“Archibald’s?”
“Sí. Mr. Haynes drove directly to the bank after talking with Mr. Jennings for about twenty minutes. Mr. McMurtrie met him there and they went up to the fourth floor.”
“Zorn has already moved out, hasn’t he?”
“Sí, but these two are very resourceful. I suspect they will locate him soon, perhaps even tonight.”
Silence filled the phone line. When Manny felt enough time had passed for her employer to appreciate the situation, she uttered the question hanging between them. “Do you want me to remove the threat?”
More silence, followed by an exasperated groan. “I was having such a good day.” Then, his voice turning matter-of-fact, he answered the question: “Yes.”
43
There wasn’t a whole lot of discussion about what to do next. “When they get to where they’re going, I’ll call you,” Bo said, watching from the driver’s seat of the Sequoia as the movers closed the back of the truck. Tom climbed out of the passenger seat and then leaned through the open window. “Don’t make it obvious you’re following.”
“I won’t,” Bo said.
Moments later, the brake lights of the truck flared on and it pulled away from the bank parking lot. Bo waited a few seconds and put his vehicle in gear. “If you learn anything useful about Zorn, call me,” Bo said.
“I will.” Tom slapped the side of the truck and took a step back. “Hey, Bo?”
“Yeah.”
“Be careful.”
Thirty seconds after Bocephus Haynes pulled his SUV out of the bank’s parking lot, Manny Reyes followed suit driving her unassuming gunmetal-gray Accord.
Turning onto I-20/59 North toward Birmingham, she smiled as she saw the moving truck a hundred yards ahead and the Sequoia half that distance. What was the English saying for this? She had heard Mr. Bully say it a few times over the years; something from a movie, she thought. What was the film? Smokey and the Bandit? Or was it a country music song?
Regardless, she chortled when the phrase came to her and mimicked her boss’s Southern accent as she uttered it out loud. “We got us a convoy.”
44
Tom kept his cell phone in his pocket the rest of the afternoon, but he heard nothing from Bo and didn’t expect to if the hint the moving crew had given was on point. The Flora-Bama is in Orange Beach, and that’s a good four-and-a-half hours away.
Tom called the clerk’s offices for Tuscaloosa, Jefferson, and Shelby Counties, figuring those were the most prominent jurisdictions Zorn practiced in. Though each of the clerks was familiar with Greg Zorn, none were aware of a move or any change in the attorney’s contact information. When that turned up a dead end, he fired off his fifteenth email to Zorn in the past month. He knew the message would probably be ignored but sent it anyway. Then, straining to think of other options, he asked Frankie to pull up Zorn’s website and social media pages on the internet and had her send private messages to his Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram accounts. She also completed the prospective client form on his firm website, and in the “How can we help you?” box asked that he call Tom as soon as possible.
By five thirty, Tom let Frankie go for the day and resolved that he had done all he could do regarding Zorn. On his way home, he decided to pay Barbara Willistone a visit.
She answered the door before he could ring the doorbell, as if she had been waiting on him by her window. “What is it?” she asked, her voice a panicked whine. “Did you find the change form?”
“Not yet,” Tom said. “But we have a lead.” He noticed that her bruised chin and forehead were less swollen than the day before. “Can I come in?”
Barbara opened the door and ushered him inside.
“Of course,” she said after Tom had relayed the substance of his and Bo’s conversation with Max Conchin and their trip to Zorn’s abandoned office. They were again sitting around the circular kitchen table with coffee mugs placed in front of them. “Jack was too smart to involve a loudmouth like Max, but any communications he had with his attorney would be confidential, right?”
“Yes, they would be protected by the attorney-client privilege.”
“So Jack sent the change form to Greg Zorn and told Zorn to send it in.”
“Ms. Willistone, we don’t have any idea what Jack said or did, but . . . that’s the theory we’re working under.”
“And then Bully Calhoun came by Zorn’s office right after he dropped Jack off at the Big House.”
“And left an hour later with a manila envelope.”
“Which contained the original of the change of beneficiary form.”
“Again, we have no way of knowing, but that feels right.”
“Then Jack is murdered, the change form is never sent in and probably destroyed, and my Danny gets screwed and that whore Jack married gets the three million.”
Tom didn’t answer.
“You know her daddy had him killed,” Barbara continued, banging her fist on the table. “Jack was smart as a whip and just as mean, if not meaner, than Bully. If Jack found out that Zorn and Bully had double-crossed him, he would have brought hell down on both of them.”
“More importantly,” Tom added, “he would have first made sure the change form was sent in, which would have cut out Kat and, by association, Bully.”
“They had to kill him,” Barbara said, her voice breathless.
Tom nodded but didn’t say more. He felt a cold chill that made the hairs on his arms stand up. If they were right and Bully Calhoun did kill Jack to ensure that his daughter collected the three million in life insurance proceeds, then what would a man like that do to keep the truth hidden?
“Have you eaten dinner, Professor McMurtrie?”
The question interrupted Tom’s chain of thought and he blinked. “What?”
“Dinner?” She pointed behind her to the stove. “I was going to make some spaghetti. Would you like some?”
Tom thought about Bo, who could call any moment from the coast, and the other stop he needed to make before going home. “Uh, not tonight, Ms. Willistone. I have a good bit of work to do.”
As he turned to leave, she called after him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I . . . don’t know what I was thinking. It’s just . . . it’s been a long time since I’ve had a man over to my house at this time of night.”
Tom looked down at her, wincing at how broken the woman appeared, both in body and spirit. “No apology necessary. I’ll let you know if and when we are able to track down Greg Zorn.”
“Do you think he’ll talk?”
Tom considered the question. “I don’t know, but I’ll tell you one thing I’m certain of.” He met her eye. “I bet he’s scared to death.”
45
Ono Island is a barrier island at the mouth of Perdido Bay, in Baldwin County, Alabama. Stretching almost six miles, it’s bordered on the north by Bayou St. John and to the south by the Old River. A quarter mile farther south and just across Perdido Key Drive sits the Gulf of Mexico.
Bocephus Haynes sat at an outside table at the Ole River Grill. From his vantage point, he could see across the river to the house on the island where the moving truck had stopped. With light traffic and a little luck, he had been able to creep along Perdido Key Drive, which ran parallel to the main drag through the island, and watch the truck until it stopped at a house catty-corner from the restaurant. Bo quickly parked and obtained a seat on the back deck.
Gazing across the water, he was struck by the similarities between this scene and the place where Jack Willistone was murdered. Zorn must have a thing for waterfront property, he thought. Then another thought crossed his mind. How the hell can a solo practitioner specializing in criminal defense afford to own a house on the Black Warrior and one on Ono Island? To Bo’s knowledge, Greg Zorn handled no personal injury cases, which, as Bo knew well, could result in huge cash verdicts and settlements that could fatten a lawyer’s bank account. He didn’t get this rich being Jack Willistone’s criminal lawyer, so ho
w? Bo thought about the envelope that Bully Calhoun had carried out of Zorn’s office the day that Jack Willistone was murdered. How much did you get for selling your soul, you greasy SOB? Bo wondered as he spied the moving truck back out of the driveway.
He remained in his seat and watched the vehicle with “Two Men and a Truck” etched on its side move toward the guardhouse to exit the island. Walking to the edge of the railing and leaning forward, he saw the truck flick on its left-turn blinker and turn onto the highway. A few hundred yards up, the truck had its blinker on again, and for a second Bo worried that the movers were going to eat here. But instead of turning left into the Ole River Grill, the truck turned right into the gravel parking lot of the Flora-Bama, right across the street.
True to their words, Bo thought, gazing down at his watch and noticing that it was 8:30 p.m. And just in time for dinner.
Bo walked back to his seat and resumed watching the house on Ono Island. The lights were on, so he assumed someone was inside. He also assumed that the security guard wouldn’t just let a moving truck on the island if someone weren’t at the house where the truck was going. He’s there, Bo’s gut told him.
While he waited, Bo sent Tom a text, updating him on where he was and what he was doing. He also ordered a fried shrimp basket and a Red Stripe. He figured that if there was no further activity tonight, he’d get a hotel room and think of an excuse to get on the island in the morning. An hour later, after he’d finished his food and beer, and searching on his phone for suitable accommodations, he saw a convertible sports car ease out of the driveway of the house. As darkness had now descended over the island, Bo couldn’t tell the make and model, but he figured he could catch the vehicle if he hurried as it turned onto the highway.
He quickly set several twenty-dollar bills down on the table, leaving an ample tip, and strode through the restaurant to the parking lot. A minute later, he was on Perdido Key Drive, squinting toward the guardhouse leading into the island. “Boom!” he yelled as he saw a red Porsche with the top down pulling out of the gate.
Seconds later, the sports car turned onto the highway in front of him. Bo saw that the driver had curly brown hair and fit the picture he’d seen on the firm’s website.
“Where are we going, Mr. Zorn?”
46
Tawny Ford was Wilma Newton’s first cousin on her mother’s side. Wilma’s mom and Tawny’s dad had been sister and brother. At fifty-three years old, Tawny was fifteen years older than Wilma and at least fifty pounds heavier. As Tom gazed at her across the living room of the double-wide trailer she and her husband Sam shared in Northport, it seemed inconceivable that she was related to his client. Tawny had a cigarette dangling from her mouth, and the volume on the television was so loud that Tom could barely hear the woman talk.
“Like I was saying, sir, I appreciate what you’re doing for my younger cousin, but she’s a lost cause if you ask me. Been a train wreck ever since her Dewey died, God rest his soul.” Tawny rocked herself in a worn rocking chair that had several cigarette burns on it. Next to her, Laurie Ann and Jackie sat on the couch. Unlike her older sister, Jackie Newton looked nothing like their mother. The twelve-year-old had dark, almost black, hair and brown eyes, and her skin coloring was more olive than her sister’s. Based on a younger photograph of Dewey that Tawny had shown Tom when he entered the house, he thought Jackie resembled her father. “Some folks can never get over the loss of a spouse, you know what I mean?”
Tom knew exactly what she meant, and he subconsciously glanced at the third finger of his left hand. He didn’t wear his wedding ring anymore, but he could still feel it sometimes. Just like he could feel Julie when he was on the porch at his house at night. Or when he put flowers on her grave at the Hazel Green farm. “Yes, ma’am, I do. I lost my wife several years ago.”
Tawny took a drag and blew a cloud of smoke above her head. “I’m sorry.” Then she came forward and grabbed the remote control off an old suitcase that apparently doubled as a coffee table. “Is it time for Modern Family yet?” she asked while pointing the remote at the television.
Tom glanced at Laurie Ann, who rolled her eyes. “Not until eight o’clock, Aunt Tawny.”
“Oh, well OK. I don’t want to miss it. Those two queers make me laugh so hard I ’bout pee my pants.”
“Professor, you want some ice cream?” Laurie Ann asked as she shot up from the couch and walked toward the refrigerator. The living area and kitchen merged into one main room, and Tom watched as the girl grabbed a pint of Blue Bell from the freezer and two spoons from a drawer. “You need a bowl?” she asked, and shook her head to let him know the correct response.
“Uh, no. That won’t be necessary.” He stood and coughed as a blast of secondhand smoke hit his nostrils. “It’s a nice night out tonight. How about we talk on the steps?”
A minute later, Tom stuck a plastic spoonful of vanilla ice cream in his mouth and breathed in the hot, muggy air. Anything would be better than the smoke-filled room he had just left. “Is it like this every night?” he asked, handing the carton to Laurie Ann, who gave it right back to him.
“I don’t want any. I was just looking for an excuse to talk with you away from Tawny. And to answer your question, yes. It’s like this every night. Tawny sits in that chair and smokes two packs of cigarettes. Sam works the night shift at the water treatment plant and doesn’t get home until we’re off to school. I hardly ever see him except on the weekends, and he sleeps most of those. When he’s not sleeping, he sits on the couch and drinks Natural Light out of cans. He probably goes through a case every Saturday.” She reached into her pocket and brought out her own pack of cigarettes. Before Tom could say anything, she lit one and walked down the two steps into the weed-riddled yard. “What can I say?” she continued, blowing smoke toward the street. “It’s like living with Cousin Eddie and Catherine from the Vacation movies, except worse.”
Tom creased his face in confusion.
“Sorry,” Laurie Ann said, taking another drag off the cigarette and, to Tom, looking more like a college sophomore than an eighth grader. “Tawny is addicted to movies from the ’80s. She still has a damn VCR for God sakes, and unless it’s Modern Family night, you can bet she has a VHS tape playing in the damn thing, and you can also bet it’s either Vacation, Footloose, Raising Arizona, or Top Gun. She also likes the Back to the Future movies and Silverado.”
“Who doesn’t?” Tom asked, and Laurie Ann frowned at him. “Sorry,” he added.
“Why’d you come here? I was planning to work tomorrow.” Laurie Ann had started her job as a runner for the firm once school had been let out and since then had been busy hand delivering mail, getting lunch, going to Office Depot for supplies, and doing anything else that Frankie asked her to do.
“This couldn’t wait,” Tom said. “And I thought it was time I met the rest of the family.”
“Aren’t you glad you did?” Laurie Ann asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I noticed that your sister barely said a word,” Tom said. “Is that normal for her?”
“Depends on your time frame,” Laurie Ann said, taking another drag on the cigarette. “Before Daddy died and Momma abandoned us, Jackie was a regular chatterbox. She drove me crazy she talked so much.” She flung the cigarette down, stomping it hard. “But since those two events happened, she’s damn near been a mute.”
“Has she seen a counselor?”
Laurie Ann laughed bitterly. “Oh yeah. Both of us did. That bitch prosecutor in Giles County made sure we were thoroughly examined by a shrink before signing off on that hag in there”—she pointed at the trailer—“taking custody of us.”
“Tawny is your only living blood relative,” Tom said, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. He didn’t want to argue. “There weren’t many available options.”
Laurie Ann lit another cigarette. “Well, that about sums up the life of Laurie Ann and Jackie Newton. Hell, just put that on top of a VHS tape cover. There Were
n’t Many Available Options. I can see it now. Me and Jackie, wearing overalls and holding a pouch of Beech-Nut between us, sitting right where you are in front of this trailer.” She waved her arms in the air and spoke in a theatrical tone. “Come relive the true story of two country girls who lost it all when their Dad wrecked a tractor-trailer rig and their mom became a whore.” She kicked at a weed. “It’s either a bad ’80s movie or a good David Allan Coe song, whatever your pleasure.” She ended her tirade. “Tell me why you’re here.”
“I need you to talk with your mom.”
“About what?”
“She won’t tell me what she did the night of the murder.”
“You mean who she did.”
Tom’s stomach tightened. “What?”
“Have you talked to some of the other patrons of that apartment complex she rents in?” Laurie Ann asked, her voice now a combination of sarcasm and bitterness. “My bet is she was screwing somebody on site for rent money. Probably her landlord.”
Tom stepped off the porch. “You aren’t being very helpful, Laurie Ann. You got me into this mess, remember? You’re the one who said your mother was innocent and begged me to represent her.”
She puffed on her cigarette and Tom snatched it out of her mouth. “You have to be a monumental idiot to smoke this cancer stick,” he said, dropping it to the ground and stomping on it.
“Oh come off it. I bet you smoked at my age. Hell, everyone smoked in the ’60s, didn’t they?”
“I did not smoke at your age, but I did in my twenties and thirties and I regret every bit of it.”
“Thanks for the public service message, old man. I’m just shooting straight with you. My bet is that Wilma was doing one of the other renters at her apartment complex and doesn’t want to say anything for fear of losing any chance of getting her girls back.” She placed a palm on her heart in mock sympathy.
“You’re in a mood, aren’t you?” Tom asked, stepping away from her. “What’s wrong with you?”
The Last Trial (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 3) Page 24