by Alan Chaput
“Y’all want to flip for it?”
“So far, I haven’t come up with much on him,” Alisa said. “Let Judy do it.”
“Okay, you’ve got it, Judy. If this guy has gone over the edge, I want to know when and why. And check his clients, the deceased ones. See if any of them died in unexpected poverty.”
Judy’s eyebrows shot up.
“Also, I’ll check Falcon Memorial to get his medical records, if he ever used the hospital,” Patricia said. “And I’ll get an Insurance Institute report on him.”
“We’re going to have to track down your mother’s real estate transactions,” Meredith said.
“I’ll take that,” Alisa said.
“Okay then,” Patricia said. Nervous sweat pasted her hair to her neck. “I think we can wrap it up until tomorrow at the same time when we’ll see what y’all come up with. Hopefully we’ll be able to begin to make some sense out of this nasty situation.”
* * *
The papal nuncio, a hearty soul who hadn’t introduced himself, squared his narrow Italian shoulders and handed Father John the encyclical, a large brown envelope, and an airline ticket back to Savannah.
All old news to Father John. Though the messenger was always different, every one of his papal covert assignments commenced the same way. A phone call. A meal in a calm restaurant in a distant city. The papers. And always ended with a blessing.
A light cough startled John. He put the materials in his worn leather satchel and, as he stroked his square chin, looked up into the dark eyes of the weathered nuncio.
“Shall we pray?” the old man whispered.
Father John bowed his head and closed his eyes. He didn’t like the covert work, but it was his vocation as ordained by the church and the Holy See. Redemptive, blessed work, however illegal it might be. He worked within his limits and that seemed to satisfy his superiors.
In his twenty years of service, he’d concluded the devil had to be working double duty and weekends to instill the evil he’d encountered. He missed the naïve, clean world most people foolishly believed they lived in, a belief he’d held as well in his youth.
Father John blessed himself as the nuncio finished his prayer.
* * *
Trey had the taxi pull over on the south end of Falcon Square. After leaving the cab, he crossed through the square to the alley, then hesitated until a shadowy figure in the second-floor window signaled the all clear. He strode into the alley past the first guard, a balding man sitting on a bench, and went to the end of the alley where he exchanged a wordless greeting with the second guard. The man opened an antique wrought-iron gate that swung silently on well-oiled hinges while activating an alarm inside the fortified dwelling.
Trey entered a brick courtyard and crossed to the back door of the historic home. After palming the sweat from his forehead, he ran a passcard through the security device, entered, and descended the stone staircase.
Bright lights illuminated the Cotton Coalition’s meeting room. The directors, Alton, Simpson, Potter and Hempfield, were seated in their usual positions around the walnut table. Behind Potter and Hempfield stood their eldest sons. An empty chair remained at the table. Trey’s. Trey approached the weathered table, sat in the high-backed chair and activated his computer with the token he carried.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Trey said. “You’ve read the briefing report?”
The others nodded.
“Good. Let’s get started. Simpson, what do you have as a likely cause of Henrietta’s death?”
“The immediate cause of death was a heart attack,” Simpson said. His clipped words seemed forced. “Since we now suspect murder, the heart attack could have been induced by any number of drugs. She was my patient and was on normal meds for a person her age. I had the containers with her meds tested to see if the contents matched the label. Every drug checked out. I also had her kitchen, bedroom and bathroom searched for any meds that were prescribed by someone other than me. None were found. If she consumed a fatal drug on the day of her death, it was likely done outside her home.”
“Potter, have your boys compile a log of her activities on the day of her death,” Trey said.
Potter nodded.
“Okay. We need to look at Sonny Carothers also. The missing accountant. Hempfield, I want a copy of the security tapes for Sonny’s office building and those in the immediate area. Have your friends at Fort Stewart run them through facial recognition. If Sonny is cavorting with known criminals, I want to know who they are. Potter, I also want a minute-by-minute log of Sonny’s activities the day Patricia’s mother died. I want his telephone records, client list and—”
“I know the man” Simpson said. “He doesn’t seem the murdering sort.”
“Agreed,” Trey said. “A good old boy like him would have to have help.”
“The authorities have started their investigation of him,” Alton said. “Chief Patrick assures me that we’ll get everything they document. By the way, I have to leave in fifteen minutes.”
* * *
“Damn it!” Rhett swallowed hard and squatted to examine the dead cat, one of the strays he fed daily. A fellow traveler. The cat’s once-gleaming dark eyes were glazed gray. Sorrow over the loss of an innocent life tore at him. He looked closer, afraid to give into tears, as if focusing his eyes would quell the emotion.
No blood. No flies. An intact corpse. Probably a natural cause of death, but a death nonetheless. Loneliness and bewilderment descended. Relinquishing a friend to the hereafter, if there was such a place, did that to him.
He lifted the stray, cradled it in his arms and carried it to a newly tilled flowerbed in a quiet corner of the square. After assuring no one was watching, Rhett lay the cat down on the grass and dug a deep, wide hole with his hands at the back of the bed. The rich loam brought remembrance of freshly plowed tobacco fields. They called it the good earth up there. Not so good for him. As he dug he wondered who, if anyone, would bury him when his time came. He came up empty.
After gently positioning the cat in the bottom of the dark hole, he patted the stray’s head, took a deep breath and said a tearful prayer.
Songbirds chirped in the tree above. He quickly filled the hole. With a groan, he rose and stomped down the loose dirt, then turned and left. He didn’t want to stay in the sad place any longer than necessary.
The breeze in the old oaks picked up as Rhett left the square and headed to the public library to wash his hands and continue his pain-driven search for his irresponsible father.
Suddenly, he knew where to search for his birth father—the church that the Falcons attended.
Chapter 12
Wary of being videotaped, Rhett scanned the sanctuary stairwell for a security camera. It was true that he had a perfectly good reason to be at the church archives, and he wasn’t on anyone’s watch list. It was just that he preferred his privacy.
Seeing no cameras, he descended. He made his way through the dimly lit hallway in the church basement, checking the signs on the doors. The damp air was cool and sour like a sewer.
As instructed by the parish secretary, he entered the Archives Office door without knocking. A quick scan assured there were no security cameras there either.
A wiry stick of a man in clerical clothing came around the littered desk, pale hand extended and a faint smile on his thin lips. The fluorescent light seemed to accent his age-wrinkled face. He looked more like one of Savannah’s infamous ghosts than a man of the cloth. A fly perched on the old man’s shoulder, cleaning its legs. “How may I help you, my son?”
“Is this where the baptismal records are stored?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to examine one of them.”
“What time frame?” The cleric raised his arm and scratched an armpit.
“Twenty-five years ago or so.”
“I’m afraid those records are unavailable to the public.”
“Why?”
“Ru
les.” The old man sighed and brushed the fly off his shoulder. “The church has a lot of rules. Some rules have outlived their purpose. Some don’t make sense. That’s why I’m down here. Trapped by a senseless church rule. Ah. The sin of pride. Forgive me, Lord.” He blessed himself. “Enough of me. Though you can’t examine those records, I can. What specific information do you seek?”
“The name of my father.”
The priest touched his fingertips to his forehead. “Are you trying to unravel a tangled past?”
Rhett nodded.
The old man searched Rhett’s face. “What do you know about this man?”
“He might be a Falcon?”
“Oh my.” The priest glanced at Rhett from head to toe. “The Falcons have been beloved members of this church for generations. Let’s see.” The cleric sat down at his computer and gestured Rhett to sit in a wooden guest chair that had clearly outlived its usefulness. The priest squinted at the computer screen. “Oh yes. There were only two male Falcons alive twenty-five years ago. Trey and his father, Joseph Arian Falcon the Second.” The cleric jotted some notes on a scrap of paper, then stood. “Give me a moment, son, while I check the actual records. Twenty-five years or so you say?”
“Yes.”
The cleric left the office through a dark doorway behind the desk.
Rhett had intended to keep his quest absolutely secret, so that when he killed his father no one would associate the death with him. Now this sequestered priest knew and there was no guaranteed way to keep him quiet other than—
“What did you say your name was?” the priest asked from the doorway. The fly had returned to his shoulder.
“Trevor,” Rhett quickly replied.
“Well, Trevor, this could take some time. Would you like to come back later?”
“How much time?”
“It might be an hour or so.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Suit yourself. There’s a pot of coffee in the kitchen.” The old man gestured to a side door off the cluttered office. “Help yourself.”
As the priest hobbled into the darkness beyond his office, Rhett wondered what the cleric had done that resulted in his exile to the archives. It was a question without a ready answer. One of many.
Rhett stood, walked behind the desk, and examined the computer screen. On display was an alphabetical list of parishioners with birth and death dates, as well as membership information. Rhett right clicked the mouse and selected the print command, careful to print only the current page. The printer sprung to life and spit out the copy. Rhett put the printout into his back pocket and headed for the kitchen.
A small metal table with two padded folding chairs was positioned at one side of the kitchen. A stained coffee maker with a mostly full pot of coffee sat on the beige Formica countertop. Rhett found a ceramic mug in the overhead cabinet, poured himself coffee and took a seat at the table. He brought the mug to his mouth and sipped. The coffee was strong and bitter. Just the way he liked it. He glanced down at the newspaper, curious to find out what was going on. He hadn’t read a newspaper since leaving Virginia, not that he read them that much up there.
Rhett froze. The paper was open to the obituaries. Henrietta Snyder’s obituary filled the first column. The photo that accompanied the obit closely resembled Mrs. Falcon. A quick read revealed that Mrs. Falcon was Henrietta’s daughter and only survivor. Rhett found it interesting that Henrietta, a member of St. Gregory’s, had been born in his home state, Virginia, and moved to Savannah rather late in life. There was a copier in the kitchen, so Rhett made a copy of the article and put it in his pocket with the computer printout.
Rhett spent the next hour reading the rest of the newspaper and drinking two more cups of the coffee.
The cleric returned somber-faced. He went to the coffee maker and wordlessly poured a cup.
Was somber the man’s normal face or had he found something that upset him? Rhett figured he’d know soon enough.
The demoted priest sat across from him and blew on the top of his coffee. He probably didn’t get many visitors, so there was no point in rushing things. That was fine with Rhett, as long as he found his father.
“What do you think of my coffee?” the priest asked.
“I like it. Where’s it from?”
The old man smiled. “One of our missions in Guatemala.”
“Do they sell it in stores?”
“Not in the United States, but they do a good trade in Guatemala. I got hooked on it when I was down there. They ship me beans whenever I need more. A thoughtful member of our parish roasts them for me.”
Rhett nodded toward the back. “You find anything ‘bout my baptism?”
“There were no Falcon infants baptized between Trey, forty-five years ago, and his daughter Hayley, eighteen years ago.”
Damn. He should have known just asking was too easy. But he couldn’t ignore that he was somehow connected to the Falcons. “Do you have any suggestions?”
The priest cupped his pointed chin. “Where did you say you were born?”
“Virginia.”
“I’d say your answer could be up there, Trevor.”
Yeah. He’d wasted too much time in Savannah. But he kinda liked it here. Hell. He’d lived twenty-five years without knowing who his father was. Another week or two wouldn’t matter. Maybe he’d speak with Trey Falcon. Maybe Trey would fill in the blanks on why the Falcon Law Group was sending money to his mother.
* * *
Judy’s breaths came in quaking gulps as yet another massive climax ripped through her, simultaneously filling her and depleting her. She wanted more, but wondered if she could survive another. An utterly delightful situation. There was only one way to find out. She squirmed, urging Preston Somerset on. When he responded with vigor, climaxes came to her in waves until she finally submitted with, “Okay. Enough. My God, enough.”
After Preston rolled off, air from the ceiling fan chilled her. She yanked the sheet over Preston and herself, squeezed his hand, and said, “That was the best ever.”
“You say that every time.”
She cuddled further into his body and hugged him. “Preston, honey, I sincerely mean it each time I say it. I swear, not only are you incredibly sexy, you also keep getting better.”
“As long as you’re happy.” He gave a knowing grin.
So thoughtful. So perfect. Well, not quite perfect. To be perfect he’d have to have lots of money and he didn’t. Not cash, anyway.
Although he was from old money and had become a law firm partner before reaching thirty, he claimed he never had any cash. He attributed his plight to his father’s mountainous debt and the costs to maintain the rambling old mansion and hundreds of oceanfront acres of overgrown property he’d inherited. He was obsessed with both keeping his assets and improving them.
But what Preston lacked in money, he made up for with his power. He knew everyone in the Savannah establishment and knew things about most of them that forced respect to the point of servitude.
Judy didn’t need his money, at least not now, but she would gladly use and abuse his power.
He rolled to his side and smoothed a thumb over her cheek.
She loved how he touched her after sex, never rushing her, letting her bask in the afterglow. He was the best, he was single, and he was hers. Hers alone. She’d made sure of that.
“Why haven’t you married?”
“Too busy.”
“Too busy chasing women?” she asked.
“Too busy chasing justice.”
“You’re a lawyer. Do you actually call what you do justice?”
“My clients do.”
“I’ve always wanted to have children.”
“So what happened?” he asked.
“Medical issues.” She touched her stomach. Unresolved medical issues.
“What about adoption?”
“I wanted to adopt, but Beau refused.” She let out a long breath. “He said he’d rather have his sid
e of the Simpsons terminate than contaminate his family name.”
“Uptight, pompous jerk.”
The years were passing too quickly. Years she’d never get back. Beau was a loser. It was past time to dump him. Time to move on. “Yeah. He is uptight, but maybe you and I can loosen him up a bit.”
“Did you get the pictures?” His words were slow and deliberate, his face somber.
The abrupt change of topic startled her. She stared at him.
“Judy, did you get those damn pictures?”
Her sexy mood spoiled, she pulled away from him. “Not yet.”
His eyes widened. “You have to find them. Destroy them.”
She tucked the sheet under her chin. “You don’t have to lecture me, Preston.”
His eyebrows arched. “Just tell me where the pictures are.”
“I don’t know.”
He grabbed her arm and clenched down. “Find them and destroy them.”
She tossed the sheet off, stood and scooted to his bathroom. At the door, she turned and said, “I’ve had enough of your nagging about those damned pictures. I told you I’d take care of it, and I will.”
“You’re not going to do something stupid?”
“Not unless you do.” She stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She pulled her hair up and glanced in the mirror. Under her flushed skin, she looked tense and tired. Sleeping around was fun, but it was never easy. Complications abounded.
Preston came up behind her and nuzzled into her neck. “Come back to bed,” he whispered.
“I need to dress.” She cocked her head to one side, away from his, and forced a smile at his reflection in the mirror.
“Why?”
“I have a meeting.” Keep it vague. They all thrived on mystery.
“Oh.” He pulled away.
She stepped into the shower, the hot water washing his telltale scent from her.
* * *
That night, Judy was back in Beau’s office to find those photos he claimed to have. She booted up his computer and methodically searched his picture files, finding nothing incriminating.