by V. B. Tenery
Mission accomplished, Tompkins led Matt to the office he’d previously visited. Matt didn’t sit down. “This will only take a minute. What do you know about making bombs?”
“A lot less than I used to. There are websites with systematic instructions on how to build a bomb if you know where to look. Bomb cults and chat rooms with all kinds of crazies. I keep an eye on them, a holdover from my old job. When I see a scary post, I let my pals on the squad know. Bombers are the worst kind of cowards.”
He shook his head. “I helped with the Oklahoma City bombing in ‘95. Worse than anything I witnessed in war.”
How much of what Tompkins said was his true feeling or just a good act, Matt couldn’t tell. But he sounded sincere.
“I can’t disagree with you there,” Matt said. “You’re telling me there are cults out there who share that kind of information?”
Tompkins laughed. “Scary, isn’t it? You can spot the amateurs by how many fingers they have missing.”
Matt shook his head. “The bomb unit folks picked up all the pieces to reconstruct the bomb. This guy wasn’t an amateur.”
“That’s not good,” Tompkins said.
“Any pros on those websites? Do they brag about their success stories?”
“Probably, and maybe a few al Qaeda protégées. And yes, I’ve seen some bragging but nothing specific enough to track them down.”
Matt stepped back to the door. “If you see anything helpful, give me a call. While I’m here, I’d like to speak to Charles Edwards, if I may.”
The guard picked up the phone on the desk. After a short interval, he turned to Matt. “Take the elevator to the top floor. Edwards’s secretary will meet you there.”
Matt left the reception area and marched across to the elevators. He hadn’t obtained much information from Tompkins. At least the security guard knew investigators were on the job.
The elevator stopped on the fourth floor. As the door slid open, an attractive woman waited for Matt in the hallway.
“Chief Foley, I’m Gail Barnes, Mr. Edwards’s secretary. Please follow me. He’s waiting for you in his office.”
She led Matt to the end of a wide hallway and opened the door to a spacious secretarial office. Ms. Barnes picked up the phone. “Chief Foley is here, Mr. Edwards.”
A few seconds later, the inner door opened. Edwards came out, his hand outstretched. “How are you? You impressed my wife, Marnie, at Stanton’s dinner.” He gave Matt’s hand a firm grip. Edwards pointed him to a chair. “How may I help you?”
Matt let his gaze roam around the office as he took a seat. The space was elegant, like the man, filled with contemporary office furniture with smooth, graceful lines. Modern artwork was tastefully placed around the walls. Bookshelves covered one wall with a faux fireplace in the center, complete with an electric log. “I came on another matter and decided to update you on the explosion while I was here. It appears someone planted a bomb in the forklift.”
Edwards’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t heard. I appreciate your letting me know.” A slight frown wrinkled his tanned forehead. “Who could have done such a thing, and why?”
“I’d hoped you might have some ideas. We have lots of theories but little else. I suppose there’s the possibility someone tried to squelch the buy-out.”
Matt threw that out there, already convinced Sara Bradford had been the intended victim. He wanted to watch Edwards’s reaction. “Can you think of any motive for what happened?”
“I wish I could. It’s extraordinary. I’ve been in the optical business for more than twenty years. Nothing like this has ever happened. However, I can’t imagine it was to sabotage the buyout. That’s a done deal.”
Matt nodded. “I won’t take up any more of your time. If you come up with any ideas, call me.”
“Certainly, certainly.” Edwards walked him to the door. “This seems to be my week for police visitors. Two of your detectives questioned me about my whereabouts when the Pryor child disappeared. I’m afraid I couldn’t offer much help. I was on tour of duty in Cambodia at the time. What a tragic business for Sam and Lily. Marnie wrote me when it happened. We knew the family.”
Hunter had checked the man’s Army record on his whereabouts that weekend. Edwards had not been in Cambodia, but on a month-long furlough. Most troops went to Hawaii, but he could have come home. Hunter was checking that out. Bad memory or an outright lie? Matt didn’t know, but he hoped to have the answer before their next meeting.
County Court House
District Attorney Gabriel Morrison stopped in the men’s room after he left the judges chamber. He set his briefcase on the edge of the sink, smoothed the well-trimmed hair above his ears with both hands, then straightened his red power tie.
All in all, a good day.
He’d gotten a ten-year sentence for an abusive husband. Not the sentence he’d wanted, but perhaps enough time behind bars to keep the man from killing his wife for a few years. If she was smart, she’d change her name and leave the state.
Pride was sinful, but he couldn’t help the sense of accomplishment that welled inside him after a satisfying win. It was why he did what he did. The law ran through his veins. He loved the justice system, its fairness, its dignity. There were some notable exceptions, but most of the time, the rule of law prevailed.
Grandfather Morrison survived Auschwitz. After liberation, he came to America, earned his law degree, and eventually sat on the New Jersey Federal Court bench. He had instilled in Gabe a deep sense of right and wrong.
To Gabriel Morrison, the job wasn’t about conviction rates, it was about putting the right people away. He’d known Matt Foley for a little over six years, and he knew Matt felt the same. When Matt Foley gave him a case, there were never any loose ends to prove embarrassing in front of a jury. Matt thought like a lawyer.
Gabe smiled at his reflection in the mirror, then hurried back to his office.
A few minutes after he arrived, his secretary walked in, closing the door behind her. “Gabe, Harold Golden is in the foyer. He wants to see you. Shall I send him in?”
Gabe sat up straight in his chair. What could one of the foremost criminal attorneys in the state want with him? To his knowledge, Golden didn’t have a client on the court schedule.
In college, Gabe once watched Golden in action. He didn’t relish facing the man in a courtroom. Golden had earned his nickname, the Golden Tiger, in what seemed to be impossible-to-win courtroom battles.
Gabe stood and buttoned his jacket as his secretary ushered the distinguished lawyer in. “Harold, good to see you. What can I do for you?”
Harold Golden looked exactly like what he was, a $500-an-hour lawyer in a tailored suit and handmade Italian shoes. His flawless tan and gray hair accented his patrician good looks. Golden stuck out his right hand. “I apologize for dropping in, but I wanted to discuss a case with you. I took a chance you might have a few moments to visit with me.”
The man stood two inches taller than Gabe’s own five eleven. Golden oozed charm that could sell sandcastles to Arab tribesmen. Gabe motioned him to a chair. “No problem. Which case in particular?”
Golden took a seat in the chair next to the desk and crossed his legs. “The Joshua Bradford case. Do you remember it?”
Gabe leaned back in his chair. “Yes, hit-and-run, a few years back.”
“That’s correct. I understand you have new information on the case.”
Gabe hadn’t heard about any new evidence, but he would never let Golden know that. “What’s your interest, Harold? Are you representing a suspect?”
“No, on the contrary,” Golden said. “I want to see the killer prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”
“That’s the way I always work. Did Bradford work for your firm?” Gabe didn’t like vendettas, especially when he didn’t know what in blazes was going on.
“No, Josh’s field was civil law, but he was like a son to me. He had one of the finest legal minds I’d run into.
He would have been brilliant in criminal law.” Golden’s brow wrinkled into a frown. “Someone took his life much too soon. I want to see his killer punished. I believe that person is his wife, Sara Bradford.”
Golden explained about Sara’s call the previous evening. “I think there may be a conflict of interest between your police chief and Mrs. Bradford.”
“How so?”
“If you’ve met Mrs. Bradford, you know she’s an extraordinarily beautiful woman. She could turn the heads of many men.” Golden brushed a spot of invisible lint from his pants leg. “I wondered why, after four years, Foley hasn’t made any attempt to arrest her.”
Gabe didn’t like any part of this. Didn’t like this man casting aspersions on his police department, specifically, Matt Foley. “If Matt hasn’t arrested her, it’s because he doesn’t feel he has enough evidence to prosecute. When he does, he’ll bring the case to me to make the final decision. This isn’t news to you, Harold. You know how the system works. What is it you want me to do?”
The muscles in Golden’s jaw flexed and his voice became defensive. “One of the reasons I’ve gained a measure of success is due to my ability to read people. I’ve had doubts about Sara Bradford since the accident. I meant no disrespect to Chief Foley. Just wanted to make sure this case gets all the attention it deserves.”
Lawyer-speak for “I’ll be watching your sorry behind.” Gabe leaned forward. “I can assure you that it will.”
Golden rose from his chair and held out his hand. “That’s all I ask. Thank you for your time.”
Gabe walked him to the door, then turned and strolled back to his desk. He rubbed his palm across the bald spot on his head. A very strange interview to say the least. Did Golden have a hidden agenda behind the meeting? Was he infatuated with Sara himself? Wanted to punish her for rejecting him? Whatever the reason, he obviously had the woman in his crosshairs.
Gabe picked up the phone.
He needed to talk to Matt Foley.
Sara Bradford’s Home
Over dinner that evening, Sara watched the children pick at their food, unsure if they didn’t like it or if it was because of their grief. She made a mental note to find out what they liked in addition to fried vegetables.
Maddie tried to keep the mood light. She asked the children about their favorite television shows and games. A pang of conscience hit Sara, realizing she’d never told Maddie of the talk with Roger Reynolds and the Global incident. Things Maddie should know for her own safety.
At least Maddie knew about the lake episode. However, she would not be happy that Sara kept secrets about her life being in danger.
She also needed to find out who’d donated the sleeping bag to the church sale. It might not be important, but she had to make sure, starting with the copy of the donor list.
After dinner, when the children were watching a Disney DVD and she and Maddie had settled in the library with tea. Her aunt sat in a chair by the hearth. Sara took the chair facing Maddie, cleared her throat, then plunged into the events of the past week.
As the confession unfolded, Maddie’s eyes widened. “I can’t believe you narrowly escaped death twice, and you didn’t tell me. Don’t coddle me, Sara. I assure you, I can take bad news. You may recall I’ve had a few disasters in my life.”
Maddie gazed into the fire for a long moment. After a few minutes, she spoke again. “I won’t fuss over you, Sara, if that’s what you’re afraid of. We are family. You’re like a daughter to me. You don’t keep secrets of this magnitude from family.”
“You’re right, of course. I just didn’t want to worry you. I’ll do better. I promise.”
Maddie placed her teacup on the saucer, a slight tremble in her hand, her face drawn.
Time to lighten the mood.
Sara picked up the church’s donor list. “Want to help me do a little detective work?”
The serious expression slipped from her aunt’s face. The corners of her mouth turned up. “I think you’re changing the subject, but of course I’ll help. I always wanted to play Miss Marple.”
A Residence in Twin Falls
The man’s gaze followed the ceiling fan’s revolutions. He spoke in a friendly, conversational tone. “Not from our donations, Sara. I’ve never had much use for camping equipment. Sorry.”
After he hung up, questions raced through his mind. How much did she know? Could they trace the bag back to him? There must have been hundreds sold. He bought them so long ago there should be no record of the purchase. The housekeeper must have added the bag to the church collection box. Bad timing. Should have destroyed it years ago.
Curious, Sara called him, rather than the police. Had she realized who she had seen that night? Was it possible she knew the sleeping bag came from him and called merely to confirm it? If so, he had made a fatal error. She would know he lied.
He shook his head. Too many questions, too few answers.
Bad luck that the bomb, and shoving her off the bridge, hadn’t worked. No more time to devise elaborate schemes. He must take care of Sara. This time, permanently.
He walked across the room, opened the bar cabinet, and pulled down a large crystal snifter. With the brandy bottle uncapped, he filled the glass a quarter full, then swirled the liquid before moving it to his lips.
He stopped, then poured the liquid down the stainless-steel sink.
What he had to do called for a clear head.
CHAPTER 21
Twin Falls Police Station
Matt placed the last sheet of paper in his out-box, leaned back, and stretched. He’d forced himself to run again this morning, Rowdy at his side. Hard to get back on track when he’d missed a few days. Pushing himself to the limit on the lonely, rural road prepared him to face the emotional and physical demands of the job.
He scanned Hunter and Davis’s reports from the previous evening. Flipping through the pages, he expelled the air from his lungs. Nothing new. But he wasn’t expecting a breakthrough this early. Police work resembled the tortoise more than the hare.
The case had stalled, and Penny Pryor’s face haunted him.
Perhaps he should call the Herald, plant a rumor the police had new leads and expected to close the case soon. See if that unnerved any of their suspects. If something didn’t break, that old chestnut would be worth a try.
He’d finished filing the one-sheet report in the folder on his desk when Gabe Morrison stuck his head in the door. “Got a minute?”
Matt waved him inside. “What brings you out of your lair?”
Gabe slid into his favorite chair in front of the desk. “I had a very interesting meeting with Harold Golden yesterday.”
“Golden? The hot-shot attorney?”
“The same. He wanted to talk about the Josh Bradford case. Any new developments I need to know about?”
“We found the car yesterday. The vehicle belonged to Robert Cook. He lived in the area where Bradford died. Bradford met with Cook earlier that day. Cook had a string of DUI’s. Lost his drivers license ten years ago. He seems to be the logical suspect, but he passed away a few days ago.”
Matt explained about the car with Sara’s notebook inside.
Gabe smoothed the crease in his trousers. “Do you think she’s involved?”
An underlying tension in Gabe’s voice meant this was more than idle curiosity. “I haven’t ruled it out, but the evidence is shaky.” Matt told him about the dates and fingerprints. “What is Golden’s interest in the case?”
“He’s after Sara Bradford’s scalp. Thinks she killed her husband. Wants to ensure the long arm of the law keeps a tight grip on her. He also thinks you’re covering up for her.”
“I hope you know me better than that.”
Gabe rose from the chair. “I do. That’s why I’m telling you. Besides, I don’t like Golden. He’s arrogant and self-righteous. Nothing I’d like better than to prove him wrong. But a word of caution—watch your step. Golden has powerful connections.”
Italian
Restaurant, Plano, Texas
Matt left the station at one o’clock. As he pulled onto the freeway, the cell phone on the dash trilled the William Tell Overture. Matt glanced over and Blain Stanton’s number reflected on the screen. Blain never called just to chitchat. “Hey, Blain. What’s up?”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“On my way to lunch. Why?”
Blain cleared his throat. “Meet me at that Italian restaurant in Plano that you like. We need to talk.”
“Sure, see you in twenty minutes, traffic permitting.”
A line had formed outside by the time Matt arrived. Inside looked like standing room only at the bar. He didn’t worry. Blain Stanton had a way with restaurant hosts. When Matt mentioned his father-in-law’s name, a white coated waiter led him to a secluded booth in the back where Blain sat, drink in hand.
Ice cubes clinked as Blain shook his glass at the waiter for a refill. The server gave a nod of acknowledgement. Blain glanced at Matt. “You still a tee-totaler?”
“Bring me an iced tea,” Matt said to the waiter and slid into the booth across from Blain. “What’s on your mind?”
“You want the bad news before lunch or after?”
“Before. I couldn’t enjoy the food with a black cloud over my head.”
The waiter returned with the drinks. Blain ordered a steak while Matt opted for the house special, veal in a lemon butter sauce.
When the waiter left, Blain took a long sip from his glass. “Remember the red-headed reporter from the party, Pepper Parker?”
Matt grinned. “How could I forget?”
Blain didn’t return the smile. “Well, you won’t find this funny. You’re her cover story in the January edition of Texas Tattler, the rag she works for.”