by James Glass
Pinpricks stabbed at every inch of my body. Although she and I never got along, how could she kill my father? Well, actually, according to Detective Roger Bell back in Boston, she was the mastermind who had orchestrated the murder.
Oh, how I wanted to interrogate her, but since she’s my mother; Veronica said I couldn’t be objective. Veronica was right, there was no way I could remain impartial without wanting revenge. But we still needed a confession to make the case more prosecutable. I was usually a calm person, but my blood seemed to be boiling inside me right now. Not to mention, the damn migraine kept pounding away.
Veronica looked at Officer Goodwin. “Let’s keep this simple. We’ll let Detective Watson knock on the door and announce who she is. After all, the suspect is her mother.” Goodwin raised an eyebrow. Her male counterpart, whose nametag read Carter, crossed his arms across his chest. “I doubt she’s armed,” Veronica continued, “but we need to be prepared in case she is.”
They both nodded.
Veronica turned to me. “Once you’ve announced yourself, you need to back away from the door and let the officers take over. Do you understand?”
“I’m not twelve, you know.”
Both officers snickered.
Veronica glared at me. My head throbbed from the hangover. Maybe right now wasn’t the time to bitch.
“Yes, I understand,” I said, followed by a drawn-out sigh.
Two minutes later all four of us stood outside room 203. I knocked. “Mom, it’s me, Rebecca. Do you have time to talk?”
I figured if I called her mom instead of Anna, she might be more willing to answer the door.
My heart fluttered a scary uneven beat. I bit the inside of my cheek. Was I always this nervous around her? Surely not. I rubbed my clammy palms across my pants.
Veronica put a hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Step back, Rebecca.”
I did as she ordered. The two officers moved forward, standing on either side of the entrance—a precaution in case my mother decided to use the door as target practice.
A minute later the deadbolt unlatched, and the door swung open. My mother smiled until her gaze caught sight of the police posse. The smirk disappeared, and horns appeared on the top of her head. The horns might be my imagination at work.
“What’s this all about?” my mother asked.
Officer Carter stepped inside the room. “Anna Watson, you’re under arrest for the murder of Tom Watson.” She turned to run, but he grabbed her by the wrist. She spun around and kicked him in the family jewels. Carter dropped to one knee and she followed with another kick to his face.
Officer Goodwin, who was momentarily stunned by the sight of her partner writhing on the floor, both hands covering his man-parts, didn’t see Anna pick up a table lamp and throw it at her. The base smacked Goodwin in the chin. The lamp fell to the tiled floor and smashed into tiny pieces. Blood gushed from the officer's lip and nose.
Anna rushed out the door. I grabbed at her, but she blocked my hand and her elbow slammed into my nose. The pain was searing, and water rushed from my eyes. For a moment I couldn’t see through the tears.
My hand touched the tender end of the nose but there wasn’t any bleeding. I regained some composure and was about to give chase when my mother ran into Veronica.
She tried to hit her in the face, but Veronica easily dodged the fist. I guess all those years as a professional boxer kicked in. Veronica’s hands moved so fast, they were a blur as she hit my mother in the ribs with a barrage of punches. She followed with an uppercut that lifted my mother into the air before her limp body crashed onto the carpeted floor.
I moved closer because I couldn’t tell if she was still breathing. I had never seen anything quite so amazing as a person traveling into the air like that.
Her chest floated up and down. She was out but not dead. Officers Goodwin and Carter staggered toward the unconscious Anna Watson. Carter removed his cuffs from a pouch on his gun belt, kneeled, and placed them on my mother’s wrists. Goodwin, whose face was splotched in crimson, placed a hand on Veronica’s shoulder. “Remind me, Counselor, to never piss you off.”
Ditto for me.
My mother moaned several times before coming to. Carter helped her to her feet.
Her voice quivered. “Why are you doing this, Rebecca? I’m your mother.”
My hands balled into fists. I really wanted to smash her face. “You lost that right the night you abandoned me.” I stepped closer, our noses almost touching. “You do remember that night, don’t you?”
I’m not sure if adrenaline had kicked in or not, but at that moment, I didn’t feel any pain.
Her eyes narrowed, and her tongue slithered between two slack lips, reminding me of a snake. “You always were a drama queen.”
I yanked her by the arm. “And you’re a cold-hearted bitch.”
Chapter 44
Veronica and I stood outside the interrogation room. We had ringside seats to this main event. We had an unobstructed view of my mother, but Tony’s back was to us. He’d placed a manila folder next to him on the table.
My mother looked at Tony. “My, my, aren’t we a big boy. You screwing my daughter? Of course you are. Half the precinct probably is. I’m sure that’s how she got promoted to detective.” She leaned forward. “Want to know a secret? My daughter’s a loser. Just like her father.” She nodded toward the one-way mirror. “I know you’re back there, Rebecca. I’m not stupid.”
That’s right. Keep talking. Sooner or later you’ll make a mistake.
Veronica placed a hand on my shoulder. Not sure if she did this out of comfort or restraint if I decided to barge in.
“Do you know why you’re here?” Tony asked in a calming voice.
“Of course. This entire farce has been staged by my daughter to seek revenge. But I’m here to prove my innocence. You’ll see. Like I said, Rebecca is a loser.”
I couldn’t see my partner’s reaction, but from the many interrogations we’ve done I knew he wasn’t biting. “How long were you married to…” he opened the file and removed a sheet of paper, “Tom Watson?”
Anna shook her head. “I figured you’d have your shit together before coming in here, detective.” She blew out a breath. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The South breeds idiocy.”
Our plan had been for Francisco to play dumb. Not too much. I called it the Matlock approach. In the show, Matlock, the attorney, played by Andy Griffith, often played dumb when talking with people. In doing so, they let their guard down and gave more information, thinking he was an imbecile. We'd hoped this approach would lead us to a confession. We wanted her to feel like she was driving the interrogation. For now.
“How long were you two married?”
“Too long. Why don’t you get to the point? You’re wasting my time.”
He held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Does the name…” he reached inside the file again, “Chris Jenkins ring a bell?”
Her eyes widened, clearly a sign of recognition. “No. Should it?”
“What about a Kyle Moore?”
Another flicker. “Nope.”
“You’re positive?”
“As positive as one can be.”
“Let me refresh your memory, Ms. Watson. These are the detectives who worked your husband’s homicide.”
She snapped her fingers. “Oh, yeah. I remember now. But what’s this got to do with me?”
“Jenkins is dying from prostate cancer.”
“Poor guy,” she said without any emotion. The woman had to be a sociopath, not that I needed a diagnosis. I knew firsthand the evil she could inflict.
“Yeah, poor guy. He’s in hospice care. Probably be dead soon.” Francisco reached into the folder and slid a piece of paper across the table.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, I forgot to mention this due to all us Southerners being stupid, but that’s a signed confession from Chris Jenkins. Apparently, he’s admitted to killing your husband.”
“Really? I had no idea.”
“But there’s more,” Francisco said with a bit of sarcasm. “He wants to die with a clear conscience. He made it abundantly clear you were the mastermind behind the execution. That you orchestrated the whole thing.”
“That’s a lie. He’s lying.”
“I don’t know. The guy sounded pretty convincing. Enough to go to the grand jury.” He stretched the truth, but she didn’t know this. “If you’re here to prove your innocence, now would be the time.”
At this point I figured she’d confess or ask for a lawyer. Instead she smiled. Creeped me out. “I know what this is. False evidence. You’re trying to trick me into confession to a crime I didn’t commit.” She crossed her arms. “I must admit. That’s smart, but I’m not falling for your trickery.”
“What about the one-hundred-thousand dollars you gave him and his partner for killing your husband? That’s no trickery. Just good olʼ fashioned police work.”
Her face turned pale. She took a moment before responding. “This has all been fun, detective, but you’re boring me.” I didn’t know if she was trying to kid herself or us. Either way, it was bad acting.
“Well?” he pressed on. “Can you explain away that evidence?”
She slunk into her chair. “You said the man wanted to come clean, but I imagine he’s delirious.” She hadn’t answered his question but was stalling for time. When you back a guilty person into a corner, they’ll do one of two things. Confess, or come out fighting.
She pointed at the door. “This is all that little bitch’s fault!”
Good. She came out fighting. Fighting breeds anger, which clouds the mind, allowing the investigator to get to the truth.
“So Chris Jenkins is a liar?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t have an affair with him?”
“Did I have an affair?” She smiled. A dead giveaway to deflection.
“So that’s a no?”
She shook her head. “Are you deaf?”
Instead of confronting her, Francisco moved on.
“And you didn’t conspire to have your husband killed?”
She eyed him. “What kind of a sham are you all running here?”
I liked the way my partner wasn’t letting my mother get to him. But soon, he’d be turning up the heat. To get a confession, you need to put some pressure on the suspect.
“That’s a no?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Then what does a man on his death bed have to gain by telling lies?”
“Hell if I know.”
“I think you do.”
“Excuse me?”
“We both know the truth. You liked money more than your husband.”
“That’s not true.”
“And you found a couple of dirty cops to do your bidding. All you had to do was set things in motion.”
“I did not.”
Francisco retrieved two sheets of paper from the file. He placed the first between them. “This is your husband’s insurance six months before his death. This policy is worth fifty-thousand dollars.” He shoved the second one closer to her. “This one was taken out three weeks before his murder. The policy is worth five-hundred-thousand.” He tapped a finger in the middle of the page. “But doubles in case of a homicide.”
“Why did you have your husband killed?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I didn’t.”
“Was it because you were jealous he paid more attention to your daughter than he did you?”
I saw a flash of anger in her eyes. “Fuck you.”
“Did he want a divorce and that might leave you with nothing?”
“No.”
“Did he think you were a monstrous bitch?”
“Stop it!” If this woman could breathe fire, we’d all be toast.
“Just tell us why you had him killed?”
“Because he was a loser!”
Chapter 45
10:00 a. m.
It was good to finally get a decent night’s sleep. Between appearing in court and working The Silencer case, my body was drained of energy. Francisco and I had avoided each other the last forty-eight hours. Well, actually, I was avoiding his calls—three so far, but who’s counting?
Before coming into work, I surfed the Internet. No new reports on Dexter Allen. With the police knowing his plan, maybe he'd decided to give up on killing the last two people involved in the conspiracy that had sent him to prison and ultimately led to his wife’s suicide, possibly sparking his murder spree.
Part of me felt sorry for the man, but not enough to let him go free. Although heʼd served time for a crime he didn’t commit, he needed to be held accountable for the ones he did. Not to mention, I had a grudge against him for kidnapping my aunts and me.
When I entered the squad room, business was as usual. Crime never took a day off for the detectives who served and protected. Some were on the phone while others typed on a computer or spoke to witnesses.
Francisco was on the phone. He waved me over. Maybe he had let go of the fact we couldn’t be in a personal relationship. Let bygones be bygones. Well not really, but it seemed like a good thought at the moment. Or maybe we got a new case. Like I said, crime never takes a day off.
My partner scribbled some notes then placed the receiver on the cradle.
“Ned Hogan is dead.”
“Shocker. Was he killed the same way as the others?”
“No. The responding officer found him in the barn. A sheet was tied off to a crossbeam in the rafters. The other end had been tied into a knot. Dexter Allen must have made him swallow it or forced it down his throat.”
“Basically, he reenacted the way the detainees committed suicide.”
“Yup.”
I leaned against his desk. “I think Allen planned this all along.”
He sipped some coffee. “What do you mean?”
“Yeah, Rebecca. What do you mean?” a familiar voice said from behind. I turned to see Jerry Carrubba crossing the floor, a newspaper folded in half in his hand. It was good to see him.
“When he held me against my will, he knew we would go after Williams. After all, why would we suspect he would go after Ned Hogan? It was a fifteen-hundred-mile drive and he couldn’t fly to San Diego. Every airport knows who he is. Y’all told me Hogan is a pig farmer. That means he has quite a bit of land, probably a barn or two. That’s a lot of area for a single patrol unit to cover.”
Carrubba slapped the paper against his hip. “Well, hot damn. Dexter Allen played us.”
Francisco smirked. “I guess he did. Do you think he’ll go after Williams next, man?” he asked no one in particular.
“Very doubtful,” Carrubba said, tossing the paper on the desk. It was a copy of the Navy Times. The front page had a picture of Williams. I read the first paragraph. “Rear Admiral William (Fuzz) Williams was relieved of command on Monday by Vice Admiral Mary J. Watters, Commander Naval Installation Command (CNIC), ‘due to loss of confidence in Williams’s ability to command,’ according to a statement from the Navy. CNIC declined to give additional details because of an ongoing investigation by the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.”
Francisco jammed a finger on the paper. “So what do you think will happen to Williams?”
Carrubba pressed his lips together. “Probably go to court-martial.”
“You don’t think he’ll take a plea after reading this?” I asked.
He shrugged. “After what you told me about his narcissism, I’d say it’s doubtful. If he thinks he’s the smartest man in the room and the world revolves around him, he’ll fight this.”
Francisco shook his head. “You think he could win?”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. With the evidence the Judge Advocate General has on the Gitmo case, my money’s on he’ll be fou
nd guilty.”
I moved closer to Francisco. I smelled the faint scent of cologne…something musky, but not overpowering. I glanced at the caption then turned to Carrubba. “You’re probably right. He’ll be found guilty. If the Navy decides to discharge him rather than send him off to Leavenworth, Dexter Allen will be waiting in the shadows.”
Francisco picked up the Navy Times. “Let’s hope his murdering spree ends there.” He set the paper on the desk. “But something tells me we haven’t seen the last of Dexter Allen.”
The same thought had been running through my mind ever since the man tied me up. Although he didn’t hurt me physically, something about his dark eyes worried me.
Chapter 46
12:30 p. m.
I walked into my aunties' house. Marti paced between the living room and the breakfast room as she spoke on the phone. Several buzzwords caught my attention—private investigation and sleuth. Maybe she'd hired a P. I. to look into her new gun-toting beau. I didn’t pay much attention though, because with Aunt Marti, you never knew what she was up to until she told you.
Tess sat at the kitchen table picking at salad. She sipped some water, stood, and kissed me on the cheek.
“How are you doing?” she asked, sitting back down.
“I’m okay. You two were right about my mother. She was involved in dad’s murder.”
“Of course we were right,” Marti said from across the room. She’d hung up with whomever she had been talking to. “We’re sleuths. Private eyes.”
“No kidding,” I said, grabbing an apple from the punch bowl on the table. Lunch had been a forgone conclusion.
“Anyway, we did some digging around since the night Dexter Allen kidnapped us.”
I bit into the apple. A piece of the skin wedged between two teeth. I picked at it with my tongue but to no avail. I used a fingernail to dig it out.
“Why would you want to look into Dexter Allen?”
Tess set her salad to the side. “After he tied us up, we both felt helpless. So after we left the hospital, Marti suggested we do some detective work.”