot more spacious than the other three. Derek found himself reluctant to pull back the car’s cover. He was banking on his theory the Trainer brothers were O’Connell’s killers and had used a car—this car, to be exact—for their travels and transportation needs. If he was wrong, he would have to admit to himself, Rachel and Nikkie, that he was as confused and lost as they were. It wasn’t a matter of pride, but rather, a matter of competence. Of feeling he was good at his job. The best, perhaps. And while the Jessica Gracers case had evolved into a much more twisted maze of a case than he had expected, a good private investigator would eventually find some piece of evidence which either proved or disproved their client’s claim. A great one, however, would do a hell of a lot more than prove or disprove Jessica’s claim. A great freelance detective would see how all the pieces fit together, solve each of the mysteries and bring justice to those wronged.
Deathly Reminders: a Derek Cole Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 6) Page 19