“What?” Emory could no longer contain his grin. “Are you serious?”
Anderson waved a finger at him. “My offers are never textured with frivolity, Mr. Rome.”
Emory nodded like a scolded child. “Sorry.”
“Art Pulaski, the special agent in charge of our Memphis division has his heart set on retiring to San Diego in two years. He’ll groom you to be his replacement. You would become the youngest special agent in charge in the bureau’s history.”
“I can’t believe this. It’s too good to…” Emory had a sudden realization. “You know about the lawsuit.” Anderson revealed a silent poker face, but that was enough. “But how? My lawyer said he wasn’t even filing the paperwork until the end of the week.”
“I don’t share Eve Bachman’s beliefs, but if you pursue this lawsuit, I will have to publicly stand behind her and defend the official reason she gave for firing you as legitimate.”
“Thus the verbal reprimand, so there’s nothing on record. So all of this was just a bribe to shut me up.”
“Mr. Rome, I didn’t politic my way to the top. I earned my position, and I would never dole out a meritless promotion to anyone in my purview. I meant my every word. You’re an impressive young man whose career took a slight detour. I’m here to set you back on the right path – the one you set for yourself when you joined the TBI.” Anderson laughed. “In five years or so, you could be resting your nameplate on my desk.”
Emory thought for a moment before answering. “I appreciate your coming to see me. I need to think about it.”
“Understandable.” Anderson opened the back door of his SUV and handed Emory a business card. “You don’t have to tell me right now, but you do need to tell me soon.”
Emory hadn’t noticed it before, but now he could see the silhouette of a large man in the driver seat. As the SUV pulled away, he looked at his phone. So much for getting to work on time.
Despite the chill in the March morning air, Jeff jogged down the street wearing shorts that exposed his tremendous legs and a light sweatshirt that didn’t hide the outline of his pecs bouncing as he ran. When he turned the corner, he could see the front of Mourning Dove Investigations, but he missed the man sitting on the sidewalk and tripped over his legs. He regained his balance before he fell, and checked the condition of the homeless man he had kicked. “Sorry Phineas. You okay?”
With his back to the brick wall, Phineas brought his legs closer to his body and clutched his grimy trench coat tighter to his chest. As long as you didn’t hit my guitar. I’m chill.” He nodded to the instrument propped against the wall at his side.
“Do you want some coffee to warm you up?” Jeff’s hands reached for his pockets before he realized he had on basketball shorts. “I don’t have any money on me now. I’ll bring some out to you.”
“Thanks man.”
Jeff continued jogging until he reached the front door to his office.
Emory’s tiny desk wobbled under the weight of his forearms as he thought about his unexpected visitor. Anderson Alexander is offering me everything I want. Can I trust him? He snapped back into the moment when the front door to the office opened.
His sweaty partner entered and didn’t miss a beat before berating him. “I know you had to be punctual when you worked at the TBI. Why are you finding it so difficult now?”
Emory put on his most innocent, wide-eyed expression. “Why are you assuming I wasn’t on time?”
“No assumptions. I came down when the office opened, and Virginia was the only one here.” Jeff glanced at Virginia’s empty desk. “Where is she, by the way?”
“She went to check on Becky, and you’re one to talk about being late. You were jogging instead of working.”
“I was power jogging, ruminating on the case. I think you’re right about adjusting course and looking into Corey’s personal life. We should start with that holistic center that was helping him get over his acrophobia.”
“Before we do, I was thinking we might as well check out his other job too. Swing by the natural history museum.”
“Where Corey sold his morbid art pieces?
Emory nodded. “I want to interview whoever was his contact.”
“Wouldn’t that be his wife?”
“Virginia said Becky’s the ticket cashier at the museum. She didn’t have anything to do with the displays.”
“Fine.” Jeff pointed to Emory’s desk, to a personal item atop it. “Glad you’re making yourself at home.”
Emory glanced at the framed photo he’d placed on the desk moments earlier. “Just a picture of my mom.”
Jeff removed his sweaty shirt and lopped it over his left shoulder, revealing his marbleized torso. Emory tried not to look, but his eyes wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to adore the most perfect body they had ever seen. They were mesmerized by the effect his respiring lungs had on his square pecs, made more brilliant by the soft office lights that glimmered through the tiny drops of sweat clinging to the hairs that adorned his chest.
As Jeff stepped closer to look at the framed picture, he must have noticed Emory’s stare. Smiling, he picked up the frame, flexing muscles unnecessary for the task, as if he couldn’t help it. “That’s not Mrs. Rome. Oh, you mean your birth mom.”
Singed along the sides, the photo featured a smiling woman in her early thirties with straight black hair draping past her shoulders. Her dark brown eyes rested on extra-high cheekbones, complementing beautiful sienna skin. “This can’t be your birth mom. You’re so pale.”
Emory grabbed the photo from him. “I take after my father.”
“Your mom was Native American?”
Placing the frame back on his desk, Emory scowled at him. “I’m surprised Virginia didn’t tell you I’m half-Cherokee.”
“She told me you said that, but everyone in Tennessee claims to be part Cherokee. But you’re legit.”
“My grandparents were part of the Eastern Band of Cherokee, a tribe in North Carolina just on the other side of the Smoky Mountains. They moved to Tennessee when my mom was a baby.”
“How cool.” Jeff cupped his right ankle in his hand and pulled the heel of his foot to the perfect curvature of his right butt cheek, stretching after his run. “So the picture was in your granny’s house when it burned down?”
Emory nodded. “One of the few things I was able to salvage. No pictures of granny though.”
Jeff switched to stretching his left leg. “Why don’t you ever talk about your real dad? Did you not know him?”
With more forceful mental prodding, Emory’s eyes obeyed him and looked to the laptop on his desk. “I’ve met him. Let’s talk about this later.”
“God, you put the private in private eye.” Jeff stopped stretching and pressed his palms onto Emory’s desk, flexing his triceps and pecs. “I’ll agree only if we talk about this.” He pointed to Emory and to himself.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we had an incredible night together, we solved a triple-murder, you were fired from the TBI and now you’re here. We haven’t talked about us since that night.”
Emory closed his laptop. “You’re right. I have been thinking about it, and I honestly don’t know what the answer is.”
“I’m curious. What’s the question?”
“How do we put that night behind us and have a professional relationship moving forward?”
“Huh.” Jeff clenched his jaw and pushed himself away from the desk.
“What, is that not what you were thinking?”
“Almost, although I was thinking more, ‘When are we going on another date?’”
Emory’s eyes darted around the room, looking for anything besides the disappointment now displayed on Jeff’s face. “That’s not really the same thing at all.”
Jeff leaned over and kissed Emory, cradling the back of his head in his hand.
Emory kissed him back, gliding his hand over Jeff’s right arm to rest on his shoulder.
Once their lips parted, Jeff stepped away and headed toward the bookshelf to the right of Emory’s desk. “You think again about which question you want answered.” He pulled the only non-mystery book on the shelf – John Knowles’ A Separate Peace. The bookshelf door to his office swung open. “Oh, I almost forgot! I promised Phineas some coffee money, and my wallet is upstairs.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“He’s the homeless guy.”
“I’ve met him.”
As Jeff disappeared behind the bookshelf, Emory pulled a five-dollar bill from his wallet and stepped outside into the cold.
When Emory and Jeff walked through the glass double doors of the Knoxville Natural History Museum, they found a petite redhead seated behind the ticket counter.
Emory greeted her with a nod. “Good morning. We’re looking for the curator.”
“Claire? She’s here somewhere.”
Jeff half-smiled at her. “Uh, it’s a big place.”
“Well, she’s here somewhere,” the young woman repeated.
“Thanks for your help.” Jeff headed for the hallway to the exhibits. “I guess we just wander around.”
“Excuse me,” the woman called. “Tickets are $10 for adults. Each.”
Jeff whispered, “Let’s just find a backdoor and break in.”
“We’re not breaking and entering.” Emory returned to the table, pulled a twenty from his wallet and paid her.
The woman rang up the sale on the cash register and handed him two tickets. “Enjoy the museum.”
“I need a receipt.”
The woman sighed. “For real?”
“It’s a business expense.”
She ducked behind the counter and came back up with a new role of register tape. “I ran out.” She opened the printer cover on the register. “This is going to take a minute.”
“Emory, forget it. I’ll verify your purchase.” Jeff waved his arms forward. “Let’s go.”
During the next several minutes, the PIs searched for an employee among the museum’s handful of early visitors until they reached an exhibit of regional fauna, including dozens of skeletal representations with pictures and details of each animal. Emory pointed to a tailless skeleton about the size of a full-grown husky on a marble stand with a picture of a baby black bear. “I’m guessing the skeletons in this room are Corey’s work.”
Jeff scanned the displays. “Do you think they all died of natural causes, or were they actually killed just for this?”
Emory shook his head. “I don’t want to think about it.”
“Let’s go.” Jeff led him to the next room, an area devoted to the ancient human inhabitants of Tennessee known as the Mound Builders. He hurried past the exhibit of pottery, arrowheads and a bisected model of a burial mound, stopping when he found a door marked Staff only.
Jeff turned the knob and pushed the door open a crack. He looked back at the frown on Emory’s face and said, “It’s just entering. No breaking.”
Emory followed Jeff into the warehouse. Once the door shut again, the only sound he heard other than the gentle hum of the lighting high overhead came from an indiscernible conversation deep within the room. He almost rolled his eyes when Jeff held an unnecessary silencing finger to his lips before proceeding between two of several rows of ceiling-high shelves, stocked with boxes, artifacts and life-sized sculptures of prehistoric humans in animal skins. As they neared a clearing, Emory could see over Jeff’s shoulder two people talking – a hulking clean-cut man in a brown leather jacket and a woman with a museum badge on the lapel of her skirt suit and brunette hair tamed within an inch of its life around her head.
“We should wait until tomorrow,” the woman said. “It’s too soon.”
The man argued, “I need the money now.”
“Be patient.” She placed a caressing hand on his arm. “Monty, we’re going to be okay.”
“This whole thing should’ve never happened.”
“You should go. I need to get on the floor.”
Without warning, Jeff stepped out of the shadows and interrupted the conversation. “So what whole thing are we talking about here? Corey Melton’s murder?”
The woman jumped when she heard Jeff’s voice, but Monty lunged for the intruder while reaching inside his jacket for something. Within two bounds, he had Jeff pinned against the end cap with a forearm to the chest and a twelve-inch hunting knife about to prune his Adam’s apple. He snarled within an inch from Jeff’s face, “Give me a reason not to slit your throat!”
Chapter 11
“I’ll give you one,” said Emory as he pressed the barrel of his black M1911 pistol into the carotid artery of Jeff’s attacker. “Back away now.”
Monty’s eyes darted between Jeff and Emory, but nothing else moved.
“Monty, put it down!” the woman ordered from behind him. “Please.”
The large man backed away from Jeff but kept the knife in a menacing grip at his side. He blocked the woman from the PIs’ view and asked, “What do you want?”
Jeff relaxed his shoulders. “Geez, guy. Overreact much?” He rubbed his neck, checked his palm for blood and heaved a relieved sigh when he saw none.
The woman stepped beside Monty. “I apologize. Monty’s just very protective. Please, put that thing away.”
Emory holstered his weapon. “I think we all got off on the wrong foot here. We’re looking for Claire.”
“I’m Claire. Now who are you?”
“I’m Emory Rome, and this is Jeff Woodard. We’ve been retained by Becky Melton to investigate the recent death of her husband.”
“Retained?” asked Monty. “So you’re not cops?”
“We’re private investigators,” answered Jeff.
“Then get out of here. We don’t have to answer your questions.”
“Monty, it’s fine.” Claire patted his shoulder. “Just go. I’ll take care of this.”
With a shake of his head and warning glares for the PIs, Monty exited the backdoor.
“Gentlemen, let’s walk and talk.” Claire slipped between Jeff and Emory, heading toward the door through which the PIs had come. “I’m curious. Why did Becky send you to speak to me?”
“She didn’t send us,” answered Emory. “We’re just checking out every aspect of his life to get a better picture of who he was and try to decipher his death.”
“Didn’t he kill himself?”
Jeff held open the door that led to the museum. “Common misconception.”
“Oh. Well, I’m not sure how much help I can offer. Corey provided some pieces for us. I can show you if you’d like.”
Jeff waved off the offer. “We’ve seen them.”
Emory asked, “Do you know anyone who had any ill feelings toward Corey Melton?”
“I’m sorry. Corey seemed like a nice enough man, but I honestly didn’t know him that well. I barely know Becky, and I see her just about every day.”
“So do you run this place?” asked Jeff.
“The director officially runs the museum. He usually leaves decisions concerning the displays to me.”
Jeff cocked his head. “Usually?”
Claire stopped walking and crossed her arms. “Gentlemen, I think I’ve been very accommodating, considering you’re not actually law enforcement. I do have a job to do, so if you can show yourself to the front door…” With that Claire left for another room.
As they started for the entrance, Jeff told his partner, “Must’ve hit a nerve.”
“What were you thinking?” asked Emory.
“I’ve thought of a lot of things. Could you be more specific?”
“The way you just barged onto the scene when Claire and Monty were talking.”
“I just thought I’d catch them off guard and maybe get the truth from them before they could concoct a lie.”
Emory pushed open the front door. “You could’ve been killed.”
“I knew you’d have my back.”
Virginia exited the ba
ckdoor to Becky Melton’s house and found her friend wearing a terrycloth robe and sitting on a small swing set with a slide. As she rocked a few inches forward and back, one hand held a cell phone to her ear, while the other clutched the hanging chain and a lit cigarette. Virginia sat in the swing next to her and waited for her to finish talking to the funeral home. Once her call ended, Becky buried the phone into the pocket of the robe and took a deep drag from the cigarette.
Virginia said, “I didn’t know you smoked.”
Becky exhaled a cone of smoke into the chilly air. “I haven’t since college. I found an old pack in a cedar chest when I was looking for something for Corey to wear.” She puffed again on the cigarette. “Did you meet my in-laws?”
“I wouldn’t say met. Your mother-in-law let me in. Are you… okay?”
“I’m a twenty-five-year-old widow. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never arranged a funeral before.”
“Do you need help with the arrangements… or money?”
Becky took a final puff before crushing the cigarette on the sole of her white slipper. “My parents’ flight landed a few minutes ago, so they’ll be here soon to help. Corey had a small life insurance policy through work, so that should cover the expenses.”
Virginia placed a hand on her friend’s. “Becky, why didn’t you tell me about Corey?”
“What do you mean? I told you not more than an hour after I found out myself.”
“I’m not talking about his death. I’m talking about what he did to you.”
The widow squinted at her. “I’m not following.”
“I saw the bruise on your shoulder.” Becky reached for her left shoulder, which elicited a gasp from Virginia. “You have a bruise on that shoulder too? How long was this going on? You could’ve come to me.”
“Virginia, you’ve made a big ole leap here. Corey never laid a hand on me like that. He was a gentle man.”
“Then where’d you get the bruises?”
“I backed into a piece of equipment at the gym. You know how clumsy I am.”
Death Opens a Window Page 7