by Mary Burton
“Not all our clients are nonprof its. Rebecca had a knack for taking what could have been a small account and growing the book of business. A nonprofit might want press releases sent out and in no time she’d have revamped their website and had them making a promotional video. She knew how to stretch a dollar and get them to dig a little deeper into their pockets. Though I’d dare say all her clients were pleased and reported that their sales or outreach increased significantly as a result of her efforts.”
The list contained the names of churches, animal outreach centers, and food banks. “Places she liked to frequent such as bars or restaurants?”
“I can’t picture that. She was class. She liked to live well and liked the nicer restaurants and clubs. I don’t know where she went but I can show you her office and you can have a look.”
“That would be great.”
She rose and led him to an office. It wasn’t overly large but it had long plate glass windows that overlooked the city. In the distance he could see the capitol. She flipped on the light. “Take whatever you need.”
“Thanks.” He sat behind her desk.
The woman folded her arms over her chest. “I still can’t believe she’s dead. So, so sad.”
“Yes, ma’am.” On the credenza behind him were several pictures framed in silver. They all featured Rebecca. One was at the Animal Rights gala. Another at New Community Church’s groundbreaking. And another at a breast cancer awareness fund-raiser. She had a bright vivid smile and looked directly into the camera as if she owned it. Her blond hair swept over slim shoulders and full breasts. She looked like Dixie. And they both looked like Annie.
A sigh shuddered through Ms. Knight. “Can you tell me how she died?”
“No, ma’am. Not now.”
“I understand.” She drummed manicured fingers against her thigh. “People here will be devastated. Just devastated.”
As he studied the images, his mind drifted to the stills he’d seen of Annie Rivers Dawson. The three women could have been sisters. There’d been instances of killers going dormant for long stretches and he wondered now if Jeb had not killed Annie, then perhaps Annie’s real killer was active again.
He opened the drawer to his left and found neatly arranged files. The names on the folders matched the client’s names on the list he’d been given. To the right, there were three drawers. The top two were filled with note cards, several tubes of lipstick, perfume, and aspirin. The third was locked.
“Do you have a key to the drawer?”
“No. But I can get a letter opener if you think that will help.”
“Not necessary.” He pulled a penknife from his pocket and opened it. It didn’t take much to pry open the lock. He folded the knife and tucked it back in his pocket.
Inside this drawer were condoms, a set of handcuffs, a black mask, and what looked like gags.
Deke dangled a handcuff from his index finger. “I don’t suppose Ms. Saunders mentioned bondage.”
Ms. Knight’s mouth dropped agape and then snapped shut. “No. I’d never have pictured her doing that.”
“There’re a couple of clubs in town that cater to people who like bondage. Maybe Rebecca was a member or at least a frequent visitor.”
Taylor shook her head as she stared at the items. “Looks like she had more secrets than I’d imagined.”
Deke drove straight to the New Community Church and following the signs found himself standing before a receptionist outside the pastor’s office. A flash of his badge and a brief explanation earned him an escort into the pastor’s office.
A thick man with near white hair rose from behind a massive hand-carved desk. He wore an expensive light gray suit, a silk tie, and gold cuff links. As he came out from behind the desk Deke noticed well-polished shoes and manicured hands.
“Officer Morgan, I’m Pastor Gary.”
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“My receptionist said this was about a murder.”
“Yes, sir. Rebecca Saunders.”
Pastor Gary’s face paled three shades. “Rebecca?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I saw her a couple of days ago.”
“Where?”
“At her offices.” He moved to one of two cushioned chairs in front of his desk and sat.
Deke took the other chair beside it. “How long have you known Rebecca?”
Pastor Gary’s gaze looked vacant as if still processing the information. “About six months.”
“Did you know a woman named Dixie Simmons?”
Pastor Gary rose, his eyes sharpening and then fading. “No.”
“The two women looked much alike.”
“I didn’t know her.”
“I did some checking. Dixie sang in your church about a year ago.”
“We seat upwards of a thousand people here on Sundays. And we have dozens of singers. I shake hands with them all but I don’t know them all.”
“Who books the singers?”
“The music director.”
Pastor Gary sat back in his chair and drummed his fingers. “I’m stunned by this news.”
Deke studied the man and didn’t doubt for a moment his shock was genuine. “You don’t happen to remember an Annie Rivers Dawson, do you?”
“I heard about her in the news. I checked church records and she did attend New Community when we were just starting. I also married her. But beyond that I’m sorry, I don’t remember her well. Poor soul.”
All three women had connections to Pastor Gary. New Community was a big church and coincidences did happen, but not too often in his book.
Deke handed Pastor Gary his card. “You’ll call me if you think of anything that might help me solve this case.”
Pastor Gary took the card, absently flicking the edge with his index finger. “Sure. Of course.”
Deke didn’t press, knowing he’d dig deeper and likely return to see the pastor. He said his good-byes and left. In his car he called Rick.
His brother picked up on the first ring. “Yeah.”
“See if there are notes in the files about Pastor Gary Wright. He married Annie. And he’s loosely connected to Dixie and my latest victim.”
“Think he could be your guy?”
“He’s connected to all three women.”
“Consider it done.”
Georgia Morgan was good at manipulation. The youngest of four and the only girl, she’d learned early on that she couldn’t win with strength. She’d tried to strong-arm her brother Alex once when she was ten and he’d gently pushed her aside as if she were a feather. She’d been mad, and she’d screamed until he’d given her what she’d wanted.
She’d attempted screaming again with Rick but the noise had gotten her mother’s attention. When her mother realized what she was up to, she’d sent Georgia to her room. Too much noise! As she’d stomped up the stairs of her parents’ house she’d glanced back and spied Rick grinning. She’d learned to keep her voice low, to wheedle and to cajole until she got exactly what she wanted.
She hoisted the box of chocolate glazed cupcakes up as she rang the bell of Rick’s house. Inside she heard Tracker’s deep woof and then Rick’s uneven gait.
The sound of his footsteps gave her pause. They’d nearly lost Rick six months ago. The family had huddled in the hospital waiting for the surgeon’s report. Though they were siblings with a reputation for verbal sparring no one had argued once that night. And when the doctor had announced Rick would live, she’d wept.
As much as guilt nudged her now, she wouldn’t spare Rick any of her manipulative ways. He’d been saying for months he didn’t want to be treated differently. As far as he was concerned the shooting had never happened. She’d give him exactly what he’d requested.
Her grin widening, she held up the cupcakes seconds before the door snapped open. Rick’s black hair stood on end as if he’d run his fingers through it once too often. He wore a threadbare UT T-shirt and faded jeans. Tracker nudged next to Rick’
s thigh and sniffed.
Rick arched a brow. “What are you doing here?”
She held up the cupcakes. “Thought we could bond.”
Suspicion darkened his eyes. “Why?”
“Do we need an excuse?” She pouted, one of her signature moves. “We never see each other.”
A sigh hissed over his lips as he pushed open the door. “Fine. Come in.”
“Is that coffee I smell?”
“Just made a pot.”
“I have great timing.”
“Right.”
He padded barefoot through a sparsely decorated living room furnished with a couple of easy chairs and a wide-screen television. On the Big House dining table, he’d stacked boxes that smelled of must and dust. She wanted to ask if they were the Annie files? But she kept quiet, letting the smell of Colombian coffee pull her into the kitchen. She set the cupcakes on the table and opened the flap.
He pulled two Titans mugs from the cabinet and filled both with coffee. He dumped two teaspoons of sugar in his and added a splash of milk in hers.
“So how’s it going?” she asked, grinning.
He tossed her a wary glare as if nice from her was as unexpected as snow in July. “Good.”
She pushed the box of cupcakes toward him. “I’ve your favorite.”
He glanced in the box at the bright confections and then her as if he was expecting a punch line. “Really.”
“Yeah, sure, why not?”
“Or better, why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you bring treats?”
She reached for her mug and took a sip. “Can’t I be nice to you once in a while?”
He laughed, hard. “Yeah, I guess you could but you never do. You aren’t the warm and fuzzy type.”
She considered his assessment and didn’t disagree. “Rick, I brought cupcakes. I’m not making a political statement.” She plucked a pink cake from the box and took a bite.
He eyed her an extra beat before selecting a vanilla with extra chocolate icing. He bit into it and his eyes closed, as he clearly savored the taste. “I don’t know why you decided to be nice but I’m glad you did.”
She arched a brow, growing slightly annoyed with him now. “You make me sound heartless.”
Silent, he popped the last of the cake in his mouth and grabbed another one. “Not heartless. Strategic.”
She glanced toward the boxes in the living room. Of all her three brothers Rick was the hardest to manipulate. “How’s it going with the Dawson files?”
He stared at her over the rim of his coffee cup and for a moment didn’t speak. She thought he’d stonewall her like Deke but finally he said, “Slow. Lots of details.”
She sensed a tiny opening. “Buddy liked to document.”
“That he did.”
Surrendering to feelings was hard for her. Most days she kept a wisecracking façade that made her feel safe. But now she couldn’t summon one tart remark. “You think Jeb killed her?”
He leaned back in his chair. “There’s a mountain of evidence against the guy. I would have arrested him.”
She glanced into the milky white coffee, grateful and frightened of his honesty. “I can help. I’m pretty good with sifting through data.” Her grin was automatic but not heartfelt. “Deke is not a man to cross.”
“He tries to do what’s best for us all.”
“He’s not Buddy. He isn’t in charge of this family. Hell, he all but ignored us the last decade.” He’d been working. Her mind understood, but her heart cringed at the abandonment.
“You know he couldn’t hang out with us while doing the undercover work. Hell, the job cost him two marriages.”
“His wives were cool. But neither could stand up to the allure of his work.”
He studied her. “That’s why you brought the cupcakes—to talk about Deke?”
If she thought she could play Rick for the fool, she was wrong. She opted for directness. “No, they are a bribe. I want to look at those files.”
“You aren’t here for my winning personality?”
The dry humor in his tone had her swallowing a small smile. “Tell me a tidbit about the case. I know so little since Deke is being Deke. Silent.”
With his thumb, he absently traced the embossed T on his mug. And then slowly and carefully told her the standard details of the case that she’d already found on the Internet.
“Did you hear about the letters?” she asked.
He tossed her another glance as if wondering if he’d been played. “Yeah.”
“You got copies?”
He rose slowly and moved into the living room. He glanced at the pile of papers and plucked out a file. He returned and laid it on the table.
She opened the file and saw the copies of the letters. This time her smile was genuine. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Georgia skimmed her hands over the letters, wanting to devour them.
“You’re going to read those now?” he asked.
“I might have a thought or two to add.”
“You might.”
Doubt lingered behind the word, but she ignored it. Her attention shifted solely to the letters, which she was certain held the key to the secret.
Max Quincy slumped over a shot glass, half-full with an amber liquid. He raised the glass with a trembling hand and slurped the remainder of the liquid before pounding the tumbler hard against the wood bar. “I want another.”
The bartender, a tall burly man with biceps covered in tattoos, glanced up from the register before slamming the till closed. “No more for you, Quincy. You haven’t paid for the last three.”
Frowning, Max struggled to focus his gaze. “I’m good for it. I am. I’ve been out of commission for a couple of weeks. Cut me some slack.”
“Out of commission.” He snorted. “You been in jail selling your latest story to the cops.”
“Maybe, but the money I make I spend here.” Indignation hummed under the slurring words.
The bartender shook his head. “Well, you’ve run through whatever money you had.”
“I’m good for it!”
“No more credit.”
Max stared into the empty depths of his glass and seeing the smallest pool of amber liquid upended it over his mouth. A single drop dripped on his tongue and he greedily lapped it up.
He barely noticed the person sliding onto the bar stool beside him, but he noticed the twenty slid so easily toward the bartender. If only he had that kind of money.
“Two more.”
Licking his lips, Max watched the bartender reach for a bottle and serve up the drinks as he swiped the twenty off the counter. The dim light of the bar danced in the whiskey’s liquid depths.
When a tumbler full of whiskey made it Max’s way he didn’t look up or ask questions. He drank, savoring the exquisite burn against the back of his throat. “Been a long time since I’ve had as good as that. Tastes like spun gold.”
A second glass moved his way. “You looked like you could use a drink.”
“Yeah,” he breathed as he reached for the glass. He held it up to his lips and this time sipped a bit slower. “I’ve lived long enough to know nothing is for free. Nothing. What’s this drink gonna cost me, pal?”
“Call me Baby.”
He glanced sideways catching the edge of a gray hoodie pulled forward. “Sure. What’s the cost, Baby?”
“Not much really. Just a half-hour of your time.”
“Thirty minutes for two drinks.” Max gulped the last of it. “Do I know you?”
“You might.”
He grunted. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for your time.”
“A grand.” His nerves hummed with interest. “What kind of job are we talking about?”
“Simple. Quick.”
A chuckle rumbled in his chest. He might be a drunk but he wasn’t stupid. “If it’s simple and quick then why don’t yo
u do it yourself?”
“If you don’t want the work, I’ll find someone else. There’re lots of guys like you who’d be grateful.”
Max held up his hand realizing the buying power of a thousand dollars was too much to pass up. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. I was just asking a question.”
“It’s not the kind of job that comes with questions. You do the job, you get paid and we go our separate ways.”
“So what’s the work?”
“Outside.”
Max drew small circles on the bar with his empty glass. “It’s warm in here.”
“I’ve a full bottle of what you had in my car. It’s yours to drink while we talk.”
Max set the glass aside. “A full bottle?”
“All for you.”
Max staggered behind Baby out of the bar toward the dimly lit side street to a four-door car parked by the curb. The license plates said Tennessee but it was a rental.
A click of the lock and the car door opened. Max slid inside as Baby moved behind the wheel. A twist of a key and the car engine fired and the heater was blowing out warm air. “Your bottle is in the glove box.”
Max snapped the glove box open and all but laughed like a kid on Christmas morning when he saw aged bourbon. He cracked open the top lid and took a long swallow. When he’d finished, he sighed, content as an old alley cat playing with a fat mouse. “So what is the job?”
“It’s easier to show you than to say. I’ll drive us. It’s close by.”
Max eased back against the seat, relaxed. He took another gulp. “How close?”
“Minutes.”
“Sure.” He replaced the cap and cradled his bottle close as the car pulled out of the spot. He watched the night’s lights blend and swirl past him. “I’ve not felt this good in a long time.” His eyes drooped heavy. A snore rumbled in his chest.
When the car stopped Max jostled awake. His head felt heavy and his arms the size of tree trunks. He could barely move.
Baby opened his car door. “Looks like you had a bit of a nap.”
Max opened his mouth to speak but found he couldn’t get the words out.
“A nap is good. I’ll bet you were exhausted. Prison can take it out of a man.”