Both officers said they would put out bulletins in their counties in an effort to locate Chad’s black Dodge pickup. I gave them the license number and agreed that seemed to be the best we could do at the moment. When we got back to our cars in front of the motel, I thanked Kevin Tune for his help and promised to let him know if I learned anything regarding Chad’s whereabouts.
Phil opened the door to his car and paused for a moment. “Sorry we were a bit late getting here, Greg. Evidently he came right back out here after breaking into your house.”
“Yeah. And I keep wondering if we passed him on the way home. I had no way of knowing what kind of vehicle he was driving. And I was in such a rush everything on
Bell Road seemed a blur.” “I can attest to that,” Jill said. “I was hanging on for dear life.”
Phil chuckled. “You’d better shape up, Greg. These wives’ve got our numbers. You should hear mine sometimes. I’ll let you know what I find on these cups.” His face sobered. “I hate that that girl told Rowe about you two. Better keep that nine handy.”
I got in my Jeep and felt the heft of the Beretta in its holster. Then I sat there for a minute as the two officers drove off. Something I had seen around here didn’t quite fit. Something I should have looked into. What was it?
Jill crossed her arms. “Are we just going to sit here, or are you thinking about checking into the motel so we can do our clandestine lovers’ act?”
“Not a bad idea,” I said. “But first I have to figure out what’s bugging me. Something back there around Molly’s car. Let’s go have another look.”
I drove to the rear of the parking lot and stopped near the Sentra.
“Looks the same as it did before,” Jill said.
“True, but…” I let my gaze drift along the fence. Then I saw it. “There. Right behind where Chad’s truck was parked. See the trail into the woods. Somebody has scraped mud onto the edge of the asphalt.”
I got out of the car and squatted to check the glob of mud. Jill stood beside me as I found a stick and poked into it.
“This is fresh,” I said. “Remember how hard it rained when we were here earlier?”
“Meaning somebody has been on that trail recently.”
“Right. And most likely it was Chad Rowe. The question is why did he go back there? Was he getting rid of some bloody clothes? A knife? Or Molly?”
She gasped. “Don’t even think that, Greg.”
I had to consider the possibility, though I knew she didn’t want to. I was even less optimistic about Molly’s survival after learning what had happened to Tony Yarnell. “Chances are he went back there for some reason.”
“Then hadn’t we better go see?”
I looked at her shiny black pumps. “We?”
She followed my gaze. “Okay. My flats are in the Cessna and I’m not exactly dressed for a hike.”
“So wait in the car while I check out the trail.” I looked around. “Better drive up to the back of the motel. Look like you’re waiting for your clandestine lover. Do you have your .38 and your cell phone?”
She patted her bag.
“Keep an eye out for Chad,” I said. “If you see anything of him, call me immediately.”
She looked back as she turned toward the Jeep. “You be careful, too, dear.”
After watching her drive toward the motel, I stepped over the fence onto the trail. Weeds and tall bushes crowded both sides, shedding water like sprinklers as I brushed against them. Though my waterproof jacket took it all in stride, my black pants got the worst of it. Tall oaks, spreading maples, ash, and slick-barked sycamores grew close together, leaving little room to walk anywhere but along the path. Some of the trees had begun to leaf out, though I could see a fair distance except where pockets of haze from the high humidity hung like sheer curtains.
I moved slowly, picking my steps with care to aim for piles of leaves or flat rocks that stuck out of the mud. I kept shifting my gaze from side to side in hopes of finding something beside the trail that didn’t belong. But nothing stood out other than an occasional fast food container, a rusted bucket, and a few faded fragments of old newspaper sheets.
After a hundred yards or so, the trail curved around the banks of a rushing stream that bubbled like a fountain from the recent rain. Off to the right, the charred remains of a long-dormant campfire left its black slash of a signature on the earth. Vegetation that had rotted over the winter tainted the air with an acrid smell. A few birds twittered overhead, then flew off into the haze. I wasn’t sure how far I had come, but I was debating about calling it quits when a dark shape in the distance caught my attention.
I quickened my pace, sinking one foot into the squishy depths of a mud hole. That triggered a curse that would’ve brought a quick reprimand from Jill. As I got closer, I realized I was nearing the end of the wooded area. Shortly, I came to a toppled-down fence and the rusted remains of a metal gate. I stepped into a clearing covered with dead grass and low weeds that showed signs of new green growth. Though I could see nothing on one side because of trees and a small hill, the sounds of traffic roaring along the interstate traveled clearly through the heavy, damp air. What I saw on the other side, however, startled me. The dark shape that had first caught my attention through the trees now took on the contours of a black pickup truck. The vehicle sat just beyond what looked like a rutted old wagon trail. As I walked toward it, I realized I had stumbled onto an extended cab Ford Ranger. Footprints in the soft earth led from the truck to the path I had followed in.
I stared, my heart racing, my mind grasping at the implications. Could this be the truck I had seen yesterday on Larry Inman’s street? This one also had tinted windows. Could it be the same truck the neighbors thought was involved in Pedro Rodriguez’s murder? The small panel that opened in the middle of the back window would make a perfect port for aiming a high-powered sniper rifle. Was it the vehicle Chad Rowe had driven to my house this afternoon?
I ran my hand around the truck’s hood. It felt warm. Somebody had driven this vehicle in the past hour or so. I checked the doors. Locked. I saw nothing on the seat. The truck bed was empty except for a large plastic storage box. I climbed up and examined the lock and the hinges. They did not appear too substantial.
I debated what to do. My first thought was to call Phil Adamson. But he would have to get back in touch with Kevin Tune, who would need to go before a judge and get a search warrant. That could take hours. But if anything incriminating remained in this truck, how long would Chad leave it here?
The police could not open the storage box without a warrant or whatever they found would be tainted evidence. I was not the police. Chad could prosecute me for breaking and entering, but that was the least of my worries. I jumped down to the ground and looked under the truck bed. I found the spare tire but no tire tool. It was probably inside the cab.
Then I remembered the rusted gate. I navigated back through the wet grass and wrestled loose a flat piece of iron about two feet long. Returning to the truck bed, I used the iron bar to pry the hinges loose on the plastic box. Lifting the lid, I stared inside. A Russian Dragunov SVD sniper rifle with an optical sight lay in a special compartment. The Dragunov I knew. It fired a 7.62mm round. Other weapons included a 9mm semiauto pistol and an M-4 military automatic rifle. Taking out my pen camera, I shot several views of the inside of the box. Then I called Phil on my cell phone. It went immediately to his voice mail. I knew what that meant. Busy.
32
Emerging from the woods, I found Jill waiting behind the wheel. The look on her face resembled a brewing storm.
“Where in the world have you been, Greg? Do you realize it’s nearly five o’clock?” She opened the door and shoved her feet onto the pavement.
I had been too absorbed in my find to notice the time, but I made a feeble effort to defuse the situation. “Do we have an appointment?”
“Appointment, my eye. You had me worried silly. I didn’t know whether to strike out on my own aft
er you or call for reinforcements. What have you been doing, working on your hiking merit badge?”
I opened the passenger door for her. “If you’ll calm down, I’ll tell you. Why didn’t you call me if you were that concerned?”
“Knowing you, I figured you might be sneaking up on someone. I didn’t know if your phone was set on vibrate. I was afraid my call would blow your cover.”
“Good thinking, babe.” I patted her shoulder and grinned as I walked around to the driver’s side. “First, did you see anything of Chad?”
“All I saw was a car with a couple of men dressed like business people and one with an old man and a woman.”
“Well, what I saw was a shocker. I know how Chad most likely got to our house and back.”
I told her about the truck and the storage box and showed her the Virginia license number I had jotted down in my notebook.
“From the traffic sounds, I could tell the clearing is near the interstate,” I said. “Chad must have scouted out the area earlier and found that old road.”
“Are you going to call Phil?”
“Already tried.” I flipped open the cell phone and punched in his number again, then shut it with a loud snap.
“No answer?”
“Still busy. I have another idea. I just hope Art Finley hasn’t left yet.”
I checked the number for Heritage Car Rentals and called. He was there.
“Greg McKenzie, Art. I have a quick question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“The day we first came by to see you was a week ago yesterday.”
“I remember.”
“Well, I have a little confession. We didn’t feel we could tell you at the time, but Molly Saint was the client who hired us.”
“That floozy wife of Damon’s?”
“She has a problem and wanted us to check into his background. That was on Monday, the day before we talked to you. She said he had taken a car to Chattanooga that morning. Can you check your records and tell me the make and color of car he drove down there?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“I’m just looking into an angle that might mean something, might not. Can you do it for us?”
“I’ll have to dig around in the files. I can do it, of course. I suppose you need to know right now?”
“As soon as possible, Art. It’s pretty important.”
“Okay.” The way he said it conveyed that I was becoming a pain in the posterior. “I’ll check on it and call you back.” I gave him my cell number.
“Why do you want to know what he was driving Monday?” Jill asked.
“Just covering all the bases. Let’s wait and see what Art finds.”
“Monday was the day Dr. Bernstein was shot. You’re not thinking―”
“Pedro Rodriguez told the cops he saw the shooter getting into a green car, a new one.”
“He also said the man he saw was black.”
“I know. What Chad drove Monday may mean nothing. But that Ford Ranger I found back there matches the pickup the neighbors reported seeing after Rodriguez was killed…with a seven-point-six-two round. If Chad didn’t do it, maybe he drove the shooter.”
Jill reached a hand up to rub her forehead. I knew all the pressure of the afternoon was beginning to get to her. “What now?” she asked.
“I guess we head for home. You can rest while I do a little work…and wait for Phil. In all the rush of things, I neglected to make adequate repairs on that battered front door.”
Jill made a noisy show of snapping her seat belt. “If that’s the case, let’s hope Chad hasn’t paid us a return visit.”
“Amen to that.”
She leaned her head back against the headrest.
“Headache?” I asked.
“A little. I’ll be okay.”
“Close your eyes and rest.”
“The way you’ve been driving? I might wake up dead.”
I saw little danger of that at the moment. Driving north toward Nashville on I-24 presented no problems. The rush of homebound traffic clogged the southbound lanes. But
Bell Road was another story as we headed east. Steady lines of vehicles fought for position in both directions. Since Jill had declined the idea of resting, I suggested she try Phil Adamson’s number again. It brought the same result as before. “He must be doing a telephone interview,” Jill said. “Should we call Investigator Tune?”
“No. This is strictly Metro’s business. I don’t want to get Rutherford County involved without an okay from Phil.”
She also checked the answering machines at home and at the office.
“Molly’s boss Grant Crenshaw called both places,” Jill said. She flipped the phone shut.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“There’s something strange about that man. He just asks ‘have you found Molly Saint?’ Not have you heard from Molly or do you know where she is? Nothing about whether or not she’s okay. Maybe it’s that cold, lifeless voice. It sounds almost as if he’s asking have you found Molly’s body.”
We had reached the section where
Bell Road became only one lane in either direction. I had the urge to clamp down on my horn but knew the endless line of traffic would ignore my plea to move any faster. Thinking about what Jill had just said, I realized my impression of Crenshaw had been the same. But why would he think Molly might be dead? We had told him nothing about our suspicions regarding her husband.
33
It was nearly six when we pulled into our driveway in Hermitage. Chad’s blow had split the facing on the front door so it would not latch securely, but I had armed the burglar alarm. No one had set it off during our absence. I had also locked the wrought iron security door, though that hadn’t deterred Chad with his lock-picking skills. I concluded that he had bashed in the door when he hadn’t managed to bypass the digital keypad, or else he did it purposely to inflict damage and to announce his presence. We hurried inside and punched in the code to disable the alarm.
I turned off the cell phone and used the portable in the kitchen to try Phil’s number again. This time I left him a message to call me immediately.
“Don’t you think Art Finley’s had time to dig up that paperwork for a week ago Monday?” Jill asked. She stood at the counter chopping several pieces of fresh fruit for a salad.
“Yeah, if he didn’t get sidetracked.”
When I called him, Finley apologized. “Sorry. I looked it up, but before I could call you back, I got embroiled in a knotty problem around here. I should have left for home an hour ago.”
“No sweat,” I said. “I’m the one who interfered with your day. I appreciate the help.”
“Okay. Let’s see. Damon drove out of here around eleven o’clock that morning in a new green Dodge Intrepid.”
I thanked him, dropped the phone into its cradle and turned to Jill. “A new green car.”
“Didn’t you tell Phil Adamson there were hundreds of new green cars in Nashville?”
“I did. But it adds one more suspicious item to the list.”
“And what do you plan on doing with your list?”
I picked up the phone. “Run it by Detective Adamson.”
When I got his voice mail, I left a message sure to snag his attention.
“This is Greg. I’ve found somebody who was driving around in a new green Dodge the morning Dr. Bernstein was shot. And today he was driving a black Ford Ranger with tinted windows and a sniper rifle. I’m not budging from here until you return my call.” I knew he had our home number but I gave it to him again.
Jill put our salad bowls on the table, along with glasses of fruit tea and strawberry mini-muffins. “Let’s eat,” she said, “so we’ll be ready for whatever the next move might be.”
When we finished, I returned to the living room to check out the damaged door. Jill followed me in but said she needed to lie down, her headache had begun thumping like a drum beat.
I nodded toward the recline
r. “Why don’t you kick back over there? I’ll work quietly.”
“That’s okay. I think I’ll go up to the bedroom where I can get more comfortable. Call me as soon as you hear from Phil.”
“Will do,” I said.
Chad Rowe had done a wrecking job on the door facing. Traces of brown dirt similar to the mud we’d found behind the motel stained the outside of the door. His shoe had slammed into it with such force the dead bolt had split off a large piece of the wooden jamb and the wall trim, letting the door swing open freely. I could do a temporary patch job, but I needed to bring in a carpenter to replace the jamb with a metal-reinforced model. I didn’t want to risk a repeat performance by Mr. Saint/Rowe or anybody else. I’d get the carpenter to bulk up the other doors as well.
Out in the garage, I found a piece of scrap wood in the box beside my workbench. Using my power screwdriver and a few long wood screws, I patched the gap to give the dead bolt a more secure housing. Surveying my handiwork, I had to admit the result wouldn’t be too pleasing to Jill’s sensitive eye.
I climbed the carpeted stairway and found her sound asleep on the bed. She was still fully dressed except for her shoes. Her handbag lay beside her. As I stood in the doorway looking at her, I thought of all the years we had spent together, now nearing forty. She was a jewel. How lucky could a guy get?
As I headed down the stairs, I checked my watch and began to feel a disturbing concern. Phil Adamson should have returned my call by now. Something didn’t seem quite right. I was about to pick up the phone when the front door chimes rang.
I hurried to the door and pulled it open, half expecting to see my detective friend. Instead, I found a black deliveryman in a light blue uniform and matching cap. His truck was parked behind him, though I couldn’t make out the company.
“Mr. McKenzie?” he asked in an odd, high-pitched voice.
“That’s me. What do you have?”
“A package. You need to sign for it.” His drawl was so thick he might’ve had a mouthful of mush.
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