When Shadows Fall

by J. T. Ellison

  “Maybe. Xander checked in—he’s going into the woods to see if he can spot the man for us. Keep that under your hat for now.” His voice dropped, and she had to lean forward to hear him. “I don’t trust Davidson, not yet. I don’t think he’s told us everything about Savage. Something odd’s going on here.”

  “No kidding.”

  Before they could analyze things further, Davidson returned with Regina.

  “We better get over to the law firm. I’ll send an officer out here to keep an eye on things until we get Savage’s wishes cleared up. Regina will keep watch, won’t you, honey?”

  Regina rolled her eyes at the endearment, clearly offended, but nodded. She pointedly ignored Davidson, but shook Sam’s hand, and Fletcher’s. “Thanks for everything, Dr. Owens. I’ll see you around. You need anything, just call.”

  She waited for them to leave, and Sam clearly heard the bolt thrown on the front door. Good. At least someone wasn’t going to take any chances.

  * * *

  The law offices of Benedict, Picker, Green and Thompson were on Rivermont Avenue, only a ten-minute drive from Hoyle’s. They were in a redbrick two-story Victorian dollhouse, complete with white trim and turrets, which, they soon found out, housed the firm’s library of law books.

  They were met in the reception area by an older gentleman with white hair and a rotund stomach. He wore a gray summer-weight wool suit, his tie a florid green slash across his belly.

  “Good, you’re here at last.” He turned to Sam and Fletcher. “I’m McKendry Picker. You can call me Mac. We’re all just sick about Rolph. What more can you tell us about his death? I need to let his wife know the details, and his kids, they’re flying in from around the country to be with their mother, and this is all just so heartbreaking. We knew he wasn’t going to last long with the disease and all, but to die like this, murdered, so far away from home, it’s just—” He burst into tears.

  Sam’s first instinct was to comfort him, but Fletcher cleared his throat and imperceptibly shook his head at her, so she stood her ground.

  Davidson was the one who laid a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Mac, shh, it’s okay, man. I know how hard this is for everyone. Where are Tony and Stacey?”

  Picker got himself together, sniffling and wiping his eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “They’re in Las Vegas. A deposition for a client. They’ll fly back as soon as they’re finished, should be in this evening.” He turned to Sam and Fletcher and cleared his throat, the tears still sparkling on his cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry to lose control like that. Saying it aloud made it so real. Rolph and I have been friends for forty years. I’m going to miss him dreadfully.”

  Fletch bowed his head and said softly, “We understand, sir. Is there someplace we can sit and chat for a bit?”

  “Of course. We have pastries and coffee waiting in the conference room. Follow me, please.”

  Sam noticed the man’s stride was slightly off, as if he were wearing a knee brace, or had twisted his ankle. When they got into the conference room, which was gorgeous—dark wood and gleaming floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking an extravagant all-white flower garden—Sam asked him about it as they settled around the table.

  “Korea, I’m afraid. Lost the leg. I was shipped over toward the end, when I was only seventeen, though Uncle Sam didn’t know that. I was green as a sapling, and stepped on a mine the first day I was there. Blew it right off. I was lucky, they saved my knee, and prosthetics have come so far since I first began wearing them. And I’m blessed with excellent insurance.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Sam said. “You seem to manage beautifully.”

  “Years of practice. And don’t be sorry. Government paid for everything, from my leg through to my schooling. I wouldn’t have gotten into law without the push. Everything happens for a reason, Dr. Owens. Even losing a leg in a stupid accident, or the untimely death of a friend. Now please, tell me what’s happening. Why was my best friend murdered?”

  Chapter

  16

  FLETCHER LET JUNE Davidson do the talking, and watched the array of emotions parade across Mac Picker’s face as he heard the story.

  “Let me get this straight. Savage hired Rolph to put together a will, and named Dr. Owens here executor? That’s very odd, very odd indeed. When you called and told me the details, I checked our database. We don’t have a record of Savage being a client. There’s nothing to indicate he and Rolph ever even met.”

  “Did Benedict have a history of doing pro bono work?” Fletcher asked.

  “Well, sure. We all do our part to help out indigents, and other cases where it would be to our benefit to be involved for a nominal fee. And there’s always the chance Rolph was helping out on his own time, not on behalf of the firm. But I’m sorry, there’s nothing here, nothing at all.”

  “Did Mr. Benedict have a paralegal? Someone who may have helped him draft the will?” Davidson asked.

  “We do have paralegals, but they’re absolutely one hundred percent bound by the law and our internal policies to put everything into the system as it comes in. It’s procedure. We may look like a small Southern operation, but we’ve got a state-of-the-art legal electronic filing system. We’ve been electronic for about five years now, and everything, everything, goes through our database directly into the judiciary. It’s mandatory.

  “Now the only outsiders are some interns who come in a few times a week, students from around town who are taking prelaw and want to experience the real deal. But they don’t have access to the databases. The interns are more for show, if you’ll forgive the admission. It makes them feel like they’re learning, and the school gives them class credit for their time spent here. The firm gets the cachet of having the top students in the area fight to work for us. But we don’t let them actually do anything.”

  Fletcher picked up an iced cinnamon roll, took a casual bite. He used the remains to point at Picker. “So you’re saying Benedict must have done his work for Savage off-book?”

  Picker’s face reddened. “I suppose that’s exactly what I’m saying, though the way you put it, it sounds quite sordid.”

  Davidson stepped in, hands up. “Mac, relax. We believe you. But we’re gonna need Rolph’s computer from his office, and his date book. I know you understand.”

  Picker’s shoulders squared, and his chin rose. “And you certainly understand I’ll need to see your warrant. That computer contains highly confidential material, and we can’t just allow it to parade out of here. I’ve looked on it myself, and there’s no sign of any files under the name Savage.”

  “Come on. You’re gonna make me go to Judge Hessian? You really want him breathing down your neck? My God, Mac, that can be construed as tampering with evidence, and you know it.”

  “No, I don’t. I’m sorry, I need that warrant first. And, June, don’t threaten me. It’s not polite. Your father wouldn’t appreciate it, and I don’t, either.”

  Fletcher was enjoying this exchange. Despite his misgivings, he thought Davidson was probably all right, once you got past the big-town-cop, small-town-cop posturing, but he wasn’t above taking pleasure in seeing someone get a spanking. He glanced over at Sam to see if she was amused, too, and saw she wasn’t paying attention anymore, but was staring at her phone screen. While Davidson and Picker went at each other, he nudged her knee and raised an eyebrow. She handed him the phone.

  The text was from Xander.

  At Savage’s place. You and Fletch need to get out here. Now. No locals.

  Sam took the phone back, and Fletcher stood.

  “Gentlemen, I hate to interrupt this fascinating discourse, but while you hash this out, Dr. Owens and I should really get the samples from Savage’s autopsy to the lab. Detective Davidson, would you mind calling me when you’re done here? We can meet up after you’ve served t
he warrant.”

  Both men gaped at him, but Davidson recovered quickly. “Sure. No problem. Might take an hour or so. We’ll have to pull Judge Hessian off the links. He has a standing tee time once court lets out for the day. You’ll be on your cell?”

  “I will.”

  “Lab’s down the street, toward the river. Just go back the way we came in. You can’t miss it. I’ll see you there once we get things settled. Mac here will do the right thing as soon as Old Hessian gets wind of this. Won’t you, Mac?”

  Picker glared at the younger man and said nothing.

  Fletcher shook hands with Picker, and he and Sam left the room. He heard Davidson saying, “Now, listen, you old fool, you know we have every right to see Rolph’s computer.” His voice drifted off, and Fletcher waited until they were outside to say, “Bunch of BS going on in there. Thanks for getting us out. They’re going to argue for hours, and I don’t feel like waiting around.”

  “Picker’s hiding something,” Sam said.

  “I know. Maybe he’ll be more open with Davidson once we’re out of here. You have an address for Savage?”

  “Yeah. We need to head back north on Highway 29, then take the first exit east toward Farmville. His cabin is just outside the city limits.”

  “You’re a regular cartographer.”

  That made her laugh, and he was glad, because the worried dent left her forehead. “Maps are my secret love. No, Xander sent another text with the instructions. He says to watch for a large oak tree with a split trunk. That’s the entrance to the drive. I hope he’s okay.”

  “He’s fine. He’d have sent an SOS if he was in danger. Sounds to me like he found something interesting and didn’t want to share it with Davidson until we had a chance to look it over.”

  Sam nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. We have to get these samples to D.C. as soon as we can. They’ll be okay in the cooler for twelve hours or so—they’re packed well—but that’s it. I don’t trust anyone down here to handle them properly. I took a DNA swab from Savage’s neck and ear. I’m hoping we’ll have something belonging to the killer. He held him down, a knee in his stomach, and strangled him face-to-face. It takes a lot of hate to watch someone die like that. I’m hoping he was talking while he did it, and some saliva got onto Savage’s face.”

  “You’re good at this.”

  “Too much experience.”

  He drove in silence for a few minutes, thinking to himself, That’s why Savage wanted you. He knew you’d be able to suss things out. Then Sam said, “There, that’s the road we need.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. Turn.”

  The road looked more like a donkey track, thin ruts in the dirt wending into a deep, dark forest, and Fletcher’s Caprice didn’t have the best clearance for off-roading, but he listened, going cautiously so he didn’t bottom out.

  “Whitfield has his Jeep, I take it?”

  “I’m sure he does. He doesn’t like to drive my BMW. Makes him feel icky, he says.” She laughed. “His parents really did a number on him when it comes to anything that could be construed as capitalistic.”

  “BMWs are only for capitalists, I take it?”

  “Yep. The road to his cabin isn’t much better than this, and washes out in heavy rains, so he’s got the Jeep jacked up a bit. I’m sure it was no problem. Come on, Grandma, put your foot in it. It evens out in a hundred feet.”

  “Grandma my ass,” he muttered, but she was right, the road did get better once they got away from the highway. He supposed Savage kept it a mess to discourage visitors. It was effective.

  Another mile into the woods, Savage’s cabin appeared. It wasn’t much to speak of. Fletcher had seen hunting shacks with more space, but he supposed only one person didn’t need too much room. If the kid was grown and gone, and it was only Savage, it would be enough.

  “Where’s Xander’s Jeep?” Sam asked.

  Fletcher didn’t see it, but he assumed Whitfield was smart enough to have it out of the way. He was right; as he pulled the Caprice to a stop, Whitfield appeared next to them, almost as if he’d walked right out of a tree.

  “God, I hate it when he does that.”

  “Me, too,” Sam said. “It’s like he’s part of the forest. He does it up on the mountain all the time. He and Thor can disappear in plain sight. It’s spooky.”

  She got out of the car and went to him, and gave him a quick kiss. Nothing overt, nothing sloppy, only a peck, and even after everything Fletcher had said on the way to Lynchburg, he still felt a twist in his gut when he saw the way she looked at him.

  Let it go, man. She ain’t ever gonna be yours.

  Better friends than nothing, that was for sure. He’d probably lose her, anyway, get himself into his familiar routine, once the novelty wore off.

  Keep telling yourself that, Fletch. You might even start to believe it.

  He stepped from the car and his cell rang. He looked down to see Hart was calling. “Hold on a sec. Gotta take this.”

  Hart’s voice was tight and anxious. “Where the hell are you, hoss? I went by your place to bring you a study lunch and it was buttoned up tight.”

  “South. Lynchburg. I’m helping Sam out on a case. Why, what’s up?”

  “We have a missing kid. Ten-year-old girl named Rachel Stevens. Disappeared from Connecticut Avenue, near the zoo. Parents reported her missing an hour ago, and the cops who came to take the report found a note. Probable kidnapping. AMBER Alert just went up. We need you back here, right now.”

  “Who snatched her?”

  “No idea. Parents are married. It doesn’t look custodial. Armstrong’s liaising with the FBI. It’s task force city, all hands on deck.”

  “Shit.”

  “As in it’s hitting the fan, yes. So get your sweet booty back to D.C., will ya?”

  Fletch looked at his watch. It was 2:00 p.m. “I’ll be back by 7:00. Tell Armstrong.”

  “This is going to be over by 5:00. Hurry up.”

  He hung up and Fletcher stowed his phone.

  Sam had been listening. “What’s wrong?”

  “A little girl named Rachel Stevens has gone missing. I gotta get back to D.C.”

  Sam frowned. “That’s awful. Well, I know all the players now, and the hard part’s over. You can go back up. Xander can keep an eye on me. You can take the samples to Amado, and he can begin the tests. It gives us half a day’s head start. And we’ll come back up tonight.”

  Leaving Sam in the lion’s den with all the lies flying around went against his better judgment, but he didn’t see that he had a choice. She was right, the bulk of the work had been done. Now it was up to the evidence to lead them to an answer.

  Whitfield was studying him with those dark, unreadable eyes. “You’re cool with this?”

  He nodded. “No worries, man. I can take care of her. But you’re going to want to see this before you go.”

  Chapter

  17

  SAM FOLLOWED XANDER and Fletcher to the entrance of Savage’s cabin. The hand-drawn biohazard signs were still stuck in the windows, but the warning sign had been removed from the front door. She crossed herself as she entered the dimness, in case Timothy Savage was still hanging around. She didn’t want to bring him home with her. It was a habit she had when visiting crime scenes. Both men looked at her queerly, but she smiled and nodded them inside.

  Savage lived small. And off the grid, from the looks of it. Xander walked them through the house—living room, workable kitchen, two small bedrooms and a bathroom with a shower, no tub. The walls were rough-hewn wood, and undecorated, the beds little more than cots. There was a stone fireplace in the living room with three rows of neatly stacked logs running up the wall to the ceiling. The refrigerator was sized for an apartment and held an assortment of glass juice
jars, unbound fruits and vegetables, all going rotten. There was a small pantry, with oatmeal, almonds, seeds, dried fruit and three different kinds of beans, and what looked like homemade granola. Sam thought back to the autopsy—the healthy heart and lungs, the muscle tone—she’d bet her life Timothy Savage was a vegan.

  “I wonder if he lived here full-time?” Sam asked.

  Xander nodded. “I think so, though it is rather sparse, even for a mountain man. There’s a garden out back. He grew his own vegetables. Used newspapers as mulch, there’s a tidy little stack on the porch. There’s also a smoking shed, but no sign of any meat. This isn’t the interesting part, though. Follow me.”

  He went back into the living room and walked straight to the wall where, in a normal house, there would be a television set. He waved his hands, said, “Abracadabra,” and pushed on the center of the wall.

  The latch was on a well-oiled spring connected to a damper. It allowed a three-foot-square piece of wall to fall open slowly, giving way to a sturdy and serviceable desk. Inside the cubbyhole, there was a small laptop computer and a wireless router, neither plugged in, and a whole series of pictures, maps, articles and photographs tacked to a corkboard that took up the entire wall inside the small space. When Sam’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realized she was looking at herself.

  She gasped. “Oh, my God. What is this?”

  Fletcher spoke through his teeth. “It’s a shrine.”

  She shot him a look, saw he was holding back. Fletcher did not like being in the dark, and Savage’s mystery was getting darker and darker.

  Xander used a pencil to poke through the detritus. “Looks like a log. Of all the cases Sam’s worked, and everything she’s published. Cases from Nashville—you worked a couple of serials down there, and they were big news. The photos are from the internet, none of them were actually taken and developed. Except this one.”